A/N: Apologies: this chapter is extraordinarily long, but I couldn't cut it. It ties a lot of things together.

Challenge: I've found the image uploader, and I wanted dearly a cover for this story, but I couldn't think of any good scenes. Do you have any suggestions?

Oh, and forgive any errors in this chapter. I'd a very long week.


England knelt at America's bedside, and dabbed at his face with a damp cloth.

It was rather silly that everything had come to this, really.

At the very least, he had to confess certain feelings of irritation that he hadn't noticed America's illness until far too late. That didn't mean that he actually cared about the git: far to the contrary. All the work he'd done, all the progress he'd made, everything would have to stop for the duration of the US's sickness. In any event, he didn't want the nation to die: after all, America was a great source of entertainment, and England often lay awake at night thinking of new and more inventive ways to break the other nation. His concern was only to himself.

He also suffered not from any misplaced feelings of fellowship – after all, about two hundred years ago, America had shown England what he'd thought of their feelings of mutual fellowship. The only thing he wanted from America was revenge.

America needed to suffer, and, to suffer, he had to live. Suffering comes through loss, and England had no interest in someone with nothing left to lose.

Now, his only priority was making America well again, not because he minded at all that America was ill, as that was just silly, but because the younger nation had to live through all sorts of terrors dredged up from the depths of his past, and this bothered England deeply. Or, rather, it bothered England deeply because he wasn't able to derive the sort of enjoyment he usually did when America confronted his demons. These illness-born nightmares were too uncontrolled, and England didn't like things he couldn't control. This much was clear to anyone.

Therefore, the most logical choice was to provide America with the best amenities that this ship had to offer. England had given up his own cabin, because he slept easier each night knowing that America was as comfortable as possible, obviously because that meant England could continue the torture as soon as possible. He most certainly did not lie awake every night with the image of America, pale and suffering, burnt into his eyelids.

Well, he hadn't been sleeping much; that was true, but that was because he stayed at all times at America's bedside, and that damned chair was extraordinarily uncomfortable. He had to see about repairing it, or getting a new one. He dearly wished he didn't need to wait beside America. Every time he looked at those sky-blue eyes, or that untidy straw-blonde hair, England was reminded of the depth of his hatred for the other nation. Every time he heard that idiotically nasal voice mangling his beautiful language, England swore vengeance.

The worst part was his damned persistence. The nascent America had been pathetic – laughable, even. In the beginning, he'd nearly fallen apart so many times, and England thought: fine. I'll show you how much you depend on me to survive. You need me, and I most certainly do not need you.

Yet, somehow, he had survived.

His persistence had carried over into far too many aspects of his personality. Was that not that one of his mottos? 'Never give up, never surrender'? No, no, that was something else; the man had such an insufferable pride in his own cinematic industry.

You want… want me to… prove you wrong…

He never knew when to stop. If he had left well enough alone in that room, on that day, and hadn't said those stupid and obviously false eight words, England wouldn't have decided he was tired of the damned little beast, and thrown him out onto the deck. And, if England hadn't done that, he could have kept a much closer eye on America, and noticed when he'd exhibited the first symptoms of his illness. Yes, this was all America's fault. 'Prove you wrong' indeed!

He had been in such a rage as he'd stormed from the room, his hands clutching the red-streaked blade so tightly that his knuckles were white and bloodless. England went very pale when angry.

When Wales had seen him, his eyes became very grim. Wales always had been the protective one. When England ordered America tied to the deck, he nodded, understanding immediately. He had then undertaken America's physical and psychological torture from that point on, hoping that it would relieve the sort of cloud that had come over his brother, but England found he no longer had the stomach to witness America's destruction.

It didn't make any sense! Of course he'd stomach enough to witness America's destruction. He'd dreamt of nothing else ever since the man had revolted. Though he had the body of but one man, he had the heart and stomach of a nation, and the nation England, too, and he thought foul scorn that any douche like America should dare… well… how dare he do whatever it was he dared? His very existence made England want to kill someone very slowly.

Therefore, for several days, England sulked. He avoided his brothers and found solstice in the bottle. Only when he was intoxicated did the world make sense to England. He rarely slept, though he was often unconscious. Most days, he simply lay on his bed, neglecting even to undress, and stared at the ceiling.

Of course he didn't want America to prove him wrong. That would be one of the greatest insults he could think of. It was a wonder the man could muster the intelligence to lace his own shoes. If America made him look stupid, then he must be stupid indeed. It was not dissimilar to being called evil by Hitler.

Despite this, he was curiously drawn toward the upper deck. Pulled by equal and opposite forces, England languished in his cabin, incapable of decision, or even of understanding.

Unable to stand the pressure anymore, England one morning arose early, cleaned himself, shaved for the first time in days, and dressed himself, choosing his clothes with some amount of care. Then, he ventured upwards.

Three times he nearly turned back. Three times, he faltered. Even at the threshold of the upper deck, he hesitated, his fingers nearly touching the doorknob. Beyond the door lay all his hopes and all his fears. Somehow, America was at the centre of it all. England waited, uneasy, frightened of what he might see, and, perhaps, of what he wouldn't.

In the end, his resolve was stronger than his apprehension. What had he to be frightened of? He wasn't in any imminent danger of bodily harm, and there was really no mystery behind the force pulling him toward America. He merely wished to see the death of an ideal. He wanted to look into America's eyes and see the naïve idealism the man held so dear to his heart torn away forever. Holding his head high, England threw open the door and walked onto the deck.

It was midmorning, and the sun shone through the mist and the cool morning air. Wales and Scotland stood over the mutilated lump that once was India, and he shook his head in disappointment and disgust. India had already broken; he had already given all that he could have given.

Base physical pain held no interest for England; it was only so many cuts and scrapes after all. That which he lived for, the crowning and achievement of every successful session, was hope. He worked his subjects until they reacted perfectly to his every motion, and, together, like the violinist and the well-made instrument, they sang melodies of hope and despair, of desire and disappointment, of pathetic misery and loss. He did sometimes use physical pain in order to achieve the level of thwarted hope that he desired, but the best results came from those he never even had to touch.

They had done well to put off America until the end, but India hadn't anything left that they could take away. So, England sent his brothers away and looked a moment at the broken Asian nation before him. India didn't even cry, didn't even react to the man who'd sent his torturers away.

No. This wasn't what he wanted at all. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, whether gratitude, relief, or happiness at the presence of a protector, but it wasn't this. England slit the man's throat quickly.

The other two, on the other hand, looked very relieved, and England felt such elation as he hadn't felt in over two hundred years. These were now his perfect instruments, so he played them, and played them well. His methods were perhaps more crude than usual, and the red soiled his garments in tiny specks, but there was such hope and such despair and such confusion in America's eyes that England decided all this was worth it.

The most beautiful thing, England decided, was that America had held on all through the ordeal. He'd one tiny spark of hope which England simply could not destroy no matter how he tried. He would have to be careful and inventive and very, very clever, and every day, what joy at the challenge he now faced! When America finally did crack, after giving England months of delight, how sweetly the empire would treasure every tear, every sob, and every wail.

Only then, when there was nothing more to be had from the former colony, would America finally die. He wouldn't have the strength to even beg for it, then, and England would be left satisfied at a job well done. Of course, he would feel a slight sadness that it couldn't have lasted longer, but he knew better than anyone that all good things end.

A feeble noise snapped England back to the present and the cabin, and the ill nation beside him. He dabbed at America's cheeks once more with the cloth. The stricken man was mumbling.

"Ay deek ayon Ingan indeyouds," he muttered.

"Yes, yes," England replied. America had been mumbling like this for a while, now. This was nothing new. The thing to do was keep replacing the damp cloth upon his forehead and remember that he hadn't any emotional investment in this whatsoever.

America began shifting. He rolled first to one side, then to the other. "Aygan deedin! Aygan deedin! Cherstmeh aygan deedin, yadaggair aersolf, Gerrol Wasnten," he slurred.

England clicked his tongue and attempted to replace the cloth. It was nearly dry. Irritated, he soaked it in water once again, and tried to replace it. America, however, had other plans. His thrashings became more violent, and, in an especially extravagant gesture, his arm slid across and knocked over the jug England had prepared. It smashed against the floor amid an ever-expanding puddle of water and several clean towels England had had ready. Grumbling, the captain made to clean it up, as America cried out.

"Yoogasht meh, c'ntrlled meh, an toogwah m'eedom. I'n pay f'r y'r werrs, oyesh, buh I can' have ashay i' m'own fu'chre?

England froze, hands paused halfway through scooping ceramic pieces from the floor.

"Gimme lib'rty o gi' me death!"

Oh, yes, he remembered this part. Well, he didn't specifically remember this part, but he knew of it. Of course America would harp on his early colonial days. From the way he went on about it, one would think that they'd never interacted outside of the Revolt and the World Wars.

America's thrashings grew worse. Cautiously, England stood up and regarded his former colony.

The United States looked terrible. He was very, very thin, and England could see the individual ribs of his chest where he'd shoved aside the blankets. His face was pale and sallow, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes.

His eyes were currently open, but their colour was dull and washed out. Unseeing, they flickered madly, seeing not the cabin, but some nightmarish memory dredged up from the dawn of his recollections.

"America," England asked carefully, "what year is it?"

The roving orbs caught onto England's face, flickered across it without recognition. America attempted something that it took England a few moments to realise was a sad attempt at laughter. His breath forced its way through a mucus-clogged throat. He hacked a while, a thick, congealing, yellow substance sliding from between his lips. England winced in disgust and wiped it away.

"Tha's why I'll beah you," America said, in a surprisingly clear voice. "I's se'enteen eighty two. How d'you expect to controh me if you can't even r'member the year?"

England didn't really know what to say. "You're delirious," he tried, but then America's eyes grew unfocused and he slid back into the depths of his early recollections.

England suddenly was unsure of what to do with his hands. He looked down and remembered why he'd stood up. He knelt and scooped up the clay shards. Turning around, he told America, "Wait here," though he wasn't quite sure what else the ill nation would do.

He rushed outside and ordered fresh water, plenty of damp cloths, medicines, and everything else he could think of. He must have seemed in a right state, for Wales broke the tacit agreement between them and asked what had happened.

Scotland cracked his knuckles. "I ken. It's tha America. D'ye want me tae teach him a lesson?"

"No!" England shouted.

There was a pause. Scotland looked shocked, then suspicious. "No," England said, softly. "He, er," A moment, he was quite unsure what to say, but at the thought of Scotland 'teaching' America, a sort of anger filled him. "He's mine" he said savagely. "No-one is to disturb us."

He rushed the supplies back to his cabin immediately. America still lay, thrashing. Hands shaking, England laid a damp cloth across America's forehead, but one of the prone nation's errant gesticulations caught England across the jaw. Even ill and weakened, America was incredibly strong.

England growled and raised his hand against his younger charge, but America caught his upraised fist, and sat up. He ran his fingers through hair distorted by its time against a pillow, and looked around the cabin, as if seeing it for the first time.

He grabbed England's fist tightly between both hands, and whispered "Britain".

"America?" England decided to ignore his anger for now, since for once America seemed lucid.

"You were gone. I thought…"

England leaned forward. "What did you think?"

"Please. Please…"

The grip tightened. England could feel the bones of his hand compressing.

"What?" England shook his head "I don't know what to do."

America shut his eyes tightly. "I'm so scared, so scared," he whimpered.

England put his hand on top of America's, and, mindful that he could no longer feel several fingers, gingerly gave a little squeeze. "Everything will be fine. I'm here."

America opened his eyes and looked at England. "I know," he said quietly. "You're here. You're always here. You hurt me, and sometimes you're nice, but that's just so you can be even meaner later." America's voice built. "You're here and it hurts! Why can't you leave me alone? I don't need you," America was shouting by this point.

"No, no, I don't-"

"What about when I was a kid? The coat, the soldiers, the books? Were you just trying to make me trust you? I thought you loved me!"

"America," England tried desperately.

"All I want is my freedom," America cried out raggedly. "I'm no longer a child, nor your little brother. From now on, consider me independent!"

England's heart sank. He remembered very well this point in their shared history. America was delirious again.

America jerked, his back arching so much England thought it would snap. With a cry, he slammed himself back onto the bed, and kicked his legs out.

"I…I…" England stammered. America paid him no heed, but vomited messily all over the bed.

"No! No, no, no, no, no, no, no!" cried England. He grasped America about the shoulders and shook him violently. "Stop!"

America's eyes opened and found England's, wide with that sort of clarity that came only with deepest delirium. The pupils were so dilated that there was hardly any iris left, and they struggled to focus on England.

This enraged the Empire; he threw America's shoulders against the bed. "You idiot! It's not 1783! We're not fighting: you're in my quarters, and I'm trying to make you better. Why can't you listen to me!"

America blinked in confusion. "I… I don't understand."

"You're already independent! You've already won! Why can't you see? You can't die! You're a world superpower! It isn't fair. I hate you!" England slammed his arms into the bed on either side of America's head. "I hate everything about you! Now, you've to fall bloody ill, worse than ill, and vomit all over my sheets and my bedroom, and you haven't the gratitude and common decency to get better, you little twat! If you die, I swear I'll fucking resurrect you so I can kill you myself!"

America blinked again, and his eyes grew unfocused. England roared and kicked the nearby wall with all of his strength. It snapped and splintered unsatisfactorily. With an almost inhuman effort, England managed to control himself.

Breathing heavily, he turned to face the bed. "Useless," he snapped.

Fading, America's eyes were now half closed, but still he spoke.

"I jus… jus wanted to be big and strong… like you," he rasped.

England stopped and stared, hands working themselves into white-knuckled fists. He realised that he was covered in vomit.

Without a word, he simply turned around and walked out the door.