Chapter 5 – Greed and Fear

February, 2233

England glanced upward at the dripping ceiling. As a splat of green liquid dropped on his face, he packed up his embroidery, deciding he did not want it to be ruined by all this grime. He could do it later, when he could be bothered to move somewhere in his home that wasn't damp, cold or miserable. Instead, he sat alone with nothing but the chair, the table, a little food and his thoughts.

It would be far easier, he decided, to bear it if he were doing something. Not embroidery or cooking, but something serious, that must be done so that these little whining thoughts could easily take a backseat to the bigger problems. England liked problems. He always had trouble balancing real things like warfare with his emotions, and problems helped him focus. Embroidery, he had realised recently, did the exact opposite.

In the midst of the dripping and dim English light, the phone rang. England did not hesitate to pick it up, but he took it slowly. Anything to kill time. "Hello."

"Angleterre... You have to get over here. There's a World meeting – held in my country – to discuss the end of the war. You are required to attend."

England stood up. "Any reason why you waited so long to tell me this? I might have prepared myself a little. And since when do we hold World meetings without any prior notice?"

There was a short pause, and when France next spoke his voice shook with suppressed frustration.

"Mon Dieu, England. I believe it is you who owes me an explanation. Now, if you please."

Poor France. He had no warning of any part of the situation. England would certainly want to know everything, were he in France's position.

"What is there to explain, France?" England spoke softly. "We won the war. I wiped out the Muscovites with my weapon. What else do you need to know?"

There was silence again at the other end of the line. England provided answers in his head.

Why I didn't tell you? How I was able to create such a weapon? How I can talk of wiping out another nation – a feat that has not been repeated for half a century – without so much as batting an eyelid?

How the bloody hell do you expect me to answer those questions, France?

Closing his eyes, briefly, England walked to the door and dusted himself off. "Apologies, my friend. I will join you shortly."

"Eleven o'clock. Do not come late."

...

France seemed to have gone out of his way to make his home look presentable for the meeting. The house was nearly completely free of dust, and all of his belongings were neatly placed on shelves or in cupboards. The rooms smelt of air-freshener, and although there was hardly a hair out of place, the house had the distinct impression of having been cleaned up quickly and frantically. The image of France dashing from room to room and squirting perfume into the air brought a brief smile to England's lips.

He was alone in the corridor, with no sound but his boots clicking against the wooden floor. Deciding that he wanted to spend a little time with France alone before Edelheim or Poland started running their mouths off over what territory they ought to get, he had come ten minutes early. There were things he needed to discuss with him, things which he hadn't been able to say over the phone.

The meeting room drew nearer, and with it the sound of voices. The mutterings were too quiet to be properly discerned, but England had been to enough of these meetings to place a foreign language, no matter how quietly it was whispered. He strained his ears for the drawling, heavy-tongued French. Waves of sound reached him; he decoded them automatically. Light voice, undulating tone, ornamentations on double consonants… Italian. Great. He's here. So much for a quiet word with France. He made out more voices: taut, crisp syllables, almost certainly Edelheim, and then a deep female voice. He was near enough now to make out the words.

"Well, I think it's a disgraceful idea. You only bring yourself down to his level, by doing this."

Australia. She's free now, good for her, England thought, but then something unsettled him. Except… Australia is never early. She's late for every meeting, unless it's held in her country…

"Don't be ridiculous," another voice scoffed. Edelheim again. "We can't simply let him roam free with such material."

"We did it many times," called another voice. With a jolt, England recognised it as Japan – the other opponent of Europe. What say did he have in the peace treaties? And… Eleven, France had said, and it was five minutes earlier, yet there were several nations here already, seemingly in the middle of a discussion. About him, England realised, astonished that he hadn't got it sooner. France, that cunning bastard, telling England to come later than everyone else, while he discussed him and his actions behind his back. There was a sour taste at the back of England's throat. "If you remember the last time a weapon capable of maximum destruction was created. You did nothing to take nuclear bombs away from Panem, and now he still has them." There was distinct bitterness in Japan's voice.

"What?" Italy. "I thought that the district with nuclear weapons was eliminated."

"Nein," Edelheim corrected his friend. "That district turned out to have survived. It's been revolting against the Capitol for weeks now."

"When was the last time a nation was killed?" Baltica now chipped in. "Many have died as a result of accidents. Those who were killed were not killed single handed, or instantly. Many simply faded. I am with Edelheim on this one." There were several murmurs of agreement, and England felt his heart racing.

"No!" Australia again. "Don't you see? The fighting has just stopped – yes, at great cost, but it has still stopped! Why start unnecessary warfare? Do we want to lose any more of us – after there are so few already? Think! How many of the people who have been around all this time still meet like us?"

"Very few," Edelheim said. "And now one fewer, thanks to him, and that weapon. It was able to wipe out the Muscovites. Don't you get that? The Muscovites, once one of the great World powers."

"Once," Japan pointed out, quietly.

"Such a weapon," continued Edelheim, "Is simply not suited for England's hands. The damage he could cause with it speaks for itself."

Before anger could hit England in the core, he noticed something and suddenly froze. That tone in the German's voice, curling, sliding. Contempt, definitely… And greed.

That's all they want, England thought, surprised to feel a laugh bubbling inside him. That's all they ever cared about.

Finally, France's voice came, quiet and reflective: "I agree."

That did it. The mirth was gone. England didn't have time to decide between feeling stung or enraged by the betrayal, before he was pushing open the door of the room.

The other nations inside jumped and glanced up at England. The expressions were different on each face, but many held, to England's satisfaction, the embarrassed flush of being caught red-handed. England surveyed the room and found France's face, which had been set into an indifferent, guarded expression. "Good day, gentlemen. I apologise for my lateness. I was told to arrive at Eleven o'clock."

He seated himself right next to France, as he always did. No one made a sound. England wondered, as he moved his eyes from face to face, if he was the victim of others plotting his demise and downfall or – (his eyes lingered on Edelheim a little, and tried to find the evil and malice in his rigid features) if he was the one in a position of power, the one whom everyone feared. England liked that option. It is better to be feared than loved. And, if he was truly going to play such a role…

He leaned back in his chair, smiling a broad, handsome smile. "I can't have missed that much, I suppose. To be honest, I was confused from the start about why we were holding a meeting..." He turned his head to France, and kept the smile attached to his face. "I mean, we don't usually discuss the end of wars, do we, if the losing side is dead? What is there to discuss?"

There. The comment was very effective; France seemed to choke a little on his mask, steepling his fingers in front of his face, partially hiding the expression. England congratulated himself inwardly, before taking one last look at the faces around him. Good, he decided, Fear.

...

France only exchanged words with England again after the meeting, as he started to return home. He got as far as the exit of France's home, before he was stopped.

"Wait, England."

"What is it, France?" England found himself having to look upwards at France, who was standing uncomfortably close to him, and using his height advantage to glare down at him witheringly. England folded his arms in front of him and kept his back rod-straight.

"Those other nations won't speak to you about it, out of fear," France said. "I know you better. We may be allies, England, but I tell you that what you have done is wrong! Despicable! You will explain yourself, immediately!"

England would have thought about maintaining his pleasant demeanour, but his blood was hot. He scowled at France. "Your lack of trust and ungratefulness toward me is just as despicable. I won the war for us, didn't I? Why does it matter to you that that maniac was killed?" He sneered, his heart was pounding, "Face it, France, we all wanted him dead. You should thank me for preventing you from having to do it."

France looked, for a moment, close to punching England. "Angleterre..." he breathed. "I cannot believe that I did not realise this before. You are a real monster. Were you always this ruthless, keeping it bottled up for centuries, or you have changed since I last saw you?"

There was a sudden tightness in England's chest. His hands curled into fists, and he opened his arms out to his sides. "You and I have both acted in so-called monstrous fashions in the past, France. I would have thought you had grown accustomed to it."

"I thought so too, England." A pause followed this, and England thought, maybe he'll apologise, and we can go back to being allies, at the same time as thinking, this piece of hypocritical cheese-shit, at the same time as thinking he's fucking right. "And we shunned each other each time one of crossed a line. So, I'm telling you that right now…" He pushed his shoulders back, assumed an almost comically formal stance, "A relationship cannot work between us."

England ignored the stabbing sensation in his gut. "Are you saying, then, France, that you no longer wish to be my ally? We are properly breaking ties – over this?" There was no emotion in his voice other than disinterested irritation. He felt a flicker of pride at this.

France shook his head, let out a huff. "You don't understand. I thought you might have done, considering all that you have seen. But you don't."

There was a long silence, during which England scanned France's eyes for any emotion other than pity – any hurt for loss of friendship, even a shred of desperation. England disliked the crease in those eyebrows, the almost imperceptible but unmistakeably patronising shake of the head. He was the one in power; he was the one with the weapon. How dare France look at him like that?

He kept his long-time friend in a stare, impassive and cold. The door of France's house was open; England had opened it on his way out, and had not closed it as France stopped him from leaving. Now a chilled wind moaned from outside, causing both men to shiver slightly. For a moment, the blank expression on England's face vanished, replaced with a reaction of sorts to the cold, and he looked outside. Turning back to France, he asked simply: "So, that's a yes, then?"

He did not wait for a response from the nation behind him. Instead and waved a little to him, walked out of the house and closed the door carefully behind him.