Months after visiting Ireland, the dreams stop becoming satisfying to England. He tries to stop them but he thinks he may have almost ended something else. This leads England to a strange confrontation with the real Ireland. And he may find the answers to who or what has been controlling his dreams this whole time.
I hope you guys enjoy this! Only two more chapters after this!
WARNING: At some point, this is going to be slightly disturbing. This is also going to be pretty sad, so prepare a tissue.
A few months went by as the War continued. France was invaded by Germany, forcing him to surrender along with other countries bordering his house. England was feeling more alone than ever but he still fought with determination against the Axis Powers. If the Allies were able to succeed in the First World War, they can surely win in the Second World War.
After visiting Ireland, England couldn't go back to see him. The image of his older brother looking frail and deteriorated haunted England. It even followed him in his dreams when he was with the dream Ireland. This version that looked healthy and well fed was no match against the weak looking face in England's head.
As any other night, England laid down to go to sleep and be with the other Ireland. When he opened his eyes, he was in his room but it was mid-day. He got out of bed and walked down the stairs into the living room. Sure enough, Ireland was sitting on the couch, staring out the window.
England came up behind Ireland, wrapped his arms around his neck, and kissed his right cheek. Ireland chuckled before reaching up to ruffle England's hair.
"Good morning, Deartháir Beag."
"G'morning," England mumbled. He walked around the couch and sat next to Ireland, leaning into him and resting his head on the red-head's chest. He felt so real to England. It calmed him slightly to be near the healthier Ireland.
But...
"I love you, Deartháir Beag."
"I love you too, South..." England muttered without any emotion to his voice.
You're not the same as my older brother. You're not the Irish Free State.
"Is everything okay, Deartháir Beag?"
"Yeah... I'm just under a lot of stress right now..."
"Of course. You've been working so hard lately. You need to take a break every once in a while. Relax."
"If only I could..."
The Second World War does not exist here. You never acknowledge it so why bring it up?
"Oh! I know! Let's make one of your favourite meals! That'll take your mind off things, right?"
"I guess we can make some scones..."
"Perfect! I'll get the ingredients."
You're so happy and full of life. Not nearly lifeless like you should be...
England and Ireland walked into the kitchen and pulled out some ingredients and the proper kitchen ware. Cooking was one of England's main ways of escape. It was his comfort zone, his passion. No one ever truly cared for his meals and would call it poison. The only one that wouldn't insult his cooking was Ireland.
They mixed the dry ingredients and added the necessary amounts of spices. Once they were in the proper mixture, the two island nations began to form the scones on the pan. Finally, England put the scones in the oven and stepped away.
"Deartháir Beag..."
England turned around as Ireland began wiping the blond's cheek.
"You have some flour on your face," Ireland chuckled.
England frowned as he stared into that kind face.
You're not real. You're just a cruel illusion.
England's bright green eyes began to water up as Ireland softly wiped his cheek.
You're not suppose to be nice to me. You're suppose to hate me for doing this to you.
Those green orbs burned from the moisture trapped inside them.
You shouldn't look like this. You should appear tired, underfed, and almost skeletal.
The tears brimmed around the Brit's eyes, threatening to spill.
You're not my real brother. You can never replace him no matter how nice you act towards me.
For once in his life since the American Revolution, England cried in front of the nation that he lost. He had to let go of Ireland in order to move on. Tonight he will end these dreams for good.
"I'm sorry, Irish Free State," England choked out, his tears streaming down his face. Ireland looked at England with a confused expression on his face.
"'Irish Free State?' I'm South, the representation of the southern part of Ireland."
"You are in this realm. But I want to see the Irish Free State."
"What are you talking about, Deartháir Beag?"
"You hate me. You hated me ever since I made you a part of the United Kingdom. Because of this, you declared your independence and we had a war, the Irish War for Independence. It ended in a truce between us and you and your twin brother were separated."
"England, I'm not following any of this."
"You are not real. You're a horrible delusion of my mind that's torturing me from the inside out."
"England... How can you say that? I would never-"
"You're so nice. Just like you use to be. But in reality, you're as cold as the winters in Russia. You look at me with hatred in your eyes and there's no emotion to your voice when you speak to me."
"England, calm down."
"I want the Ireland who despises me when he sees me! Who spits out the smallest words that affect me later! Who looks half dead because I forced him into poverty!"
"England!"
"Dear God! I'm so sorry!"
Ireland cupped England's face in his hands, cradling the broken nation.
"Deartháir Beag. I don't know what's gotten into you but you have to stop saying strange things. Whatever is going on, let me help you with it. Maybe then everything will be fine."
"Nothing will be fine anymore. Don't you see? We can never go back to the way things were."
"Is this about our relationship? Even though we're tied to each other as brothers, we're not blood related."
"You twit! That's the last thing on my mind! I don't want you here anymore! I want the Irish Free State!"
"Deartháir Beag! Stop saying such things!"
"Go away!"
"Deartháir Beag!"
Ireland tried to pull England into a hug but the blond was doing all he could to push him away. Through their struggle, England looked over at the dirty dishes from the day before. He saw the chef's knife he used to cut the lamb meat for dinner. He thought, if he could just put it in front of Ireland to make him back away, maybe it'll get Ireland off of him. He could even just slash it across Ireland's chest and rip his jumper. Anything to make this Ireland leave.
England grabbed the chef's knife, swung his arm in Ireland's direction, and yelled "Go away!" as he closed his eyes. He felt the knife slide across something besides air, and Ireland's arms left England's sides. When he opened his eyes, he was met with a sight more awful than he could imagine.
Ireland stared at England with semi-shocked eyes, his throat deeply cut. Blood spilled profusely out of his wound and onto his jumper, turning the dark green fabric black. Ireland did not appear to be in pain. He wore a very sad expression.
"I see," Ireland started. His voice was just as normal as though his throat was not sliced. As he spoke, blood flowed out of his mouth and down his chin, further dousing the floor in crimson. "You don't want this to continue anymore. I understand now. I'll give you what you wish England. Only because I love you."
England was too shocked to grab a dish cloth and try to staunch the bleeding. He was in too much shock to do anything except stare.
More blood poured out of Ireland's neck, refusing to stop. The Irishman opened his mouth to speak, his warm red blood spilling out like a waterfall.
"Be safe, Deartháir Beag. Remember that I'll always love you and I'll ne-"
Ireland's lips moved but no words came out. Every noise around England was muted. Everything began to blur and mesh together as the dream grew more abstract. England screamed out in uncertainty and fear, but his voice could not be heard. His head grew light and his whole body went numb. He felt as though he were falling but he was still standing in front of the pool of blood. Soon, nothing was solid or took any form and the whole world was hushed.
England woke up with a start, nearly falling out of bed. He was sweating and panting roughly as he thought over what had happened.
I did it! I finally ended these horrible dreams!
The image of the happier Ireland with sad eyes, a cut throat, and blood running down his front suddenly flashed in England's mind. It looked so real. He could smell the blood and almost taste it. He felt the warm wet substance slide down the knife's blade onto his hand. It felt like water only thicker.
A sudden thought went through England's head as he remembered the horrid image of the dying dream Ireland. For awhile, England had considered that Ireland himself was the one making him have the dreams. They both knew magic, the discussions in the dreams were things only Ireland and England would know, and the Ireland in his dreams spoke perfect Gaelic. Who else could be causing these dreams except him?
Although, if Ireland was the culprit and controlling the dreams all along, then...
Oh, no... I cut the Irish Free State's throat!
"Irish Free State!" England yelled out, as he stumbled out of bed. At this moment, he didn't care if his brothers woke up and yelled at him to go back to bed. If he really did cut Ireland, it could be a matter of time before he bleeds to death.
England ran out the door into the June night. He didn't bother to grab his coat or put on his shoes. He had to get to Ireland's house before it was too late.
As England neared the docks, he realized it was too late to board a ferry. Even if he had a choice, he knew it would take too long for the ferry to complete its trip. He had to jump from Wales' dock to Ireland's.
When Ireland was still a kid, he found a way to get to the island's without having to sit in a boat for so long. He started jumping from the docks to the other islands. He would slip and fall into the bodies of water between him and his brothers at first, but he got better as time went on. It was the earlier form of "island-hopping," a strategy the Allies will use later on in the War.
England increased his speed, despite that his legs ached. Once on the docks, he made sure no one was watching before leaping across the St. George Channel. He almost made it to Ireland's dock when his foot slipped and he fell into the channel.
Desperate, England splashed his way to the shore and ran to Ireland's house. He was soaked in water, his pajamas weighing him down as he continued his frantic run.
Never before had England noticed how far Ireland lived from his ports. England had never felt that it would take forever to reach the red-head's house. The road seemed to go on for miles. The grassy fields seemed more vast than they usually were.
Through the pale moonlight, England could see the dark building known as Ireland's house. No lights were on in the house except for the dim flickering of a candle in Ireland's bedroom. If he were given normal circumstances, England would've thought it was strange or that the Irish nation was casting a spell late at night. England assumed that the candle light had something to do with Ireland putting a spell on his dreams.
Running up to the house, England turned the knob to open the front door but discovered it was locked. He banged on the door with his fists and called out Ireland's name in case he was still able to walk around. Hopefully, he found something to staunch the wound until he was able to go to the hospital.
The sound of the front door being unlocked caught England's attention. The door opened wide to show a sleep deprived Ireland, the shadows under his eyes darker than before. There was no evidence that a wound was over Ireland's neck. The blood that flowed down his face, neck, and chest had disappeared.
"England?" Ireland asked, sleep evident in his voice, "What are you-"
"Irish Free State! You're okay!" England lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Ireland in a tight hug. The Irish nation jumped at the feeling of England's cold wet body. He was soon wide awake from both England's wet clothes, and the strange way England was acting.
"E-England? Is everything okay?"
"It is now! Oh, thank God you're alive!"
"England!" Ireland pushed England away, keeping him at arm's length. The British nation looked up at Ireland, tears in his eyes. Ireland stared back but this time there was emotion in his eyes: concern.
"England. What's going on?"
England stared at the red-head, a little in shock that he was showing emotion to him for once. Slowly, England calmed down from his previous frantic rush to get here. Everything was okay now.
"It's... a long story," England replied.
"Then come inside. You can't stay out there all night, soaking wet. I'll loan you some clothes."
"You don't have to do that."
"Are you willing to jeopardize your health while still fighting in this War?"
"No, but-"
"Then listen to me and stop being persistent."
Ireland's voice was firm and held the same concern he had in his eyes. He wasn't cold or apathetic towards England. He was actually worried.
Ireland led England into the bathroom and gave him a towel to dry off with before leaving to retrieve some clothes. When he came back, England had just removed his shirt and was drying off the water that was left on his skin.
"Here are some pajamas," Ireland offered the clothes to England, "They might be a little big, but you'll manage."
After drying himself off, England slipped on Ireland's neutral green pajamas. They were indeed a little big, the sleeves going past his wrists to his fingertips, and the pants slightly baggy on him. He couldn't complain. The Irishman was actually showing an emotion besides bitterness for once. He didn't have time to be picky.
England walked downstairs into the living room to find it empty. Ireland wasn't sitting down anywhere, waiting for England to finish. This wasn't like the dreams.
Ireland walked out of the kitchen door and sat down on his couch. He noticed England standing silently from the staircase, and pat the other side of the couch next to him.
"Come. Sit down. I know you must be tired."
England obeyed his older brother and sat next to him on the couch. Ireland pulled a blanket off the top of the couch and wrapped it around England's shoulders. England was still surprised that Ireland was treating him with some bit of kindness.
"Better?" Ireland asked.
"Yeah."
"I'm making some coffee. I know you don't care for it but that's all I have to offer."
"I can deal with it. It's not like it'll kill me."
They were quiet for a moment, the sound of the grandfather clock breaking the silence. Ireland eventually cleared his throat, prepared to speak.
"So, what brings you here to my house in the middle of the night?"
"You're going to laugh when I tell you this."
"Since when have I ever laughed at you?"
"... I had a bad dream..."
"A bad dream?"
"But, it wasn't just any bad dream. I don't think they were dreams at all."
"What do you mean?"
"I think someone has been controlling my dreams ever since we changed our names."
"Why do you think that?"
"The same thing kept happening over and over again each night without fail."
"Maybe it was a recurring nightmare."
"Not at first. But it turned into one the past two or three months."
"I could ask you what was in your dreams but then it might happen."
"That's impossible. I know this will never happen." England looked up at Ireland with a sad smile. "In my dreams, you were actually nice to me."
Ireland stared at England in slight alarm. England was afraid his older brother would be offended or upset that he'd been dreaming of him ever since they separated. Instead, Ireland calmed down and gave England an encouraging look.
"What exactly happened in the dreams?" Ireland asked. He was neither curious nor uninterested. He simply wanted to know what went on in the dreams.
"Like I said: you were nice. But it was strange because you were still in the United Kingdom. Or, you at least dressed like you did."
"Did I still have that dreadful collar around my neck?"
"No. That's what confused me more. You were happy, dressed in the formal attire of the United Kingdom, but you weren't necessarily a part of it."
"That is pretty weird."
"They made me so happy, though. You weren't the person you are today. It was like the days we had when we were younger. Those days you would smile and be happy and nothing upset you."
"Those days when we were children and we didn't understand what being a country was really like?"
England frowned when he heard Ireland say that. It almost sounded like he resented those days.
"Well, anyways, in the dreams you always treated me kindly and called me 'deartháir beag' like you use to. They were so happy..."
"So, what made them bad? How did they turn into nightmares?"
"St. Patrick's Day, when I came to visit, I actually saw you for the first time since asking you to join me as the Allies. You had gotten so much worse. I didn't know things could get so bad for you. I mean, when America became independent, he never-"
"America was different. He didn't split away from you in the middle of the Depression. He didn't have a civil war following his independence. None of the World Wars came after he was officially independent. We're different, England. Just because America was fine on his own doesn't mean I was going to."
"Maybe that's why seeing you looking ill and pale frightened me."
"So, how did my new appearance cause your dreams to become nightmares?"
"I couldn't look at the happier version of you without seeing the real you in my mind. No matter what, I always saw you instead of the illusion."
"Is that all?"
"No. Tonight, I couldn't deal with these dreams anymore. They just showed the person I could never see again. It hurt more to see your smiling face than the one that usually shows no emotion to me. So, I decided to end them."
"If you thought they were influenced by a spell, did you know how to repel them?"
"Actually, I never looked into it. The dreams made me so happy, I didn't think there was any harm in ending them. So, I never tried to stop them up until tonight."
"So, how did you do it?"
"I tried to tell the dream version of you to go away. But, it kept persisting and seemed to not understand. So, I tried to push him away by force. I was going to threaten it with a knife or even just cut the jumper. But, I somehow ended up hitting its neck, and cut it pretty deeply."
"Do you think it worked?"
"That's why I'm here. I thought that maybe you were the one behind this."
"Me?"
"Yes. It just seemed that this version of you knew things only we knew and spoke fluent Gaelic."
"Anyone can learn Gaelic well enough to fluently speak it. You sure it wasn't Northern Ireland or Scotland?"
"I don't see why they'd make the dreams so happy. I honestly think they'd try to torture me with that kind of spell."
"I guess you have a point."
"So, it wasn't you?"
"I don't have the time to do such things, England. If I did, I wouldn't spend it tricking you. I'm sure it's just someone's cruel joke. It may even be one of our brothers."
I highly doubt that. They can barely stand looking at me, let alone being romantically involved with me. They would not bother doing something like this.
"Hell, maybe America actually learned how to do magic," England said sarcastically. Ireland chuckled lightly under his breath.
"The day he admits fairies and leprechauns exist, anything will be possible."
"If he ever gets over his fear of ghosts, I'll believe anything he says."
The two nations laughed lightly as the grandfather clock chimed the hour. They both looked up at the clock to see that it was now 2:00 am. England could feel the pit in his stomach grow as he realized what he had to do.
"I should go."
"It's late. You can sleep in one of the guest rooms."
"No. I really should leave."
"What makes you say that?"
"I found the answers I was looking for. There's no reason for me to stay."
England knew Ireland probably didn't understand what he was saying. He didn't feel the need to explain. Ireland didn't cause the dreams and he was unharmed. Staying will only further hurt him.
"Well, if you feel that way then I have no reason to stop you. But, let me at least escort you to the docks."
"Why? The ferries have shut down for the night."
"There's a row boat on the shore I use at times. I'm not going to have you chance jumping to the other side. I assume that's why you were wet."
"You slip at times too."
"You're just clumsy." There was amusement in his voice, making it more of a joke and not an insult.
"I guess I have no choice."
"Let me take care of the coffee before we leave."
England sat in the boat and waited for Ireland to push it into the water. After feeling no movement, he turned around to see Ireland staring at him.
"What is it?" England asked.
"Just thinking..."
"What about?"
"It's strange. Ever since the separation, you've had the most pleasant dreams while I've had the worst nightmares."
"Nightmares? About what?"
Ireland stared at him with a thoughtful look on his face, considering for a moment whether or not to tell him. After a moment, Ireland shook his head.
"It's not good to tell bad dreams before eating something."
"Is it that bad?"
"I wish I could say I've seen worse."
"Oh..."
"It can't come true, I know that."
"Why not?"
"It's already happened..."
England gave him a confused look before Ireland pushed onto the boat a little. England put his hand on Ireland's before saying, "Wait!"
Ireland stopped and looked up at England. The blond's hands were still over Ireland's, the red-head not disturbing their placement.
"What is it?"
England knew he would never see Ireland after this. He knew that they would never be able to talk to each other, or be the slightest bit friendly once this night was over. This was the only chance he had to say what he needed to say. He knows Ireland has been waiting for him to say it for almost a year now. He should've known that France was trying to drop a huge hint the last time they both saw Ireland together on St. Patrick's Day.
"Irish Free State... I'm sorry..."
Ireland stared at him, obviously not knowing what England meant.
"What are you sorry for?"
"I'm sorry I forced you to join me. If I hadn't of done it, you wouldn't be in the state you're in right now."
"England..."
"Please, don't try to persuade me into thinking it's not my fault. I know I'm to blame for what's become of you. I forced you and Northern Ireland to grow apart and hate each other. I made you become weak and struggle to survive. I screwed everything up because I was selfish. I can understand now why you hate me so much."
It was quiet for a moment before Ireland snaked his fingers over England's, placing them lightly above his little brother's fingers.
"You'll never learn, will you, England?"
"What? What is it that I haven't learned?"
"I thought I told you years ago... I can't hate you. Even if I wanted to I can never hate you."
"Are you serious?"
"Yes. Just remember that from now on. Goodnight, England."
Ireland pushed the boat into the channel and let go of England's hand.
"Good-bye, Irish Free State." England wasn't saying this as his parting words. He was saying good-bye to his older brother for good. Almost a year since they made the truce that ended the war, England acknowledged Ireland's independence. England had finally learned to let go of the only other nation he cared about the most.