This is the surprise motherfucker of the goddamn century.
I learnt last night that getting a lil tipsy and sitting outside in the middle of the night is my way of actually getting me to fucking write, because I wrote more in the single hour I was outside than I had done in like 4 months. I'm literally outside rn, and it paid off again. The angstfic of horror has returned at last. Oh dear god.
I am so, so fucking sorry.
I swear to god, the last thing I ever wanna do is abandon this story. I love it. It took quite a few months of hating it because of all the shit I projected onto it, but this is my recovery fic as much as it is England's. Just gonna take a while to get there for both of us, lmao.
WARNINGS: this chapter has some heavy shit at the end. I'm putting a trigger warning in for references to suicide, because I don't want anyone to get hurt, and I'm happy to give like a more gentle run down of what happened in the next chapter if some people would prefer to skip the final flashback scene.
I mean I should give run downs in every chapter. This fic hasn't been updated in 8 months, I wouldn't be surprised if y'all have forgotten what the damn thing is about, let alone what happened in the last chapter. I legit did. Not even joking. I genuinely forgot stuff that happened in this fic, and had to reread some of it myself to jog my memory. That's how long it's been.
This chapter's got a little bit of everything. Some vague USUK here, horrifying flashbacks there, nations acting like the overdramatic idiots that they are, that sorta thing. Half of me is imploring y'all to reread the last few chaps to help remember what's going on in case you forgot, the other half is advising you not to force yourself to indulge this fic anymore. (Still working on the whole not hating myself and this fic thing lmao, but I'm getting better.)
Hope y'all enjoy. Allons-y!
Thirty
Memory Race
'Again.'
The word comes over and over. Again and again. Which is almost funny, but he can never laugh. Because with each utterance of it he is thrust back into flashes of memories.
They are useless. All from the first year and all ones he has already reclaimed. Just snippets of cold nights in the cell, warmer ones in the bedroom. A knife here, a punch there. Yellow, wolf eyes watching him from the darkness. Poison in his gut.
He sees how careful they are. The looks they give him when they think he's not looking. The way they act as if they're not looking.
'Again,' England says. He half expects his voice not to work.
Above him, he hears Norway sigh. He doesn't open his eyes, nor move an inch from his spot on the cold basement floor. His back is really aching now, and he regrets only grabbing the one cushion for his head.
'England. I think we should stop now. You said none of this is working.'
'It is working. I'm seeing things.'
'Things you already remember.' The fingers pressed to each of England's temples come away, and already he can feel the connection melting away.
He does open his eyes now. Norway's worried face appears above him.
'Please,' he says. 'W-we just have to keep going.'
'I know,' Norway says softly. He wrings his hands uncomfortably. 'But it doesn't have to be now. You shouldn't do too much of it in one go. Especially after what you told me about this place. Reliving a single traumatic memory in unrestricted detail is one thing, but trying to reclaim a whole group of them at once…'
'We don't know they'll be bad,' England points out, but it's a weak argument. He knows they'll be bad. They always are.
But he's anticipating a different sort of bad now. Not the kind that might come from the world he was in and the people who held him prisoner, but a badness from inside himself. Something that has been manifesting more and more which each passing day in the present time, and he is realising too late just what it might mean.
Scotland tried to warn him. So did Ireland and Wales. They all saw it before he did- that his newfound confidence was a product of something more. Something worse. And he'd lashed out at the mere suggestion of it, as if that wasn't proof enough.
Who cares? a part of him whispers, the voice of his rage. You should be angry. You should be dangerous. You should want justice.
Of course he should. It's not unreasonable to want it.
But it's reckless not to at least control his anger. He needs a better understanding of what he's becoming- or whatever it was he became, before he lost his memories- and of what he and the others face.
His brothers would be furious if they knew. No. They'd be horrified. He isn't just accepting the damage this will surely do to his mind, he is actively seeking it.
Not for the first time since he and Norway began this morning, England sends a nervous glance towards the steps leading up to the floor above. Scotland, Ireland and Wales are all preoccupied with the rest of the world nations, but he can't shake the feeling that one of them may come home to check on him. They know Norway is here and believe what they were told- that Norway is using his magic to help soothe England's mind- but they must be suspicious. They must be worried.
Thinking that they didn't care in the past was always a sore spot, but England never would have thought the absolute belief that they do would cause him so much grief.
'You know,' Norway says carefully. 'These dreams you've told me you have. Ones where you can remember weeks at a time or entire conversations, as vividly as they were happening right now… that's not natural.'
'You don't say,' England mutters, his eyes closed again. It hardly seems relevant.
'I think you're overlooking this, England. Memories don't work like that. And traumatic ones- well, with traumatic ones, everything can be wholly unnatural in other ways. People block out huge chunks of them, like what your mind seemingly did to begin with. And sometimes people remember things incorrectly, or in a whole new light. Their nightmares might exaggerate the trauma, or-'
'You think I'm making this up?' England says sharply, eyes flying open again.
Norway winces. 'Not at all. I just-'
'You think it wasn't actually as bad as I can remember?' England can feel the red hot anger poking at his insides and wants to punch himself- because Goddammit, he really can't remain calm anymore, and he knows he is dangerous when he's angry, but-
But, shit. He can remember the way the cyanide, knives and wolves' teeth tore their way through his body with excruciating certainty. Not a single part of this is fabricated. None of it is a Goddamn lie. And there's no way they are simply exaggerated nightmares, not when the scars litter his body and he can still feel every part of it-
'England.' Norway's voice is strangely distorted over a ringing in his ears. 'Deep breaths. That's not what I'm saying at all. I believe you.'
England's face is far too hot. His heart thumps viciously against his chest.
Norway's fingers are at his temples again, and while the touch comes without warning and sends chills down his back, the gentle coolness that spreads across his body and the fogginess that enters his mind is a welcome sensation. Norway's magic was always… less destructive than his own, in the past. His skill is enviable.
'What I'm saying,' Norway says when England's breaths are slower, 'is that is what would usually be expected in these types of situations. Not that- not that there are exactly situations like this one, but you know what I mean. The way you are regaining your memories is highly unorthodox. The vivid detail of each and every second, as if you're genuinely reliving the situation… it makes me think there's something else at work.'
'What do you m-mean?' England croaks. He tries not to think about how his temper almost got out of control- again- but it's difficult not to.
Norway offers him a very gentle yet sombre smile. 'What if the initial belief that the dimension you were trapped in was the Otherworld wasn't the only assumption you originally worked with, only for later evidence to arrive and disprove it?'
England tilts his head slightly. 'What do y… you think I'm wrong about?'
Norway's smile is pained now. 'What if I told you that I think your amnesia was caused by more than your mind's way of coping.'
'M-more?' Everything feels as if it's spinning. England misses the calm fogginess already.
'There's something in your head, England,' Norway says. 'Some kind of force. And I don't think it got there by chance.'
England doesn't need to be told.
Not when Oliver begins baking a huge meal and tells an uncooperative Allen to clear the table in the living room, nor when Francois shows up in the late afternoon with new yet familiar faces. They come dressed in thick clothing; the summer is long gone now and a sharp wind whipping through the desolate streets announces that autumn too is almost at an end. In the end, he makes them out to be handful of other nations he vaguely recognises. He does not go downstairs to greet them, choosing instead to watch from the window in his room as they arrive at the front door. It's already quite dark outside, now winter is almost here. The features on each of the figures are difficult to make out, but still England is able to recognise most of them.
That's how England knows. None of them need to say anything, after all.
He knows what day it is. God help him, he knows. And he's been waiting for it. He's been preparing for it.
The first two he sees when Allen pulls him out his room are polar opposites in height; the taller of the two has the same strong, muscular build as the Russia England remembers, but the pale hair and eyes of his counterpart are as strikingly different as that of Allen's contrast with America. His eyes are a similar unnatural red, and his hair a short mop of dark brown, almost black. The other China, meanwhile, resembles his own counterpart more closely- yet he too has a red tint to the brown in his eyes. They stand in the upstairs hallway, watching England with slight curiosity. Neither say a word, nor react when England fixes them right back with a hard stare of his own.
'You'll like him,' Allen drawls, thoroughly unimpressed. 'He doesn't talk much either. Hasn't said a word in months. He's a stubborn little shit, I've give him that.'
No one says anything to that, and Allen rolls his eyes. 'Whatever. This is him, anyway. Don't expect him to greet you is all I'm saying.' He turns to England. 'Oli wants you downstairs. Says you gotta go meet 'em all, or else it's impolite.' He mimics Oliver's voice with the last word and snickers, before grabbing England's arm and dragging him past the other two and towards the staircase. The other Russia and China follow behind, mostly quiet but for a small exchange in murmurs that England doesn't make out.
It's a been a while since he last saw Francoise, and nothing has changed. The same old dulled eyes stare aimlessly at nothing when England is shoved into the kitchen, barely flickering in his direction. He seems to care just as little as ever about smoking indoors, and determined to ignore the redhead beside him, talking animatedly to several others who stand around the room.
'... full on kicked him into next week,' the other Italy is saying. 'Poor bastard still hasn't woken up. He shouldn't have taken his shit over to my side, though. It's enough of a dump already.'
'I was wondering why he hadn't shown up,' Oliver says, fumbling around with an oven tray in the corner. 'I sent an invite and everything. And Luci, if you wouldn't mind...' He gestures to a half full jar of coins on the counter, and Other Italy looks right back at him like he has two heads.
Beside Oliver, a blonde nation in far brighter colours than everyone else in the room, who looks suspiciously like the ever-tempered Romano in England's memory, sighs. 'I told him to find a landfill, but he said he had plans for the lands by the border-'
Allen snorts. 'What plans? Roland hasn't gotten off his ass since '84. Just straight up gave up with the pits, the lazy asshole, and for what? One landslide he brought on? I say he got what was coming to him.'
Other Romano looks relatively disturbed by this, but Other Italy shoots Allen a wicked grin.
'Now now, Allen,' Oliver says, without looking over at him. He leans over a plate of chocolate cake and begins carving the top of it gently with brown icing. 'The jar.'
'To hell with your jar,' Other Italy snaps, before turning back to Allen. 'How have you not smashed that thing already?'
Oliver answers in Allen's place. 'Oh he has,' he says, smiling sweetly. 'That's how he knows not to do it again. I like to keep some degree of order around here, you understand.'
Allen remains strangely silent, but England understands. He's been here long enough to know how dangerous Oliver really is, behind all the cheery grins and sing-song words.
England wonders briefly if Oliver was the same when Allen was his colony, and is struck with a sudden unease. This probably wasn't the case, he tells himself quickly, because he knows the world changed around the middle of the twentieth century, and that was when the nations probably changed with it. Still, the thought is disturbing to dwell on- and disturbing to find himself concerned about it.
None of them deserve any sympathy. Allen least of all.
Other Italy finally turns his attention to England. 'So, you at least got his eyebrows,' he notes snidely, nodding at Oliver, who gasps in offence. 'You do look like him. I mean, you are him. But-'
'Trust me, he ain't like Oli at all,' Allen says. England doesn't know if this is meant as a good thing or not, and he knows he certainly shouldn't care.
'Apparently no one is,' Oli sniffs, 'because no one has any manners whatsoever.' He finishes with the knife and places it back on the counter, before lifting the plate and bringing it over to England.
'You should have first slice,' he says cheerfully, all previous offences seemingly forgotten. 'It's your arrival anniversary, after all!'
Yeah. He'd guessed as much. England takes the plate from his counterpart, looks at the rest of the people in the room, then strides over to the bin and dumps the cake into it.
Other Italy begins roaring with laughter, and Allen has one of his largest grins when England turns back around to face the rest of them. Even Francoise seems a little caught off guard, hand hovering in midair with his cigarette and eyes slightly wider than usual.
Oliver's face betrays no emotion whatsoever, his gaze burning into England intensely, but the latter knows he made the right call. Oliver can, and most certainly will, try what he likes at a later time, but England has won the others' approval.
Or rather, their admiration. Their respect. That's what really matters. That's what will keep him safe.
Other Italy is still chortling. 'Shit, man,' he gasps between chuckles, 'I can't figure out if your survival instincts are the worst or the Goddamn best.'
'You might wanna move out after this,' Other Romano agrees, smiling nervously. He keeps shooting Oliver glances, as if expecting an explosion of some kind.
If only I could, England thinks coldly.
'You should come back with me,' Other Italy giggles. 'It's messy as shit in this dump anyway. No offence, Oli. But you should let us have a go at some point. You've had him for a year. Should be someone else's turn.'
'Not to mention what Francoise told us,' Other China says, finally raising his voice loud enough for England to hear. 'You and Allen have been too reckless at times.'
Allen is immediately on the defence. 'It paid off, didn't it?' he snaps. 'He's still alive, and he gets how shit works round here now. He's toughened up. Does he look like he was when you first saw him?' he adds, turning his attention to Francoise. 'He still look like that scared little mouse to you?'
'May I remind you that you and Oliver were the ones who reduced 'im to a total wreck in the first place?' Francoise mutters.
'He had to learn,' Allen says.
Francoise frowns in mild distaste, and opens his mouth for what would probably be a calm yet sharp comeback, but Other Italy is fed up with the discussion. 'Who cares?' he scoffs. 'It's not like this shit's new to us, anyway. Al and Oli know what they're doing; and if they don't, I sure do.'
'Did you bring him?' Allen asks.
Other Italy rolls his eyes. 'Can't leave the miserable bastard alone.'
Other Russia finally pipes up, in a voice far deeper and quieter than his counterpart's. 'You can't honestly believe he would be trying to escape now-'
Several people laugh, including Other Italy. ''Course not,' he snorts. 'Shit, we haven't been down that road since the third parlay. Nah, Flav insisted we bring him. The only thing he risks is doing himself in. Can't let that happen, can we?'
'We had to, Luci,' Other Romano whines softly.
Other Italy sends him a glare and for a second the almost childlike glee is gone, in its place a dangerous spark of rage. He growls, 'I just said I know that, idiota. Do me a favour and shut it.'
'Where'd you put him?' Allen says, eyes flickering between the two in amusement, as if he finds their twisted dynamic highly entertaining.
Oliver speaks again at last. 'He's in the basement,' he says in a neutral voice. 'Didn't seem too chipper.' He smiles. 'I guess he just needed some time to himself.'
The basement. The very same room- no, cell- England had spent his first few weeks in. A whole year ago, when he first arrived. It was ever so cold, back then. Freezing, in fact. But not on that first night. Not when the fire had raged through the city, as it surely will do tonight.
He remains stoic, watching the people in the room gossip in a manner that could almost be normal, and thinks. They chatter, tease and laugh with and at each other almost how… almost how their counterparts would do back home. And suddenly, more than ever, he can see remnants of this world before it changed. Just as he did when he saw the ruins of the city, or the hollow lust in Francoise's eyes, the far from malicious way Allen sometimes smiles in the midst of a fight, the empty pauses between Oliver's giggles like there's something different and deep inside him that almost claws its way out at times…
But mostly, he thinks about the prisoner in the basement.
They've taken someone else. It's not just me, he thinks. But when?
'Must've been a while back,' one of his imaginary companions' voices whispers in his head. 'They talked about a thing that happened decades ago.'
And now England's head is swimming. Because this is something too shocking to even fully process. The idea that someone else was kidnapped years ago. The fact that no one knew.
'Might not be a nation,' another one of his voices says. 'Could be a human prisoner. Could be anyone.'
But the vast majority of England's mind is… is almost praying it is another country. That there's someone here like him, that he isn't as alone as he thought he was, that he has something besides his voices.
And then he is hating himself, as he always does, because how could he wish this life on anyone? How could he hope for someone like him to be living in this hell, when he knows just how cruel it really is?
But he does hope. Goddammit. He does.
And now he wonders if there are others. If there are more. If he was never the first, was far from being the first.
All those ancient nations that disappeared. All those little, growing countries that couldn't quite make it. All the fallen, all the lost. Did they never die when their civilisations dissolved or transformed? When their people abandoned old ways and their names died, did they simply vanish from their own world, and not altogether? And if so, did they see this world in a better time, before it rotted away?
There's no evidence to suggest this, but England has become a master at letting his mind wander. There are ways to ease the constant boredom, and he has become well acquainted with them.
But this prisoner downstairs is very much real, whoever they are. And they've been here for quite a bit longer than him.
The only thing he risks is doing himself in. The words are cold, so cold, yet… they don't chill England like they should. It's understandable. It's relatable. He has wished for death often enough in this last year, has actively chosen to risk his own life so as to push Allen and Oliver's ability to keep him alive. And what state would he be in after a few decades here?
'Penny for your thoughts?' Oliver says slyly, stepping in front of him, thankfully without cake this time.
England only fixes him with his usual hard stare. It's his most comfortable look; not quite a glare, which could get him in trouble in any normal situation, but far from friendly too. A look that tells everyone he can be hostile, but he remains calm.
Allen likes it, he thinks. Allen-
Allen respects it, and respects him. That's what England takes note of. That's what England cares about, that's what keeps him a least a little safe, he tells himself regularly, while he chants that he is not seeking approval, that they don't deserve it, that he doesn't have to look for it, that they are monsters and he owes them Goddamn nothing-
'My my,' Oliver purs, eyes gleaming. 'You are quite busy in there, aren't you?' He raises his eyebrows and nods slightly, indicating England's forehead. 'He does this a lot,' he informs the others. 'You can practically see the gears turning, can't you, Al?'
'Oh yeah,' Allen says. 'The guy's a machine.'
'He ever gonna talk or what?' a large figure near the door snaps, pushing aside a few of the others quite roughly to come forward. England almost does a double take when he recognises him. At first glance, it never would occur to him that this man might be someone he knows; despite being hidden from view before, he seems to dominate the room now. Tall, broad-shouldered and rugged, dressed in dark red plaid a black jacket- nothing about him fits with all the memories of Canada in England's head.
'Like I was saying, he took some kinda vow of silence,' Allen says. 'He's doing it just to piss us off at this point.'
Other Italy is giggling again. 'And I see it's working. Definitely bad survival instincts. But I guess that's the point. I really like this guy.' He takes a step closer, eyes wide and full of glee. He shares a similar morbid fascination with Oliver, the same childish mania. Other Italy's is less constrained, however; Oliver is able to reserve his more violent displays of madness for what he might deem the perfect opportunity. Other Italy seems volatile, unpredictable. From the skittish way his brother acts around him, he looks as if he could be ready to snap at any second.
England really doesn't like the way he's looking at him.
But Other Italy draws his attention away, glancing around the room with innocent excitement. 'How much longer do we have, anyway? I wanna start it up. We should hurry before the humans get there first.'
Oliver folds his arms, his expression thoughtful and reprimanding. 'It is their job, Luci. Must you take it away from them?'
Other Italy holds up his hands in mock defence. 'Can't let 'em have all the fun. The ones on my land don't do anything like this.'
'You don't know how lucky you are, Oliver,' Other Romano tunes in, less feverently. He looks tired. 'We don't have anything like that. Feels like we don't have anything at all.'
England doesn't miss the warning glance his brother sends him, nor the way Other Romano inhales deeply and holds his breath afterwards, eyes cast to the floor and his lips pressed in a thin line. He doesn't disobey Other Italy again.
'What he's saying,' the leader of the two says through gritted teeth, 'is that we are bored shitless. So I'm gonna make the most of this little trip, alright? Where's a good spot to start the fire?'
Allen grins. 'I'd start in the middle, but you gotta get out quickly. Wouldn't wanna burn up as well, would you?'
'We are not fools, Allen,' Other Russia says. 'We learn from our own games. Perhaps you should too.'
Allen shoots him a dark look. 'The hell do you know?'
'Now, now,' Oliver fusses. 'We'll have none or that.' He turns to Other Italy. 'I'd head out soon if I were you. They begin around six.'
Other Italy grins. 'Sweet. Time to hit the road then, I guess. Sound good?' He glances around the room, and is met with smiles and nods. England avoids eye contact with as many as he can while the small group begin to make their move, but can't help from letting his gaze fall once onto the tall, rugged version of Canada who rather aggressively pushes past the timid other Romano to grab a dark jacket hanging against the door.
Oliver slides over to England's side, twisting a small butter knife between his fingers. The utensil is still covered in a pale pink icing.
'You can't go with them, I'm afraid,' he says, as if scolding him. 'Not after what you did to the cake.'
As if England wants to go out there with this unfamiliar group. Oliver and Allen are monsters, but he least he more or less knows what to expect from them. And if Oliver really found the cake's fate shocking, England wonders savagely what his counterpart would make of all the possible fates he might deserve.
Fates England would give him, when the time comes. Fates banded in his mind like words set in stone, just as they should be.
Oliver takes his arm, more gently than Allen did before. Thought the thin fabric of his shirt sleeve, England makes out the abnormal touch of foreign skin, cold as ever, and remembers the first time he'd felt Oliver's icy grip, a year to this night.
'We're going to watch it again,' he coos. 'And we're going to enjoy it.'
Yes, England thinks as he is led out the kitchen and up the stairs, to the roof he hasn't visited in a whole year. We shall-
'England? Are you down here?'
He sits up so fast that his forehead almost smacks into Norway's. Thankfully, Norway has jumped back in shock at the sound of Wales's voice, and the panic on his face mirrors how England feels.
'Jesus Christ,' England mutters, his heart thumping fiercely. The familiar blur as he sits up straight hits him a little gentler than usual; his transition between the vivid flashbacks in his dreams and waking up is like a bad head rush every time, but he notes a less dizzying sense this time, and the usual nausea isn't here at all. Norway's magic, he realises. It really is helping.
And it just helped him finish reclaiming his first year's worth of memories in the other dimension.
Well. Just about.
'I have to go back,' he whispers to Norway as Wales comes down the basement steps. 'I was r-right in the middle of something. Something n… new.'
'Not right now,' Norway murmurs back. 'Later. Your brother is coming.'
'So we ask him to leave. I need to k… keep going. I had something important.'
'How are you guys doing?' Wales asks, coming into view beneath the dim glow of a bulb. 'We weren't sure if you were still down here. You've been awfully quiet.'
'Well, I am trying to help England relax,' Norway lies smoothly. 'I'd say it's been having some positive effects so far, wouldn't you?'
'Definitely,' England replies. 'Wh… what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the meeting?' He tries to shake away the irritation at his brother for interrupting them. It's not as if Wales knows what they're really up to. But he had finally found something worth remembering. And he knows in his gut the memory of that night, of the Fifth of November, 2011, is far from over.
'I'm glad this is… uh, working,' Wales says, and he does sound relieved, despite the concerned look he sends England. He can clearly tell his younger brother is pissed off; he always was quite good at reading England. The latter curses internally, and welcomes the incoming wave of guilt.
'I feel good,' he says, and it's not entirely a lie. Norway's magic truly is doing wonders for his head.
Wales smiles. 'That's good, brawd. I didn't mean to interrupt, but you said you wanted to speak to everyone today. We're on our lunch break so I thought I'd pop over and check to see if you're ready to join us yet. And I just wanted to run something else by you. Ireland had an idea.'
'God save us all,' England says.
That earns a chuckle. 'He thought of a, uh… method, to fully enlighten the other nations as to what we're dealing with. I'm hoping they're all on the same page as us now- at least, that they all believe us- but I know that may still be quite optimistic. Ireland has a solution.'
'As long as it doesn't involve anyone j-jumping into any rivers,' England jests. Whatever it is, he doubts it will work. The nations are stubborn as hell, and from what he can tell, it won't matter much anyway. Even if they don't fully believe his story, they at least seem to have accepted there is some form of an emergency.
He has to go, though. He said he would. He glances longingly at the pillow on the floor, ignoring how uncomfortable it had been to lie down there. If only Wales hadn't sodding walked in when he did-
He bites down on his lip. Hard. He will not get angry. Wales was right to be worried about his recent behaviour, and he will do everything he can to nip it in the bud now.
At least when he's around those who don't deserve it.
He can wait until later. Maybe this evening, before dinner. All those months cooped up in that godawful house with Oliver and Allen has taught him an immeasurable amount of patience. He must practice it now, for everyone's sake. He can wait. He knows he can.
'None of that,' Wales promises with a pained smile, as if he isn't sure whether to consider England's joke amusing or not. 'There's a good chance we'll need all the help we can get, though, if you're both willing.'
'So it involves us using magic, then,' Norway observes.
Despite his apparent uneasiness, there's a hopeful glint in Wales's eyes. 'Quite a bit, I'd imagine,' he says.
They arrive at the meeting in time to hear a proposed military plan.
'If we're under threat,' Switzerland is saying, 'then we should not be leaving this in just our own hands. We're not left to run our own politics or devise strategies in times of war. Our leaders should be more involved in all of this, and perhaps preparations should be made to-'
'How are we supposed to keep all this quiet if there are actual armies marching around?' Belgium retorts, looking affronted. 'This shouldn't be our immediate plan.'
'But why are we keeping quiet about it? If this is as big an emergency as this lot are claiming, then why the hell shouldn't we be more vocal about it?'
'Do you want there to be mass panic? From what we've heard, these… kidnappers, regardless of who they really are, don't seem to have any artillery that England reported-'
'How would he know? He barely remembers them!'
'Look, if they really are… other versions of us- look, I'm not saying I'm convinced, alright, but we have to try and look at this with more open minds- then it's not an enormous threat we're facing. If they're not involving their people, then it's literally just them. Against all of us.'
'Which is why we should take the upper hand. We could beat them should a fight come if we have the assistance of our militaries and-'
'Let's not jump to the conclusion that World War bloody Three is about to erupt, alright?' Scotland interrupts loudly, sending glares at the main leaders of the argument.
'More like a worlds war,' Poland suggests, which receives some laughter.
Scotland glowers. 'More like something yeh should be taking a bit more seriously.'
'Hence our need to defend ourselves,' Germany insists. He seems to be of the same mind as Switzerland, only of course more accepting of the truth.
'I get that, alright? I agree, we've gotta prepare ourselves against these bastards. But letting armies just roll in for this is- it's a whole other level, and Belgium's right; people are gonna panic. Let yer leaders know, by all means. We could use help. But something a little more contained than that.'
'Like- like secret services or something…?'
'That would be better, yeah.' Scotland sighs deeply. He glances over to the newcomers by the door when Wales waves to get his attention, and a small amount of weight seems to lift from his shoulders when he smiles.
'Oh good, yeh're here,' Ireland says dryly, although he seems pleased too. 'Yeh've been missing all sorts of nonsense today.'
'Never would have guessed,' England replies.
Germany turns to him. 'England, you must agree on this? You of all people know how great this threat is, and how we should prepare as best we can-'
'Can we not just launch it all at him straight away?' Scotland snaps. 'He just got here.'
'He knows these- these people. You heard what he said yesterday, about all the things they did to him-'
'He's not deaf, you know,' England says. He rolls his eyes and ignores the faint tingling near the back of his head- the familiar, tell tale signs of a migraine. Something about it is unusually comforting. It's the mark of any old, irritating world meeting. They could simply be talking about climate change, or negotiating trade deals.
When did things like that start registering as simple? He almost laughs.
'No armies,' he says. 'They'll want you to panic. And that's all that's… all that's going to cause if you start r-rolling tanks in. Panic.'
Belgium sends Switzerland a triumphant smirk, and the latter groans.
'No offence, England,' he says, in a tone that suggests that inevitable offence is surely on the way, 'but you aren't in charge. None of us are. We need to decide this as a collective. Your word can't be law.'
Scotland opens his mouth to argue, but Switzerland continues, 'I'm not saying that I don't recognise his value, alright? Obviously he's our best asset and we should listen to his advice. But we need to handle this matter fairly. All our lives are at risk.'
Despite the mumbling around the room, no one disagrees.
'Fair enough,' Lithuania says, sighing. 'But we do need to keep whatever assistance we gain as discreet as possible, no matter how difficult it is. We need our governments to treat this as an incredibly sensitive and classified course of action, and keep the media and the general public far away.'
'That's gonna be tough.'
'We'll just have to make the best of it,' Germany says. 'Now, Ireland. Didn't you say you had something to suggest that could help?'
Ireland, who is leaning heavily to the side of his desk, half of his face in the palm of his hand, seems to be dozing off and doesn't even immediately register Germany. Scotland elbows him in the ribs and he yelps and sits up straight. 'Huh? What?'
'Yer idea,' Scotland prompts his with a huff.
'Oh, shit, yeah. Uh...' he glances over at the new arrivals. 'England, did you hear it?'
'Wales mentioned it, yeah. It c-could work.' God, this feels pointless. As if they need his permission for it. He shouldn't even be here. He should be back in that basement, trying to continue with that dream he'd been having, trying to see what happened next…
'And yeh're good with it?'
'Why wouldn't I be?' Both England and Ireland know why there might be a problem, but neither is about to say it in front of everyone.
'Okay.' Ireland draws a deep breath. 'So I thought, if some of yeh aren't busy tonight, yeh might wanna pop by the house and join us for something.'
'What, like a get together?' someone says, a little incredulous. After all the serious talk about potentially bringing armed forces to their aid and the threat of a whole other world weighing heavily on everyone's shoulders, this is clearly a strange change of topic.'
Ireland smiles apologetically. 'God, I wish. We could really do with something to take our minds off all this shit. But I was thinking about something my brothers and I could arrange to help... enlighten yeh all.'
'Enlighten us how?' someone asks sceptically.
'Well…' Ireland runs his hand through his hair anxiously. 'We appreciate how cooperative yeh've all been, and how difficult it must be, given the information at hand. I just had an idea for how we might be able to show yeh just how… real this all is. In case any of yeh still have doubts, which I imagine yeh do. Yeh may not think we're lying anymore, and I'm grateful for that, but I'm sure most of yeh probably suspect we're mistaken in some way, and I'd like to clear that up by proving it to yeh in the best way possible.'
'How exactly would you go about doing that?' China asks after a few moments of silence.
'If you come by our home tonight,' Wales joins in, 'we can find a nice secluded spot in Hampstead Heath and try something out. Not too many people, though. People are bound to notice if everyone gathers together, no matter how late it is. There shouldn't be more than fifteen of us, I'd say. We can do so again with another group the next night, if you think it's necessary.'
China hesitates, then nods. 'Alright. I'll come.'
'So will I,' Switzerland says, and a few others begin to volunteer. England watches as a suitable number of people agree to join them, beginning to feel rather satisfied with this outcome. He tries not to focus on the possible dangers of what they're going to try, ignoring thoughts of his time by the pond in that park back in Washington when Ireland had stepped in and helped him. This isn't going to be like that. They aren't going to attempt anything dangerous, and it shouldn't even take too long.
Nevertheless, he still turns to turns to Wales as the others make their arrangements. 'Bring the knife,' he whispers. 'Just in case.'
He just manages two people in particular as the nations file out at the end of the meeting, having managed to fill in the rest of the time with some actual discussions about more ordinary topics; the kind that would be in any other world meeting, although more improvised and less formal. Nobody brought notes or anything with them, given that this gathering was hardly arranged as a means to discuss the usual affairs, but the normalcy seems to be a relief to everyone.
England privately enjoys it too. No matter how boring it feels. Memories of his regrets in the other dimension, of all his time spent thinking that he had taken his old life for granted, come rushing back to him and he takes pride in how calm and still he is able to sit for the rest of the meeting, especially what with the itch in the back of his head to continue whatever the hell that memory. Unlike yesterday and the day before, there are no incidents. He is neither hit by a wave of hallucinations, and nor does he will any to happen. Perhaps he was right after all about today working out. The third time really has been the charm.
He is so confident, in fact, that he manages not to stress too badly about confronting Australia and New Zealand as they begin heading for the door at the end. They have both volunteered to come over tonight, which should work out with what he is hoping to ask them. The two look surprised to see him as he approaches them, and a small sliver of doubt trickles through his head, but then they smile and turn to face him.
'Hey,' Australia greets him. Despite the smile, England notices his voice is a little quieter than usual.
'Hey,' he says, wringing his fingers a little behind his back. Perhaps he is a little more nervous than he thought. 'I wanted to say sorry for the other d…day.'
They both notice his stutter, he can tell. He grows more uncertain by the second. 'I should have ap-apologised sooner. I'm not sure what Wales told you…'
'It's fine, mate, don't sweat it. He said you're not doing great with physical contact these days, so you panicked a bit. I'm sorry about the hug.'
'You shouldn't be,' England says. 'You didn't know. Besides, you were…'
'Over the moon?' New Zealand suggests, flashing a grin. 'In shock, but in like, the best way possible?'
England flushes. 'I'm, uh, pleased to hear that.' He can tell Zea really means it too, from the way his whole face has lit up since England came over to talk to them.
'You, um… you heard that other part as well, though, right?' he asks hesitantly. 'About the… about the hallucination…'
Australia's smile fades. 'Yeah. Wales said not to tell anyone though, and we wouldn't anyway. You- you don't have to tell us about it- unless you want to, obviously, and if you did we'd listen-'
'Oz,' England says, 'it's fine.' His former charge is a bumbling mess and while it's unnerving to see his usual outlandish, bubbly nature, so similar to America's, be replaced with this, he is relieved with how this is going.
Australia and New Zealand are outright delighted he's back. There's no denying that. He smiles.
'Would you both like to come r-round for dinner this evening, before the meetup tonight? I'm sure we'll have lots to talk about. W… We've all been so preoccupied lately, I still haven't really c… caught up on everything I missed while I was gone.'
'You mean to tell me America hasn't talked your ear off giving you a run down of every movie you missed?' Australia says with a laugh.
'Oh, he's tried, believe me.'
'Speak of the devil,' Zea remarks, and England hears someone shuffling up behind him.
'Hey, guys,' America says. 'You excited about tonight?'
'Do you mean dinner or the spooky get together, or whatever the hell it is? I'm guessing you're gonna be at both.'
'Oh yeah, for sure,' America laughs. 'Iggy, could I borrow you for a sec?'
England swallows uncomfortably. Thankfully, none of the others seem to notice. 'Sure,' he says, waving goodbye to Australia and New Zealand. America leads him a few feet away to a nearby desk.
'Sea's been talking my ear off all day. Says you guys had a little midnight party or something,' he says. 'He showed me this drawing he did of how the different dimensions work-'
'Yeah, I know the one. Simple y… yet surprisingly effective.' England avoids America's eyes. Mistaking them for red would be one thing but the fear of seeing them for what they really are and being… disappointed by it is not something he is willing to face.
America isn't a complete fool. He knows England has been avoiding him, and has probably sussed out that this is different from all the other times.
He would clear the air himself, if he weren't so ashamed of himself. If he weren't so afraid of what America might think, and how this may hurt him.
'About yesterday,' America begins, and England sucks in a deep breath. 'Look, it's okay, dude. You don't have to beat yourself up about the crap you see sometimes.' He gives a grin, full of forced optimism. 'Like, seriously, man, how many times do we need to tell ya that it's not your fault?'
'It… it was this time.' England can feel his body shaking.
'Dude, seriously, I get that stubbornness is your thing, but-'
'I didn't hallucinate.' The words taste sour on his tongue. 'N-not really. Not at first. I… I forced it to… to happen.'
America stares at him. England notices his smile drop from the corner of his eye.
'I was angry,' he says, 'with the other nations, and I j-just… I just lost it. I started thinking about the others. About what I r… really want to do with all this rage. I…' He takes a shaky breath. And then the memory of the warmth in his chest the morning he had woken up and realised America had stayed with him all night engulfs him, and he craves something more than the fire in his veins.
'I want them to pay. So… so Goddamn badly,' he chokes. 'They're all I can think about, all the bloody time. When I'm… scared, I get angry thinking about what they did to me, how they m-made me this way, and when I'm angry I think about how I want to use it, how I want to beat them to the ground and just keep hitting and- and hitting and… and when I'm anything else, anything good, I get scared thinking about all the things they c-could ruin or all the times they m-might be watching and thinking I've t… turned weak again, and I just… I wanted them to be there. To see my rage. To fear it.'
America is still staring at him, he can tell. But he closes his eyes and tries to balance two separate desires. There's an image of his own making, of his dreadful, beautiful wish to just… to just keep beating them as hard as he can until there is only red and silence, and there's that feeling, that realisation he had yesterday, in the peace and quiet and warmth, when all there had been was his certainty, his relief, his joy… and he hadn't been alone.
'I tried to p-put it into reality,' he whispers. 'I pretended you all were them, and I tried to m… to make it real. And I wanted to take down every single p-person in that room.'
America finally speaks. '… Iggy…'
'Then you snapped me out of it, and thank… thank God you did.' He shudders. 'So I g-gave Wales the knife and I asked Norway to help me, and I'm so Goddamn sorry… and everything about it just makes me th-think of what they must have turned me into. What I turned m… myself into.'
He's aware they're the only ones left in the room now, which is something. If he really is going to have three public breakdowns, three days in a row, he'd prefer to at least not have a full audience this time around.
'It's not your fault,' America says finally. 'None of it is.'
England opens his eyes and lifts his head up to face him. 'Weren't you l… listening?'
'Iggy,' America repeats. His face is covered in concern, and not nearly enough shock. England is stunned. 'They did some unfathomably evil shit to you for five whole years and it screwed with your head. Of course it did. Of course you wanna take 'em down after all that. Who the hell wouldn't? Of course you're gonna fantasise about it.'
'I almost took it a little further than fantasising-'
'And that's not good, obviously.' America pauses, and when England looks at him closely he can see that from the creased brow and the way his voice tremors slightly that the younger nation really is disturbed by this, probably far more than he is letting on. England doesn't know if he should be relieved or ashamed. Not as if he needs any help feeling the latter.
'But,' America continues, sounding slightly wary- like he's afraid to be one hundred percent honest about this horrifying revelation, but he's cautious too about feigning anything. 'It's not your fault. You stopped in time. You gave the knife away. You got help. You're doing all the right stuff, dude.' He sighs. 'Look, this is- this is bad, yeah. It's... it's scary, and I wish it hadn't happened. But you obviously do too. And I'm not gonna blame you for losing your cool. With all that… all that shit in your head, and all the crimes they committed, I'm never gonna blame you for that.'
'America, I put you in danger. I put everyone in danger. On purpose.'
'And you got out of it.' America points out. 'I don't care if I'm the one who helped you do it, or anyone else. 'Cause I know you woulda done it anyway. I trust you.'
'You can't know that-'
'You made an understandable slip up and you want me to what? Forgive you? What the hell is there to forgive? Nobody got hurt except for you. But if it means that much to you, then fine. I forgive you.' America's seriousness is almost daunting, but England hangs onto every word. 'You aren't to blame for any of this. But I forgive you.'
England is quiet for a long while. He hadn't meant to let it all come spilling out, and he can feel the lump in his throat growing by the second. He begins to wonder if that really is what he is seeking- forgiveness. He must be, for how else can he allow himself to dream of reclaiming that perfect moment of peace he felt in America's companionship?
'How c… can you?' he asks.
America gives a sad smile. 'Pretty easily. Like I said, I don't even think it's necessary. But someone's gotta forgive you. You're sure as hell haven't.'
England gives a weak laugh. 'Nor am I g-going to, I'd wager.'
'Then we have a new challenge, don't we?' America says. 'Not that we haven't already got enough of those.'
England likes how America says we. Like it's not something he's expected to do alone. He'll have help. It ignites a warm buzz in his chest, which seems to match the genuine smile America is now giving him.
'We good?' he asks.
Good doesn't entirely feel like the right word, but England nods anyway. Because it feels like it should be. America's words make it feel like it should be.
And deep down, he knows he now truly wants it to be.
'Are you sure you want to continue this now?' Norway asks, leaning his briefcase on a nearby rickety table covered in books and papers. He begins pulling out some of his own books from this morning to consult. 'Your brothers are all here and you're expecting company later-'
'Do you want to go?' England says, suddenly overly aware of everything he's asking of his… his friend. It feels good to spell it out in his head. Friend. 'I'm sorry. You d… don't have to do this. Obviously. If you'd rather-'
'I have nothing else planned this evening, other than our trip to the Heath,' Norway reassures him. 'I don't mind doing this, England. I want to help. Besides, it's beneficial for all of us. I am just wondering if now is the best time. You'll need to be ready for tonight, and from what you've told me… you're not always in the best state of mind after having just reclaimed memories.'
'I was fine this morning,' England points out.
'I'm guessing you didn't remember anything overly traumatic,' Norway says, flipping through the pages of a book. 'What if something more… devastating returns to you this time? And if your brothers find you in a bad way, I doubt they'll let me continue helping you. They might get the wrong idea about the benefits of this.'
'They don't get to decide this f… for me,' England says huffily. 'This is entirely my call. I choose to c… continue. I need to find out what happened next. I was onto something important, I can t-tell.'
'What, exactly? You never had the chance to tell me.'
England swallows deeply. 'It… it was a year in. Fifth of November, 2011. There were others there, too. I remembered a few m… a few more other nations. They came for the celebration.'
Norway raises an eyebrow. 'You mean the celebration that involved setting your alternate capital on fire?'
'Yeah.' England takes a deep breath and settles down on the cold floor, leaning back on his pillow. 'Best case scenario, all th… all that's going to happen is me feeling it burn. Worst case, they have more p-planned for me-'
'Feeling it burn?' Norway interrupts, staring at him.
England feels an uncomfortable tingling on the back of his neck. '… Yes. It happened on the f… first night I was there. Oliver- the other m-me- he figured out a way to connect me when I j… joined their world. I think. I could feel the destruction. But I wasn't tied to the people, only the- only the land. The people are… the people are something else altogether.'
Norway's gaze is deep and piercing. 'He made you a part of that world? He actually tied you to it?'
'I suppose so. Sure as hell felt like it. And the f… the fae said…' He trails off, wincing. He hasn't given much thought to what they told him in that small park in Washington, weeks ago, although not for a lack of interest. It's something he really hasn't wanted to ponder over. 'The fae said I'm still tethered to it. That it's left a mark on m… my soul. You can sense it, right? All this chaos you said was in my head… I don't think it's just the, uh… the trauma. You can feel how wrong everything is inside me.'
Norway is silent for a good few seconds, contemplating. Finally, he nods. 'I… I didn't know that's what I sensed meant, but yes. I can sense it. Something is very wrong. What else did they tell you?'
The words are harder than usual to get out. 'That I'm drawn to their world, and to them. B-because right now, even while I'm here, I'm more a part of it th… than I am of this world.'
Norway is frozen, the pages no longer fluttering in his hands. He looks incredibly disturbed.
'Which is why I need to know wh-what they did to me,' England continues. 'What they turned me into. What I t… what I turned myself into.'
It takes a while, but Norway eventually nods. 'Alright. We should ask the fae more about it if we get the chance, although I can understand if you'd rather not do it tonight while the other nations are there. And I can try to soothe your mind if you experience any distress. Just… just be careful, alright?'
'Not sure I kn… know how to do that,' England says with a small laugh. 'You're essentially advising a version of me from four years ago to be careful. And I'm pretty sure th… that's the last thing I had on my mind.'
'Be careful attempting to regain your memories, England,' Norway chides. 'If I no longer think this is what's best, I will stop. You know that.'
'Okay.' He relaxes on the floor, closing his eyes. 'I just need th-this one memory right now. We can stop after that. J… just this one memory…'
Norway's finger's find their way to his temples, and he doesn't jump at the touch.
The elegant green knife is in Allen's pocket.
It is so long that the hilt is jutting out of his coat, and England wonders how it doesn't cost Allen any accidents when he shoves it in there like that. He carries it with him everywhere, from those terrible sessions where England had been strapped to a table months before, to outside on the street during their brawls. He doesn't use it on him anymore, which is some relief; England remembers all too well just how smoothly, how effortlessly the knife could slice through skin, like cutting butter. It's Allen's favourite, he knows. He supposes the only reason Allen seldom uses it is because he finds little sport in putting himself at such an advantage. It's certainly not out of concern for damaging the weapon. That thing is stronger than even what meets the eye, and it certainly looks menacing enough.
It could kill in an instant. No hacking away, no sawing, just a gentle press downwards.
'Look! Look!' Oliver squeals, tugging at England's arm. 'It's starting!'
England turns his attention to the horizon, watching as a faint light sparks up against the dark sky, followed by another small one to the left. Other Italy and the others must be lighting the first buildings, or perhaps the hollow humans that patrol the streets are responsible- it doesn't really matter. England feels an old burn erupt dully in his chest, and forces his face to remain passive.
How badly will it hurt, this time? After everything else he has suffered, will it even register as agony? Or will it simply be just another blade to his skin, another punch to his gut, another set of jaws closing in around him?
A capital burning. He should remember that pain. He should know it well. Even if it isn't supposed to be his capital.
It is now. Whether he likes it or not.
'One whole year here, huh?' Allen says, coming up beside him. Despite all his complaints about the state of the city and the pointlessness of this celebration, he's clearly enjoying it. Instead of leering at England like he usually would, his grin is fixed on the ever growing orange glow in the distance, the light glittering in his crimson eyes. In the darkness, with most of his features shrouded in shadows, it's far easier to distinguish him from America back home. England finds this comforting.
The knife poking out of his pocket shifts slightly as Allen turns to face him.
'Really seems like you're settlin' in, you know?' he says, and his voice isn't entirely teasing. 'I mean, you gotta hate it. Obviously. But you're adapting. Screw what the others say. Ollie and I did a good job with you. Toughened you up real nice.'
'As if you weren't tough already,' one of England's voices spits through his own indignation. He blinks, trying to shut it up. As he has told himself, plenty of times before, Allen's opinion of him should not matter.
But he's giving them what they want anyway. He recovered from the incident with the wolves. He played their games. No matter how much rage fills his heart, how much fight he has left, how he fought to survive- or at least thought he had to… this is just what they want.
He can't win. If he loses himself to the cruelty of this world, he'll become that shell of himself he was after the wolves and they will forever treat him as broken and useless, and if he stands up and fights back he will simply be fulfilling whatever grand plan it is they have in store for him.
He can't let them win.
He won't.
'Would be nice if you said something. These conversations are so damn one sided, I might as well be talking to myself,' Allen groans.
'You've got me,' Oliver pipes up, sending a dazzling smile his way. Once again, the fire in the distance seems to bear no weight whatsoever on his shoulders, and England stares at him while the flames begin to lick away at his insides.
He was stupid to think all his growing accustomed to a constant flow of pain would prepare him for this night. He knows fire- from 1666, to the Blitz and of course the year before, he knows it. But it's not a feeling one remembers- not precisely, not to the true extent of its pain. The memories themselves are like the dull, hot embers when the flames have gone out- an echo of the pain, a shadow, but never the same as the true feeling when it's happening. The precise moment cannot be captured in memory. Only the grief afterwards.
He doubles over, clutching his chest. He can't help it.
He hears Allen laughing, and at the edge of his vision he sees the knife swaying slightly in the coat pocket at the movement. 'Oh, boy. Here we go!'
England's vision blurs. The knife fades from view. He closes his eyes and pictures it instead. He sees it alight with flames, pressed to his chest. That must be what's happening, surely, for what else could be causing his very blood to slush around like lava under his skin?
'Get a hold of yourself,' one of his voices murmurs faintly. 'Stay focused. You have to stay focused. The knife…'
Yes. The knife. The fire. The city. The knife. Allen and Oliver, laughing. A prisoner in the basement, just like him. The knife.
'Do you even know why it's burning?' Allen's voice flutters vaguely over the ringing in his ears. 'Do you know what this all means? Did you tell him about it? Does he know?'
He's talking to Oliver now. He must be. England's knees are on the ground, but he can't feel it. He can't feel anything but the burning.
Oliver must give some nonverbal answer, because Allen sighs and continues. 'Jesus, how are we supposed to get him to talk if we barely talk to him? I don't know why you let him have that Goddamn room. He just spends all his time hidden in there. We've had the guy for a year and we still don't know a damn thing about him. Nothing but what we already knew.'
England would have thought anything but the boiling heat in his body would be a small mercy, but he flinches at the cold touch of Oliver's had on his chin. His head is tilted back and through the tears in his narrowed eyes he can just about see that deranged smile.
'He never asked about it,' Oliver says. 'I would have been happy to share if he asked.'
'Bet you wanna know, don't you?' Allen says, and England feels a rough pat on the back. It feels more like a punch, but still it pales compared to the agony inside him. He could have been stabbed and he wouldn't know. Yet Oliver's cold touch still exists outside the blaring pain, independent and ever present.
'The people did a bad thing, a long time ago,' his counterpart says quietly. 'And they never stopped doing bad things. So now I make sure they never stop, and suffer for it themselves. They wanted to remember the Fifth of November. Now they'll never forget.'
Those empty people in their empty world are watching everything they built turn to ashes once more. For all England knows, perhaps some of them have been caught in the flames. He swallows, fighting the urge to retch.
'Irony is, they probably don't care anyway,' Allen points out. 'Not like anything matters to 'em now. Not like there's anything left in them.'
'And yet, the show must go on,' Oliver says with a small giggle. 'After all, what else would they do?'
Thrive, England thinks. They could do more than this. They could live.
'At least they're not bad anymore,' Oliver says. 'They never will be again.'
England can smell it now. The smoke has reached them, drifting along in the light breeze, burning his nostrils. But they were already burning. All of him is.
'See, we chose to fight back,' Allen says. ''Cause we got sick and tired of their shit. All across the world, they just kept pushing and pushing, and we had enough.'
'So we punished them,' Oliver whispers, and his grin is all England can see. 'They damned themselves, and we rose above it all.'
Something else catches his attention. A glint to the side, firelight glinting against steel. The knife in Allen's pocket. Still there. Always there.
'We're free now,' Oliver purrs. 'Don't you see? We're free.'
England lunges forwards and shoves Oliver away heavily, his left hand reaching out desperately and swiping at the shining metal. His fingers close around something flat, he yanks at it. No. The knife isn't flat. He's seen that smooth green hilt a hundred times. This isn't it.
But when he looks down at his hand, he finds the flat blade clenched in his bloodied fist, the hilt he knows so well sticking out.
Allen is on him in an instant, but England is faster. He grabs the hilt with his right hand, quickly pulling it out of Allen's reach. He falls backwards and kicks out desperately, landing one foot right in Allen's chest. The latter goes tumbling back too, stunned from the blow, and England pushes himself forwards again, taking is own chance to leap on his target.
Fire is a cruel, terrible thing. Its burn is unlike any other pain, inconceivable beyond the moment of actually feeling it. But there's something comforting about it too. Something that shouldn't be good, but is. Because of its power, because of its agony, it leaves no room left for any more pain. He knows it, and they know it too- or at least, they did. Because why would they think he could fight back in such a state? How would they even anticipate an attack, which they likely suspected was eventually coming for months, as it truly has been, happening when he is at his weakest?
It is the perfect time, the moment he has been waiting for.
The blood on England's hand is oozing from somewhere, but he can't feel it. The movement in his body as he pins Allen down should instigate more torment, yet there is nothing left to feel, no more ways it could get any worse. He is at his limit, and nothing more can take him down.
When Oliver climbs to his feet and stares over in shock, England is waiting for him with the knife held to Allen's throat.
It is easy, he tells himself. It's such a powerful blade, such a brilliant weapon. So easy to just press down. To slide it across. To watch Allen's blood join his own across his skin.
But he must not. Not yet. Not until he sees for certain the truth of his captors. Not until he knows for sure.
Oliver watches him, his back to the orange glow across the sky. England can barely make his face out, but he looks anyway. He must see. He must know.
His counterpart simply stares at him. Blue eyes fixed on him. Strangely calm. Unpanicked. Unfeeling.
And England knows.
Oliver betrays no emotion. There is nothing to betray.
He doesn't care. Allen will die and he doesn't care. His eyes are empty. Bright, cold voids in the darkness.
England presses the knife.
Then stops.
The knife is quick. The knife is strong. The knife is wrong.
Allen will die, he decides, but not like this. Not now, not today, not when all he has is a blade that will end things in an instant at the slightest pressure.
'Do it!' a voice screams at him. But he knows the voice, and in his mind he sees the figure. Someone who wouldn't even say it, most likely, yet does anyway. Blue eyes behind the rim of glasses, watching him, begging him-
It's the same face as his prisoner, and he blinks away the vision. It cannot be why he chooses not to. He won't let himself become disillusioned, not when he is finally in control.
This is not mercy. This is a sentence.
Allen will not die like this. What's awaiting him is far worse. England will make sure of it.
He pushes his prisoner away roughly and gets to his feet. His skin burns on. His mind rages forwards. He looks down to the bloodied knife in his hand, and slowly raises it to his own throat.
This is power, he thinks as he watches Oliver's eyes widen in fear.
'England,' his counterpart says urgently, and for the first time Oliver's voice is neither honeyed nor dangerous. It is drenched in unease, in dread, in a tone that matches that brief moment of panic Oliver had showed when England once took too much cyanide to taunt him. The disappointment Allen had expressed when the wolves almost killed England and he had to be rescued. The concern Francis had revealed when he thought Oliver and Allen's antics would result in this whole plan of theirs coming to an end.
He is the one thing left for them to lose. The one thing they can't lose, for whatever twisted reason that may be.
His life is in his own hands. Finally.
'You mustn't,' a voice pleads, and it sounds more like him this time.
He won't. But they don't know that. And as he spots Allen turning over on the ground and glancing up at him, only for his face to mirror Oliver's in an instant, full of fear and unable to do anything, he delights in the thought that they don't know what he's capable of now.
Oliver said they were free. But England knows what true freedom is. He has it, clenched in his fist, pressed up against his throat, reflected in the eyes of his tormentor.
'England, what are you doing?' Oliver tries again, his voice wavering slightly.
Whatever I damn well please, he thinks. I am free.
And he smiles.
'Got you,' he says. His voice is cracked and deep, barely more than a croak, but they understand him.
And then he is off, heading over to the door that will take him downstairs, to the house he has been a prisoner in for an entire year, to the basement where someone just like him never managed to find their freedom. He doesn't know if they follow him. It doesn't matter. One false move and he could end their plans. They won't touch him now. They won't dare.
The basement door is stiff to open, and he still staggers through when it does, his free hand pressed instinctively to his chest. His victory won't mask the pain, won't take away the fire burning inside him. It will only remain when the flames are out, as long as he keeps it.
In the small stream of light across the floor from the barred window, he spots a silhouette sat hunched over, lifting up its head.
And he knows them. Recognises them. Sees the ghost of another life, another world, looking right back at him.
No.
No, this isn't right. This can't be right.
The figure is skinnier. But so is England, now. There are scars where there weren't before, but England has collected many new ones since he came here too.
It's the eyes that help him see the truth. See that it isn't who he thinks it is. That it's just another one of them, just another empty nation in an empty world with an empty heart and empty-
'… Hello?' the figure groans, and foreign eyes flash with something that isn't empty. 'Who… who is that…?
The voice is pained and weak, tired and sad. It's full of things that aren't empty, aren't nothing at all, and England takes a step back, shaking with a new feeling he can't even begin to process.
He leaves the basement and walks straight out the front door. No one comes to stop him. No one stands in his way. The house is quiet. A burning world awaits him outside.
He heads away from the orange glow when he makes it outside, and never stops to think of the others running to get him, of the wolves finding him, of the people coming to claim him. He pulls the knife away from his throat and holds it by his side, walking a path he has stood helpless on so many times before.
He doesn't know if it's better that their prisoner is one of their own and not someone from his world, or worse. He doesn't know what he really saw in the basement, what it means, only that he is free now and that this knife will keep him safe for as long as he holds it close to his burning heart.
Without looking back, he heads further into the darkness.
discord . gg / eJUCRbE
That's my Hetalia Discord server. I have one of those now. Please join. (Take out the spaces obvs. Curse this site and it's hatred for hyperlinks.) I swear we're small and lowkey and people are friendly. I always said I wanted to interact with the fandom more and help promote fanworks and such and we're kinda doing that over here, so please join an share your stuff with us!
We have a Tumblr too, for boosting APH fanworks. None of us bite. We gon keep Hetalia alive until we're fucking dead.
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 [slash] ash - song (tho I haven't updated this in ages smh. I need to do that. In the morning.)
The aforementioned Tumblr for the Discord server: yeetalia . tumblr . com
I cannot stress enough how grateful I am for all the lovely comments I've received over the course of my absence, and all the lovely comments in general. I know I've left it too late to reply to most of them, and I'm sorry. A huge part of me putting it off was because of my fear of even remotely interacting with this fic- but like I said, I'm working on that. Besides, it would be really nice to chat with you guys personally on the Discord server *wink wink*.
Pls join. How many times have I said that?
Sorry for the heavy stuff, and I hope this was a satisfying chapter after such a long absence. One can dream. I enjoyed writing it in the end though, which is something. The build up to doing so was the real nightmare.
Thanks for reading, and remember to review!
