The journal doesn't slam shut impressively, and France is almost disappointed. A book that held as much grief and prayers as this one did needed to be able to be slammed, needed to make a loud noise as it was shut. But this one made hardly any noise at all, and it just seems somehow wrong.

The air is brisk, and France is shivering as he gets to his feet, tucking the journal inside of his coat pocket. He tilts his head back and squints at the still-colorful sun, trying to remember what time of year it is. September? October? Close enough to winter that he should be putting more effort into building shelters than a useless boat.

He sighs, then turns on his heel to start clambering over the piles of rubble that litter the ground, heading towards the smoke curling from a campfire in the middle of their camp, passing sleeping people and Nations on his way to the warm flames.

Germany is already up and kneeling besides the fire, fanning it gently with half of a broken plastic plate. He abandoned his military uniform months ago, and the t-shirt and jeans he wears now are streaked with dirt and soot, his hair limp and hanging in his worn face.

He doesn't look up as France settles himself on the other side of the flames, but mutters, "Morning" as he continues to fan, blowing the smoke into France's face. It makes his eyes sting, and his throat burn, but he doesn't care.

"Good morning," France replies, drawing his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees, watching the fire dance. His body aches, but he ignores it as he asks, "What's for breakfast?"

Germany snorts as he drops his broken plate, getting to his feet and brushing off the knees of his jeans. "Same thing we've had for the last five months. Canned soup." France wrinkles his nose, but doesn't say anything as Germany pulls over the large soup pot they use for meals and sets it up over the fire.

"We're going to have to plant a garden soon," a voice says from behind him, and France twists his neck to see Spain sitting on top of a stack of bricks, staring up at the sky, hair hanging in front of his bright green eyes.

"Winter's coming; it would just die. And we don't have any seeds, anyway." Germany replies, opening can after can into the pot. Spain grins and shakes his head, sliding down to stand next to France.

"Not true. There were some seed packets in the cellar Lovino and I found yesterday. We have heat lamps that need batteries, batteries, soil, and at least a thousand underground rooms that we don't need. We could set up an underground garden."

"Like a primitive greenhouse?" France asks, and Spain nods, still smiling. France glances down at the ground for a moment, then nods slowly. "It might be a good idea."

Germany chuckles without humor as he pours another can into the pot, the liquid landing with a plop. "You can try it; but I don't think it will work."

Spain shakes his head, smiling gently. "It might though. Germany, have you given any more thought to using some of the underground rooms for the winter? We can rebuild houses during the colder months, and it would be a shame not to take advantage of what we have now."

Germany doesn't reply for a moment, and there is silence as Germany empties one last can into the pot and sits back down, crossing his arms across his chest as he watches the flames. "...We're going to have to use them," he says finally, "There's no way we'll be able to build any suitable shelter by the time the snow falls, and we can't afford to lose any more people."

Spain beams, getting to his feet. "We should have people sort into groups today and they can decide what rooms they want," he says aloud, tapping his chin with one finger, rocking back and forth. "And we can divide up things we've found – blankets and books and the like."

Germany sighs and rubs his temples with one hand before listing off orders in a drained voice. "Spain, you're in charge of making sure that everyone has a room for the winter. Tell Gilbert that if he feels up to it, I want him to distribute the heaters, blankets and other things. I want Romano to divide up some of the canned foods for each room, in case it snows enough we can't cook for everyone during the winter. After that, you can go start on your garden or something."

Spain salutes and turns on his heel, whistling happily as he walks away, hands locked together behind his head. France and Germany watch him go in silence before France breaks it with a soft chuckle. "I do not think he understands how bad this is," he says softly, almost to himself, but Germany hears anyway.

"No," Germany replies, turning back to the warm flames, "Spain probably understands this better than any of us."

"Is that really what you believe, or are you just trying to contradict me?"

A weary smile dances on Germany's lips for a moment before it fades. "Spain is the only one out of all of us that isn't trying to deny or wish away what happened. He's just trying to adjust with it."

"Ah."

Silence again, and neither one of them makes any move to break it. Germany gets to his feet after a few moments to check out the soup, stirring it with the wooden spoon Feliciano had found a few weeks before. France sits and watches the smoke mix with the steam from the soup and climb higher into the pale blue sky.

It's so much quieter now than what it used to be, France thinks. Even with the low murmur of people as they wake, there is still something missing – birdsong, the hum of cars driving along highways, the chatter of millions of humans. Something is just missing, and the world is silent without it, whatever it is.

So when the call of "Hey!" comes, he can't help but jump, lunging forward into a squat, hands curled into fists. Germany is just as startled, and his hand jerks, spilling hot soup down the front of his shirt. He yells something in German and drops the spoon, rubbing at the stains.

Japan is standing before them, blushing pale pink as he bows, apologizes flowing off his tongue so fast that France can't hear a single word he is saying. Japan is as filthy as they are, his hair longer than France remembered it and brushing his shoulders by now. He is as pale and thin as the rest of them, but there is something very clear and determined in his voice as he speaks, finally slowing enough for France to understand what he is saying.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Japan says softly, eyes fixed on the ground. "China and I have just returned from searching the east. We found some survivors."

"Who?" Germany asks, calming down enough to return to stirring his soup.

Japan straightens up and digs his hand into his pocket, pulling out a sheet of worn paper. He squints at it, reading every name slowly. "We found India, Thailand and Nepal still alive, and India and Thailand returned here with us. We managed to get ahold of Australia and Indonesia, and Nepal chose to stay with them to tend to survivors there. We also found one of the Koreas."

"Which one?" France asks before he can stop himself. Japan's lips thin as his eyes narrow, something bright and heavy and so very angry burning in his dark irises.

"North Korea. South Korea is deceased. We buried him in the southern area of China."

There is another stretch of silence before Japan clears his throat and reads from the list once more. "We're assuming most of the other eastern Nations died. Australia has been trying to reach New Zealand, but so far he has been unsuccessful. The Philippines have also not responded."

France can't find anything to say, so he settles for staring at the ground. So few of them left, so many dead, and he can't stop the brief flash of fear – what will happen to them now?

Germany is talking with Japan again, both of them speaking with low voices as Germany ladles out a bowl of hot soup into a plastic bowl for Japan. The smaller Nation takes it, sipping it as he answers Germany's questions. France looks at them with unseeing eyes, seeing their mouths move but not hearing a word they say as his mind wanders and eyes cloud.

"France? Are you feeling ill?" Japan has abandoned his now-empty bowl of soup and sits besides him, one hand resting on his upper arm. "You look dazed."

France smiles and shakes his head, gently pushing the smaller Nation's hand off of him. "No, I'm alright. Just thinking."

Japan bites his lip for a moment before saying slowly, "France, China and I found something we both think you'd be very happy to see. Would you mind coming with me?" France just nods and gets to his feet, helping the smaller Nation up after him.

"You want food before you go?" Germany asks, holding out a half-full bowl of soup. France shakes his head, and Germany hands the bowl to the first of the mortal humans to reach the campfire, a nineteen-year-old girl who gulps down the soup like it's her last meal.

Japan is limping slightly as France follows him across the ruins, heading for China and what appears to be...

"You found horses?" France asks, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. Japan twists his head just enough to shoot him a small smile.

"They were on a farm in Korea. China and I traded their owners some of our provisions for them."

The horses are skinny things, but strong and beautiful, and they smell richly of freshly turned dirt and something that is uniquely horsey and alive. India, a small, chubby girl in her late teens is patting one of them as China unhooks the travel bags from the horse's back.

France remembered India before the war started – a short, slightly overweight girl who never wore anything but her traditional sari and a million bangles that clinked together every time she moved her hands, dark eyes full of a calmness that France could never match.

Now she looks drained and exhausted, and her sari is gone, replaced with jeans and a too-big t-shirt. Her bangles are missing, and her dark brown eyes are angry, glaring and shining with fury.

China nods politely as France and Japan approach. He has traded his usual flowing clothing for a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, and they swim on him, making him look even more breakable. India ignores them both, bending down to root around in the bag China just handed her.

China gives France a once-over before returning his attention to Japan, hands still unhooking bags and saddles from their horses. "Japan, are you sure you want him to see now, aru? It might not be the best idea."

"I'm sure," Japan says firmly, not looking at France even as the blonde Nation stares at his face, trying to find some answers to the questions bubbling up inside of him. China raises his eyebrows and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, shaking his head, and Japan ducks his head like a scolded child.

"Alright then, aru. Go ahead."

Japan bows and turns to France, motioning him forward and past the horses. A little farther on, he sees Thailand sitting with his back to them, talking with...

His heart stops for a second as his breath catches in his throat. "Mathieu?" He whispers, his pace slowing until he isn't moving at all, staring straight ahead. Canada and Thailand are sitting by a stack of bags, taking things out of them and placing them to the side as they argue with a tall dark man that France vaguely remembers as Brazil. "Is that really him?"

Japan chuckles softly into his hand before calling out, "Canada! Can you come here for a moment, please?" Canada's head jerks up, hands full of something, but France can't tell what it is as tears blur everything into a swirl of color. Canada's face breaks into a grin, and he stands quickly, dropping his load into Brazil's arms.

He runs straight into France's arms, arms wrapping around his neck as he buries his face in the older Nation's shoulder. France can't move, can't breathe, doesn't know what to feel – except that everything is now right in the world – and it takes him a moment before he can wrap his arms around Canada's waist, burying his face in soft blonde hair.

He's muttering under his breath, he realizes after a moment, and another heartbeat later he realizes he is praying, thanking the Lord over and over. Canada doesn't say anything, just holds him tight for what seems like forever before slowly releasing him, keeping his hands on France's shoulders and looks directly into France's face.

That's when France notices that Canada has an black eyepatch covering his right eye.

His hands – and voice – are shaking as he asks, "Mathieu, your eye...what...?" Canada cuts him off, stepping back just beyond France's reach as he replies.

"I lost it," he says, and his voice is infuriatingly cheerful. "It was ripped out. What was left was beyond repair, so one of my doctors stitched it shut." His hand creeps up his face, towards the patch, fingers brushing the soft fabric. He hesitates for a moment, then raises it, slowly, and France cannot stop the gasp that leaves his lips.

Underneath the patch is a mass of scar tissue, knotted and twisted, raised and a pale pink. Canada's face looks so much unlike Canada, so much older and harder, and it twists France's stomach and he can't stop himself from taking a step back. Canada's lips thin out into a grim smile as he takes in France's expression, lowering his eyepatch slowly.

"That bad?" he asks as he drops his hand back to his side, and his voice is so defeated and dead. France shakes his head, trying – but unable to – to step closer to the younger Nation.

"No, no. it's just..." he hesitates a second before continuing, "You just look so different." Canada smiles without humor, his only remaining eye as cold as ice, a touch of venom in his words as he speaks.

"You don't need to sugarcoat it, Francis."

France doesn't know what to say, and Canada turns away after a moment to head backs towards Thailand and Brazil. France turns to face Japan, a thousand questions flashing across his face all at once. Japan sighs and motions for France to follow him, leading him away from Canada and back towards China, never saying a word.

China takes one long look at France's face before sighing heavily, rubbing his temples with one hand. India watches silently, arms full of hay that she is feeing to the horses, as China gestures for Japan and France to sit down.

"That's why I thought you should wait, Japan, aru. You should have explained what happened first," China says, staring in the direction where Canada and the others are blankly. He falls silent for a moment, then turns his gaze to France. "Did he tell you how he lost it?"

"He just said it was ripped out," France says, leaning forward on his knees and biting his lip, unable to keep from remembering the clear anger and venom in Canada's voice.

China smiles tiredly, shaking his head sadly. "He told us, aru." He gestures to Japan and himself. "We found him and Brazil up in Northern China – they said they'd found a boat and used that to cross over from Alaska. His eye was still bleeding; he'd had the sugary recently, and there was still a high risk of infection, aru. He told us the story in return for one of my herbal teas, aru." He pauses a second, then says, "It was a soldier who ripped it out. He didn't know who Canada was, and Canada can't remember who's soldier he was, aru."

He stops for a moment and licks his lips, shutting his eyes briefly. "He's very sensitive about it, aru. He can't see very well any more – he's partially blind in his other eye, aru. The doctor that preformed the surgery said his sight's going to continue to get worse." He purses his lips before saying softly, "He's going to be completely blind within ten years, aru."

And the world breaks again.

France feels something cold and sharp pierce his heart and a sickening feeling settle in his stomach as he tries to understand what China had said.

Disabilities are something that holds everyone back now. The disabled can't help, can't work, can't prepare for whatever else is to come. It breaks France's heart to think, to know, that Canada will be blinded soon, and what will happen to him then? What will the others do with a useless Nation?

He takes a deep breath and tries to force himself to remain calm before asking through gritted teeth, "And what of America? Did he say?" He doesn't really care of what became of the older twin, but he needs to think of something other than Canada's failing eyesight.

China shrugs, looking away. "Just that he couldn't find him, aru." He doesn't say anything more, his eyes unfocused and distant, so Japan joins in, keeping his voice low.

"He says that he knows his brother is alive – he looked around a few of the states, and there were enough people alive that it's safe to assume America didn't die. However, he just couldn't find him." He coughs, clearing his throat before he continues. "He thinks that America's just doing what he did during the Great Depression – helping his people as if he's one of them. He'll turn up sooner or later..." He trails off, but France still hears what the smaller Nation left unsaid.

...At least, we hope he will.

France is shaking as he gets to his feet. "Thank you for telling me." His voice sounds funny, even to him. He pauses for a moment, wondering what else he can say, before he remembers, and digs inside his jacket to pull out the journal and hands it to Japan.

Japan gives the cover one puzzled look before turning his eyes to France. "If you don't mind me asking...what is this?" he asks politely, tilting his head to the side and staring up into France's face. China watches for a moment before rising to his feet to go help India with feeding the horses.

"Find Germany. He'll tell you what it's for," France says before turning on his heel and striding away through piles of rubble, heading anywhere so long as he can be alone for just a little bit, away from everyone else.

Funny how the world broke apart again just when he thought that maybe it would be alright.

But that's just the way it goes.

Author's Note

Ha, it's not a journal entry. But this would have been too hard to write about in a journal format, so I switched to third-person progressive for just this part.

Anyway, I don't know how I feel about this chapter. The story behind Canada and Brazil being with the Asians is that Canada met up with Brazil while he was searching around America for his brother, they went to Alaska to see if he was there, and found the boat that they used to sail to Russia.

Also, India and Brazil are OCs, and I don't think I'll write journal entries from their POV. Mainly 'cause I dislike OCs in fanfiction, but here's India's bio (I haven't written Brazil's yet):

Real Name: Kanta (brilliant/beloved)

Age: 17-19; she doesn't know how old she is.

Eyes: Brown

Hair: Black

Religion: Hindu

Personality: Before the war, she was fairly easy-going and a very even-tempered person who always had some wise saying to quote. She loved sweets and curries. After the war, she turned bitter and more defensive, and she doesn't talk as much as she once used to. She doesn't get along so well with England any more, and the war just worsened her realtionship with him.

Alright, I'm done. Please review if ya liked it, and if you reviewed for the last chapter, thank you so much!