Ok is2g if I haven't posted a scene where England talks to every single country who is currently in the States about everything he remembers so far in the next chapter, y'all can come and punch me. Provided I haven't done it to myself first. I would have fitted it in but I underestimated how much British Isles family drama I can cook up. It's all written out though, I promise. It has been for at least four months now. And there's parts of it that I wrote back in August. August.
Funnily enough though, although I haven't actually written this out yet, I have extensively planned out a scene, right down to the exact dialogue, in which England reveals himself to be alive for all the other countries in the world to see. And oh boy, that's coming alright. Probably ages down the line, knowing me, but I'm super psyched for it.
The chapter is named as such because people are finally letting the truth loose- their secrets and whatnot (whether it's to themselves or to others rather depends on the character, I guess). And it was also named this because there weren't many suitable words that rhymed with 'truce' from the chapter before. I mean seriously, what else could I have gone with? Goose? Moose. Shit, guys. I need to plan the chapter names out better tbh lmao. Idek how I've managed to maintain the rhyming couplets this long XD
Warnings: as if you lot even need reminding by this point, honestly. I should get a cheerleader squad to spell out ANGST in song format. Why isn't there a gif for that? Is there a gif for that? Please tell me there's a gif for that. If only I could put gifs on this thing.
Allons-y!
Twenty
Honesty Loose
England is drowning.
The water is seeping into his mouth and flooding his lungs. When he looks up, searching for air, above the surface of the water the sky has turned orange and is swirling vibrantly. Whether the motion in colour is due to the movement in the water from him thrashing around and the current, or whether it's because the orange glow itself is the flickering of a city on fire, England isn't sure.
The more he struggles, the further down he seems to sink. He's never been a particularly strong swimmer. Up until the last century or so, he couldn't really swim properly at all. Having spent so much time at sea earlier on in his life, England had gone by an old, typical human approach when it came to being in open water: that it was better to drown nice and quickly then to be left afloat for a long time, where he could freeze to death or be attacked by the creatures beneath the surface of the water.
Needless to say, however, he most certainly can swim now. Or he should be able to. But despite his efforts, the orange glow is dimming as he sinks further down.
His mind doesn't register his impending doom properly, and a part of him knows he should be panicking more. But another part is strangely relieved. Not because he wishes for death- God knows, the prospect of death in the jaws of the wolf completely terrified him. But that was mostly due to how painful it was. Death in a calmer, gentler manner like the way he was headed in his cell during that first month is certainly more preferable. But that's not what this is about, not really.
Perhaps, if he sinks far enough, he'll black out once more. And when he awakens, he'll be washing up on the shores of his Thames. His London. His land. His world.
Or he'll simply die. Both are better than staying here.
The orange above him has morphed into something very dark now. A cloud of black is rolling its way through the water, blocking the view above. It's a liquid of some kind, and honestly, by this point, England isn't confused as to exactly what it is. If it was lighter down here in the depths, he knows he'd see it for its real colour: crimson. The blood, probably his own, is spreading out above him.
Through its thick blanket, he makes out something even darker: a small shape, slowly sinking down through the haze of blood towards him. Even in the darkness, England can somehow recognise it.
The mangled corpse of the little animal drifts down, heading straight for him, the blood gushing out its open wounds like water pouring out through holes in a damn.
England's panic finally sets in properly. He twists desperately in the water, trying to get away from the body. He is not a part of it anymore. He doesn't ever want to see it again, to be near it or to feel one with it. He doesn't want the wolves to ever find him again.
The blood has reached him, and all at once England is engulfed in its hold. He squeezes his eyes shut and chokes. All of a sudden, taking in the water and letting himself drown is unthinkable. He can't open his mouth for fear of the blood coming in as well.
He may be able to close his eyes and his mouth, but he can't do anything about his ears; his arms are two busy trying to push him upwards for him to cover them. Besides, the sounds that are just beginning seem to be inside his head, not around him.
The snarling and snapping of jaws, the crunching of bones and the terrified, agonised squeals of the little creature in the pack's grasp. In a flurry of bubbles, momentarily forgetting the blood all around him, England opens his mouth and screams.
But when he opens his eyes, the blood and the body of the little creature are gone. Instead, he can once more see the surface of the water, much further away than before. The orange lights are gone, but he can just make out others instead; little faint spots of light here and there, not directly above but to the sides of the river, looking over him. The lights of the city, no flames in sight.
But the world England has been trapped in knows no light at night time, not even light from the stars. The burnt and broken city was a ghost town when he had raced through it to escape the wolves. No people, no lights, no life. So how can there be lights now?
Then it clicks. The blood has gone. The city is alive above him. He's not where he was before.
Home.
England kicks out as hard as he can, refusing to let any more water inside him. If he can reach the surface and expel the water from his lungs, he'll be okay. He'll swim to shore and find help. He'll go to his brothers, to America, the real America, to France or Japan or Canada. He'll go to anyone. His current relations with them, his pride, none of it matters anymore. Oh, how he wishes to see them all again.
He can be safe. He can make it out alive.
Something grasps his ankle and digs into his skin. He cries out, blinded temporarily by the bubbles erupting in front of his face. Glancing down, he can just make out something clasping onto him, and no amount of kicking seems to shake it off.
It's a hand.
The arm connected to it trails off into the darkness beneath, the body it belongs to being too far down to distinguish or even make out in the slightest. Without meaning to, England lets out another scream, struggling vividly to escape.
'You can't leave yet,' giggles Other England's voice, echoing inside his head as if it's coming from his own thoughts. 'What about the next game?'
Another hand rises up from the deep and grabs England's other ankle, and he hears Other America laugh. 'Don't ruin the fun. No quitting now. We're just getting started.'
The hands begin pulling, and suddenly England is sinking down faster than ever before, being dragged into the depths-
All in a sudden, the nightmare is over, already sinking down into the depths of his mind like he did in the dream. His eyes fly open and he coughs immediately, momentarily expecting water to come out. Instead, he breathes without any problems, albeit quite shakily. It wasn't real. Of course it wasn't. He could feel the water in his lungs but there was no urgency or pain. He had a sense of vague, bleary acceptance about his situation and accepted it without question. Dreams often tend to have that effect.
But now, nothing makes sense.
Although he's already established that he wasn't really drowning, he continues to cough and splutter. Suddenly, the questions and context he lacked in the dream are back, pressing down on him forcefully.
Shaking violently, England curls up, wrapping his arms around his body as he pictures the torn up body of the rabbit sinking into the depths of the water in his dream. His soul was inside that creature. He felt himself being ripped apart and thrown into that state. He- he-
He's alive.
His eyes dart around, searching for the wolves, but he is alone. He's not out in the open anymore. Instead, he's in a room, with ordinary furniture and pastel green walls. He's not on the floor on strapped to a table and there are no weapons in sight. He's on a bed of all things, as if this is just some normal morning he is waking up to.
He thrashes around instantly, still hyperventilating, throwing the covers off and tumbling onto the carpet. Upon inspection, he's definitely in his real body, as if he needed any confirmation there. His clothes, the ones he's been stuck with since he first arrived in the Otherworld, are gone. He's in comfortable, red, satin pyjamas. The colour alarms him immediately, and he quickly lifts up the shirt and observes his skin.
His chest is littered with scars and bruises from his session with Other America. But there are no puncture marks from fangs, no tell-tale signs of broken bones, and none of his limbs are twisted and broken.
Of course not. A part of him knows there wouldn't be. Those wounds were all obtained on the other body, not this one. But only a brief spell of unconsciousness and the dream of him drowning separate him at the present time from that moment the wolf that caught him crunched the life out of him. With the pain still so fresh in his mind, he feels as if there should be marks showing. Somehow, he can still feel his bones snapping and his flesh being torn to shreds, like phantom pains. He should have died, right at that very second. That moment should have killed him. But it didn't. He's back in his own body, instead.
'It was going so well,' says a voice in front of him. England gives a horrible jump and glances up, shaking violently. Other England stands in the doorway, staring down at him. His usual smile is missing.
'You could have won the game,' Other England continues. England can barely hear him over the sound of his own ragged breaths. 'If you'd just kept running and hiding.'
England scrambles backwards until he crashes into a bedside cabinet. Panic is sweeping through his mind, casting shivers of fear and dread throughout his whole body. Whatever's coming next, he can't bear to even think about it. He's not ready, he'll never be ready, he can't bear anymore-
'We had to pull you out,' Other England says, a hint of a smile touching his face. His doppelgänger's terror seems to amuse him. 'Your soul, I mean. When the rabbit died, I broke the spell. Can't have you dying too, can we? You wouldn't be able to play with us anymore.'
England unwittingly lets out a whimper. Long gone is his strong, dignified stance in the face of all this horror. The words come tumbling out of his mouth before he can even stop them. 'P… p-lease. J-just let m… me go home. P-please.'
And then Other England truly does smile, his blue eyes narrowing for the grin spreading across his face. 'Aren't you silly?' He takes a few steps forward and leans down so he's eye-level with England.
'You are home,' he says quietly. 'This is where you belong now.'
As silently as a whisper, he gets up again and is by the door once more before England can process what he's just heard.
'P… Please,' England begs. It doesn't even feel like his voice, and yet at the same time everything about it is completely him now- the vulnerability, the terror, the brokenness. 'S… Stop th-this. Please.'
Other England tilts his head thoughtfully. Disappointment flickers across his face. 'Huh. I think something went wrong. Oh dear. Al won't be pleased. It wasn't really meant to work this well. We thought you'd hold on a little longer.'
Someone is sobbing. England rather dully realises that it is himself.
Other England doesn't say another word. He turns and leaves, closing the door behind him. A click indicates that it has been locked.
England doesn't even try to get his breathing under control. He sinks down until he's lying on the floor, then curls up again, choking out sobs with no control whatsoever. It doesn't even feel like his body anymore. But the only other body he had is dead, mangled and twisted by the wolves. It is broken in the flesh.
And here, he is broken in the mind.
England awakens to find his cheeks wet with tears.
His body is shivering too, though not from the usual panic settling inside him. He is shaking from light, soundless sobs, his mind retracing not only the events of his flashback, but also to the dream he had inside it, following the wolves capturing him. Of how he'd caught one brief, fleeting glimpse of his old world and had tried so hard to reach it, only to be dragged down until the darkness. With a lump in his throat and stinging, wet eyes, England turns his head to his side.
France is still here, but he is quietly chatting away to someone sitting next to him. It's America. And definitely the America of this world, because England can just make out those familiar blue eyes behind the glasses.
The two other nations seem to realise England has awoken at that moment, because they both widen their eyes in shock.
'Iggy- dude,' America says quite hastily. 'Shit, um- do you need me to go? I could step outside for a sec. If it helps.'
The nickname, the uncertain suggestions in an attempt to be helpful, the nervous but innocent smile he sends, the blue eyes. England has no doubt in his mind that this is one hundred percent America, his America. He shakes his head and gives his own tiny smile. He's relieved to see America, and that is such a nicer feeling than being terrified at the thought of his presence.
'Angleterre,' France says softly. 'What 'appened?'
England frowns in confusion, before remembering that there are currently tears streaming down his face and the other two can obviously see them. This right here would be enough teasing material for years, split between both France and America. If things were the same as before. England would be humiliated and utterly miserable at the thought of being caught by them of all people in this state. If things were the same as before. He may even have attempted a pitiful attempt to turn it around and tease them for actually showing concern.
If things were the same as before.
'Another memory?' France guesses.
England nods again.
'Oh man,' America murmurs. 'That sucks. You, uh… you sure you're okay with me being here?'
England doesn't respond. Instead, he pushes himself up as best he can. His quivering arms aren't particularly trustworthy for support, but he manages to get into an upright position.
'How l… long…?' he begins. The words feel harder than ever to come out. 'How long h… have I b-been asleep?'
'About four 'ours,' France says, then turns to America. 'It's, what? Seven o'clock? Eight?'
America checks his phone. 'Half seven. The meeting ended a couple of hours ago. I thought I'd come over and say hi. I woulda brought snacks but they don't let you do that in here, which is totally unfair and dumb.'
'Ridiculous American,' France sighs, earning a pout from the younger nation.
England is privately grateful that they don't continue to press on why he's crying. He lifts his hand up and wipes the tears away as best he can. 'D… did I m-miss anything?'
'Not that I know of,' America replies. 'No major drama or anything, other than the usual crap that happens at meetings. To be honest, the most exciting thing that happened today was Italy spilling soda all over Germany's paperwork. That was funny.'
England's throat feels tight. The thought of that dream he had inside the flashback is hurting more and more. He had been so desperate to escape and re-join the life and the people he left behind. For the first time, England feels that he is now fully appreciative of what he had- before 2010, anyway. Ever the pessimist for so many years, England realises now that he could never truly see all that he had. He used to hate so many things. Or at least, he thought he did.
A new wave of thoughts and emotions is washing over him, one that completely swallows up all the fear he has left.
He missed them. All of them. Even the ones he once claimed to despise. He missed those stupid, useless meetings and all their random, ridiculous occurrences. He missed those unbearable conferences and hours spent travelling around for international affairs. He missed all those bloody fools who made his life confusing, frustrating, familiar and so much better than his ordeal in the Otherworld.
He stares at America and France and remembers how much he would have given to get it all back again, and he just like when he awakened and thought the others had rescued him from the wolves, he feels nothing but relief. Except this time, he is no longer held by delusions. He sees his situation for what it is. It may not be over, but he is back where he belongs.
And to think, England muses sadly, that I was ready to throw it away again, that morning by the pond. I finally reclaimed my true life, my good life, and I almost lost it again. The thought is like a punch to the stomach.
'You see to be quite deep in thought there,' France says with a smirk.
'Yeah dude, you totally spaced out. Still with us?' America asks.
They've held back the playful teasing so far, but England doubts they'll be able to resist it if he admits his epiphany out loud. If anyone found out how much he missed everything here, they'd never let him live it down.
'M-my brothers,' England says, deciding a distraction from his own thoughts is probably best. He is curious as to what his family is up to. 'W… what about them?'
France sighs. 'Secretive, to say the least. I'm sure at least 'alf your family and certain others too know something the rest of us don't about your situation.'
England looks down. France isn't a complete fool, he'll say that at least. It's hardly slipped his notice that certain countries are in on England's secret.
America shifts rather awkwardly, clearly thinking along the same lines as England. 'Well, it'll all make sense for everyone pretty soon. Right, dude?'
England nods, wondering if Sealand did give the list to Wales after all. He really hopes so. Perhaps Scotland and Ireland have seen it too. Oh, what a relief it will be when they all know the truth.
He just has to hope they'll believe it.
Ireland awakens to the sound of his phone buzzing with a new message. He groans and rolls over, forcing his stinging eyes open. Already, he can feel the exhaustion lulling him back to sleep, but he fights it off nevertheless and reaches out for his phone.
It's from Wales, and quite short. You awake? We're heading over to your room now.
Ireland sighs and rubs his eyes, then pushes himself out of bed. The room is extremely dark as Ireland has kept the thick curtains closed, what with needing to rest in the afternoon after a whole night of staying in the hospital, watching over England. Come to think of it, he really has no idea what time it is now or how long he's been asleep. He should have probably checked.
A knock on the door comes around five minutes later, as expected. Ireland is more alert now and has gotten dressed. He briefly wonders why Wales is here, as someone should really be watching over England. The staff at the hospital have been persistently nagging the brothers for details and about procedures, which has really been rather bothersome. On top of that, the unspoken fear the countries seem to share is that England will go back on his word and run off again. Or worse still, there might be another attack of some kind; first this entity the other countries have mentioned, then Scotland's 'accident'.
'Other you. He's v-very different. N-not like you at all, in f... fact. J-just looks like you. Th... that's the problem,' England had said a few days before, has he was crouched on the floor, barely managing to get his words out for America. Ireland and Canada had watched from afar, knowing better than to interfere. From that point on, Ireland's head has been spinning with his younger brother's words.
This other world he first heard about in the park is parallel. England spent those five years in an alternate dimension; a reflection of this one. A world in which there seemingly must be other versions of the countries- at least, definitely another America, from what England managed to say before he passed out.
This other America is responsible for Scotland's fall. And he had a hand in whatever happened to England. A big hand, Ireland would argue, considering the state England's in. Which doesn't seem to make any sense whatsoever, when Ireland compares that to the America he knows in this world; a friendly, well-meaning, self-proclaimed hero who cradled England in his arms when the latter fell unconscious and never even tried to bother hiding how worried he was.
'Hey,' Ireland greets Wales and Sealand as he opens the door.
The micronation is looking ever so pleased about something, whereas Wales appears both a mixture of excited and nervous. 'England left a note,' he says breathlessly.
'A note,' Ireland repeats numbly. For a moment, he is terrified; the phrase 'England left a note' seems quite ominous, and with his current mental state, not to mention his plans in the park two days before, England clearly doesn't value his own life much these days. Ireland hates to think that something dreadful has happened- that maybe England ran again, despite him promising he wouldn't, or that he did something far more drastic and horrific. But it's clear that none of this has happened, because Wales seems quite pleased and hopeful. Whatever it is, it's something good.
Wales notices Ireland's small moment of panic. 'No, it's nothing bad,' he says quickly. 'He's still at the hospital, he's fine-'
'Who's watching him?' Ireland demands. 'Shouldn't yeh be there? Is it my turn again?'
'No, no, it's fine. France has got that covered.'
'France?' Ireland asks in surprise.
'Never mind that,' Wales says impatiently. 'England wrote a note before he was admitted here.'
'A list,' Sealand specifies, undeterred by his older brothers' seriousness. He's still smiling smugly.
'What kinda list?' Ireland says.
Wales fishes a scrap of lined paper out of his jacket pocket and waves it in front of Ireland's face. 'Read it,' he insists.
Ireland takes the list and goes over it quickly.
Important
America is innocent.
Sealand: Only show this to Scotland, Ireland and Wales. The others probably won't want to believe this.
Scotland, Ireland and Wales: listen to Sealand. He knows more about this than any of you.
The reason Wales and Scotland couldn't sense my life force anymore is because it really was cut off. I was disconnected from this world. My life force was severed from my land and people when I was taken. That's why they thought I was dead.
The Thames was a gateway, just like the mirror the entity came through. I was in another world.
Specifically, the Otherworld.
It's parallel. A mirror of our own world. But bad. Very bad.
The countries there are us. And they are dangerous.
They're not finished. They want something from me. My escape from them only delayed whatever it was. They'll come back for me.
When Ireland doesn't express outright shock, Wales grows suspicious.
'You already knew,' he accuses.
Ireland sighs. 'Aye. Some of it. Most of it, actually.'
'When did he tell you? In the park?'
'Sort of. Most of what I know is from me overhearing him talking. So if it's any consolation, my knowledge on the matter ain't from him choosing to trust me over yeh, Wales. We both know he wouldn't do that. I heard him talking to the fae 'bout him being in another world. Then I heard him saying to America before he passed out that this other world is parallel. But this part…' Ireland peers at the list again. '… about it being the Otherworld- now that, I didn't know. At all. Bloody hell. So that's what the Otherworld is like; parallel. Never woulda guessed.'
'Why didn't you say anything earlier?' Wales says indignantly. 'You've had two days to mention this-'
'Probably for the same reason I didn't give you the list straight away, dummy,' Sealand says brightly. ''Cause England's the one who should be saying all the super important stuff, and we're not supposed to unless he says it's okay, or he's told you most of it already.'
Ireland grins and jerks his head in Sealand's direction. 'What the lad said.'
Wales looks between the two of them exasperatedly. 'I just wish I hadn't been kept in the dark. Our whole family seems to have known- except me.'
'And Scotland,' Ireland adds. 'England refused to talk to him about any of this, apparently. He's been getting quite a bit of his memories back over the last week or so and Scotland doesn't have the faintest idea 'bout what England's remembering.'
'We need to tell him,' Wales says. 'This part about America being innocent, right at the top- England's really prioritised it. Of course he did. He hasn't offered a proper explanation for it though. I'm not saying I need evidence; obviously, I don't believe America is guilty. But England wants us to show this list to Scotland as well, and he'll need more than this.'
'It's all right there, Wales,' Ireland says rather softly, holding the list out for Wales to take back. 'Think about it. Read the whole thing again.'
Confused, Wales skims over it one more time. 'I… I don't-'
'Remember what Scotland told us? Right before he fell, he saw something in a reflection. The things- no, the people in the other world. Specifically, one of them. Whose voice did he hear?'
'America's,' Wales mutters. 'But… then… it was-'
'Bad America,' Sealand says quietly.
Wales swallows anxiously. 'America- America from this world- truly had nothing to do with it.'
Ireland nods. 'I heard England telling America himself. This America in the other world is responsible. And for quite a lot more than just what he did to Scotland, I'd wager. He must have done things to Eng-' He breaks off, remembering that Sealand is present and certainly not the kind of audience that this subject matter would be suitable for.
But then… Sealand is far more than just an innocent child. He's completely wrapped up in all of this. He and England are in on it together. The kid knows more about this whole mystery than anyone else, except England himself.
And these recent findings seem to ring with a familiar story: a game Sealand started playing when England went missing, where he pretended that England was sending him messages…
'This part,' Ireland says, taking the list from Wales again and turning to Sealand, 'right here. It says that yeh know quite a lot about all of this, and that we should listen to yeh.'
'Well, yeah. Duh.' Sealand bites his lip and avoids his elder brothers' gaze. Something about this has caused him to grow uncomfortable. 'I always knew.'
'So England told yeh all of it, then?' Ireland asks, feeling perplexed. Of all the people he would have expected England to confide in, he wouldn't have suspected Sealand. He knows England privately cares about the child and Sealand did a piss-poor attempt at pretending not to care when England vanished, but other than that, when have these two ever been close? Sealand is a kid- what possible comfort and help could he offer that the other nations couldn't?
'I always knew,' Sealand repeats. 'I just didn't get it- not completely. But it's like a puzzle. I had some jigsaw pieces, but they didn't fit. Then England added his own, and now it all makes sense.'
Ireland and Wales are growing increasingly confused. 'Sea, what do you mean?' Wales says.
The child intertwines his fingers and twists them around in an anxious fashion. 'Before he came back, I knew stuff, but not all of it. And the stuff I did know didn't make any sense. But now it does. 'Cause England helped finish my puzzle. He just hasn't finished his own.'
'Okay…' Wales begins, still at a loss.
Sealand finally looks up with a glare, and Ireland realises the kid isn't nervous; he's angry. All traces of his usual bubbly childishness are gone.
'I knew he was in another world,' Sealand continues. 'I didn't really get it- all the stuff about dimensions and gateways and all that. I just knew he was far away.'
'What are yeh saying, Sea?' A sinking feeling is beginning to spread through Ireland's stomach, and from the look on Wales's face, he's feeling something similar.
'The same stuff I tried saying over and over again,' Sealand says, his voice quivering. His face is neutral but his eyes betray him; they're brimming with angry tears. 'Or are you just gonna ignore me and tell me I'm playing games again?'
The child tries to force a smirk onto his face, but it looks miserable. His attempts at remaining smug are overshadowed by how upset he clearly is underneath.
'I first told you in 2011,' Sealand finishes, folding his arms, 'because I knew back then. And now you've finally caught up.' With that, he turns around and storms out the room.
Wales seems to be in a state of shock, leaving Ireland to handle the situation. He rushes out as well, following his youngest brother as he stomps off down the corridor.
'Sealand,' Ireland calls out, rushing after him.
'Go away,' Sealand says in a quiet voice, accompanied by a sniff.
Ireland reaches him and puts a hand on his shoulder. The child shrugs it off immediately, refusing to meet Ireland's eyes. His bottom lip is trembling.
A small voice in Ireland's head reminds him that the last thing they all need right now is a tantrum, and he hates himself for it. This is hardly irrational, childish behaviour; Sealand has every right to be upset. If this is all true- and it's becoming more and more apparent that it certainly is- then Sealand has spent almost five years knowing more or less what had happened to England, and his older brothers had continuously dismissed it as a mere game.
This particular affair with Sealand had been more to do with Scotland and Wales, not Ireland himself, though he had certainly heard about it through them. Just how Sealand knew all along, Ireland has no damn idea, but it's clear that this child's words have been dismissed long enough.
'We're listening now,' Ireland says in as gentle a voice as he can muster. 'I'm listening. And Wales and Scotland will as well.'
'They never did before,' Sealand points out.
'And they are honestly gonna be immensely sorry for that, lad. I am too. But look how happy yeh were when yeh came in- yeh practically saved the day here, giving us that list. And yeh know that, don't yeh? Yeh did a good job, Sealand. We're not just sorry, we're grateful.'
Sealand doesn't say anything, but Ireland spots his cheeks pinkening a little.
'How, er… how exactly did yeh know about England?' Ireland inquires after a moment's silence. 'Yeh used to tell Scotland and Wales yeh could hear his voice. And yeh mentioned something in the hospital, back when England got all confused and thought it was 2010 and that we'd heard and rescued him. Yeh told him something like yeh were the only person who heard him. Was that it?'
Sealand nods, eyes still on the ground. 'He told me the other day that he used his magic to call out for help when he was in the other world,' the child mumbles. 'So, um. Yeah. I have magic too. I wasn't making that up either.'
Ireland sighs heavily. 'I know. Listen: Wales and I need to go to the hospital and tell Scotland about all this. For a start, we have all the proof we need now to completely clear America's name. Yeh'd like that, wouldn't yeh?'
Although the tears still shimmering in his eyes and he is understandably still upset, this does seem to perk Sealand up a little. 'Then everyone will stop blaming America? You'll all leave him alone?' he asks hopefully.
'We weren't actually… never mind. Sure, lad. Even Scotland will believe the truth soon enough. America's got yeh to thank for that.'
A small smile breaks out on Sealand's face and he wipes a stray tear away with two fingers. 'Ha. I'm an even better hero than him. He's definitely the sidekick now.'
'Yeh be sure to tell him that,' Ireland encourages him.
There will be more tears later, Ireland is sure of it. Sealand has five years' worth of indignation and anger, and England has five years' worth of whatever hell he went through. No matter what little peace Ireland can bring between Sealand and his siblings for the time being, at least long enough to explain the contents of the list to Scotland, no matter how many drugs they dose England up with to keep him relaxed and how little he still remembers of the Otherworld, this momentary calm will give way to the storm once more.
They'll all just have to make the most of it while it lasts.
At the sign of one of his arms in much better shape than it should be by this stage, one of the nurses jokingly said this morning that Scotland must be some kind of miracle patient. Naturally, he finds this concerning.
He has spent the last couple of days telling Ireland, Wales and France, his three main visitors, that he needs to get out of here immediately, or at least be transferred to a private hospital back in Britain. The problem with the latter option, however, is that he is very much unwilling to leave his family and the other nations behind in the States, no matter how uneasy he is at the thought of remaining within America's grasp. Not that America has actually come anywhere near him, not since the day they all came to see him and England was admitted to the psych ward.
This only helps fuel the doubt Scotland has in his own accusations. He was so, so sure it was America's voice on that day he fell, and England had even said that he knew why Scotland would think so. But he never did get to finish what he wanted to say, because chaos had ensued, he'd run out and had another breakdown, woken up and forgotten what year it was, then been taken off to the psych ward…
Scotland shifts around anxiously in his bed, staring out the window at the darkened sky, wondering who's watching England right now. His brother isn't even that far away; they're in the same hospital, though they may as well be oceans apart for all the good this short distance does for them. Scotland is very much incapable of leaving his bed and he suspects that England's probably not permitted to leave his own designated ward, especially if he's completely drugged out.
The door begins to open, and Scotland stops his restless shifting immediately, knowing that if he were a human, which the hospital staff obviously believe him to be, there's no way he'd be able to move around like this without it being quite agonising (when in reality, this movement is causing a mild jabbing pain at best). The last thing he wants is the doctors and the nurses growing even more suspicious at his healing abilities.
But it's not a doctor or a nurse who has come to check on him; it's Ireland and Wales.
Ireland seems pretty chipper and confident, whereas Wales is far more subdued and downcast, like something is weighing heavily on him.
'Bit down in the dumps there, Wales,' Scotland teases, trying to sound upbeat. He know if he acts miserable or shows any pain, Wales will only fuss.
The middle brother doesn't reply, his mind clearly elsewhere. Scotland grows uncomfortable when he recognises the look in his brother's eyes; because surely he has looked very much the same way around England. It's guilt. Wales is feeling responsible for something bad.
'Who's watching England?' Scotland asks hesitantly.
'France,' Ireland replies.
'No way. I did not see that coming.'
'I know, right? Apparently, he volunteered.'
'Now, that definitely can't be right.'
'Times really are changing,' Ireland says, clearly amused. The humour dies when he and Scotland both glance at Wales again.
'Yeh alright there?' Scotland asks in a far more serious tone than before.
Wales deepens his frown, eyes staring at nothing in particular. 'Scotland, we… we screwed up. Really badly.'
'Yeh don't need to tell me that,' Scotland says with a heavy sigh. 'I don't suppose I'll ever hear the end of it, and to be honest, it's probably what I deserve. I still have no idea why we sensed England was dead at all when he was obviously still alive somewhere-'
'Not just with England,' Wales whispers. 'With Sealand. We screwed up with Sealand. And because of that… we screwed up everything for both of them.'
'Why? What happened? Is the lad alright?'
'He's in the waiting room outside,' Ireland reassures him quickly. 'The nurses said they'd watch him. He didn't want to come in here.'
'Why not? What's going on?'
'Some, er… new information has arisen,' Ireland begins awkwardly. 'Quite a bit, actually. Turns out England and Sealand have been thick as thieves, actually. There's no end to the surprises. They came up with a little plan and everything. England wrote out a list that turned out to be ever so helpful, I must say.'
Scotland watches as Ireland pulls out a crumpled little sheet of lined paper and glances at Wales to see if he has anything more to say. The brunette remains silent.
Ireland grimaces, and Scotland gets the feeling that despite how beneficial this list supposedly is, there are some parts that might be hard for him to hear.
'What kind of list?' he asks, his mouth dry.
Ireland doesn't answer, but instead goes straight on to the list itself. 'Important,' he reads out, briefly sending Scotland a nervous glance before continuing. 'America is innocent…'
Sealand shakes the nurses off easily enough by heading straight to the nearest bathroom once Ireland and Wales have gone inside Scotland's room.
He hates the thought of staying in the waiting room, where anyone could take one look at him and his red-rimmed eyes, and try talking to him about what's upsetting him, like he's some tiny child that needs someone to kiss a wound better. He hates the thought of being with his older brothers even more; the only reason he came with them to the hospital is because apparently he's too young to be left unattended at the hotel. Which is rubbish, really. At least, he thinks so.
Maybe he could prove that he's mature by finding the psych ward all by himself. He could go and visit England, who is the one older brother he's not actually upset with right now. The thought of England being the only sibling he's not angry at is so bizarre he can barely believe it. England, of all people. Sealand almost manages a giggle, but the laugh becomes a small sob.
No. He's not a little kid who cries at everything. What Ireland said, about him basically saving the day- that's what matters. He won't let them see he's upset. He is Sealand; he'll one day become a powerful nation that everyone will respect. No one will ignore him then. No one will tell him he's just playing make believe, or that he's a child and he doesn't understand certain matters.
Imagine how impressed and grateful everyone will be, Sealand thinks, a proud smile edging onto his face as he glances in the bathroom mirror. His reflection stares back, eyes still red round the edges and shimmering with tears. The smile does little to change the mood of his image. Sealand runs a tap and quickly rubs water over his face, washing the tears away as best he can, then uses his sleeve to dry his eyes.
'You're so… small.'
With a jump and a little squeak, Sealand's hand falls away from his face immediately and he spins around, trying to spot whoever must be in the room with him. But he locked the door, he's sure of it. And he can't spot anyone as he squints around and blinks in confusion.
He hears a giggle behind him. 'Over here.'
Sealand twists around, letting out another cry of alarm. Instead of his own reflection, someone else is in the mirror, like it's the screen on a TV.
It's England. But, at the same time, it's not.
His hair is a much paler blonde, and slightly pinkish too. His eyes aren't green but blue instead, and far brighter than Sealand's own eyes, or America's, or anyone else Sealand's ever met. They almost seem to glow in the dim light of the bathroom and they're open as wide as possible, though they thin out a little into more of a squint as a big grin spreads across his face.
'You're not England,' he says.
Sealand shudders a little, his voice quivering. 'N-neither are you.'
The person in the mirror laughs. His voice sounds exactly like England's, if England ever laughed. 'Oh, but I am. Here, not there. And who might you be?'
The micronation glances at the door before looking back at the mirror again. His whole body is shaking and his heart is pumping so wildly that he feels a little lightheaded, like his body isn't even his own. He's scared for a second that his legs might give way.
This is the other England in the evil world, isn't he? He's one of the people who took England away and did bad, bad things to him.
Have they come to take me too? says a terrified little voice in Sealand's head. Are they going to hurt me too?
Sealand's whole body has gone cold and he can feel himself trembling. All of a sudden, he really does feel like a frightened little kid. He's just a micronation, and all alone. These people were able to capture England and break him into what he is now. Sealand can't possibly stand a chance. He just needs to run before Other England finds a way to pull him in. He can go to his older brothers. He can't be upset with them now, not when he needs them. He doesn't want to stay away anymore; he wants them here with him, he wants to feel safe…
Those frightening, bright blue eyes drill directly into his own. 'I wanted to pay England a little visit and say hi,' Other England says in a voice that somehow sounds even younger than Sealand's, full of naïvety and innocence. But that can't be right. He must be very far from both those two things.
'But,' he continues, 'I tried to track him down, wherever he is right now. And I found you instead. I was somehow drawn to you.' He tilts his head at a funny angle, peering curiously with wide and unblinking eyes, the smile gone. 'You look like us- your England and I. Are we family?'
'No,' Sealand says very quickly in as brave a voice as he can muster. The word slips out before he's even thought it through, and more follow in a nervous stream. 'N-not you. You're n-'
'But you're my counterpart's family, aren't you?' Other England says hungrily, a new, peculiar smile twitching at the edges of his mouth. 'Are you his brother? Does my counterpart actually have younger siblings by blood?'
Somewhere at the back of Sealand's mind, beyond all the panic, he registers these words properly. Do I not exist in the Otherworld? Don't they have a Sealand?
Other England peers closely at Sealand, still smiling that strange half-smile. 'Why did I find you instead of England? It can't just be because you're family; there must be something else.'
Sealand swallows and backs away slowly. He can't find his voice.
Other England laughs again. 'Where you going, little one? We're having such a lovely little chat. You haven't even told me your name yet.'
The smile, the way he uses his voice, his entire demeanour- everything about him is so… not England. Everything about him is wrong. His clothes are bright and colourful, like he's been doused in pink and baby blue paint, something his counterpart probably wouldn't be caught dead wearing.
England, the England Sealand knows, is strong and formidable, but he's not scary. From all the stories Sealand's heard about him, plenty of other countries throughout history have rightfully found reason to fear him. But Sealand himself, as young as he is, has never been exposed to any of that.
To Sealand, England is many things. Annoying? Yes. Stuck-up? Absolutely. Confusing? Always. Surprisingly nice? Every so often, especially recently (Sealand, desperate to try and calm himself down in any way possible, tries to imagine what it would be like if he actually mentioned that in front of England).
Terrifying? No. Not even if he wanted to be. Maybe it's because of his personality, maybe it's because he's not the same threat to the world he once was. Hey, maybe it might even be because… because he's family. If Sealand wasn't completely full of terror right now, he'd never be thinking about his brother like this.
England doesn't scare him. Not even when the two were alone in that hotel room and England was breaking down. He wasn't scared of England, he was scared for him.
Other England completely terrifies him. Everything about him sends shivers through the child's body. Especially the way those black pupils, made ever so prominent by the light blue irises, seem to dig straight into his head. Sealand feels a sob working its way into his throat.
No, he begs himself. If Other England thinks he's weak, he might suddenly attack- he could lunge out of the mirror like that entity apparently did, grab Sealand and pull him into the bad world where they'll do all the same terrible things to him as they did to England. And maybe this time it will be England who hears Sealand crying out inside his head.
He's a small, shaking child who's about to cry. He's not even a real country, no matter how much he likes to pretend to be. He's not big or strong or brave, not like he wants to be. Other England probably already thinks he's weak anyway.
But right now, he doesn't want to be big, or strong, or brave.
He just wants to be safe.
Slowly, terrified that sudden movement will cause an attack, Sealand backs away towards the door once more. He's not going to stop now, not even if Other England tries to make him; he has to get out.
'Don't go,' Other England says with a mocking pout, folding his arms, head still tilted to the side. 'It's very rude. I don't like it when people are rude.'
'S… sorry,' Sealand chokes. He doesn't know what else to say.
Other England's wide smile breaks out across his face again. 'Well, it is nice when people apologise. That's very polite. What's your name? Who are you to my counterpart, and why was I drawn to you?'
'I… I d-don't know…'
Other England's mouth curves downwards into a rather comical, sad, confused look. 'You don't know who you are to England?'
'I don't know why y-you found me.' Sealand's voice breaks a little as he talks. 'I'm… no one. I'm not even a country.'
The very thing he hates to admit feels so important now. He doesn't want Other England to take interest in him. He wants to be as unimportant as he is to everyone else. Maybe that way, he'll be allowed to go.
Other England lifts a hand up to scratch his chin. 'But there's something about you. I wouldn't have found you otherwise.'
Sealand whimpers. 'I… I'm not…'
He feels his back bump against the door, and his hand scrambles around for the handle. He's unwilling to take his eyes off Other England.
Other England sighs and feigns hurt. 'I suppose I can't stop you from wanting to leave. It's a real shame though.' His eyes narrow into thin slits. 'This has been interesting. I think I'm glad I met you.'
I'm not. Sealand finds the handle. He wants to wrench it open in an instant and sprint out, but he twists it slowly, still afraid that Other England will react in some way. But he does nothing; he simply looks on, neither frowning nor smiling, and although his eyes are as bright as ever, there is something dark in them too.
Just let me go. Let me get away. Let me find help. Please, Sealand pleads inside his head, no longer caring how childlike and weak he sounds.
'Hey, little one? Can you at least do one small thing for me?' Other England calls out. He's still not smiling, but Sealand can hear it in his voice. It's not a smile he ever wants to see.
'W-what?' Sealand says, praying for all the bad things to end here.
A wide grin splits across Other England's face, bigger than all the smiles he's worn so far. His eyes are wide again and manic.
'A message for my dear counterpart,' he says with another giggle. 'Tell him we all send our love! And…' His voice grows quieter and his grin morphs into a much calmer smile. 'We're waiting to repay him for all that he gave us.'
Still shuddering, Sealand nods his head numbly. He doesn't know what these words mean, and right now he doesn't care. All that matters is that he's being released.
Even as the image in the mirror fades and Sealand steps out of the bathroom, Other England's ringing giggles echo throughout his head. And try as he might, he can't force away the image of those bright blue eyes burning into his mind.
My Hetalia blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com
The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com [slash] ash - song
To any Game of Thrones fans here, read 'we're waiting to repay him for all that he gave us' the same way you'd read 'the Lannisters send their regards.'
I am genuinely sorry for what happens to Sealand in this chapter. The inevitable part where his family realises he was telling the truth all along was unavoidable, and I'll be touching on that more, obviously, because it doesn't just magically mend like that. And the whole thing with him meeting Other England was something else I needed to write as key to the plot. I just figured, realistically, given that he knows about the parallel countries and that they're responsible for why he used to hear England screaming out, he'd be downright terrified when faced with one of them. Especially if that one in particular is the counterpart of England, the older brother he's finally starting to see eye to eye with.
Sealand needs more appreciation in this fandom. Seriously. I really love this kid. Have I mentioned that?
Right, so, next chapter: big, big talk. Hopefully. No, maybe I should say definitely. I gotta set it in stone or I'll screw up the plan somehow. Also, turns out the whole page thing on my blog worked. I'll update that with more info in the morning, but right now I need to watch Lucifer and then get some sleep, because priorities.
Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed, and remember to review!
Toodles!
