Wow, thanks for all the reviews, I'm very happy to read them! They motivated me to write this chapter :) I've been trying to upload this chapter since Friday, but was being weird, but it has finally worked, yay! -Eats chocolate- (I'm gonna become a whale if you guys keep feeding me! I should wear a tag that says ''Don't feed the author'' or something) And for all the fangirls/boys: there's reason to squeal in this chapter :D Have fun!

Chapter 3 – February 1917

The palace was imposing, Russia had to admit. It had a refined beauty to it and in many ways, the building represented the nation that lived within.

Austria cleared his throat quietly and motioned for Russia to keep on walking. He was far too polite to order him to do so. Russia glanced at his feet as he strode up to the building and only looked back once to see the imprints his feet had left in the snow.

Once inside, Austria led Russia through several highly decorated rooms, where the aristocratic nation with his old-fashioned clothes looked as though he belonged. Russia yawned in fatigue, only vaguely thinking that despite the sophistication of the palace, England's home had been far more comfortable than this.

They climbed a grand staircase, royal blue carpet on white, gleaming marble. Austria spoke no word. A set of white double doors opened wide for them, to a room the size of England's kitchen, living room and entrance hall combined. The ceiling was so high that Russia had to tilt back his head fully to see it.

''Who did you bring, Austria?'', a deep voice asked from across the room.

Russia watched Austria turn toward the speaker, a smile forming on his previously stern face. The target of that smile was a blonde man, with steady blue eyes, which widened in recognition.

''Russia!''

Russia needed only a second longer to identify, dismayed, the man who had jumped up from the sofa and was now pointing a gun at him.

He felt rooted to the spot, feeling something akin to fear. ''Germany!''

A moment of heavy silence followed, filled with unspoken words.

Then Germany sharply lowered his weapon and turned an accusing look on Austria. ''What is he doing here?''

''I caught him.''

''What do you mean, you caught him?!''

''He got lost in the snowstorm on his way home and he was weak, therefore I caught him.''

''And pray tell, what should we do with him now that we have him?'' Germany was getting annoyed, Russia could tell.

Austria sighed in exasperation. ''Ludwig, just think about this. We won't have to worry about fighting Russia on the Eastern Front anymore. The two-front war is over!''

Germany considered and a slow, frightening smile twisted his lips as he looked over to Russia standing alone in the doorway, soaked and shivering, defenseless.

The blonde nation enthusiastically whipped out a notebook from a pocket, motioned Austria over and from one moment to the other, the two countries were sitting together, heads bent over the notebook and plotting their next moves in quiet, urgent tones.

Russia just remained standing, shivering and concentrating on staying upright, when, without warning, everything grew dark and Russia knew no more.

-888-

Russia was nowhere to be found. England sighed and resigned himself to walking all the way to the Winter Palace in Petrograd. Maybe Russia had fallen sick and that was the reason he had not answered the phone?

After walking for a while, the cold February wind whipping snow around him violently, Petrograd loomed before him in the dark.

England was greeted by chaos. It was a happy kind of chaos, a jubilant shout of freedom, with masses upon masses of people flooding the streets. Frowning, he asked the first person who did not seem drunk on vodka or delirious with happiness.

''What's going on here? Why is everyone so happy?''

The passersby flashed him a grin and answered in broken English, ''Haven't you heard? The Tsar is gone! The Provisional Government and the Petrograd Soviet have taken power on behalf of the people! We'll finally have food and peace!''

Without further ado, the man continued to make his merry way through the crowds.

England couldn't move. Tsar Nicholas had abdicated? But the Romanovs had been in power for over 300 years...! No wonder Russia had been acting so strangely when he visited. A change in government was always hard on a nation. He still remembered how beat up France was, after the French had done away with their last monarch, Louis XVI. But where was Russia now?

Outside the Winter Palace, England half expected for Russia to come to meet him, but even as he asked the guards standing in front of the grand building, they could not tell him where the country had gone.

Deeply concerned, England returned to his house, not able to spare any more time due to the war still raging between the Allied Powers and the Central Powers. However, when he arrived and sat at his desk to read reports and make decisions, a cup of steaming Earl Grey next to him, his mind would not let him concentrate.

Again and again, he saw Russia in front of him, Russia sitting, Russia yawning, Russia sleeping, Russia walking away through the cold evening. He had never had close ties with the bigger nation, but England was aware of his role in Russia's disappearance. It was his fault, his fault that he had let the violet-eyed man leave even though he should have known better. Russia had been in no shape to travel unaccompanied, weak as he was. No, scratch that, he should not have been travelling at all.

It had only been England's residual fear of Russia that had made England stay at his house and not even offer to walk the other country home. Deep down, England still remembered the strange glint in Russia's eyes when he looked at Lithuania, the creepy smile he used to give Latvia. How Estonia shivered in fear whenever he saw the taller nation. How Russia sat on his cursed chair and had it break. Yes, England knew that Russia was, despite his weakness right now, a nation to be reckoned with.

And still, Russia had called him. Him, not because they were allies, but because Russia felt comforted by him. And what had he done? He had repayed him by fearing him, by being relieved when he left!

He reached for his phone, intending to call France and America, to ask them for help in looking for Russia, but the phone rang before he had even started dialling.

Surprised, he picked up the receiver. ''England speaking, who is there?''

''This is Germany. We have Russia.''

England's heart did a little jump. ''Russia?!'' Gods, what had he done? Russia had gone and gotten himself captured... and England could have prevented it! England cursed himself in his head, bringing his clenched fist down on his desk, hard. His knuckles hurt.

''The Central Powers are making you an offer: call off your troops and sign a treaty with us and Russia will be free again. Of course, he will be signing a similar treaty as well... only that he will also be giving up a few territories.''

''You must be joking!'' England was flustered.

''Have you ever known me to make jokes, England?'', Germany asked in his most serious and quiet voice.

No, Germany never joked around. ''What about the other Allied Powers?''

''They are easy to deal with. France is practically defeated and America is too far away to make much of a difference... what do you say?''

England's mind raced. The decision of how the war would end was in his hands now. He hated the responsibility it placed on him. But then he thought of something that Germany had not mentioned.

''What happens if I don't comply with your demands?''

A moment of silence followed. Then Germany answered in a deceptively calm tone, ''Then Russia will not have as nice a stay here as he would in hell.''

-888-

Russia's fuzzy mind was slowly moving toward wakefulness and through his closed eyelids he could already feel the bright light filtering into the room he was in.

Carefully opening his eyes, he saw that he was lying in a four poster bed. Fatigue hit again as he tried to sit up and as he did, a few strands of his silvery blonde hair fell into his eyes, which he swiped back, touching his forehead in the process.

Russia's forehead was warm. Very warm, in fact. He groaned as he realised he had a fever and he felt sick. The light hitting his face stung his eyes and made his head throb. Overall, he felt awful.

Curling up again and turning away from the bothersome window, he wished for someone to be there, to sit down at his bed side, hold his hand and bring him tea. England made nice tea. England was nice in general... England had a pretty fireplace... and his house was warm and cosy...

-and Russia was asleep again.

Russia dreamed. It was one of those feverish dreams, a horrible dream, twisted reality and impossibilities churning in an endless whirlwind of staircases, tea cups, white walls and clocks going backwards. And in this whirlpool, drowning in madness and the inexplicable urgency pervading the nightmare, was Russia.

He needed to run, yes, running was important, destination was not, where was he going, why, well it didn't matter, did it, it was important, crucial, oh clocks, time passed quickly, minutes were created, who was he to complain? Turning and turning, the walls had so many corners, holes in the floor, careful, the tea cups couldn't break, careful careful, another winding, threatening staircase coming at him closer, closer, wait or run- and suddenly, a glimpse of a figure in one of the rooms he passed.

Russia stopped running. That one room had been filled with calm, with an order and structure that had soothed him in the split second he had glimpsed it. Where was it now? The doors were spinning in front of him, the corners multiplying behind his back. Where was it now?

There! A figure was stepping out of a room, several corridors down, madness receding wherever he walked. Russia reached out and wanted to call out to the figure bringing peace, but his throat closed up and no sound escaped.

Call me by my name... call me... sounds shifted and Russia knew the figure was speaking.

But who are you?! Russia wanted to call, but again his throat didn't work. The figure was fading. Don't go! Russia wanted to call. Don't go, don't leave me! Madness closed in. The figure was nearly gone. A last wave of soothing calm enveloped Russia, and suddenly, he knew.

His throat cleared up, his voice broke out.

''England!''

The figure flickered and then regained colour, regained strength. Russia started to recognise the stronger nation as he strode toward him. The green uniform, blonde hair and yes, those piercing green eyes. Chancing a glance behind him, Russia saw the whirlwind retreating reluctantly, the twisting staircase hissing and spitting like an angry cat.

And finally, England was there. He stopped in front of Russia, met his eyes with his and stretched out a hand in a silent offer of support.

Reaching out, Russia felt as though their hands were miles apart, but finally, they touched. He let himself float on the calm England brought with him and was startled when the stronger nation pulled him close.

Madness receded and the walls stopped shifting. England's strength slowly seeped into Russia, everywhere they touched.

Russia's eyes were wide as his head rested on England's right shoulder and reason returned to him. Why...?

-888-

England wasn't sure if he was dreaming or not. And it didn't really matter. All he knew was that he had seen Russia caught in an infernal disorder of nightmarish quality, desperate and in need of help.

His violet eyes had been darting from one threat to the other, insanity building up in his mind.

England had seen it before, the madness, the helplessness. And when he stepped toward the taller nation, Russia had looked up and fixed him with a gaze so desperate that England's chest ached in an odd way.

But it had been Russia's dream, Russia who had control and try as he might, England could not walk closer to... to do what?

He needed Russia's acknowledgement, needed him to realise who he was so that he could truly become part of the dream, because as the visitor he was right then, he could not help him.

And when Russia had finally called out his name, voice close to breaking, England could only think how important it was to get to him, to soothe his pain away and make it better.

When he had reached him, he wasn't so sure anymore. What if Russia didn't want to be comforted? He reached out a hand instead.

And Russia had grasped it, with a fervour that had shaken him, had shown how much he needed him to be here, right here, and England decided he didn't care what Russia thought, because right now he looked like he needed England more than anything else.

And now, holding the shuddering Russia, England couldn't think of a reason why he should be anywhere else.

-8888888-

:D Awww England!

Drop a line, but don't drop it ON me (especially you, Amethyst)!! -laughs-