A Reunion, of Sorts

'Well, that ain't good.'

North moved his head closer to Scotland's shoulder to see out of the window in front. 'What?'

Scotland motioned with his head and slowed their car. Up ahead, blocking the road, was another vehicle, engine and headlights off.

It was well into evening now, almost dark. They had driven according to France's instructions and made their way quickly to the turn off they needed, Scotland pushing the definition of 'careful' driving to its legal limit. They'd heard nothing more from Wales and North had eventually stopped checking his phone, unable to keep up with the barrage of media and messages about what was going on concerning the 'strange' videos that had sprung up everywhere. It affected him more than he thought it would have done, to have his friends talking around the unknown concept of nationhood like that. To come so close to a subject he himself didn't always feel comfortable with and then pull it apart with detailed, analytical coolness.

The fact that the videos involved England made it worse, so North settled for staring out of the window and worrying a frayed rip in his jeans. Scotland hadn't spoken since Wales' call and North had been able to zone out, not realising how close they'd come to their destination until his brother had spoken suddenly.

The car ahead of them was nondescript and bland- not too new and not too old, not too dirty or clean. Black and boring- a rental most likely. Or stolen, if current events were anything to go by. What the fuck did he know.

'What are we going to do?' He asked, turning to Scotland.

Scotland pursed his lips and parked their car directly facing the other, turning the radio off. There were two men inside, watching them. 'Follow my lead.'

'What?'

'Follow my lead and don't do anything stupid.'

'What the fuck is th-' before North could finish, Scotland unclipped his seatbelt, swung open his car door and stepped out. North cursed and followed him.

The other men had similar ideas and were already standing either side of their car by the time North got out. One drifted a hand to his back pocket- gun. Neither Scotland nor North had one, obviously- when they left the UK for the UN meeting in Mexico, they hadn't planned on being involved in a shoot-out in a French forest. They did both have pocket knives – North and his brothers always carried at least one on them at all times- so they had something, but that wouldn't do much against a modern pistol.

Scotland stepped forwards. 'Hello, gentlemen!' he greeted them in English, accent as thick as it could go, and North stared at him, baffled.

'You can't be here; this is private property.' The man not itching for a gun answered in French. He gestured to the road Scotland and North had just come from, 'I must ask you to leave.'

'I'm sorry! I don't speak French.' Scotland turned, gesturing at North, and continued in English, speaking slower and louder, 'my brother here really needs to take a shit. We saw signs for a campsite and thought we could use your toilets.'

North stared at him in open mouthed horror as the other man frowned, stepping forwards. 'This is private. You need to go back.'

'Come on, he's desperate, we'll use the toilets and then we'll go.'

Too dumbstruck to feel anything other than mortifying embarrassment, North didn't even try to stop him or say anything himself.

'I'm not telling you again, get the fuck out of here.' In the dim light North could see that the man's face had darkened, tone now more irritated.

Scotland continued, louder. 'Toilets? We need to use them.' He pointed to the forest behind the men. 'Campsite? Toilets. Please.'

'I'm not messing about!' the man came closer to Scotland and pointed more forcefully behind him, matching Scotland in volume. 'Go. Back. No! Not here. Stupid fucking tourists.'

His companion shifted his jacket away to clearly reveal the gun and Scotland held up his hands in surrender, looking confused and upset. 'Okay okay, no need to get yer knickers in a twist, we're leaving.' He turned to North. 'Come on shitstain, back in the car.'

North didn't need telling twice. He wrenched open the passenger door and hissed at Scotland at soon as he sat down. 'What the fuck was that about.'

Scotland didn't answer him, but clipped himself in and started the car. 'Buckle yourself in and hang on tight.'

Before North could fully process that instruction, Scotland put the car into first and slammed the accelerator, lifting the clutch to jump them forward. North lurched with the movement and scrabbled for his seatbelt, pressing his hands on the dashboard to brace himself when Scotland twisted the car sharply. It slammed straight into the man with the gun, his head cracking against the windshield before bouncing off the bonnet and away to the side. The glass webbed on impact and North jumped.

There were shouts from the man they'd left behind as they sped forwards down the dirt road, not stopping.

'You alright?' Scotland gripped North's shoulder and North turned to him, nodding.

'Yeah, I'm fine. But what the hell did you do that for?'

'Needed to get them in a good position; we'd be no good against them with a gun. At least now there's one less.'

'Doesn't mean there's one less gun.'

'No,' Scotland conceded, 'but there's certainly one less man. And having more shelter up ahead will likely be helpful.'

North ran a hand through his hair and strapped himself in, clutching the seatbelt tight as Scotland jolted them down an increasingly bumpy road. 'Jesus fucking Christ.'

Jean was checking something on his phone, leaving England happily alone when sudden shouts came from outside. All at once Jean snapped his attention to him, staring at him accusingly.

England couldn't help himself and grinned as relief filled him. This commotion could only mean that not only had France been kept on the campsite and had woken up, but that he was making things rather difficult for whoever was supposed to be watching him. Jean's face took on an ugly look and he turned to one of the men who stood nearest the door.

'Go out there and check.' The man hesitated; no doubt cautious about what he would find outside concerning a once dead man after spending a whole day watching England heal in a wholly unhuman way.

'Go!' Jean shouted and the man lurched into action, turning around to pull the door open and stagger out. England couldn't see anything in the brief time it was open, but from outside he could hear the increased sound of more shouts of alarm. The remaining hired man came to stand closer to Jean, as if England had the potential to burst into flames and attack him.

'Decomposes quickly, you said?' Jean asked England, drily.

England looked Jean in the eye and tried unsuccessfully to stop himself looking smug. 'Ah, it appears I was wrong. I do forget things in my old age.'

Jean clenched and unclenched a fist but flicked his gaze towards the door, looking worried. 'Stay here,' he told the man before disappearing back into the bedroom. The man looked at him, wary, and edged to stay back near the door. He kept alternating between keeping an eye on England and turning to look outside at whatever was going on, craning his neck to see more.

England regarded the human for a moment, considering, and waited for him to turn away again. It was now or never; he might not get another chance like this.

Tensing himself, England bucked his knees up, dislodging the table from where it rested on the removable pole. As soon as the bottom of the pole left the floor, he turned and slid his legs sideways off it, gripping it with his hands to tug it lose. The movement and the noise immediately drew the man's attention but England paid him no mind. Hands and legs still bound together England could do no more than twist it free, the force of it causing him to lose balance and tumble out of his seat to the floor and heavily on his side.

Boots stumbled towards him but England twisted himself up onto his knees and thrust upwards, just as the man leant down to pull him up. A warm, wet spray of blood hit him on the chin and down his arms from where the metal pole had been impaled through the man's stomach and England grimaced at the sensation.

There was a brief moment when they stayed locked in position, the human blinking in shock before looking down numbly to see the pole protruding from his belly. England moved onto a more weight bearing position on his knees and pushed forwards again to move the man backwards and away, letting go of the pole.

The man stumbled, awkward and clumsy, before falling onto his knees and slumping in on himself, holding the pole gingerly between his hands.

The noise brought out Jean, phone pressed to his ear which was promptly dropped upon catching sight of the carnage. He shot a look to England, who raised himself up and wiped his chin on his shoulder.

'What-', Jean took a step back, hands held up. 'Wait a minute…Arthur, come on now.'

England snorted, unimpressed. 'Is that it? The power balance has turned suddenly and now you've reverted back to yourself? Don't give me that bullshit, it's a disappointing regression.'

'No,' Jean shook his head, 'I never meant to harm you-' England scoffed, 'no, really. But you gave me no choice, if you had listened and worked with me then-'

'Then what?' England looked down at his hands, 'you wouldn't have done this?' He shook his head in disgust. 'We've spoken about this already, no need to degrade yourself further.'

'Fine.' Jean darted a hand into the bedroom, to a small table or set of drawers by the door and grabbed a gun resting there out of sight, which he pointed at England. 'It was worth a try. So, hear this. Come with me peacefully and I won't shoot you. Struggle, and I'll take you onwards as a corpse. It's your choice.'

England laughed, humourlessly. 'Oh, my choice, is it? Well now, good to see you're improving and taking criticism on board.'

Jean twisted his mouth into a snarl. 'I am not playing around with you.'

England smirked. 'Nor am I.' He tensed his arms before snapping them apart with one quick movement. The thicker plastic ties cut deeply into his skin but he couldn't feel it at the moment, focusing instead on the gun trained at him.

Jean started, as if to take a step back, but he held his ground, finger moving to rest on the trigger. 'Don't make me do this, Arthur. I did genuinely enjoy working with you and I truly do not wish to do this if I can avoid it.'

'Bit too late to aim for a peaceful resolution now, don't you think?'

The knife Jean had been using throughout the day had been left on a countertop in the kitchen area and England grabbed it, still restricted by his feet. He wanted to bend down and cut his legs apart but knew, from the way Jean's finger tightened around the trigger, that any movement to do so wouldn't end well for him.

He had to consider what factors Jean was weighing up now. If he hadn't shot him already, that could well mean that he was concerned about what was going on outside. Maybe there weren't as many men there as England feared, or maybe he did really want to avoid hurting him if he could. Either way, the fact that he hadn't been shot immediately meant that England dead wasn't an option Jean favoured.

England could use that to his advantage.

'I'm sure that you're aware that your options here are limited.'

'I'm sure you're aware that I have a gun.'

England gave a wry smile, 'I'll try this again. You are aware that you can shoot me and I will wake up. What on earth is your plan after showing me to the government?'

Jean said nothing, face unchanged, and England continued, 'You bring me forth as evidence of some kind and then… what?' he waved out an arm as if searching for an answer, 'you kidnapped and bound myself and Francis against our will and shot both of us, all the while knowing that we will continue to live well after yourself- did you not consider the repercussions of that, or were you so blinded by your ambition that you failed to think about whether it was worth it? You must know that we wouldn't allow you to remain free without consequence.'

'I don't care what happens to me,' Jean cut in quickly, 'all I wanted was my family to be acknowledged as right, that was all. I didn't want money, or fame, or whatever the fuck else you're implying, I just wanted recognition. I wanted to make my grandfather's life worth it, I wanted to make my life worth it.'

'One thing you failed to consider,' England added, softly, 'was, what if the government already knows?'

He watched as Jean took this information in, eyebrows twitching to a frown before smoothing back to forced indifference, and he continued more firmly, 'did you consider that, maybe, the government allow us to exist and hide as we please? That we work with them, rather than against?'

'That was a risk I was willing to take. I wanted to force acknowledgement, if they weren't going to give it freely.'

England couldn't help himself, he laughed. 'Do you think that you are the first to try this? That you are the only one who has stumbled upon this secret throughout the years? Lord, I had considered you to be intelligent,' he shook his head, 'no, the French government are well aware of myself and Francis; Julien Durand received the treatment he did because of it.'

Jean stiffened his arms and twitched his finger over the trigger again. 'There are no records, none whatsoever about-'

'And you think they'd be willing to tell you? You think that information about us is allowed for public use and consumption?'

'I do not believe that the government should hide such a thing from their people,' Jean raised his voice, emotional finally, 'I believe that the people have a right to know what is living amongst them, regardless of what the government thinks. Those videos, they are not for the government, they are for the world.'

Jean sneered, lips white with rage. 'I know that you think me foolish. I can see that you consider what I've done to be worthless and futile. But it isn't because if I have sown just one seed of doubt, convinced one person to dig a bit deeper into this, then all I have done will have been worth it. To have brought whatever you are to public consciousness in any amount still validates what my grandfather tried to do.'

'Whatever I am?' England gave a soft laugh through his nose, 'whatever I am?'

It had been many, many years since he had been confronted like this. Many more years since he was able or willing to address it head on. Oh, how he had yearned to sometimes, had craved the memory and feeling of being known and seen for who he really was, rather than the veneer of humanity he covered himself with. But England now let himself open, let himself fully breathe and expand in a way he hadn't since he was a child and allow nationhood and truth to spill over and bleed through to fill the mortal body it was held in.

England was more than just Arthur, more than just a man, he was a nation- he was the mountains and the beaches and the cities he represented. He was the Seven Sisters that stood strong to guard his southern shores, he was the Lake District's peaks and valleys that shielded against the winds of the North. He was the stones and the grass, and the rivers and lakes, he was the language that cradled the songs of his people and kept his culture and history captured in words. England was years and time and age who collected decades like sand washed from forgotten, misty seas.

He was all of it; he was every single one of the people who called themselves his and he was more.

Jean did step back now, panicked. 'What the fuck are you?' his voice came out in a hoarse whisper and the gun shook in his hands.

England looked at him with millennia in his eyes, blood from his rivers thrumming in his ears and economy beating strong in his chest, 'You know what I am.'

Jean opened his mouth to reply, face twisting in fear and recognition, but remained silent- dumbstruck.

England took advantage of his confusion, shifting his legs as far apart as they would go so that the binding was taut, he dropped down, cutting into them quickly with the knife in one firm slash. The plastic broke, pressure finally released and he was free. Shifting himself, he lunged forwards towards Jean.

As soon as he dropped down the movement roused Jean, bringing him back to focus and, just as England was free, he repositioned his aim and fired.

Unused to guns and their recoil, Jean's shot got England in the shoulder, rather than the chest or the head and England ignored it, too focused on his goal. Up close, Jean had no hope against him and he was quickly disarmed, England twisting him down to the ground and holding him still.

England manoeuvred his knee to press in-between Jean's shoulders and the man gasped as the air was squeezed from his chest, 'I'm afraid we won't be able to talk to each other any longer,' he said, leaning closer so that Jean could hear him clearly, 'but you know that, don't you?'

'I don't regret it,' Jean twisted his head to try to breathe better and England pushed harder, earning a grunt of discomfort, 'the videos are out there now, no matter what you do to me it won't change anything.'

No, England had to admit that he was right. He would deal with that afterwards, getting out alive was his priority now. And, one other thing…

'Where's my case?'

Jean grinned, a cruel thing that was undiminished by the position he was in, 'I'm afraid that's already gone on ahead.'

England shifted the weight from one knee to the other, allowing Jean to breathe briefly, before pushing back down harder. 'You are not in a position to be difficult.'

'I have nothing to lose, either.'

Regretfully, England admitted to himself that this was true. Hopefully his case had gone onwards to Paris, somewhere France could locate it later when things had settled. If not, it would have to be something he got over and dealt with- there was nothing in there which was dangerous if it went missing, to either his identity or the concept of nations in general. However, the things in there, whatever they were, were important to him. Not just to England the nation, but England the person and he felt a stab of something bitter and sad at the thought of losing them.

But it was his own fault. If that was the price that he had to pay for this whole endeavour concluding in his favour, then that was what it would have to be. Damage control could be worked out later.

He considered Jean. The urge to kill him, to take payback for what he had personally done to England, was strong, but the man had done a lot more to France, overall. This human was not England's and there was politics messed about in all of this, as well as whatever ancient and concealed sentimentality England held towards to France himself. As France was nearby, England knew he didn't have the right to take a French life without offering him to France first.

It was the honourable thing to do, despite the act itself.

Mind made up, England instead took some small pleasure in bringing the gun down upon Jean's temple, knocking him unconscious instead. Once sure he was out cold, England stood, wincing as the movement jostled his shoulder. He'd got lucky.

He'd need to be extremely careful; just because Jean was down and he was free, didn't mean that he was safe- France may be dead out there for all he knew and England couldn't relax just yet.

There was a rucksack on the bed. England reached for it to open it up, finding some unused cable ties amongst Jean's belongings. Grabbing them, England bound Jean's arms and legs together before reaching around under the bed for the dropped phone.

There was still an active call.

England swore silently and put the phone to his ear. Nothing but static.

'Hello?'

'Hello!? Oh God, what's going on?' A lady on the other end came to attention, panicked, 'hello!'

'Who is this?'

'This is BFM TV,' – shit, France's biggest news channel- 'we got a call concerning further information about the viral videos but then- she paused, 'what's going on? Do you need the emergency services?'

That bastard. England had to give Jean credit; he really was making this as difficult as possible. How much had they heard? England couldn't take any chances. 'This is unrelated. Do not use or distribute any information you heard via this call. This is an agent involved with MI6. This case is strictly confidential and may not be broadcast. A contact from the London embassy will be in touch with you shortly.'

Ignoring the cried 'wait!' England hung up. Remembering the many many mistakes that he and France had made concerning communication, or their lack of, he called Wales immediately, the concept of 'viral videos,' bouncing concerningly around his head. He tried not to think about it too much.

'Rhys Kirkland speaking.'

'Wales?'

'England!?' England pulled the phone away from his ear as Wales shouted, volume far louder than what he expected or appreciated, 'what the ever-loving FUCK; where are you?! Are you alright? Where's France?'

'Christ, calm down.'

'Oh!' Wales gave a bitter laugh, 'Oh yes! Calm down. I'll calm down, do excuse me-'

'Wales-'

'-I got carried away with myself, for a moment there I was blinded by worry for your ungrateful arse- quite threw me off for a second. Dear me, I won't do that again-'

'Cymru!'

'You're a fucking prick, you know that-'

'Wales, I'm sorry, Jesus- I don't have much time,' Wales remained quiet and England ploughed on, 'I need you to get in touch with BFM TV and issue a block on sharing any information about a call just made to them from this number, they mentioned viral videos?'

'-yes yes, I know,' Wales interrupted, cool and efficient, 'when was the call made?'

'Just now, a man called Jean Barbier made it, although he may not have given a name. I'm not sure what they heard but I mentioned that MI6 were involved and they were not to share or distribute anything they were told by him or picked up from the call, but I need official backing.'

'Got it.'

England could hear sounds of a pen scratching on paper as Wales made note of this. 'I'm in-'

'We know where you are, France called me a few hours ago- Scotland and North are on their way. They could be there any minute now.'

England didn't have time to focus on the fact that North was coming, instead he let out a breath he hadn't been holding as relief flooded him, 'I'm alone at the moment but France is out there somewhere and I don't know how many of Jean's men there are. The main information leak has now been contained, though.'

'Good,' Wales paused, and England could tell he was conflicted between remained focused and wanting to push for more personal information.

'I'm alright,' he offered, awkwardly. Wales huffed, sounding unconvinced, 'And now I know Scotland is close I can go out and try to help France.'

'We don't know how many men are out there but Scotland and North don't have guns- try to disarm as many as you can.' Wales always had been the most level headed out of all of them and England took the time to be thankful for his brother's ability to switch focus so easily.

'Will do,' He hesitated, 'all okay at home?'

'It's under control. Go, I'll fill you in later.'

'Thank you.' He meant it; he didn't know what else was going on but he trusted that Wales was doing all he could.

'Don't die, I'm going to need you to fill out so much fucking paperwork you'll wish you never came back.'

England gave a soft laugh. 'Wouldn't want that now, would I.' With that he said his goodbyes and hung up, pocketing the phone in case he needed it later.

He then stood and quickly scanned the room for anything Jean could use to either escape or inflict bodily harm upon himself, or anyone else. Once satisfied there was nothing around him that he could use to help him, England turned and made his way back to the main room.

The man he'd impaled with the table pole was dead. He'd shuffled himself to rest against a cabinet in the kitchen area and was slumped heavily to the side, face white and pressed into the wood. England gave him a cursory glance but moved on to the door, gun in hand.

He couldn't hear anything from outside- no shouts anymore.

Readying himself, he opened the door and stepped out.

After a long and, quite frankly painful, barefoot run in the woods, France had eventually lost his pursuers and crept his way back to the campsite, stopping occasionally to listen for anyone who might be nearby. He passed alongside the road that led directly there but stayed off it, not wanting to be caught in the open.

The site itself was now difficult to see in its entirety, night having fallen in earnest. There was a light outside the washroom block but, as that was the only building, the rest of the place was unlit.

This wasn't necessarily a bad thing- if France couldn't see, it meant that their opposition couldn't see either.

He crouched low and moved closer, taking himself to the edge of the treeline. He couldn't see or hear anyone moving about, but there was a van pulled up in the middle of the camp, headlights on to create a pool of light. There was a silhouette of a man stood nearby looking about, presumably for France.

France hesitated. He couldn't tell for sure, but that didn't seem to be one of the two men who had been chasing him- that would mean that there were three of them in total, plus whoever was in the motorhome. Presumably, that was where England was being held- France could see no other place he could be.

Mind made up, France crept around to the trees near the motorhome, focusing his eyes on the man by the van and dashing out as he faced away. He made it there undetected and grabbed at the door handle to open it but jumped back in alarm as it was instead flung outwards by someone from within. He had no time to move out of the way as immediately something solid hit him and he recoiled with a pained yelp, clutching his face as pain bloomed hot around his nose.

'France?' England's voice was a hissed whisper.

Before France could reply, he felt a hand close about his shirt to pull him stumbling inside the motorhome, before releasing him to turn and quickly shut and lock the door behind him.

'England,' France squinted at him, eyes watering, 'you fucking arsehole.'

'I thought you were one of them!' England retorted, hotly.

'Jesus,' France straightened from where he was hunched over and took his hand away from his face, bloodied and shaking. His nose was bleeding profusely. He wiped his hand on his borrowed clothes and England stepped closer.

'Let me see.'

'Get away from me!' he batted England's hands away to explore the area on his own, wincing as the action caused a fresh burst of white-hot pain to spike through him. 'You broke my nose!'

'Well, if it weren't so fucking big, that wouldn't have been a problem.'

France glared at him hatefully and England looked away. 'Alright, I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do about it now though, is there.'

France opened his mouth to say something back but there came a hammering at the door which made them both jump. They shared a look and France went to stand in front of the door, England passing him the gun before moving out of sight.

France hesitated, hand on the lock, and waited a moment until a hammering came again, door jolting from where the person outside was pulling at it. As soon as this began France unlocked it, hearing the cry of surprise as the person was thrown off balance by the door swinging forwards unexpectedly and stepped out.

There was a man France could clearly recognise as the man from the washroom -in his thirties, from the south- and he swung down with the butt of the gun to catch him on the side of the head with a crack. The man's legs folded, eyes rolling back, and France stepped out to catch him.

He hissed for England to help and together they manoeuvred the man inside and shut the door again. One more down. France straightened and dabbed at his nose, noting England looked a bit gruesome himself, 'Why are you covered in blood?'

England wordlessly pointed further down by a kitchen area to another human slumped against come cabinets, a pole jutting out from his stomach.

'Ah. Well, there's definitely two more out there,' France said, rearranging the newest addition to fit better in a corner, 'if this was the man that I saw standing by the van outside, then there's two more who were chasing me.'

'Then there's three at the minimum, one who was in here with me left to go after you and this isn't him.' England sounded bitter but this news was a relief to France- three between the two of them was manageable. With a gun in their possession, things no longer looked so dire.

England disappeared momentarily but came back with cable ties and tissues, the latter presumably being for France's benefit. 'We don't have many of these left, but it should do for now.'

France looked up to take both from him and noticed England's wrists. Taking hold of his hand, he turned it over, palm down, and made a noise of sympathy at the new red marks, 'Well, at least you haven't been relaxing in here whilst I was chased about like a fool.'

England snatched his hand back. 'As if you're reliable enough for me to leave everything to you.'

France tutted, turning back to the unconscious man and began to bind his wrists and ankles. 'And yet here I found you, hiding in a comfortable motorhome.'

'I wasn't hiding, I was leaving when you burst in.'

'Burst in to rescue you, yes my darling I'm well aware,' content that the man was secure, France pressed the tissues to his nose, which was still painful and bleeding. He really hoped he wouldn't need to set it in place.

'As if you, in all your barefoot, unarmed glory, could have done anything anyway.'

'Now is not the time to be disagreeable, is it? Can you turn off your personality for just one evening to give us a chance of getting out of here?' England didn't reply and France swivelled to look at him. He found him peering out of window, face pressed close to squint out into the darkness. One arm was dangling uselessly by his side and the other was gripping his shoulder tightly with a newly acquired tea towel.

France frowned. 'What happened to your shoulder?'

'Jean shot me; it's fine,' England removed the hand from his shoulder, leaving the towel, to press against the window, helping him to see better, 'he's safely tied up in the bedroom, by the way.' England flicked his gaze to him before returning to the window, 'he's alive.'

France nodded and took his hand away from his face before trying to breathe through his nose. He couldn't quite do it yet, although the bleeding had slowed considerably, 'I'm glad, if we can round everyone else up we can contain this before it spreads to a ridiculous degree.'

England pursed his lips and sat down on a seat by the window, 'We may be a bit beyond that, but I'll go into the details later.'

'What is it?' France pushed, unable to prevent himself from thinking up potential scenarios that might have happened whilst he was dead.

England hesitated, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable, 'Jean made some recordings of me here,' he regarded the welt on his wrist as a distraction, twisting it idly to see it better in the light, 'they were of me healing. I think he's uploaded them on the internet- they might have gone viral.'

France swore and stood, anger filling him. The nerve.

'For now though, you're right,' England said quickly, 'thankfully, I don't think the rest of the men here know anything- Jean seemed to want to keep things contained. My case might be gone, though. Wouldn't tell me where but said it had "gone on ahead", although I admit I haven't searched for it.'

France winced, shifting his weight from one foot to another, feeling the cuts from the run in the forest properly when he stood still for too long. What a pair he and England made, certainly they were not very intimidating. 'We can handle that later.'

England didn't reply but stood up abruptly, looking back out of the window.

'What?'

'Did you hear that?'

'No.'

England cupped a hand around his eye, creating more shadow. 'I think I can see a car coming.'

'A car?'

England hmm'd. 'No, wait; two cars.'

France limped over to the doorway to turn off the lights before going over to join England at the window. So much for manageable odds in their favour.

With the lights off inside they were able to see outside better. Coming up the road, seemingly at speed, was a car. Just behind it was another, pinpricks of headlights steadily growing larger.

'Fuck.' France turned and rested his forehead to groan into England's good shoulder. 'Do you know, for a second there I thought we might be close to the end of all of this.'

A shot rang out, loud, and was followed by a cry from someone.

'We're never that lucky,' England nudged France off gently and stepped away, voice grim and determined, 'we'd best get outside.'

France closed his eyes and sighed, mentally gearing himself up for something he'd really rather not do. 'Yes, I suppose we'd better.'

AN:

Finally, they're almost all together.

This chapter has been through a series of changes in my mind along the years. Originally, I was going to have England use magic to burn up everything and all with him as soon as France had got clear (as now it wouldn't matter what happened to him if everyone died alongside him). But, introducing magic that late in the game would then change the whole dynamic of the story- if England had the power to do things like that all along, then why didn't he do so earlier? How would this magic work, what are the limits? What else could he have done to make things easier for himself and France?

Very good questions, and ones that past me hadn't considered properly (it was 7 years ago, bear with her). A benefit of writing a story for this long is whenever I wrote myself into a hole or left a gaping unanswered question, I had the time to write myself back out of it when I was better equipped to do so. Sadly then, for this story I've had to heavily reduce England's magic from what I originally envisioned.

In my nationverse headcanon, I think England is quite capable of magic but it's the old sort, nothing powerful or towering or world altering. It's small things: hexes to subtly curse or heal, charms to beguile, wards to keep people safe. An understanding of the rules of the fae to keep his people safe from their tricks. Nothing that, in this story, he could have used to help himself or France out of the utter mess he put them in (however impressive that may have been).
It is an area I'd love to explore one day though.

As always, thanks for reading!