The Past Will Always Catch You

He woke up slowly, mind knitting together soft, fuzzy pieces of memory in a calm and disjointed manner. A soft bed. Sobbing in a bath tub with no curtains. Hands raking torn nails down an arm. Hugging his knees on a kitchen floor.

None of it made very much sense.

After what felt like no time at all, but must have been at least a good length, he found himself upright and vacantly staring at a reflection of himself in a mirror. This he considered strange, because although he knew that he'd been up and moving for a while he couldn't exactly focus on any particular place until now, nor could he remember anywhere previously but a floor. His feet hurt from standing for too long.

He couldn't remember going into a bathroom, but he wasn't surprised to be in one. As awareness started to further seep in, it became very confusing, especially because he had a headache that throbbed slightly from behind his eyes. It was making it very difficult to concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds before he found himself zoning out again.

Focusing eyes, he raised his hand and watched his reflection in the mirror as it pulled and rubbed the scruff on his chin. He needed a shave, but he felt too… removed from himself, almost, and decided to leave it for later.

Glancing at his toes sinking into a carpeted floor as he went, he traipsed his way along a landing and into a bedroom where a pile of folded clothes was laying on a large double bed. The sheets smelt fresh but the bed was slept in, duvet in an angry pile at the top near the pillows and headboard. He lay a hand upon a shirt and stroked the material gently, feeling the pull and fold of material in his hands. It was at this point that he dimly realised he was naked, and felt a small nagging in his mind which told him that he should probably rectify this so, despite being at what he assumed was a comfortable temperature, he dressed himself. He then found himself back in the bathroom and haunting the mirror, although again he couldn't remember making his way there or how long he had been there for.

Despite the lapses in memory, the fogginess in his mind was starting to clear a little- reality was becoming sharper and time feeling more linear and workable. He turned on a tap, filled cupped hands with cold water and brought them to his face, roughly pulling them over the scruff on his chin, (he really should shave) and gently rubbing at his eyes to wake himself up more.

Releasing a breath, he straightened and gazed again at the reflection in the mirror, noting that something wasn't quite right but not able to quite tell why or what it was. He kept focusing on different parts, his smooth skin and blond hair, staring at the details as if he expected them to change.

A distant clink of a spoon on ceramic caught his attention, and the smell of what he knew to be coffee piqued his curiosity enough to overcome the doubts he had of his ability to make it down the stairs. Wobbly, he latched onto a banister with one hand and cautiously made his way down, one foot carefully finding a good foothold before the next one lifted. As he reached the bottom, he felt a fleeting feeling of accomplishment and self-worth before noticing a man sitting on a large and comfortable looking sofa in the first room beyond the stairs. There were red scratches up the man's arm and he clenched his own hands, a seed of guilt briefly appearing before disappearing with a whisp of memory.

The man on the sofa was reading a book with a cup of something steaming on a large oak table beside him, but he looked up at the sound he made as he put his feet on wooden floors instead of carpeted stairs and nodded to him in greeting.

'There's some coffee poured for you in the kitchen; I heard you moving about.' He indicated with his head to a room past an archway and then looked down again, back to his book.

He tried to respond, opened his mouth to thank him, but the words caught in his mouth as his tongue couldn't remember were to start. Instead, he nodded, relieved that the other man didn't look up to notice his failed attempt at speaking, and made his way past the sofas and into the kitchen.

'I'm glad you found the clothes this time,' the other directed at him from the other room, 'let's just hope this one lasts a bit longer.'

The last comment didn't make much sense, so he ignored it in favour of taking the sole mug sitting on a counter and taking a sip, instantly regretting it as he burnt his tongue on scalding hot and dark black coffee. He knew that he liked it, but couldn't quite remember why exactly as it was very flavoursome- too much for him at the moment. His stomach made a gurgling noise and he looked regretfully towards the mug and then at the fridge in the corner of the kitchen. As he started towards it, he was stopped by the sound of socked feet moving smoothly against the flagstone floor.

'I wouldn't just yet,' The man from the living room told him as he turned his head to look for the source of the noise, 'you'll probably reset again soon.'

'I will?' The first words he'd spoken since waking fell from his lips easily, almost as if he himself didn't know he was going to say them until he did.

The other man nodded, and drummed one set of fingers on an elbow; arms crossed loosely across his chest. He was wearing a woolly jumper that he knew he'd seen the other man wear before, many times across many vague memories. 'Probably.'

'Oh.' He stood stupidly in the middle of the room, not quite knowing what to do next but it was becoming harder to focus on caring. He found that he couldn't feel his fingers and focused all of his rapidly diminishing mental energy into trying to wiggle them, failing to realise that a buzzing sound was beginning to grow from deep within his head.

The last thing he heard was the other man curse in frustration and the give a soft sigh as the room went dark.

He woke up, face-down, on a thick carpet.

He lay there a while, staring at one of the whorls in a pattern and fighting the urge to vomit, before flopping over onto his back. He could remember being downstairs but couldn't remember how he'd managed to get back up again, or why he was once again very much naked. The light coming in through a window was brighter- a lot of time had passed.

Deciding against finding some clothes just in case whatever was happening decided to happen again, he curled to his knees and pushed himself up with heavy, leaden limbs to shakily make his way back down the stairs. The man was still, (or once again, he couldn't quite tell), in the living room, watching the telly though this time, and tutted when he saw him shuffle into through the door.

'Could you not at least put on underwear?' He lifted a hand and pointed. 'The kitchen's that way.'

'I remember.'

The man looked ever so slightly happy for a moment, the corners of his mouth lifting and his eyebrows raising. 'Oh? Well, that's good.' He turned away again, leaving him to shuffle stiffly back to where he knew he'd find the fridge. He didn't really know why he was aiming for the fridge but it felt important somehow and, as it was the only distinct idea in this head, he decided to stick with it, lest it disappear.

Walking, however, was becoming a struggle. He veered around the island counter in the middle of the room and almost thrust himself towards the sink by the window, hands gripping the porcelain and shaking in the effort to keep him upright. After a few deep breaths, he had managed to steady himself enough that he could stand straight and see out of the window. He found a medium size garden filled with shrubbery, but it was too bright for his eyes to look for more identifying details as to where he was. His surroundings felt familiar, but it wasn't home, he knew that much.

At the fridge, he was greeted to the sight of fresh vegetables, a cut of lamb sitting with some slices of ham, and some milk. A carton of eggs sat on top of a bar of chocolate. An opened pot of jam. A crushing wave of disappointment filled him. What on earth had he been looking for?

'God knows what you're after.'

He jumped as the man from the sofa spoke from behind, close enough to stare into the fridge with him but far away enough that he was out of his arms' range.

He continued. 'Every single time you go towards it, I'm beginning to think you're judging me somehow.' He gave a small grin and moved back, round past the sink and to the window's side of the island counter. 'I did make you some coffee, but that was a while ago and it's probably cold now.'

He picked up a mug which was stood alone and in the middle of the counter and took a tentative sip before making a face at the taste. 'Yep, stone cold.'

By the fridge, his stomach twinged as if in sadness. Coffee seemed like a perfect thing to have right now.

As if reading his thoughts, or most likely acting from prior experiences, the other man turned to pour the forgotten cup down into the sink and clicked on the kettle.

'How're you feeling?'

Though he did not look his way, the question was meant for him.

'I'm fine, I think.' He shut the fridge and slowly and carefully placed himself on a stool, leaning against the counter once sat properly. 'I feel more… here.'

The other man nodded as he went through the processes to remaking the drink; the smell of it soon filled the kitchen and accompanied the comfortable silence between them. He realised that sitting on someone's stool naked probably wasn't acceptable and quickly got off after the other person in the kitchen shot him a shake of the head, glancing pointedly at the stool he was sat on. So, feeling much stronger now anyway, he stood and was rewarded with a look of amusement.

After placing a fresh mug of black coffee in front of him, the other man pulled himself onto the stool on his left and said, 'don't drink it straight away this time.'

A burnt tongue throbbed slightly when raked across his teeth, a physical memory of something his mind couldn't quite picture. 'I won't.'

He blew on the surface. Judging by the smell, this was a good brand; full and flavoursome it was generously dark.

'Do you remember me?'

He stopped blowing and looked up. The man was leant forward, one hand supporting his head but more for comfort than boredom, with a calm expression of youthful curiosity. His eyes, however, looked old.

'You are Arthur.'

One corner of Arthur's mouth flicked into a smile. 'Yes, I am.'

'And I…I am Francis.'

Arthur watched him as he lifted his mug again. The possibility of a smile was gone from his face now. 'Yes, I suppose you are.'

Francis did not lose track of himself again. After his coffee, Arthur had slipped away silently, to where or to be back when Francis didn't know. He himself found it high time that he got dressed and so had gone back upstairs to find some clothes, which he possibly had a memory of putting on earlier, folded neatly on an almost as neatly made bed. He decided against shaving, rather liking the slow growth of stubble spreading out across his jaw. Made him look more real, somehow. A person with something to focus on. Other than facial hair, he didn't feel as though he needed further hygiene maintained, feeling and smelling quite clean, and only brushed his teeth before wandering back downstairs. It was now 2pm, according to a little clock on the mantelpiece in the living room, which told Francis nothing further about his current whereabouts, situation or circumstance.

Surprisingly, he realised that he wasn't really bothered about this. He recognised the house he was in as somewhere not sinister and felt no urge to leave it, nor did he feel as though he shouldn't be where he was. Instead, he felt more…empty. Apathetic to it all.

He was Francis. He was in a living room. He was in a house. On a sofa.

He was.

That, in itself, made him feel strange. Who was he? Every time he tried to think, or imagine himself and his life, flashes of memory flashed in his mind but they never stayed for long and didn't seem to match up with what he had seen in the mirror. He got glimpses of grey hair and shaking hands. Liver spots and a weakness that hollowed his bones and weighted his balance. Now his face was young and his back straight; hands steady with strength coiled in his legs.

He felt fine, and that felt out of place, somehow. Almost as if he'd been ill for a very long time- feeling as healthy as he did felt wonderful but alien and he had no idea why he felt this way. He body was remembering something his mind could not but, oddly enough, he couldn't bring himself to care.

He passed a few hours just sitting and reading, sprawled along the length of the settee. He didn't know the author of the book, didn't know the story and didn't really like the writing style or where the plot was going but he read it anyway, perhaps for a lack of better things to do.

Before too long, Arthur came back; door clicking open and a sound of shuffled feet on a doormat.

'Welcome back.' Francis didn't look up but instead read to the end of his paragraph and marked his place before laying the book back on the coffee table. 'Where did you go?'

Arthur put a set of keys in a bowl on a windowsill by the door. Looking up, he slipped his shoes off and moved into the living room. 'I just went for a short walk. It's been a while since I was here and I just wanted to make sure all was okay. There's been some flooding recently.'

Francis didn't really know what to add to that, not really knowing where 'here' was, and so stayed silent. Arthur stared at him hard for a while, green eyes darting about Francis' face, before nodding to himself and making his way quickly upstairs. Before too long, he reappeared again carrying-

The room he was in was long and the sunlight illuminated every corner; the windows had been well placed and he leant against one easily, watching a man with blond hair walk through the courtyard and climb in to a waiting car. He was carrying a case of great age, the colour looked shabby from even here, but sturdy.

There was a soft cough from behind him and Francis turned. Not too far away stood a man he hadn't heard enter but knew well enough, Julien Durand. With his tall stature and serious looks, he looked every inch the politician he was and Francis had often wondered if he would fit any other job with a smile that sly.

'Ah, Monsieur Durand, can I help you with something?'

The other man's mouth twitched but he otherwise remained impassive and unreadable. 'I do so hope that you can. That was Lord Kirkland you met just now, am I correct?'

Francis nodded; Arthur was no secret. 'It was.'

His colleague stayed silent for a time and for the first time an expression of uncertainty could be identified, eyes shifting uneasily without resting in one place for too long while he wrung his hands. It looked as though he either didn't know what to start with or that he was trying to choose his words carefully, either way Francis was starting to grow irritated and tried to coax him along.

'Monsieur Durand?'

Durand's head snapped up. 'I apologise. I just wanted to say, Monsieur Bonnefoy, that I have heard some concerning rumours about the man and I was wondering if you'd be able to help me understand a few things.'

Interest piqued, Francis was all too happy to respond, especially if it was to gossip about Arthur.

'Please do,' Francis pushed himself away from the window, 'shall we go someone else to talk?'

The man glanced about. 'No, here is fine with me, what I have to say won't take long.'

Durand stepped a bit closer, head high and more in control of himself. 'Myself, and a few others, have begun to grow suspicious of Lord Kirkland. If I am to be completely frank and to the point, I have gathered particularly damming evidence that he is gathering intelligence on the French government and selling it onwards.'

Although Francis never turned away an opportunity to slander his favourite heathen across the sea, he knew the conversation had very suddenly waltzed onto dangerous ground. 'He does seem to be the type, does he not? He is a very... withdrawn man; very ill-tempered but surely, he cannot be a spy, if that is what you're implying? He himself is a highly regarded member of the British government.' Then, he added on gently, 'They are also our allies.'

Durand frowned and spoke more quietly. 'I am not implying anything Monsieur Bonnefoy. Mr Kirkland has been observed in highly restricted parts of the French governmental archives without supervision and I have myself obtained proof that, over the years, he has been quietly been in contact with a member of the French parliament, slowly acquiring highly sensitive data.'

Francis noticed that Arthur's title had been dropped, but said nothing and Durand continued.

'I have come to you, Monsieur Bonnefoy, because I know you two, having similar roles, are in frequent contact and I need your backing when I put forth what evidence I have; alone I do not really have much standing.'

A beat of silence as Francis quickly tried to read the situation. 'If what you say is true, then of course something needs to be done to prevent him continuing.' Francis smiled, giving nothing away. 'What of his contact from our side?'

Durand gave a small smile, mouth twitching at a corner, and a quick shake of his head. 'Not someone too important, just someone who knows enough, I think, for Kirkland to get what he needs. I think - no, I'm convinced that he's involved in something detrimental to the safety of France.'

Francis straightened his shoulders. 'Is that so?' Something was wrong, something was not being said but Francis didn't know how far to push this man, something in his gut told him to play along, for the time being at least.

'It is.' An excited glint was in the politician's eyes now, giving him a slightly manic air. 'There's something that's being kept from us by our own government, God knows what exactly but I think Kirkland has found it. I have my ideas, but I cannot be sure. After months of searching, I myself can find nothing but vague references which could easily be overlooked. Indeed, if I hadn't caught Kirkland in the archives, I wouldn't have begun to track what he was searching for in the first place. He leaves very few traces.'

Francis forced himself to look concerned. 'This is- this is a highly serious matter, Julien.'

Durand looked relieved. 'I'm glad that I can rely on your assistance, more so because you understand how highly sensitive this is. Kirkland trusts you, and if we work together, we can figure out what he's hiding; without more evidence as to what he's after it will be hard to convince higher ups, especially if it concerns a topic we are not supposed to be aware of.'

'I understand completely.' Francis made himself say the words, he needed to contact Arthur as soon as possible.

'You can help me then, yes?' Durand tilted his head, a smile pulling at his lips.

Francis forced an airy laugh. 'Of course, I can try but I'm not as close to him as you seem to think I am.'

The man said nothing but tightened his lips. Without another word, he strode across the room and pulled open the door to a cupboard and from it pulled another old briefcase.

Francis' heart stopped and with a flash of clarity he wondered how much of this exchange had been planned.

Durand came smoothly back over to where Francis was frozen and held out the case for him to take. Francis reached out and in what he hoped he tremor free hands, he held its heavy weight carefully.

'You know what this is, don't you?'

Francis shook his head and stroked his hand across the old leather.

'Don't lie!' Francis' eyes snapped up and locked with his companion's. Durand now stood tense, eyes cold and stare unwavering with a voice laced with steel. 'Do not, Sir, lie to me.'

'I'm not lying?' Francis sounded confused to his own ears. The conversation had turned so suddenly that he couldn't think quick enough, couldn't do much anymore to ignore the experienced part of himself that knew something was so very wrong.

Anger, sudden thick, intense anger poured from every part of the other man; his hands clenched and he tightened his jaw, head erect and chin up with cold eyes that were twisted into a scowl of such intense anger that Francis had to stop himself from stepping back.

'I know you're lying! And I know what you're involved with! Do you not think that I recognise how serious this is?' The change in his persona was so swift that it threw Francis off his mental track completely before his mind stuttered further to a stop at a quick flash of metal as the man plunged his hand into his pocket and whipped out a gun.

'I know that you know what's inside, I saw you! This is a possible threat to our nation; why do you not care? How DARE you lie, and think that you can trick me!'

'Wait a second!' Francis threw a hand up; a reflex.

'I had hoped you were worth saving.' There was an edge of insanity to Durand's voice, but he'd been so normal and this had happened so fast Francis couldn't think abou-

A loud shout, his own most likely, before Francis threw the case to safety away from the shot and then a sudden sharp bang filled his ears as his senses overloaded with the pressure and pain that rocketed through his chest, burning into his heart. The ceiling swung as he fell backwards, and he fought to keep the air in his lungs as his back cracked against the hard wood floor. His vision went black and he remembered nothing else.

A case.

Francis had an immediate explosion of pain from right behind his eyes and gasped, clutching his head in his hands and swinging his weight around so his feet could touch the floor and help ground him. He felt a weight next to him on the sofa and felt Arthur behind him, a steadying hand on his shoulder from where he was stood from behind the backrest.

'Jolly good, looks as though you're ready.'

'Ready?' Francis gasped, pain receding but still pounding, an incessant thrum of something pushing against his mind and making his head feel heavy.

'Sadly so.' Arthur patted his shoulder and moved away to sit on the coffee table in front of his knees.

Francis looked up to see Arthur pick up the grubby old case from where he had briefly placed it on the sofa and set it gently on his lap, latch facing Francis and now so close that he could reach out and flick the lock to swing it open. The pain was a dull ache now, nestled behind his eyes, meaning that he could sit up straighter and take a deep breath. He didn't need to ask any questions; the pull of the case was a strong one and he was finding it harder to stop himself from grabbing it off Arthur's lap and ripping it open. It was his and he needed to open it, needed to see what was in it, needed to take it and run, needed to-

Arthur smacked his hands away.

'Ah! Not yet.'

A small shocked silence where Francis just stared at Arthur's face blankly, hand feebly left in the air inches from the case. Then, a very real and quick rage flared up to take its place.

'What?' He snapped, 'why not.'

'Because you have no idea what you're doing,' Arthur retorted, carefully shifting the weight of the lump on his legs. 'This is getting rather on a bit in the years and considering all it's recently been through I don't want you damaging anything inside. God knows, it'll be harder to get this process over and done with quickly if I have to go about searching for new things, plus the palaver you'd give me.'

'What on earth are you talking about?'

'You have recently reset.' Arthur spoke firmly and slowly, as if to a child. 'Your mind hasn't yet caught up with your body, nor what's happened to you. It is currently trying to remember things that it has been hiding from itself for a long time. What is in here will help you reset faster than natural, or else this,' he gestured with one hand to Francis' entire body, 'will take a few more days where you will mope about and potentially wake up stark naked on my landing. Trust me when I say that doing it this way is far more convenient.'

Francis furrowed his forehead in confusion. 'What do you mean?'

Arthur visibly considered his words before he spoke again. 'This will help jog the memories that are trying to come back. They will come back anyway, but seeing what's in this case will speed up the process. All of your blackouts are your body and your mind attempting to fuse together again, to understand who you truly are.' He grinned, one corner of his mouth pulling upwards. 'There's a lot to remember, after all.'

Arthur settled his hands back on the case and stroked the aged, scratched lid. 'This is something we've always done, for as long as I can remember anyway, and something you will hold me to if this fails to work properly. So,' he raised his eyes, 'here you go.'

He gently placed the case in Francis' lap and took out a key which he was keeping in his trouser pocket. Taking it from him, Francis wasted no time but gently tilted the case so that the lock was easier to reach and placed the key in the lock.

It turned easily, smoothly.

He lifted the lid and-

He took a sharp breath in. There were not many things inside but there were enough, more than enough, even, for him to take in all at once and his mind exploded with memories of things and places and people and time, so much time and so many eras, decades, ages.

He wanted to run his hands over them all, and all at once, but oh how beautiful they all looked, nestled in amongst expensive silken shirts and scarves to protect them against knocks. Small dainty rings and cufflinks which glinted and shone in the afternoon light were placed in a small ornate box-

A gift. From a friend a long time ago, presented as a gift of union between two powers and against another. They shook hands and hugged because although this was not the first gift they had ever given each other it was the most special, the most poignant, the one which Francis knew meant an awful lot and it meant so much that something this precious would to offered to him. To him! The union between them would show their reach and their control, but this box meant more than that. This was something for him, and not just the union; small and discreet it did not show might, but trust and appreciation. The other man- Spanish- laughed at his surprise and said, in his cheerful voice with warm hazel eyes twinkling, 'You thought this was just political? We're friends too, you know!'

The box was hand-crafted by his king and he knew that his companion held it truly dear, the simple fact that it was now in his possession meant so much, so very very much.

His hand ghosted over the box, fingers tentatively stroking the metal carvings and eyes filling rapidly with something akin to happiness, love, euphoria and a whole lot of emotions that couldn't be named, and stopped to rest on some old, some very old, worn leather-bound books, pages fragile but still strong in their bindings. How he loved to read, and had watched great men scrunch to write favourites over a candle: tales of revolution, tales of believing in hope against all odds, of counts and hunchbacks and musketeers.

Next to those, a bundle of carefully folded letters from Margaret of Anjou, daughter of France but Queen of England who ignited a civil war and planned her attacks from across the channel. Her letters were calculating and careful, each point carefully scrutinised before it was ever put to paper as these were instructions to wait, to muster arms, to hide, to flee, to kill; all the things a disposed Queen of England should not have written.

A small pocket knife, a Napoleonic present from the man who promised him much and almost succeeded; an arrow head emblazoned with dark dry blood from the eye of a king; an American made pocket watch with an inscription of thanks and then…

A small wooden cross. Rubbed and worn down into dips and hollows by tired and anxious fingers, held steadfast whilst lips prayed with fervour, prayers that tumbled from chapped lips. It had then been held in the trembling hands of an observer as she had burned, burned burned burned, for the crime of being a woman in a men's war and hearing the voices of a God who had sided with the French. Anger as hot as the fire climbed and rose to a crescendo as she screamed and his heart broke more than he believed was possible.

Smothering the age-old burn in his heart, he placed the ancient cross carefully back down, making sure each bead attached to the rosary was not mishandled. He let the last few slip through his fingers and gently lowered his hand as he eyes caught a small clay imitation of a Celtic torc, the size of a child's neck and clumsily made by a child's hands with crude but intricate designs. A gift of thanks, willing given and lovingly made, from a small child of angry words and far too large eyes of green.

His own eyes were fixed and could not look away, even when he heard Arthur murmur distantly, as though he sat far away, 'Do you remember me?'

'Yes.' His voice was soft, barely there, but he knew the other had heard. 'You are England.'

He looked up, eyes spilling over and the full force of everything that was and is once again settled its great, heavy weight into his mind, soul once more taken over by the memories of over a thousand years of simply being.

'And I am France.'

England smiled.

Gaul did not like Britannia when he first met him. It was as if some part of his brain just knew that this small nation would be bring him a lot of stress in the future, starting very soon. He knew about him long before he met him- whispers from the adult nations about the last jewel of the north, the unconquered and exotically dangerous family from the misty land of white cliffs protected by savage seas. Gaul also knew that his name was not actually Britannia- that had been his mother, just like Gaul had been the nation before him- but the boy was Britannia now. The mother then was now, finally, dead.

He had heard rumours of the original Britannia. He had heard that she stormed down valleys with her furious and terrifying men, shouting and screaming bone chilling battle cries as they slew hundreds of well trained and hardy Roman soldiers. People said that she had flames for hair and eyes of hell fire; strange spells written in blue scrawled across her body which gave her magical powers. A bloodthirsty barbarian with dirty heathen sons.

Few knew she had children and certainly no one knew how many. There had been whispers of one or two for a few centuries already, but no one who had got close enough to them had survived. But now that the small Britannia was here, the might of Rome had finally grown too strong.

~...~

Gaul only saw him briefly when he arrived; he had a tear-stained face with eyes that radiated terror. Mother Greece shook her head and slipped into the shadows before his arrival, but Gaul knew she stood unseen nearby, watching. The child said nothing and hardly moved unless he was made to walk, but his eyes darted about the room as if trying in desperation to find some way out and back to the life he'd had before.

From that day forth though, Britannia was a loud and very disobedient colony. Rome may have been an empire, but he also saw himself as doing right; he was helping these small nations and raising them in the way of the civilised. His gifts of Roman culture were of course a far better prize than the one he was trying to wipe away. But every time he tried to talk to Britannia, in the small house he kept him in, he would come away with scratches, bite marks, and a face of thunder which warned of patience were wearing thin.

Gaul thought that he could try and help. He was, after all, one of Rome's older children and obviously the most civilised after Rome himself. The issue was that Britannia refused to accept his new life. He would not answer to his new name and nor would he make any attempt to learn Latin, traditional or any vulgar variety. He was also constantly angry, and would scream and kick if Gaul got anywhere near him and would throw whatever was within his arms' reach to try and make Gaul, or anyone else, go away. The only person he permitted was mother Greece, who, after a few months of this tirade, had gained permission from Rome to sit and try and talk some sense into the child.

Rome steered the other colonies from the house when Britannia's heart wrenching, desperate cries grew too loud.

Gaul began to detest him.

Why would he not just accept his new, better life? Why would he not act like the civilised nation Rome was offering to let him be? Gaul could not understand why he would hate Rome so, when all Rome had done was to try and help this poor heathen away from his barbaric ways and into a proper, cultured world. All he had been given, the clothes, the good food, the nice bed in a nice house- that creature deserved none of it.

After the child had calmed enough to finally be let out of the house, Gaul would taunt and tease him and would encourage the other young ones to do the same. If Britannia wanted to act uncivilised fine, let him have his way. Maybe if they laughed at him, he'd realise how shameful he was acting.

Rome also did not much like Britannia. He liked his territory, and he was in awe of his mother, but the child himself was nothing but a headache and Rome could only be tolerant for so long. When Britannia first tried to run away, he was understanding. By the fifth attempt, he was furious. On the day of his escape Gaul, seeing his empire's anger, had silently volunteered to retrieve him and had slipped away. He knew Britannia could not have gone far, with the physical age of four his little legs would not carry him for long.

About half a day's walk away, Gaul found him camped and resting underneath the branches of a low-lying tree and, with a sudden flare of anger, kicked him awake with a swift jab in the side with his sandalled foot.

Britannia awoke with a yelp and sprang to his feet, hissing his strange words at Gaul who ignored him with a shove. 'Why do you always do this?'

Shove. Britannia growled at him and lunged forward to attack, but was easily knocked aside by the older boy's hands and was again thrown to the floor.

'You have been saved! You have a father who is doing so much for you! Even though you are so disrespectful he still makes so much time for you! Do you know how lucky you are?!'

Britannia did not spring back up but stayed on the ground, hunched and ready to spring. 'He no father.'

His words were thick and difficult to understand but Gaul was shocked into silence. Then rage again, almost as quick. He could speak this whole time but his stubbornness and disobedience kept him chanting in those ugly words of his- how dare he! Yet Rome still tried, Rome still cared and gave him so much attention, speaking to him day after day and trying to get him to eat his good food and wear the beautiful clothes that Britannia would instantly try to tear off. Someone so unworthy did not deserve someone so great as Rome! Gaul deserved that attention, not some low life savage child who obviously was too crass to accept the civilised lifestyle.

It all happened very quickly.

As Britannia went to stand up Gaul, anger hot and heavy in his chest, lifted his foot and kicked the younger boy square in the face, sending him flying backwards. A horrible crack followed as Britannia's head hit a rock near the tree's roots and his body lay still, face twisted off to the side.

Instantly, the rage Gaul has felt was washed away by intense panic and guilt. He hadn't meant to kick that hard and he didn't know about the rock; didn't do it on purpose and he never meant to really hurt him. Oh, what was Rome to say, would he think him a savage too?

Jerkily Gaul fell to his knees to check over the other colony, fingers gently brushed away his hair to see the damage at the back of his skull. The wound was large and the sight of brains and blood made him retch. He threw himself sidewards just in time and leant on his blood-soaked hands by the tree for a while, panting and gathering the strength to look back. He'd seen dead bodies before, but never those he knew or those he'd personally killed, and especially not another nation. He knew they healed though, and upon realising this he relaxed slightly. He'd just have to wait a bit, eventually Britannia would wake up and he could take him back to Rome and no one would have to know anything.

Moving away from the tree, he leant back over Britannia and tentatively lifted his head off the rock and arranged his body into a more comfortable position; it was the least he could do.

~...~

Britannia never woke up. Gaul had sat there for the remainder of the day before he started truly panicking and ran back to tell Rome, expecting a beating for his crime or worse- to be thought of as the savage he tried so hard not to be. Instead, Rome just sighed and shook his head sadly and murmured, 'he finally did it then,' before marching Gaul back to where he lay so he could collect his body and prepare it for burial.

Even a savage nation, Gaul was told, is still a nation and they still deserved to be looked after in death, especially when they came as close to death as their kind ever did. A reset. It was Gaul's first introduction to the whole process, the shedding of an old body to be reborn in a new one, and he balked at the idea of actually dying and not just getting better like he normally did.

It would be at least 4 years, Britannia's physical age, before the biological part of the reset was complete, but he would stay with his new life for as long as his body lived, as a human. This, Rome said, was to keep them connected to their people- to live their life and understand their struggles allowed them as nations to understand better. Once Britannia's human body died, his nation self would return fully restored.

On a trip to Londinium with Rome around 20 years later Gaul finally saw him again, slumped in a baggy piece of cloth by the still smoking ruins of a Celtic settlement just outside of the new city. Gaul was thrilled to have him back, the relief at him being alive again helped ease away some of the guilt he didn't even know he'd been carrying and he ran to the boy, throwing his arms around the younger child and hugging him close.

'Britannia! Oh, I'm so happy you're back! I had wanted to tell you that I didn't mean to push you, but you know that don't you? It was only because you had made me so angry but I'm willing to forget that, if you are.' The smell of burning wood and something a bit more sickly sweet was strong here and Gaul wanted to get away as soon as possible. He pulled back to see his answer but was met with a confused stare. Gaul took an involuntary step back and in doing so noticed a bit more. Britannia was disgusting, his clothing was covered in his own filth along the bottom, his hair smelt of mildew and he was still damp from seemingly yesterday's rain.

'Who're... you.' The child mumbled, voice soft and hard to understand accompanied a vacant stare that seemed to look through the older colony.

'Ah! You can still speak then!' Gaul gave a nervous laugh. 'It is me, of course!'

Britannia said nothing but looked with soulless eyes, which promptly rolled back before his legs folded beneath him as he fainted.

Gaul gave a yelp of surprise. 'What's wrong with you?' He got no answer, and so stepped forward again to take a closer look. He was defiantly the right child and thus had certainly reset, yet why couldn't he remember? Why was he acting so strange?

Gaul chewed his lip. If he went to Rome and he saw Britannia like this, Gods knew what he'd do, he was already angry with the colony as it was- for running away, for being gone so long, and also for the fact that many of his peoples had been continuously rebelling since the occupation; tribes turning back on their promises to cooperate and some continuing to refuse as they still fought amongst themselves.

Out of nowhere, he was struck with inspiration. Dashing back to Londinium, he rushed into the house they were staying in and to the small chamber where he slept. There, he had collected a few things of the other boy's meagre belongings from his feelings of remorse and regret before Rome had had his body buried, on the off chance that their empire would get rid of them out of irritation.

Most of his things weren't worth keeping, but Gaul had been attracted to a shiny, solid gold torc that Britannia must have held very dear. It was the ultimate symbol of his heritage, his status was wrought in the metal and woven in with the delicate designs, showing his rank to whoever saw him as a child of the earth. He was forbidden from wearing it and was ordered to relinquish it, but somehow it had ended up back in Britannia's possession, (Gaul suspected mother Greece at the time) and Gaul had found it squirrelled away in a hole, hidden by a rug, in the boy's room.

Upon his return, Gaul found Britannia awake again, wandering listlessly in front of the settlement's entrance and still looking half dead. Gaul bounded up to him and thrust the torc under his nose, then gave a scream as Britannia suddenly came alive and lunged for it, nails scratching against skin in his haste.

Despite his disdain for the boy's currently hygiene, he sat and hugged him, tightening his arms around Britannia's body as he screamed and cried for the past he could no longer have as the memories finally returned.

England thought that it would be hard for him to sleep that night but to his great relief he slipped away almost immediately. Days of stressful travel had given him an almost primal need for rest and quiet and being in his own home, in his own land at last, was all that he needed. He retired earlier than usual, at about 9, and slept deeply; this he knew because he did not wake when France first slunk into his room, nor did he stir when the other's arms first wrapped themselves around England's torso. He only woke because one of them must have turned or moved because he eventually found himself to have a dead arm and France shrieking in panic as he fell out of the large king-sized bed.

He blearily opened his eyes and pushed himself up on an elbow. 'What the-? France?'

France swore colourfully but got up quickly to slip back underneath the blankets. 'What on earth is wrong with you?'

'Me?' England was finding it hard to keep talking, sleep already trying to pull in back under. He noted that the time was only 4:07, plenty of time left before they had to go anywhere, and lay back down. 'I didn't even ask you to sleep here, I don't see how it's my fault.'

'Ah England, it has been many, many years, I know that you wanted me to be here rather than all the way down the hall.'

He moved closer to kiss at the exposed skin of the other's neck and was incredibly insulted that, rather than respond either with something in return or at least a fist to the face for his attempt, England had snuggled down further and was almost asleep again.

France sighed but let him be. After finally coming to his full senses, nationhood fully restored, England had left him alone with some newspapers and the old laptop to catch up on world news and events. He made the connection of Kent's massive flooding epidemic with Arthur's limp and lack of sleeping rather quickly. Being in another nation away from his people wouldn't have helped him to recover and France was grateful for him staying behind at the home with him-

France stopped himself. With Francis.

Not him, not France. But Francis: small, human, Francis.

It would take a while to disassociate himself again and to stop thinking of Francis' life as his own, but it needed to be done. No good would come from becoming too involved in something that represented something as small as a life of a character in a book. Finish the story and you let them go.

Resetting for good for nations, it allowed them to get so in tune with their people and culture that it offered a fresh perspective about a human's life of today. What good would a nation be if they grew up as a child through the middle ages, or learnt to be polite and speak as an adult during the Renaissance? To be rich, when all being rich once meant was that you ate meat more than once a month? Ideas of behaviour, of society, of thought and feeling changed so often that the nation could grow at risk of not understanding the human condition, or not empathising quite as well as they should do.

How can a now grand, rich country know what it feels like to grow up in poverty in the 1800's, when the country himself suffered constant starvation in the 1200's? How are the two the same, one with constant war and disease and civil war and low infant mortality, when the other has, in comparison, better living conditions? How easily a nation could be unfeeling, unempathetic, to a notably better existence.

By being given the chance to experience a whole life again, from birth to death, every few centuries, a nation could once again comprehend that yes, though easier, life was still difficult. Hardships changed appearance but there were always obstacles for a human to overcome. Their people were built from the stuff of today and the importance of this was not to be forgotten. Suffering was suffering and was not comparable, human life was felt now and their suffering was still just as impactful, just as raw as it had ever been.

But they had to remember that these brief human experiences were just that, experiences. Francis' life had no meaning to France the nation and France would never put ideas or morals of Francis into practise because they were not his, they belonged to the man Francis, a small memory of the giant being that was the nation of the Republic. But they were useful to have. Modern life was so different and had changed so quickly in such a short amount of time from any other time period of human history that a fresh outlook from the ordinary man's life was extremely helpful.

The matter of Francis' attempted murder over France's case, however, was something he was going to have to be very much involved in.

He sighed and lay down properly, head resting heavily on the pillow. Whatever it was for, or whomever it was who tried to steal it, they had not succeeded and France's most precious memories were, now, safe once again. Still, it worried him how very close they had got, whoever 'they' were; no human should know about something so detrimental. The items themselves would mean nothing, of course, but there was still that attraction towards it, the nationalistic pride that could maybe give way to sudden realisation of just exactly whose case it was and why it was so important.

Someone had obviously come close to making that connection if they were willing to kill over it.

France rolled over to once again drape his arms around England. As far as he knew, it was only he and England that helped hurry the reset process along with personal objects intended to jog the memory, but it wasn't something most nations spoke about. It was such a personal thing and not all nations were as good at reconnecting to themselves as others, so there was a sort of unspoken understanding that it was rude to ask. But maybe now was a time to start asking, maybe this had happened before.

England was comfortably warm, and France found himself slowly relaxing. Thirteen years of being stuck as an old man without any physical closeness to another creature was not something he was willing to extend, no matter his bedfellow.

After about half an hour, his mind was close to switching off, so close to letting him doze now because at least now his case was safe he could...

Wait.

France's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright, twisting to grip England firmly by the shoulders and shake him awake.

England reacted as many ex-soldiers do and immediately tried to attack, blindly swinging a fist forward which France luckily managed to miss. He was definitely awake now and considerably angrier than last time.

'What the fuck is wrong with you?!'

'England, I was murdered!'

England looked at this as though he'd suddenly confessed that he had a small soft spot for wine. 'So!?' He pulled back a leg and tried to kick France off from where he was now almost straddled across his lap. 'Get the fuck out, what the hell is your problem you absolute pri-'

France swiftly moved out of the way and sat more on his knees and leaning forward to try and grip England shoulders again, ignoring his incredulity as he tried to make him see clearly that something was very very wrong, something that was far greater that they'd previously thought to consider.

'No, me, France; I was murdered eighty-nine years ago! Not Francis the other day, not Francis by you, but me. I was murdered in my government building.'

England groaned and shook his shoulders free. 'Yes, we all know, it was quite a big scandal at the tim-'

'No!' France interrupted, 'Yes, that is true, but you're looking at the wrong point!' Why wasn't England getting this? 'You came to see me that day, remember?'

England frowned. 'Yes… I think came over to drop off my case, it had been a while since I'd changed a few of the bits inside.'

France waved his hand, trying to hurry him along. 'Yes, yes, yes and?' England was silent. 'Oh, think about it, you stupid man! You have had my case, yes? My case is here. Whose case do you think you were giving me just before I was shot?! Who the hell has been looking after it if I've been dead for nearly ninety years?'

England's eyes widened, mouth forming an almost perfect 'o' before uttering a small, 'fuck.'

France threw his hands up in triumph and rolled off the bed to begin pacing. England, meanwhile, had paled and was leaning weakly against the headboard. 'My case has been missing for all these years.'

France gave a derisive snort and continued pacing.

England continued; voice slightly laced with something that a lesser man would identify as panic. 'This wasn't some random hit job on you; this is probably connected. They could have easily broken into it after all this time and know everything about me.'

France made to stand in front of the window, one hand holding his chin and another absentmindedly running itself through his hair. Out of the corner of his eye he saw England hunch forward and rest his head on his knees. 'Oh God, I can hardly remember what I put in there!' Suddenly his head snapped up. 'Who was it who shot you?'

France flailed the hand that was rubbing his jaw. 'It was a man called Julien Durand, but I have no idea what happened to him, nor if he was the one behind the whole thing or just the one following orders. The last thing I remember is him confronting me about you for something he thought you'd done and then being shot.'

England got out of bed and crossed the room quickly to turn on some lights but didn't stop, he threw open the door and quickly strode downstairs, calling over his shoulder, 'When were you planning on reintroducing yourself to your government?'

France tutted in annoyance but followed after him, down into the living room where the poor old laptop was again being forced on. 'I was hoping for a week off to relax in my vineyard at least, but I have a feeling you probably have other ideas.'

England didn't answer, but sat scrunched over the screen, waiting for it to load and boot up.

Francis wandered over to sit in the armchair diagonally left of him. 'England,' No response, he tried again, 'Arthur, whatever has happened has happened, there's no point in rushing straight back over there right away.'

Now that the immediate adrenalin of realisation had worn off, logically France saw that there was nothing that could be done to prevent what had already probably been done. His own case wasn't taken, meaning that the secret of nations was probably safe for now. After all, poignant English things in the hands of a Frenchman were unlikely to cause him to understand so great a concept as that of personified nationhood, but his own nation's; well, that would be a different story.

Voicing these ideas to his partner though, had no effect other than to get England angrier. 'So that's all fine then? Now who's stupid.'

France answered drily, 'Do not mistake stubborn refusal of stupidity for stupidity itself.'

England gave him a frosty glare. 'No, you're not thinking about this from all angles. Consider this then.' He raised his left hand to hold up a finger, 'someone with an obvious connection to your original murder took my case and has either passed this information on, or has continued looking for your case all these years.'

He raised another finger. 'They have just been thwarted from again trying to kill for it after decades of silence; in my years of keeping an eye on yo- on Francis, I've noticed nothing to arouse suspicion.'

He raised a third finger, but France already understood and answered for him. 'If they're willing to wait that long, they must have at least some idea of what the cases mean. They'll be willing to wait again and disappear.'

England nodded. 'And we won't catch them. If the person who shot you has a semi-solid idea of what you are from either information beforehand or from my case, then they know you'll continue to exist and will make an obvious connection to them as a first suspect as soon as you re-enter the political sphere, especially after what happened in Fouras. If I were human with any lick of sense, I'd've hired someone skilled and younger who knew what they were doing.'

France took a deep breath in through his nose and gave a sigh of resignation, before leaning his head back against the headrest. 'Meaning, if we don't go now and follow a fresh trail-'

'-We'll lose all leads once that old politician and his connections die, or once whoever has taken over from him dies. And this could grow larger.' England finished and looked at him, giving a pause before he spoke again carefully. 'I am not asking you to come with me, but I would prefer if you waited until this is sorted before going back officially. We don't know what they know but we do know that they know too much.'

Shaking his head slightly, France resigned himself to his fate. 'No, I shall come. This is as much my problem as it is yours and we cannot leave this as it is.' Out of the corner of his eye he saw England give a small smug look and carry on clicking his way to look at ferry crossing times. Anyone who knew him really well though, would see that he was thankful for the help, though he'd never admit to that. France grinned to himself and shut his eyes. So much for his quiet week back at the vineyard.

The recently formed Kingdom of the Franks came to his senses gripping a metal brooch tightly in his fist, hands clasped so tightly over the metal that the press of its edges into his skin was now so painful that he was starting to lose some feeling. The brooch was a gift from Rome before he'd vanished and it was one of the most treasured things he owned. His face was covered in tears but he made no attempt to wipe them away, instead he stared bleary eyed up at the boy in a rough homespun tunic before him.

'Why are you here?' His voice was hoarse; he remembered screaming at some point, but he couldn't quite focus on the memory enough to gain any meaning from it.

'I felt you come back so I came to check. You were walking in the woods over there and were talking to yourself.' The boy pointed behind him to a thick, dark woods that Franks knew he had fought someone in not too long ago, in a different life.

'You looked foolish, I thought I'd save you from the shame of embarrassing yourself.' The other boy looked away awkwardly and worried the ground with a boot tip. 'Besides, you did it for me.'

Franks didn't know how to really answer that and instead relaxed his grip to fold the brooch over and over in his palm. It hurt too much to think properly at the moment, his head was trying to absorb the true and overwhelming reality of what he is against what he'd spent the last 35 years doing. 'Thanks.'

Englaland reddened and gave a quick shrug with both shoulders, looking very unsure of himself. 'Yeah... um. That's okay, 's only fair.'

AN:

As always, thank you so much for all the support you have shown me and this stroy, I hope you enjoyed the latest update. Thank you all for all of the favourites and comments, I eagerly await your opinions and I hope that you are still enjoying what I produce.

Let me know your thoughts, and I'll see you soon!

Edit: Sweet Jesus this chapter was a pain to edit. I hope now most of the confusion has been cleared up but if there's anything that's still a bit too vague or unclear please let me know what to focus on so I can fix it!