Hi, everyone!
Okay, sorry this chapter is a little short, but it should do for now. The whole thing is in italics because it is a flashback chapter, split between three of the characters: America, Scotland and England. Chronologically, England's part should come first, as it happened on the 5th of November, 2010, followed by America's part, which is the day after he got the weird phone call, on the 6th of November, 2012, and finally Scotland's part takes places on both the 5th and 6th of November, 2015, when England returns. But I left England's part 'til last because I like using that as an ending.
Two main points I'm gonna quickly mention:
1) I'm glad some people have finally mentioned the rhyming couplets in the chapter titles! (I never planned it or anything. I named the first chapter 'River Calls', went on to call the second one 'Reality Falls', realised they rhymed and went, 'Hey. Rhyming couplets. I could do that. That could be a thing.' And thus, it became a thing!)
2) Some people are wondering how Sealand is going to come into this. Like everything else I promise in this story, it will become clear. Sooner or later. Ish.
Also, this marks the first, fully identifiable sighting of a 2P where England has in fact registered who and what they are. Up until now it has just been shadows, eyes and voices but hey, I think you guys have waited long enough! ;)
Enjoy and allons-y!
(PS. Has been re-uploaded because FanFiction deleted the chapter some time this morning. Almost gave me a frickin' heart attack. Is anyone else having problems?)
Nine
Unknown Voices
'… If... someone... can... hear... me... I'm... here... I'm... right... here...'
This is stupid. No one is going to answer.
He must have just been imagining things. Perhaps he misread the number on his phone last night when the mystery caller phoned. But he knows what he saw. It was England's house number. Hell, he still has England saved as a contact, and it definitely showed up as him.
America takes a deep breath and decides to think it through carefully like anyone else would. He's often been told that he has a habit of charging into situations without thinking. He is currently in New York and the call took place in the late evening yesterday, meaning it must have been the early hours of the morning in the UK. Who the hell would have been up at that time?
It's the morning now for America and he has resolved to call the number back and see if the mysterious person is still there. But why would some random person be in England's house? And what about what they said? They asked America whether he believes England's dead.
He dials the number and waits in anxious silence for a few seconds. No one picks up. The consistent beep, beep… beep beep of the phone has gone on too long. It should be reaching voicemail any second now.
Then the beeps are cut off and a familiar voice on the other end says, 'Hello?'
America's stomach sinks in disappointment. 'Hi, Scotland.'
'America? What're yeh callin' for? I am quite busy right now, so I can't talk long.'
'Uh… well, um…'
'Is it about those papers the foreign secretary sent me? Because I've looked through them and I honestly don't think-'
'Dude, don't talk politics with me!'
America knows Scotland's scowling on the other end, though he's probably a little amused. 'It's yer job, America, just like it's mine.'
'Only by default 'cause I'm a nation,' America complains. 'That's not why I was calling.'
'Oh?'
'Well... uh, did someone call last night? Only, I got a weird phone call at like ten, which would have been like three in the morning or something for you.'
Scotland sounds confused. 'Yeh sure it was this number?'
'Yeah, it came as En- as the number I've got saved in my contacts.' He decides a little too late to steer clear of mentioning England. 'So, uh, you sure no one called?'
Scotland pauses, evidently thinking about it. 'Not to my knowledge. I mean, I'm not not the only one here right now but I don't think Wales would have called, especially not so early in the morn- oh.'
'Huh?'
'So that's what all that ruddy commotion was about last night! Unbelievable...'
'What commotion? What happened?'
But Scotland's already dismissing it. 'Don't worry about it, it's not anything important. Probably just a stupid prank...'
'But what was it? Scotland-'
'I've got to go, America. Don't fret over it, it's honestly not worth the worry. Bye.'
'Scotland? Scotland?'
But the phone line has gone dead, like it did when the mystery caller phoned last night.
The phone is ringing again, but this time it's a number that America doesn't recognise, though he can tell from the beginning that it's a UK cell number.
It could be anyone. There are almost sixty-four million people in the United Kingdom. It could be someone who's got the wrong number, or a politician calling about the next world meeting or maybe Scotland or Wales have got a new phone or...
He answers the phone on the fourth ring. 'Hello?'
'Hi.' It's just one word, but America recognises the voice. It's the same one as last night.
'You again?'
'Yep. Still sure about it?'
'About what?'
'England. You don't believe he's dead?'
America swallows nervously. 'No, he's too stubborn to die.'
The voice laughs. 'Yeah, he is.'
'Look, who are you? And where are you calling from this time?'
'Hmm? Oh, this is my mobile. I probably should have used this and not the house phone last night. I got interrupted.' It's easy to imagine the owner of the voice pouting on the other end of the line.
America listens carefully to the voice, trying to figure out as much as he can. He's fairly certain from the tone that it's probably a girl and the accent is definitely English. But whoever it is, they haven't answered the first question, so he repeats it. 'Who are you?'
'You probably don't know me. I just need to know for sure that you believe he's still alive. Even when everyone else starts to believe differently.'
'How... how do you know that he's still alive?'
'It's a long story.'
'Listen, if you know anything at all about what's happened to England, you gotta tell me!'
'It's really hard to explain, okay? I'll see you soon enough.'
'Wait, what? When? I don't understand...'
But once again, the line is dead. America almost throws his phone. 'Why the hell do these Brits keep hanging up on me?! I need answers, dammit! This is so not fair...'
Who the hell is calling him? And what do they know about England? Is it true? England's still alive? But where is he? Why has he been gone so long? What happened to him?
His phone doesn't ring again.
Scotland wishes the damn phone would stop ringing.
It's eleven in the evening and although he usually stays up later than this, he's trying to get an early night. He won't be able to function much anyway, as he had had couple of beers this evening.
He's not sure whether it's the alcohol or the drowsiness, but something inside him feels a little better. It's as if some weight has been lifted from him. No, bad phrasing. It's more like something was askew beforehand and now things are better- like getting over the flu. But it's like getting over an ailment you didn't even realise you were suffering from until you'd recovered. Like when your ears pop randomly and you can suddenly hear so much better. Something feels better. Something feels… whole. Was he ill beforehand? And why is the damn phone calling over and over again?
The third time the phone starts ringing, Scotland swears loudly and pushes himself out of bed, glaring distastefully at the loud black device on his bedside table. The caller ID says that it's Wales.
'I didn't answer the first two ruddy times. Shouldn't yeh have got the message by now?' he snaps as soon as he's answers.
'Scotland!' Wales gasps. 'Scotland, you won't believe- oh my God!'
Scotland sits up straight, letting his irritation slide away. 'What? What's wrong?'
'It's- I- I just-'
'Wales, calm down.'
But the other nation is hysterical. 'I- he- he called-'
'Who called yeh? What's going on?'
'E… En…'
'Wales, what the bloody hell's happening?'
Wales takes a few deep breaths and seemingly tries to calm down. 'Scotland, you've g-got to meet up with m-m-me.'
'In Cardiff?'
'N… No… London. We've g-got to get to London as soon as p-p-possible.'
Scotland cusses. 'I'm not going all the way to sodding London. Yeh haven't even explained what's wrong.'
'En… Eng… England. It was England. He- he c-called,' Wales chokes.
A jolt of shock runs through Scotland before he sighs deeply and sinks back down on his bed, still holding the phone to his ear. 'Wales, yeh were dreaming.'
'I wasn't asleep! I was about to g-go to bed when he rang!' Wales takes another shaky breath then says, 'Oh God, it was him, it was really him, he's not dead…'
'This person who rang,' Scotland says, dismissing any possibility that Wales might be right. 'What did they say?'
'He said he was England! And he sounded j-just like him! He said he w-was in a phone booth or s-something, n-near the London Eye. And he was c-cold, 'cause he fell in the Thames and he n-n-needed me to come and find him.'
'Wales, I'm sorry but-'
'It was him. Please, Scotland. I- we have to-'
It's a prank, Scotland's mind says. It's some cruel, twisted prank that's someone's playing on Wales. And on the anniversary of England's disappearance too.
And if it isn't? another part of his brain suggests quietly. If this is real-
No. He's not allowed to get his hopes up. That new feeling he has, the one that makes him feel as if he's been cured doesn't necessarily have to be attributed to anything. It doesn't have to mean anything.
But he'll humour Wales. The younger nation sounds so emotional right now, it seems to be the right thing to do.
'In the morning, I'll catch a train-'
'Scotland, he said something about hypothermia, we have to-'
'Alright, alright,' Scotland mutters.
'How long will you take? Where are you? Edinburgh? Glasgow?'
'Birmingham, actually. I had a conference in preparation the bloody G8-'
'B-Birmingham?!But then it's not that far for you at all, what's the problem? You're closer than I am!'
'I would have to drive through the night, Wales-'
'Scotland, he might be dying-'
'He's already dead!' Scotland shouts before he can stop himself. He closes his eyes for a second and breathes in slowly. There's silence on the other end of the line.
'Look,' he manages to continue finally. 'Don't expect this to end well. This is probably some kind of sick joke-'
'It was him,' Wales insists. 'He's back. He's alive.'
'Alright. If that's what yeh believe, then alright. But don't get too upset when we get there and-'
'He'll be there. It was really him. He's come home.' Wales sounds so certain.
Scotland sighs. 'Right, okay. I'm leaving now. But I'm not going to get there until at least five in the morning.'
It's still quite dark, though the sky is just beginning to lighten. Scotland doesn't care, however. He's a little overwhelmed with the second outburst of freak weather in five years. Exactly five years. Like last time, the snow has not settled at all- there is literally no evidence of it, aside from the buzzing media. He spends around forty minutes tracking through the streets within the London Eye's vicinity, on the lookout for phone booths. There are a few, scattered here and there, but most are just foggy from condensation and are empty when he peers inside them.
Scotland forces down any disappointment that creeps into his head and tries to tell himself that he knew it was hopeless from the moment this began. This feeling he's been experiencing for a few hours, like some illness- or more like an emptiness- has disappeared doesn't have to be relevant. It doesn't have to signify anything returning. But it's familiar. It's how Scotland used to feel, back when he wasn't really conscious of it.
It's the connection he shares with Wales and England. The three have life forces tied together for being a part of Britain. Or perhaps it's because of the magical ability that runs in their family, although the former is more likely as they do not share it with Ireland anymore, not like they did before he became independent. Either way, Scotland and Wales felt it when England disappeared. Something in the connection vanished too. They felt his loss. They could no longer sense him.
And now there's a sense of completion, like a hole has been filled.
Scotland spots another phone booth, not too far from a railing beside Westminster Bridge, giving a good view of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament across the river. There's a dark shape inside the phone booth, pressed up against the glass at the bottom. Some drunk who probably got a little too tipsy celebrating the fifth, or maybe a homeless person. That's what most people would think.
Scotland crosses over to it cautiously, eyes fixed on the silhouette inside the booth. It's not moving at all. From the angle, it looks as if whoever it is has fallen asleep inside the phone booth. The condensation is obscuring any other view of the figure.
Scotland raps on it tentatively, thinking it's probably best to wake whoever it is up. But the figure doesn't stir at all. Sighing and mentally preparing himself for what he knows will just be some random human, he pushes all sense of hope away so that he won't be disappointed.
It's not him. It's not him. It's not him.
Scotland opens the door and peers inside.
England is slumped against the glass, completely still. His clothes look damp and his skin is so very pale. He's thinner too, with dark shadows under his closed eyes and his hair is more unkempt than ever. Clenched loosely in his hand is a long and very sharp looking dagger with a handsome green hilt, resting almost protectively over his chest.
Scotland staggers back and blinks several times to ensure that what he's seeing is real. After around thirty seconds of standing there, trying to grasp the fact that this is reality, Scotland steps forwards again and leans down. He reaches out to his little brother with a shaky hand.
England's skin is freezing. Now that he's close, Scotland can see that England is moving a little- he's shivering rather violently and mild convulsions run through his body every so often. His breath is coming out in quiet, ragged little gasps and his lips have a blue tinge. Hypothermia, like Wales said.
'Oh God, oh God, oh God,' Scotland mutters, still too dazed to think straight. He acts on instinct, quickly pulling the damp jacket off his younger brother and then taking his own one off to wrap around the other nation. He then places two fingers under England's jaw, pressing them against his throat to find a pulse.
England's heartbeat is very weak and when Scotland tries lifting up one of his eyelids, those familiar green eyes are dull and unfocused. Scotland is finally able to gather his thoughts. He pulls his phone out his pocket and calls 999.
'999, which services do you require?'
'Ambulance, please.'
'What's your emergency?'
'My- my brother's got hypothermia. He fell in the Thames, um, a few hours ago, I think. I've only just found him. He's unconscious.'
'Names, please.'
'I'm Alistair Kirkland and he's Arthur.'
'Where are you?'
All through the phone call, Scotland keeps England in a vice-like grip, pressed to his chest. And in England's right hand, the knife is still clenched weakly in his fingers.
England's face is wet. For one horrifying moment, he thinks this is because he's crying.
He is jolted awake and the first thing he notices is the coldness on his face. His whole head is soaked, however, so it can't just be from tears. He hasn't given in emotionally or anything. Why on earth would he? The pain is endurable. He can live with it. His tormentor hasn't done anything too cruel. Things could be worse. Oh yes. It could definitely get worse.
'Rise and shine,' says the voice, childlike and falsely innocent. 'Want to come out and play now?'
England blinks, trying to shake the water that was just thrown on him off his face. 'Wh-what?' he splutters.
His reflection, the owner of the voice, comes into focus. It smiles cheerfully and waves. 'Hi.'
England glares right back. 'Who... what the hell are you? Where am I?'
The reflection chuckles. 'Home. A new home for you.'
It leans in, a twisted smile etched across its face. England's vision is finally settling properly. It's definitely a reflection. But there's no mirror or anything above him, and even if there was, why would his reflection have a mind of its own anyway? No, this thing is an actual being. A being that looks so much like him, but with electric blue eyes.
'I'm you, get it?' the other England giggles. 'And you're me.'
England just stares at him.
Other England begins unstrapping the binds around his prisoner. 'Come along. There's still time to show you the big event.'
'How... how are you me...?'
Other England pouts. 'You don't want me to ruin the surprise, do you?' he asks in a voice as sweet as honey, but with all the danger of a swarming hive of bees.
England gulps and tries pushing himself off the table. Perhaps if he manages to deck his doppelgänger, he can figure out a way out of this darkened room and get out of here.
Other England claps his hands in delight as England manages to sit up. 'Great! Let's go!'
England takes a second to rub his eyes. They're still burning from the last time he was conscious. He wants to do something about the pain in his chest too, but he doesn't want his tormentor to know that he's suffering. He's very cold, too. His clothes aren't completely dry yet, so he can't have washed up on the riverbank that long ago. He should probably get changed out of them. The burning in his chest has kept his mind occupied, so much so that he hasn't truly acknowledged how cold he is until now.
Other England reaches out and grabs England's hand. England stiffens. The skin on his doppelgänger is cold too. Like a corpse.
'It's almost over,' Other England says. 'We should hurry.'
Despite his heavy head, burning chest and weakened legs, England is pulled to his feet and immediately thrown into a race across the room towards a steel door.
'W-wait-'
Every time he trips over his own feet and almost collapses, he's pulled further forward. Other England seems to be either unaware or uninterested in England's weakened state.
Remember, remember... Other England's words from earlier echo inside England's head.
'This is the fun part,' Other England tells England as he unlocks the door in a flash, throwing it open as if it's made of paper and not steel. 'I come to see it every year.'
Beyond the door is a spiral staircase, going up. Other England wastes no time bounding up the steps, pulling his extremely exhausted doppelgänger behind him.
'They've lit it like they do each time,' Other England continues. 'It was only just starting when I found you by the river, a few hours ago. It should be nice and strong now. Burning bright.'
England can't make out the smile on the other's face in the darkness, but he knows it's there. He concentrates as hard as he can on putting one foot in front of the other, lifting his legs painfully for each step up the staircase. He can't fall down. He can't show weakness.
They finally reach the top of the staircase and Other England throws open another door, followed by a gust of wind sweeping through in an instant. England shivers involuntarily. It just got even colder. And yet the air from outside is warm. Far too warm for November. How can it be hot and cold at the same time? To top it off, there's an overwhelming noise coming through the door. The roaring of flames.
They both step out onto a rooftop. The first thing England notices is the lack of colour above. There aren't any stars. There aren't any fireworks either, not like there were when he last looked up at the night sky, just hours beforehand.
'Don't look at that,' Other England says, rolling his eyes. 'That's boring. Look at that.'
He points to his right, and England turns his head to see. Even without focusing properly, he can still make out the ominous orange glow against the black canvas.
The Thames is glittering with the dancing flames along its riverbanks. Even further than that are the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben- or at least, the spot where they should be. But they're not there. There's just a huge mass of flames. The fire doesn't stop there, however; it's spread as far as the eye can see, and as England swings his head around he can see it's in every direction too. He is standing on one of the few buildings that hasn't been completely engulfed.
London is alight. The whole city is on fire.
'Remember, remember,' Other England says.
'The fifth of November,' England whispers.
'It's mesmerizing, isn't it?' Other England steps towards the edge of the building and looks out at the flames. He seems to be showing no sign of pain. Shouldn't the burning capital be hurting him too? Perhaps it is, but he's hiding it. Or maybe he's disconnected altogether. Whatever the reason, England wants this all to stop.
'Make it end,' he hisses. 'Whatever you've done, make it end!'
Other England looks back in confusion, still smiling. 'Whatever do you mean? The people did this, not me.'
'We are the people,' England spits. 'If you are truly me, you should know that.'
Other England laughs. 'What does it matter, anyway? Why stop this? It's a national celebration. And look, it's your so called snow!'
He's right. England hasn't noticed until now, but the white flakes are once again drifting down around him. But he knows exactly what they really are. What they were all along.
Other England gives a crooked grin. 'I understand that you celebrate today as well. But in a bit of a different way.'
'This has to stop,' England snarls. He takes a step towards his doppelgänger and doubles over in pain, wrapping one arm around his chest and the other hand flying up to cover his mouth. He coughs violently and when he pulls his hand away, the skin is covered in blood.
'You'll get used to it,' Other England says without even the slightest hint of sympathy or concern in his voice. He lifts his hand up and lets the little white flakes to settle on his skin. 'It's fascinating what a little mental manipulation can do. Sometimes you can't see things for what they really are. Sometimes you see what isn't even there.'
He bends down so that he is level with his counterpart and holds out his hand to show England the snow. 'But you can see it for what it really is now, can't you? The spell is broken on you.'
England, still clutching his chest and trying to wipe away the blood from around his mouth, winces as he gazes down at the white flakes resting on Other England's palm. Now that he can see it properly, it seems so obvious that it's not snow. Snow would have melted. All this does is leave grey smears.
'It's funny how the two can sometimes be confused, isn't it?' Other England says. 'It's not snow. It's ash.'
So yeah, as I said before, the final flashback happened long before the other two, but I put it at the end because I thought that would be a good way to wrap the chapter up.
I love your theories, by the way. Some of you are doing a great job of figuring it out, and I enjoy reading your ideas.
Remember to review, and I'll see you all next time!
