"You and I, we'll always be together." Gaulia walks along a stone wall, feet shuffling against rock, precariously balancing. Albion, walking on the ground beside him, frowns curiously.

"How do you know that?"

"It's fate!" His eyes shine as they turn upon Albion. "It was no mere accident, our first meeting in the forest." Gaulia jumps off from the wall and lands in front of Albion, taking his hands. "You and I, we were meant for each other."


1917, February 7

Green eyes awoke to a white ceiling.

"Well then. The Great British Empire finally arises," a gruff voice sounded, vaguely familiar. Arthur sat up, slowly, tentatively, blinking and trying to adjust to the strange light. Everything was a jumbled mess inside his head, memories scattered.

The United States of America leant against the doorframe, lips in a straight line, eyes trained closely to England's face. Stiffening, Arthur instinctively felt for his pistol, but instead found the fabric of his hospital nightgown.

"What the hell happened?" He asked hoarsely, warily regarding the other as he approached. America said nothing, simply watched. He looked down at the floor, sat down at England's bedside, and finally stared England in the face with a heavy intake of breath.

"England, you've been asleep for three years."

It didn't really process, not yet. England stared back owlishly, emotions wildly fluctuating, torn between ripping the man in front of him into shreds or believing him-

France.

Everything came back, like a dam exploding, and Arthur sharply exhaled, eyes growing wide. In a frenzy, he leapt off the side of the bed, ripping the IV out of his arm, and made for the door. Alfred blocked his path, grabbing his shoulders, saying something, but Arthur didn't care. Wildly he struggled in Alfred's grip, screaming and demanding for the younger to let him pass, and in his state of delirious rage backhanded America's face.

America stumbled back, but other personnel flooded through the door, restraining England and pushing him backwards. They couldn't get far with the nation kicking and screaming like a wounded child, not until the door swung open once again and Russia pushed his way through, grabbing Arthur's shoulders and shoving him against the wall.

"Get off of me!" England screeched, lashing out. Russia barely dodged his fist and tried pinning him to the wall, but the Empire was too much for one person to contain.

"A little help, please!" Russia snapped, America quickly coming to his aid. Together, they successfully restrained the thrashing nation, breathing out heavily as finally, England stilled, eyes dangerously glinting.

"Listen," America commanded, though his voice sounded uncertain. "France isn't dead, or else you would have absorbed his Republic. We know you bonded with him. We've been keeping a close eye on not only your vitals, but your politics, and nothing's changed drastically." He inhaled, weakly finishing, "But... France has been missing in action for the three years you've been comatose."

England's eyes bored into his, furious. "No one has searched? No one has secured a lead on the Black Hand?"

"The Black Hand had nothing to do with France's kidnapping," Russia murmured quietly, his voice calm and almost soothing. "Nor your shooting."

"Then who?!" England snarled, teeth bared like a cornered animal. America winced, unable to maintain eye contact with the man whom he'd broken away from.

"Use your brain, England. The Black Hand's agenda was to frame you for the murder of the Archduke. Did you really believe they'd pursue you? Their job was done." Russia glanced back, waving the nurses out. Once the room was secure, he muttered, "Who did you run into before your car toppled off the bridge in Austria?"

"How do you know all of this?!" England hissed. "Did you fucking delve into my brain?!"

"Information gets around," America replied, voice hushed. "Spy networks hide everywhere. And once they know, we know."

England inhaled sharply, hesitating for a moment. "Prussia. France and I intercepted Prussia before our car got shot off the bridge."

"Then, we have two options to believe. One, Germany and Prussia have kidnapped France to further their prospects in the war. Or... a matrix of German agents have begun their own agenda," Russia said, violet eyes glinting. "To assassinate all personifications in order to secure domination."

"Fuck," America exhaled, as if the information were new to him. England's fingers gripped tight onto Russia's shoulders, eyes burning into the younger's. So, we're scrambled. We know nothing of their plans, nor what's happened to Francis.

"The war," he asked, voice wavering. "Have we lost?"

"No, Arthur. We're still fighting."

"Where the hell are we?"

"A safe-house in France."

"What is he doing here?" England growled, jaw clenching as he glared at America. America turned away, crossing his arms like the petulant child England thought he still was. Some wounds would never heal.

"He's here to help us," Russia explained, almost gently. His voice dropped to a whisper. "He's been by your side for months, monitoring everything-"

"I don't need him, nor anyone's help!" England shoved Russia backwards, causing him to stumble into America. However, he didn't advance, nor try to race out of the room. He instead gripped at his hair with angry, calloused hands, pacing the room back and forth in his hospital gown. "Why?!" He demanded, green eyes focusing sharply on the two younger nations. "Why would you not wake me?!"

He sounded so desperate, so heartbroken, that it rendered America and Russia confused. "Why are you reacting this way?" Ivan asked, taking an uncertain step forward. England paused in his reckless pacing, staring at the floor as it dawned on him.

Oh, God. They don't know. Nobody knows. Nations aren't supposed to fall in love. Of course they wouldn't know.

"You try going under for three years," England snapped, blaming his strange behavior on worrying about his country's politics. "I'm an Empire. I'm not a young nation who can galavant into the woods like the lot of you."

"You're 19," America pointed out snidely from the corner of the room. Russia glared at him, as if saying, You're not helping!

"And you are barely 16," England said, staring coldly down his nose at America. "Hardly mature enough to enter the likes of war."

"At least I don't take three year long naps."

Bristling, England and America stared each other down, eyes cold. A fight would have broken out if Russia hadn't walked in between them, snapping them out of their trance. "Fighting will get us nowhere, мудак."

"Russia's right. We must focus on tracking down this German intelligence and rescuing France," England tilted his head up. "America, if you'd be so kind as to fetch me proper clothing?"

It was more of an order than a request, and everyone in the room knew it. But as much as America wanted to curl his bottom lip and snarl no, he obeyed, storming out of the room. Russia turned to England, frowning. "You're not doing either of you any good."

"He's a foolish child." He's my brother, and I loved him.

Russia's lips quirked up in a knowing smile. "When I was under France, during the Napoleonic era, France would say the same thing about you. About how childish you were, about how you couldn't resist his power for long. But you ended up victorious."

Scoffing, England turned his head. The words stung, but Russia couldn't know that. He readied to reply when strong feelings of nausea started to pulse up his throat, and dry-heaving, he almost fell to the floor.

"Arthur?!" Russia exclaimed, grabbing his shoulders and holding him up. England gasped for breath, fingers a death-grip on Russia's bicep, eyes wide with a sudden rush of feeling, something he couldn't explain but knew it was France.

A soft noise of distress tore from England's throat, gasping for breath as Russia steadied him.

"France," he whispered. "Where are you?"


"He's so pretty," a voice sneered. France growled low in his throat, a cornered animal in the dark, shackled to the wall. Lacerations scattered over his skin bled out onto the cold concrete beneath his legs. "Even when he's covered in bruises and blood."

Pain erupted below his shoulder blades, a knife glinting in the dark, trailing down his back. France hissed sharply, biting his lip and tilting his head back slightly, long greasy hair tangled in his face. Someone laughed, a deep, rasping sound. "Red is a nice colour on him."

His chin roughly was yanked up by calloused fingers. Blue eyes, still fiery and defiant, glared back at his captor's face, lips curling into a snarl. "Va te faire foutre."

The man's rough hand connected harshly with his face, the sharp slap echoing through the dark room. France's glare intensified, wound on his face bleeding, dripping down the bridge of his nose. He couldn't be broken now, and everyone knew that. He was bonded with England, which meant he'd borrow from England's strength when he started to grow weak, no matter how far apart they were.

Nonetheless, he prayed, prayed that Arthur would break the bond. Francis was stealing strength from him. He couldn't help but take, and he knew that Arthur would do nothing but give him every ounce of strength he had.


"Hey!"

Albion turns, taken aback when he sees Gaulia. His only friend has changed since they last met- he looks older, taller. "Have you grown, Gaulia?"

Gaulia doesn't smile. His eyes dart away, as if he's searching, waiting for someone. Albion finally realizes that he's been running, out of breath and panting. "Are you alright?"

"You need to get out of here," Gaulia breathes, grips him by the shoulders forcibly. Albion shrinks back, big green eyes confused. But Gaulia repeats, "You need to get out of here, now."

"Why? We always play here! Look, I brought your favorite flower, see?" Albion holds out the plant, petals pretty and blue, like Gaulia's eyes.

Gaulia doesn't smile. Instead, he pushes Albion backwards and says, "You need to go, and never come back. Never!"

Stung, Albion recoils, protesting, "B-but-"

"I said leave!" Gaulia snarls, the words too grown-up to be the same boy. Albion takes off, running into the forest, trying to wipe away the childish wetness in his eyes. Something compels him to turn around.

Someone walks through the dense forest, gripping Gaulia's shoulder tightly. Through the leaves, Albion can see Gaulia flinch, voice wavering as he speaks, "Rome."

Rome smiles. Albion is too young to realize that the look is not friendly, not friendly at all. It is lustful and evil and cruel, like the words he speaks next. But Albion doesn't hear, because he runs, runs back to his country, and he vows never to forgive Gaulia for replacing him. He doesn't know Gaulia was trying to protect him. He doesn't know that Gaulia is a slave to Rome's desires.

And he doesn't see Gaulia for a very, very long time.


"How did you find me?" England asked, breeze tossing his hair side to side.

Russia crossed his arms and tilted his head up. "Switzerland found you in the aftermath. He said you were dead. Liechtenstein thought so as well." Smiling, he clicked his tongue. "But I knew the British Empire wouldn't go down so easily. We assumed you'd bonded with France in a last ditch effort to save your country... incidentally saving yourself."

"How?"

"Not only do countries merge when they bond, but they also share each other's strength. When you were weak, you borrowed from France, and when France is weak, he'll borrow from you."

Sighing out, England gazed at the golden wheat blowing around them, a beautiful safe house in an dark, war-dominated country. "He's already been taking my strength. So, he's obviously..." He swallowed thickly. "Obviously being tortured."

"Intel would suggest," Russia murmured, eyes curious as they gazed at England. "Forgive me for intruding, Arthur. But you seem worried over someone you have always hated?"

England hesitated. Nations had never spoken of romance: it was an understood taboo, an undiscussed rule. It just didn't exist between nations. But now, suddenly, it did, and between two very unlikely powers. Green eyes downcast, he finally responded, "He is my ally, is he not? I feel as much pity for him as I would America, or... or anyone."

Russia observed England's pained expressions and knew he was lying. Using discretion, he said nothing.


February 19th

"So," America started, voice loud and seemingly confident in the meeting room. Everyone listened, because everyone always listened to America, such a powerful, bright ray of light in dark times. The chalkboard behind him displayed messy scribbles of attack plans and bombing strategies and everything tactical. "We move on to the situation with France."

The British Empire raised his head, green eyes piercing as they connected with America's. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, America tore his gaze away from England's. "It's been almost four months since he's gone, but we know he's still... still alive." He hesitated. "As most of you already have heard, the British Empire bonded with the Republic of France in this time of strife. As long as they share power, France will be safe."

"But he can't survive like this," Canada, from beside England, spoke up. He pushed his wire-framed glasses up his nose. "As his allies, we need to act."

Russia, one hand on the table and the other gesturing in the air, spoke, "We can't risk a covert operation behind enemy lines, not for a country that, quite frankly, is falling to shreds."

England saw the bags under his eyes, the way the young nation slouched in his seat. He remembered when France looked the same way after the Napoleonic Era due to radical shifts in power. England could summon no anger towards Russia. He was miserable, and with the beginnings of mutiny on his turf, Russia would probably drop out of the war soon.

"I propose we send in a special force, heavily undercover." America, pushing up his glasses, stared once more at England. "I also propose that no countries are deployed on this force, just as a precaution-"

"Oh, fuck you," England snarled, driving his fist into the wood table. Everyone in the room flinched at the outburst. "You think you can control everything that happens in this god-damned life?! You haven't even declared war!"

"At least I'm contributing to France's-"

"You have no right, none whatsoever, to propose anything to us, not until you join us for good, you ungrateful son of a bitch!" Fuming, England glared down America, challenging him to disagree. Uncharacteristically wise of him, America sat down without another word.

Russia, finding humor in this hell-like conference room, gave a raspy chuckle. "And what would you suggest, England?"

"I do think an undercover force would be for the best," England sighed out, trying to calm himself. "But I will lead that force, and anyone that dare challenge me will be sorry for it." The room remained silent for some moments until finally England murmured, "News of our group will be sent out by dawn. You all are dismissed."

Individuals shuffled out the doors, some nations gathering in small groups and chatting. Russia approached England with a sympathetic smile. "Asshole."

England glanced down at him, raised an eyebrow, and retorted, "Did I teach you that word?"

Completely ignoring the jibe, Russia said, "I want to be on the team."

"Think about what's best for your people, Russia. Do they really need you gone at a time like this, when their government is about to crash?"

Russia, eyes downcast, looked away. England couldn't help but think, We both know what will happen. If he leaves now... it is like committing suicide. His country will undoubtedly collapse... and so will he.

"You saved my life," Russia said, staring at England determinedly. "You basically saved all of Europe not a century ago, from the same man you now want to save. I will always have your back, that is unquestionable. But think, England. Is he worth it? Is this man's life important to you?"

No one remained in the gloomy conference room as England smiled. "This man's life is more important to me than my own, Russia."

"I thought you'd say something like that." Reaching into his overcoat, Russia pulled out a manilla file, handing it to England. "Intel confirms that this pursuing and kidnapping of France is work of a loner Prussian group. Their agenda is eradication of the personifications, just as we suspected."

England opened the file: inside were various pictures, documents, and top-secret telegrams. Shooting Russia a fond smile, he gestured to the door.

"Let us go find our ally, shall we?"