Warnings: Vocabulary (swear words), a bit of violence, Independence War.

Author Notes at the end of the chapter.

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me.

**dream sequence starts after the quote by Mark Z. Danielewski.**

.-.-.-.

When Past and Present Collide

.-.-.-.

CHAPTER TWO

"Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it."

(J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire)

His conscience trudged its way back to the surface in the very best possible way: sluggishly and carrying a fucking ton of bricks on its back. Just because England was used to it, due to the similar effects war and economic crisis could have on Nations, didn't mean he had to like it. Or know how to deal with it in a "civilized way", as so many of his acquaintances liked to nag about. "FUCK!"

Blinking rapidly, England´s eyes watered as pain blossomed all over his body. Bloody hell, he thought, gasping for air in an effort to dull his overenthusiastic nervous system.

The fact he was in a very uncomfortable position was the first thing he realized after the pain was blocked out; a handy ability he learned through being constantly trampled on when younger and stupider. Trying to roll over so he was lying on his back instead of his side, however, proved to be a grave mistake as his back flared in searing pain. Oh God! Oh God!, he thought over and over again as he hastily turned to lay flat on his stomach, back still burning. His pajama's top stuck to his back; the blood gluing the cotton cloth to his skin.

"Damn" He grumbled sullenly, resting his cheek on the cold floor and spying the mess around him with half-lidded eyes. "This'ish goin' to be hell tah clean"

For how long had he been unconscious? Not too long, he supposed, if the way his brain was functioning perfectly was anything to go by. He was well aware that being unconscious for more than one hour had some troublesome consequences.

Green eyes darkened in thought. He was sure that once he had been unconscious for so long that, when he woke up, he had not been himself; A bit slow because of the collateral damage. And without some much needed memories. Huffing, England tried to make the world stop spinning. But as it simply wouldn't, England gave up and decided to keep exactly where he was lest he worsened his condition by being stupidly reckless. Giving a small peek at his wrist watch, he confirmed that less than an hour, forty-something minutes to be more precise, had passed. "Great, effing great – Really"

He tried to think of amusing things to pass the time. Reciting poetry in Old-English could only take a man so far, and he could not, under any circumstances, fall asleep. Flexing his fingers and toes to make sure he could still feel and move them, England decided stupidly reckless was better than bored and anxious. So, positioning his arms in a perpendicular fashion against the ground, he threw his weight on them and pushed. A grunt escaped his lips when the Brit finally managed to lever himself in all fours. "DAMN!"

Fuck fuck fuck fuck!, he thought as his muscles burned. He was out of shape, he knew that. He knew. But he didn't think he was that bad. There was a time he would have already been on his feet, sword and gun drawn out and ready for a fight. Not anymore, it seemed; a freaking small explosion took him down. And his limbs ached like there was no tomorrow. Fan-fucking-tastic. He could see how this was turning out to be such a wondrous night. He honestly couldn't say which was shittier; his day or his night. Both, he decided, both are turning out to be too fucking awful. Not even a cuppa of the best tea in the world could make up for the dreary time he was having.

Blinking owlishly, he stared at the ground beneath him. His thoughts were all jumbled up. He was jumping from one tread of thought to another faster than France could take his clothes off. As soon as the mental image formed, England grimaced, shivering a bit in disgust. That hasn't been his best idea. "Focus" He berated himself. He would get nothing done if his mind kept straying. "Focus"

Ignoring the tongues of flames that seemed to wrap around his body and dance on his skin, he mentally prepared himself. God, I will tire myself to death with push-ups and sit-ups and some insane regime to get fit again as soon as I am out of here and rested, he thought determinedly while slowly rising to his knees. The unforgiving stone floor dig on his flesh, and England was sure he was now sporting some brand new scrapped knees, but the Brit simply tried his best to stand on his own two feet.

And when he finally did it, it was with one rare but rather breathtaking grin stretching his lips. Face flushed from the exertion, limbs sore, labored breath, and dirty faced, England wasn't as scrubbed up, prim and proper, as he preferred nowadays, but he felt victorious. And happy with his accomplishment, small as it might be. "Who is old now?" He asked, puffing his chest out like a proud peacock "Who is an old man now?" He questioned again, louder.

Huffing, but with the hints of a smile still lingering on his lips, England decided to stop boasting and get the damn album while he could see straight and everything around him stayed crisp and clear. The last thing he wanted was meeting the floor face first for the third time in less than one – no, two – hours.

Still 23:15 PM, he thought drowsily happy, I can have a nice enough rest yet.

"Here kitty, kitty, kitty" England said, snickering, while limping towards the blow-up bookcase – He knew he sounded like a lunatic, but he was euphoric in his joy at finally getting this over with. He was so damned close he could practically taste his magic dissolving; after being so tightly bound for so long – almost five decades – it had been hyper sensitive, and the sudden breach in the wards – even if made by England himself- had been enough to unleash it. Now, like smoke, it dissipated. He knew that he would have to take care of his own magic – the one in his body –, for it would now grow steadily without the need to feed the wards. But this wasn't neither here nor there.

Album first; sore limbs, broken glass, messy room, dirty clothes, and unchecked amounts of growing magic later. He stopped two feet away from the brown-leathered book. "I should schedule a consult later on with Doctor Albert, just to make sure I don't have sequels" England muttered. "Should... No, no, Must. Must schedule – Yes" He said, shaking his head despite the growing headache, and pressing his lips tight as he finally stared at the thing at his feet.

It brought forth memories in his mind. Good and bad, and, as such, all bittersweet in nature. He chuckled dryly as he bent down – ignoring the pain stretching in his state caused – and collected the book, nursing it against his chest. It felt warm, from his magic most likely, and England's arms clutched it with more strength. As if he feared that otherwise it would disappear once again.

Now that he had it in his arms, he was a bit dazzled. Or maybe it was the blood loss. He couldn't exactly pinpoint with precision. His mind had fixed on one simple fact: he had the album in his arms. He had it. He could destroy it. "No, no, no" He whispered, knees buckling beneath him and head swimming "Not yet – not just yet"

With his blunt nails clawing as much as they could of the book, England licked his lips and turned his back to the destroyed bookcase, to the shattered glass, to his remaining fallen treasures. I will clean it all later on, he decided with wide green eyes staring at thin air. He didn't really know why he couldn't destroy the book right fucking now, but he supposed it was alright – he could do it any other time. Shaking his head, he resumed his way towards the stairs. Green eyes quickly focused and the Brit breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring widely. "God, I am messed up" He chuckled.

He was – most likely – just confused from the head-injury. And he knew that he was being overly emotional. Heck! He was feeling more now than he had felt since the fifties, when all his colonies began to leave him! England assumed it had to do with the whole magical-explosion thingy. It must have done something to him, something he wouldn't be able to realize what it was just now, because he was dead on his feet – almost literally.

And as he entered his room and climbed up onto his bed, he could have sworn he heard the sound of something ripping. And a small pang on his chest that continuously grew until it almost made him double over let the Englishman thinking that those might be the aftereffects of what happened downstairs; at the basement. A couple of tears slid down his cheeks before the blond fell asleep in pain – more pain than he had felt in a really long time.

It would only be the day after that he would realize the pain's source. While England, however, lay in his bed, still pain-free for the most part, with the book pressed so hard to his chest he was sure a rectangular mark would be left in its' place, he knew nothing and, thus, suspected nothing. His lips twisted in the parody of a smile, and wondered, briefly, if his nightmares would be better or worse than the nights' before.

And, so, he fell asleep.

.-.-.-.

"I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I'm not. No one ever really gets used to nightmares."
(Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves)

There was nothing but pure dusk around him. But he could see it clearly, its form crooking and shaping, stretching and rounding – ever changing. And he could see it clearly, even though it was as dark as their surroundings.

He was running, from who – or what – he wasn't certain. But he knew that he needed to get away. And fast. And that was enough. He knew he had to trust his gut. It was the reason he had survived for so long. The reason he could still walk on this Earth. The reason he had been victorious so many times.

As such, he would keep running. And running. And running. Running until his legs gave up and faltered underneath his body. Running until his lungs burnt and even breathing was hard. Running until he couldn't run anymore and would inevitably succumb to the thing – monster, man, fellow nation – that pursued him.

"******!" It called "******!"

England cursed. And put more strength behind each strike of his leg, wishing that he had more power; that he was at his peak. Because then he would have been able to out-run this thing. Then he wouldn't have to feel the darkness shaping to his limbs, making grotesque shackles that twisted around his legs and tried to close around them. Tried to imprison him. No! He wouldn't – couldn't fall so easily! NO NO NO NO NO NO!

And so he kept on evading the black cuffs, leaping out of their reach. Soon, though, he felt the strain on his legs. "******" It kept calling, trying to lure England, its voice changing, passing through a variety of ranges – voices England knew quite well. Voices he wished he no longer could recognize. Better to forget his mistakes and his pains and his hurt and these voices; all of them associated and intertwined. And then it settled on one that was well-known by England. His second eldest brothers voice - Scotland. With its gruff and raspy tenor, it made cold sweat glide down England's brows. He had wronged the man, and the man had wronged him many a-times too. Now, they rarely talked. And when they did, it was with their fists. A troublesome relationship, no doubt.

He now knew he was dreaming, at least. And that it would be – by far – one of his worst dreams – or nightmares – yet. He just knew. Same as he knew when War was brewing. Or when France was 'bout to make a lewd comment. "Bloody hell" He muttered, fists clenching while he tried to put more and more distance between himself and the thing.

"USELESS, ******! NO ESCAPING THIS TI-ME!" It laughed.

Tights trembling, England cursed once more under his breath. He was going to be caught. There was no way out. And by the crackling and maniacal laugh behind him, it knew that as well. "Bastard" England growled, voice cracking a bit in the end.

Truth was, he didn't know what would happen if he was caught. And he didn't like not knowing things. It could be dangerous, it could destroy him – it could be a lot of things or do a lot of damage. And England, who loved to brag about knowing a whole lot of things, wasn't so sure he actually wanted to know what would happen if he was caught. No, ma'am. So he pushed himself beyond the limits of his body.

Beyond. Beyond. Beyond.

But them his legs gave up. And he fell. And although he knew the dream (nightmare?) to be some sick conjecture put together by his own traitorous mind… It hurt. And it hurting got England scared, for now he knew the thing could hurt him. And even if he was no strange to pain – or death, or torture, for that matter – he sure as hell could keep on living his tremendously long life without them, thank you very much. He had had enough of them for lifetimes.

Before the Englishman could even to phantom a scream, though, darkness swept over him. Flashing lime green and golden eyes were the last thing he saw, and a continuous chant of "*****N!" was the last thing England heard. And then he knew no more.

~oOo~

If before there had been no light what-so-ever, now there was an overwhelming amount of it. "Fuck" England swore, hands covering his watering eyes "Son of a bitch!"

Blinking, he muttered angrily under his breath. With a firm scowl, England glanced around, body taut and ready for an assault on the thing's part. "Come out, you wanker!" He provoked "Too afraid to show your ugly snout, git?!"

It may be stupid to string the guy – thing – It – whatever up, but the Brit could (couldn't?) care less. Or maybe he was being just being plain stupid. When he felt something cold and sticky wrapping around his throat, he fought. Viciously. Bravely. It mattered not, however. He was far too weakened by his last ditch efforts to fight. Soon, he was held by the scruff of his shirt, toes barely scratched the ground. With a purple face and bulging eyes, England glared as fiercely as he could.

Then, the Brit did the only thing he could in such a pinch: he cursed. And then he tried to claw the thing's arms or whatever it was that was holding him. Again, no such luck. But it did not discourage England. "Fu...ck, you." He whizzed out.

"*****N, Why? STO-OP. ****ON. YOU! NEVER AGAIN. ****ON!" It screamed, shaking England as if he was but a naughty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

And when he thought he might as well just bloody die (because he felt pathetic at the thought of losing to something in his own effing mind). The thing let go of his throat, and the Brit fell ungracefully to the floor. "Bloody-" He started, massaging his throat, but as soon as he took in the new scenery around him, he wished...

"****ON WILL LEARN"

"NEVER. FORGET. NOT AGAIN, ***ION!"

He wished the thing had just finished him off. Really.

It would have been more merciful. It would have been kinder. But, he supposed, kind didn't seem exactly what the thing was aiming.

Because, now, stretching before him was his worst nightmare. And the one he feared to have every night. Gurgling at the taste of blood in his mouth – and realizing that biting his own tongue would not get him out of this – England stared. Hard and keenly, as if to engrave the images conjured from Hell to his mind – burn them onto his brain, "Holy Mary".

Bright – blue, and green, and amethyst, and onyx, and amber, and brown, and…, and… – eyes stared right back. "Shitte"

~oOo~

"Mom!" The first green-eyed boy shouted, running towards England. And the Brit, dazzled, caught him mid-air, securely holding the rambunctious child on his hip. "MOM!"

Australia. It could only be Australia with the brown hair, neatly combed behind but for two curls, and the scrap on his nose. Mouth hanging open, England snapped his head to the right when he heard a familiar giggle. "Seychelles" He whispered, gaze locked onto the small girl – no older than five – with twin-pigtails, blue dress and carefree smile.

"Sweetie?" He asked, uncertain, but willing to…

"Papa" A small boy – Canada, England belatedly recognized – called "Are you alright?"

Giving a slight nod, though his head and thoughts were elsewhere, England squeezed the life out of Australia. Was he real? The indignant squeak seemed to suggest so. But this was a dream – A dream. Nightmare. Right? Of course it wasn't real. But they all seemed so... They smiled, and giggled, and looked so... Breathtakingly real.

He could see most of them. Australia and New Zealand, the later glaring at the Aussie in his arms, Seychelles, Canada and America, Hong-Kong, India, Cameroon, Wy, Sealand, South Africa, Egypt, and- And so many others. His chest hurt just at looking at all of these children who were once his, their round and innocent faces. His children. His colonies. And, now, neither.

The Age of Empires was long past. The World now walked another path, one more just and fairer than the old ways could never hope to be. Truthfully, it was better this way. His children – colonies – doesn't matter – left the nest. And that was fine. England was fine. Everything was…

Oh! Who was he trying to kid? Clutching Australia tighter against his chest, he scooped New Zealand up as well. His hands trembled. And if he could see them, he was sure the knuckles would be as white as his face; ashen-like, he would bet. "What are you doing here?" He asked as nonchalantly as possible. His eyes greedily drinking in the sight of the little colonies, whom eagerly approached him. Shrill squeals and shouts for his attention followed, and his question seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. He, for once, did not mind at all.

It wasn't long before he sat on the ground and entertained the children. From time to time he would say 'How I have missed you', and they would answer 'We will never leave, mommy'. He put two and two together and assumed 'mommy' came from 'Motherland'. He preferred that to the only other logical explanations, that ranged from them confusing him for a woman (Unacceptable as he was clearly male, and damned proud of it) to thinking of him on a mothering role (Which he would feel quite flattered about, to be truthful).

Even though he knew it wasn't real, he permitted himself to get lost in it. And the fear he had when he first laid eyes on the children was all but gone. Dream or not, it was the best fucking thing that happened to him in a handful of decades.

As such, he should have known it was much too good to be true.

While he played with America, he did notice the kid's changing speech pattern; from 'Engwand' to 'England'. Not only this, but he could also see the way America seemed to be growing farther and farther apart from the group.

And growing – Dear God, was he growing. With trepidation England accompanied as America's body suffered a growth spurt and sprinted upwards like a Chinese blasted bamboo. It was all too familiar for him to pretend it was anything but that. The distasteful looks the American now sent his way all but made the Brit recoil. Oh God, please, NO! This would be cruel, too cruel, he mused with dread. He knew, however, what was to unfold, and it did not make him feel any better. "America" He approached the blue-eyed boy, no, young man "Is everything alright, lad?"

The absolutely vile look he sent England broke the Englishman's heart. But he didn't back down. If there is something he was known for, it was for not backing down. Ever. He proved it in World War II, did he not? Scowling, he asked again what was wrong. This time more forcibly. "What is wrong, America?"

This, he supposed, was his first mistake. He walked right into whatever trap It had laid.

~oOo~

"War is hell" is a phrase supposedly delivered by William Tecumseh Sherman, a North-American Major General who served in their Civil War, to a graduating class of the Michigan Military Academy, in June of 1879. And on April of 1880, the same man addressed a crowd of more than 10,000 at Columbus, Ohio, and repeated: "There is many a boy here today who looks on war as all glory, but, boys, it is all hell."

England rarely heard wiser words. Because War is Hell, and War is Ugly. And the Brit, although loving to battle and spar, to have near-to-death combats, soon learnt to absolutely despise war. For war killed his people and razed his lands. It brought naught but disgrace and calamity in its wake.

There were no winners when it came to war. Boys barely out of their diapers, still stinking of milk, were dressed in garbs and sent to die. They were only 18, children yet, but it mattered not in war. And mothers wept for their sons. And they also wept for their husbands. And soon enough children would cry for their never-returning fathers and brothers. And England himself would mourn for his brave citizens, who died in his name.

There were no winners. Period.

The smell of gunpowder and rain and mud all mixed in together hit him full in the face, and for a second England seriously considered shooting himself. End it all and such bullshit. But he did not. He simply stared dumbly at the North-American in front of him. Thinking about how nice it would have been if these kinds of conflict were about who could throw more flowers at whom or who could drink tea faster or something equally pleasant. Why couldn't they simply talk things through?

Alas, he knew why. Some problems simply couldn't be resolved with diplomacy. Quite a shame, if he was truthful. They had tried that with Germany after World War II, and where had it left them?

Surprisingly, his eyes were dry. And England knew they wouldn't remain so for much longer. The blue-eyed man in front of him, with such a determined gaze, would not allow so. And he knew his own people were tired of these conflicts. To them, the Thirteen Colonies were nothing but a piece of land sucking away their money. A piece of land they kept by paying taxes. And His Majesty George III was getting tired as well, as was the parliament.

He had no army with him this time. And America had one, big and ready to fight. With a sad smile he wondered why the American suspected nothing. He could see the somewhat surprised and calculating gazes of France, Prussia and Spain on him. The feral need for retribution was quenched. For now, at the very least. Those three, however... Those three England would make sure knew the horror of his wrath.

Without his consent, his body surged forward, musket ready. He attacked. And America's musket all but flew from the child's hands. With shallow breaths he took in the scene laid before him. The flash of fear in America's blue-eyes, eyes that had been so smug – so confident – not even five minutes ago, made England cringe. He didn't want this. Why did America had to go and revolt? Why couldn't they just pay the damn taxes? Why- Why- Why?

Silly boy. The Brit's lips trembled and his hands shook as he positioned the musket right in between those frightened blue-eyes. This was his boy. His little brother, damn it. The one he taught how to fight and how to use a gun; how to read and write; how to dance and ride a horse; how to- How to do so many things. The one he built wooden toys for, the ones he learnt to knit and embroider for. "America- Give up"

He was pleading as much as he was ordering. But England knew America wouldn't give up. And that he would be the one giving in. Because his people wanted him to – his King wanted him to – and because he couldn't hurt the boy in front of him. He would rather sever his own hand. He had lived through the American Revolution once, and it had been downright awful. A second time wasn't any better. It was akin to torture. Then America said the blasted words, renounced England as his family.

And England never could quite forgive the American for that slight.

His body became heavy, so bloody heavy that he couldn't stand, not on his two feet. And thus he fell. Fell like a puppet which the strings had been cut. Useless. Oh. Father have mercy!, he wished to shout to the heavens as he saw the American's lips part once again.

He hid his face, hands trying – and failing – to cover his now tear stricken cheeks. It was all happening a second time, and he could change nothing. His body viciously shaking with each sob as the American turned his back and –victoriously – walked away.

"You used to be so big"

These words didn't pain him as much at the time as they did now. How was it possible? Why was the pain so intense? Why it seemed like his heart was being stabbed again and again and again by a blunt knife? It wasn't anything like he remembered. Yes, it hurt, but- Was it because he was reliving it (even though he had no control of his body)? Was it the Things' work? Maybe… Some kind of witchcraft? Sorcery? … Magic?

"*LBION! *LBION! *LBION!" It screeched. Mad. So very mad.

But England couldn't hear… couldn't think. He didn't want to think. None of that. None of that. He didn't know how long he stayed there, on the ground, on the mud. Pathetic. Crying like a baby. Like a child. A failure. He had had the chance. And he missed it. If he could do it all over again... He would have missed it all the same. And – somehow – he hated himself for it. Hated this weakness. Fool. Stupid. Weak. Pathetic. Shameful. "GOD!"

"DO YOU SEE? **BION? UNDERSTAND?"

"YOUR FAULT, ALBION! ALBION! ALBION!"

He looked up, staring straight at the thing. It now changed; the shape, the form, and the voice. It wasn't long before acidic green eyes – his own eyes, he realized – stared back at him. A sorrowful expression stretched in the Things' face – A face much like his own.

England's lips trembled before setting in a firm line. And a single word passed them:

"Why?"

"Because you forgot us, M'lord"

Afterwards, the Englishman would admit he could've lived without such an answer. But when all things around them suddenly disappeared from sight once again, England couldn't help but curse first and foremost.

~oOo~

Darkness plunged inside him, merciless. Something else he couldn't quite put his finger on, but was at the tip of his tongue, mixed in together with the darkness. None of it was vile or disgusting or made him feel dirty. It was rather like an old friend... One he hadn't seen for years. One he had shunned and ignored. And now it was angry, so it attacked, and it squeezed painfully, and it didn't forgive quite so easily. Clearly, it was pissed – resentful – raging. But there was an edge... An edge of loneliness, of sadness, of abandonment. A lost child. A terrified animal. A fragile thing. England knew... What it was... He was sure... But... No, not possible. With a horrified feeling growing inside him, he tried to touch. He wanted to – no, needed to – feel it. Make sure. Breathing hard, he felt his surroundings bubbling around him, growing. England screamed, he didn't want to go. He wanted to freaking find out what – get to the bottom of this. He needed to. Needed.

But the next thing he heard was the sound of people screaming, shouting at the tops of their lungs. The putrid smell of Death, the cold grip of such unyielding force, was excruciating. What language were they screaming at? Frowning, England tried to place it.

"Fuck" He breathed out, finally putting the pieces together. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck."

He was in India. Which war unraveled before him, he did not know. There had been many. But he knew one thing: after America he had been crueler in the battle field. Any of his colonies that dared to challenge his power had been dealt with quickly and efficiently. As long as they remained submissive, they were fine. And he doted on them like any proud parent would. But on the battlefield... "No, please. No, God, no no no no no."

India was there, right in front of him. Scowling fiercely with determined a glint in his eyes. His weapon was ready, his muscles tense. And England knew he probably was a mirror of his child. His lips pulled in a cold smirk, and the Brit (unwilling, at least in his mind) charged. Beneath the toe-curling screams, the dying breaths of man alike, the deep scowls and muscles stringed, the hurtful words and accusations; England's cry – forced to relieve the worst memories he had, the ones where he somehow hurt his children and was hurt, the ones where they lost their trust on him, the ones where he pushed them away – went unheard.

And the Englishman worst nightmare to date had barely begun.

~oOo~

A/N: Hello, there! I'm very sorry for the long wait. This isn´t even a new chapter. I just… Rewrote the second chapter because I was a bit unsatisfied with my last attempt. Still not fully satisfied, but… It'll have to do for now. Changed a few things, took some out, rephrased most of the things… Got lazy towards the end (kidding!). I already started to write chapter three, but I'm busy, so I won't promise a date. Hopefully, though, BEFORE the end of the year. Maybe. One can hope. I will try my best to aim for November. See ya!

Posted: 04/08/2014

Last edited: 14/10/2015

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