I've got a normal personal blog now that's under my usual username at rezeren . tumblr . com. And I swear that that won't take you to the multifandom trashheap that a bunch of you discovered a few months ago, probably thinking it would be normal, personal blog. That one's under a new ridiculous username, so we can put that out of the way. You can message me on the new blog (I'm trying to get better at talking to people. I'm failing epically at Discord but Tumblr's going a little better), as I can't do private messaging on my Hetalia blog.
Okay is2g I will reply to all the comments. I knew vowing to do so would be a bad idea. I still haven't replied to comments from two chapters ago. I'm awful.
I'm also awful because there was meant to be some present, 1Pverse stuff in this chap too, but I had to cap it. Why does that make me awful? Because there was gonna be USUK. Or as close to USUK as America and England can get at this point in the story.
This chapter is entirely 2Pverse flashbacks, which I didn't want to take up an entire chapter writing. But hey, I guess we're here now. There isn't a lot of dialogue, I'm afraid, but there would be a lot less if England wasn't using his new favourite coping mechanism (you'll see). This chapter is mostly descriptive stuff. It's actually super ironic that I write heavy descriptions (I honestly wish I wouldn't) because I have a lot of trouble reading dense paragraphs. It's like the entire reason I got audio books for A Song of Ice and Fire.
Despite all this, though, I'm sorta glad I answered some questions in this chapter. I'm trying to reveal shit about the 2P world gradually, and this is basically just a big wallop of info.
So I've noticed I'm in a bit of a cycle. I draw obsessively when I'm feeling insecure about my writing and write obsessively when I'm feeling insecure about my art. And judging by how bad I felt after the last piece of art I posted (plus the fact that I ditched my blog for 2 weeks cuz I felt like absolute shit), it's the writing's turn rn lmao. I'm still planning on posting that other USUK fic soon. Just gotta write a bit more first.
But thank you! So much! For all the comments! I legit can't put how happy I am into words but honestly that whole dark period a few months ago? It kind of feels bizarre now. That I really was that worried about this fic. You guys have been nothing but supportive, and I can never thank you enough!
It's 2:30am in the UK right now, so technically it's the 24th now. But fuck it. Happy birthday, England! ... 2 and a half hours after your birthday ended.
Warnings: references to violence, but... no actual violence? At all? Tf? I feel like I must have written violence in here, it's a 2P chapter for god's sake. But no. No actual violence. Okay. Er, some sad depressing thoughts, and yeah, like I said, a lot of descriptive shit.
Allons-y!
Twenty-Seven
Brewing Storm
The nightmares are hard to bear, and yet the dreams are crueller still.
The nightmares are simple, straightforward, expected; they're of things that haven't happened but could, like the thought of Francois's hands all over his body, tugging and digging in meaningless frustration, or of Allen scraping out his eyes with a knife, or Oliver squeezing drops of England's blood on the white icing of a cupcake.
The fear of Francois is quelled slightly by a certain amount of security he seems to provide. Something about Francoise's presence is somewhat comforting, despite the disgust England feels whenever he looks at the dull, lifeless version of France. Francoise being here offers England some protection, as he is as intent as ever on keeping Allen and Oliver in line. While he never lifts a finger to stop the other two from having their way, England isn't made to participate in anything too dangerous. Despite his complete apathy, England's safety seems to matter enough.
Allen, Oliver and Francoise still ask him questions sometimes, especially pertaining to England's human name. In this world, they never refer to each other by their real names, and the fact that they only know their prisoner as 'England' clearly aggravates them. Outwardly, they never act irritated (or even particularly intrigued in Francois's case, despite all the questions). But England knows to look for the smaller details- such as the way Allen's fists clench ever so slightly when England refuses to answer the question; or how, while Oliver's mouth always remains frozen in a smile, his eyes flash and the skin underneath them twitches.
There is an irony is Francois being the most inquisitive of the three, something England had once pondered over in confusion. Francois, after all, has been asking questions since he arrived here. He'd been the first to completely drill England about the other world and his own counterpart after all, and the interest had disturbed England greatly- almost as much as that faint, empty lust in Francois's eyes. Everything about him reeks of hunger for everything, and yet he doesn't seem to care about anything. Eventually, the questions lose what little energy they ever had to begin with, and Francois's words become automated and bored, as if he's grown tired of it but it is still his job.
It's as if he remembers caring, if he ever did to begin with, and tries to compensate for the hole it's left behind. He must have cared, once. Before the big change happened, whatever it was. Back when Allen, Oliver and Francois were known as America, England and France, and they still gave a shit about the world around them.
Oliver likes to stoke the fires. He likes that they belong to him now, and forgets what it is like to is much the same. But he craves helplessness. Not in himself, but in whoever he chooses to play with. He likes to see what his toys do with themselves once he's torn them down.
England mulls over Francois's words a great deal as the weeks and months pass by. Francois must have his own story; a before and an after, an explanation for what happened, a reason for why he is the way he is. They're all filling in voids inside of them, one way or another. England fills in the gaps where he can, throwing guesses and theories into a small section of the ultimate enigma this world poses, like the mystery of these three nations is merely a small corner of a much larger jigsaw puzzle.
(In England's mind, the puzzle itself is very far from completion, with only the odd piece scattered here and there, and yet he knows what picture the pieces will make, what it will always come down to-)
(A raging fire, swallowing the whole world, until everything has turned to ash-)
But it seems that what he has seen so far is already ash. The world crumbled long before he came here, and what remains is simply remnants of what once was.
The nightmares fill in the blanks in his mind and help to create the picture. England has always dreamt of wars long since passed, but what he sees in his sleep is something else entirely. He dreams of the ground caving in, dragging buildings, trees and screaming people in their thousands into a churning abyss below; of fires tearing across lands and oceans alike, flames as high as the clouds and unnaturally bright and blinding; of monsters of ash and smoke, black as obsidian, emerging from the debris and spreading across the world until all traces of light and colour have faded into a desaturated dim.
He fits right in, he knows deep down. What remains of him is something different, something moulded by the flames, the knives and the wolves.
For he once crumbled too.
While the nightmares scare him, the dreams terrify him.
He knows not to fear for his life now, because they obviously need him alive. But instinct isn't prone to reason, and his gut now twists in alarm when he thinks of death. He almost misses the numbness at the start, the resignation to the end when he had been dying. Now, however, he dreads the possibility, unrealistic as it may be.
But it isn't death itself that he fears, his dreams tell him. It is being lost.
It is never finding home.
It is never feeling safe again.
His nightmares are of this new and twisted world. His dreams are of the world he was torn from.
He doesn't want to die without them. Without his loved ones. He wants to see them again. He wants them so badly that his dreams of them are the true night terrors. While they are a soft and gentle comfort, they tear into him in a way Allen's knives and the jaws of the wolves never could. They dangle hope in front of him, and waking up to reality while the loss washes over him is the most painful thing of all.
Eventually, he shuts out reason altogether, and his mind begins to shield him with fantasy he can entertain in his waking moments too. His dreams gradually manifest into real life, in the long drawn out moments of solitude he can get when he isn't being used as a punching bag.
At first, he imagines their hands. Touch is something painful now, reserved only for violence. It is the only physical contact he knows in this world, and so he tries to fix it as best he can. At night, he imagines fingers running gently through his hair, palms stroking his cheeks, arms wrapping him in an embrace. It never feels real enough, but perhaps that is best. If it felt real, the touch would only alarm and unsettle him.
The voices come next. His brothers whisper in soothing tones when he is half asleep, singing ancient lullabies in languages lost to the ages. His former colonies, what few friends he has, anyone he has ever considered family in one way or another, all chat away and joke around like everything is normal and he is really with them. The chatter of a world meeting, the laughter of children, the quiet hum of his old life, all return to him in a soothing haze of memories and daydreams, until the biting fear and the aching boredom alike are chased away.
'We are here,' they say when he is too tired and empty to fight away the notion that they probably never would. 'We've found you. We won't leave.'
If he's going to spend the rest of his life in this hellish dimension with these monsters, he won't let himself feel alone.
'It's nice, today,' one of the voices says. 'It's bright. And warm.'
England already knows this. He's been awake for thirty minutes or so, and hadn't been quite able to resist peeking out of the curtains when he'd noticed that the light streaming through the gaps was brighter than usual. It doesn't make him happy, not like he would have expected it to. He had once relished days where the weather was nice. They were perfect for gardening and walks in the countryside, and he could pretend there was more to his climate that dull white clouds and drizzling rain.
But this isn't like that. The world outside is as silent as ever, with no bustle of city life or birdsong. The bright light is making him queasy, as if the mere thought of sunny days is now mortifying. Upon discovering the change in weather, he had climbed back into bed almost immediately and pulled the covers over his head to block it out. He pictures how it was before, back in his old world. He thinks of the flowers in his garden, and how overgrown the bushes must be by now. He doubts anyone will be tending to it. He had left in the autumn, when most of the plants had withered and died. But it is the summer now, and surely his garden must have blossomed, unkept as it probably is.
'You're homesick,' the voice says.
No shit, England bites back, rolling over in his bed to face the wall. It makes no difference, with his head still submerged in the darkness under his covers.
'Oh, so now you're sulking?' the voice teases, and instead of shooting back a snappy retort in his head, England feels mildly pleased. He likes these conversations, or else he wouldn't be having them. Then again, he knows how self destructive his mind can be. If he didn't like them, he'd probably still force himself to play.
The tone of the voice is familiar and soothing. He wants it to keep talking.
'Come and have a look,' it continues chirpily, and England is tempted to do so. Perhaps the sunlight will soothe him, like it used to on those walks his used to take, over hills and through forests, to visit all those crumbling castles and small, winding streams. If he headed deep enough into the trees, he could always find himself in the company of the fae, with no people around to disturb him. Just how it had been before he had anyone else, when he was just a small child and the trees and rivers and hills were all he knew.
But the memories only sadden him. He missed them enough before he came to this world, before he realised he could lose so much more than just the peaceful isolation his youth offered.
'Since when do you get such nice weather?' the voice says, humour laced through each word.
It's not nice, England replies, squeezing his eyes shut. As if hiding under the bed covers and facing the other way wasn't enough already.
'It's nicer than it usually is here,' the voice reasons. 'Look- you can almost see the sun.'
Almost. Not quite. This world is still poison, even if something good might seep into it.
'Don't be such a grouch,' the voice urges him. 'Come on, England.'
England flinches at the sound of his name, and a chill rises up from his skin, omitting the warmth around him. He only ever hears it from them now; and they use it coldly, with no familiarity. But he won't ever give him any other name. They have no right to it.
The voice almost says sorry. England almost makes it. He wishes it would. He could make it happen. But it has to feel real, or he won't believe it. It won't sound like him if it doesn't feel real.
'Come on, Iggy,' the voice says finally, and something inside England caves in.
For the first time in a while, England can feel a warm breeze gently washing over his face.
The only warmth he has truly known in these last few months has been the water in the bathroom, for cleaning wounds and rinsing blood stains off his skin, and the false safety the soft bed covers offer him each night. There's always heat in the kitchen too, whenever he dares to enter- or whenever he's forced to, which is a far more regular occurrence. At night despite the blankets and the shelter, he still finds himself shivering. He sometimes feels as if he can't shake off the biting chill of that cell in the basement, as if his body is simply anticipating being thrown back in there.
Today, the warmth is gentle. Natural. Pressing on his skin gently from above. When he peers up, he has to squint. After months of relative darkness inside his room with curtains usually closed, the bright sky is almost painful to look at. It's just as white as ever, but the clouds seem to be thinner than the other times Allen has brought him out here for a brawl- something that has become rather systematic over time. It usually ends with England on the ground, what with Allen's bigger size and muscles. England's advantage, however, is that he now has a much stronger tolerance for pain. So while he tends to find himself falling, he more often than not strives to at least pull Allen down with him.
Francoise is gone now, having left a few days earlier. This news had frightened England, loathe as he was to admit it. What little safety Francoise's presence had offered him is likely gone as well.
Francoise hadn't wished anyone a farewell. He had simply informed them that he needed to relay what little information they had all gathered (to which his dull eyes had found England), and then he was out the door. He hadn't even seemed to care about staying or leaving.
In a moment of sheer panic, England had opened his mouth and almost, almost pleaded to go with Francoise. But no words had been able to form, and already he began berating himself for such an obvious show of weakness.
He doesn't like Francoise. He resents the pure indifference on a face so familiar to him, a face that he remembers to always be full of passion in all its forms. He should have been glad to be rid of at least one of these nations.
But he wasn't. He still isn't.
Francoise was just a small ounce of protection, but he was enough.
And now England is alone here with the other two, knowing full well that they will do whatever they Goddamn please with him, as long as his heart is still beating by the end of the day.
England is needed, after all, for whatever it is they're all planning. They won't let him die. But Allen and Oliver will hurt him, as they've already proven. They'll go to great lengths to push him to his limit for their own amusement.
Which is why his vision blurs and his stomach clenches when he is ushered out the door. Allen and Oliver are in a rush, acting as if England's late for something and he needs to hurry. He grows more suspicious when Allen makes no move to follow him out onto the street. He and Oliver remain on the steps to the front door, watching him as he trudges down the garden path, glancing behind him nervously.
'It's not nice, is it? Being cooped up all the time. You're looking awfully pale,' Oliver says cheerfully. 'Some fresh air will do you good. Have a nice day! Off you pop!'
It feels like he's sending England off for a day of leisure. He might as well pack him a picnic basket, England muses sourly. He wouldn't put it past Oliver. And the food would probably be tainted in something toxic.
He glances back at Oliver, growing more apprehensive by the second. He gets plenty of fresh air- if you could call the air in this desolate, rundown city 'fresh'- every time Allen takes him outside for a brawl, once a fortnight at the very least- so why the need for a sudden day out? Admittedly, he does spend the rest of his time indoors, shut away in his room for the most part. With nothing to keep his mind occupied, England has grown rather accustomed to the boredom. It was easier to manage when he first got here, locked away in the cell; after all, he had been in complete agony throughout the ordeal, which was a particularly big distraction. Directly after the incident with the wolves, days had phased into each other meaninglessly and he was barely capable of registering when he was even awake or simply dreaming, let alone what he could do to occupy his mind.
But his mind is growing stronger, and he's starting to feel much more like himself. He is still often plagued with the strange sense that he is an imposter in his own body, omniscient and only a witness to everything happening around him. This feeling, however, is fading more and more each day. It's as if each new punch from his sessions with Allen are smacking feeling into his skin once more, reminding him that he is alive, that this is his life and body, that he is England.
'They're kinda right,' the voice says beside him, and the owner shrugs. 'You need to get out.'
He's not wrong. The boredom played a huge part in the voices coming to him to begin with. England almost sighs.
This must be a game, he thinks. They're planning something.
'Oh yeah, for sure. Those guys are totally nuts,' his companion agrees, as casually as the real him would. 'They're letting you go off on your own, man. Who's to say you won't just run off?' He lowers his voice. 'You could do that, you know. You could at least try-'
No. I can't. England pulls his gaze away from Allen and Oliver and stares on ahead. If there was a chance I could make it, they would never let me go.
They'll certainly be watching him, however it is they manage to so. They were able to keep tracks on him when they set the wolves on him all those months ago, and they knew exactly when to pull him out. The whole experience is still a complete mystery to him.
And although a part of him longs to run, to never have to see this broken street with its crumbled houses, nor the ghastly gleaming eyes and twisted smiles of the two nations behind him. To never feel their poison gushing down his throat or their knives and fists tearing into and pummelling against his skin. Let them call him a coward. This red, angry pride he seems to still hold onto, nestled deep down in his chest, won't truly help him. Whether he appeases them or not, he still belongs to them in their eyes.
'Don't stay out too late,' Allen's voice leers from behind him. 'We wouldn't want you getting lost or anything.'
England rolls his eyes. If only he could get lost. Perhaps they'd never be able to find him again, and he could get as far away as possible-
No. They'd send the wolves after him, without a doubt. England shivers, hoping that he is far enough away now for Allen and Oliver to spot it.
'Forget about that,' his companion says quickly, and some of the other voices chime in as well, quickly reassuring him that it won't happen, that this is just a walk like the ones he used to love taking, that nothing bad will happen.
He knows none of it is true, but it's nice to have a part of him that speaks through them, a part that still hopes for something better.
After taking one long, deep breath, England sets off.
The overgrown plants are oddly refreshing, England comes to realise quite quickly. As wild and abandoned as the streets he wanders through look, the thick clumps of leaves and vines twisting around the bricks of the houses are a relief to look at. In a world as bleak and dreary as this one, it is nice to see some green. Especially when it reminds him of his countryside back in the other world. He trudges through the undergrowth for a while, glancing around wistfully at the vegetation. It really could be like being back on one of those old walks, if only there were birds singing.
But the city is as quiet as ever, and England doesn't want to think of home right now.
He is on alert, knowing full well that something is going to happen eventually. He has no idea what to expect, but he knows better than to relax and let his memories distract him. He will not let the game, whatever it turns out to be, catch him off-guard.
'Yeh should have something,' one of the voices advises him, in the gruff, serious tone of his eldest brother. 'To protect yerself with. In case they come.'
England can't quite think of any weapon suitable enough to shield him from an entire pack of wolves, but something is better than nothing.
There are plenty of old, rusted bricks lying around, as well as various other blunt pieces of debris, but England wants something a little sharper. He heads deeper into the city, climbing over piles of rubble every so often in the hopes of spotting any metal railings or a wooden fence post that he might use.
'Of course,' his brother's voice continues. 'Yeh've got other options. Ones yeh ain't even tried out properly yet.'
England bites his lip and squints at the dusty haze in front of him. Down at the other end of the street, he can just make out a square. There's some kind of a monument in the centre, but he can't quite make it out from here- probably a statue or a memorial at a guess. The overgrown plants aren't so in abundance anymore, having cleared up more and more by each street. The further he heads into the city, the closer he gets to where the fire struck, and so he can understand why the area around him is losing all signs of life. The square up ahead seems mostly absent of any clumps of greenery. The street itself is mostly bear of both plants and rubble, and so the large black object just a few feet away is easy to spot.
It's a car. But it's certainly not an ordinary one- not in this century. England is suddenly hit with a wave of nostalgia as he takes in the sight of the familiar curved metal and the distinct rectangular shapes. He'd had a car like this, a while back. Not exactly the fanciest one around, but certainly a good and respectable make. Keeping up appearances (and showing off a little to his brothers) had been expected of him after all, he had enjoyed owning one at the time; few people did, and it really had felt like he was embracing the future, regardless of how much he valued a more traditional past. The pride of owning it had all but vanished when war broke out again, and suddenly it had seemed awfully redundant. He'd sold it and gone off to fight alongside his allies, and when it was all over cars had eventually stopped being a prestigious rarity.
People still own cars like this, of course, but they're rarer to see now than they were back then. England steps closer and peers through the windows. The grass is grimy and the whole car is coated in a thick layer of dust, ash and dirt. Like everything else in this city, it has been here for a very long time, completely abandoned.
Once again, England is struck with an enormous sense of having stepped completely out of his time. The old fashioned buildings with their barricaded windows are one thing, but this is something else. It further confirms what England is already quite certain of- that whatever happened to this world, or at least to Oliver, was less than less than a hundred years ago. Early to mid-twentieth century at a guess. Because of a war. The Second World War, most likely.
'Why won't yeh just try?' his brother's voice says, snapping him out of his thoughts.
'Yeh could get yerself outta this mess,' another brother chimes in. 'Yeh could at least protect yerself.'
England ignores them and continues on down the street, heading for the square. He must be drawing closer to the parts of the city that were hit by the flames all those months ago, and yet he still can't see any hints of fire damage on the buildings around him. There is still debris here and there, of course, but this is much older. He wanders, briefly, if this is why Oliver never reacted to the city being torched. Perhaps Oliver has been in a perpetual state of pain for decades with the city ruined in the way it is, to the point that he's grown completely accustomed to the pain? But even while thinking it, England knows it can't be right.
Oliver doesn't feel pain. He doesn't feel anything. Just like Allen and Francoise, and possibly the rest of the world too.
He reaches the square, and sure enough, the monument turns out to be a memorial for the First World War. There's something rather comforting about spotting something so familiar, even if it is the mark of a tragedy. The memorial itself is barely in a good condition, as filthy as the rest of the area around it, and the names on the plaque are difficult to read because of it. Nevertheless, England does feel oddly at peace for a moment as he stands before it.
Somewhere on the other side of it, England hears a small clanking sound, and he instinctively ducks down, pressing himself to the monument. After a few seconds of trying to regulate his breathing, he braces himself and peers round the memorial, just in time to hear the sound again. A brick is tumbling down a small pile of debris, having been dislodged like the first one. A moment later, a small wooden beam rolls down too, and England spots the source of the commotion just above it.
A wolf is clambering down the pile of debris, paying no heed to the rubble it sends tumbling to the ground. It reaches the bottom quickly enough, its dark grey paws clattering to a stop. It looks around the square for a moment, before its face turns to the memorial and its red eyes fix on England.
He pulls his head back quickly and flattens himself against the memorial again, his heart thumping wildly. It's useless, he realises immediately. The wolf has already spotted him after all.
'It's just the one wolf,' one of the voices says. 'And you're bigger than you were before.'
'Yeh can protect yerself,' his brother adds, but England squeezes his eyes shut and curls up slightly, shivering. The voices are wrong. He can't protect himself, and he knows he can't run either. It doesn't matter that the wolf is alone, or that he is bigger and stronger than before; the wolf is still the predator, and he is still the prey.
The voices begin screaming out his own desperate internal pleas to try and defend himself against all odds, but England is frozen in place, waiting, waiting…
Any moment now, it will all come back- the grinding of bones, the tearing of flesh, the blinding, searing pain crashing through his body…
He can't hear the voices anymore, only the blood in his ears and his quick, shallow breaths.
A minute or two must pass, because eventually England is able to acknowledge that time has passed, and his body is still intact and no pain has come. He opens his eyes slowly and takes in the sight of the street he came down, with its abandoned houses and its grimy, ancient car. The wolf is nowhere in sight. Perhaps it is still on the other side of the memorial. Maybe it didn't spot him after all.
No. It must be able to hear him. It must be able to smell him. And it certainly did see him.
Eventually, England manages to shift. His limbs are quivering and sluggish, but they move. He peers around the memorial again, only to find the wolf still standing there, still watching him. It hasn't moved an inch.
Slowly, England rises to his feet and steps out, his eyes locked with the wolf's own pair. They are a bright crimson, standing out rather shockingly against the grey fur. They shine unnaturally, and the way the wolf simply stands there, the way it holds itself, as still as a statue, instead of sniffing around or God forbid, attacking England, is different from the other wolves.
It continues to stare at him, unblinking. Not a single part of its body moves; no flick of the ear, no swish of the tail. It doesn't look as if it's going to attack him. It doesn't look as if it's going to do anything.
This is no ordinary wolf, that much is certain. And if its body language wasn't enough to convince England of this, its eyes certainly do. Those aren't wolf eyes. They belong to something else.
England knows whose eyes they are, and with a horrible wrench in his stomach, he understands how Allen and Oliver were able to keep a watch on him last time.
The wolf lifts its head up slightly, red eyes gleaming. It knows that England knows. It would probably be smirking if it could.
England clenches his fists, taking comfort in the steely anger that sweeps through him. He turns around and starts walking back down the street.
It has to be around midday before England finds anything else interesting.
For the most part, the city is filled with identical streets; rubble in piles, spread across the road and covered in moss, bushes and small trees lining the pavement, the occasional carriage or car left to the side. A lot of the plants are gone now, and England finally finds a blackened tree when he turns a corner. The branches are unusually bare for this time of year, the leaves having been singed off. The bark looks dead, and when England reaches up to touch it, his fingers come away covered in soot. Oddly, the buildings around the tree look untouched by the fire, despite it clearly having touched this area.
He finds other trees in similar situations as he moves on. While the plants have all but vanished now, and the concrete beneath his feet is utterly covered in ash, the buildings all look as if they've taken no damage from the blaze whatsoever. In fact, they're in better condition than the outskirts of the city. There are no more piles of rubble lying around, nor the tell tale signs of bombing from many years before. Although they still resemble all the other buildings from the time period the city must have been abandoned in, they look fresher somehow. Cleaner. As if they're new.
Up ahead, England spots movement. He thinks it must be the wolf at first, until he notices the figure standing on two legs, in the distinct shape of a person.
Perhaps spying on him wasn't enough. Perhaps Allen and Oliver decided to come along personally.
Knowing that there's no use in hiding from either of them, England continues down the street, heading straight for them. He doesn't want to be anywhere near them, but the last thing he wants is for them to think his fear is overpowering him again. He's already slipped up once today with the wolf, and he won't let it happen again.
As he draws closer, however, it becomes abundantly clear that this figure isn't Allen or Oliver. It isn't Francoise, coming back to join them either. It doesn't even look like any of the other nations from the old world. It's a new person entirely.
A human.
England knows they must have always been relatively close by. They were, after all, the ones who set fire to the city, according to Oliver. But this is the first time he has seen one since his arrival, and for the first time in a while, something tugs at England's chest.
He is caught up in a second by a whirlwind of images, of his people in all sorts of ordinary and mundane moments of life; of them walking along the streets, of them singing together in church, of them laughing and talking and living. He sees children squealing in delight as they run around a playground together, and an underground train packed with people on their way to work. And finally, he sees a huge group gathered around a bonfire in the middle of a field, while the stars twinkle and shine above. He sees them light the fireworks and launch them into the sky, and cheer and laugh as they explode in bright colours up above-
England blinks. He sees the long, ash covered street, with its burnt trees and clean houses, and the figure at the end. He has snapped back to reality, but the feeling those images brought…
He truly understands in this moment exactly what losing all of that means. What toll it is really taking on him, to be apart from his people, and how dearly he misses them. With the other nations, individuals he knew personally, his relationships were always complicated. The humans dictated their formal relations, deciding whether they would be allies or enemies. Naturally, the more informal, personal side of things was affected by that. He misses them all, more than he could have ever understood or believed before all of this, so much so that the thought of them moving on without him feels as if it's tearing him apart…
With his own people, things are different. Most of them have never met him, and don't even know that he exists. And yet, the love he holds for them is and has always been unconditional. They are connected to him, they are a part of him… or at least, they were. Because coming to this world tore him away from them, and left him missing something very important inside of him.
He can feel the emptiness, the gaping void in his chest, more prominently than ever when he looks at the figure up ahead, and a lump forms in his throat. His feet begin to move again on their own accord, but his mind offers no resistance. The human up ahead is one of his people, and yet they are not. This is not his world, but he is connected to it. The fire on his first night proved that. While the connection between him and his own world was severed, he was bound to this one instead.
Does this mean he is tied to the humans here? He carries on walking forwards, drawing closer and closer to the figure. It's a man, dressed in a dirtied and rather ragged brown coat that looks too thick for such warm weather. Despite this, the man is awfully pale, seemingly unaffected by the heat. In his arms is a small heap of bricks, which he then dumps into a rusty wheelbarrow by the side of a blackened stump of a tree that has snapped in half. Little sticks from broken branches crack and crumble into ash underneath the wheel as the man grabs the handles of the wheelbarrow and begins steering it further down the street.
England follows, intent on reaching him. He has no idea what is going to happen. He only knows that he is drawn to the human by the unmistakable pull of the emptiness inside him wishing to be filled.
He could fix himself, he could become whole again-
'He isn't one of your people,' one of the voices says, and England imagines the owner standing behind him, grimacing. 'The people here burn their capital. Your people are back in our world.'
England doesn't want to listen. But a part of him must believe this, or else he wouldn't be giving it a voice.
'You might be tied to this world now,' the voice says. 'But not entirely. You aren't connected to them. You can feel the emptiness.'
Of course he can. That's why he wants to fill it in.
'This isn't home,' another voice adds softly. 'Your home is with us. You won't find it here.'
Dammit, England doesn't want his home to be here. But if he's going to be trapped here, he can make it a little better. He can find people. He can fill the void. He can feel whole once more, even if he's still a prisoner, even if he doesn't belong here-
The man halts as England approaches. For a second, the nation worries that his lack of speech will be an issue; how is he going to greet anyone? Perhaps sign language, or maybe if he could find something to write with-
The man turns around to face him, and his mind goes blank.
The wolf's red eyes were unsettling enough, but this is something else entirely.
The man's eyes are black.
It is more than just his pupil, more than just his iris. There is nothing but black across both eyeballs. There isn't even a shine from the sunlight. Just a complete dark abyss.
England stumbles backwards in shock, all the desperation from before washing away in an instant. Face to face with the man, his previous desire to find some kind of a bond with the humans seems unthinkable.
Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.
The man says nothing. His face is devoid of expression, largely hidden under a tangled fringe of grimy brown hair and a face that looks as if it hasn't been washed in months. His hands are even filthier, covered in soot and dirt and God knows what else. They're heavily calloused, with scabs running along the fingers and broken yellow fingernails at the end. The smell is rancid and staggering; the man doesn't seem as if he's taking care of himself at all, and this is further emphasised by the dark, wrinkled bags under his black eyes, etched in on his pale, grey face.
It's impossible to tell if the man's eyes are looking at him or not, and yet England knows they are. He takes a step back, and then another, still horrifically transfixed by the sight before him.
The man seems to tense slightly, before he opens his mouth slowly to reveal rotten teeth. He inhales deeply, like he's savouring a scent in the air, then begins stepping forwards briskly. England recoils when the man's hands reach out to grab him.
In this moment, England almost misses being the rabbit. He was smaller and harder to catch, and much, much faster. But he was more vulnerable back then. At least now, as he tears back up the street in an effort to get away, he knows that if he gets caught, this is an opponent he should be able to beat. Nations are all physically stronger than humans, even if that… that thing back there isn't quite human anymore.
But after a few twists and turns he comes around another corner to find an answer to why the buildings look new. Up and down this short new street, he spies what must be at least fifty people. Like the man, their clothes, skin and hair are all filthy and unkept, and not a single flicker of emotion can be spotted across any of their faces. They too are pushing wheelbarrows back and forth, heaving piles of pricks up to the houses. The buildings here have clearly been affected by the fire, and the people are clearly in the process of rebuilding the damaged areas.
They set the city on fire each year, only to repair it as best they can for the next year? What purpose could that possibly serve? Oliver had called it a tradition, but why on earth would any of them want to do this?
He halts in the middle of the road, staring at them. There must be more of them elsewhere in the city, working throughout the year, if they can restore the buildings in time for the fifth of November. Each one of them shares the same ashen, weary look as the man- and yet they go about their work in complete silence, with no signs of obvious physical exhaustion. No one is out of breath or red in the face, and their limbs move almost mechanically, routinely performing the same task over and over again with no changes, from pulling bricks out of wheelbarrows to climbing up scaffolding to slapping the bricks onto walls. Each one of them seems identical in the way they behave, like they are simply machines performing these tasks.
But they aren't machines. They're people. Empty people.
Empty people for an empty country.
England understands in that moment. Whatever it was that made it happen, whether he caused it or whether something did this to him, Oliver is completely disconnected from them. From the land and from the people. He is not their nation. He's not a nation at all anymore, but something else entirely, and Allen and Francoise are the same. Without their people, they have become what they are. And without their nation, these people have become what they are.
A new, disturbing thought hits him. Is this what has become of his own people in his absence? Have they transformed into empty shells of their former selves, performing meaningless tasks with no true purpose?
England shakes away the horrified thought quickly. No. He hasn't changed into something like Allen, Oliver and Francoise, so why should they? Besides, they still have Scotland and Wales. They should be better off than this.
'That's right,' one of his brother's voices whispers soothingly in his ear. 'They're fine. Of course they are.'
But these people aren't. They look half-dead, and yet they continue to work away regardless. His earlier desire to be with them, to feel connected, is replaced by an overwhelming sense of pity. He doesn't know how this happened to them, or if it can be reversed, but the fact remains that the humans, like their former respective nations, weren't always like this. And they can't possibly deserve it.
He hears footsteps shuffling towards him, and he turns to find the man approaching, having followed him through the streets. The man's eyes are as black and desolate as ever, but his face betrays some kind of feeling; a sort of grim desperation that England recognises, having felt it only a few minutes before. The man is rasping, his mouth still open. The heavy breaths aren't from exhaustion, but are more like hungered gasps, as if he is just as eager to reach England as the latter previously was to reach him.
And as England backs away and turns to face the others again, he finds them all frozen in place, staring back at him. Matching faces all break out in the same dreadful yearning, as if England can give them something they need.
He is a nation without people, and so he was drawn to them. They are people without a nation, and so they are now drawn to him.
But they don't appear to have clear minds or be capable of rational thought. They all step down from their perches on the scaffolding or behind wheelbarrows and begin shuffling towards him, growing faster by the second.
England staggers away, completely mortified. He has no idea what they want to do to him, but he isn't about to stick around and find out. Filled with fear once again, he narrowly dodges the first man and veers off to the right, down a new, empty street. This feels all too familiar, even if he doesn't have any true idea of how bad this threat is. But he knows for certain that this time, he won't let himself get caught. That will never happen again.
Even as he races down the road away from them, his mind is still filled with sympathy for them. They aren't really themselves anymore. Given the fact that most of them looked to be fairly young to middle aged, they might never have been ordinary people to begin with. They would have been born after the war, after the world had changed to become like this.
They are broken without their nation, and crave to fill the void. They've lost a part of themselves, just as he has.
Is this what Allen and Oliver wanted to show him? Is this their way of answering the questions that have been locked away inside his head this whole time?
Perhaps there really is no game today. Only answers. Terrible, terrible answers.
England keeps on running.
He's faster than they are, but he won't be able to run forever. He should try and head back to Oliver's house, if he can even find his way back. He probably can, if he is at least tied to the land. He could never lose himself in his own London, after all. But what about these people? Will they follow him all the way back there? What might Allen and Oliver do to them?
The voices hush his panicked thoughts, telling him that he needs to focus on escaping the crowd behind him. That he should worry about everything else later, and that right now, all he needs to do is r-
Up ahead, only ten feet away, another group of people emerge from an alleyway to the side, filing out quickly in front of him. He falters to a stop and looks around wildly, trying to find an escape to the side, or any gaps in the groups of people on either side of him that he might squeeze through-
But there are just buildings on either side of him- old, dusty shops with locked doors and boarded up windows.
'Protect yerself.' His eldest brother's voice returns, high pitched in England's own panic. 'Yeh can do it, yeh know yeh can. It's different now. Yeh ain't dying anymore, yeh've got yer strength back, yeh know what yeh have to do-'
England swivels around in alarm as the people on either side of him draw closer. He clenches his fists to stop his hands from shaking and looks at the buildings again, wondering if it might be possible to climb up-
'There's no time!' another voice shrieks, and England deliriously tries to envision the owners of the voices standing by his side, really to help fight. But they're not coming (of course they're not coming, he is alone, alone, alone-).
He is alone.
'You don't have to be afraid to use it. You're not like them,' a voice murmurs gently, a calm relief in such a tense situation. 'Try to do something, anything. Your magic-'
Doesn't work! England hears his own voice scream in his head. It's useless! I called for months and months and months and no one came! None of you even heard!
The last thing he needs right now is to break down, but Goddammit, this is too much. It's not enough that the very thought of magic, no matter whose it is, scares the shit out of him- and why wouldn't it? It's the whole bloody reason he was brought here, that he ended up become Allen and Oliver's plaything, that he was torn from his own body and hunted down by wolves.
It's not just that. It's the memories of being locked in that cell, unable to do anything with his magic other than call for help. Of the aftermath of the wolf attack, in which he didn't even try to use magic, because he couldn't manage to do anything. Of the fact that even now, months later and his strength returned, he's still frightened at the thought of it. Of using it, and of it failing. It never did him a shred of good when he screamed each night for his fellow nations back home.
He can't bring himself to do it. Even as the humans close in, he can't find it in himself.
But he can at least stand. He needn't quiver and curl up and just give up. He's sick of it.
England will face them.
They come forwards, reaching out for him in choked gasps, grabbing his clothes and pulling him towards them. He braces himself as they swarm around him, waiting for whatever his fate shall be. For the first time, their black eyes don't seem so hollow now. Unlike before, there is a certain shine to them as they lean in-
A vicious growl rips through the air and those closest to him release him in an instant. The humans scatter to the sides in a frenzy, leaving him standing on his own again, blinking in confusion, until he spots the source of the interruption.
The wolf with red eyes trots over to him, its lips curved in a snarl. Behind it are the rest of the pack, teeth bared and their mouths rumbling menacingly. The humans back away, emotionless but with a rightful sense of caution. They may not be afraid, but they know danger when they see it. Their laboured breathing ceases rather quickly, and with an oddly resigned air of defeat, they turn around and head in the opposite direction from the wolves, shuffling along dejectedly.
Despite the terror they filled him with before, England almost wishes he could follow them. The other option is staying with the wolves, and already it is quiet enough once more for him to hear the furious beating of his heart and feel the dark, cold chill spreading throughout his entire body. He remains where he is, however, partly out of shock and partly because he already knows running won't do him any good. He learnt that the hard way last time.
In spite of himself, England finds himself examining each wolf, looking for any that he might recognise. Which one of them was it? Which one of them was the one who caught him last time?
The wolf with red eyes steps forwards and looks up at him with a look that England can't possibly understand. Was this a game after all? Was this yet another game of chase that he has failed? Will he be punished for it? Will the wolves be allowed to tear into him again, with just enough restraint to keep him alive?
As if confirming this fear, one of the wolves a few feet away approaches, sniffing around him curiously. With a sharp intake of breath, England tenses.
The wolf pads closer, and then, without any warning, the wolf with red eyes snaps at it, and it retreats backwards, whining softly in submission. The wolf with red eyes, clearly the alpha, emits a low growl at the other wolves, and, one by one, just as the humans did, they skulk off down the street, barely giving England another look, and eventually disappear around a corner.
The leader stays exactly where it is, still facing England. They stare at each other for a few seconds longer before the wolf turns and heads over to the alleyway the second group of people emerged from. It halts at the entrance and looks back at England, and he realises he is meant to follow.
He was right before. This truly was no game. If there was a test, he probably lost it when he got caught. Or perhaps he won it, by refusing to cower. Either way, it's all over now.
And he certainly has some answers.
When he arrives back, Oliver fusses excitedly and quickly pulls him into the kitchen for a meal he has prepared for him. Nothing tastes too off or unnatural, which means it's probably not been poisoned. So they're not upset with how today went. Oliver certainly seems pleased.
Allen joins them about ten minutes later, and he smirks at England in a way the wolf couldn't manage to.
That night in his room, as England tries to assess all he has learnt today and draw some conclusions from it, Oliver drops by for a visit. He sits at the end of England's bed and smiles widely at him. 'Did you have a nice day?' he asks softly.
Crouching at the other end of the bed, England neither nods nor shakes his head. He simply watches Oliver, hoping his expression doesn't betray his thoughts.
Oliver closes his eyes, still smiling. 'You saw them, didn't you? I think they liked you.'
That's certainly one way of putting it. England feels a chill creeping up on his skin, and resists the urge to shiver.
'Good hard work. That's what they do. So they can make our tradition happen each year,' Oliver continues. 'Awfully nice of them, isn't it? But it's the least they can do.'
By his side, England feels his fingers curling into a fist.
'They have to pay, you see,' Oliver says unexpectedly, opening his eyes. The smile is gone. 'Serve their time, so to speak.' He leans closer, his blue eyes flashing with something England hasn't seen so intensely before. For a second, he is convinced he can make out anger on his counterpart's face. But then it is gone, almost as quickly as it came.
'They're bad people, England,' Oliver says softly.
England must look sceptical, because Oliver laughs and the smile returns. 'Oh, you might just understand. You really could, you know, if you thought about it the way we do. They did bad things, and now they pay for it.' He grins and slides off the bed, then walks over to the door. He stops when he reaches it and looks back at England.
'They're bad people,' Oliver repeats, as if it is imperative that England listens. 'And bad people must be punished.'
Yes, England thinks as Oliver leaves and he looks down at his hands. His clenched fists are red and hot, and when he looks up at the closed door he feels a burning storm begin to form inside of him. They must be.
My Hetalia blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com
The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com [slash] ash - song
I know some people had some questions about the sort of content I can write, and I don't want to make the A/Ns looks like a novel of their own so I've basically explained it all here: rezeren . tumblr . com [slash] about - me
(Wow, that's a lot of dumb self promotion. Onto the more important shit.)
Oliver seems to be irony impaired, doesn't he? Maybe he lost his sense of irony with his ability to give a shit.
So that USUK stuff I mentioned earlier? Gonna be in the next chapter. Big time. Plus the world nations too, because I am desperate to write more of them. I'm getting really close to the next major plot point in the story, and I'm super excited for it.
Most of this chapter was written today, because I was kinda like, 'Right, I gotta get back on my feet! Gotta stop feeling like shit about the art and update Ash Song on England's birthday!' And then today came and I was still super pumped about updating Ash Song but my brain was like, 'You gotta write it first, dipshit.' I've spent all of today writing. I'm beat.
Anyway, I hope I can update soon. The art shit isn't exactly working out rn, so I guess I'll find myself writing a lot more. Especially when I'm this invested in my current fics, especially this one.
I promise I'll reply to the comments. Eventually. I've been ill for like 6 weeks now and it's kind of terrifying how behind I am on college work. Actually, maybe I should be doing that lmao.
So yeah, hope you enjoyed this chapter and found it at least a little bit satisfying, even if it was filled with cursed descriptive paragraphs.
Thanks for reading, and remember to review!
