Oh my god, I'm actually back. I'm just as shocked as you.

Okay, I've gotta level with you guys. I owe you that. I've been having some serious insecurities about this story, and about my method of writing in general. They've been around for a while now, especially since around September. I've dealt with said problems by just diving into new stories. I've procrastinated Ash Song to the max, then struggled with it massively when I finally did pluck up the courage to start writing it again.

It's ironic, because your response to the last chapter (which was like two and a half months ago. Christ, I'm a wreck) was simply incredible. I'm serious. Not only were the comments amazing and uplifting, but some of y'all even sent supportive messages on my blog about when I mentioned getting cold feet. Honestly, all of that was the reason I finally picked myself up.

My main issue is the length. I love writing long fics. It's kinda my thing. That's probably obvious by now. I mean, I've written short stories too, but I've found that long fics are my main passion. I'm probably not gonna change that, cuz that would be like changing me. And that's not an easy feat. Believe me, I've tried. The thing is, though, I've noticed a lot of other people who read/write fanfics tend to prefer shorter stories. This is simply something I've personally observed. I could be wrong, but it's been preying on my mind a lot. Ash Song was always going to be a long fic. I just didn't know how long.

Next big problem: how regularly I update. And here's the biggest irony of them all: I've discovered recently that there's actually a really good chance that I may be dyslexic. Aside from that, I'm taking an Access to HE course, which is basically the equivalent of two years of A Levels packed into one year. And to those unfamiliar with the British education system, that basically means a lot of hysterical breakdowns at three in the morning, especially if you have shit mental health. I'm not sure if shorter chapters might be the answer. I've grown quite fond of posting big updates, but I might resort to it.

Another, minor issue: I bloody love canonverse. Like, so much. I can enjoy Cardverse or human AUs, don't get me wrong, but canonverse will always be my favourite. And that one really is far less popular than the AUs. So, to put it simply, I'm hesitant about posting future fics. I'm scared that they won't seem appealing, or whatever. I know this probably sounds stupid.

But, like I always say, I'm not giving up on this fic. It's still my main project. It still gives me purpose. And, despite all the shit I feel about it, I'm still passionate about writing it. I think those are good key ingredients to keep going.

So, um... warnings? A little trickle of angst here and there, but I've done far worse in the past. This might actually be more wholesome than you're used to seeing from me.

Sorry for all the rambling. I've kinda be needing to vent though.

Allons-y!


Twenty-Five

Hide Away

True to his world, America makes sure to give Sealand a very big hug.

He arrives at the house in Hampstead around eight o'clock, just as three of the brothers are eating dinner. Wales is the one who answers the door, and his smile does seem genuine and welcoming. He invites America inside immediately, and the latter is privately both relieved and disappointed respectively to see that Scotland and England aren't present in the dining room.

'Scotland's upstairs. He's not ready to be walking around just yet,' Wales explains as America follows him into the room.

'Probably is,' Ireland mutters, his mouth full of food. 'Yeh're just fussing too much. Yeh should let him try to get up and walk, I reckon.'

Wales rolls his eyes, and America focuses his attention on Sealand, who is already sliding off his chair to come and greet America.

''Sup, little dude,' America says with a grin, opening his arms out for the child.

Sealand punches him playfully first, before accepting the hug. 'Not much. It's so boring round here.'

'It can't be that bad. Plus, all the other countries are gonna be showing up soon. This'll be anything but boring.'

'Even sooner than you think,' Wales puts in. 'The meeting's scheduled for Friday.'

America is surprised. 'But that's like… three days from now.'

'Aye,' Ireland says gruffly. 'Wales had some bright idea to phone up the world leaders eventually, since a lot of the nations weren't listening. He even got the PM to beg them. If anyone can make all these nations show up, it's their bosses. And the G8's been bugging everyone, nonstop. And China. From what I can see, he's been pretty helpful too.'

'Yeah?'

Ireland looks a little amused now. 'England took over the call when I was talking to him yesterday. Probably gave the poor old bloke a heart attack. I joked about how England could make surprise calls to people to announce his return, but I didn't think he'd actually do it. He's full of surprises, that one.'

Beside him, Sealand tenses ever so slightly at the mention of England, but when America glances down at him, the micronation does seem to find this a little funny. He suppresses a small smile then tugs on America's sleeve. 'Come on. Let's go watch a movie.'

'Sealand,' Wales scolds. 'You haven't finished your supper.'

While the two of them begin to bicker, Ireland looks at America and says, 'England's upstairs too, but he's probably asleep. He's on some pills to calm his nerves and they can really knock him out. Not that I'd say his nerves are as big an issue now. He's had some weird confidence boost, actually. I think he's feeling a tad better now he's back in his own country.' He pauses, then hastily adds, 'Not that I'm saying that being in your country was bad for him or anything.'

'I know what you mean,' America replies, waving him off. 'Hey, you know if any of the others are coming before the meeting?'

'Germany's arriving tomorrow. Japan too, I think. I expect a few of 'em will show up over the next couple of days.'

Sealand is already back in his seat, arms folded in a strop. He sulkily mutters something about not being hungry, which prompts Wales to ask America if he's had anything to eat.

'I had something on the way here, but thanks. Do you think England will mind if I go and say hey?'

Wales and Ireland glance at each other. 'Well,' Ireland says, 'like I said, he could be asleep. But if he isn't, well…'

'We can't ever predict how he'll be,' Wales adds. 'We don't know when he's going to hallucinate, and when he isn't. I think it's worth a shot. He'll be happy to see you- as long as he does know it's you.'

'Plus, he's dealing with it all a lot better from what he can see,' Ireland says. He sounds gladdened by this, but he frowns as he says it. Wales looks rather uneasy too, and America wonders if they're perhaps sugar-coating it to make him feel better. He thanks them, shoots Sealand a wink as the child glares as his plate, then heads out the room and up the stairs.

Scotland will be in one of the spare rooms, although it's not as if America's planning on paying him a visit. The whole incident with Scotland's fall and the blame being thrown at America may be over, but things are still going to be incredibly awkward between them. America isn't bitter- at least, he hopes he can try not to be resentful in any way- but it's all still very fresh. He understands why Scotland blamed him, but he doubts they're immediately going to make up over it. He at least knows that Scotland feels remorseful about the whole thing. They've absolved their issues in the past- granted, said issues weren't do with the accusation of attempted murder- but they did learn to respect each other's views on England.

Another time, they'll talk about it. But neither of them are ready just yet.

America reaches England's room and knocks gently on the door, knowing that one of his usual boisterous entrances will not be appreciated. 'Hey, Iggy? You awake? It's me, dude. Just got here.'

There's silence for a few seconds, and America assumes that the other nation must be asleep. Then England's voice says, 'Come in.'

England looks very drowsy when America enters the room cautiously, but it's clear that he hasn't just awoken. A Stephen King novel is in his hands and he is propped up by pillows, looking tired but a little healthier in the dim light. The large bags under his eyes from a few days before have gone, and now only his droopy eyelids suggest how exhausted he is. America is reminded once again of how thin England has become, although he imagines England is probably starting to take better care of himself now he's trying to recover.

'Man, you look beat,' America says, a little awkwardly. 'You should give the book a rest. Give yourself a rest too.'

England smiles faintly. His eyes aren't wide in alarm and aside from one minor sharp intake of breath when America had appeared, his breathing seems regular and controlled. He's not hallucinating, which is something.

'I thought I'd stay awake t… to receive you,' he says, placing the book on his bedside table and pushing the bed covers off himself. He slides out of bed and gets to his feet, and America feels an instinctive pull, urging him to wrap England up in a big hug. America has always loved hugs. They're comforting, assuring. It's a natural greeting for him. But this isn't going to work the way it did with Sealand.

England's never been as keen on hugging, even before whatever abuse he suffered in the Otherworld. That shaky, desperate hug in the hospital corridor was a one-time thing, and America knows this. Accepting this doesn't make him feel any better. Holding him in that corridor, carrying him back to the other nations, hell, even bringing him back from that bar just two days after he first saw England again- these moments made it all feel more real than he could ever hope for. That England really was back, in the flesh, that he wouldn't disappear into a puff of smoke.

It's a comfort to America, the younger nation realises. Far more so than it will ever be to England.

'How was your trip?' England is asking softly, and America snaps out of his thoughts.

'Fine, thanks. I heard some of the others are gonna be showing up pretty soon too. And the meeting's in like three days. You, uh… you excited?'

'I'm not sure excited's the word,' England admits. 'But I am glad, I think. Everyone should k… know about this. Getting them to believe me is going to be the tricky part.'

His stammer's not as bad before, America thinks, barely resisting a relieved smile. He almost points it out, then remembers what Canada might say about that sort of thing. His brother would tell him to be tactful and considerate, and that pointing something like that out might make someone like England overly conscious of it.

'Us,' he blurts out, and England blinks at him. 'Getting them to believe us. You've got a team backing you up, Iggy. We'll help tell the whole story. Can't promise I won't make it sound super dramatic, though. You're like the hero. And Sealand.' He pauses. 'And I'm… wow. Maybe the kid's right. Maybe I am a sidekick-'

He breaks off when England steps forward and wraps his arms around him. The bigger nation freezes, suddenly very much aware of England's smaller form against his own, entirely here by his own choice with no coercion needed. This isn't like any hug someone has forced England into, and this isn't like the one in the hospital corridor either.

England isn't shaking, not like he has been every other time he and America have come into contact. He's not cold or breathing heavily. He's not in any obvious distress. He simply stands where he is, warm and still, face buried against America's shoulder. He doesn't quiver or pull away when America's arms close around him.

Strangely, America feels shaky instead. The thought, no, the reality of England seeking a hug is dizzying and unreal. After everything, after these last few weeks of trouble and mayhem and fear- this seems as if it must only be a dream. But here he is, in America's embrace; alive, safe, here. Like those five years of absence were the dream instead.

'Ireland's wrong. About me feeling b… better for being back here,' England says, his voice muffled.

'You heard that?'

'Yeah. It's not like that at all. It should be the opposite, really.' England sighs. 'M… my country's where all the bad things happened. That I can r-remember so far. Right here in London.'

'This house?'

'No. Somewhere else.' After this, they are silent for a few moments.

'Hey, Iggy?' America murmurs finally, heat washing through his body and pressing against his cheeks. He feels lightheaded. 'I'm not sure if I ever properly said it, but… I'm really glad you're back.'

'Me too,' England whispers. His grip tightens.


The time structure of England's dreams is somewhat of a mystery. On some nights, the returning memories can span over several weeks, leaving him quite disoriented when he wakes up. Other nights, only singular memories will return to him, piece by piece. He doesn't need to just wait for night, anyway. This medication the doctors recommended has him seeking sleep even more so than he did in the hospital. His brothers don't mind; in fact, he gets the feeling they prefer it when he confines himself to his bedroom and sleeps for huge portions of the day. This way, as far as they're concerned, he is at least accounted for. They won't lose sight of him like this.

On the morning after America arrives, England awakens from what seems to have been two months' worth of memories. This is becoming less and less unusual, and he's noticing a pattern; the more eventful the memory, the more likely it is going to stand out and occupy his dreams. It's hard to believe that anything about the Otherworld could be considered mundane, and yet… the memories of all those empty days, devoid of contact with others or any traumatic experiences, seem to all blend together into countless days, weeks, months of remembrance.

Allen liked his scuffles. From what England can tell, he was made to fight with the other America at least once a week. Never with any weapons; he doubts the other nations trusted him enough for that. That's fair- no, smart. That was a good call on their part. England knows what he would have done if he had a weapon.

Oliver was clearly more fixated on the smaller, subtler games. A brief and fleeting memory, likely triggered by last's night's pudding (a sponge cake that was brought up to him by Wales), has just returned to him with bright and painful vividness.

The other England had called him to the kitchen table, and placed two very small cupcakes in front of him. One of them, he had eagerly informed England, was good and yummy. The other had apparently gone bad, which was his casual way of saying that he'd laced it with cyanide, ricin or some other horrific poison that could easily kill a human and badly hurt a nation. Oliver had 'forgotten' which one was which, and wouldn't England be an absolute dear and test one of them for him? All he had to do was pick one.

England had taken both of them, knowing full well that both of them were bad. Without even thinking it through, he had enjoyed the momentary look of genuine horror on Oliver's face as he had he had shoved one after the other into his mouth, not taking his eyes off his counterpart. This was the first time he'd ever seen Oliver lose control over anything, and something about it delighted him. He'd been afraid, but the churning rage in his stomach had provided some much-needed glory for him when Oliver had begun to panic. Allen and Francois had rushed in when Oliver started yelling, and the memory had trailed off as the pain stirred in his throat and sent waves of agony through his stomach.

Clearly, he survived. He survived everything in that world. After all, they didn't seem to want him dead. They acted as if they couldn't afford to let him die.

They needed me for something, England thinks. Something important. Maybe that's why they're not finished with me. They still need me.

From his estimations, he may have roughly six months' worth of memory back now. Maybe more, maybe less. A tenth of all his time spent there.

It's not enough, he decides. I need more. I need all five years back. The thought of it all returning was once a threat, something daunting and unwanted. The fear of something truly terrible coming back to him, like the incident with the wolves, had drowned out everything else.

Now, some strange, impulsive part of him yearns for memories off another proper confrontation with them, beyond those stupid little games they make him play. Something that perhaps gave him the chance he needed, to rise up and fight back. Something that will, today, give him the answers he needs. About why they are the way they, what made them this way, and what went wrong in their world. About all the terrible things they did to him, and whether he'll ever find any justice, if he hasn't already done so and forgotten about it.

About whatever it was he did to them.

They're waiting to repay you for all that you gave them. He clenches the note in his hands and stares down at the words again. No matter how many times he looks at it, it doesn't spark any understanding or memories about it inside his head. The implication is that he did something for them. But it wouldn't be something nice. Realistically, this note sounds a lot more like a threat, suggesting that he did seek to gain some kind of justice, and now they want… what? Revenge? Is that another reason for why they're not finished with him?

England stares at his bedroom door, wondering if he should go downstairs and try asking Sealand. He can hear the micronation and America downstairs, laughing and cheering at some video game they're playing. America, being America, hadn't thought to pre-book at a hotel, which was just as well. Last night, Ireland and Wales had both invited America to stay here, provided he was comfortable with the couch.

Sealand might feel more at ease if America is by his side. Perhaps he won't mind if England joins them. And maybe America will like it. Is it wishful thinking, to wonder if America is staying here for some reason other than free accommodation?

I'm really glad you're back. America's words echo in his head. They sound sincere- as sincere as England's hug had been. He'd truly wanted to do it. It had only been a few days since he'd seen America, but that wasn't counting the weeks' worth of time inside England's head, returning to him during every sleep. With his fear now relatively under control, England is free to accept something about himself: he's seeking out comfort, even in those whose presence cause him the most problems. All he can think about are those lonely months in the Otherworld, wishing to see everyone again. Wishing to be in their arms. Wishing to feel safe.

That hug had been… therapeutic. Cathartic, almost. When America had told him that he wouldn't be alone on the day of the meeting, something inside of him had broken. But it hadn't been bad, or painful. Before he knew it, he was reaching out. There had been no chills on his skin, no dizzying flashes in his vision. His paranoia at the thought of America pushing him away (not cruelly, but in his usual joking fashion) had still been there to some extent, but part of him knew that after everything, America wouldn't do something like that now. England had simply closed his eyes and felt a far calmer warmth than the angry heat spreading through him, and when America had reciprocated the hug, he hadn't felt trapped. Not even a little bit.

Overcoming his fear of Allen- or at least, managing it, seizing control of it- means that he can be stronger. Braver. That was more than just a hug. That was a victory. He wonders briefly if it meant anything as significant as that to America too. Probably not, but it's nothing to be bitter over. To his knowledge, America had no demons to conquer in that moment.

Despite all his reasoning, England makes no move to leave the room. He stays exactly where he is, simply listening. America and Sealand sound quite happy down there; the house is lively, warm, comforting. So different from his prison in the Otherworld.

When he turns back to the bed, it somehow looks less inviting than before.


England spends the next day longing to leave his room properly, to be downstairs with the others. It begins to feel shameful, like he's degraded himself to something pathetic and in need of comfort, something Allen would mock him for if he could see him now. And he just might be able to, had England not removed or covered anything in his room that casts a reflection. He's worried the other nations might attempt to make contact again, or worse. There could be another attack like the one on Scotland, and bizarrely this eventually leads to England going to one person in particular.

It is the night before the meeting, which is scheduled mid afternoon tomorrow. Aside from brief passes in hallways and occasional knocks on the door to see if he is okay and if he wants to come downstairs, England hasn't had much contact with the others staying here. Everyone must be asleep now, as they're getting up early to prepare for the meeting. He slips out of his room as quietly as he can and heads down the landing to one of the spare bedrooms.

He knocks on the door three times before a groggy voice says, 'W… what? Who's that? What time is it?'

'Quite late,' England says. 'May I come in?'

'En… England? The hell?'

'Good to see you too,' England mutters, pushing the door open. He flicks the light switch on and a few feet away, Scotland begins blinking furiously. Underneath his bed covers, it's hard to tell that anything's wrong with him at all, but England knows that the casts around his arm and leg are still there.

'Jesus,' he says, squinting at his brother. 'It's too bright. What is it? What's wrong? Has something happened?'

'Why would I come to y… you if something had?' England asks. He doesn't mean for it to sound so unkind, but a part of him doesn't mind when it does.

Scotland doesn't get offended. He sighs deeply and bows his head. 'Yeah. I suppose I wouldn't be much use, like this.' He looks up at England again. 'Yeh can't blame me for askin', though. We haven't talked in days. I figured yeh wanted to keep it that way.'

'So did I.' England pulls up a chair near a chest of draws and tentatively takes a seat. He's still not entirely sure why he's come here, to Scotland of all people. 'The thing with you and America is over. So… that's something, I s… suppose. Did Wales t-tell you he's here?'

'I'd have to be a bit deaf not to notice,' Scotland chuckles. 'Haven't heard much of yeh, though. Yeh weren't down there with him?'

'No,' England says quietly.

Scotland watches him for a second, then says, 'It's nothing to be ashamed of. Yeh can't help being scared-'

'That had nothing to do with it,' England says. 'Not really.'

His brother hesitates, carefully thinking over his next words. 'Ireland and Wales have, uh… mentioned a coupla things to me. About yeh.'

Of course. As if the three of them talking behind his back is any kind of surprise by this point.

'They're worried about yeh,' Scotland continues.

'What's new?' England rolls his eyes.

Scotland peers closely at him. 'They reckon yeh've changed a bit. And I think I can see it too. They find it a little… concerning.'

'They don't like that I'm no longer t… terrified of everything?' England responds, but he isn't surprised about this, either. He's noticed the uncomfortable looks his brothers have been shooting at him over the last few days when he is actually spending time with them.

'England, this new confidence of yers is good, alright. It's progressive. No one's disputing that. It's more the… aggression that's bothering them.'

This part does catch England off-guard. 'How have I been aggressive?' he retorts, feeling hot. He won't let himself get angry, however. He won't prove Scotland's point. 'I've kept to myself. I haven't argued w… with anyone in d-days. I'm-'

'Not to us,' Scotland says quickly. 'Aggression was the wrong word. I'm sorry. What I meant was… yeh're getting bolder. And it's worrying. Yeh're acting like yeh… yeh want a fight. Like yeh just can't wait for one of those other nations to show up again. Wales told me about how yeh were ready to take on that bastard in the mirror when he appeared in that mirror back in the hospital.' Scotland sighs again, his face pained. 'Listen. Yeh have to be careful, okay? Don't get reckless now.'

'What? You'd prefer it if I just cowered away instead?' Stay calm. Don't get angry. Save your rage for them, even if he thinks you're wrong to do that. 'Well tough shit. I've had e… enough of all that.' England gets to his feet, annoyed not only at Scotland, but at how his legs are shaking slightly, and his voice is starting to quiver more again.

'Yet yeh've hiding away in yer room, haven't yeh? What purpose does that serve?'

'That's different,' England says furiously. But he knows it isn't. Not completely.

'England,' Scotland says seriously. 'We want those bastards to pay, alright? We want that for yeh. Yeh deserve it. And I'd like them to pay for pushing me, for scaring Sealand, for ever trying to mess with or hurt anyone in our world. They've caused enough damage.' He pauses. 'But all of that just proves how dangerous they are. So-'

'I know just how b-bloody dangerous they are. A lot more so than the rest of you ever will,' England snaps. He knows it's a little unfair to suggest that Scotland is just as oblivious as the others, considering how he was almost killed by Allen, but England is on a roll now. 'If you even knew half the things th… they did to me…'

'We would,' Scotland says heavily, 'if yeh told us.'

England shakes his head; not dismissively, but simply to try and refocus, to clear his head from all these outraged thoughts. 'I survived them before,' he says finally. 'And I shall do again.' His own words calm him slightly, even if he knows deep down that he survived them because they wanted him to. 'They won't ever t… take me again. And I want them to know that. I w-want them to know I don't belong to them.'

Scotland is quiet for a short while, then he gives a small nod. '… Fair enough. Just… please don't antagonise them. Don't provoke them to attack again.'

Suddenly, England is painfully aware of the world meeting in less than twenty-four hours, and of all the nations that have apparently promised to come. 'I won't,' he says, frowning. 'I wouldn't d… deliberately put them in danger. You know that.'

'Aye,' Scotland says, his voice a little gentler. 'Likely won't make a difference, anyway. These bastards seem to attack whenever they feel like it, regardless of whether they've been pissed off.'

England looks down at his feet, suddenly a little nervous. Despite it all, the urge to reach out in some way to those around him is resurfacing, and he realises that this may well be why he came to see Scotland this evening. 'I still get scared, you know,' he mumbles. 'Not as m… much as before. I just… control it better.'

Scotland gives a small smile. 'That's good. Are yeh nervous about tomorrow.'

England still doesn't quite understand why he's opening up to his brother like this, or why he can't seem to stop, and he decides not to lie. 'I think I might be,' he admits. 'I don't know. I've never been… very good with most nations. And I don't know w-what they'll think of this.' What they'll think of me. Whether my return will even matter to them. Whether those who always hated me will be disappointed. Whether those few who did care will be angry at me.

'It'll all work out,' Scotland reasons. 'One way or another. Yeh needn't worry yerself about that. Yeh won't be alone.'

Like what America said. England smiles slightly.

'So… is it true, what yeh said? These other nations think yeh belong to them?'

England takes his seat again. 'Yes. I think that's why you were attacked. B-because…'

'I hurt yeh,' Scotland murmurs. 'That's what he said to me, before he pushed me.'

'The way they see it,' England says darkly, 'I belong to them, t-to do as they please. Only they g… get to hurt me. It wasn't your right.'

Scotland blinks. 'Sick monsters,' he hisses, shifting angrily under his bedcovers. The movement seems to cause him no discomfort at all, and England dully notes that perhaps Wales should allow Scotland to start walking around again; his wounds are clearly healing well.

There is a bit of an awkward silence after that, as they are both probably thinking about the reason England had been hurt. This whole business with America has been resolved, but other resentments still linger.

England's mind flashes briefly to that cold, dark morning in the park, where he'd completely lost all hope. Ireland has said something, about how all was not as it seemed with regards to Scotland and Wales.

Just because yeh were pronounced dead, that doesn't mean that they gave up on yeh. It doesn't mean anyone did. Yeh ask Wales about it when we get back. Yeh talk to him 'n Scotland so yeh hear it straight from them.

But he never did. He'd been so distracted by everything else. And, sitting here, he can't quite bring himself to ask now. He's not sure why. Perhaps it's because he's as bitter as everyone always used to say he was, and he isn't ready to listen and forgive. Or maybe it's simply because he knows it will be a long and difficult conversation, and it's already very late. They both have enough to worry about tomorrow.

'I should go,' he says abruptly, getting to his feet again. 'It will b… be a long day tomorrow.'

'Aye. That's wise,' Scotland replies. He still looks quite tired, and England is sure he must do as well.

He leaves the room and heads back along the darkened landing towards his own, unsure of whether things between him and Scotland have gotten better.

But he knows they certainly haven't gotten worse.


The zipper on Sealand's coat is stuck.

The micronation fidgets with it, clearly frustrated. He, England and America stand by the front door, almost ready to leave. Ireland and Wales are upstairs, helping to escort Scotland down the steps.

'You're using the wheelchair, or you're not coming,' Wales's voice snaps, somewhere above them. America snorts with laughter, and Sealand takes a break from his endeavour to let out a giggle. Even England smiles, although it freezes on his face when he and Sealand lock eyes. The child quickly looks back down at his coat again, and England almost offers to help. He's raised enough former colonies for helping them get dressed to become a second nature to him. But he stays where he is and says nothing.

Eventually, America seems to notice. 'Here, lemme,' he offers, bending down to help Sealand out.

Scotland looks absolutely furious as Ireland and Wales bring him to the bottom of the steps and help him into a wheelchair. 'We'll have to get yeh one of those chairs that go up and down stairs for old folks,' Ireland jokes.

Scotland sends a filthy look at his brother. 'Yeh're on very thin ice, Ireland. I'll be spry as a spring chicken come Christmas. Just yeh watch.'

England briefly wonders what will be happening at Christmas. In the past, he usually spent them in solitude, although over the last couple of centuries as the brothers' relationships have improved in some areas, they have often spent more time together over the holiday season.

Sealand, of course, is the exception. He seems to enjoy spending most Christmases with the Nordics.

The zipper appears to be fixed now. America straightens up and ruffles the child's hair affectionately. England continues to watch, deep in thought.

'Right. We should get going,' Wales announces, reaching out for the door handle.

'Wait,' England says. His stomach is churning, almost as intensely as it did before he began to start controlling his fear. All of a sudden, the reality seems to set in: that he is about to see the rest of the world again. Or at least, the ones who do show up. The thought scares him, more than he wants to admit. And aside from his nerves, he has just thought of an idea. 'I want to do something first.'

Ireland shares a glance with Scotland and Wales. 'What exactly…?'

'I just want to go somewhere,' England says. His mouth is dry. 'There's something I n… need to do.'

Wales frowns. 'England, we don't have a lot of time. This meeting-'

'It's fine, you can all g-go on ahead. I'll meet you there later.' He swallows, praying that he doesn't look as nervous as he feels. 'I'm not trying to run, I swear. Besides, they shouldn't s… see me straight away. They'll need preparation. Like Scotland wanted to g-give the G8, before the entity…' He trails off.

Ireland seems to wrestle with the idea. 'I mean… he has a point.'

Wales still looks quite troubled. 'But where do you want to go? Is it important? Can't it wait?'

It definitely could, but England knows he needs to stall somehow. It's too soon to take another dose of tablets, so he can't calm his nerves with that method. 'I'd rather do it now,' he says. 'I promise, I w… won't take too long.' He turns to Wales. 'Why don't you just come with me if you're so c… concerned about it?'

Wales blinks. 'Well… I suppose…'

'We'll head over t-to the meeting as soon as we're done,' England continues.

'I don't mind tagging along,' America suggests, completely unfazed by the situation.

'No, yeh'll need to be there from the start,' Scotland sighs. Much like Sealand and England, he and America aren't making eye contact if they can help it. 'Yeh're the world's leading nation. Yer voice will be listened to.'

Wales opens the door, and a cold gust of December wind greets the group. 'I'll go with him,' he says. 'We won't be long. Right?'

'Right,' England replies, and the twisting nerves in his stomach dull slightly. He nods gratefully at Wales and steps outside. His companion follows him, bidding a brief farewell to the others.

'What exactly do we need to do?' Wales asks as they head down the garden path and England pushes the gate open.

England thinks for a moment. If he tells Wales the complete truth, the elder will insist on doing this later. But it's on England's mind now, and something about it feels right. It might not fix anything, but it will be a good thing to do. He knows it.

'Something important,' he says. 'Something for Sealand.'


Without Wales around to stop him, Scotland enjoys a few short minutes of trying to stand on his own when they arrive at the place where the meeting will be held.

They're not the first people here; in fact, dedicated as ever, Germany has been here since mid-morning, preparing the room for everyone. As Ireland wheels Scotland in, he notices an unusually large number of places have been set for everyone.

'Didn't realise we were expecting so many people,' he notes, watching as Sealand runs in between rows of desks, trying to find his spot.

Germany looks quite satisfied as he comes to stand beside Scotland, observing all the work he's put in. 'I was rather surprised, too,' he agrees. 'Fortunately, the majority the nations did agree to come, despite any previous engagements they may have had. I'm sure classing this event as an emergency and negotiating with the countries' leaders personally helped.'

'This is good,' Ireland says, grinning. 'This is really good.'

'Can I sit next to America?' Sealand shouts from the other side of the room, waving at them as he does so.

'Sure, little dude!' America calls back.

Germany frowns, probably frustrated that the seating arrangement he has been working hard on all morning will be disrupted, but he says nothing.

'So, how exactly is this gonna work?' Ireland asks. 'Who's gonna open this up? Who's even gonna be talking?'

'Have either of you prepared any speeches?'

'Er…' Scotland and Ireland both glance at each other. 'We've, er, roughly discussed the main points and whatnot-'

'I think they were planning on just winging it,' America says with a smirk.

'Yeah, thanks, America,' Ireland says, glaring at the younger nation. 'As a matter of fact, we have been working on this. Scotland thinks he should do the talking on our part, and maybe England too, if he's willing. Can't really plan these things with him, to be honest, 'cause we'll never know how he'll be feeling in advance. He might wanna talk, he might not.'

'Where is England?' Germany asks. 'I haven't seen him or Wales.'

'They're off on some little mission,' Scotland mutters. 'Not sure what it is, but they won't miss this.'

'Right.' Germany glances at his watch. 'We've got about another half an hour before everyone is due to arrive. I suggest you open the speech, Scotland, and if you feel you need assistance, I am happy to weigh in. I image several members of the G8 might want to talk about what transpired in the States.'

He seems a little restless, which is unusual for Germany. Scotland supposes that Germany is rather stressed about the whole thing, and probably worried about what might happen. 'Look,' he says, 'I doubt this could possibly go as badly as that first G8 meeting did. With any luck, we'll have no interference. We'll just talk about what happened at the G8, the threat we've all learnt about, and with any luck England's presence will shock 'em enough to listen after they've all started yelling at us about how batshit they think we are.'

There are about a million and one ways Scotland believes this meeting could go wrong, and over half of them involve the horrific fear that something in the Otherworld might interrupt them, or worse, attack them. His own close experience with death is still fresh and vivid in his mind, and three weeks of recovery have done nothing to replaying in his mind over and over again, both while he is awake and in his dreams. The memory of the fall is the worst part, far more so than the strange barbed weapon used to attack him, or the impact he can't even remember from when he reached the ground.

His talk with England last night was quite insightful. No matter how guarded England keeps his own thoughts, Scotland can tell that England fears similar things, and probably a lot more than he does. He suspects that's another reason why England is anxious about seeing the other nations- after all, his younger brother is convinced that those in his presence are more likely to find themselves in danger.

'Are you sure you wanna open with all the stuff about the Otherworld,' America asks, looking incredibly doubtful.

'It's… heavy shit, I know,' Scotland says. 'But they've come because they think there's a serious emergency. They're gonna wanna know what that is, straight away. So yeah. I think we should get to the point pretty quickly. I'll try and ease them into it as best I can.'

'This would be so much easier if we had actual, conclusive proof of any of this,' Ireland grumbles. Scotland almost agrees with him, only he knows that the only conclusive proof would be something along the lines of another entity appearing. And that's the last thing anyone wants.

'We have England,' Scotland says. 'Might not be enough. But it's something.'


The countries of the world file into the room in a strange, sombre manner that America has never really seen before.

There have been plenty of mixed emotions over the many years these meeting have been held. All sorts of events have affected individual nations in some form or other, and brought a quiet severity to meetings in the past. But never have so many of them been so reserved or so serious, as if they've been informed that the world itself is coming to an end, and they have no energy left to panic.

There's so many of them too, far more than America was expecting. But then, this isn't the first time he has been shocked by the number of nations present for something so serious. The other major time, only two years before, is still something America thinks about a great deal.

Whatever awful emergency they believe is happening to all of them, it appears to really done the trick.

'They're going to be angry,' Canada whispers as he takes a seat beside America. 'A lot of them think this has something to do with terrorism; I heard them discussing it outside. They think they're all in danger.'

'They could be right,' America replies. He stares around to room, eyes trailing over all the familiar faces. They're all so oblivious, so unaware of what's really happening. The thought of bringing this news down on them is daunting.

'But they're not going to believe that. Not at first,' Canada says. 'When we tell them the truth, they'll think it's a joke. They'll be furious. They'll accuse us of wasting their time. They'll think this is some awful practical joke. We need to be ready for that.'

America nods. 'We will be.'

Over on their left, elevated on a slightly higher level than the other nations, Scotland clears his throat. 'I'd like to thank yeh all for coming on such short notice,' he begins. 'I appreciate how difficult this must have been for all of yeh, and I sincerely apologise for how quickly this meeting was called upon. I'm sure yer leaders have stressed to yeh how important this gathering is, even if they aren't actually aware of the situation.'

'And the situation in question is what, exactly?' China says immediately. Of course he'd be the first to speak. From what Ireland said, China briefly heard England's voice on the phone, and therefore knows that England is still alive- if he did truly believe what he heard.

'A potential emergency,' Scotland replies. 'Like we've been calling it. Just not the kind yeh all might expect. And I'm afraid that's where it's going to get complicated. This will be difficult for us to explain, and probably far more difficult for the rest of yeh to hear.'

'What happened to you?' Romano asks bluntly, ignoring the flustered look Italy sends him. 'You're in a wheelchair. How did that happen?'

It's common knowledge that wounds severe enough to incapacitate nations to this extent are usually only gained in wars. No wonder some of them are fixating on it, especially now it's been drawn to attention.

'That all ties in with it,' Scotland answers civilly. 'This wasn't an accident.'

'Were you attacked?'

'What happened?'

'Why here?'

Several shouts from around room go unanswered, but Scotland addresses the last one. 'Come again?'

'Why hold the meeting here?' Switzerland repeats. 'Of all places, why London?'

This is accompanied by a few uneasy whispers from quite a few nations. Not a single world meeting has been held in London since before England vanished. Even the smaller conferences over the last five years involving Scotland or Wales were generally held in their own countries for convenience.

'Because that's important too,' Scotland says, his voice a little fainter than before.

'Where are England and Wales?' Canada asks his brother quietly. 'Shouldn't they be here?'

'They're coming,' America says, his voice equally low. He, however, is growing a little uneasy about their absence. Surely whatever England needed to do should have been done by now? What if something has happened to them? What if the nations in the Otherworld have come for them, and no one here has any way of knowing that something has happened because they're all occupied with this meeting?

You should have gone with him, he thinks to himself. The rest of the G8 could manage without you.

'Scotland, what exactly is this all about?' Austria demands. 'Why are we here? What issue are we all supposedly facing? And what's so important about this being held here?'

Noticing his brother's struggle to find the right words, Ireland steps in. 'Something happened. Well… something to light, something… bad. Yeh see, Scotland was attacked by something. But this isn't some enemy yeh'd expect, or know anything about. This isn't a case of terrorism, like a lot of yeh may be fearing. But it is dangerous, and we feel that everyone should be made aware of this threat. No matter how impossible yeh're gonna find this.'

'A few people here are already aware of what happened, and can offer their voices to support what we're about to tell yeh,' Scotland cuts back in again. 'But we know yeh'll all struggle with this. No. Yeh'll all out-right dismiss it. And we would just ask that yeh try to hear us out-'

'Will you please get the point?' China snaps. He looks incredibly anxious about the whole thing.

'A lot of people here are scared, and rightfully so,' Hungary points out.

'These speedy arrangements made it sound like… like our lives were in danger,' Lithuania agrees. 'We all feared the worst.'

'Again, I apologise,' Scotland says seriously. 'The truth of the matter is, we don't even know if this whole thing does threaten the rest of the world. But that's a chance that it might, and we'd rather be safe than sorry. If yeh want to know the severity of the situation, this thing we're dealing with led me to getting pushed out into a seventy feet drop onto solid concrete.'

A few people gasp, and the rest are all visibly shaken.

'Who did this to you?' Switzerland asks.

Scotland takes a deep breath. 'Before that, there was an attack on several nations in this room. A creature tried to harm us.'

'What? An animal?'

'No. It wasn't any creature yeh'd know about.' He hesitates. 'It wasn't something yeh'd find in this world, typically.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'What he's trying to say is that it's more of an other-worldly type thing,' Ireland puts in.

The effect is instant, and America almost groans. Shouts of exasperation, anger and disbelief ring throughout the room, and he even spies a few nations smacking their own foreheads. He wonders if he should speak up yet and help out, but Scotland and Ireland did stress that they only want the rest of the G8 to step in once they've finished explaining it themselves, or if the rest of the nations become too unruly.

'We would appreciate it if you took this seriously,' the Netherlands says through gritted teeth. 'Considering how we all dropped our responsibilities to come here.'

'He is serious,' Scotland says. 'Completely. This isn't some game. The creature that attacked us was from another world.'

And then the uproar truly does begin. Countries from all corners begin shouting abuse in multiple languages, all blended together and incompressible as the volume rises drastically. Many nations even get to their feet, pushing their chairs back in anger, seemingly with every intention of storming out. On one side of America, Canada is glancing around in panic. On his other side, Sealand is covering his ears with his hands, glaring at all the enraged nations.

'SILENCE!' Germany roars abruptly, causing America and plenty of others to jump. 'BACK TO YOUR SEATS, NOW.'

Fortunately, despite the furious atmosphere and outraged indignation plastered on the faces of most of the people in the room, Germany's authority is recognised. In spiteful mumblings and angry whispers, those who got up to leave grudgingly take their seats again. America spots both Scotland and Ireland sighing in relief.

'Germany,' Austria calls out above the low chatter. 'You can't seriously allow them to play us like this. This is our time they're wasting.'

'What do yeh think happened to me, then?' Scotland shoots back.

Austria sniffs. 'Something with a far more reasonable explanation than this… preposterous suggestion. He turns back to Germany. 'Why aren't you saying something?'

'Hear them out,' Germany says shortly.

'What? You can't be serious! I would have thought you of all people would-'

'Hear. Them. Out,' Germany says again, practically spitting out the words.

'What are you suggesting exactly?' Norway intervenes, and America almost smiles. Norway was one of England's friends before the latter disappeared. A friend like him, someone with magic. He's sure to at least give them a chance.

Scotland seems gladdened by Norway's input too. 'It just so happens that one of us knows this other world. This other dimension. More so than having simply just observed it. He went there. Not by choice. And bad things happened. It is about as much proof as we can offer. Our word, and of course, his.'

'Another dimension?' Romano scoffs. 'Are you for real?'

'Who?' Poland laughs, as if the incredulousness of all of this has driven him to find some humour in it. 'Who went to this 'other dimension'?'

'What happened to them?' someone else snorts, equally amused, and more join in after that, as if the whole thing really is some big joke.

'What was it like?'

'When did this happen?'

'How long were they there for?'

'Five years,' a new voice calls out, sending waves of relief, concern and excitement through America. He turns, as does everyone else, to take in the sight of the newcomer.

England stands there in the open doorway, one hand resting on the familiar green hilt of something stuffed in his coat pocket, with Wales just behind him. His eyes flicker around the room for a moment, never resting on anyone for too long. From where America is sitting, he doesn't appear to be panicking or uneasy- at least, not visibly.

And somehow, disregarding all of the chaos that is sure to ensue, the only things America registers in that moment is how strong England suddenly seems, and that he has, in some way or another, gotten his knife back.


My Hetalia blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com

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

(One day, I might actually settle on a permanent url lmao.)

If you think my days of writing England making dramatic entrances are over then you are sorely mistaken.

Okay, I was planning on writing so much more content for this chapter, but it got too long. I even had to remove a roughly 2000 word long flashback scene at the beginning because I realised it would work best in the next chapter.

I promise there will be more world meeting stuff in the next chapter. And I'm shoving more and more USUK in too. I've been so deprived of canonverse fics about them recently. I would write my own, or at least try, but I think you've probably gathered that I don't usually write romance as a main focus. At least, for this fic, anyway. But I promise, more USUK is coming in Ash Song. And if I do ever pluck up the courage to post any of my other fics I have collected dust on my USB, there would be far more USUK for me to give.

In other news, at least the posting fanart thing is sorta working out for me. I'm quite proud of how that's all turning out. I can promise that however lacking this fic may be so far in USUK content, my art and all the other content I reblog on my aph blog makes up for it. I'm also like, so much more active on there.

Anyway, all that depressing shit and useless rambling aside, thank you so much to each and every person who follows/favourites/leaves kudos/comments/sends me words of encouragement on my blog. You have no idea how much all of this has been helping me. I think I should start replying to comments.

Thank you for reading, and remember to review!