Sequel to 'Clarion Call'; will not make much sense if you haven't read that first. Again, there are no personal digs at any of the countries mentioned here. This fic touches the edges of 'dark', and its characters are somewhat insane.
Disclaimer- heh, I wish.
Begins immediately as 'Clarion Call' ends. Enjoy.
America had all but fled from the room, following those who supported him. England watched him run, and didn't move his eyes from the door where he'd last been seen.
Everyone else then filed out, dazed and unsure, but knowing they had to inform their leaders as to the new situation. War was on the horizon, and nobody knew when the wave would hit. They didn't know how it would be fought, exactly who they would be fighting, or what it was going to cost.
They only knew it was inevitable.
France stayed where he was, just staring at his closest rival and sometimes friend. Feeling his gaze, England finally turned his head to face the older nation.
"Do you know what you've done, mon Angleterre?"
The other nation just cocked his head, smiling, so France elaborated.
"Of all the times to find your principles, you choose now? Now, when sticking with what you believe makes you more of a target than ever before?" He shook his head, disbelieving. "L'Allemagne went after both of us with a vengeance, but it was never personal for him. This?" He let out a shaky sigh. "L'Amerique will not forgive you. He will not forget."
France hoped the smaller nation recognised in his words what he couldn't bring himself to say aloud.
You will be his primary target.
Whether England was in any fit state to recognise this was another question; France wasn't reassured when the other nation started laughing at his serious expression.
But eventually the haunting sound trailed off, and England answered his concerns.
"You don't understand him, France." A grin, an arrogant toss of his head. "That's why he stayed with me rather than you, when he was young." Green eyes snapped to his, suddenly intent. "This is going to go either of two ways: you could be correct," he held up his left hand, the gesture inappropriately careless for the possibility he was discussing, "and America will focus all of his hurt, his anger, the entirety of his attention on me. He will attack me incessantly, subduing me until he thinks I'll crawl to him for forgiveness."
I'll die first, the look in those eyes said.
"Or I will be the safest nation that opposes him." The other hand came up, both palms facing the ceiling. "His anger and hurt will blind him to reason, and he will think that if he could only talk to me one last time, I will see the futility of my ways and join him, as he initially assumed I would. And he won't be able to bring himself to talk to me, and so he will be forever wondering. And he will never attack me, because he cannot until he knows the answer to a question he will never ask."
France searched that gaze, trying to judge which outcome his rival (or were they better called friends, now?) thought more likely.
There was no definitive answer to be found.
"I cannot decide if you are the most selfish nation I know, or the most selfless," the older blond said softly. "If he focuses on you- we are safer. If he can't bring himself to hurt you, we are subject to his mercy."
He dropped his eyes to the floor, unable to withstand the intensity. "And he has already said there will be none," he added, quieter.
He damned the other nation for smiling all through this. Madness was one thing, but the sheer insanity England was displaying was going to be counter-productive to anything their band of allies might need from the island nation. France may have lost himself in the headier moments of the world meeting, but the seriousness of the situation was such that it threw him back into his right mind. The knowledge that his country was largely unprepared, requiring guidance from himself that perhaps he would be unable to give-
-how long had it been since a nation's war had been fought, rather than a national one?
Because this war, this World War Three, as his mad friend had put it, was not a matter of money or border disputes. It was motivated by personal desire and nothing to do with politics.
Nothing to do with politics. Nothing to do with what my President says.
"Maybe..." France coughed, cleared his throat a little. This was dangerous thinking, something that could place him deep in the madness he skimmed the surface of earlier; somewhere so deep, he might not surface from it again. "Maybe you have the right of it, mon ami."
"But of course," England replied promptly. It was too swift; nothing like the reassurance France was looking for. He wished he could retract his previous words, but England was already continuing. "Like you pointed out, my right of it is what I'll be fighting for." His smile was taunting the older nation now. "I'm not letting my people take control again, France." His eyes closed briefly; he shivered. "This is a personal war, and until America brings them into it, one they will have nothing to do with."
France gasped, reading between the lines. "You- you cannot be serious!" The mere thought- the very idea of it-
"But I am," England stated it as a fact, not the impossibility it should be. "America should know me like I know him. If he attacks me- and if he hurts my people to attack me- I'll do it. And then I'll let the people decide whether they wish to fight for me or not."
"Patriotism is a dying virtue, mon Angleterre-"
"Don't patronise me." Finally the smile was gone, but the deadly stare was scarcely an improvement. France had seen that particular look for the first time at Agincourt; it was not one of his favourite expressions on England's face. "A dying virtue will work for us as much as it might against us."
Damn him, but England was starting to smile again. "And in that respect, he has more to lose."
And then it clicked. It was insane and impossible.
It was absolutely the worst thing a nation could suffer.
"You would turn his own people against him," France realised in an awed whisper. "Not everybody, certainment, but just enough-"
"Just enough to set him off balance," England finished for him. "So many of his people have become pacifists or worse, wanting their wars to be justified." He snorted, derision in his tone. "Justice has nothing to do with war."
"You cannot believe that," France argued hotly. "Justice was the only reason for so many of our fights!"
"Was it really?" England replied, unperturbed by his sudden passion. "The flaw is inherent in your argument- we seek our own justice, and so lose the true meaning of the word. Justice is objective, and our fights were everything but that." His grin broadened with the thought of it. "You aren't an idiot, France. You know how personal this war will be, how subjective. Where can you find justice in that?"
"Say you're right," France changed tactics suddenly, at a loss to say anything else. "You expose yourself, you expose us all, and you use his empire-greed to cast him as the warmongering villain of this story?"
"And us as the righteously wronged, only trying to redeem ourselves." England faked a grieving expression, injecting sincere sadness into his voice that France knew he didn't feel over the situation. "We of Europe know the suffering we caused in our lust for power; now we only hope we can redeem ourselves by preventing anyone else suffering similarly in this time of world cooperation and liberation! We will stop this new aggressor at any costs!" His eyes gleamed, sadness replaced by devious joy. "It will be magnificent, France. And his pacifists and his righteous will betray him, seeking shelter with those who oppose him." France's shock told England not to expect a reply to that speech, so he explained the long term effect he would bring about.
"It may only be a small action, France, but it will be one part of what eventually breaks him."
France's stunned expression gave way to aggrieved confusion. "You said it yourself l'Angleterre, only minutes ago- you loved him. And this is the worst thing you could do to repay that love- how can you want to do this to him?"
"He betrayed me first!" England's voice rose for the first time in their conversation- proving by the subject of provocation that for all the madness he had embraced, the nation's mind was still present, if trapped within it. "He left me, nearly broke me, and may as well have cost me my empire." He took a deep breath, calmed himself, smiled again. "I will break him in return, to prevent him gaining his own."
"Why is it," France found his voice, swallowed heavily, continued, "that l'Amerique is the 'aggressor' here, yet I truly feel that you are the most terrible enemy we will have to face?"
England's grin became that more devious and slightly ironic in his choice of words. "Are we not allies in this, my most hated rival?"
"Are we?" France asked flatly. "You will expose all of us, given the chance."
"A conditional plan," England agreed easily. "America should know the consequences should he cause my reaction."
"L'Amerique doesn't know you!" France shouted. "Isn't that what started this problem? He isn't going to know how you'll react; he'll run in, naive and blind, thinking it's for the best and in your madness, you will damn us for it!"
"Will I?" England questioned idly. "What if he reacts in the other way?"
"What if he does?" France shot back. "How will you help your allies if he attacks us instead?"
England said nothing. The silence was answer enough: damning and dismissive of the older nation's worries.
"I've decided it." France broke the silence with a defiant tone. "You expect him to react in the first way. You're daring him to do this, to attack you first. You want us exposed." He bit his lip for a moment, but said the last part. "You are the most selfish nation we have."
England reached out to grasp France's bicep. France flinched, and hated himself a little for doing so. "And you are my allies. I might have a selfish desire in me to keep you as whole as I can."
But France tore away, shaking his head. "You're insane," he whispered, "and I don't care if it makes me a coward, but I will have no willing part in this."
"We all play our parts, my friend." It might have been a consolation, if not for the lofty way England said it. "How else will we fight this personal war? There is no explanation your bosses will understand- no politics, economics, social upheavals or military advantages to be won. Our people will become involved, sooner or later, and unless we are exposed, they will not be able to understand what they are fighting for."
"And if they don't fight for you? What then?" France pressed, knowing and dreading what he was about to hear.
England's eyes were laughing at him. "You know the answer." He paused deliberately, daring France to say it.
France refused to speak. The look in England's eyes turned gloating as he spelled it out.
"There will be nowhere for them to hide," he said, "no country left untouched, no safe haven to flee to. If they run, if they don't fight... they will die." France heard what England didn't say: I will make sure of it.
"Your madness will kill us all." France made his voice as steady as he could. That, he fully believed.
"Not if we kill our enemies first," England replied. His dark smile proved there was no reasoning to be had. "Only those willing to fight for their justice stand a chance of surviving."
The most terrifying thing, France thought, was how logical England was making himself sound, when he knew the island nation was insane.
The most terrifying thing was that the logic appealed to no small part of him, the part of him that was Gaul.
It was in how easy France would find it to lose himself in that mad, mad logic.
And England knew, and he laughed at the fear so evident on his ally's face. It was the laugh of somebody who believed he'd succeed; who knew nothing except death could stop him, and the only one who might realise it would be better to kill him was too terrified to strike first.
And France, his ally, the only one who knew it might be better to kill him, was too scared to act and truly afraid of what would inevitably be unleashed upon the world because of it.