8th September, 1940; London, England
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England has lost all sense of time and direction; his route an impossible to plot course through an alien landscape rendered all the more terrifying because of its resemblance to a city whose streets he has travelled for centuries.
Eventually, he cannot walk any further and simply falls to his knees amidst the rubble. Sharp splinters of glass slice easily through his thin trousers – maybe his pyjamas; he can't remember whether or not he took the time to change before leaving the house – and the skin beneath just the same, but he barely feels them. His entire body feels like an open wound already, every inch inside and out tender and smarting even though he cannot see any damage on the surface. He'd checked earlier, before his vision started to dim, running his hands disbelievingly over unblemished skin. He can only think that the wounds might manifest themselves later, in the same way France's skin had split along the fault-lines of his weals as trenches cut ever deeper through his land during the Great War.
He has a niggling feeling that he'd set out to go somewhere, somewhere important, but he can no longer recall where that might have been. It's hard to think of anything beyond the pain, and that itself is almost impossible to separate from his people's pain, and their confusion, and their –
"Jesus Christ." The gruff voice is familiar, but it still takes England a moment to recognise it, and yet another to give it a name.
"Scotland." His own voice is an uncharacteristically reedy treble, so faint that he can't be sure he's even spoken until Scotland's hands grip his biceps tightly and haul him to his feet.
Blooms of bright colour blossom across his eyes, obscuring the few faint shapes he was still able to make out, and his heartbeat suddenly reverberates in his ears, as loud as if his head had been plunged underwater. He expects Scotland to let go of him, but his brother holds him steady when he sways, then draws him close with both arms wrapped around his back.
"What the fuck did you think you were doing?" The words grate against each other, abrasive and somehow disjointed whilst still remaining perfectly intelligible. "You're in no fit state to… We thought…" Scotland's own heart is racing beneath England's cheek, and his lungs rattle each time he gulps back the sentences he seems unable to complete. "Fuck."
Beneath the acrid stink of smoke and dust that clings to the prickly wool of Scotland's thick jumper, there's a faint scent that England can never place that's nevertheless undeniably his brother's; one that nudges faint memories of being held tightly upon awaking from nightmares as a small child, as well as more recent, albeit no more coherent, ones of the trenches. Without making a conscious decision and against every ounce of his better judgement, England relaxes slightly, letting Scotland take more of his weight.
Scotland's breathing gradually calms, slows, and then he draws back but not away. He clasps the back of England's neck with one hand, and traces ancient runes across his forehead with the thumb of the other. He binds the spell with all of the names that have ever been England's, all the way back to the Brythonic one that he has not heard spoken aloud in centuries. England's pain diminishes enough that he can stand up straight and focus his eyes, but does not recede entirely. Scotland has always been more skilled with hexes.
Scotland's face is drawn, skin pinched around his mouth and at the corners of eyes, but it quickly smoothes clear when he realises England can see him once more. "You gave Wales quite a fright, disappearing like that. He's worked himself up into a right state."
England doesn't even bother to ask if Scotland felt the same way as he already knows what the answer will be. His brother's eyes have grown distant, expression completely closed off once more, and his hands fall away from England to hang loosely at his sides.
Instead he says, "I suppose we should find him, then. Set his mind at ease."