Hell yeah, back on a monthly schedule!

... For like one update, probably. I'll be back at college in like 29 hours exactly. Knowing me, you're probably not gonna see me for like another 3 months.

Anyway, this chapter is entirely flashbacks. Not chronologically (one's in late 2013, the other is in very early 2011, 1P and 2P verse respectively). I realise that cuz this story is so long and because my updates can be quite far apart, some of you may need a lil memory jog. The first flashback is set directly after the 1P verse flashbacks in chapters 10 and 11, in case you have no idea wtf's going on. Basically where Sealand first shows up to America and reveals he knows shit. I've had parts of this sorta collecting dust for a while, so I'm glad I finally got to use it in a chapter.

Warnings: it's sad. I made it sad for some reason. I'm sorry. All aboard the angst train to Doomandgloomville. There's gonna be a change in tone in the next chapter, tho. I'm planning some big stuff. England's been through enough shit. At some point, there's gonna be some fighting back.

Allons-y!


Twenty-Two

Distant Youth

'Magic,' America says. It's not really a question, but not quite a statement either. It's something in between, and rather hollow.

Walking beside him, the young micronation nods, his eyes fixed on the pavement in front of him. The two of them have left the meeting room and are now strolling through the streets of Paris. The October air isn't quite chilly, but it's near enough. America's not entirely sure if it's the air itself that's making him feel cold or the cold, sinking feeling in his stomach, washing a chill over the rest of his body. It's been less than an hour since Scotland announced to the world that England is one hundred percent dead. America hasn't quite cooled off from the argument that followed, but the young micronation beside him is certainly offering a distraction.

'I get it, okay,' Sealand says grouchily. 'I know it sounds stupid. You probably don't believe in it, do you?'

'I, er- no,' America says awkwardly, then lets out a laugh. 'I mean, England was obsessed with it. He used to tell me all about it when I was a kid. I believed back then. Then, kids will believe any...' he trails off, remembering that Sealand himself is a child.

But the micronation has picked up on what he was going to say. 'Oh, sure,' the kid says with a glare that honestly looks more like a pout on such a young face. A face that bears one hell of a resemblance to England's, America is once again reminded. Sealand bears England's likeness more than other British Isles. Aside from his eye colour and slightly different hair shade, Sealand really does look like a young England. Maybe this is what England actually looked like as a kid.

'What happened to taking me seriously?' Sealand accuses. 'You said you were gonna do that.'

America swallows nervously. 'I'm sorry. I really appreciate this, honestly. And I know you and your family are really into magic. I know it's an asshole thing to do when someone's all dismissive of the stuff you believe in and they laugh at you and everything. I mean, me? I like aliens. I always wanted to believe that there was something else out there.'

'Aliens are cool,' Sealand admits in a mumble.

'Yeah, they are,' America agrees. 'And I've got one for a friend.'

Sealand's eyes widen. 'Seriously?'

'Yep. His name is Tony. I helped him out after Roswell and he's kinda been my buddy since. He likes video games.'

Sealand looks delighted for a couple of seconds, then his face falls. 'Are you making fun of me?'

'What? No. Why would you think that?'

''Cause you don't believe in magic, but you know I do,' Sealand mutters. 'And you want to see how gullible I really am, 'cause like you said, kids will believe anything.'

'No, dude, seriously. I wouldn't do that,' America says hastily. 'Tony is real. You can come over some time and meet him if you want. He sticks around my place in Mexico most of the time. You like aliens too, huh?'

Sealand's distrust seems to be dissipating rapidly, being replaced by excitement. 'Yeah, like... Daleks and stuff.'

'Fan of Doctor Who, huh?' America smirks.

Sealand looks a little embarrassed. 'Yeah. Even if it's one of the jerk's shows.'

'Right.' Back to England. This is all a good thing. It has to be. America is hoping Sealand can offer more of an explanation.

'I didn't believe in magic, either,' Sealand says a little unexpectedly. 'Like you said, my older brothers are all mental about it. Especially the jerk. And I see Norway a lot too; I know he likes it. But I used to think it was just like, tarot cards and tea leaves and stuff, when I was a bit younger. I kinda just assumed that was the kind of thing they meant when they talked about magic.'

'And that's not what they mean?'

Sealand rolls his eyes. 'How long have you known the jerk? Do you seriously not know what he was actually doing?'

'Well, I used to walk in on him pretending to summon things-'

'I don't think he was pretending.'

'- and he always talked to his imaginary friends. Like, that happened a lot. He never liked doing it in front of the rest of us 'cause he knew we thought it was funny, but sometimes, when he thought no one was listening, I'd hear him talking to them. What's this got to do with where he is now, though?'

'I'm getting to that,' Sealand huffs with a pout. 'What I'm trying to say is, I thought he was crazy too, once I found out he actually thought he could do spells and stuff. It just kind of felt unfair. I get called a little kid a lot, and I'm still not recognised as a country. And yet he was the one pretending he was at Hogwarts or something. I used to think he was way more childish than me.'

Sealand sounds quite rational, in America's opinion. But he's using the past tense for a reason. The child, for whatever reason, has changed his mind about magic.

'When he went missing, everyone thought it would be a good idea if I spent more time with my brothers,' Sealand continues, in a tone that specifically implies that he initially found this unnecessary. 'People thought I was... you know. Sad.'

'You weren't?' America asks.

'What's the point in being sad over something that hasn't really happened? Everyone else can be sad about him dying, but I know he's not dead.'

'Weren't you at least sad that he went missing?'

Sealand snorts, a little too quickly. 'No. Of course not. We never got along. It's nice not having him around.'

America feels a flicker of discomfort and slight irritation, before it dawns on him how unnecessary it is to feel this way. He may be bad at reading the atmosphere and interpreting what most people are thinking, but kids are much easier. They are younger and haven't generally haven't matured enough to disguise their feelings. And this one right here is an open book.

Sealand is lying mostly, and trying to mix in with a little bit of truth. The part about he and England never getting along is genuine, which America already knows a little bit about. The rest is total crap. The problem is, Sealand himself probably believes it to be true.

The kid may have a lot in common with England, appearance-wise, but everything else?

America sees something very much like himself in Sealand.

Because wasn't he saying similar things to anyone who asked? During those first months after England's disappearance, back when it still wasn't an emergency, didn't America laugh and marvel at how nice it was to not hear England's 'nagging' voice? Didn't some of the other nations like Japan look on disapprovingly and tell him that he was being unkind, and that he cared really- he just had trouble expressing it, or even acknowledging it? Hadn't he heard Canada say it to him so many times over the years, behind closed doors, long before England vanished?

If America judges Sealand for his attitude, he'll be nothing but a hypocrite.

But I've tried to make things right, America thinks, and this itself is a realisation. He hasn't thought of it this way before. Once I did start taking things seriously, I was the only one out of all those other countries who wouldn't give up on England. He's out there somewhere.

Perhaps this makes up for his previous approach to England. Perhaps it doesn't. Maybe it matters, and maybe it doesn't at all.

And perhaps Sealand is doing very much the same thing, without even realising it.

'You say you don't like Iggy,' America says with a little smile. 'But you're doing this for him, aren't you?'

Sealand makes a face that's something in between a pout and an indignant scowl. 'How am I supposed to just stay quiet about something like this? That would make me bad. If I don't say stuff...' He trails off, halting and staring at the paving slabs beneath his feet. His face takes on a reserved, haunted look that seems far too disturbed for such a young face. 'Then I'm sort of letting it carry on happening, aren't I? I'm letting him stay lost. Besides, I don't have to like him to do this for him. I wouldn't want what's happened to him to happen to anyone.'

'What's happening to him?' America asks instantly.

'Just... bad stuff. I don't really know. I haven't heard it in a while, but I used to hear it all the time.'

'Hear what?'

'England. Screaming.'

America's heart thuds to a stop. 'S... Screaming?'

Sealand nods, still not looking up. 'And calling for help.'

'You... you were close enough to hear him? Where? Where were you when you heard him?'

Sealand shakes his head, and when he looks up at America, the older nation can see the fear and sadness in the micronation's eyes, even if Sealand doesn't know they're there himself. 'It's not like that,' he says quietly. All traces of his bubbly childishness have evaporated. 'I don't hear him out loud. It's... it's in my head.'

'Your... head?'

Sealand waves his arms in frustration. 'Jeez, it sounds so stupid, doesn't it?'

America hates to admit that it does sound completely ridiculous, so he keeps it to himself. He doesn't want to hurt the kid's feelings, and he promised he'd hear Sealand out. Plus, any information about England, no matter how impossible it sounds, is welcome. It's refreshing to finally hear someone else who doesn't believe England is dead.

'Are you sure that... you don't believe in magic... at all?' Sealand asks hesitantly.

America shifts uncomfortably. 'Like I said. I did when I was a kid. I'll admit, there's stuff that happens in the world that doesn't make sense. Weird things that can't really be explained. Hell, I've watched enough creepy videos online to know that much. Maybe stuff like that happens 'cause of magic, or ghosts, or... I don't know. I'll even admit that there's stuff about England that was... I don't know. Weird. Stuff that didn't make sense.'

By that, he means a number of things, mostly memories from his childhood, all in the distant past now: of how at night, England could make little glowing flames of all different colours float around like fireflies for America to try and catch; how England somehow really could kiss any cuts and bruises better, to the point that there weren't any marks at all afterwards; how the two and Canada would leave out little food offerings for magical creatures to come and take during the night.

Later on, when he had grown up, America had come up with his own answers for these things. Those little flames must have really been fireflies, and America had only daydreamed them as fire, or even as different colours. Even in his youth, he'd been ridiculously strong, so perhaps it was his own strength that had healed all those tiny wounds. And one night, while Canada had slept peacefully in his own bed, America had climbed onto the window ledge and stayed up all night, peering out into the back garden for signs of these magical creatures England always told so many stories about. Nothing had shown up- at least, nothing that he could see. In the morning, the food was all gone. Probably woodland animals, and it had simply been too dark too see them.

America was distraught, so disappointed that he was unable to see anything. England had tried to comfort him, explaining that most people couldn't and that it was nothing to be upset about. He had said that the fact that America helped leave food for them in the first place was good enough to guarantee that these creatures would like him, even if he could see them.

For well over a hundred years, during the rockiest patch of their shared history, America had never really had the time to resent England's 'lies'. Back then, there were plenty of other things to focus on, like the conflict between their people and the new beginnings of his own independent nation. But they had both come out of that period, and America simply chose to dwell on what he eventually classed as his childhood daydreams. So what if England continued pretending magic was real and tried to convince him of such, even when their people had found peace with each other and alliances had been struck? America filed this under another classic example of England being a little loopy, or perhaps simply him being determined to treat America like a child, gullible and naïve.

'Let me prove it,' Sealand says, snapping America out of his memories rather abruptly. 'Let me figure out a way.'

The child seems so eager to please show his worth, and any and all information pertaining to England is good. If anything, America just wants to hurry this up. 'Sure, dude. That would be great. We need to figure out a way to help England as soon as possible.'

'I don't know how to do that,' Sealand says quietly. 'I can't hear him anymore. I don't know if it's because he's stopped screaming, or if it's just 'cause the connection's broken, or it's 'cause he...'

Because he may have truly died.

America sincerely hopes it's the first one. The thought of England still in a large amount of pain, almost three years on from his disappearance, is morbid. A tiny part of him wishes that the kid is wrong, that he never could hear England. Because perhaps the thought of England genuinely being dead is more preferable than this. For the first time in all these months, America can start to see it the way the other nations must, especially England's older brothers. The investigation isn't over, not completely. It just so happens that now the case is centred on what caused England's death, as opposed to finding him and bringing him home alive.

Maybe the idea of England being dead, laying at rest, gives the others peace of mind. Scotland's traumatised words, only hours before at the meeting, about how afraid he was that something truly terrible must have happened to England, echo in America's head. Scotland and the others have what they consider definite proof that England is dead, and the thought of how it may have happened, that he suffered immensely before he died, must truly scare them. Perhaps him being dead, and unable to feel anything anymore, is a relief to them. The alternative, that England might still be out there somewhere, still screaming, sends chills through America's body.

All of a sudden, he doesn't feel quite so angry at Scotland and the others anymore. If anything, their perspective is starting to make a disturbing amount of sense…

No. He understands it, but he won't buy into it. He won't give up on England. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. He's finally being offered a lead, and he's going to take it.

All he needs is evidence. He wishes he could simply accept it all now, but the last thing he wants is to get his hopes up over something that might not be real. He wants to believe the kid, desperately. Sealand seems genuine. But this doesn't necessarily make it true. These dreams the kid is having may just be dreams, and the things he claims he can see may simply be a product of overactive imagination, without him even realising- after all, America knows a thing or two about that.

'Even if I can't hear him anymore,' Sealand says, looking up at America with big, nervous eyes. 'I don't think he's dead. I still see stuff. In dreams. It's hard to explain. But I'll find proof. Are you… are you still going to take me seriously? Are you still going to listen?'

Proof. That's all he'll need. Proof, and then he'll let himself hope. America smiles. 'Yeah. One hundred percent.'


A memorial for England is scheduled three weeks later, on the fifth of November, 2013- marking exactly three years since England 'died'. Although he remains stubbornly disbelieving, even despite the revelation he had whilst talking to Sealand, America decides to attend. After all, almost every nation on the planet is going to.

He arrives five days early in the UK for several reasons: he's taking his annual holiday, for a start, and he has always enjoyed spending time in London, even if he never admitted anything of the sort to England; he also wants to make a good impression on the British Isles siblings, as his recent realisation as to how they must see the situation has improved his temperament greatly; and lastly, he is very eager to be here in the very city England disappeared in. If he's going to find clues anywhere, it should be right here.

America likes to think he's grown at least a little more mature lately. It certainly feels that way. This brings a smile to his face, as he thinks about how England would react to this behaviour. He'd be pleasantly surprised, and then he'd grow flustered and try to pretend he wasn't impressed, something America would see right through. Yeah. That sounds about right.

Walking up to England's house is strange. The last time he came here, it had been the morning after England disappeared and he'd shown up excitedly, ready to talk about the snow. He's been to the UK since then, but not to this house. This is where he first found out England was missing… right here on this doorstep…

America chuckles at Scotland's expression when he opens the door and his mouth falls open. The younger nation may have matured a little, but his sense of humour is still intact. 'Yep. It's me. Surprise.'

'A- America?'

'The one and only,' America says with a little two-fingered salute.

Scotland's surprise quickly morphs into suspicion. 'What are yeh doing here?'

'The memorial,' America says simply.

'But- it's not for another five days. And since when were yeh planning on showing up for that?'

'Listen, man,' America begins, taking a deep breath. 'We can agree to disagree on… well, you know. Now, I'm not gonna change my views, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna get angry anymore with everyone else. And it feels wrong to not come. Like, I don't know, an insult or something. If… if I never do see him again, I'd probably regret not showing up. And I can do without regrets, you know? They're totally for old people.'

Scotland merely stares at him. He no longer seems hostile, which is something. 'Since when are yeh so diplomatic? And aside from that last part, since when are yeh so bloody… grown up?'

America shrugs. 'Thought I might give it a try. What d'you think England would make of it?'

He's treading on thin ice now, and he knows it. But Scotland's reaction will be important. America genuinely wants to try and find some middle ground between them. He doesn't have to particularly like Scotland, or vice versa. They just need to get along well enough to be civil, for their own benefit and for the benefit of their people. They don't need to cause tension between their two nations.

Scotland is silent for a second, then he says, 'I think he'd be surprised. In a good way. And he'd tried to cover it up. He'd also be mildly worried- as in he'd probably accuse yeh of being an imposter and demand to know what yeh did with the real America.'

America laughs. 'Yeah. He would. So, uh. Yep. Just thought I'd clear some stuff up with you. No hard feelings and all that jazz. And, um, sorry about the outburst at the meeting. Anyway. I gotta go book in at the hotel. And get changed for tonight.'

Scotland seems to be in a state of bewilderment as a result of America's words, but he manages to reply. 'Tonight?'

America grins. 'It's Halloween, dude. I'm hitting the streets for all the free candy.'

Scotland rolls his eyes so hard that it would put even England to shame. Must be a family thing. 'Of course. And there was me, thinking yeh were mature.' He sounds a lot more light-hearted than he did at the beginning of the conversation.

America is still quietly laughing as he heads down the garden path to the gate, and he almost doesn't hear the small banging noise behind him. He turns around but the front door has already closed, and the sound is coming from somewhere above. He glances up at an upstairs window and spots a child's face grinning back at him. Sealand knocks on the glass one more time and waves.

Thirty seconds later, the kid joins him outside. 'Hey! I didn't know you were coming.'

'Neither did Scotland,' America replies. 'It was kinda spontaneous, I guess. And you're staying with your bros again, I see.'

Sealand pouts. 'Yeah. For the memorial. Which is stupid, 'cause I know he's not dead. And they would too, if they listened to me.' He hesitates for a second, and then continues, 'Speaking of… that. I have the proof. If you want it.'

The background sounds of the city around them, both traffic and peoples' conversations alike, dull in America's ears. 'Y… yeah?' he asks a little nervously. His throat has gone dry.

Sealand nods. 'I wasn't sure what to do at first, but then the fae helped out. They told me stuff I can say.'

Disappointment washes over him before he can stop it. 'Fae? As in like… fairies and stuff? Like the things England always… talked to?'

'Mm hmm. They're all connected. To the world. I think. I don't really get it. I think they all like… share a mind or something. Anyway, they know stuff. They can see things that are happening a long way away because they share it with each other, or something. And they know stuff from long ago, 'cause it's… passed down.'

Honestly, the kid looks just as confused as America feels.

'The fae are weird, okay?' Sealand grumbles. 'But… they like you. I think they're meant to like nations, because we represent the land that they're a part of. Or… you lot do, anyway. I don't exactly have… land. Not natural land, anyway. You know what I mean. There are fae everywhere on earth, like in the sea, but it's not quite the same.'

The child seems to be rambling now, and his voice sounds uncertain. America hates to be sceptical, but it really is hard to understand. When he thought he'd be receiving proof, he assumed it would be a little more… physical. Like… like that movie England showed him once, Photographing Fairies. He's not sure whether or not he should have expected actual photographic evidence of magical beings, but hey, it's better than nothing, right? Instead, the only proof he's being offered are words.

Don't be an asshole, America chides himself immediately. This is your chance to stop being dismissive about stuff like this. To listen to the kid and not ignore him. Or worse, mock him, like you always did with England. This time, you do it right.

But he's been so desperate for this. How the hell is he supposed to find England if he's not even sure he understands what is really going on, and if he still has trouble believing it, no matter how hard he would like to. You can't generally just make someone believe in something when every part of their brain deems it illogical.

Be nice. Be polite. But be honest. This kid trusts you. And even if it does all turn out to be wrong, at least you tried to do something for England. Something he probably would appreciate. He always did want you to believe in magic.

'Listen, dude,' America says, almost mournfully. 'I promised to hear you out, and I will. You have my word on that, okay? But… but is there anything else? Anything really… legit, that you can offer me?'

Sealand looks down at his feet. 'Words aren't enough, are they? 'Cause any random person can tell anyone anything. Doesn't make them right. Doesn't mean they're telling the truth.'

'Do you have like… any solid proof that England is still out there? That… that we can ever find him?'

Sealand's bottom lip trembles. '… No. All I've got are those dreams. And dreams can just be… well, dreams.'

America takes a deep, shaky breath. His chest feels light and ever so empty. '… Okay. Listen, man, I'm really sorry. But thanks anyway. I've had a lot of stuff to figure out over the last few weeks. I kinda get it now. Why the others gave up. Doesn't mean I'm going to. I think I'm always gonna just… expect England to come back one day. But if there's no way at all of really knowing if he is out there, or how we'd bring him back… I don't know what I'm supposed to… do.' He only realises there's a tear on his face when one rolls past his mouth. 'I don't know what I can d-do anymore. He may as well b-be dead, for all the good any of us can do for him.'

Sealand sniffles. America feels awful for letting him down, but… the kid himself seems to be unable to tell if those dreams are real or not.

The tear rolls off America's face and falls to the ground. He straightens up. 'I'm gonna go now, okay? But… I know you don't wanna believe he's dead. Neither do I. Maybe he really will come back one day. We… we gotta hope that-'

'But what if he can't? What if he needs help?' Sealand is so agitated that he seems to have forgotten to pretend he doesn't care about England.

America's stomach twists horribly. 'Then I'm gonna do everything I can to help him. But we don't have any way of knowing whether he does or not.'

'But I do!' Sealand protests. 'Or I did- back when I could still hear him. He wanted so many people- he called for you, and France and Japan and Scotland and-'

Half of America screams at himself to just buy into it, just take everything he can get, even if it is just a fantasy. The other half knows, deep down, that he's no closer to finding England. And he probably never will be.

He turns around to open the gate. He's still glad he came. It was good, straightening out things with Scotland. He knows quite a few people who would be proud of him for showing such maturity. England would be too, if he were here. And, strangely, he's glad he had this chat with Sealand. As much as he hates the outcome of his own logical thought process, maybe this is exactly what he needs. He'll never deal with anything properly, the way he's been handling it all so far.

There was never a goodbye between him and England. There was never acceptance, and so there certainly wasn't any closure. And to date, there still isn't an answer. What he said to Sealand is true; maybe he never will let go of the belief that England is still out there somewhere. But he needs to change the way he deals with it. Enough anger. Enough lashing out. No more clinging onto impossible hopes.

'I never even told you,' Sealand tries one more time. 'The stuff the fae told me I should say. Please. Please just listen. Don't be like everyone else. I just… I just need someone to listen. I know you want to. I know you want something.'

He doesn't sound like a child anymore. He sounds like he would do if he were human, having lived out his real life span, over half a century, and aged as a human would.

America fears more disappointment, more loose ends, more lost causes. But he halts anyway.

'I know about the toy soldiers,' Sealand blurts out. 'The ones in your storage closet.'

America freezes, then turns around very slowly. Sealand's lip is no longer quivering. He looks up at America rather defiantly.

'England gave them to you when you were a kid,' he continues. 'He made them himself, and painted them each one differently so they'd all look special. He even messed up his arm doing it.'

'England told you about that…?' It's not entirely a question, more of an assumption. The only way Sealand could possibly know is if England, at some point before he disappeared, told Sealand about it.

Sealand rolls his eyes. 'Why would he do that? We never got along. We only ever argued.'

'Then how could you know? And how do you know they're in the…' America trails off. Sealand may be lying, for whatever reason, about how he found out about the toys, but there's no way he learnt about them being in the storage closet from England, because England himself never knew.

The only other person who knows about the toys being where they are today is Lithuania, and America highly doubts he's been sharing this information with people. America made him promise not to tell, after all.

'How do I know they're in your storage closet?' Sealand says cockily, his mouth twitching ever so slightly into a smirk. 'How do I know you used to lie in the field by your old house with England and Canada at night so you guys could stargaze? How do I know about that weird game you used to play with Canada, where you'd see who could go the longest being found by England? I bet you really annoyed him doing stuff like that. Maybe that's why he was always such a jerk.' He giggles. 'How do I know this stuff? Because the fae told me. The ones in your country were really helpful. I didn't have to go there or anything. They shared things. Secrets they know. They, um… they watch over you.' He gives a small laugh and all his seriousness from before seems to evaporate. 'That sounds super creepy, doesn't it?'

America stares at him, and Sealand carries on. 'They told me I should mention that sort of stuff. Because other countries like England know bits and pieces, but you're the only one who knows all of it- at least, you think you are. But the fae have always been there, and they see everything.'

America can barely process this new information, so he starts with the only words he can actually get out. 'So, uh, these… fae. They're always watching me or something?'

'They watch everyone,' Sealand continues. 'Everything that's a part of this world. And the ones that live at your place were, like I said, helpful.'

America thinks back to what England told him as a child. That the magical creatures appreciated leaving offerings, even if they could never really interact. He clears his throat. 'So, uh… they're um…'

'Real,' Sealand says. 'Yeah. I can get them to tell me more secrets, if you want more proof.'

America shakes his head. 'No, uh, that's… that's fine.'

Sealand can't possibly have gotten all that information from anyone. He can't have been spying on America for centuries; he hasn't even been around that long. As far as America knows, Sealand and Canada don't actually know each other, so he can't have gotten it all from him. And England never would have been the type to share those sorts of things with anyone other than those involved. And he'd have to be quite drunk, even for that.

The thought of that, the thought of all of this, makes America smile. Suddenly, entertaining the notion of magic being real doesn't seem quite so unreasonable. Either Sealand has some kind of psychic superpower, or some other creepy, secret, impossible way of knowing all this- or he's telling the truth.

Those little balls of dancing flames from America's childhood don't look like fireflies in his mind's eye anymore. They look how he always remembered them, before the denial shut them out.

America runs a hand through his hair and lets out a shaky laugh. 'Dude, this is… awesome. Frickin'… impossible. But it's not.'

'Improbable,' Sealand corrects, looking quite proud of himself for supplying the right word.

'Yeah, that. Holy crap. Wow. This is- wait. Hold on. That's all like… personal stuff. You know like some… really private things about me.' Now he feels a little mortified. Not overly, but what else might Sealand know? Not that he has any deep, dark, particularly classified secrets in his personal life, but the thought of someone knowing everything about him is creepy.

'Just the stuff the fae told me,' Sealand says quickly. 'Just little things, like that.'

They probably are just little things, but they don't feel little to America.

'Are you… angry?'

'What? No. Just… weirded out, is all. I mean… this is big. This is- England.' It suddenly dawns on him. His shock has distracted him from what this all really could mean.

'You really can hear him. Or, you could. But, you still think he's…'

Sealand grins up at him. 'Yep. Even if I can't hear him, I still get this weird feeling from time to time. In dreams. I see flashes of stuff. Not like, stuff I can make out. Usually. But yeah. I think he's somewhere.'

America opens his mouth to eagerly ask more when the front door opens and Wales pokes his head round. 'Sealand, what are you doing out here- oh. You haven't left yet, America? Scotland mentioned you'd come round.'

'The little dude and I were just having a chat,' America explains.

Strangely, Wales's face grows apprehensive. 'Right. Er… I wasn't aware you knew each other.'

What's his problem? America wonders curiously. 'We don't actually know each other that well. But, ya know. He seems cool.'

The child pouts up at him and America winks back. Wales nods slowly, still wearing a peculiar expression.

'Can I go with him?' Sealand blurts out. 'And hang out for a bit?'

Wales seems rather taken aback. 'Um… well, it's almost evening,' he says anxiously. 'It's already getting dark. And…'

'Don't worry,' America says, waving him off. 'I'm good with kids. Probably.'

'I'm not a baby,' Sealand bites back, pink in the cheeks.

There's still something concerning on Wales's mind, America can tell. He and Wales still don't know each other all too well, as nowadays international interactions on behalf of the UK are handled by Scotland, whom America is far more familiar with. Naturally, Wales isn't entirely sure if he can entrust America with watching over Sealand.

He clearly concludes that it can't be too risky, because he says, 'Not too long, alright? And both of you keep your phones on.'

'Yeah, yeah,' Sealand groans, sounding bored. 'Thanks, Wales.' He turns and swings the gate open, America following close behind.

'What was that about?' America asks as the two head off down the street.

'Wales worries a lot,' Sealand says.

'Yeah, but I mean… he seemed concerned about something, even before you asked if you could come with me.'

Sealand sighs. 'Yeah. Isn't it obvious? You don't believe England is dead. I don't believe England is dead. He and Scotland are probably scared if we start hanging out we're gonna like… form some team or whatever. Like it's a conspiracy theory or some silly legend or whatever. You know, like those stupid videos on YouTube where they post really cheesy fake footage of ghost sightings for people who actually fall for stuff like that.'

'Yeah,' America says, laughing nervously. He decides not to mention that he's a big fan of videos like that, and is quite glad that this is a part of his personal life these fae Sealand keeps talking about haven't snitched on him about. 'So, uh? What do you wanna do, man? I mean, as much as I wanna find England, you said it yourself: there's not a lot we can figure out right now, and basically nothing we can do until we know more.'

Sealand shrugs. 'My main goal for now was telling you, and getting you to believe me. I mean… you're like, super important. You're really powerful and stuff. Plus, you weren't like the others. You hadn't actually given up on England. I figured if I had you on my side, I could get all those other jerks to listen as well.'

America nods. 'Sounds like a pretty solid plan. And yeah, I'm totally onboard now. It's just… wow.' He takes a deep breath. 'I don't even know how long it will take for it to properly settle in. This is huge. Listen… I'm sorry about before.'

America is keenly aware of how little he apologises to people, and deep down, he knows it's wrong. He knows how brash and insensitive he can be. Once again, he thinks about how much he's changed since England disappeared. He started admitting he cared. He stopped being so childish and handled his disagreement with Scotland maturely. He's taking Sealand's words seriously, like he never chose to do with England.

Sealand looks happy, so America supposes he has definitely done some good today.

'So, are you guys not going out tonight?' he asks.

Sealand's smile is replaced with a wistful look. 'No,' he says gloomily, casting a saddened glance at a pumpkin on a nearby doorstep. 'Scotland and Wales have been super busy with the funeral arrangements and a bunch of paperwork to do with all the other countries coming. It's been really boring these last few days. Kind of wish I hadn't come to stay.'

'But… dude. It's Halloween. Don't you wanna go trick or treating?' America feels mortified at the mere thought of missing out.

'I can't,' Sealand mutters. 'I even said I could probably go by myself, but Wales said no. Like I said, he worries a lot.'

America thinks about the tradition he and England held for several years, where they'd put aside their differences and engage in a competition to see who could scare the other more. England usually won. America has a certain fondness for Halloween, and he knows England did as well.

'So come with me,' he says suddenly. 'If you're supposed to have an adult with you, you could totally tag along.'

Sealand stares at him. 'You're going trick or treating?'

'Yeah, dude. Got my costume and everything. I love Halloween.'

Sealand is confused. 'But you're a grown up.'

'And?'

'I thought grown ups don't like Halloween.'

'You're never too old for Halloween, man. Look at England.'

Now, Sealand seems even more surprised. 'He liked it too?'

'Hell yeah. We used to prank each other each year. Come on, you can't say no to all that free candy. Plus, seeing all the costumes is so awesome-'

'I don't have a costume,' Sealand murmurs, dismayed.

'So let's go get one before the stores close,' America says brightly.

Excitement is beginning to brim in Sealand's eyes. It reminds America a little of the thrilled look in England's eyes each year on Halloween when they held their little game. Before he can get out another word, his throat constricts slightly. He swallows quickly and grins.

'What are we waiting for?' he says. 'So much candy awaits us.'

Sealand gives a giggle of delight and skips off ahead of him. America stares ahead for a few seconds, all those past Halloweens flashing briefly through his mind, before he shakes his head and follows his companion.


It is never truly silent. Even when he hears no noise at all, somehow it all feels so loud, crashing down on his head and digging through his skin,

In the first week after the wolves killed a part of him, he stays in his new room. Aside from the door opening to bring food and take empty plates away, he is undisturbed. He daren't starve himself again, not like he did during that month in the cell when he was continuously offered cupcakes. He's not sure why he accepts the food now; after all, each new meal could just as easily be tainted like the cupcakes were. Perhaps he is simply afraid of feeling that awful ache of starvation in his stomach again. Perhaps the thought of that is more daunting than the possibility of the poison burning his insides again.

But the food is fine. It's generally simple, but it tastes good. None of it seems to have any menacing substance within.

The door does not stay locked. He hears it being unlocked after the second day, and wonders why. He supposes he already knows the answer. He won't run. The mere thought of even trying terrifies and exhausts him. They would simply catch him, or else they wouldn't have risked unlocking it in the first place. He hears their voices sometimes, somewhere downstairs. He can't make out what they're saying, and he doesn't really want to know. If he hears whatever they're planning next, he'll only agonise over trying to prevent it, and he knows any attempts to do so will be hopeless.

If he were to run, he'd have nowhere to go. He knows that. He doesn't know how to get home. He doesn't know if he even could. Perhaps this will be his new reality from now on. Maybe that's why no one can hear his voice when he calls- he's not meant to find a way home.

He still calls out in his head every night, but he doesn't sound desperate and he no longer screams. The words are practiced and robotic, and they don't sound like him. It's fitting, however, because nothing about him feels like him anymore. He awakens each morning, surprised to find that this is his body. It feels both heavy and weightless at the same time, like he's sinking down to the bottom of the river, or simply floating in the depth's darkness, adrift and lost in a void of nothingness. He supposes he probably couldn't run if he tried. The weight pressing down on him would topple him over and push him to the ground, and the light feeling in his head would spin his whole world out of control and before he could take a step, he'd likely slip back into a dizzying dream.

This is his life now. And he knows he can't fight it, not how he would try to before all this happened to him. He's not sure if he'll ever be able to fight back again, not when everything is hazy and meaningless and most days he can barely even open his eyes, let alone move his body.

In the second week, he dreams of his other form again. He is not running for his life anymore, but is racing through a forest like he did in his youth, so many centuries ago. There is no broken city, and no wolves. He can hear no howling or snarling. In the dream, there is only silence, and it is peaceful. He feels strength in his muscles and speed in his steps. When he wakes, he is already climbing out of bed and heading for the door before he can even register what he is doing.

There is no one waiting in the hallway outside his door, and opposite his room is a bathroom. He runs a deep bath and climbs in, letting the water submerge him completely, save for his face. In another life, before all this, he would have likely berated himself on hygiene, and how he should have done this sooner. He closes his eyes and presses himself further down, allowing the water to wash over his face as well. In that moment of darkness and silence, he imagines himself in the river. He imagines opening his eyes to see the bright lights of the fireworks and maybe even the stars. He imagines swimming up and reaching the surface, hearing the sounds of his people cheering and laughing as they gaze up at the sky.

He imagines finding his brothers and telling them what has happened. In the world inside his head, there is no scorn, no mockery, no cruelty. He imagines their hands pulling him in close, and their touches do not hurt. He imagines the other nations coming to him, speaking words of comfort. There is no trick. They are not here to cause pain. They care.

He imagines America teasing him, because he wouldn't be America without his jokes. And that's all they are- jokes. They don't sting, and he knows they don't mean anything. He imagines America holding his arms out, and in his mind, where he can clearly see those two blue eyes, he knows these arms are truly safe.

When he lifts his head and opens his eyes, he sees only the tiles of the small, white room.


My Hetalia blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com

The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com [slash] ash - song

God I love your reviews, guys. You people are so amazing. You will never know how grateful I am. Idk if I can ever say that enough.

I hope America wasn't too much of a dick. Like he thinks, it is very difficult to believe in something when your entire brain is telling you it's impossible. I feel I owe you guys some serious USUK too, because look how far we've gotten. Like I said before tho, England is still in a very bad place mentally. He and America are doing better in the present day events. At least, a lot better than they've been over several previous chapters.

Hey so remember how in the last chapter I was all like, 'I have a new laptop and I'm totally gonna draw some Hetalia fanart!' Guess what? I drew art. For a completely different fandom. On a completely different blog. Nailed it. I'm hella anxious about posting art on my Hetalia blog tbh. Outright scared, actually. I literally only ever reblog on there.

Anyway, change of tone in the next chapter, hopefully. I haven't written it yet, but I know what I want to write. I want England to get some justice just as much as you guys do and we've gotta get there somehow.

I didn't ramble as much in my A/Ns this time (still quite a bit, but nowhere near as much as last time lmao), which proves that I've officially reached a point of exhaustion where I'm too tired to spout crap. It's 3am. I should go to bed.

Thanks for reading, and remember to review!