Hey there readers, it's me, ya boy.
Well this is a day and a half (and several months, let's be real) too late. I was supposed to get this out for England's birthday. As you can see, that went down well. Like a led balloon, one might say. Two demon references in less than fifty words, I'm outdoing myself.
You'd think a global pandemic and subsequent lockdown would give you sufficient reason to write, especially when you're on a creative writing course, literally stuck at uni, and it's supposed to be one of your main hobbies lmao. You would be wrong, apparently. In all seriousness though, I hope you guys are all staying safe out there.
So we've got some angst, some fluff, whatever the hell the ending is. England having a rough time, as per usual, so he can have a little gay time with America. As a treat.
Warnings: like a fuckton of references to that whole thing with the rabbit and the wolves. And a lot of long, descriptive paragraphs. Sorry.
Allons-y!
Thirty-Two
Hidden Name
Winter seems to arrive quicker once the city is long behind him.
The first few months are a dreary mess of shivers and silence, spent trudging his way along mossy roads caked with dry mud and through empty forests. He wonders if it's the cleaner air that welcomes the change in seasons more comfortably; after all, the sky in the city was always grey, even in the sun, and the air had felt strangely heavy and tainted. London is in a year-round state of decay, and no seasons or weather seems to change that. It makes sense, he supposes. The capital is the heart of the nation, and the nation is sick. No, not sick. Cut off, altogether.
He finds fields soon enough, stretching out as far as the eye can see, charted out across the flat land by overgrown hedges and old wooden posts. Most are empty, but the further west he heads, the more natural things start to seem. He finally starts to happen upon herds of sheep and cows, and although the sight is a welcome one, he knows it means there are people nearby. The sheep have numbers, the cows have tags. They are not living wild and unattended. Were it not for the thin layers of ash that settles here and there on the stone walls and concrete ground, it feels all too familiar. If not for the silence, for the emptiness, it could even be home.
He supposes it is. For now, anyway.
God, what he would have given to see all this a year ago, before he saw what had happened to the humans, before he learnt what Oliver and the others did.
The others. They're a lot stranger to think about now. Even with having met a few more of them during his last night of captivity. More occupied with his time but still privacy to the boredom of a half-dead world leaves him with plenty of time to think about them, to mull over it all with his voices, to dream of them a great deal and of what might have happened to him if he hadn't thought to threaten their hold over his life, if he hadn't had the chance, if he was still with them now in that cold, lonely house, or being thrown around like a rag doll between the ones who came to visit.
Most of all, more than anything, he thinks about the one in the basement.
When the winter truly comes, he sticks to the forests for the most part. The trees offer shelter, the odd squirrel he catches provides food. He scavenges where he can, in small villages along the country roads nearby, but the people keep him away. They all have those looks in their eyes when he watches them from afar, those black, unfeeling pits as they go about their work. He spends weeks observing sometimes, noting their patterns; they're consistent, punctual. They wake at the same time, eat and work and sleep in groups all at the same points and in shifts, like clockwork. He learns to venture closer at night, to take what he can from their crop fields, from their barns, even from their homes when he is bold enough- or rather, when he is desperate enough. Every so often, one of them will spot him, and he will be chased back to the safety of the woods, to hide among the trees and pray they never find him.
He tries to keep from lighting fires as much as possible, but when all he has is raw meat from a fresh catch or when the bitter winter winds make his fingers go red and unfeeling, he knows he has no choice. Making himself sick or freezing to death is far more unattractive than the thought of being chased once more.
He's gotten good at running. It's what had kept him safe this far.
He still makes mistakes. Still stumbles or even falls over little things. He never stays in the same spot, not when the humans come to the woods in their little hunting parties every so often, looking for him. He still falls asleep plenty of nights with an aching stomach.
He spots many rabbits over time, but he never makes a kill out of any of them.
He adapts. He knows how. This right here, this new life of his, is identical to how it was in the beginning for him, when he was a child running scared, stealing and hunting and hiding. This is a life he knows from long ago.
England survives. He knows how.
The first signs of spring come earlier than expected, which is one small blessing at least.
When the snowdrops begin to bloom, he makes his plans. It is growing warm enough to keep moving properly, to carry on heading west- or maybe even north. Resources will be easier to come by soon enough. More food, less elemental danger, better chances the further and further he gets from London. By the time lambs begin appearing in the fields, England is on the move.
The ground grows less flat soon enough, and his path becomes less of a straight line across flat ground but more of a twisting path through hills and forests. Larger roads keep him backtracking and rerouting constantly, for larger roads probably lead to larger settlements, and the last thing he wants is to find himself in another city. The small villages he has looted over the last few months have been more than enough, and he knows he stands less of a chance of being found if he sticks to the wilderness. He wonders, sometimes, if it is the best idea. The wolves of London won't be the only pack around, and although he has survived the winter without catching a glimpse of them, he knows things might be different elsewhere. A place with wolves is somewhere with danger, and somewhere with danger could mean them.
They have to be looking for him. They need him alive, and relatively safe. Whatever it is they want from him, they won't stand idly by while he is potentially risking his life.
It's a miracle they haven't found him yet, but he supposes it's because they think he was serious about threatening to end his life, and he might hold that against them again.
The knife, ever by his side, reminds him of this.
'North,' plenty of the voices urge him, but still he carries on west.
There's a pull, or maybe just wishful thinking, driving England down this path, and he knows the risks. Knows the probable uselessness of his endeavours. But he feels the tugging nonetheless, a familiar, soothing beacon, drawing him in- just as it did once before in the days he can barely remember now, when he had been so little and he knew nothing of the world around him, except for hostile humans, dangerous nations and what felt like monsters lurking around each corner. There had been monsters- or rather, there had been things he hadn't yet understood that frightened him.
And then he had felt the pull, as strong as the one that first guided him to London, to the heart of his land and people. And as a small child who was already running and hiding, he had nothing left to lose venturing on west to the source. To the great stone pillars from ages past, long in ruins even back when he was young, and to the sheer energy he felt when he saw them, reached them, touched them.
If he ever wants to use his magic again to try and find a way out of this dimension, then the centre points of a more ethereal, otherworldly power intertwined with reality are where he needs to be. He learnt a long time ago that if London was his heart, Stonehenge and all the other little spots, left scattered and faint in a modern world, are as good as his soul. And he feels its call, even in the dead of night after dreaming of failing, of learning there's nothing special about the one in this world, or that the one in this world doesn't exist, that there's nothing waiting for him there.
There is something waiting for him. He just has to reach it.
It's harder to resist the pull, the closer he gets, but still a part of him tells him to turn now, to head up north as far as he can, as far away as he can get from Oliver and all the other European nations. What the hell would even be waiting up there, anyway? A vicious, scheming other Scotland, ready to send him right back to Oliver? Or no one at all? Oliver never mentioned brothers.
They have to exist. They have to be here, somewhere, helping Oliver from the shadows or staying out of his way. Perhaps just as twisted and broken as he is, as all these nations are.
(He thinks about the basement. He thinks about what he saw.)
And he keeps heading west.
He spots the pillars jutting out from the horizon as the sun is setting one mild evening, and knows his journey will come to an end now. Because he's not sure if he'll be able to leave once he reaches it, and he knows they might look for him here. Oliver has magic too- Christ, that's how England was pulled into this whole mess in the first place- and he may hold a connection to it too. He might know his counterpart has followed the pull, and might be lying in wait.
And the land is so bare. England has done his best to steer clear of any of the open fields if there are no trees nearby, and always relied on the shrubbery for cover. Out here in the open, with towns clustered together and so close, he almost can't bring himself to reach his destination. Skirting around the settlements has lengthened his travels significantly, and he wonders if straying over to the ancient monument will ruin everything, if he'll be throwing away all the effort he's put into staying safe, if…
He stands for a while, simply watching the sun set over the stones.
It is another three days before he finally finishes the last leg of the journey, trudging over carefully in the dead of night. With each step, he feels the twisting anxieties in his stomach fade more and more. Close now, ever so close, and he can feel the calm, soothing energy radiating off the stones like heat waves. In spots such as this, it's almost like stepping into yet another dimension- a warm bubble, a small hole in the world, a gateway to something more. It gets easier to pretend too as he draws closer, to fantasise that that's truly what Stonehenge is. That it's somewhere else, somewhere better. That it will take him away.
Even this far from London, even after all this time, he has still yet to spot a single star in the night's sky. There is, however, the faint glow of the moon- a very dim, foggy light, like a distant lighthouse across an ocean of mist, and it is just enough to light his way.
He doesn't need the light, however. He feels the stones without even touching them, standing out against all of his ordinary senses, emanating something else.
It isn't as strong as the Stonehenge he remembers, he comes to accept reluctantly over the next few weeks of nightly visits. But for the first quiet night there with no sound but the light breeze and pillars that feel like whole mountains of energy he has so dearly missed, he relaxes and lets the power and relief wash over him.
Around a month after he arrives at Stonehenge, as he lies half asleep against one of the smaller stones, he feels a disturbance.
It's early morning now, and he knows he should have headed back to the woods hours ago, but as he's grown comfortable with his new routine here, he's learnt which risks are fairly safe to take- at least, compared to some of the other ones. He doesn't go near the towns, for a start; he scoped them out from a distance to see if it might be worth doing so when he first arrived, but by now spring is fully here and he makes good on the catches he makes in the woods and the supplies he brought with him from his winter further east. His traps are still working, his fires are small and in as dense a spot as he can find in the woods he has made camp in, and although many nights are spent hungry, none are spent starving.
So he's grown slightly lax. The humans don't come near Stonehenge from what he can tell, even during the day, and it has left less urgency in him to visit only under the cover of darkness. This is not the first time he has stayed until almost sunrise, and he keeps himself occupied while he is here. It's easy to lose track of time when he is constantly focusing, trying to feel around for any traces of the fae, of any other sources of magic that he might connect to. He thinks about calling, too, the way he used to when he first arrived in this world. But that never did a wad of shit, and even in his healthier state, in the shadows of one of the greatest and most spiritually powerful monuments he's ever known, he knows it likely won't matter here, either. God, as if any of the nations back in the old world could do anything to get him out, even if they did ever hear him.
(He still calls out faintly when he falls asleep amidst the stones sometimes, even if he doesn't mean to.)
And at first, barely conscious, he thinks something must have worked when he feels a gap in the magic around him, solid forms approaching from the south. He spots them in the distance when he stands up, wavering from the sheer shock of it all. There are figures a couple of fields over, and heading his way. He rushes to the other side of the great circle and heads off quickly, desperate to get to the treeline without being spotted. It is only once he is deep in the woods and tucked in within the thicket he has called his home for the last few weeks that he finally stops running, and allows himself a chance to simply breathe.
He's been spotted by humans before, plenty of times. He knows how to shake them off.
He gathers his supplies quickly and begins trekking further into the woods, searching for somewhere new to make camp. He won't have many options, not if he wants to stay and not find another forest close by- and heading back out into the open with the sun just rising does not sound inviting. He'll get some rest and wait until tonight, when he can be sure it is safe to leave the trees. Dejectedly, he realises he won't have time to return to Stonehenge tonight; but, he supposes, that's probably for the best, given the circumstances…
'Not too long,' one of his voices advises him as he crawls into a ditch beside a badger set, sheltered by looming oak tree.
I know, he thinks, laying his head down and closing his eyes. I know.
The rabbit is skittish around everyone, even Sealand, who falls in love with the little animal the second he lays eyes on it. It's a small consolation, England supposes, but he can't ignore the rabbit's terrified squeaks whenever he comes too close. It's most afraid of him, and he can't help but wonder if it remembers its time with the wolves, sharing a body with… with him…
That makes one of them. All England has is a torn up note to work off. And he's starting to rethink his arrangement with Norway based solely on this new piece of information.
Another time with the wolves. Another hunt, another… another- another thing to remember.
From across the living room, he watches his younger brother softly cooing as he pushes lettuce through the bars of the cage, and the rabbit simply watches, frozen but for its quick, panicked breaths, before taking a tentative nibble.
It's alive. Wounded, but alive. So the wolves didn't kill this one. It definitely looks as if they may have caught it, however, and the thought of that is enough to make England feel sick.
'We could go tomorrow, before the meeting,' Sealand says as Wales enters the room with a small bowl of water for the creature. 'Or maybe now- would any shops with pet stuff still be open? This cage is too small, and she hasn't got any bedding or anything-'
'Sea, it's a wild animal,' Wales says. 'We should let it go. You know that.'
The child pouts. 'But she's hurt- look! We have to take care of her 'til she's all better. I could do it, I promise!'
'I mean, we could look after it for a few days, maybe, but we can't keep it. Honestly, we should probably take the poor thing to the vets.'
'Doesn't look as if any of these wounds are fresh,' Ireland offers from his spot on the nearest armchair, a glass of whiskey in hand. Despite his hangover this morning, he seems all too keen to carry on drinking. England is trying to avoid looking at him- and trying to avoid the itch he keeps getting to join in even more.
'Still,' Wales says, giving him a reproachful look. 'I think it's probably best for it. Maybe we should-'
'It's a girl, right?' Sealand says, looking up at Ireland excitedly. 'You said it was a girl. We should name her!'
Wales looks ready to smack his head against something. 'Sea, we have to let it go-'
'Doesn't mean we can't name her while she's here!' He looks over to England and America for ideas, and England immediately avoids eye contact. He wants nothing to do with the rabbit. Wales is right, they should probably just let it go.
America, naturally, shares Sealand's sentiment. 'What've ya got in mind, little dude?'
'Well, I don't know! That's why I was asking you!'
Wales ignores this and hands Sealand the bowl of water, before sending England a worried glance. There has been plenty of those this evening, probably long before England regained consciousness. It's not as if he's really helping his case, not having moved an inch since he woke up. The short amount of sleep did nothing to quench his exhaustion, and although he knows a large part of it is because of those pills the doctors have him on for his nerves, a part of him wonders if he's tired from all those months of memories that have come pouring back into his head like rain. It's always a little disorientating when huge chunks come back, only to wake up again with only a few hours passed. Honestly, it feels like months since he'd found the rabbit and the note in the room, since he'd left in a panic, since he collapsed in America's arms…
And all this time later, that last part hasn't changed all too much.
His brothers haven't fussed over him too much, which is nice. He imagines they did most of that while he was still out cold. It's been easy enough for him to simply rest here on the couch, still partially in America's arms, almost tucked away from the world in his embrace.
He hates making his brothers worry and stress, and he is not comfortable about the whole situation with the rabbit, but he is glad everyone's too distracted to tease him about that. Not that he doesn't notice the looks that Ireland keeps sending him. Not that he's overly embarrassed himself. Not that he even wants to move, because he doesn't.
America hasn't left his side once. The warmth in England's chest is like a hot summer day, beaming down on him like it would when he worked in his garden in a time long past.
'Hazel?' Wales suggests reluctantly when Sealand continues to badger him. 'Fiver?'
'This whole situation's depressing enough without yeh bringing Watership Down into it,' Ireland sighs. 'They're males, anyway.'
Wales glares at him. 'You help Sea with it, then. I still don't think we should name it. It's only going to make it harder when we have to let it go.'
Sealand is unfazed. 'I'm gonna be fine, I'm not a baby!'
The rabbit lets out another distressed squeak, clearly not comfortable with loud voices, and the micronation quickly stuffs another portion of lettuce through the bars, apologising softly. The door opens again and Scotland hobbles into the room on his crutches, eyeing the rabbit uncomfortably. He seems to be the only one in the house as disturbed by the new arrival as England.
'Yeh should be careful with that thing,' he mutters, taking the empty spot on the couch besides America and England.
'Yeah, we've got a real threat in our midst,' Ireland says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. 'It might savagely nibble us to death.'
Sealand giggles, and Scotland glares at Ireland. 'Yeh do know they sent it, right? It came through a sodding mirror. I'm not saying it's dangerous. But if they're sending shit through reflections again, then…' He trails off, looking at England. 'I mean, why would they even do that? Why a rabbit? What's it supposed to mean?'
He and the others don't know about the note England tore up, and they wouldn't understand it even if they had seen it. He could feign confusion too, if he really wanted, but he's too tired of it all. He is supposed to be sharing the things he learns from his returning memories, supposed to be working with the rest of the world nations, supposed to be doing his damn part. Even if it means opening old wounds, he understands that they need to know.
'It's a message,' he begins, a shiver running down his spine as he dares to look at the rabbit. America shifts ever so slightly and England is reminded that he is not alone, that his brothers are right here with him and one of America's arms is still draped around his shoulders. This is as safe a place as any- more than that- and if he's going to finally tell them about the wolves, he'd rather do it privately, in close company. The thought of standing up in front of everyone at the meeting tomorrow and confessing it all is nauseating. 'It- the rabbit- it c… came with a note. I tore it up.'
'A note?' Ireland leans forwards on his chair, his glass of whiskey clenched a little tighter in his hands. 'What kinda note? What did it say?'
'Just that…' England takes a deep breath, watching as the rabbit fidgets with the lettuce, trying to ignore a tear in it's left ear and the dark stain on the fur around it. 'They, um… hope to see me s… soon. And they w-wanted to remind me of… of something. That's why they sent a rabbit.'
'The hell does a rabbit have to do with anything?' Scotland asks.
'It's… it's this game that they m-made me play. More than once, ap… apparently.' His voice goes a little higher at the end in a quiver, and he bites his lip to steady his words before continuing. 'A few w… weeks after I arrived, Allen and Oliver- the other us,' he adds, turning to America. 'They… they did this ritual. Oliver did, I mean. They poisoned me and c-captured a rabbit, then…'
He's rehearsed this part plenty of times. He always knew he had to tell them, even if it took years to do so. He knows the words he has to say. It should be child's play now, but it isn't. Of course it isn't.
'They… separated my soul, somehow. R… Ripped it out my body. I was alive, b-but I wasn't me, anymore. Th… that's what the rabbit was for. I was trapped in… inside it. Like, it was in c-control, for the m… most part, but I was feeling everything it f… felt, and…' He stops talking when he notices the shared look of horror on his brothers' faces, and feels an uncomfortable tugging in his gut. 'Then, they… they, uh… set a p… pack of wolves on me.'
Ireland chokes on his whiskey. America's body is like a statue pressed up against England. Sealand is frozen, hand outstretched towards the cage with the bowl of water Wales gave him. 'Christmas,' he mumbles, when the silence stretches on. His voice is very small.
'Yeah,' England says hoarsely. 'Christmas.'
He stares at the carpet, pretending he can't see the faces around him or the rabbit scuffling around in the cage. Maybe it will be easier if he doesn't look.
'What happened?' Scotland croaks after too long a silence.
England tries to shrug as nonchalantly as he can. It comes out as more of an awkward, shuddering twitch. 'There w-was a hunt. They c… caught me.' He becomes all too aware of Sealand in particular, and wrestles with the urge to send the child out the room to spare him the details. He especially shouldn't have to listen to this. He's just a kid, and Christ- he heard some of it. How is he going to take being given a gruesome picture as to what he heard that night?
But Sealand has been underestimated, undervalued and pushed to the side enough already, and as part of the guilty party for far too many years, England won't take part in it anymore.
'I n-nearly died,' he says eventually, wincing over his next words. 'The r… the rabbit did. Oliver p-pulled me out, right before I…'
He isn't really sure what he can say after this. It's finally here, out in the open- the worst memory he has reclaimed yet, the one that rendered him mute for almost a year, the one that keeps him stumbling over almost every sentence, the one that got him admitted to a bloody psyche ward. And there's so much more to it that he could explain if he mustered the strength, so much he could say about how it felt to not be himself, to be running for his life, to feel his body being crushed and ripped to shreds. So much he could say. But enough is enough, and they know what they need to know.
There's a shaky intake of breath from Wales that might be a sob, and England can feel America's arm around him trembling. But that's fine. He's fairly certain he's shaking too.
'… How long have yeh… how long have yeh known?' Scotland asks finally. 'When did yeh… remember?'
Coldness washes over England. His eyes stay fixed on the floor. 'You kn… know, the last thing I r-really want right now is a l-lecture about keeping secrets.'
Beside him, his eldest brother breathes a deep sigh. 'No, I wasn't gonna… I just… I just wanted to know how long yeh've been carrying that. By yerself.'
England looks up, and isn't ready to see the contorted look on Scotland's face, as if he's fallen and broken his bones all over again. 'The hospital,' he says. 'The first time I w-wanted to explain everything t-to the G8. Right b… before the psyche ward.'
'Torn apart,' Wales says, his voice barely more than a whisper.
'What?'
'In the hospital.' Wales is avoiding eye contact too, staring off into space with glazed, shining eyes. 'When you collapsed. You… you woke up and said something about being… t-torn apart…'
Ireland, as if suddenly remembering the glass in his hand, proceeds to take a huge swig of it. Scotland shuffles awkwardly to his feet, fumbling with and dropping one of the crutches. Instead of picking it up, he limps over it and towards the door. 'Need a smoke,' he mutters, before casting one last, guilty look back at England. But they both know that there's no point in him staying, not when he'll only struggle trying to comfort his younger brother and there's nothing he could do to make it better, anyway.
Sealand is the next to go, slipping out in the quiet, overlooked way only a small child can manage. He returns a few minutes later with a small white blanket, which he pushes carefully into the cage, and whispers a little farewell to the rabbit that no one hears before he flees the room again. The stairs creak a little as the child heads up to his room, far slower than he usually would.
'I should- I should check on him,' Wales says, snapping out of his trance.
'Will you t-tell them?' England asks, once he can find his voice again. He isn't sure what he's thinking in this moment, only that his story being told aloud has numbed him, and the fear that would usually be there, the shame- just isn't.
Wales bites his lip, trying and failing miserably to hide the tears in his eyes as he rubs them away hastily. 'We don't have to. They know we're in danger. They know enough. You don't… you don't have to tell them this, brawd, not if you don't want to-'
'That's not w-what I meant.' England's body feels a million miles away from his mind, as disconnected as it was when he was being chased by the wolves. 'I can't t… tell them. I don't w-want to. I want you t… to.'
He needs the rest of the nations to understand, he realises. He wants them to know what he went through. He isn't sure what he's looking for. Certainly not pity, not a desire to cause any more panic than necessary. But he wants them to know, even if he doesn't know why.
Wales bows his head. 'I… yeah. We'll tell them.'
No one is ever going to look at him the same way as before. But no one has since he first came back.
That's just the world he lives in now.
America helps him back up to his room, arm still wrapped firmly around his shoulders.
It's just as well, because England's legs are like lead and he still doesn't feel as if the limbs even belong to him. He considers peeking into Sealand's room to check on the child, but decides against it when he spots Wales coming out, offering a faint 'good night'. He's much better at that sort of thing, and England doubts he's going to make anything better for Sealand right now.
Back in his own room, he finds himself wanting to keep from sleeping as long as he can. The mirror is long gone- not just tucked away again, but sitting out in the back garden where it will hopefully be less of a bother. It doesn't make him feel much better. He's back to square one, dreading what his dreams will bring, and it sickens him. Even with America here by his side- America, who told him only the other day that things would get better, eventually, even if it took a while (America, whom he believed)- it's as if every part of this nightmare is one step forwards, two steps back, and he has to remind himself of all the good things that are happening right now. He's shared his trauma with people he trusts, people he loves. The world nations believe him. No matter how he feels right now, or in any of his other darker moments, he has been getting better, growing stronger, more sure of himself. The voice in his head, telling him all this, sounds just like America, and he chides himself for bothering with this old ritual. He isn't in the other dimension. America, the real America, is right here, helping him into bed and offering a sheepish grin when he accidentally bumps into England's bedside table.
It's so real, so perfect, that for a second, England can't breathe.
'Stay?' he says eventually, praying that his voice will hold for just one simple word.
He doesn't miss the look of relief that passes over America's face, like he was hoping for this, and it sends shockwaves across England's skin, enough to settle him back into his own body.
'Sure, dude.' America switches off the light and clambers onto the bed beside him, considerably bridging the gap between them automatically as if the last few hours of close proximity have become the default, and England wonders if America is as conscious of it as he is. The exhaustion, or perhaps the lingering numbness- or maybe even, God forbid, a genuine sense of contentedness- keeps any embarrassment at bay.
'I suppose w-we'll get a lie in tomorrow,' he says eventually, fighting off a yawn.
'Oh, yeah?' America's still very much shaken from the talk in the living room, England can tell, but he plays along with the casual chatter nonetheless. That sort of thing has always been one of his strengths.
'Really d-don't want to be there when W… Wales tells them all. And there's that whole p… plan they have with pairs-'
'The buddy system?'
'Yeah. That. So you should p-probably go in late too. If you want.'
America snickers. 'Iggy, man, am I really gonna pass up on a chance to sleep in and skive part of a meeting? Of course I'm gonna do that.'
That's one of the things he values the most, England muses. The simplicity of America's behaviour. The jokes, the playful, upbeat attitude, the kindness of it all in the face of all this horror. It's as much of a beacon as his knife- a different, softer kind, that causes him to think not just of what this war will bring, if it truly is a war, but of what might actually come after, if it doesn't all end in fire and ashes.
Hope. That's what it all is. That's what America brings. It's so very, very him. Allen couldn't hold a candle to any aspect of his counterpart. Not one bit.
And suddenly England sits up straight, a revelation crashing down on him like a giant wave.
'Son of a bitch,' he says, thinking back to all those times America had been there and he's seen Allen, and how he'd always snapped out of it. How could he have been so stupid?
'What?' America sits up too, and England can just make out his outline in the darkness. He imagines he's probably given the younger a bit of a fright.
'Sorry,' he says. 'It's just- for Christ's sake. I j… just realised something.'
'What?'
England lets out a low laugh. He can barely believe it. It seems so ridiculous, so unimportant, yet… 'Allen. The other you. He n-never knew my human name. F… from what I can remember, anyway. I wouldn't t-tell him. They don't go by their n… nation ones. It pissed him off t… to no end.'
'Okay…?' America isn't following.
'He only knew me as England.' He puts his face in his hands, continuing to chuckle a little. 'G-God, I can't believe this. Of all the stupid things…'
'Uh, dude? You gonna elaborate?'
'Every time I saw him, w-when he wasn't there. Every time you s… snapped me out of it, before you even knew how.' Oh, he knows America is going to love this. 'Because you were calling me a n… name he never knew to call me.'
'But I literally never call you Arthur, unless we're in public or whatever-'
'No,' England says, and then he can't stop laughing. 'Iggy.'
There's silence for a few seconds, then America begins to giggle too. 'Wait, so…' he begins, drawing a deep breath. 'Are you- are you seriously telling me my totally rad nickname for you, which you totally have to love now, by the way, has basically been saving the day?'
And then they're both cackling, like it's the funniest thing in the whole damn world. In this moment, England feels as if it truly is.
He still holds off sleep for as long as he can, but not simply out of fear. When America drops off, not half an hour later, he is happy just to lie here, feeling warmer and less alone by the second. For Sealand's sake, he pretends to be asleep when the child sneaks in about an hour after that and crawls onto the bed on England's other side, but he still makes sure to shift ever so slightly so the micronation will have more covers when he senses the micronation shivering.
Only then does he allow the dreams to take him.
The man in the clearing is not human.
The ability to sense this, to recognise their fellow kind when up close by some inexplicable sense, is one of the few more spiritually inclined abilities all the nations seem to share, not just those with magical abilities. Another, more recently concerning one for England is an individual nation's ability to sense when others are on their land or a vague sense of where they might be, and the thought of Oliver using this to find him as troubled him somewhat over the last few months. But Oliver is barely a nation now, as disconnected from his land as he is his people, and England finds a small amount of solace in knowing this might be part of the reason he has managed to hide this long.
Until now, anyway. Because there is a nation less than a hundred yards from him, and with a start, England realises those figures he spotted in the early morning perhaps weren't human after all.
So they've finally figured out where to look. England hand slides slowly and quietly into his pocket, fingers curling around the hilt of the knife. That's fine. There looked to be only two of them, and he knows what to do to get them to stay away from him.
(He worries that they'll call his bluff this time. That they'll take him anyway.)
It doesn't matter. He hasn't been found yet.
But this nation up ahead is quiet, just like him. He moves through the undergrowth slowly, carefully, making almost no noise at all. He knows what he's doing, that much is certain. He knows how to sneak through the wilderness almost as well as England can, and were he not within direct sight, the latter wonders uneasily if he would have been able to spot him before it was too late.
The man draws closer, shifting through the bushes with something akin to ease, glancing around every so often in slow twists of the head, careful not to move too much. England's stomach begins to twist in notes, and his skin chills with each gradual, approaching footstep. He is still hidden behind the oak tree, still tucked away in the ditch and peering out from between the leaves of the bush, but he knows he can't stay here. The other nation will be upon him in a moment, and with the advantage of higher ground.
England crawls carefully up the little slope, mindful of leaves and pine needles, keeping the tree firmly planted between him and the man. Even if he can't see the other nation, he can still, albeit barely, hear the occasional snap of a twig and the faint rustling of vegetation being pressed down. He draws his knife and shifts into a crouching position once he reaches the foot of the tree, climbing carefully over jutting out roots and peering around to get a good look at the figure.
The nation is taller and broader than him, clad in a dark grey coat and a black cap, wielding what looks like a rifle, which he uses to gently push some of the taller plant stems out the way as he moves forwards. England will only have another thirty seconds or so before the man will be upon him, so he has to be quick. He veers off to the left of the tree, crouching low behind a string of nettles and making his way slowly through the underbrush, eyes darting between watching where he is treading and keeping the man within sight. The breeze is on his side- just strong enough to ruffle the leaves above the two, louder than his own movements. When the man turns his head in the opposite direction, England spies his chance to keep moving forwards, ready to make his escape in the direction his follower has come from.
But as he creeps behind the other nation, he hesitates.
The man gives a low, quiet sigh, and carries on towards the ditch. From his new position, only a few feet away, England examines the newcomer properly. Definitely a nation, definitely a danger, definitely-
But how can he even sense that? Oliver, Allen, Francoise, all the others- he never once felt that instinctive recognition. He knew who and what they were because of their appearances, because they were carbon copies of himself and the nations from back home. He'd never needed to sense them, never even really thought about it. He knows it's because they're not really nations anymore- at least, not in the same way he is. But this man…
And suddenly, England knows. He recognises the man's build and movements, senses the nation, remembers the figure in the basement all that time ago, and knows.
He's on the man in two seconds flat, the tip of the knife jutting against the back of his neck. The man gives a small grunt of alarm and tries to spin around, but England is faster.
'Move,' he says, 'and this goes straight through your throat.'
In the peacefulness of the woods, far from anyone who might hear him, he has been practicing his speech over the last few months with his voices to talk to. He is relieved to hear that it comes out clear, concise, and very, very cold.
'England,' the nation breathes. 'It- it's you?'
England risks glancing around, ensuring that whoever his prisoner was with before hasn't shown up to help apprehend him. But the woods are as empty as ever, and he feels himself relax.
This is okay. This is good. He's in charge.
'Who did you come with?' he demands.
The other nation takes a deep breath before replying. 'Luciano. Just him and I in these parts. There- there are others, searching further north, and some on the south coast, I- I think-'
'Luciano?' England vaguely remembers the name. 'Italy?'
The nation stiffens. 'J-ja. Oliver- Oliver gave us all a list of places you might have headed. It's become some sort of race to find you. Luciano is determined to win.'
'I bet they all are,' England spits.
The nation bows his head a little. The knife skims the top of his skin, ever so slightly, but that's all this blade needs to draw a thin line of blood. 'That's true.'
His voice is so low, so sorrowful, that England's questions come tumbling out before he can stop himself.
'Why were you in the basement?' he says. His grip on the knife's hilt tightens. 'You're his prisoner. Why?'
'You- that was you, then? You did look in on me, before you left? There was… there was so much chaos that night, and I wasn't sure…'
'Why?' England repeats stonily, but already he is lowering the knife. The man has given no reaction whatsoever to the cut on his skin, and his voice is so dejected and tired that it seems as if no amount of threats are going to change anything. England isn't even sure if the nation will try to attack him or not.
The taller of the two takes this opportunity to turn, ever so slowly, dropping the rife and raising his hands in surrender. His face is gaunt and scarred, his eyes a dim violet, but England still recognises the familiar, sharp jawline and the tufts of blonde hair sticking out of the cap in a neat, clean chopped fashion, and realises that he was right all along, that he didn't make a mistake in the basement that terrible night, that it is who he thinks it is.
He thinks for a second, then dares to ask what's really on his mind. 'Why are you different from them?'
'It's a long story,' says the ragged, solemn duplicate of Germany, closing his eyes and deepening his frown as if in pain.
'That's fine,' England growls. 'I've got nothing but time now.'
My Hetalia discord server: discord . gg / eJUCRbE
My personal blog, for queries and for ranting at me about whatever dick move I've pulled this time: rezeren . tumblr . com
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The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia . tumblr [slash] ash - song
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Someone guessed it was 2P Germany in a review, like quite recently, and I lost my shit lmao. Now have fun guessing why. I realised after the chapter before last that 2P Germany and 2P Japan were the only counterparts of the main eight APH characters that I hadn't mentioned by name making cameos in Oliver's house. I thought it might be a little interesting for y'all to guess which one it was if anyone caught on that, but then again, I hinted it was 2P Germany like way more with how 2P Italy talked about him.
Anywho, I stayed up all night for this like I always do, so I'm just gonna go into a mild coma now and I'll see you guys hopefully a lot sooner than usual, but who am I kidding.
Hope you guys enjoyed, sorry as always for the wait, thanks for reading, and remember to review!
