It's really gotta hand it to you when Emma Roberts actually shows back up in AHS and repeats, 'Surprise, bitch. I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me' before you get the chance to do it with this story. But I brought that one on myself. I mean, there's only so long you can blame the post Infinity War depression for turning into you into a hermit and completely abandoning FanFiction and a huge portion of AO3. Seriously, I can't remember the last time I even read an APH fic. I'm still obsessed, tho? Like I still imagine stories and shit, constantly. But I guess I've been afraid of coming back.
We went over it in that yeet back in July. No need to go over all that shit again. But if there's any confusion as to what I'm talking about, I've deleted the chapter and the whole thing is on my blog. I'm not gonna give a link, tho, cuz it's in the past and I'm trying to move forward from it? You know, personal growth and all that? Self-care? Apparently that's a thing? I'm trying it out lmao.
Anyway, I am so, so fucking sorry.
Six months. And one day, technically, but I'm sure it's still the 23rd somewhere in America lol. Six months since I last properly updated. Have a longer than normal chapter and a new fic, if anyone wants a new fic too. I'm finally posting my San Junipero AU too. I want to sorta just unleash a bunch of APH content, so have some fanart too. Why not? I'm back, y'all!
I am also very, very sorry to everyone I still haven't responded to. I know from email alerts that I actually got some very deep, personal messages in response to to yeet, and I would like to address these people directly. I stayed away from FanFiction and AO3 for too long cuz I needed to get away for a bit, but that is no excuse for leaving your messages alone for so long. You opened up your hearts to me, and I've been a complete dick about it. I am so, so sorry. I will try to find a way to respond to everything now that I've finally gotten this out the way, even the comments that would have been deleted when I deleted the yeet update (I have all the details saved elsewhere and email notifications too).
Warnings: I tried out some cutesy USUK, and it went okay for like 70% of the chapter, but then the angst smashed my door down and held me at gunpoint, and the rest is history.
Allons-y!
Twenty-Eight
Fury Born
The rage leaves a bitter taste in his mouth when he finally awakens, his latest dream very much a looming shadow over his mind.
He lies still in the darkness beneath his eyelids, not quite ready to let go of the memories just yet. Any other day and he'd probably be gasping for air and full of relief that he is awake and home, and that the nightmare is over- at least for now. But he holds onto his dream just a little while longer, ignoring the light glow his closed eyes can barely detect. His mind feeds him images instead- of the desolate streets, the ritualistic reparations, the people. What's left of the people. His body threatens to begin shuddering, but it is rage that has its claws dug into him. His anger has a certain irony to it; it is able to calm him at times, while the fear would have left him shaking from his sleep, gasping for air.
England's eyes finally open, and narrow at the thought. Fear is the last thing on his mind for once. He often spends the first few minutes awake reeling with the thoughts and feelings occupying his head from whatever memory returned to him while he was asleep. Today is no different, and all he can think about in this moment is that one last thing Oliver had said to him, about how bad people must be punished. And all England could think back then, all he can think about now, is how utterly right his counterpart was.
He's never exactly been a shining example for upholding justice, but it's never too late to start.
Plotting and scheming will have to wait for another day however, because the chances are he's going to spend the next few days trying to ensure his fellow nations are well defended. And no matter how well he knows he'll still be planning, outlandish and unrealistic as his ideas may be, he is simply too exhausted to think straight right now.
No more than a few hours can have passed, judging by the dim light he can see jutting underneath the drawn curtains. The sight brings him back to another part of his latest dream momentarily; of his time spent shut away in his room with only the voices he imagined for company. The thought embarrasses him slightly, and he decides he needn't mention this part to anyone, not even those he trusts the most with his secrets about what happened to him. Besides, if anyone other than his family and the G8 hear about it, they'll assume he's gone completely mad and they'll never believe what happened to him.
It's not madness, he thinks to himself, his fingers threading through folds in the bed covers, twisting restlessly. But it doesn't matter how well he and his friends know it, or simply believe it- the rest of the world won't see it that way, and their faith in his story is strenuous enough already. He can't do anything to jeopardise this gathering, not if he wants to prepare everyone for the horrors in the Otherworld…
A strange hesitance takes ahold of him, and he pushes himself up into a sitting position, frowning. The Otherworld. The dimension believed to be hell, often referred to as such. A world that is really a mirror of his own, filled with empty and broken nations, and empty and broken people too. But…
Doubt fills his mind, and he shifts a little uneasily. The Otherworld has been around for longer than he can remember. His brothers frightened him with tales of it when he was a child. Magical beings preached threats and warnings about being dragged there by demons, and of how those who were taken never returned.
England returned, however. But perhaps not from the Otherworld after all.
He takes a deep, anxious breath. He'll have to tell them. If not the majority of the world nations, then at least his brothers and the G8. He'll have to admit he might have previously been mistaken. Not that he's embarrassed- as if something so juvenile even matters. No, his main concern is whether they'll continue to take his every word once they start doubting him… if they're not doubting him already.
He frowns. This is just his paranoia acting up. He knows they trust and believe him, and better still, he knows they care. Enough to watch over him in his weakest of moments, enough to stand by him and defend his story in front the rest of the world, enough to share their own secrets, personal things, in order to help reassure him into knowing he belongs and that he was missed…
It is at that moment that England becomes aware of a very slight tilt in the matters beside him, as if the other side of his bed is occupied, and the low, quiet breaths emitting from the shape of a figure lying motionless in the corner of his eye.
He very briefly curses himself for having been so unobservant, too wrapped up in his thoughts, before he starts to wonder why America has fallen asleep here. The last thing he remembers is feeling relaxed, his head resting on his pillow, drowsily listening to America going on about the most mundane of things, probably trying to lighten the mood after the deep, serious monologue he'd given in an effort to help England. Not that England needed cheering up afterwards, as America's little speech had truly been... something else. Something beyond kind. But he appreciates it anyway. More so then he would expect to. With everyone, even America for the most part, stepping around him so carefully these days, as if they're afraid of shattering him, it is a relief to find some normalcy.
America is still America. He cares, and he's better at showing it now, and it doesn't seem to deconstruct England's view of him anymore. It feels stupid, now, to ever doubt America's identity, to have so little faith in his deepest, kinder nature, something England always dared to keep believing in. One look at the peaceful, content look on his sleeping face and the memory of the tears in his eyes as he spoke and the absolute sincerity they conveyed… and over two centuries' worth of doubt and uncertainty as to whether America even cared about him and the inability to distinguish jokes and teasing from true malice wash away in an instant.
Somewhere along the way, a long time ago, he had fallen into a pit of insecurity; he could never quite tell how America felt about him- whether they were close, or even friends, or whether there was too much resentment and unkindness for it to be it seemed like he and America were on good terms, and then other times he'd wonder if they could ever salvage anything from their fractured relationship. He didn't even know if America wanted to or not. If America cared.
He cares, England thinks now, and Christ does it feel good to know it. He cares. It's getting easier and easier to believe by the second that this is one hundred percent America, that he one hundred percent cares, that the two can both be possible- no, that the two are both definite. America stayed with him until they both drifted off. America told him exactly what he needed to hear, and made sure he wasn't alone. America carried him when he passed out in the hospital, stayed by his side when he presented the G8 with the truth, looked out for him when he was drunk and distraught. America didn't let this barrier of fear between them stop him from trying to help as much as he could- nor did he give in when England was announced dead.
America cares. That's all there is to it. England knows he must remember this, for his darker moments, when the bad thoughts return as they always do. He smiles. They won't be ever be welcome, and certainly not tonight.
He finds himself surprisingly… unsurprised by America's presence. He feels no shock, nor embarrassment either. Incidents like this in the past might have told a different story. But the past is the past, and for once, it doesn't matter to him. This feeling in his gut, gentle and yet fluttering in a strangely thrilling nervousness, is somewhat old and oddly familiar, like a part of his own natural state that he hasn't paid mind to in a while, or perhaps never acknowledged with words. A feeling that once encompassed a dizzying array of confusion, joy, anger and grief, and yet now only leaves him with comfort and relief.
It doesn't occur to him to wake America and send him back to his own makeshift bed on the couch downstairs. Nor does he think of the consequences of America being here for too long, and the inevitable hallucinations that might come from it. He doesn't even think to go and check to see if his family have returned from the meeting, and hear what they have to say about what he missed. He feels drowsy and warm, content to stay here in this moment, and safe in the knowledge that whatever he has yet to remember, his past self was strategising. It may have taken him five years to enact whatever his plan may have been, but England is starting to grow certain of one thing, especially if Oliver's ominous message to Sealand is anything to go by.
He didn't just escape. He got some revenge too.
Good.
He relaxes once more and shifts so that he's facing America, taking one last look at the sleeping nation before he closes his eyes. No fear tonight, he tells himself, and he believes it too. He feels stronger for this recent memory, no matter how disturbing his revelations were. He feels stronger for being next to America and feeling nothing but a soft, soothing warmth spreading through him.
Stronger for seeing the truth, both in the past and present.
On the bedside table, he dimly hears his phone buzzing with a text alert, but he ignores it. He almost wishes sleep needn't come. He would happily live in this moment for an eternity.
Something pokes at America's cheek, then flicks his nose. He grunts and flinches, rolling backwards in an effort to get away.
Sealand is grinning cockily at him when his eyes focus, fingers poised to flick him in the face. 'Wakey wakey,' he says in a sing-song voice, looking rather smug. 'You know this is England's room, right? Did you get lost?'
America groans. He's still half-asleep. He distinctly remembers fighting the urge to doze off on England's bed last night, and realises he must have lost before he found the will to head downstairs. His face heats up a little in embarrassment for having been caught, and wonders whether England is awake yet.
'Did you?' he shoots back lousily, humiliated further by being unable to come up with a good retort. What is Sealand doing in here anyway? What time is it?
'Stop pestering him, Sealand,' comes England's voice from somewhere to his right, and America twists his head slightly to spot England sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching out groggily for his phone. Sealand, perhaps the most unwelcome alarm clock America can imagine, is still grinning from ear to ear.
'It's early,' he informs them. 'But you guys went to sleep super early, so you're okay.'
America sure as hell doesn't feel that way. He'd kill for another hour or two of rest. He blinks away the sleep and sits up. 'Fair enough, man, but why are you awake? And why do we have to be?'
'Those are g… good questions,' England mutters. He doesn't seem to be too pleased with this predicament either.
Sealand is brimming with energy. 'We've got a mission,' he announces, his bright smile suddenly replaced with a strict, determined frown. It looks absurd on his young face. 'We're gonna show those jerks how right we are about everything.'
'Well, uh, that's one way of putting the purpose of the world gathering,' America chuckles. No matter how fed up he is at being woken up, he can't possibly be mad at the kid. Sealand's always good for a smile.
'Do you have a speech in m… mind?' England says, humouring his little brother. He too doesn't seem irritated with Sealand, and America finds the smirk Sealand sends in reply oddly adorable. He privately wonders which of the two would be quicker to snap at him if he pointed it out.
'Nuh uh,' Sealand says, crossing his arms. 'But we're gonna do some investigating. Like detectives. You've got all those weird, freaky magic books in the basement, and you can read them, right?'
England blinks. 'Have you been trying to r-read them?'
America sighs. 'We both gave it a go a couple of times while you were gone. After he told me he could sense you were alive. We thought we could try and find you.' He ducks his head awkwardly, feeling heat rising in his cheeks. Admitting his own uselessness is difficult, even when putting it in a casual manner. 'Unfortunately, though, I guess my talents are better spent elsewhere, besides all that hocus pocus stuff. None of it made any sense to me. Plus, you know, I don't even know what language most of that stuff is written in.'
'Most of them are in different forms of Gaelic,' England says thoughtfully. 'And I'm n… not sure if they would even have the sort of thing y-you were looking for. They're mostly centered on recipes and ingredients f… for draughts and remedies. I mean half of it doesn't even require magical abilities. They're just ancient m… medicines. I may have some other books for enchantments lying around in this house, or maybe in…' He trails off, eyes downcast, phone in hand.
'What would we even need them for now, little dude?' America asks, trying not to feel let down about how much hope he'd once put in those books, unaware of how worthless they would have been towards his cause. All that time spent trying to distinguish letters in the scribbled, faded handwriting, typing them in on his laptop in an effort to translate the words, and the overwhelming disappointment when he failed to interpret the writing properly…
Sealand is looking a lot less thrilled now, too. 'Well, I thought maybe there'd be stuff about other worlds in there,' he says hesitantly. 'So we could show them all at the meeting today and explain it all better… and maybe figure out some more about the Otherworld…'
'That's… that's a great idea, man,' America says after a moment's pause, and he means it. 'That would be super helpful, right, England? England?'
England says nothing. He's still looking down at his phone.
Sealand rolls his eyes. 'Oh, come on. You always used to moan about people spending too much time on phones and computers. Seriously.'
England seems to realise he's being spoken to, because he looks up and tucks the phone away in a trouser pocket. 'Sorry?' he says, frowning in confusion. His expression is neutral, but America can just see that his jaw is clenched a little too tight.
'I was saying,' Sealand says, oblivious, 'that we should do some research on the Otherworld in your creepy old books. I mean, we can't just Google it, right?'
'Probably not,' America agrees.
England seems distracted, his eyes staring off into space, but he still responds. 'Yeah. Okay. I may have… I may have some b… books that might help. Texts on dimensions. Yes…'
Sealand claps his hands together. 'Great. I'm gonna go get breakfast.' He spins around and darts out the room, racing off down the stairs without a care in the world. America is relieved to see him behaving so normally again. The subdued, nervous child he's been when around England, ever since the incident with the other England and the mirror, seems to have been replaced with his usual bubbly self. He's still quite distant around his other older brothers, but that's to be expected. As far as America is aware, Scotland, Ireland and Wales have yet to mend the rift between them and their youngest sibling.
But at least things seem to be good between Sealand and England now. The chocolate and that hug yesterday saw to that. America smiles softly and turns back to England, only to find him still in a daze, a small frown etched on his face. America begins to grow concerned. England is a bit more than distracted. He's not hallucinating, is he? No, he'd say something if he was. He's a lot more honest about these things now.
'Uh, dude? You still with me?' America asks.
England's eyes are glaring, he notices next, but not with fear. The older nation snaps out of his daze and looks at America, and the stormy look in his eyes, while subdued a little now, is still present.
He's angry. Perhaps afraid too, but not very much. Or maybe he's just better at hiding it now.
'Yeah,' England says finally. 'Yeah. I'm just… I'm fine.'
America swallows as England gets to his feet, and bites his lip again. Was it something he or Sealand said? Did they trigger something? Is England angry with them?
As if sensing his discomfort, England's denamour changes. He offers a twitch in the corner of his mouth, a tiny smile. 'Just thinking about my dream,' he says. 'I remembered some more things. Useful things.'
America feels a little cold. 'Oh yeah? The memories weren't too… bad?'
'They weren't p… pleasant,' England says. 'But there have been worse. Far w-worse. And like I said. This was useful.'
England, while present for the conversation, seems to be rather troubled by whatever it is on his mind. He looks almost as if he's calculating impossible equations, the way his hardened gaze seems to fix on nothing in particular once again.
Whatever it was he remembered, it has given him plenty to think about.
The two of them wash and dress quickly, careful not disturb the rest of the household. Scotland, Ireland and Wales are still asleep, and the light outside the windows is only just beginning to break across the Autumn sky. Sure enough, it's almost seven o'clock when America finally checks the time on his phone, and he knows it won't be long before the others start waking up for the meeting today.
England is still peculiarly fixated on something when the two meet at the top of the stairs, ready to head down and find Sealand. America can already smell toast in the air, and he grins.
'Come on, I'm starving,' he says. 'We'd better hurry, 'cause it looks like Sea's pretty keen for us to get started on this li'l 'mission' of his.'
''Little',' England corrects softly, and America relaxes considerably. 'He's quite chirpy this morning.'
'Probably on a sugar high from all those chocolates you gave him,' America teases. 'It's nice, though, right? To see him like this?'
Through the storm in England's eyes breaks free a spark of amusement, and the smile he offers now feels warm and real.
'Yes,' he says. 'Yes it is. And, um… thanks. F… For last night.'
America feels a little jumpy and he begins twisting his fingers behind his back, rather absentmindedly. 'No problem,' he says, nervous and happy all at once. He can feel heat on his face again, still flustered about having fallen asleep- although he's starting to think he's glad that he stayed. That he was there throughout the night, that he was available to help had England needed more reassurances. Had England needed him.
'Sorry for overstaying my welcome,' he adds lightheartedly- although he isn't really at all, he realises.
England draws in a breath, and seems to consider America's words. 'You didn't,' he says finally, then ducks out of the way and heads downstairs before America can even open his mouth.
Sealand watches as England frowns at a hastily sellotaped book, running his fingers over yellowed pages jutting out near the end. A whole heap of them had come tumbling out the last time this book had been pulled off the shelf, and Sealand and America had spent more time scrambling around trying to find them all and stick them back in order than they had done attempting to read what they eventually sussed out to be Cornish. They'd almost gone to Wales with the book, assuming he might be able to understand it, but had decided against it in the end.
'There are b-better ways to mend books, you know,' England chastises the pair of them now, and America and Sealand shoot each other sheepish grins.
'We figured no one would mind. Or notice. That thing looks like it hasn't been read in like five hundred years,' America says.
England looks thoughtful. 'You may not be f… far out. I do recall looking to it for help when London was rife with the P-Plague. I didn't use it m… much, other than that. Its suggested methods were long outdated, even then.'
America sighs. 'So, that was just another one of your remedy books all along? Nothing to do with magic?'
'Well, I certainly thought I'd n-need to resort to magic if I couldn't f… find a cure,' England murmurs, carefully placing the book back on its dusty shelf. 'But this won't do. N-not for this.' He pauses for a moment, an outstretched hand hovering over neighbouring books. He isn't really looking at any of them, though, Sealand can tell. He looks like he did back in his room, when he was on his phone. Like he's got something far more important on his mind. Which is rubbish, because this is obviously their top priority, and it's taking all of Sealand's self-restraint not to rub it in their faces that he's been coming up with lots of good ideas lately.
He's excited about today, in fact. Surely it will finally be time to tell everyone about how he knew England was alive this whole time, and the world will listen to him? Scotland, Ireland, Wales and the G8 avoided all that yesterday, choosing to only recount what happened in the States. And they left out a huge amount of information, too, such as England's hallucinations and the fact that he ended up in the hospital.
They barely mentioned England at all, in fact, which Sealand had found strange at first. He knew England would probably get fed up if people were talking behind his back again, but the whole point of this world gathering was to shed light on what happened to England, regardless of his attendance.
Wales had finally explained it to Sealand quietly during a short break, and the child privately decided that no matter how logical a decision it was to leave out much about England since he returned, it would probably irritate him a great deal when he found out.
'Do you guys even know what happened after you left, yesterday?' Sealand says casually, quickly flicking through the pages of the withered book in his hands and coughing slightly when a cloud of dust erupts from it.
'A lot of yelling and arguing, probably,' America says, without looking up.
Sealand groans. 'Well, yeah, obviously. But I mean the stuff they all talked about. And the stuff they left out.'
England turns to look at his brother, finally concentrating again. 'They m-must have prioritised certain things, I'm sure.'
Sealand feels a yawn coming along, and knows it isn't just because of how early it is. The mere thought of the hours upon hours of endless arrangements and emergency protocols being systematically arranged by Germany and a few others is enough to put him to sleep again, it seems.
'It was super boring,' he complains. 'There's like a stupid buddy system now. Everyone's got partners and stuff- people are meant to check up on each other regularly and stuff, like we're not all seeing everyone enough already at the meetings. Supposed to be in case something bad happens, so we're all in touch and we have plans for what we're meant to do if something goes wrong. It took hours.' He rubs his eyes sleepily. 'You're lucky you missed it.'
'And everyone cooperated? Just like that?' America says incredulously.
'No, dummy,' Sealand says. 'They didn't even properly know what it was all for. Scotland just said that it was all in case there was another attack, but they still barely know anything about the Otherworld. He just told them England was there, and the entity came from it and one of England's captor's is the one responsible for his injuries and stuff. He didn't say anything about the other nations, or about England being in the hospital.'
Or even about England being sick, he adds in his head, wondering if he's said too much already. Regardless, England seems to catch on fairly quickly.
'They avoided the t… topic of my health altogether, I presume?' he says, his voice far too neutral. Sealand blinks in confusion.
'Uh, yeah,' he mumbles. 'I mean, they were really busy with all that other stuff yesterday, and there's other things they haven't mentioned yet, so they're probably saving it for today or tomorrow or-'
He realises he feels somewhat frightened at the prospect of upsetting England, although it has little to do with being afraid of his brother's anger. While the thoughts of the other England- Oliver, England had called him- still hang over him like a dark, looming cloud, he finds himself more concerned with the memories of how truly awful his brother looked while he was in the hospital. How he seems to have recovered a great deal since then, how relieved he looked yesterday when Sealand had accepted the chocolates from him, how content he had looked after they hugged, before Sealand raced off…
It might be tricky for the child to put into words, and certainly still difficult for him to admit, but Sealand prefers it when England is looking better. Looking happier.
He doesn't want to ruin it.
But England still doesn't seem upset. 'They won't tell the r...rest of the world about my mental state. Especially not my hallucinations. N-not yet. This whole plan might fall apart if they do. People will think I'm mad, that at l-least half the things I say aren't true. We can't afford that.'
He says it so matter-of-factly, Sealand wonders if he's dreaming. Nearby, America looks equally perplexed, although he switches the look for one of relief quickly enough.
'You took it better than I expected,' comes Wales's voice from the steps leading up from the basement to the house above, and Sealand twists his head to see his brother leaning on the railing, his brown hair dishevelled and still in his pyjamas.
'We did consider it b-briefly, remember?' England says. 'It was the right call. Even I can see th-that.' He sighs. 'B-but they all saw me yesterday. When I was hallucinating. How did you explain that?'
'It wasn't easy,' Wales says. 'But we managed to convince them that you were just overwhelmed. It was your first time seeing them again in five years, and you were rather in the spotlight. Not to mention some of them weren't being entirely civil with their remarks. The only people who may think otherwise were those closest to us at the time. I think…' Wales swallows nervously. 'No, I know Australia heard Ireland asking if you were hallucinating. Zea might have as well, he was pretty close by too. We should-'
'That's fine,' England says, and once again, Sealand is shocked by just how calm he is. 'Better them than most of the others.'
'We can trust them,' Wales agrees, looking a little better. It seems as if he was more concerned with how England would take it, and less about the problem itself.
England brings his hands together and begins twisting his fingers. Finally, he looks a little fazed. Not outright scared, but nervous. 'I should, um. I should talk t-to them. Especially Australia. Maybe… maybe we could… invite them r… round for dinner?'
Wales is smiling now. 'That sounds like a good idea, brawd. As long as you're comfortable.'
'Let me guess, they're partners in this buddy system Sea told us about?' America says, and his smile clearly states that he finds the whole idea a little funny, despite the severity. 'This isn't like a thing where we gotta hold hands crossing the street or something, right?'
Even England is smirking now, although he tries to hide it.
Wales offers up an exaggerated smile. 'Very funny, America. But you understand why it's necessary. It's a safety precaution.'
'Yeah, don't worry. I get it, man. So we gotta stick close to our buddies and stay in contact and all that, right? Wait, who did I get?'
'Russia,' Sealand lies, and it's worth it to see America's eyes widen in shock. 'Just kidding.'
Wales scratches his head. 'Well, I mean, you and England didn't really get assigned because you weren't present. I guess you've got each other. That works, right?'
Sealand knows why Wales keeps checking to see if things are okay with England, but he wishes that some of these concerns weren't so obvious, and right in front of America. Fortunately, the two other nations seem at ease.
'Not that they need a buddy system,' Sealand says, still feeling the need to lighten the mood. 'They don't need to keep checking on each other, 'cause America's staying here. It's not like they won't be seeing each other. I mean, they're even sleeping together now.'
America chokes and drops the book he's holding, resulting in a cloud of dust rising up which causes him to splutter and cough some more. England sends Sealand an incredibly hard and shocked stare. The micronation almost bursts into giggles. He hadn't meant for it to sound like that, but it certainly was worth it.
Wales struggles to keep a straight face. 'Yeah, we noticed you both dozed off last night. Didn't wanna wake you, so we thought we'd just leave things like that.'
Well, that's something. Wales at least thought it fine to leave America with England overnight. Despite how much things have changed in the last couple of weeks, Sealand still gets nervous thinking about how Scotland really thought America was bad. And that this was enough to make people uneasy about him- even if they all say they never believed it.
America has been more than a friend, more than some idelic hero. He's been a beacon. The only person who ever took Sealand seriously. The only one who even wanted to.
Well, they'll all see. Eventually, the truth is going to come out and everyone will know they should have listened. The thought of how sorry they'll all be feels Sealand with smug pleasure.
Most of the time, it feels good to think about. But it also makes him feel a little selfish to obsess over it, like he really is some spoilt child who only cares about being right. But that's not just it. He glances over at England, who is tucking a couple of books under his arm from the highest level on one of the shelves. He's a bit pink in the cheeks (probably still embarrassed about Sealand's observation- this is definitely good material for light teasing later) and he's in that weird daze again, although this time the books seem to be the focus of his attention, not whatever he was thinking about before- unless the two things are connected. England, and pretty much everyone else now, seem to think of little other than the threat in the Otherworld.
This is why everyone needs to know the truth. Not for some stupid childish pride, but for their own safety. And if it were about apologies… well England deserves them, most of all.
'These m-might have something useful,' he says as he peers down at the books in his arms. 'More so th… than any of the others in here, probably.'
America claps his hands together excitedly. 'Great! Let's take 'em upstairs; we can see better up there.'
Wales squints into the deep, eyes fixed on the selected books. 'You're going to start on them now? The meeting will begin shortly. Perhaps you should wait-'
'I want to learn more before I speak to anyone again,' England says, and there's finality in his voice. The same kind that clearly means there's no arguing with him. It rings with familiarity for Sealand, taking him back to countless world meetings where he was forbidden entry. He smiles softly, amused and puzzled at the same time. He never thought he'd look back on those memories fondly.
Wales stares in silence for several moments, assessing England. 'You've remembered more, haven't you?' he says. 'England-'
'I found answers,' England says shortly. 'And n-now I have more questions.'
'How about we stay here?' America suggests. 'Me and Iggy and the kid. You guys can keep going over the stuff you've still gotta tell them.'
'We… I think we'll need you there,' Wales protests. His gaze switches between America and England, which makes sense. Of course they'd need them- America being part of the G8 and England being the key to all of this. Sealand turns his head to scowl sightly, before noticing Wales's eyes now fixed on him. He blinks. Maybe they do realise they need him just as much. He's not going unnoticed, or barred from even being a part of the world meeting.
'We can drop by later,' America says simply. 'You've got it all covered, man. Don't worry.'
Wales shifts uncomfortably. 'Well… if you're sure… What about you, Sea? You sure you don't want to come now?'
Sealand likes the thought of being needed, but as he looks back at America, England and the books scattered all around them, he realises he likes the thought of mystery solving even more.
'No,' he says, smiling. 'I'm gonna stay.'
Feeling whole again?
In a better world, it could be spam or some ambiguous message from a wrong number. Nothing for him to concern himself over, nothing to panic about or grow paranoid of. Something to ignore or delete, to never think about again. But this is not a better world- the world it's from, that is.
England's phone buzzes twice again in the following few hours, and each occasion spurs a moment of panic before the reason kicks in and he catches himself. For one thing, he can tell America knows something's up. England was unable to hide it well enough this morning when he first read the text, and now he worries that America thinks he's angry with him. He worries about Sealand too, who also seems somewhat suspicious and keeps peeking at him over dusty, withered book covers. The child is clever, as if that hasn't already been greatly established. But England already knew that, before all of this. And he already cared, he tells himself. He knows that. He knows.
Focusing on his dysfunctional relationships and the contents of the ancient books in his collection offer a worthy distraction. His phone remains in his pocket for the most part, silent and still.
The first text is from a government official he's been put into contact with recently, regarding the best way to go about diagnosing and treating his probable post traumatic stress disorder with the utmost amount of discretion and haste. The second is from Wales, letting him know that the meeting has begun and they have broached the topic of this alternate dimension being parallel to their own. There's nothing in the message about an outcry of disbelief or anger, but there must have been. There must still be. The next part of it simply says that they're about to broach the topic of this dimension supposedly being the Otherworld. England almost laughs; will they be angry when he tells them he now doubts his earlier conclusion? Will they believe he's misleading them, that he's still just withholding information and refusing to share what really happened?
He'll just tell them he made a mistake. Once he's certain that is the case.
Determining whether or not it is will be difficult. Nothing here offers any insight, any answers. He finds a passage on Purgatory in one leather-bound book with half-torn pages dangling from the spine like leaves on a branch. There were early theories on the Otherworld being Purgatory, he remembers at once, besides the ones that suggested it was Hell. But this is… too centered around Christian beliefs. These books narrow his options considerably. The Otherworld is some ancient dimension, long transcending any singular religious parameters. He could search through other religions if he found the right resources, and probably come up with similar results. At the end of the day, they are all limited to human understanding, and the Otherworld is certainly something more than all that.
The Otherworld is beyond this realm. It cannot be defined by human interpretations- at least, not by a singular mindset alone. It exists above all that is conceivable to mankind. Even as a child, filled with fear of this world made of nightmares, England knew this.
He's wasting his time here.
The Otherworld may not be truly comprehensible, but the realm he was trapped in might be- if he's right in thinking now that the two perhaps aren't one and the same after all.
'I need another op… opinion,' he announces suddenly. Any books that might offer answers are strewn in front of him across the living room floor, basked in the early morning sunlight. There are five in total: three on the subject of the idea of alternate realities (only one of which even mentions the Otherworld- briefly, at that); one on complex incantations, for performing almost impossible acts against the natural flow of the world itself that in an ordinary time, England wouldn't even dare attempt; and finally, a book studying the mind itself- a documentation of early research of psychology explained by use of divination. This last one he keeps to himself, offering no translation for his companions. He tells them he has selected anything that might be useful, and that much certainly is true.
'What's wrong with ours?' Sealand says, pouting.
England sighs. 'Nothing. I just need the thoughts of someone w-with experience in certain p-practices. You m… may be able to use magic, but you haven't studied it. I think this m-might offer some insight.'
'You're talking about someone other than Scotland, Ireland and Wales, aren't you?' America says, peering over at the books England has selected. 'Otherwise you'd have asked them by now. Who are you thinking of? Norway?'
England nods. 'He's my best bet. I know he, like myself, still actively p-practices magic. I could ask Romania too, and I probably w-will, but I understand Norway's methods better.' I probably trust him a lot too, he adds to himself. I could even call him a friend. Whether it's mutual is a different matter, but… but, well, he likes Norway. Learning of another besides his own family with these abilities had been a relief to him long ago, history and international relations be damned. They could get along, too. They admired each others' folklore and beliefs, showed an interest in one another's practices and learnings...
Norway is someone he's willing to put his faith in. What bothers England about all this is why, in five whole years, Sealand evidently didn't feel the same way.
'You see Norway quite a bit, don't you?' he asks idly as he begins packing up the books he'd like to take with him and the ones better suited to stay here for now.
'Little bit, yeah. When he comes round to Sweden's and I'm there too.'
'And you g… get along with him?' England continues. Nearby, America shoots him a curious look.
Sealand shrugs. 'I guess. He's nice. He doesn't talk to me much.'
There's something in the way he says that last part that makes England wonder whether this is something they're both responsible for, or rather more on Norway's part. Sealand gets to his feet and heads out into the hallway to get his coat, and America starts preparing to leave too. Soon enough, as the three step out the door and into the cold, late morning air, the other two begin their usual mindless chatter and England is left to think to himself in private for the most part while they head down the path.
It's perhaps just a little too chilly for a walk along Hampstead Heath to the meeting, no matter how close their destination is. Before all this, a large world meeting would never have been held here, in the outskirts of London. He had plenty of smaller conferences here, but he preferred attending all work related activities closer to the heart of the city- for convenience, and because this area was always peaceful for him, a nice way of actually having a home life, unattached from all the rest. He doesn't mind it so much now, however. He knows his brothers have chosen somewhere nearby because they want England to be closer to home, to have somewhere to go if and when he is overwhelmed, somewhere safer than the dizzying, busy city centre where they originally lost him. It's a good choice, he thinks as he passes underneath a small clump of birch trees, trailing his hand across the smooth, pale bark of one as he passes. He thinks back to what must have been, what? Four and a half years ago? A little less? It had been the summer of his first year in the other dimension, and as he walked through the empty streets, filled with rubble and tangled undergrowth and the sun shining up above, his mind had been filled with walks like this. Walks through forests and over hills, walks he missed with all his heart. He smiles to himself. It might be almost cold enough to warrant a bus ride instead, but perhaps a walk won't be too bad after all.
There's something else about this that seems overly enticing, too. He glances at his two companions who are still chattering away, and his smile widens. They're up ahead, and neither are looking back to see his face in this moment, but he doesn't mind. For while he walked alone in a burnt and broken city once, he is not deserted now. He may once have needed those voices, but not anymore. And this is something private, anyhow, something he keeps to himself, just as he did then.
He doesn't need them to see him smiling at them, for them, because of them. He just needs the strength to remember what this feels like.
They arrive just in time for a morning break, with various nations filing out by themselves or in small groups for drinks and food. Many pass the trio in the corridor leading to the meeting room, and offer the same stunned, disbelieving looks England grew accustomed to back in the States, when he had only just reunited with the G8 and they were entirely unused to seeing him around again. Looks that clearly say that England isn't the only one worrying about seeing things that might not really be there.
'Ah, so this hasn't been some mass hallucination after all, huh?' Denmark jokes lightly as he passes by, stopping for a moment. 'Some of us did start to wonder this morning… then again, we've only been talking about all of this, so…'
Norway is often in the company of Denmark, but England notices with a small pang of disappointment that the other Nordic is nowhere to be seen.
Fortunately, they have better luck in the meeting room. Many are still inside, standing around tables and chatting- although they do seem quieter and more withdrawn than they would do normally, England notes. An image springs to mind of Scotland grimly preaching imminent death to them all, and England almost laughs at the thought before catching himself. This is not a laughing matter. He's surprised he can find anything to joke about at a time like this, especially after the potentially sinister message he received this morning.
The words echo once more in his head, no more than a faint whisper: feeling whole again? England resists the urge to shiver. It's as if they know- hell they probably do. He may not have a mirror in his room anymore, out of sheer determination to rid the house of as many as possible, but he imagines they still find ways to watch his every move.
Maybe they see every one of his smiles, as few and as far between as they are. Maybe they notice how relaxed he is around those who matter the most to him. Maybe they sense how peaceful, how happy, he's beginning to feel more and more.
They won't like it one bit. They'll want to destroy it in any way they can.
England climbs up the steps to the third row of seats, spotting Norway about halfway along, pen in hand and focused on a notebook in front of him. He doesn't notice England and his companions at first, still scrawling away. It isn't until the little group reach him that he finally looks up.
'England,' he says, blinking in surprise. 'Scotland did say you might be coming in later. How are you?'
'I'm fine, thank you,' England replies, because that is hardly a rabbit hole any of them will want to dive into. 'It's good to see y… you again, Norway.'
'Likewise,' Norway says, giving a rare smile. 'I'm glad you're back.'
England allows himself a short moment to appreciate the honesty, and more importantly, to believe it, before he gets straight to the point.
'I was wondering if you m-might be willing to help us,' he says. 'I've been trying to piece together as much as I can about… where I was, and to understand why this happened to m… me…' And what happened to them. '... and I believe another opinion would be helpful. Given our shared area of expertise.'
'Which is like a really fancy way of saying you're both, like, wizards or something, right?' Poland interjects from nearby, swivelling round on his seat to grin at them.
'Or something,' Norway says stiffly, before addressing England again. 'I'd be happy to help. I was hoping to approach your brothers about this anyway. If we're dealing with the Otherworld, we need to be as prepared as possible.'
England swallows nervously and leans in a little closer. 'I'm not disputing the danger, b-by any means,' he says quietly, hoping only Norway, America and Sealand can hear him. 'I know better than anyone how bad the other place is. But I've had some, ah… recent r… revelations about it. Things that could potentially change everything we know so far.'
'Wait, what?' America starts, a bit too loudly. He looks down apologetically and lowers his voice. 'Since when, dude?'
'I've been theorising for a short while,' England admits. 'But last night was the g-game changer. I jumped to c-conclusions before, and I'm starting to reconsider them.'
'When were you gonna tell us?' Sealand juts in, offended. America puts a hand on the child's shoulder, giving England a more reasonable, supportive look.
'I'm telling you r-right now,' England says. 'I wanted to wait 'til we met with Norway. I've had a lot to think about.'
'What sort of conclusions did you jump to?' Norway asks.
England glances around nervously. Poland and a few of the others are still within hearing range, far too close for comfort. He'd rather be absolutely sure of his facts before he starts blurting out his doubts for all to hear. He considers suggesting they head someplace else to talk, but reconsiders abruptly when he spots his brothers and a number of other nations beginning to reenter the meeting room. The break must be coming to an end, and for some reason the thought of telling everyone doesn't seem too horrendous after all.
Scotland, Ireland and Wales look, to put it frankly, absolutely miserable. Exhaustion and stress eat away at each of their faces, more so than England has ever seen in any time other than war. He has done this, he knows immediately. As if the entire situation wasn't difficult enough already, he has constantly been leaving it to them to do the talking, to handle all the difficult things with others while he's been running off or hiding. It's not fair on them. It's not fair on the rest of the G8, either. He should be here, playing a part in this, only leaving if he truly needs to…
What happened yesterday won't happen again, he swears. I won't hallucinate. I can't.
'It's not the Otherworld,' he says, loudly. 'At least, I d-don't think it is.' He looks over at his brothers, before addressing the rest of the room. 'I know they told you all it was, and it's not th-their fault.'
There's silence for a few minutes, then someone curses. 'You've gotta be shitting me right now,' Romano spits. 'They just spent the whole morning throwing all that at us and now you're telling us it's all bullshit?'
'They didn't know,' England says quickly. He scans the crowd carefully, trying to suss out if anyone's missing. It looks as if at least most of them are back from their break now. None of them seem to be moving towards their seats, not since he blurted out his confession. They all stand around in silence, waiting. They might be angry, but England can't tell. Their faces all seem to blur together in one hazy expressionless sea, and he can't tell if that's better or worse.
'I didn't even know,' he continues. 'Not until l-last night. It's like… it's like when they told you I was dead. They were wrong, b-but… but they weren't lying. They really thought it was true. They shouldn't be bl…' He trails off, his eyes finding his brothers again. They're looking straight back at him in shock, and suddenly England feels a little less cold.
'They shouldn't be blamed,' he says, a little dazed. This is hardly just news for them. This is his own revelation, and for a moment he can barely find his words. 'What I m-mean to- what I'm trying to say, is- is-'
'Your dream, last night,' Norway says helpfully, getting to his feet. 'You learnt a lot from it, didn't you?'
England's head is still reeling. Is this- is this him forgiving them? Does he actually feel like that? He- yes. Yes, he must do. At least, he must be starting to. Those words wouldn't have come out if some part of him didn't believe it.
'I- yes,' he says, trying to push the thoughts away. 'I… I remember exploring the place they were holding m-me. The other London.' There are a few eyerolls and scoffs around the room, but nothing too severe. Their attitude isn't as severe as England was expecting, no matter how reluctant they must have been to listen this morning. Perhaps he simply missed them shouting themselves hoarse about how there being no such thing as parallel worlds. Or maybe they're not all as closed-minded and stubborn as he feared.
'They l… let me out,' he continues. 'I think it was some kind of t… test. Or maybe they j-just wanted to show me what had happened to their world. Before that, I hadn't seen the city properly. They never l-let me out much. Only for, um… fights.' He looks down at his feet, deciding immediately that he shouldn't mention the very first time he looked upon the city, when it was ablaze and he had thought the world was ending, and certainly not the first time he'd actually travelled through the city, with the wolves hot on his tail. 'I finally g-got to see it properly. I saw the people there. I saw the state everything was in. And… it wasn't always like that. It can't have been. The Otherworld is too ancient to be a world th… that fell into ruin so recently.'
He waits, holding his breath. The blur is now a relief to him; if he could focus on the mass of faces, even for a single second, he's afraid he'll crumble. There are too many, it's too quiet- at first he's convinced he'll see them again, in another mass hallucination, and despite his determination to stay, he'll end up running anyway- but as the silence drags on, he starts thinking instead of all those empty looks on the pale, filthy faces of the humans, the lifeless slaves that had become filled with hunger and tried to take him…
No. Get your shit together, he thinks. This is nothing like that.
Finally, a voice speaks. 'Why did you originally think it was this... Otherworld you guys talked about?'
'It was hell,' England says simply. The words feel as dry as his lips.
'How so?' Austria asks.
'Does he really need to go into explicit detail about that?' Scotland snaps.
Austria's expression is full of distaste. 'I don't care for such details, of course. What I ask for is any information at all, which you've made quite clear your brother seems to like refusing to give. And some actual proof would be nice.'
Something dark crosses over England's mind, and he finds himself asking, 'What exactly would you like to know? How much do you want to hear?'
He registers, vaguely, that his voice has lost its usual quiver. He speaks a lot clearer these days, but rarely does he conquer the stutter for very long. They'll probably think I'm faking it now. If they even noticed it to begin with. I'm sure they did. I'm sure they'll have loads to say…
'Will you at least answer my question?' Austria continues, unimpressed with England's bluntness.
'Oh, certainly,' England says calmly. He feels America shift closer, and is certain that he is probably trying to get England's attention, trying to stop him from whatever it is he's afraid England's about to do, but it's no use.
'Let's see,' England says, weaving sarcasm and as much passive aggression as he can here and there. 'After they paraded me up to a roof and made me watch London being set on fire, which was a bit of an indicator that this world I was in was, you know, not good- they put me in a cell for a while. Several months, actually. Sometimes they even remembered to feed me. And occasionally, when they were feeling really nice, they didn't even p-poison it. And I am terribly sorry,' he says in as sweet and sincere a voice as he can muster, placing his hand over his heart and wearing his best sympathetic look. 'They didn't take me out the house very much, so I'm afraid I d-didn't quite get much of a good look at the world I was in. So when that entity, which would have been conjured from dark energy from the Otherworld, attacked the G8, I naturally put two and two together. My bad, I know. Guess I must have been a bit distracted by everything else that was going on. I'll try not to mess up like that next time.'
The room is deadly silent. No one dares to speak, or even move.
'Because there will be a next time,' England continues, still honeying each word with a simpering smile, 'as they do love to remind us. And hey, maybe you'll be fine. They're after me for whatever reason, so maybe if you just go back home you'll be alright. Maybe. Who knows? Or maybe…' He draws a deep breath, feeling the heat coursing underneath his skin. '... maybe they won't l-like that you ran. Maybe they won't like that you're at odds with me. They're a bit possessive, in all the worst ways, I'm afraid. Ask Scotland. He upset me, and they ended up pushing him out of a fourth story gap in a wall. But what do I know? It's not like I remember enough about them to know what they're capable of. It's not like I know what they think of those who run, and those who are too weak to fight. It's not like I learnt through everything I did, everything they deemed a mistake.'
'England,' Scotland says warningly. 'That's enough now, alright?'
But England can feel the blood pumping through his veins now, and damn does it feel good. Allen would like this, he knows at once… but where he would usually recoil at the idea of satisfying his torturer, he feels some sort of victorious pleasure. And suddenly, he's imagining something, something his brain would usually force on him. If this was any other day, any other moment, this would be an attack, it would be his own mind abusing him, but something shifts, and he looks at the sea of faces and pictures what he saw yesterday. He imagines each of those leering, mystery faces of the nations in the other dimension, and when he turns his head to look at America, he imagines the blue eyes morphine into a crimson. With Allen now smirking back at him, England feels the meaning of his rage coming into focus. This is good- no, this is perfect. This is true strength. He's at the reigns, fingers curled around his knife, with full control. He can make the picture in his mind go away whenever he likes. Only, he doesn't want to. He wants to live in this moment for as long as he can. He wants to look right back at those gleaming red eyes with his own fire, his own storm brewing inside, and then he wants to-
'Iggy?' America whispers hoarsely, breaking the short, sweet spell. England blinks and his image is gone. And then the storm inside him is jabbing and irritated, and England can't help but glare. Suddenly, he's furious. It shouldn't have been interrupted. It should have lasted forever. He should have ruled it.
'Iggy?' America says again, this time pleading, and it is at that moment that England realises what it is that has been pulling him from his hallucinations, and what has now dragged him from from his dream- and it's as if everything is finally falling into place, just as it was this morning when he had awoken beside America and realised something important, only now the feeling is wrenching him from the violent winds that were tearing through all the pain inside his head. The feeling is too calm, too tame, and right now England only wishes only to unravel it. It's not right. It's not enough.
He gasps, and takes a step backwards. He had wanted the warm to be enough, this morning. He had revelled in how gentle it had felt, how safe it had made him feel. America is looking back at him in horror and- and fear. And now everything comes crashing down, and England feels sick. America is afraid, and God knows what the others look like right now. The guilt stabs at him like Allen's knives and- no. No. Don't think about him. Don't think about them. You lose yourself when you do.
'I- I'm sorry,' he gasps. 'I-'
But America is already so sympathetic, so goddamn forgiving, offering a small smile and God, how did England never notice before just how kind those smiles could be before? Whatever America thinks just happened, he believes England had no control- that he was some poor, innocent victim to another dreadful hallucination- and Christ, the thought is killing him. England takes another step back. He- what the hell did he just do? What the hell was he going to do?
'Alright, you lot,' Wales voice says, cutting through his agonised thoughts. 'Take another break.'
'We just had one,' someone else says in bewilderment.
'So take another,' Ireland snaps. 'Just give us some privacy for a second. Jesus.'
England knows what this means. They don't want him to run off, so they're sending everyone else out. He raises a shaking hand to his forehead. It's hot and clammy, like he has a fever, and he wipes away the sweat tensely, still refusing to look at anyone. This is beyond messed up. He's gone too far now. He-
No. No, he hasn't. Not yet. But he could have. I was going to.
When Wales has ushered the first few people out the room to get them all moving, he heads over to England, who promptly pulls the knife out of his pocket by the blade and thrusts the hilt towards his brother. 'T-take it,' he says quickly, avoiding eye contact. 'G-get it away f… from m-me.'
He ignores- or at least, tries to ignore- the gaping emptiness that fills up his stomach the minute the knife is beyond his fingertips like a merciless hunger, and the relief Wales must be wearing plainly on his face. God knows how badly he, Scotland and Ireland have wanted England to part with that thing.
'Um,' America begins, and England's downcast eyes spot his feet shuffling nervously. 'Should I go too? And Sea?'
England nods, filled with yet another wave of shame. His little brother had only just managed to overcome his fear of England, and now what? Everything surely must be ruined. England has ruined everything.
'I'm sorry,' he chokes out again. And he would say it a thousand more times if he could, but his throat is already constricting, and he can feel tears prickling at his eyes.
'Iggy, it's okay,' America says, and England wants to scream at him. 'It's not your fault.'
But it is. England chose this for himself this time. And he liked it.
'Wales,' he croaks. 'You g-go too. Everyone…' None of them should be there. None of should be anywhere near him. He should be the one leaving, only he has a promise to keep and even now, he feels the reluctance digging at his heels. The refusal to look weak, as if- as if appeasing them matters, when he has those he truly cares for right here in front of him. He presses a hand to his uneasy stomach, praying he won't retch.'
'... Are you sure?' Wales says finally, and England tries to reply, but his words catch in his throat and he manages nothing more than a wheeze.
He zones out as they leave him, slipping back into his mind like the way he always returned to his cell or his room when he was a captive. Room, cell, mind- it doesn't matter which. They were all prisons. One of them still is, and it locks him in tightly, painfully. He lets it. He knows he should. He is responsible for what has happened, and he needs to be punished for it. Reaching out, he grasps the back of the nearest chair faintly and collapses into it, moaning slightly. This can't be happening. This can't be happening. He can't have possibly allowed this to happen, after everything he's fought through to get here. He can't have allowed himself to become this-
At some point, he begins picturing Allen again, but this time he doesn't chose to. Or so he tells himself. He isn't really sure anymore. Allen is proud. Allen is smiling. Allen is fearful. Allen is screaming. Nothing makes sense, and England buries his head in his hands.
It is silent for a while, and he cherishes it. It's about the only thing that doesn't hurt. 'I'm sorry,' he whispers again. 'B-but I'm not. And I am. I'm sorry.'
And then he laughs, as the tears run freely across his skin.
Eventually, he hears a knock at the door. The new break must be over, or one of his brothers has come to check on him. He prays for neither. He wishes he has simply imagined it.
When he looks up, Norway is stepping into the room, alone and quiet. He looks up at where England is seated and says, 'May I join you?'
England nods. He doesn't know why, but he does.
Norway makes his way up the steps, slowly and cautiously. When he is about five feet away, he says, 'I will leave if you need more time alone. The turmoil must be painful.'
England stares at him, asking silently.
'Your mind is… pure chaos, England. I can sense it. I've never felt anything like it.'
Norway always did have a way with minds and souls. His magic is empathetic, understanding, sometimes comforting- but sometimes analytic, sometimes dangerously perceptive, sometimes controlling. But England does not fear it. He chose to come to Norway for a reason, besides trusting him. Besides calling him a friend.
'Can you help m-me?' he whispers.
Norway nods. 'I hope so,' he says. 'I will do what I can. I promise.'
And while a part of England's mind resists, and tells him hatefully that he doesn't deserve help, to which the rest of him wearily agrees, he knows he must do this. For his friends, who do deserve better. For the ones he loves, who will suffer without his sacrifices.
'There's more th-than just… helping with all this,' England says, in reference to the absolute sorry state his mind is in. And now his head is protesting loudly, telling him how bad an idea this is, how destructive the consequences will be- not just for him, but for everyone around him. This latest disaster has proven that if nothing else.
'What else do you want me to help you with?' Norway asks softly.
England shrugs his satchel off his shoulder and places it on the desk with hands that are still quivering terribly. He pulls one of the books out- the one he'd hidden from the others, the one that now fills him with dread and exhilaration at the same time. Because he can finally fight back and fix everything, once he understands it all. Or he can break completely, and let it destroy him and this world. The idea, the possibilities- they balance on a knife edge, teetering precariously, and England knows he's the only one who can decide what happens next. He alone can determine the outcome. He just as to survive it.
Well, that's alright, he thinks dully. I did so once already.
'My m… memories come back in g-great chunks at times,' he begins. 'And on other n-nights, I'll remember n-nothing at all. It's not enough. It c… can't be enough. I have to d-do better. It has to b-be q… quicker. I have to fight for m… more. For all of us.' He takes a deep breath. 'We n-eed to understand as m-much as we can, as quickly as possible, and there's only one way I c… can think to d-do so.'
He slides the book on the intricacies of the mind and its magical potential over to Norway, who peers at it closely. England allows a few seconds for the other nation to draw whatever conclusions he can, before he he climbs unsteadily to his feet and meets Norway's gaze head on.
'I need you to help me regain all my memories,' he says.
My personal blog, for queries and for ranting at me about whatever dick move I've pulled this time: rezeren . tumblr . com
My Hetalia blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com
The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com [slash] ash - song
Shameless self promo time! I'm about to post my brand new USUK, which contrary to literally everything I said about genres I like, isn't canonverse! For any Black Mirror fans out there, or anyone who just wants some weird ass sci fi afterlife fic, my new fic is called An Echo Of Eternity and I swear I'm not entirely angst's bitch in this fic. We have a healthier relationship here. So do America and England.
More shameless self promo time! (I'm lying. There's shame. I'm cringing like fuck right now.) I'm gonna be posting some fanart to accompany this chapter and the new fic, and I'll probably come back later and add a link, plus any other information I've forgotten.
EDIT: Okay I'm gonna post the new fic a little later on today, along with the art. I should probably get some actual sleep before my 9am lecture. Oh yeah, I'm at uni now. That's a thing that actually happened. I'm shocked too.
I want to quickly thank those I have actually managed to respond to so far. I've met some amazing, kind people over the last few months and made a couple of friends here and there, and I want you guys to know that I love you so much.
The fifth of November is a sacred day for this fic, so I will be furious at myself if the next chapter isn't out by then. Y'all have permission to scream at me.
Thank you and sorry again, and hopefully I'll see you guys a lot damn sooner than this last incident.
Thanks for reading, and remember to review!
