Prologue

He could hear them from miles away. He could feel them long before.

And yet there wasn't enough time. Never enough. What a funny thing for an ageless semi-immortal being to think.

A certain heaviness weighed him down as his nerves fired and his hands shook, frantically trying to save anything he could. Books, manuscripts, information, his safe combination: too many things running through his mind as his heart beat like never before. Why did the place have to be so damn big?

The safe was first. He frantically twisted the dial, swerving it to numbers he could never forget.

77-43-16-48-40

He held his breath, internally begging his body to stop shaking. After the precious moments ticked by and the code was entered, he whispered the second barrier, trying desperately to keep his voice from hitching. The sounds were only getting closer.

"ánmédla beforan æring"

The words that came out were rusty but he could never forget them. They were culturally embedded in his DNA. Even though the Soviets and the Germans wanted to destroy their own culture he knew that he would remember his own no matter how hard they tried to wipe it out.

He thanked God that the spell caught and the safe opened. He grabbed as much as he could. He quickly ran through the items to mentally reassure himself that these would be the safe ones.

Manhattan. The documents in that manilla file were perhaps the most pressing.

Dear Arthur, Beowulf and Shakespeare, maps, £100,000- the useless currency was more a psychological security blanket than anything- East India, Elizabeth...

Identities- He made sure he had all three. Rhea, Justin, Katarina.

America - Safe house locations.

After nearly wiping the thing clean, he put the items on the table nearby, his arms fumbling with all of the materials. The sound of boots on gravel kept reverberating in his head as they got closer. He leaned on the table and closed his eyes as he tried to concentrate and muster all the energy he could. Magic was so much harder now.

"Please," he murmured out loud, refusing the wet in his eyes.

His hands shook.

"Gefriðsum"

Nothing.

He forced everything he had into it, thinking of the forests, the rivers, the lakes, the heart of his land. He thought of summer breezes years ago, and wildflowers in the hills.

"Gefriðsum"

A wisp of air signaled that it was done. The memories of what once was was etched into his head. Retrieval would be difficult. He was exhausted and had nothing left in him. The pounding of boots was excruciating now.

He attempted to run to the library in the other corridor and grab his favorite books. It was coming now- this was it. As soon as he made it to the room a violent pounding on the front door made his eyes clench shut.

After five seconds of silence it came.

"Drei!"

"Zwei!"

"Eins!"

The sound of a breaching charge erupted throughout the house. The click of weapons and boots entered into the entryway, making sure there was no immediate threat. When the movement died down he heard a loud voice that he knew all too well.

"I know you're here, England. Save us the trouble and come out- or do we have to take a full search party into this little palace of yours?"

England looked up, a couple of his most favorite and prized letters and books in his hands. This was it, wasn't it? The end of the line. His charade was up.

"I'm coming," he managed to say.

England walked through the corridor and to the entry. Ten soldiers of the SS stood there, automatic rifles aimed and ready at the command. He probably looked pitiful. His hair a mess, starving, carrying as many books as he could. No defenses. He was distraught.

The huge bouquet of roses from the garden stood on the table, not a single petal out of place. Meanwhile, his whole doorway was dissolved into splintering bits of wood. The crystal chandelier above them twinkled ever so slightly, still recovering from the charge. The calm before the storm.

In that moment Germany came forward, gun holstered. He shook his head as if he were looking at a stray dog begging for food. "You can't run from me," he said in a horrifyingly hushed voice that broke the silence.

"You look like shit," England mustered, although he knew the same could most definitely be said for him. The remark was all he had left. Hope, perhaps? But that flicker was getting smaller and smaller everyday.

Instantly, the ten men were looking down the sights of their ten guns. England swallowed hard.

"Take him," Germany growled in his native tongue.

Five men put away their guns simultaneously and went towards him. England didn't move. The other five moved forward, their guns still trained on him from four meters away. They grabbed him viciously, forcing him to drop his books and papers. They landed, sprawled on the ground. England closed his eyes, forcing himself to keep his dignity. He couldn't beg.

His arms were yanked back. He vaguely thought about how many men they needed to subdue him. It would have taken a lot more years ago. An army.

Chains were used to bound his hands behind him. After, one of the men kicked him in the back of the knees, causing him to collapse. England fell to his knees, not being able to catch himself with his hands tied. Still, he was England. Something had to be said. "Chains? I thought you would have something a little more innovative."

Germany approached him swiftly, withdrew his gun, and put the barrel to his forehead.

"You know the terms. Are you with us, or against us?"

Self-preservation reigned supreme and England had to fight back the urge to vomit. He looked up from the ground, his face that of a broken man.

"I am with you. I know where she is."

England saw it, the flash of disbelief in Germany's face. Germany had doubts.

"You must prove your loyalty after all you've done," Germany reiterated.

England knew the price. "I know where she is," he repeated. He never remembered hating himself more than in that moment.

"There will be more you must do. One wrong move and you are dead."

"I am well aware of the situation, Germany."

"America will not survive."

England stared up at him. "Very well."

Germany glanced over to one of his men and nodded hesitantly. He gave a signal and the chains were removed from England's hands.

"Trust must start somewhere," Germany said. "I'm glad we've reached an agreement. Follow me."

The men didn't put their guns down. He followed Germany through the nonexistent door and out towards the front driveway. After about thirty meters, they stopped and Germany nodded again to the men.

A group of them walked back towards the house. One of them had a bottle of kerosene with them. Realization came over England as he looked on in horror, eyes wide.

"Germany- don't... my things... please," he choked out, willing to beg this time. This was all he had. Everything from all those years. It made him who he was. They couldn't... Confiscate, yes. But destroy? They were books of tales long ago. A memory of what once was.

"Trust," was all he said.

England brought his hands to his face as the breeze picked up.

The fire was started in a matter of seconds. He had to sit there and watch for a long time as his home for hundreds of years was destroyed. His books, documents, gifts from people throughout history, his things- all to be gone. Eventually the fire began to scorch the earth underneath and England's heart felt like it was on fire as he smelled the sickening scent of gasoline and heat.

For the first time in a long time, tears welled up in his eyes as he fell to the ground in agony. He wanted to scream, but some last shred of dignity stopped him. All he could do was cry silent tears as he was forced to watch the enormous thing burn to the ground.

After the house turned black with ashes Germany demanded, "Get up. We are going to Berlin now."

England did so, his eyes dry by now. The house took a long time to go. He was alive. He didn't care what he had to do; he would survive no matter what.

"I'll tell you what you want to know."