A long af update from a tired af author. I should sleep. Probably.
So this chapter would have been even longer, but I had to cut it. Unfortunately, the cut means a cliffhanger, so just bear with me on that one XD. Luckily for you, I decided on the cut only after I'd written quite a bit of what will now be in the next chapter, so it probably won't take too long to finish said chapter. Plus there's quite a lot of content that I wrote back in August involving a conversation between England and the fae that I originally intended to be in chapter 15 the scene where England is contemplating wiping his memories/opening the gateway between the two worlds. This conversation will instead be between England and the other countries, probably in the next chapter.
Speaking of chapter 15, I have included a song again like I did back then. It wasn't originally intended- I was just sort of listening to it while I was writing and the line 'and the wolves all howl' suddenly sort of struck me. And now it's wormed its way into this chapter XD. Or parts of the song have, anyway. I didn't include all the lyrics. The song is Revelations by Zack Hemsey.
Warnings: you should probably have learnt this off by heart by now. I'll give you a clue, the main word of focus here begins with A, ends with T, and has N, G and S in the middle. Some violence too, with mentions of gore. And, like I said, cliffhanger. Sorry XD.
(PS. RandomBlushGirl, if you're reading this, thanks so much for adding this to your community! I literally had no idea until just now, as I went to post this chapter and saw that Ash Song was registered as part of your community XD)
Allons-y!
Eighteen
Leaving Traces
He twitches nervously as the sickly sweet smell reaches his nose once again. Opening his eyes, his eyes dart around his darkened surroundings. He must have been unconscious for a while, for it is night time.
He's on the street again, but this time he is alone. The smell is drifting from the building to his left- but there are so many others too. All of a sudden, the world is alight with scents, some familiar and others not. The ones he recognises are stronger and fresher than ever and even the ones he doesn't know are powerful, like all the scents have been heightened.
He feels crushed in a way. Small and in pain. His chest is burning from all the open wounds. The blood is coating his body. But he is free.
'Time to play the next game,' says a voice, but it isn't a shock. He senses its source before he hears it. He can hear the movement, each and every sound; the quiet footsteps, the near-silent intake of breath. He turns his head slightly and stares off into the gloom. They air is freezing and misty, but he can see the wide blue eyes, shining like a lightning flash in the darkness.
'This one is going to be a bit more... interactive on your part,' says another voice as another figure joins the first one. This one's eyes shine too, though with a very different shade- a burning crimson.
He doesn't want to play a game. He wants to be safe.
Blue Eyes lets out a giggle. 'You'll have a little more control. Which is scarier. Because if you slip up, it will all be gone. You'll lose everything.'
He struggles to his feet. The world blurs in grainy silvers. He feels sick.
Red Eyes laughs. 'I'd start running if I were you. As fast as you damn well can.'
That's when he finally catches their scent; not too close, but not far away enough, either; warm gushing blood, sickly sweet flesh-
He can hear them too; snapping their jaws, grinding their teeth, licking their lips. They've caught a scent. His scent. And he's completely exposed, out in the open.
'Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run run run,' Blue Eyes coos.
'Ready or not, here they come,' Red Eyes announces.
He's kicking off and throwing himself forwards before they even start laughing.
When the sun fades out
And the blackness shrouds
And the wolves all howl
And the stones fall loud
When the fear is found
And nightmares hound
Will you drown in the plague that surrounds?
He tears through the night, and the wolves follow close behind.
Something new has awoken inside him, or perhaps he has awoken in something new. He can't explain it, and it isn't honestly something he fully contemplates, anyway. In fact, his thoughts aren't exactly... conventional. The things he registers in his head aren't composed of words, but flashing images and a primal pulling; a longing, almost. It spins through his brain like energy, in control and without the complications of literate thoughts.
It's instinct. Nothing more, nothing less. No contemplations, no imagination, no wishes. Just the animal in head head forcing his legs to keep running.
It feels almost natural. Perhaps it should do, but not quite.
He senses a tremor in the ground as the wolves begin gaining on him and he can hear the low growling. His head is immediately filled with a vibrant and dangerous array of panicked flashes which send his body tumbling forwards even faster in fear. He's smaller than they are. He has that advantage at least, but where can he hide? The world is so large and desolate and cold. There is no safe, warm home waiting for him. There is only the chase, and every bone in his body somehow the wolves will only let the chase end one way.
They are the predators, and he is no one but the prey. Just fresh meat.
(…)
The snap of a wolf only a few feet away sends him scuttling for cover under a garden gate. The wolves will leap over it, of course. This isn't safe, because now he is trapped in a far more secluded area. But it's too late. He races down an alley by the side of the house and into the back garden. Between this plot of land and the ones on either side belonging to the other houses, there are short fences, easy enough to squeeze through. Also easy enough for the wolves to jump over. He'll have to find somewhere better to hide.
As he pushes his way between the wooden posts of the fence, he feels a shiver of unease sweep over him, and this isn't just as basic as all his other instincts. Something is picking at his brain; a nagging sensation at the back of his head. Something more than a primal pulling, something more comprehensible.
A thought.
(… How...?)
He's racing across this new garden and into the one after that through another fence. Like the last one it's very narrow, with the bottom of each wooden post curving in to form a sharp triangular end. This is what gives him that small amount of room to squeeze through; less than half a square foot of space, in fact.
(… How?)
It's small. He is smaller.
(No.)
The next garden he comes across has a pond. He almost falls into it in his haste, but quickly manages to avert this and skirt around the edge instead. He catches a glimpse of his reflection as he races past.
(No. Not me.)
So small. An easy target for the wolves.
(Not me. I'm not this. I am...)
He can hear the thudding in the earth behind him as the wolves land on the ground from leaping over the fences behind him. All traces of thought disappear from his head in his panic.
Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run run run...
The words echo inside his head. But there shouldn't be words in his head. He shouldn't be thinking, at least not in the way people do.
(I am...)
No one. Just the prey.
He eventually manages to evade the immediate approach of the wolves. They're still invested in the chase, but after enough squeezing through small spaces and finding enough little temporary places to hide, he has escaped their clutches. For now.
They still have his scent though, and he can't leave traces of himself. He needs them to lose it if he is to make it out alive.
The world has turned to ash around him as he progresses on, heading deeper into the heart of this broken civilisation. The ash itself might help if he gets smeared in enough of it, but water will work the best to cover his scent.
There are large mounds all around him of what used to be buildings, all burnt away to blackened debris. Some are massive, still standing in places and towering above him. They are all completely silent. The whole world is, save for the wolves barking in the distance and what sounds like it might be a body of water moving. A river, perhaps?
He comes across one building on its side, massive sections of its walls having caved in on themselves. It would have been tall and narrow in its former glory. Parts of it have come crashing down on what was once a stretch of land between one side of the river and the other. But the bridge has crumbled into the river under the weight of the fallen tower.
He approaches it slowly, his limbs aching from all the running. The fallen bridge has provided a ramp of sorts into the river, and if he wants to shake the wolves off this is probably a good solution. But the river is wide, much more than just a forest stream, and the current looks strong. If he's not careful, he could drown.
(Again.)
He halts and his senses sharpen. This is...
(… familiar.)
He catches a glimpse of his reflection again as he scuttles down the ramp and reaches the part where it meets the water. His own large, alert eyes look right back at him, his ears pricked back in fear. So small. So weak.
(Not me. Only what they made me.)
He turns his head slightly, glancing at the main body of the battered, fallen tower, only a few feet away from him. He can just make out a smashed up large, circular plate towards the very end of what would have once been the top of the tower. It's coated in ash but he can just make out the inscribing around the edges of the circle, twelve points.
(A clock, says a voice in his head. But there shouldn't be words in his head. A clock tower. B...)
A howl close by tears his thoughts away from the fallen building. The wolves have caught up. It's now or never.
He leaps into the river and feels the cold sweeping through his fur, digging into his skin, crushing and burning his wounds-
(No no no no no, I don't want this, I don't want to drown again, please don't let it happen again, I just want to go home, I can't last any longer here, please please please-)
He's been here before, hasn't he? He's starting to remember. This isn't right, the way he is now. This isn't who, this isn't what he is.
The current is dragging him under and far away. He catches one last glimpse of the tower with the circular plate, the clock.
The Elizabeth Tower. The clock tower of Big Ben. London. England.
(England. That's me. That's who I am, what I really am.)
Why has he forgotten? And what is he now?
Never mind that. All that matters is keeping his head above water. But he's too small. The animal instincts inside him are flashing in panic. He struggles to breathe but all he inhales is water.
(He remembers the last time he was in these waters, being pulled under by that ominous glow, just able to make out the bright lights of the fireworks above him before his world dissolved around him and he lost consciousness as he was pulled into this world-)
BREATHE, screams the animal in his head, but not as an actual word, just a desperate urge. That's all he is now. Small, no one, no words, no name, nothing.
(England-)
He's not England anymore. He is merely the prey.
And now, as the world grows darker and darker around him, he really is nothing.
But I am not afraid
And I won't die today
So pull me under
I fear no thunder
When England's eyes close, America begins to panic.
He wasn't actually expecting England to pass out. Sure, there was a certain urgency to England's words only a few seconds ago, a desperate need to tell America all of this. America supposes that England must have felt his consciousness slipping away and had made a final attempt to say what he needed to say. And now he's here, unconscious and laying against America's chest, completely limp.
'Iggy- oh God. Iggy, dude, you gotta wake up!'
But England doesn't respond. He doesn't even stir a little.
'England,' America pleads. 'Come on, man. Please, how am I supposed to know if you're okay or not?' Memories of England passing out in front of him yesterday flash through his mind and a terrible thought occurs to him.
England's supposed to be regaining his memories in his dreams, according to the elder British Isles. What if he's having some horrific flashback right now of whatever terrible things happened to him in the other world? Because, as little as England has said, it must have been terrible, if it was able to do all of this to him. What if he's trapped in his own mind right now, unable to escape his own memories... memories somehow involving another America...
America shivers and is about to call England's name again when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He jumps a little in surprise and turns his head quickly to the side to see a figure standing beside him.
'Don't worry yerself, lad,' Ireland says. 'The best we can do right now is find somewhere comfortable for him to lie and wait for him to wake up.'
Canada is here too, standing just behind Ireland. He takes a step forward and bends down to place a hand on England's forehead, searching for a temperature.
America takes a deep shuddering breath. 'How long have you both been here...?'
'A couple of minutes,' Canada replies, looking relieved. England's forehead clearly isn't too hot. 'We arrived as England was saying something about being glad that you're really you.'
'Didn't want to interfere,' Ireland says gruffly. 'I'm not exactly someone he particularly wants to see. If anything, my presence tends to upset him even more, generally. When it comes to England and I, it's best if I only step in when it's extremely necessary. That's how I handled it in the park this morning. I showed myself only when I was certain his life was in danger.'
'Danger?' America and Canada exclaim in unison, both unaware of this.
Ireland sighs. 'I'll explain it with everyone else later. If England lets me. The point it, I didn't want to show myself straight away. He was having a chat with the fae about ways to fix all of this, and I didn't want to eavesdrop but I knew the likelihood of him saying all that whilst knowin' I was there was very slim. I didn't have to wait long, anyway. He was pretty desperate this morning. Willing to go very far. I had to stop him.'
'Besides,' Canada adds. 'We both wanted to give you the chance to straighten things out with England. A couple more minutes and some space to resolve as much as you could. I'm glad England managed to talk to you like that. You've got to be feeling a bit better about it now, eh?'
America tries to agree but his throat catches. He can feel a lump in it and he only just realises how emotional this has actually made him. 'Yeah,' he manages to croak. 'But... you heard what he was saying, right? About the other world?'
Canada nods, looking uncertain. 'Yeah, but I don't... I don't really get it. Was he actually... in another world?'
Of course. Canada hasn't been told yet, like most of the other countries. The only people who know aside from England himself are America and Sealand, and possibly Ireland too. The jury's out on that one. America looks up at the older nation, searching for signs of shock.
'He was talking to the fae 'bout it,' Ireland says. 'Like I said to him this morning, it seems crazy, but it also makes sense. And I wasn't just humouring him or anything.'
'So you really do believe him?' America asks.
'Yeah, I do.'
'Good. How did you find us? I, uh... took quite a few turns when I was... leaving.'
'Almost everyone left to look for you guys,' Canada says. 'We all went in small groups and in different directions so we'd have a better chance of finding you.'
'Wouldn't have wanted to stay in the damn ward, anyway,' Ireland mutters. 'What with Scotland's damn hysterical ranting and all. Bloody mental. Woulda gotten outta bed to search for England himself if Wales hadn't stopped him.'
'Well, he probably thought I would try and kill England or something,' America murmurs, but it doesn't come out as bitterly as he meant it to. He remembers what England said.
Other you. Very different. In the other world.
'Lucky for yeh, yeh've got witnesses,' Ireland says with a joking smile. 'Bet yeh must have been panicking somethin' awful 'bout what everyone might make of this when England passed out.'
A very small frown appears on America's face. 'Sure,' he replies a little numbly, but strangely enough the thought never actually occurred to him. Of course now, upon it having been mentioned, it seems logical to have stressed out over it, but the only thing on America's mind when England collapsed was... well, England. Not once did America even contemplate how this would look to everyone else. The only thoughts running through his head were if England was okay.
Canada gives a faint smile at the rather lost look on his brother's face. 'Let's find somewhere for England to rest, okay? And we'll tell everyone that it's all fine.'
America comes out of his slight daze. 'Yeah,' he murmurs. 'But, like... do we get someone? A nurse or a doctor? We can't exactly carry him through the hospital like this.'
Ireland pinches the bridge of his nose, a big frown appearing on his face. 'On the one hand... they're probably the best people do handle this sort of thing. But they won't understand it. Not properly. If he wakes up and freaks out because he's hallucinating, or mentions the other world or magic or anything like that, they'll put him in a psychiatric ward.'
'Maybe that's what he needs,' Canada says quietly.
'What? No! We can't let them lock Iggy up!' America protests. 'He's not crazy! He really was in another world and everything he says about magic is real!'
'You misunderstand me, America,' Canada says soothingly. 'Yes, magic and other worlds clearly are real. England isn't delusional about that part, at least. But he's ill. I'm not saying he's crazy, far from it. He's obviously been through something extremely traumatic, which is why he's in this state. That doesn't make him insane, that just means he's damaged. And there are people, professionals, who are equipped to handle PTSD.'
'But what about us, though?' America says faintly. 'Aren't... aren't we the best to deal with this? We're nations. We've all... seen and been through and done some bad stuff. Wouldn't we get it... better than the humans would?'
'I think yer brother may be right,' Ireland replies, before turning to Canada. 'This is different from anything we've encountered. I'm not saying it's worse, or better for that matter, but it's... jus' different. Something I don't think any of us have any experience in. A different kinda pain. Not something to do with our people, just something being felt directly by the nation themselves. Five years of it. Whatever it was.'
America turns back to England, still very much limp in his embrace. He shifts England's body slightly, laying him out in his arms in a more horizontal position. From this angle, he can see England's face. Up close like this, he can see how ill England really does look. There are dark shadows under his eyes and his face is thinner than ever before. Under his eyelids, his eyes appear to be moving around rather frantically. Whatever kind of dream he's having, it's making him restless even in his unconscious state.
'We'll decide what the next move should be along with the others,' Ireland continues. 'There ain't any use in grovelling here. We'll take him back to Scotland's room and flash out IDs at anyone who tries to stop us. Scotland's got a whole damn room to himself, so we've got privacy and plenty of spare beds to choose from for England.'
America nods and slides one arm underneath England's legs while the other supports England's back. He gets slowly to his feet, keeping England firmly balanced in his arms. He's always been known for his amount of physical strength and England isn't exactly heavy, especially given that he's even thinner than usual. What America is most concerned about is the very slight vibrations running through England's body. He's shivering, but he can't possibly still be cold from this morning. Which of course raises another worrying point- the fact that when conscious, England's stuttering is still present.
'Yeh sure yeh want to carry him?' Ireland asks. 'I could do it.'
'So could I,' Canada volunteers.
For the first time since England passed out, America finds himself hoping that the smaller nation doesn't wake up just yet. He doesn't want to see England panic in his arms and end up falling, or to have to simply look into his former caretaker's face and see so much fear in the eyes looking straight back at him. Maybe it would be safer for Ireland or Canada to take him instead. But America doesn't make a single move to hand England over to either of them. He simply clutches England a little tighter and sends the other two his usual sharp-toothed grin. 'Nah, I've got him. This is a job for a hero, after all.'
Canada lets out a little snort of laughter and shoots his brother an exasperated yet fond look, while Ireland rolls his eyes. 'Whatever yeh say, yank. Let's go.'
Sealand is hyperactive at the best of times, and is openly enraged at being instructed by Wales not to leave the room. It's rather difficult to pinpoint exactly who Sealand is angrier at- Wales or England. Wales has ordered his temporary confinement, sure, but- as Sealand keeps muttering under his breath- it's 'idiot, dummy, jerk England' who shouldn't have said such a 'stupid, wrong thing'. Honestly, the micronation looks quite betrayed, and Scotland understands why. Sealand is very fond of America and seems to have recently put quite a bit of trust in England. England's words from before haven't just hurt America, they've clearly affected Sealand too.
The thing is, Wales seems one hundred percent certain that England has been misunderstood. There's no way he would agree with condemning America- his loyalty to the younger nation runs too deeply for that. England's always had a soft spot for America, even now, while he's scared to death of him. From his actions so far and his refusal to accept what Scotland is declaring, there's no way England does believe it now.
'… we really must insist that we take a look at him and make sure that he's alright. Hospital protocol-'
'Honestly, ma'am, it's fine. He just hasn't been getting enough sleep lately and he nodded off. Don't really want to wake him 'cause he'll be totally grouchy. Right, Mattie?'
'Huh? Oh, yes. Absolutely.'
Scotland's eyes dart toward the door in shock, immediately on high alert. It's definitely America's voice on the other side. Several emotions run through him all at once- mostly fury and an exceeding amount of fear. Not just for himself or the others in the vicinity, but very much for England. The younger Brit followed America out the room about fifteen minutes ago, and now America is back. But where is England?
Wales shoots his eldest brother a warning look. He has been rather agitated these past few minutes, clearly desperate to join the search for England and America. But, due to the fact that he is probably the only one who could control Scotland, even more so than Ireland, he accepted his role of keeping Scotland from attempting to get up and has been pacing around the room since, barking out warnings every time Scotland shows signs of wanting to leave his bed.
The elder Brit has never seen Wales so restless before, but then he himself isn't exactly calm right now. Realistically, he knows deep down that even though he would physically be able to push himself out of bed, the agony would incapacitate him immediately and the broken limbs would prevent him from getting anywhere at all. This doesn't stop him from twisting with all the energy he does have, mostly instinctively. It sends shocks of agony through his body, but he can't help it.
Ireland pokes his head around the door while America and Canada are dealing with the nurse. 'It's all good. England passed out again, but he hasn't ended up getting hurt or anything.'
'Get America away from him!' Scotland hisses.
'You shut your jerk face!' Sealand says suddenly, his eyes glistening with angry tears. Scotland stares at him.
'Let's just all... calm down, alright?' Wales murmurs feebly. He looks absolutely exhausted. That flame inside him from earlier when England returned has all but been extinguished.
America steps into the room and Scotland's stomach twists horribly at the sight; just as Ireland said, England is unconscious, eyes sealed shut and his body limp, with his arms and legs dangling. What Ireland failed to mention, however, is that America is the one carrying England.
Scotland can feel his own body shaking slightly, which is unfortunate as it hurts quite a lot. He ignores it and fixes his gaze on America's face, silently begging that everyone else is right and that he has been mistaken about all of this. It would be so, so much easier if Scotland were wrong about all of this. He keeps praying that he is. The other countries haven't quite grasped this, though he isn't surprised. He keeps these thoughts completely private, after all. He doesn't want anyone to think that he has doubts, or rather, that he wishes he had doubts.
Scotland doesn't hate America. They're all wrong about that. The two have had their disagreements about England, but Scotland knows that America's heart is in the right place. At least, he did know that. Up until yesterday.
Scotland has secretly been praying and praying for the last twenty-four hours that he really is wrong about what happened yesterday. Because America is a cheerful, outgoing and light-hearted individual who has aspirations of being a 'hero'. It shouldn't be possible for someone like that to do something so evil.
Oh, how Scotland wishes this was all down to his head injury. If only it were that simple. It would be embarrassing and a big apology to America would be due, but it would be so much more preferable than this. The truth.
Because Scotland knows that it was America's voice. Those three, distinct words ring in his head constantly, reminding him of how he can't hope and pretend he got it wrong.
You hurt England.
It still doesn't make any sense. None of it does. Scotland wants to go back to yesterday and avoid what happened somehow. Choose some other room. Or simply pay better attention to what was happening around him. Because then he wouldn't be here, his body shattered, utterly defenceless, unable to help anyone, at the mercy of whoever might want to finish him off, be it America or whoever else is responsible for all of this.
America takes England over to a spare bed opposite Scotland's. Sealand leaps off his chair and rushes over to America instantly, questions practically spilling out of him, though he keeps his voice down. Canada follows through into the room, his phone in his hand.
'We should call the others to come back here,' he says, and Wales nods.
Scotland's eyes are still fixed on America's face. He can see no malice or cruelty in the younger nation's expression. America doesn't once look at him, probably reluctant to face Scotland's accusatory glare. Or perhaps it's simply because he's far too occupied with England. Concern is written so openly over America's face, and Scotland privately wishes so desperately to believe it.
But he doesn't let his thoughts show. He remembers the voice from yesterday and his glare remains as icy as ever. America needs to step away from both England and Sealand right now.
America stays exactly where he is, his eyes never leaving England's face.
There's no glow this time. No gateway to the other side. No way out.
Without consciousness, things are becoming a lot clearer now. He knows who he is and he remembers what happened.
The next game. The game Blue Eyes- Other England- had planned out. They had dragged him away, bloodied and weak, to his cell once more so they could prepare it. He was in there for almost three weeks, barely able to stay conscious for any of it. The progressive drop in temperature and the terrible wounds had taken a heavy toll on his body. Despite being a nation, he should have died. But his wounds were treated, to a degree. He had no idea who did it, whether it was Other America or Other England, but someone had bandaged up the worst of it during his first bout of unconsciousness, and continued to replace the bandages whenever he was out cold for a long period of time.
The food changed too. It was all actual food this time. Generally pieces of fruit or bits of bread, and always accompanied by a glass of water. The water was the biggest relief, of course. After that whole month without hydration, England prioritised it, naturally.
He never caught a glimpse of the two other nations, and he certainly wasn't stupid enough to mistake any of this for compassion. They needed him alive. If they continued dehydrating him, offered him only poisoned food and administered no medical treatment, he would have died.
Perhaps two months ago, England would have stubbornly refused the food they gave him. The person he was before the month of isolation and the hours of torture would have been too proud to give in. Now, England just took the food. He couldn't bear anymore pain. He wouldn't. In some way or another, something inside him had broken. And it should have mattered to him, this cowardice, this fear in the face of agony, but it didn't. Fear won in the end.
One day, something about his food was different. He couldn't tell at first, for Other England had masked the smell well this time. It was only when he took a bit of an apple did he notice the sickly sweet taste in his mouth, already running down his throat. There was more than just juice inside the apple, just like there was more than just icing on those cupcakes he'd been given before. He hadn't eaten anymore upon realising something was wrong, but the damage was already done.
A poisoned apple. How poetic. Something had told him that Other England probably enjoyed the thought and execution of that quite a lot.
After all those hours strapped to that table with Other America cutting into him, England found the pain fairly bearable. The poison incapacitated him fairly successfully, leaving his body pressed against the floor and unable to move, like something extremely heavy was weighing down on his stomach. But the pain itself wasn't really an issue. Only its effects.
Once he was subdued, they came for him and took him to a pitch black room. There had been something rather familiar in the centre: a pentagram, scrawled on the floor in red ochre. England remembered years of using black magic for all sorts of little experiments. But he could do nothing for himself at that moment. They were completely in control. And even if he could have moved, he's not sure now that he would have. There would have been no point. There was no point to anything.
He heard its terrified squeals before he saw it; the small creature was brought in by Other America in a cage, fur on end and ears pricked back, and though it was very much alive its eyes were already glassy with absolute fear. From his spot where they had laid him in the centre of the pentagram, England had managed to turn his head slightly and glance dully at it. He had felt nothing.
It could scream as much as it wanted to in the beginning, but eventually, like him, it would have no energy left.
Other America had pulled out one of his knives: the prettiest of the bunch, the long, handsome one with the green hilt. It was England's favourite and most hated one at the same time when he was on the table; it hurt a lot at first, but the tip of the blade was so thin that after a while he had barely felt a thing when Other America had painted crimson pictures on his chest. That had been some kind of mercy. He enjoyed that part more than any other bit. But the blade could cut deep. Very deep. It did the most damage of all the knives. The most gentle and the most lethal, slipping through his flesh like a ghost and leaving a canvass of blood in its wake.
Other America had taken the rabbit out of the cage by the scruff of the neck. The little animal had twisted a little at first, still making horrified squeaking noises. The knife was drawn very lightly down its side, slicing around one of its back legs and cutting into its belly a little. The creature's shrieks grew louder with the process, then faded away as it ended. The wound was light, very light, not enough to kill or even seriously wound the rabbit. But if the blood continued to flow without anything stopping it, it wouldn't end well for the little creature.
The rabbit was placed beside England inside the pentagram. They lay facing each other. England could see the rabbit's chest rise and fall with laboured breathing. It stared straight past him with its glassy eyes, having gone into shock and unable to move. And even if it could have, would it have done so? Or was it just like him, knowing in its own little way that there was no point?
His hand lay close to the little creature, so close that he could run his fingers through its fur if he wanted to. He used to do that when he was little. He liked rabbits a lot as a child.
The had been words spoken nearby, though they were distant and distorted, like most of the sounds England heard now. Somewhere in all the pain, he had stopped processing sound properly. But it hadn't bothered him. Nothing could. He had been numb, numb to everything.
The ground in the circle beneath he and the rabbit had begun to glow brightly, and England had closed his eyes. Then there was one more burst of pain, new and different, like something inside his chest was being physically ripped out, then-
- then he had woken up on that street, not remembering who he was, somehow trapped in the little creature's body. And Other America and Other England had set the wolves on him.
And I choose to stand
Though I'm bruised and branded
I refuse the noose that I'm handed
My eulogy will read:
'To Hell he's been and sipped their scorched gin with a sinful grin'
His eyes fly open, and his revelation doesn't fade away this time. The animal instincts have been subdued. England is in control.
His head is miraculously above water, which certainly helps. He kicks off as hard as he can, trying to get to the side of the river and find somewhere low enough for him to climb out. But there's nothing in sight, nothing at all-
There! A set of stone steps leading down into the river, old and damp. Not too far away. He might just be able to reach it before the current drags him past it.
He slams into the steps quite forcefully, his vision blurring with pain. The wounds that were used to paralyse the rabbit for the ritual must be flowing with blood in the open water, and they're not going to get any better if he keeps wounding himself further.
Scraping desperately at the stone, he manages to heave himself up onto the steps, finally out of the water's icy reach. But he is drenched and still freezing. One consolation is that the biting cold has numbed the pain in his side. He doesn't even want to look down at the wound; he just wants to rest here and let the exhaustion take control, just for a little while...
A wolf's howl erupts from somewhere, above him and surely many streets away. Despite the probable distance, the rabbit's soul flares to life in alarm, its instincts taking control of the body once more and pushing England backwards before he can stop it-
And now he is pushing himself to his shaky feet, despite the exhaustion and the pain that is sure to return presently. In his blind panic, he throws himself up the steps, desperate to get as far away as possible.
(At the back of the rabbit's mind, England struggles for control, but the rabbit's soul won't shift. The fear induced by the howling is too strong, too strong to leave any space for rational thought, or even any thoughts at all for that matter. Of the two souls trapped in this body, only one can take charge at any one time, and right now England doesn't have a chance.)
He can hear the clicking off the wolves' claws hitting the concrete, still at a relatively safe distance, yet drawing closer by the second. He ducks under a low bar on a railing and pelts across a road, heading for some bushes on the other side. They will offer shadows and therefore concealment, but not for long. If the wolves do come this way, they will pick up his scent again. He burrows his way under the bushes, squeezing his way through the small branches. He finally stops again, crouching low and staying very still. He won't be able to run when he needs to if he's completely exhausted, so he can wait here a little while. The wolves may not find him here if they don't catch his scent.
(If. England doesn't want to take this risk. He should have stayed on those steps by the river. If the wolves had come for him there, he could have leapt back in the river to escape. He would rather drown than be torn apart.)
He stays exactly where he is, because instinct is in control, not thoughts.
(The rabbit, not England.)
He's so tired that he almost falls asleep right here, but the constant fear pricking at his senses keeps him conscious. The wolves might reach this area soon, and he has to be alert if and when they do.
(England wonders what's happened to his real body. Is it still lying in the pentagram, exactly where he left it when his soul was ripped out? Will Other America start a new session, regardless of whether or not England's truly in there or not? Perhaps this is for the best. He won't be there for the torture anymore. He won't feel the blades this way.)
But he will feel the wolves' teeth.
His instincts scream to run and he begins shaking badly as he finally catches sight of a wolf, about thirty feet away, coming out from behind a building and lifting its snout in the air. His ears prick back and his legs twitch with nerves, but he keeps himself low down and as still as possible.
The wolf is drawing closer, and more follow behind it. He can see five, perhaps six. He can hear others coming, too. This is too much. His body is itching to spring into action, to get him as far away as possible. But he mustn't. They'll spot him if he does.
There's a wolf ten feet away. It has its nuzzle pressed to the ground, searching. It's very still, one ear twitching. It's caught a scent.
He resists the urge to back away when it steps forward, heading straight for the bushes. If he moves now, it will likely catch him. He's trapped. There is just a small chance that it might not be able to find him; he's dug himself quite deep into the undergrowth, almost hidden completely from sight. His scent, although present, is faint from both the water and all the ash. He might just survive this-
The wolf's amber eyes lock with his. It can see him. A moment passes, agonisingly slow. It may only be a heartbeat, or perhaps a hundred.
(All the rabbit's soul can do is stare, as paralysed it was when Other America cut into its flesh with the knife. England can't do anything either. He'd fight for control of the body if he could, but he is frozen too.)
Then, it all happens at once.
The wolf bares its teeth and lets out a snarl, and he jumps into action, turning on the spot and diving through the undergrowth. It's the only option he has now, the only chance he'll ever have. He emerges from the bushes, quickly racing across the open ground. He has to get as far away as fast as he can, before-
Another wolf is suddenly in front of him, mouth open wide. He has no way of stopping himself in time as he is in mid leap. With no control of his own fate, he end up in the jaws of the wolf, and its teeth clamp down on his flesh. He flails desperately, twisting violently in its grasp, but it's hopeless-
(Flashes of searing hot, white pain spread through this new vessel of England's, somehow worse than the blades were on his real body. His mind grew accustomed to the pain, and his body became numb to it too. But in this new body, only scarred by a shallow knife wound from earlier, it hurts terribly. Especially as the rabbit's soul is the one in control, and it does not take well to pain-)
The wolf's fangs are sinking very deep-
(England wants to scream-)
But it is the rabbit who shrieks, a horrifying screeching noise-
(England is going to die. Not slowly or gently, like in the cell. There will be no peace. He is going to be torn apart-)
Underneath his fur and skin, he feels his bones crunch-
Though worthless lives are worth less lives
My words revive and cry loud for the certain sign
(In spite of the blind agony, England manages to find words. A desperate plea. Something that is so powerful that in this moment as the end draws close, the rabbits soul gives in and fades and England takes charge-)
All rationality has gone. Despite the fact that this will do nothing for him, England screams for them-
America, France, Canada, Japan, his brothers, anyone and everyone. They're not words he'll ever be able to utter, not words that will ever be heard, not words that will ever save him. But words nonetheless-
HELP ME. PLEASE. PLEASE, SOMEONE. I'M SCARED. IT HURTS. HELP. PLEASE.
His breath, his body, his vision, everything is being crushed-
PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP ME.
Everything is ending, his life is slipping away in a blur of white teeth, hot flesh and a red stained world spinning into darkness-
SOMEONE, PL-
'Til end of days sound and the earth is dry
Know this is a farewell but it's not goodbye
Yeah, sorry again. There would have been more, but I still haven't finished the entirety of the next scene and I feel that you guys deserve an update ASAP, so here we are. I threw in a little more suggestive USUK from America's perspective, if there's any consolation there. When America was carrying England, I tried not to fall to one of the biggest clichés I've seen in fanfiction- the use of the phrase 'bridal style'. Not that I have a problem with it, but it would just feel a bit typical XD
I gotta say guys, I was really happy your responses to the A/N in the last chapter. I'm glad you're supportive of the whole slow burn thing and understand the whole thing about how I want to emphasise that the PTSD isn't going to magically go away. So, I want to thank all of you. You guys are awesome. As in Prussia awesome XD
Hopefully I'll see you guys pretty soon. I'm working on quite a lot of things at the moment. I wanted to create my own artwork for this story, as well as possibly create some kind of music playlist or some crap like that to go along with it. Idk. And you would not believe the amount of story ideas I have.
Anywho, I need sleep. Hope you enjoyed, and remember to review!
Toodles!
