Wow, you guys are almost as awesome as Prussia.

Seriously, the feedback I'm getting is great! Thanks so much!

(Okay, yeah, you still don't get to see America and the others in this chapter, but I have written the next one already and I promise they're in it!)

Allons-y!


Three

Lost Days

Two days later, England is released from the hospital, with instructions to rest as much as he can and not overexert himself. He's a little surprised when Ireland is the one who comes to collect him and take him home.

'Someone's gotta watch over yeh, make sure yeh don't start acting all batshit again,' the elder mutters as the two of them walk through the main entrance to the hospital and out into the car park.

'Yes, but why you?'

Ireland raises his eyebrows. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

England rolls his eyes. 'Come on. You resent me even more than Scotland does. This isn't like you at all.'

Ireland glares at him. 'Well, maybe I shouldn't have come to pick up an ungrateful brat such as yerself.'

'Oh good. That sounds more like the Ireland I know.'

'Just get in the car.'

The drive is uncomfortably silent. Now that he's finally escaped the hospital, England finds himself bursting with questions. If he's going to find a way to protect himself, he needs to know more about the world he's stumbled back into.

'Where is Scotland? How come he or Wales didn't pick me up?'

'Wales has gone to visit Downing Street and Scotland's gone back up to Edinburgh to prepare his notes for the G8.'

'Can I go to the G8?'

Ireland makes a 'tsk' noise. 'It's not up to me. I'm not part of the G8, am I? Scotland's the one who's going, idiot.'

'I need to be there, though,' England reasons. 'If Scotland's going to announce to the other members that I'm back, he'll probably need me there as proof. Plus, I was an original member of it. I have the right to be there.'

'Not since yeh disappeared, yeh haven't. And before yeh ask, yeh obviously can't take that ruddy dagger if yeh are going.'

'How can I? No one's given it back to me yet.'

'What's it for, anyway?'

'Fishing,' England says sarcastically. 'It's obviously for protecting myself.'

'Oh, obviously,' Ireland mutters, emphasising the sarcasm even more than his little brother did. 'I mean, that's completely normal, having a great big knife on yeh to protect yerself from who knows what. Silly me.' He suddenly straightens up in the car seat, his face serious. 'Why do yeh think yeh need protecting? Is someone after yeh?'

Yes. I think someone- or something- is. 'I don't know,' England lies.

'Was... was someone chasing yeh? Is that what happened over the last five years? Were yeh... captured or something?'

England shivers. Of all the theories he's heard so far, this one seems the most plausible. But he doesn't say anything. He just shakes his head so his brother won't be onto him and keeps quiet for the rest of the ride.

They place England in his London house in Hampstead. The place seems fairly occupied and England quickly realises that despite his absence over the last five years, Scotland and Wales have obviously been using it on occasion.

England quickly prepares himself a cup of tea (the stuff they gave him in the hospital was hardly adequate) and decides to pick up a few newspapers to do some catching up. Ireland hangs around not far away, refusing to leave until at least the time when Wales will arrive back from Downing Street.

'Can't bloody leave yeh alone, can we? Who knows what yeh'd try doing?' Ireland mutters in his gruff voice, reaching into the fridge for a beer.

'Someone's been living here while I've been away,' England observes, leaning up against the kitchen counter and glancing around the place.

'Wales 'n Scotland stay here a lot,' Ireland says. 'They had more work to do these past five years. More reason to come to London. And Sealand comes by sometimes too.'

England's eyes widen in surprise. 'Sealand?'

'He stays occasionally when the others are here. He's kind of begun to hang around the rest of his family more, funnily enough.'

England says nothing in reply. He just quietly sips his tea.


When Wales finally arrives, Ireland decides it's time to leave. Apparently there's a plane leaving from Heathrow Airport to Dublin in two hours time and Ireland doesn't want to miss it, despite Wales telling him it's stupid to leave so late in the day.

While Wales heads for the study to sort through some important documents, England corners Ireland as the elder is shuffling towards the door with his bags.

'I want to know what you've all done with my knife,' England says.

Ireland halts and examines his younger brother carefully. 'What makes yeh think I'd tell yeh?'

'Because you're the least likely to care.' England says it so simply, as if making an observation regarding the weather.

An icy look crosses over Ireland's face. 'Is that so?' he says softly.

England shifts uncomfortably. 'Well, why else would you be so keen to get away?'

'Because I have work to do, obviously,' Ireland says coldly. 'Can't exactly stay around, havin' to listen to a wretched brat.'

England clenches his fists. 'I take it you're not going to tell me where the knife is, then.'

'Hmm, let's see? Should I give a paranoid, delusional runaway fresh out of hospital a dangerous weapon? Tough choice.'

'Give it to me?' England echoes. 'Does that mean you have it?'

Ireland winces slightly, then regains his composure. 'No. Scotland does.'

'You're lying.' England is becoming increasingly sure of himself. 'Scotland's given it to you to take away from me. You're taking it back with you to Dublin because you don't want me to find it.'

Ireland stares at it for a second. 'England, yeh don't need it.'

'How would you know? It's mine and I want it back.'

'And how can I trust yeh with it?'

'I'm not a delinquent, Ireland. You were happy allowing me to arm myself when I was a child, so I don't see why your morals should prevent you from letting me keep a weapon now.'

Ireland curses in Gaelic and reaches into his coat pocket for the dagger. England feels a leaping sensation in chest as his eyes fall on his weapon. Ireland has wrapped it up in a cloth but England can see the hilt of it poking out the top, still a beautiful, unscratched emerald green.

'I must be bloody mad,' Ireland mutters, handing his brother the knife. 'Yeh better not be planning to attack anyone with this thing.'

'Only the people who attack me first,' England answers easily, and Ireland freezes.

'No one's going to attack yeh. Why do you keep insisting that yeh're in danger?'

England looks down at the weapon in his hands. 'I don't know.'


In the week leading up to the G8, England agrees to visit the Prime Minister in Downing Street to confirm his return, and then he insists that Wales lets him go visit the Queen. England gets to meet little Prince George and tiny Princess Charlotte for the first time and is completely gutted that he was missing when both children were born. Gutted that he missed William and Kate getting married too. Gutted that he missed the Queen's Diamond Jubilee. Gutted that he missed the 2012 Olympics.

In short, England has missed a little too much.

'I wouldn't worry about all of that,' Wales says as the two arrive back in Hampstead on the evening before the flight to America. 'You're back now, anyway.'

'I want to know where I was,' England says.

'We all do.'

'I want to know what happened to me.'

That night, exhaustion takes a hold of England. Every night so far, his body has simply refused to sleep. He knows that Wales and Scotland think it's because of this weird new paranoia he's got, and he agrees with them; but unlike them, he knows deep down that there's a legitimate reason to be on edge. Then again, most delusional people probably believe that.

But tonight, the sleep deprivation is too severe. He's unconscious moments after his head hits the pillow, and then all of reality shifts around him.

'Sleeping means letting your guard down. Aren't going to make that little mistake again, are we?'

A knife traces a thin but deep line of blood across his bare chest and he bites down on his lip to keep from screaming.

The red eyed demon watches him, almost seeming a little impressed, though it covers it well behind those malicious crimson eyes. 'I could give you hell and it won't make a difference, will it?'

It changes the angle of the knife as the blade reaches his abdomen, pointing the tip of the weapon against his bare skin and gently plunging it through the flesh. He lets out a groan of pain as the agony flares through his stomach, but shows no reaction other than this.

The demon grins. It seems to almost tremble in anticipation. 'Thanks,' it says quietly. 'I like a challenge.'

England's eyes fly open and he leaps out bed, quickly reaching for the dagger under his pillow. In this moment, he feels both at his strongest and at his weakest. He's ready. The adrenaline could keep him running and fighting for hours. He could get out of here. He has his weapon.

But he's absolutely terrified.

He can still feel that blade cutting into him, and when he lifts up his shirt, he can make out a thin white scar stretching across his chest and torso. It's faded and long since sealed up, but it definitely happened. He's not just having weird dreams. It really happened.

And there's more. Heaps of faded scars and old bruises are painted across his chest. Most aren't as big as the one he gained from that session with the demon that he dreamt about, but they still happened.

I was... tortured.

Well, if that's not a legitimate reason for paranoia, I don't know what is.

His mind flashes back to the demonic eyed torturer, but his memory is already fading. He doesn't know who it was, but he now knows what to be afraid of.

England looks down at the knife in his hand, an uncomfortable realisation spreading through him. It's the same knife that was used to torture him. How did he come to be the owner of it? Did he steal it from his torturer? Why would he even want to keep it after what it was used for?

But he doesn't let go of it. He can't let go of the blade that sings of his own pain.


'Yeh're not bringing it with you,' Scotland says when he catches sight of the knife's hilt sticking out of England's jacket pocket as the latter walks into the kitchen for breakfast. 'I can't believe Ireland actually gave it back to yeh...'

'I need it,' England says.

'Good luck getting it past airport security,' Scotland taunts.

England rolls his eyes. 'Please. Ireland was planning on taking it on a plane to Dublin, which means he obviously thought it was possible. Anyway, we're not even going to a big airport. We're taking a private jet. You and I are the only passengers. Given my status, they'll let me take whatever I want.'

'I think yeh'll find yer current status is dead until everyone knows yeh're back,' Scotland retorts.

'Don't start,' Wales says tiredly.

'We're not starting,' England replies, and for a second it's as if five years haven't passed and this is just any old morning the brothers have to spend together.

'Sealand's coming round in a few days,' Wales says. 'You won't even be here for it. He comes round a lot more now.'

'I know,' England says, taking a bite of toast. He has a peculiar, withdrawn look on his face. 'Ireland told me.'

'We haven't told him yet,' Wales continues.

'Just as well,' Scotland mutters. 'The little one would probably blab the news to everyone.'

'Have you figured out what you're going to tell everyone?' Wales asks.

'Hmm?'

'The other G8 members are going to want explanations. They'll want to know where England's been for the last five years.'

Scotland sighs. 'We'll just tell 'em what we know. And hope that they don't go telling the rest of the world until we've at least figured more out.'

'You've gotten to know them better over the last five years,' England mutters. 'You should know by now that any secret you tell them will be all over the internet by tonight.'

'Yeah, I can see the title,' Wales chuckles. 'It'll read #EnglandLives. Like when Sherlock came back.'

England stares at him. 'Hashtag? Sherlock?'

Scotland smacks his forehead. 'Yeh have missed way too much, little brother.'


Scotland is right. As they arrive in the airport, their bags are scanned with the same level of security as they would be if they were boarding a major plane and the elder nation is pleasantly surprised when nothing suspicious is detected in his younger brother's bag, or on his person either. England has left the dagger and any other possible weapons behind. Good.

England spends the entire flight in a state of unease, twisting his head round constantly to look around the tiny cabin he and Scotland are in. As the only passengers, Scotland's not sure why England is so conscious of someone else, other than the pilots and the staff, being on board with them.

'Something's really messed up yer head,' Scotland murmurs. 'Even more than before.'

'I know,' comes the quiet, almost resigned reply. 'I know better than anyone.'

Scotland sighs and leans back in his seat. 'Ireland reckons yeh might have been kidnapped. And something worse, too.'

'Something worse?'

'Please. We obviously know about the scars,' Scotland says. 'We're yer immediate family, so the hospital had to tell us. Wales decided to talk to a specialist. Apparently, the, uh, symptoms yeh're displaying are all signs of... post traumatic psychological stress and physical abuse.'

'And I was kept in the dark?' England says accusingly.

'We didn't know how to mention our suspicions to yeh,' Scotland mutters awkwardly. 'I mean, we were told that the amnesia could have been yer mind trying to...'

'Trying to what?'

'Trying to block out whatever dark shit happened to yeh.'

'You think I'm forcing myself to forget?'

'The specialist said that sometimes when someone goes through something traumatic, the mind sets up a defensive mechanism so that the person won't have to remember the pain-'

'I'm a nation,' England spits. 'We've all been through some dark shit. It's part of the job. What could possibly be worse for me than... than the Great Fire or the Blitz or-'

Well, that torture was obviously part of whatever it was that happened to me.

Scotland looks so uncomfortable talking about it. And England doesn't truly want to discuss it with him anyway. He's already treading on thin ice, considering he managed to secretly disguise and smuggle in his dagger using magic (something Scotland definitely won't find out about if he can help it).

They arrive in a nice, comfortable hotel in Washington. There's a little fuss at the reception when England finds out that Scotland has only booked one room ('Ain't no way I'm letting yeh outta my sight.'), something the blonde isn't happy about at all ('You better have specified two beds, twat.'). The redhead doesn't seem fazed by the minor outburst and instructs his younger brother to stay put for the rest of the day.

'The first gathering won't be until tomorrow,' he says. 'I would suggest we go out and do something today, but to be honest, I can't be arsed walking around the yank's capital. Besides, we don't want anyone spotting yeh yet. I've still gotta figure out exactly how I'm gonna break the news to them.'

'I could just walk in with you at the beginning of the meeting,' England mutters moodily as he and Scotland get into the hotel elevator to take them to the fourth floor.

'Hell no. I've gotta warn 'em first. Yeh'd give them all heart attacks if yeh did that.'

'They won't believe you.'

'They will do once it's time for yeh to come in.'

As they exit the elevator on the fourth floor, England halts. A strange, uncomfortable tingling is spreading up his spine and he feels as if something is watching him. Glancing to his right, he spots an elegant framed mirror on the wall between rooms 406 and 407. Nothing out of the ordinary, of course, but England still tenses. He wishes his dagger was in his pocket and not in his bag, as it would be much easier to access. But Scotland can't know about it. And there's no reason to be paranoid anyway.

He's just imagining things.


'Yeh alright there, lad?' Scotland asks.

England jumps, and for quite a few reasons. The first being because he had completely zoned out on Scotland beforehand and had pretty much forgotten that his brother is even here. The second being the use of the word lad, which seems like an unfair thing to be called, as he is younger, but not by that much (they've both lived a long time, for crying out loud). The third being the softness in Scotland's voice (after all, Scotland's known for being gruff). The fourth being the actual question, and the concern it implies.

'Um. Fine?'

Scotland (who has already made himself at home on his bed in the room they're staying in), peers out through the door to the balcony, frowning at his brother. England is leaning against the railings, staring out at the city with a small frown of his own. He hasn't unpacked and doesn't seem to be planning on doing it, either. Almost like he's ready to leave at any minute if he needs to.

'Come on, now,' Scotland mutters. 'Just relax. Yeh'll see 'em tomorrow.'

Scotland genuinely believes that England is uneasy about reuniting with the other nations. When in reality, England finds that he's not overly concerned at all.

He's barely given it any thought, actually.

'Sealand,' England says rather unexpectedly.

'What 'bout him?'

'Ireland says he comes round more.'

'Yeah, he does. He has a bit more respect for the family now. Can be a little irritating, but he's a good kid, really.'

'Right.' England continues staring out into the distance.

Scotland rolls his eyes. 'Get in here and shut the door. It's November, for Christ sake. The breeze is pissing me off.'

'We're too high up,' England mutters.

Scotland raises his eyebrows. 'Oh, are yeh 'fraid of heights now?'

England decides not to mention that his reasoning is that he won't be able to escape as easily in an emergency.

'What time's the meeting tomorrow?' he asks as he steps inside the room and closes the balcony door.

'Ten,' Scotland replies. 'Thought we should arrive earlier though. We have to be careful 'bout who spots yeh. And yeh know yeh're gonna get bombarded with questions the minute they find out yeh're still alive.'

'Obviously. I'm going for a walk.'

'Hang on- what? No, yeh're bloody well not!'

But England's already heading towards the door. 'I won't be long.'

Scotland rises from his bed, striding over to his brother. 'Not on my watch.'

'Then don't watch.'

'Yeh're not just walking out into the city.'

'Who said I was leaving the hotel? I can walk around the inside of the building if I want. I need to clear my head.'

Scotland stands firmly in front of the door. 'Yeh'd run off at the first opportunity. That's all yeh've been wanting to do since yeh got back- arm yerself and run away. I'm not letting yeh go out alone.'

'Bloody hell, Scotland, it's not even dark yet,' England snaps. 'I am over a thousand years old. I've travelled across the entire world. I used to be a sodding Empire. Stop treating me like I'm an unstable twelve-year-old who can't look after himself and open the bloody door.'

Scotland swears and opens the door, glaring at his brother. 'Brat.'

'Twat,' England replies spitefully, stepping past the redhead and out into the hallway. Scotland shuts the door behind him, though England has the feeling that the minute he's turned a corner, Scotland will probably exit the room and start following him. As if England won't even know.

England heads towards the elevator. He has no actual plans on leaving the fourth floor, but he remembers that the mirror is next to it. As he gets closer, his heart begins to beat faster. Something in him feels uneasy about approaching ever closer to the mirror. But it's just an inanimate object. It's stupid to think that he should need to run away from it, and yet wish to investigate it at the same time.

It's just a bloody mirror.

Not interesting. Certainly not dangerous. Just a mirror.

England steps up to it and frowns at his reflection.

This is the first time he's had a proper look at himself since he got back. Actually fully examined his appearance. He appears more or less the same as he has always done- bright green eyes, tousled blonde hair, thick eyebrows. Just him.

But he's thinner. His hair is a little messier. His eyes have a more darkened edge to them. His expression looks... haunted. The eyebrows are the same, though. They're probably never going to change. That's something.

He almost looks younger in a way, actually. Wilder, more ready to run.

And now he's smiling.

Oh, wait. That's not right. He can't feel his mouth smiling. He can feel himself wearing his usual frown. But his reflection is smiling. In his reflection, his eyes are now blue. Very bright blue. Insanely blue. Like they're filled with electricity. Like they're glowing.

Feeling jumpy and immensely uneasy, England blinks and his reflection is back to normal. He takes a step back and turns away to head back to his room. As he turns the next corner, he practically collides with Scotland.

'So you did follow,' England says.

Scotland glares at him. 'Of course I did, brat. Are yeh done now?'

England glances back at the mirror. It hangs on the wall, silent and still. 'Yes,' he answers quietly.


The night brings more terrors.

He's looking up at the sky. It's black and cloudy. The air is cold. It's November and it's snowing. Why is it snowing?

'I told you, it's not snow.'

He's cold and wet and lying on a hard surface, his back pressed against the ground. The snowflakes are swirling above him and landing on his face. A couple get into his eyes, and they sting badly. The voice is right. It's not snow.

The owner of the voice is standing over him. It's too dark to make out the figure, but even in the night shadows, England can still see those glowing, electric blue eyes.

'What...?' he tries to say, but he can't talk properly. He can't breathe properly. There's water in his lungs. Or is it fire? He tries to cough but he's on his back and he can't move.

The figure chuckles. 'This is what it was. This is what it will always be. Here, not there.'

England is drowning all over again. And the snow-but-not-snow keeps falling on him. Suffocating him. Making him realise exactly what this is. No. It can't be.

'Not... real...' he manages to whisper. He silently begs what he says to be true.

'It's just as real for you now as it is for us,' the figure says. 'You can feel it. It burns.'

England wakes up screaming.


The way I have the story planned out, Sealand is going to play an important role later on. He's only been mentioned so far but I'm going to show flashbacks from the last five years- not just for England, but for what was happening to the other nations while he was away. Mainly focusing on people like America and Sealand.

Thanks for reading, and remember to review!