And now for something completely different. Really quite different. I'm not sure if it's too early for this much backstory or not, but I thought you all deserved to know what the deal is with South and why Ireland's so jumpy all the time. This chapter was probably the hardest to write, but it was rewarding as well. I'm pretty pleased with it. I don't write serious things very often, so I'd love to hear how you think I did. But without further ado, here it is.

"Hey North! Look what I found!"

Ireland raised his head; his twin sister was standing on the other side of the meadow with her hand held triumphantly in the air. "What? Go on, give us a look!" He ran over to her, his green wellies splashing through puddles and trampling daisies as he crashed through the long grass.

She opened her small, muddy hand slowly, carefully. Nestled in her palm was a tiny four-leaf clover. "I get to be lucky now, North," she said, her freckled face breaking out into a wide smile.

"Wow..." He stared at the clover like a prospector might stare at a nugget of gold. "Can I hold it, South? Maybe I'll get to be lucky too."

"No! You can't just take all my luck like that! Find your own clover." She held her fist away from him and poked her tongue out.

"Come on, I'll give it back," he said, but she was unrelenting. He darted forwards, hand outstretched, but she moved at the last second. He overbalanced, grabbed at her skirt as he fell and they both ended up sprawled on the grass. Over and over they rolled, still fighting for the clover but laughing all the while. Ireland never did get to hold it; South had always had a strong grip and stronger determination. In the end they both gave up; they simply lay there on the grass, side by side, staring up at the blue sky.

CRASH!

Another roll of thunder jolted Ireland back to reality. He was no longer in the daisy-filled meadow with his sister; he was sitting under his bed, hugging his legs to his chest and pressing his forehead to his knees, all alone. There were many things Northern Ireland did not like - flashing lights, fireworks, loud noises - but thunder was the worst. Whenever the rainclouds took on that dark, heavy quality that meant a storm was coming, he would shut himself in his bedroom and hide under his bed until it had passed. That was what he was doing now; he'd lost track of time, but England, Scotland and Wales were probably asleep. Good. He didn't have to worry about them finding him. He didn't feel like talking.

CRASH!

South was standing ten feet away from him, her dark hair soaked in the pouring rain. Her usual bunches had been replaced by a sharp, severe bun at the back of her head and her green eyes, usually warm and sparkling as though they knew a joke that you didn't, were cold and harsh. Her mud-stained military uniform was drenched but she wasn't shivering. The hand that held her gun to her side didn't shake at all.

"South...what are you doing? No... don't..."

"I won't hurt you, North," she said. "Not any more. I'm sorry, but what I did was necessary. I'm fighting for our freedom. Why can't you see that?"

He didn't know whether or not he was crying; the raindrops on his face made it hard to tell. "Please, South..."

"Come with me!" she said, and suddenly the iron disappeared from her eyes, showing him a fleeting glimpse of the South he knew. For a moment, he could imagine that freckled face smiling, those green, heavy-browed eyes sparkling again. He could forget the black mask now hanging around her neck, the gun at her side, the things she'd done. "We can be our own country again! We can be free! Come with me, North."

"N-n... no..."

"What?"

"I said no, South! I'm not leaving!"

And then the iron was back, and his sister was gone. "Why? Why not? You don't have to worry about him. I'll protect you. I'm strong now. We don't need him; we can be strong on our own!"

"This isn't about strength!" While South may have been perfectly steady, Northern Ireland was shaking violently in the cold. His half-healed wounds were starting to ache and he was beginning to feel lightheaded with exhaustion; he was not strong enough to fight right now. "They're my family and I'm staying with them! They're not perfect, but I don't care! You can leave if you like, but I'm not going with you. Now leave me alone!"

The words were caught by the wind and whipped away across the field as soon as he had said them, but they still hung in the minds of the twins long after they had left. They were strong, irreversible, final. Like a death sentence.

South shook her head slowly. "You eejit, North." She looked him up and down with those cold eyes; he was bruised, bleeding, beaten - he knew he looked pitifully weak but he stared right back at her in defiance. She raised her gun, her hand still refusing to shake. "You stupid idiot."

"No!"

Both Irelands looked up, trying to find where the unexpected sound had come from. England was running across the field, his usually pristine green uniform as drenched and muddy as theirs. He had a black eye, but aside from that looked strong enough. He was hurt but not beaten, not by a long way.

"YOU!" South's eyes narrowed as she aimed her gun at England now. He reached them and put an arm in front of his younger brother, shielding him. "You! What are you doing here?"

"You can't make him leave! If he wants to stay with us then that's his choice. Just because you've decided to overreact and throw a tantrum like this, you don't have to drag him down with you!"

"A tantrum?" South was actually laughing now, but it wasn't out of happiness. It was the sort of cracked, almost hysterical laughter that comes with both physical and emotional exhaustion. "You call this a tantrum? Overreacting? You left me to starve, England. I could've died and you wouldn't have cared. Ever since we were kids you've been bossing me around, telling me what to do, forcing me to live by your rules. But I'm not your slave any more! I'm getting my freedom back no matter what it takes!"

"South..."

"You are overreacting. I was trying to help you!"

"Help? Help how? By taking everything I have? Treating me like a servant? Maybe the others are okay with that, but I have more self-respect than them. I don't have to put up with this kind of treatment!"

"Then leave!" roared England. He was angrier than North had ever seen him. Even behind his back, being sheltered from potential gunfire, he couldn't help but feel a little scared of him. "Get out of here! I never want to see your ungrateful face again!"

CRASH!

Ireland hugged his knees tighter to his chest, tears leaking from his eyes. His sister had left that day. She had earned her freedom. Her end had justified her means. She had what she wanted; she was happy now, and Ireland was happy for her despite all the pain that came with the aftermath. He just wished it hadn't had to end the way it did. She had never truly given up on trying to convince him to join her; every conversation they had - most often online or through letters, or occasionally even on the phone when England was away - seemed to eventually make its way back to the issue of where he chose to live. He would be lying if he said he hadn't contemplated the idea, sometimes even regretted letting South leave, but his place was here in the United Kingdom.

CRASH!

The bang of an explosion, somewhere far too close to home. The crash of shattering windows, shards of glass flying out into the street. The chatter of gunfire. The pains, almost like pins and needles, as you felt each individual citizen die. And always, like a stormcloud hanging over your head, the dull, gnawing fear of not knowing if the street you were in would be the site of the next gunfight or terror attack.

CRASH!

"Ireland?"

His head jolted up off his knees, almost hitting the top of his bed, and he saw England standing in the doorway. He wiped his eyes hurriedly, trying to look as though he was okay, that he'd just chosen to sit under his bed today for no particular reason. "Oh... um, hi."

England wasn't fooled. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" he said, a little too brightly. "Nothing's wrong, I'm fine. S-shouldn't you be in bed?"

CRASH!

Ireland's head shot back against his knees and he couldn't stop himself from letting out a tiny squeak.

"Ireland!" England was next to him now, on his knees to fit under the bed.

Northern Ireland was, as a rule, not a huggy person. He valued his personal space and let no-one, aside from family members and them only grudgingly, into the sacred twelve inches between him and the great unknown. If anyone was stupid enough to hug him, he would go stiff as a plank and just stand there awkwardly until they finished. England was not a huggy person either. He was less militant about it than Ireland, but his personal bubble was easily popped and he didn't appreciate emotional displays in his presence. But now, as England wrapped his arms around his brother and Ireland buried his head in his shoulder, all of that was forgotten.

"You didn't have a great time of it either," whispered Ireland. "How are you so... so untroubled?"

England considered this. "You've just got to keep going," he said eventually. "She made her choices. Just let it go and move on."

Ireland sniffed and pulled his head back to see the wet patches his eyes had left on England's shirt. "Sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry about anything. Just don't let it get to you, okay? Stiff upper lip."

He sniffed again and nodded, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "I just miss her sometimes, is all."

"That's fine. She is your sister, after all. It's to be expected. But trust me, you're better off without her."

England would say that, of course. England and South had never really got along on the best of days. They were too different - or maybe too similar? He never could tell.

"Now get some sleep." The emotional display was over; England crawled out from under Ireland's bed and stood up. "I think the thunderstorm's finished. You'll be tired in the morning if you stay under there all night."

"Right," he nodded.

"Night then," said England. He smiled at Ireland - that alone was a comfort, since his smiles weren't given out regularly - and shut the door behind him.

Ireland watched him go, then followed his lead in crawling out from under the bed. He climbed to his feet, went over to the window and drew back the curtains; England was right, the stormclouds were gone. The moonlight still showed the dark, swirling pattern of clouds, but they were the wispy, light kind that comes after the rain. They began to disperse as Ireland watched, drifting away across the sky and letting rays of moonlight illuminate the front lawn.

The storm was over.

Maybe now Northern Ireland could finally find some peace.