I should be asleep, but when the inspiration comes for a chapter, never put it off. The writer's block could hit at any time, so make the most of the ideas in your head! (And there's some solid advice right there!)

Anyway, angsty stuff. Ish. Not too bad. Just England and his self-deprecating mind. Occasionally speaking his mind. He's beginning to acknowledge some of his own personal issues now, not just the paranoia and whatnot.

Anyway, allons-y!


Six

Subtle Lies

'Remember, remember...'

England stirs. He's conscious of the burning in his chest once more. It hasn't died down since he was last awake, when he washed up on the shores of the Thames and that blue eyed figure stood above him, laughing and speaking in riddles.

'Don't want to miss your special day, do you?' the voice coos. It's the same voice that was taunting him before. 'No, no, no...'

Special day?

England's eyes open, only for them to sting and burn and tear up immediately. He's damaged them somehow.

'Silly,' the voice giggles.

England tried to reach with his hands to rub his eyes in an effort to clean them up, but his arms won't move. They're being held down by something, probably ropes. And so are his legs. He tries to open his eyes again but they're too blurry and painful to make out anything and he shuts them again quickly, wishing he could just somehow wipe them...

'Where am I?' he croaks.

'You know where,' the voice replies. 'Just like how you know it's not snow. It's all different here.'

'Let me... go...'

The voice laughs again. 'And where will you go? How will you see?'

'Who... who are you...?'

All of a sudden, his eyelids are being prised open by nimble fingers and the stinging grows ever so intense. He's being forced to look at something but everything is grey and unfocused. Everything, that is, except for those eyes. Electric blue. Definitely the same person who found him by the river.

The eyes are getting bigger and going off to the side. The person is leaning down to whisper something in his ear.

'The thing about snow,' the voice says, 'is that it's cold. But it wasn't cold, was it? What you felt burnt. That's how you know it's not snow.'

England grits his teeth. This all has to be a nightmare. None of it can be real. He'll wake up soon and... and...

'Remember, remember,' the voice whispers.


'Are yeh even listenin'?'

England's eyes snap open. He's on his feet in an instant, more alert than ever at the discovery of several pairs of eyes fixed on him.

'Sit down,' Scotland mutters.

The other nations blink in confusion as England's eyes scan each and every one of them carefully before settling back down in his chair. No one laughs like they usually would if one among them was startled awake.

'Still with us?' Scotland demands.

England glares at him. 'Yes.'

'Good. Then try not to doze off in the middle of a ruddy meetin', dummy.'

England has to restrain himself from snapping back. He's more curious about the dream, to be honest.

It wasn't as bad as the other dreams he's been having. Granted, that burning pain in his chest was present, but it was endurable. He wasn't being tortured in it- apart from when his stinging eyes were forced open. No, the only thing he is concerned about are the mind games. And who that blue eyed person was.

It's the next day and the G8 are actually trying to hold the meeting, speaking about the things they were meant to discuss. As Scotland has the notes and knows considerably more about the current state of the British economy, England sits in a chair between him and France and has spent most of the meeting trying to focus. But he can't, not while he's trying to figure everything out. Especially not now he's had another dream.

And he especially can't focus because the demon is watching him from the other side of the room.

Its crimson eyes are fixed on him, almost hungrily. England has long since accepted that it probably is only a figment of his imagination, because no one else is acknowledging its presence. If it were a creature of magic, Scotland would see it, but he's acting like it's not there too. So it can't be real.

With that mentality, England tried to pretend it's not there. But he doesn't believe it. He can see those crimson eyes glowing. They're captivating. Not in a beautiful way, but in the kind of hypnotic way that holds your gaze and blocks out everything else. The rest of the demon seems to be bathed in shadows. All England can see are the eyes.

England tries to ignore it and listen to the other countries when they speak. If it's not real, it can't hurt him. And if it is real, he'll deal with it.

'You've certainly changed,' says the voice beside him, and England turns his head to see France watching him.

'So have you.'

'No, I 'aven't.'

'Yes you have. You've barely said anything since I came back. You haven't even insulted me yet.'

France sighs, looking exasperated. 'Oh, Angleterre, aren't you supposed to be smart? Of course I 'aven't. I'm too surprised to see you. We all thought you were dead.'

'Yeah, bad luck there. Do you celebrate the fifth of November too, now? I would imagine you hold a party on that day every year in commemoration of the day you finally had to stop putting up with me-'

'Don't be so ridiculous,' France replies.

'- and you probably invite the whole world round to celebrate with you. No wonder you're all so awkward around me now,' England finishes, almost relieved that he actually managed to get the words out. As much as he hates to admit it, the fact that the world only spent three years searching for him and they don't even seem that happy to see him does bother him. He knows that France and the others despise him, but surely... surely they could have put that aside...

He was being tortured somewhere far away and they had all given up on him.

France is silent for a moment, then he says. 'Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe you are the same as before.'

'And what's that supposed to mean?' England growls.

'Still as stubborn and hopeless as ever,' Scotland puts in. 'Now shut it.'

England folds his arms and looks up at Japan, who is currently standing at the projection board and giving his speech. No one else appears to have heard the little exchange between England and France except Scotland. England is grateful for that- he doesn't want anyone figuring out how fazed he is by the whole thing.

'Perhaps you should stop glaring at young Amérique,' France says.

'I'm not.'

France smirks. 'It seems you are still determined to disagree with me on everything. At least that 'asn't changed.'

'Shut it, frog. I'm not glaring at him.'

'Oh, but you are,' France says. 'Are you resuming a feud with 'im like you are with me?'

'That's none of your concern,' England snaps. He doesn't want to resume any feud. He just wants the demon to leave him alone. As far as he's concerned, he's barely acknowledged America or any of the other nations. He doesn't want to make eye contact with them. They'll probably take one look at him and classify him as deranged like his brothers have done.

'Angleterre-' France begins to say something else but England rises to his feet. The Brit glances back at the demon one last time, then leaves the room.

It's better this way, England thinks to himself. The demon's not real. It can't be. And I can't be there. Not with them. They let me go. They gave up on me.

I'm not one of them anymore.

'You're one of us,' whispers the voice inside his head.


The eyes follow him everywhere. Each reflection seems to contain them now.

England knows that Scotland will be following him. He no longer cares, however. He just keeps his head down and strides through the streets of Washington, his coat wrapped tightly around him and his knife still tucked into his pocket. The others probably noticed him leaving, but so what? He's been gone for five years; he can disappear for a few hours more.

'Dude, seriously? You're just gonna walk out on us like that? Man, Iggy, you never used to skive meetings!'

Barely managing to conceal practically jumping out of his skin, England takes a deep breath in and out and turns around.

America appears to be fairly cheerful and excited. Either he's managed to take more control of his emotions since last night or he has genuinely reverted back to his usual self. Either way, England is still surprised.

'How did you find me? We're quite far away from the meeting spot...'

'Yeah, I know,' America says casually, grinning quite proudly. 'I almost lost you when you caught that cab outside the building. I caught one directly after you. I don't mind, though, 'cause to be honest, I've always wanted to yell the words 'follow that cab!', like we're in a movie or something.'

England rolls his eyes. 'Naturally. Any of the others planning on showing up too?'

America shrugs. 'No idea. I ran out right after you. I don't know what the other guys were doing.'

'And why exactly did you follow me?' England mutters, avoiding eye contact. He's not sure how he feels about America being here. A part of him is glad that America at least seems to care about what happens to him. Another part is reluctant to be around him, because England knows he's coming across as cold and cautious, and he's already been informed that he's spent most of the meeting unintentionally glaring at the younger nation.

America laughs. 'Any excuse to ditch a boring meeting, man. Besides, is it really a good idea for you to go wondering off, Iggy? You might fall into another river, and who knows how long you'll be gone this time?'

He means it as a joke, of course, but the words chill England. And he's uncomfortable with the casual way America says it. Still, he probably deserves it after how cold he's been around America. But he can't help it. There's still something so wrong.

'Your brother's probably looking for you,' America says. 'He always gets angry about something at meetings- he even punched France in the face once; it was hilarious! You should have been there, man! He can get pretty mad!'

'Believe me, I know,' England mutters.

'Wales isn't too bad, though. He's quite friendly. Pretty fun to be around.'

England frowns. 'You know Wales? I don't remember having ever introduced the two of you to each other.'

'No, uh, we met a few years ago. Right after you...'

Disappeared, England finishes in his head. It seems a lot of people have gotten closer since he left. America seems to know the UK brothers better. He's even friends with Sealand. Speaking of the micronation, he apparently visits the rest of the family a lot more. Not for the first time, England pushes it to the back of his mind.

None of it's important. Being bitter about nations resenting him. Getting upset over such things is... ridiculous. It's not surprising. Most of them never liked him and they all thought he was dead anyway.

'Exactly. Shut up and think about us instead,' says the voice, and England reaches up to clutch his head. This is unacceptable. He's been accused of seeing and hearing things his whole life, but he's always known that others simply can't perceive what he can because they don't have the Sight. But this is different. He's not meant to be hearing voices in his head, not like he did during the civil war.

'You okay, dude?'

'Headache,' England lies. 'Doesn't matter. What are you planning on doing today, anyway? You should be at the meeting.'

America pouts. 'So should you.'

'What use would I be? Scotland has replaced me.'

'But you're joining the G8 again now that you're back, right? Besides, why the hell would I wanna stick around there if there are cloud monsters trying to kill us? I may be the hero and everything, but that thing was scary!'

England sighs. 'The G8 won't be bothered by the supernatural while I'm not around. Whoever sent is is after me.'

Please just go back, America. Something feels too wrong about you being here, and besides, you don't want to have to endure any more glaring and scathing comments. You're safer away from me, anyway.

But he doesn't say any of this out loud, and America doesn't appear to be fazed by anything this morning. 'Come on, man,' he says excitedly. 'If we're gonna skive the meeting, we should at least do it right; no point in just standing around and stuff. We should totally go and see a movie and go get a big lunch somewhere, 'cause I'm starving!'

England smiles weakly. 'I don't suppose McDonald's has miraculously closed down in the five years I've been away?'

'Nope! Still around and still awesome!'

'Ah, well. I can dream. And we're not going there, before you ask.'

'Come on, dude! No fair!'

There's a genuine smile edging its way onto England's face now. As uncomfortable as he is, he is embraced with a sense of familiarity. This could be like any other day where he finds himself stuck with America, arguing about what to do and where to go. Just like it was before. Almost like it was before.

But isn't. He knows it isn't.


'Iggy? Dude? You home?'

America raps on the door again, feeling thoroughly confused. He looks around the neighbourhood again, still wondering whether the headline was even true. He saw it all over social media last night, and again this morning when he arrived in the UK and he glanced at a copy of The Daily Telegraph that had been left on a train carriage on the Underground on the journey to England's house.

SNOWING IN LONDON.
6
th November, 2010.
Millions across the city witnessed
the unnatural phenomenon that happened
last night at around 8PM. Experts
are at a loss as to explaining how the
unscheduled anomaly occurred.

Which seems fairly impossible. England hardly ever gets much snow, even in the middle of the winter, and it's only early November. And there are no tell tale signs that it genuinely happened. The snow has disappeared completely, having not settled on the ground whatsoever. This part isn't too strange, as snow rarely does settle in the UK because of how wet the ground is from the rain. But seriously? Snow in London in November?

'Come on, man, open up! I wanna hear about the snow! It's not fair that you get snow before I do!'

There aren't any sounds from the other side of the door. England's house is seemingly quiet. It's around 10am, so England may have already left. America has already tried dialling England's mobile phone multiple times, but it's always gone straight to voicemail.

'Eng-' America starts to shout but at that moment the door opens and he is greeted with the sight of a grumpy looking Brit.

'Do you mind? Is the yelling really necessary?'

America stares in surprise at the other nation. Quite a few things are very wrong. His hair is different, now a light brown shade and slightly longer, more shaggy at the sides. His eyes aren't green but blue. The eyebrows are still the same and his voice hasn't changed much, but the accent isn't English.

'Who... who are you...?'

The other nation scowls. He looks completely exhausted. 'Bloody hell. You're America, aren't you? Brawd bach was right about you; you are really loud.'

America thinks about it quickly. Aside from the slight differences, this nations looks quite similar to England- definitely related to him. America knows it's not Ireland because he's met him plenty of times before at world meetings. But England has other brothers, ones America hasn't met before. France has mentioned them a couple of times, but England never likes to talk about them.

'Are you one of England's brothers?' America asks.

The other nation rolls his eyes and stands aside to let America into the house. 'Wales. Pleasure.'

America grins as he steps inside. 'Cool. Nice to meet you, man. So, uh... is England here?'

Wales's face grows solemn. 'No. No one's heard from him since yesterday. Been searching for him all night. Little bugger's probably wasted in a pub somewhere.' He tries to sound casual, but his expression betrays him. There's quite obvious worry on his face.

'Maybe he went on holiday or something?' America suggests.

'Nah, Scotland saw him yesterday morning. Do you need something?'

America scratches the back of his head. 'Uh... no, not really. I was planning on visiting the UK fairly soon, and when I heard about the snow... I kinda wanted to see it for myself...'

'Well, as you can see, there's nothing to look at now,' Wales mutters. 'Besides, there are more pressing more matters at hand. I have a missing brother. And he wasn't quite right recently.'

'Huh?'

'He's been acting weird. Scotland said he was really on edge yesterday when he saw him. And then he went and disappeared last night. But this isn't really any of your business, so don't go worrying about him or anything...' He sounds like he's trying to reassure himself.

America laughs. 'I'm not worried about him! It's like you said, he's probably wasted in some bar somewhere. It wouldn't be the first time I've had to drag his wasted ass home.'

A flicker of irritation crosses over Wales's face. 'It's like I said, there's something wrong with him right now. But if you just came for the snow then...' Wales glances outside through the open door. 'As you can see, it's gone now,' he says quietly. 'And so is England.'


England is on edge. America may not be great at reading the atmosphere most of the time, but this is blindingly obvious.

The two settle for a café in the end, as England refuses to step foot inside Burger King or McDonald's. America is bursting with questions, but he knows that most of them are ones that England can't answer. Not while he still has amnesia.

'So... three years, hmm?'

'Huh?'

England swirls the tea in his cup around with a spoon absent-mindedly, not looking up. 'Three years looking for me.'

'Um... yeah...' America leans back on his chair, unsure of what to say. England sounds emotionless, his face completely neutral. He's guarding himself very subtly.

'We looked all over your own land first,' America elaborates finally, when he realises England isn't going to be the next person to talk. 'And after that, we scoured the rest of Europe, but we get that feeling, you know? Countries know when there are other nations on our land. And no one could sense you; no one on the entire planet.'

England still says nothing.

America gives a nervous laugh. 'I asked Tony if you'd been abducted, but he said you hadn't been. And no one could find any traces of you.'

'So you all assumed I was dead,' England says calmly. 'Why jump to that conclusion?'

'I didn't.'

England raises his eyebrows. 'Hmm?'

'I didn't think you were dead. I knew you were still alive,' America says, feeling a little bolder. It feels good to say it, and he wants England to find some reassurance in it.

'And how did you know?' England asks quietly.

'I-' I knew because...

'Well?'

… because someone told me.

America plasters a big smile on his face. ''Cause I'm the hero, and I know stuff like that! I had a feeling in my gut!'

A ghost of a smile flickers across England's face. 'Honestly,' he sighs in that disapproving voice he always used to use, the one America knew he never really meant.

Here he is- though distant and barely accessible- the old England. The England from five years ago, before he vanished. Even though he's changed drastically, the old England is still there somewhere. Underneath the wild eyes and restless, distrusting exterior, it's still England. It has to be.

But then America remembers how England spent the whole meeting this morning glaring at him, watching him with eyes that seemed almost... fearful. He may be sitting in a café, engaging in conversation with America, but this new England is wary of him. More than that.

He's scared of him. As if he's expecting America to attack him.

America gently shakes his head and tries to push it from his mind.


England must have lost consciousness again. When he opens his eyes, they don't sting as much and he's able to see a little better. There isn't much to take note of, however. There's just a pitch black ceiling and nothing else. He tries twisting his head around but his body aches and he can't move properly.

Then there's a mirror above him. England squints in confusion, because his reflection isn't tied down to a table like he is. The reflection is standing next to him, leaning over him with a wide smile and vibrant, electric blue eyes.

'Wakey wakey,' it says.

England tries to struggle, but his whole body is paralysed. Whether it's from exhaustion, pain, a drug of some kind, or maybe even a combination of all of them, he isn't sure.

The reflection giggles and holds out his arm above England's head, showing a clenched fist. 'You still think it was snow? Look. Feel.' The hand unclenches and little white flakes flutter down from it in an instant, scattering all over England's face.

'N... no... s-stop...'

The burning, both physical and from dawning realisation, feels as if it's tearing England apart.

'Remember, remember...' the reflections sings. '… the fifth of November...'


Sorry about the whole bickering with France thing. And about how uncomfortable England is with America. He is basically cut off from the other nations in several ways. And he's terrible at expressing himself properly. It's unfortunate, really.

Anyway, thanks for reading, and remember to review!

Bye!