Last day of freedom over here, though I just heard I have two days off again this week. Forget what I said about blessing vacation, bless the end of a schoolyear. There's always so many days off~

Crossfire, thanks for the review once again! Though this time, I must say I don't quite agree with one part of your critique: you're right about how Rome is portrayed here, but let's not forget we're seeing him through the eyes of a terrified toddler, and a grand nineteen centuries later at that. The memories are bound to have been twisted, and with little kids, it's usually the bad things that stand out. Otherwise you're right, though.

This chapter is just a little itty-bitty bit of a timeskip. But every major thing is written down. A bit more historical than a few earlier chapters. Still, I hope you'll like it. I'm just hoping I got my history right!

1972 turned out to be the worst year of the conflict so far, now that the IRA had finally pounced, as North himself called it. His brothers guessed that the emotional damage it did him was far greater than the physical, which also wasn't a laughing matter. He'd gotten a wound over the months of battle that turned into his first scar: a ragged, twisted cut on his right chest, near but not crossing the heart. It was nothing big, though on his still-small body it looked much worse than it was. He wasn't bothered by that thing, he said, but the rest clearly did. He'd gotten colder and more introverted, not laughing as much as he used to anymore and not stopping to play around with Sealand when the toddler asked for it, something he'd always loved to do. He hadn't talked with Ireland in months, refused to speak much with England even though he didn't avoid him, and he also didn't have as much contact with Scotland and Wales now. Everything childlike about him seemed to have vanished, and that worried his older brothers even more than it hurt them.

But Ireland, too, was going downhill. Where he once used to apologise for every single thing the IRA did, he now didn't care. In 1972, the IRA even bombed a city in the Netherlands, completely unrelated to the conflict between the two Irelands, and when the European nation called Ireland about this, he didn't even seem to care. "Zeg, Ierland," the Netherlands had begun calmly, though the fact he spoke only Dutch betrayed how angry he was, "zou je zo attent kunnen zijn, jouw organisaties te zeggen dat ze moeten optieven? Dankjewel."
Ireland had only sighed. "Translation, please?"
"Tell your people to fuck the hell off!" Netherlands then yelled, clearly not a direct translation of what he'd said first at all. "I get that you're in a large conflict an' all, but bombing Roermond? What have my people done to you, for Heaven's sake?" As the Dutchman continued ranting for a little while, confusing Ireland with his heavily accented English (he sometimes hardly noticed the man had switched back to Dutch), the older nation just remained silent, a bored expression on his face. When the other had finished, he just shrugged. "You know, Neddie-" Netherlands grumbled something at this. "-I have nothing to do with all that. Go bother somebody else." And then he just put the phone down and walked away from it, continuing with what he'd been doing.
But these things weren't nearly what worried the UK the most. The worst thing to them was that Ireland seemed to try harder to pursue the same goals the IRA did, though not with the same methods: he wanted to get North away from the UK, and preferably under his control instead. This only drove Northern Ireland further away from him, obviously, but he didn't seem to care much about that, either. The scariest part was when he shrugged and told his brothers, "I'm not asking Coineach to come with me, I'm going to make sure he will, willingly or not. He is as Irish as I am: he belongs with me, not you."

At least England had the sense not to do any of the stupid things he'd done over the years prior. He was for once taking good care of himself, Sealand and the rest of the UK again, becoming a bit more like he used to be. Perhaps, Wales and Scotland both figured, that was the reason North wasn't avoiding him as much anymore: England was now more like he'd been before this conflict started, and less like the person he'd been for the four years the conflict had lasted now. The young nation probably trusted him more once again because of this.

Right now, halfway through 1973, the family was facing an obstacle that threatened to mess it all up again: the Sunningdale Agreement. In essence, it meant that Northern Ireland would remain part of the United Kingdom, but in his government would also be and Irish dimension, the 'Council of Ireland'. It was meant to please both parties in this conflict, letting Northern Ireland be under both British and Irish rule. Anyone with common sense could immediately see that this could never work, but they tried. Hopefully, sharing the power would make things between nationalists and loyalists a bit easier and less tense. And, was the family's hope, it could also serve to restore the relationship between Northern Ireland and Ireland.
North didn't quite agree.

"I'm not going to Ireland!" he yelled when England brought it up. "I'm not, I'm not, I'm not, I'm n-!" England quickly silenced him again with a stern look. North glared at his older brother, but kept his lips pressed shut as he listened to England. "Coineach, we're not making you go to Cearul at all," he told him calmly. "We're talking about sharing the power, not handing it to him. At least consider it: think about your people."
"My people won't appreciate it any more than I do," Northern Ireland muttered. "And what does Ireland think of it?"

"It's still Cearul to you, Coineach," England corrected him sharply. "There's no need for formalities, just call him by his name like you've always done." He then sighed, looking at a wall for a few heartbeats before adding softly, "I think Cearul thinks of this as the first step toward gaining full control. Don't worry, Coineach, I don't think this will last... he'll be himself again soon." North only blinked and didn't respond anymore. He didn't quite agree, but then told himself he shouldn't think the worst of his brother. But you've given him so many chances. Ireland always did his best to make him happy. He's ruined every one of them so far. He shouldn't blame him too much: he was stressed, too. He's a selfish bastard who doesn't care about you. He then shook his head in an attempt to drive those conflicted thoughts out, not wanting to think himself another terrible headache, like he'd been doing many times already. "One more," he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. "One more chance. That's all he gets." England smiled and ruffled his hair, only saying that he was glad about that, then remained silent once more. And so did North.

For a long while, it seemed like the Sunningdale Agreement was going to happen despite the opposition to it. But in the end, the British government decided not to go through with it. There was too much opposition, mostly from the loyalists and Protestants. The IRA was even more against it. Their goals were clear now, and they terrified Northern Ireland more than anything. He wondered sometimes if that was what Ireland wanted, too. He wanted a part of it, at least.
The IRA's goal was to end Northern Ireland for good. They said only as a part of the United Kingdom, but where else would he go? If he joined up with Ireland, there would be a single united Ireland again. And the more he thought about it, the more he realised that such a union would mean his death. Either his or Ireland's. One of them would have to go on representing whatever was left of them, and the other would vanish. He didn't think the IRA was okay with the continued existence of Northern Ireland at all, not even as an independent state.
What really caused the Sunningdale Agreement to be stopped, however, were the loyalists. To prevent the Agreement, they went on strike, cutting off electricity and water throughout nearly all of Northern Ireland. Nationalists were outraged at this, and especially when the British government called off the Agreement, as they claimed the government hadn't done enough to stop it. There were attacks because of this, on 17 May 1974. Four car bombs were detonated, killing 34 people and injuring roughly 300 more. This time, however, they were in Dublin and the northern city of Monaghan, still inside the Republic of Ireland. The attack didn't last nearly as long as Bloody Friday two years prior, but the damage it caused Ireland was at least as great as it did North with the 26 bombs. These were heavier, killed many more people and destroyed nearly as much.

No one in the United Kingdom really acted as if they cared. Scotland and Wales both asked if Ireland was alright, talked a bit with him, tried to speak of different subjects. But there was nothing to talk about anymore: Ireland felt awful, and the others didn't give two shits about it. At least, that's what the Irishman said. "And especially Arthur and Coineach, apparently," he added, voice hoarse with pain as he spoke, and neither Wales or Scotland could figure out which kind of pain it was. "They don't care. The two of you called, at least. Thanks." Scotland sighed then, more in pity than anything else, and tried to tell him that North and England did care: the current situation just didn't allow them to show it much. Ireland just huffed, telling his brother what nonsense that was. "When Coineach got attacked, I was there," he said. "Every single attack, I was there as soon as I could, ready to help him if he needed me. Any bombs in England? I was there. This conflict involves me as much as it does the two of them, yet I'm ready to help when they need me." He sighed, his voice a lot softer when he spoke again. "But they're not here for me when I need them. They don't care at all, Allistair. I know my place in this family now..." He paused, gritting his teeth in anger and pain. "And you know what? I couldn't care less."

The IRA was becoming more splintered that before. It had already split into the Officials and the Provisionals years ago, with the Officials less keen to violence than the Provisionals, and where the former had a ceasefire since 1972, the latter just continued. In 1974, however, when the Officials' ceasefire became permanent, another group split from them, calling themselves the Irish National Liberation Army, and continued with the violence. The Official IRA then formed the Worker's Party, a more peaceful organisation that refused to resort to violence. The Provisional IRA continued on as they had, with bombings and shootings, spreading fear and destruction throughout Ireland and the UK. They no longer held Northern Ireland as their only target: instead, they attacked the rest of the UK more regularly as well, hoping to drive the British out of Northern Ireland. With a British withdrawl, their campaign would be a lot quicker and a lot easier. But it didn't work.

"Papa?" Sealand asked, looking at his father with worried blue eyes as the older nation clutched his stomach in pain. "You alright?" England, gritting his teeth, just nodded. "I'm fine, Peter," he reassured the boy, now with the physique of a four-year-old, once he caught his breath again. He smiled when Sealand still didn't look convinced, as a smile usually worked wonders to calm him again. He was thankfully still at the age where a smile made him think everything was okay. "I'm perfectly fine, Peter, really. Just a stomach ache, honestly." He knew much better, of course. Bombings, once again. This was the fourth attack in Great Britain in the past two years, the first having been in Aldershot. He didn't know exactly where this attack was taking place, only that it wasn't in London, and he was glad about that. The last major attack had been the one in the Republic of Ireland half a year ago. After that it had been relatively quiet for a while. England could only wonder how long this conflict would last yet: it had now lasted as long as WWII had, but it seemed like there wouldn't be an end to it anytime soon. At least this wasn't exactly a war, he told himself, not yet that is. This could be solved with much less casualties than that godawful war, even if it lasted for a hundred years yet -he wished it wouldn't.

He was just about trying to reassure himself that everything would be alright from now on, when the phone suddenly rang. Sealand jumped up and ran to get it, but England called him back, already going over there himself. "Hello?" he picked up, speaking flatly as he tried to hide the pain in his voice. It was beginning to subside already, anyway. It was a human that answered, a voice he recognised only as someone in the government, though he couldn't quite place who it was. "Good evening, sir," the human said. "Or, well, I wish it was. I'm just calling to inform you that a pub in Birmingham has been bombed minutes ago, at 20:17." England glanced at the clock: it was now 20:23. "Also, a warning has been given that there is another bomb planted as well at the Tavern in the Town. The only thing we know as of yet is that it was the IRA."
"I could've told you that much," England muttered, then sighed and apologised. "But it's always the IRA these days," he went on. "Well, thank you for the information. Let's leave it at this -I think I'll have to prepare myself for the second bomb now, hm?"
There was a hum of agreement on the other side of the line. "Yes, you do that, sir. We have some things to take care of here, too. Good luck, sir."

England just put the phone down again and sat back on his couch, bracing himself for the next attack. He knew it would hurt, but he knew he would have to keep a straight face in front of Sealand. He couldn't scare that boy again now, not when he was already worried. When the next bomb exploded, a mere four minutes later, his breath caught in his throat and he gritted his teeth. Sealand scrambled onto the couch and sat down beside him, holding his hand with both his own, tiny hands. "Stomach ache?" he asked quietly, and England nodded. "Yes, just a stomach ache," he choked out, muscles tense for a few seconds longer until the strongest pain faded. He then ruffled his son's hair and smiled at him. "See? I'm okay now." If that was the last bomb, that is. He then shook his head and pulled the boy onto his lap. "But wold you look at the time? It's bedtime for you, Peter," he said, getting to his feet with the boy still in his arms. Sealand didn't even protest: he'd been yawning and stifling yawns for half an hour already, but England had been too busy to send him to bed yet. And in the middle of that, the bombs had come. "You will be okay?" the boy asked sleepily, resting his head against England's shoulder. The older nation felt a pang of anger as he carried the boy up the stairs. He wasn't even seven years old yet, a four-year-old physically, and here he was, worrying about England. That wasn't normal, nor healthy. You'll pay for worrying my son like this, Cearul, he muttered in silence, then shook his head to clear those thoughts away. It was the Irish Republican Army doing this, not the Irish Republic himself. Ireland had his own son to worry about, if you had to ask the Irishman himself. England honestly didn't care anymore what he was, North had made his decision, anyway: Ireland was his brother, and he should start acting like that again. If he did, maybe the young nation would forgive him one day. But as he was acting right now, North would never find it in his heart to forgive him for the lies.

He reached the top of the stairs then, and forced himself to focus on getting Sealand to bed rather than the troubles the family was experiencing. He put the boy down and watched him walk straight to his room. "Peter," he called him back softly. "What do we do before going to bed?" Sealand looked over his shoulder at England, blinking once before answering, "We get undressed?"
England shook his head and pointed to the bathroom door. "Go brush your teeth first, son. Then you may go to bed." Sealand sighed, having hoped he could skip this task for one evening, then went to the bathroom. He shoved the small crate England had there for him in front of the sink, climbing on top of it so he could just reach the sink and the mirror. England stood watching as the boy brushed his teeth, making sure he did so properly. Then he picked up the boy again and carried him to bed. As the boy was taking off his clothes and slipped into his pyjamas, England just stood staring at a wall, lost in thoughts again. What was he supposed to do about this situation? What could he do? It seemed like the IRA would never give up sometimes. The British wouldn't, either. But they had to come to some agreement soon, Sunningdale or not, or things would really get even more out of hand. Perhaps they could give Sunningdale another try... No. No, that plan wouldn't work, he knew. It had caused such great reactions amongst the Northern Irish people, he didn't even want to try again. Then what else could he do? He had to think of something, for the sake of his people and his little brother and-

"Papa?" Sealand's voice came again, interrupting his thoughts. "I'm done." England just turned to him with a smile and the boy crawled into bed. "Good boy," he said, kneeling down beside him and ruffling his hair a bit again. It was getting darker, he noted. He had been very pale blond when he was younger, but he was almost the same shade of blond England was, and it would get even darker yet. Maybe he'd have the same shade Wales had, a very dark blond, close to a lighter brown shade. He then gave the kid a light kiss on his cheek and wished him goodnight, just about ready to go downstairs again, but Sealand had other plans. "Can you tell me another story?" he asked, looking up at his father with big blue eyes.
"It's late, Peter," he sighed, shaking his head. "You have to go to sleep, and I have work to do."
"Pleeeaaase?"

England then gave in, sitting down on the side of his bed. "What kind of story do you want, then?" Sealand didn't have to think long. "Your pirate stories!" he squeaked, blue eyes shining. England smiled. Maybe it was because he was a maritime micro-nation, but he always liked the pirate stories best. He quickly thought of one, one of him travelling the world to 'trade' with other nations (he'd had a habit of trading with one nation and stealing from others on the way back home), and as he was telling the story, wondered how many parents told stories like this that were actually true. He guessed a lot of fathers pretended to have been knights or pirates in the stories they told their kids, but in England's case, it was all actually true. Maybe that was what Sealand liked about the stories as well: they were always so realistic, for obvious reasons. England laughed softly when the young boy let out a huge yawn in the middle of the story. "And you'll hear what happened next another time," he said, giving the boy a soft kiss goodnight and leaving then. He had a lot of work left to do.
He had to think of something to fix this situation once and for all. Northern Ireland needed him in this.

There finally seemed to be some light in the situation a month later when, for the very first time, both sides agreed to a ceasefire, one that would last throughout 1975, at least.

I personally still don't get why a Dutch city was bombed, so I figured I could add that. That was an attack that just didn't make sense, and it also shows how the IRA wasn't just targeting Northern Ireland anymore.

As for the translation, which has only partially been given: "Say, Ireland, would you be so kind as to tell your organisations to fuck the hell off?"

And on the matter of the ceasefire... it's the PIRA (Provisional IRA) we're talking about. You probably know what to expect.

Thanks for reading, and please leave a review!