Hey everyone! Sorry it took so long...don't really have any excuses. _ In this chapter, stuff happens. :D Please read, review, and enjoy!

~*oOo*~

Russia and his men dug into the briar patches until their hands were raw and bloody, and called out until America's name until their voices were hoarse. Russia was desperate to leave no tree unchecked, no stone unturned. Only when nightfall came did the nation call off the search; his small brigade had but a limited amount of oil, and most of his men were too exhausted to carry on anyway. Many of them glared at their commander's back with resentful eyes, though Russia was too tired and troubled to care. Upon arriving back to camp, he penned a letter to his ruler and lay on his cot, though he did not sleep.

He could faintly hear the shouts of English and French soldiers in the distance, and knew they were still searching, despite the darkness. Russia seethed underneath his thin blanket and imagined putting a bullet through France or England's eye. It was a remarkably attractive picture.

But what if America were to see such a thing? Russia's hands clenched so tightly around the scratchy material that he accidentally tore it in two. Swearing harshly underneath his breath, Ivan irritably threw the blanket off and buried his face in his hands. A painful lump rose to his throat, and the Russian's violet eyes became over bright in the darkness.

This was America's terrain, and if he truly wanted to disappear, Russia knew he could do so. But he also knew that if America wanted the nations to leave badly enough, the forces on this strange and alien continent could turn against them. Considering how desperate and angry the child had looked earlier, Russia wouldn't put it past him to want everyone to simply….disappear.

Russia let out a shuddering sigh, his fingertips wandering up to massage his aching temples. Oh, Peter, what have you done?

Scourges of America's mysterious natives might appear brandishing tomahawks, or surges of wild beasts might come to try and tear the soldiers apart, regardless of how many bullets they shot into their numbers. And while Russia had little control over his climate, he had noticed throughout the centuries that his disposition was indeed a factor in controlling his weather. If he was determined enough, howling storms could break out in his homeland that would freeze the marrow in an invader's bones.

Would happiness ease the chill in his homeland? Russia had no idea. If the weather back home reflected at all his mood, he sensed that there would be biting winds sweeping through the countryside, desolate and inconsolable, like the sound of a suffering child. He bit the inside of his mouth until he tasted blood.

Russia dully wondered about the horror stories his sentries had picked up from enemy soldiers about the bitterly cold winters here. But how could there be such a thing in this paradise? The world grew lovelier day by day; why, the leaves were just now shifting from emerald to beautiful scarlet, orange, and gold. Truly astonishing, but the idea didn't console Russia in the slightest. He wanted to rush away from his men and search the woods over until he at last recovered the child and made him understand that Russia was not heartless, that Russia was also painfully lonely.

The nation grabbed his boots, but let them drop from his hands back to the earth. No. If he left right now, even if he came back before dawn, his men would sense something wrong, perhaps suspect that they had been abandoned. Peter would never allow it, and he had his duties to think of. If enemy forces ventured to his camp, someone had to lead the Russian forces, else many of the young soldiers would be trampled like children.

Russia hugged his knees to his chest and stared at the fluttering fabric of the tent wall, from behind the moon glowed softly through. It seemed like days before it at last gave way to the great sun, red as blood.

~*oOo*~

Recollection for His Imperial Highness Peter the Great, Day Forty-Nine

I fear that you have made a grave error in selecting me to search out America, your highness. It seems prudent that we should prepare for war, for we face it on both sides if the motherland is so intent on enfolding little America as its own. The climate no longer seems to favor us, but as we were born with ice in our veins, we fare marvelously in comparison to the English and French, who are steadily becoming discouraged in the face of this light frost. My spies have picked up news that a great number of the French fleets shall soon be replaced by fresh forces; if my liege would condone such actions, I would be at liberty to strike them down while they are scant and weak in the wilderness.

England strikes in me great uncertainty, as he is intent on winning this land he feels so adamantly is rightfully is. While my men continue the search for little America, he and his forces continue the march, growing increasingly frustrated, but they betray no signs of surrendering. My men are of a loyal and earnest breed, but while they enjoy the fruits of this strange and dangerous world, the lust for adventure is fading and they yearn for their hearths. Many suspect that we are chasing a hopeless venture. I fear I also feel the same.

Russia lowered his quill and closed his eyes. His log betrayed him; another unsuccessful day had come and gone, and the only 'good news' his spies had to bring him was that France and England had both been unsuccessful in their ventures of tracking down the little country.

It hardly seemed to register as good news anymore; even if one of the European nations managed to locate America, Russia was fairly certain his men would be able to take on at least one of the foreign units. It wasn't as if he weren't capable of bringing one down by himself if need be. Russia stared soberly at the flickering candle on his desk, staying his hand so that he didn't reach for the flask of vodka on his hip.

His men marched without complaint, though they could be seen massaging blistered feet near the fires at night. But while he could hold their trust, their frustration was very clearly beginning to show; they were skirting around dangerous territory with two other rival nations, looking for a hidden treasure. Engaging in hostilities with another country would only allow a third to slip through the cracks and hunt for America unmolested. If all three went into battle, their governments could very well take that as an open declaration of war. Russia snorted.

Not that France and England weren't in an almost perpetual state of war, anyway…..but Peter had told him to avoid war at all costs. Regardless of the means, Russia knew that he could topple England and France's claims on the New World, but finding America would mean a virtually bloodless war.

Could mean, he reminded himself with a grim smile, helping himself to a hearty swig of vodka.

Russia pulled out a scroll of paper from his drawer, carefully scanning over the marked territory that he and his men had already scourged. He supposed the only option left was to go North….if he had to prepare for war, he would send out for reinforcements from the other Russia dividend and—

"Stop! Who goes there?"

Irritated, Russia looked up, his hand falling to his waist again, this time for his sword. The sentries he'd posted at his tent were speaking to someone. Ivan's eyes narrowed.

You had to have special clearance to speak with Captain Braginski, so who had come to see him? If it was England, Ivan would gladly send his head back to his men on a pike.

A breathless voice answered the guard's question.

"A message! Your lordship, we bring urgent news! Please, you must—"

Ivan strode across his tent in two strides and abruptly walked through the flap, the poor soldier jumping and saluting awkwardly, his red face darkening. His hair was plastered to his sticky forehead, and considering just how much the man was huffing and puffing, he had run from quite a long way.

"Da? And what is it?" asked Ivan, roughly but not unkindly. The soldier's eyes bulged in their sockets as he fought to answer, gasping.

"Sir, we have found the little country—the little America!"

Suddenly quite breathless himself, Russia seized the front of the man's uniform and shook him, harder than he'd intended to, considering the fact that the young soldier fell to the ground and all but cowered in Ivan's shadow.

"Where is he?" Ivan demanded in Russian, voice harsh and guttural. "Do you still know where he is?"

"D-da! In a cave, my lord, three of us wandered into a cave to escape a crew of English soldiers…and we found the small one instead. I'd not laid eyes on him before, but it's unmistakably him. I ran to fetch you and the other two are looking after him, although he wouldn't get far if he tried—" The brown-haired man threw his head back and gasped like a flapping fish out of water. "—he wasn't moving at all, hardly breathing—"

Ivan's voice improved to the roar of the bear that he'd been nicknamed after, and even his two battle tough veterans recoiled like spooked horses, pale-faced and trembling.

"Why? Did you hurt him?" The noose would only be too kind.

"N-nyet, Your Excellency, nyet!" shrieked the soldier, cringing and shuffling back on the grass, though Ivan slowly advanced on him, his face alight with terrible glee. "Nyet! We saw him and didn't want to startle him, so we approached slowly and called out his name and he wouldn't answer! The boy's white as death and hot as a coal! His leg was bleeding, so we thought he might have gotten infected, and—"

Without another word, Ivan whipped his head towards the stable lad who had been watching the proceedings with large eyes. "Bring me my horse." The adolescent, who seemed only too glad to vacate the scene, ran off and the soldier was pulled to his feet. "You will show me the way at once. I will have Alexei take charge if this proves to be false news. And if it is," added Russia sweetly, "If you are not spies, and are simply unable to detain a sick child, your kin shall get whatever bits of you that are left, small and smoldered that they may be."

The whey-faced man just nodded, relief flooding his eyes, as if he'd fully expected Russia to kill the messenger then and there. The nation snapped out orders to several of his commanding officers, and the camp surged with life. "Nyet, only a small party. We cannot hurt him, and we mustn't frighten him, even if he is very sick. Let no one out of camp, lest we have English or French spies waiting to tip their forces off….fetch me our physician, and another horse. We might need some equipment."

As these things were hastily gathered, Ivan stared stoically at the Earth and tried to ignore the sickening lurch in Ivan's stomach. America was a new country, fresh to the diseases that had rampaged Europe and his own nation for thousands of years. What if the boy had been exposed to something truly devastating? Smallpox, cholera, typhus? He hadn't been able to develop an immunity to such things!

He mounted his white horse, a small party of carefully selected officers following him, alongside the still nervous-looking messenger and the doctor.

"This will be excellent news for His Majesty," Russia murmured softly to himself as he stroked his mare's nose, trying to calm his racing heart. The soldier nodded tensely as he mounted a speckled brown horse.

"Da, sir," he agreed, as Ivan's horse reared and raced out of camp, hooves thundering on the ground. "If America survives."

~*oOo*~

They rode for what might have been a few hours, or a few minutes. Russia was not certain which. Normally he was quite gentle with his steed, but this time he kicked the creature with his spurs until the horse was a cantering blur in the night, white mane and tail streaming out like ghosts. The was only just keeping pace, calling out the way every now and again as the horses dashed underneath the tunnel of trees. Ivan lay flat against his horse as the wind picked up, sending a fanfare of leaves tumbling about them as they raced on.

Regardless of how much time was passed on their journey, his guide at last pulled his horse to a stop, which was panting considerably. "There it is," he said, pointing to the great, yawning maw of a dark cave, which looked like a hungry mouth. "I didn't want to go in there, but Raivis said that it would be far better to run into some bats than an English squadron…n-not that I would be unwilling to fight!" he fretted as Ivan silently dismounted. "We walked for awhile, and we found the boy at the end of the cave….oh, God, I hope their light has not yet gone out…."

Ivan seized a lantern and strode into the cave. Four of Russia's men followed suit, nervously stepping around the stalagmites that looked so very much like teeth. "Oh…" Unseen wings flapped in the darkness in the darkness and the doctor cried out, hastening after Russia, who continued to walk soundlessly even as the cry echoed in the deep caverns. Something squished underneath a soldier's boot and the ma tried not to make a face as Russia broke into a run, his scarf flying out behind him. It was all the four could do to keep up.

Somewhere, in the dank, musty cave, water was drip-drip-dripping, the sound resonating to an echo.

Just as it seemed the tunnels would have no end, at last they found a faint firefly of light glowing in the distance, and the two rushed until they broke into a dark clearing, where two figures sitting on a large boulder looked up, their pinched faces looking relieved.

"About time! We've been waiting here for hours!" exclaimed the smaller soldier, barely out of boyhood. The taller soldier hastily pinched him. Russia strode forward, eyes keen.

"Where is….?"

The taller man gulped and moved aside; there, next to the miniscule lantern, was a small, raggedy parcel wrapped up in one of the soldiers' uniforms. Russia immediately knelt and tugged it forwards for a closer look.

"Is he gonna croak?" the small soldier asked nervously, only to get pinched again by his fellow. Russia did not answer him.

Ivan uncovered the shivering lump, his breath hitching, out of relief or fear, he wasn't sure.

"America…." Russia breathed, looking down at the splotched mess of a limb and grimacing. It was spotted with a large bruise near the base of the wound, which was raw and angry-looking, coated with dirt and grime. Russia tentatively poked it, and hastily drew back when the child let out a whine.

The radiant, shy little boy he'd met just weeks ago was gone. Here was a boy with hair so dirty you almost could not tell it was yellow; only a few spikes of dull yellow hair were sticking up, dried and dusty. Rosy soft skin was covered with scabs and insect bites, and America's stomach was tiny, his ribs visible.

A pair of blue eyes opened, frightened and blurred, and they widened upon seeing the Slavic nation. With a whimper, America pulled away, scooting up until he hit the cave wall. He drew himself up into a small ball, planting his hands over his ears.

"Go away," whimpered America as Russia carefully swept him into furs, wrapping his poor body in warmth. "You're mean, like France and Engwand."

"Nyet." Russia tentatively brushed away the hair plastered to America's sweaty, sallow skin, but judging by America's wince, he hadn't been nearly gentle enough. "I will not take you to annex you as a Russian territory, little one. We're going to bring you to our camp and make you well again."

America struggled, but even Russia could tell the attempt was halfhearted. He screwed up his face and tears trickled down. "Leg hurts."

"I know." Russia hesitantly patted the boy's shoulder, and, feeling braver, pressed his lips to the boy's dirty head. The whimpering was echoing, like the crashing sound of a fallen bayonet. Someone had dropped theirs. "I'm sorry."

America hiccuped but said nothing. The physician hurriedly bent down and listened to the boy's heartbeat, which was somewhat difficult because Russia hadn't let go of him.

"I'm not well-versed in dealing with nations…" he murmured apologetically, taking America's wrist and listening carefully. "Hmmm. Well, he certainly has a fever, and that nasty gash must be cleaned, but only one other thing is settled: We must get him out of the damp."

That settled, Russia wrapped the furs more tightly around the small nation and strode out, his men hurrying in his wake, America's arms wound around his neck.

~*oOo*~

Russia had worried about French and English soldiers creeping in theshadows, but thankfully none came out to ambush his small party. Still, his horse had fled like lightning back to camp while the nation had hugged his small bundle of rags to himself.

"Why were you hiding in there, little one?"

Freshly bathed (the doctor had told Russia it was unhealthy, but what did he know?) and with a furry blanket around his shoulders, the nation lay on Russia's cot, still shivering slightly. There was a small tray with a steaming clay bowl in front of him, and Ivan nudged the spoon into America's hand encouragingly.

"Scary place." America took a reluctant bite of the cabbage soup before helping himself to another and another, gusto growing. "The food is good!"

Russia bit the inside of his mouth and forced a smile as the physician continued to study America's leg. "You like scary places, America?"

"No." America's eyes closed and he let out a squawk as the doctor's slathered something thick and oily on the nation's leg. "Scary is scar—ow! Owwww!"

"Forgive me," the man murmured apologetically, and America pushed his food away, tears dewing at the corners of his eyes. The child attempted to worm his way free from the doctor's grip, but Russia wrapped his arms around his torso and held him fast as the physician carefully began to scrub at the ugly wound, the tender maroon flesh around it improving to a shining red as it was cleaned. America thrashed, strong enough even in his ill state to nearly send Russia flying.

"Stings! Stings like bees!" he exclaimed tearfully, and Ivan fervently wished he knew what to do. Knocking America on the head might make him quiet, but the idea was abominable, and so Ivan went to the next thing on his list, the item that he used to fix a great deal of things. He grabbed the flask still on his desk and forced America lay down, even as the sick boy squirmed and fought.

"Drink this, zaichick."

The clear liquid slipped through America's lips.

"It burns!" the country sputtered, feebly trying to yank his head away, though Ivan's hand held onto his and held him still. "Yuck and burns!"

"Shhh, I know," Russia soothed, holding the bottle over America's mouth, which he had clasped tightly shut. "This will make you fall asleep for awhile."

America swallowed, fresh beads of sweat breaking out on his body.

"And…and that's good, right?"

Russia smoothed his hair and hushed him, a sad smile on his face. America couldn't quite keep the fear out of his voice.

"Da," murmured Ivan tenderly, kissing him again on the head. "Da. You will sleep, and when you wake up, your fever will be broken and your leg will feel better. You do not feel much pain when you are under."

America thought for a moment, and then cautiously took another sip, gagging slightly. "Ugggh, bad!" He exclaimed, trying to rip his head back, but the flask followed his lips. Ivan muttered soothingly until the grudging nation took two more swigs, clutching his throat. "Burns and tastes nasty," he complained. Ivan only chuckled.

"I think is nectar of gods. But chase it down with this," he said, handing the country a small tin cup of milk and honey. America frowned and sniffed at its cream-colored contents before taking a cautious sip, his eyes lighting up.

"It's good!" he chimed hoarsely, downing the contents in four long drafts. Russia smiled as America lowered the cup, a mustache on his face, blue eyes dreamy.

"Feel better?"

America shrugged absently, yawning.

"Feel heavy," he admitted, watching as the physician carefully wrapped his leg up in bandages, tying the ends neatly in a knot. His eyelids were sagging, and the country let out a yawn. "Leg still hurts," he added, somewhat reproachfully, as if he were afraid Russia would forget that America was still angry at him.

"I'm sorry," Russia apologized, uncertainly hovering as the doctor drew away. Wringing his hands like a frightened child approaching a strange animal, Ivan carefully pulled the country onto his lap. America wriggled but didn't pull away, and soon Ivan was cradling him, one large hand cupped over America's head.

He didn't realize that he'd been humming until America looked up at him curiously.

"Thas pretty," he said, voice slurred. "Whasit?"

Ivan blinked, his long, pale face glowing with embarrassment. He looked away.

"It is called 'Brother Ivan,'" he said shakily, sending the doctor a smile that suggested that if he spoke of the happenings, Ivan would impale him. The physician gulped, his face turning an unpleasant green. "My sister used to sing it to me."

America's eyes widened. "You have a sister?"

Russia smiled, a large, awkward thing, though his eyes twinkled.

"Da, two. Ukraine will adore you. Belarus, well..." He swallowed and smiled again, blinking when America's hand sleepily brushed over his prominent nose. "She will be a little…difficult to win over, but I am sure she will love you very much."

"'m not gonna be a colony," America said crossly, pouting. "Wanna be friends with Ivan. Not cause of land."

"I know," Russia responded gently, kissing him on the head. "I would like that also. Go to sleep now."

Bleary-eyed, America just looked at him for a moment before settling his head in Russia's shoulder, and the larger country pulled the furs back over him.

"Tell me somethin' good," America burbled. "Like one of Engwand's stories."

So this was the thrill of holding a child. Russia tacitly ignored America's reference to the blustering nation and squeezed his tiny hand.

"Very well." Ivan leaned his head back and frowned thoughtfully. "Hmm…once, a man had a daughter he named Vasilisa the Beautiful, and rightfully so, for the fish would leap out of the streams to better admire her and no butterfly would emerge from their cocoon until she had passed, shamed by her beauty. Her mother gave her a tiny wooden doll that she claimed would always help her, if she gave it a tiny bit of food and water. It was good that she did, because one day, Vasilisa's wicked stepmother sent her to a witch's house, a house which stood on chicken legs."

The candle began to sink, waxy tears oozing down the slender stalk, and the tent grew dimmer. When Russia was halfway through his story, he realized the child had long ago fallen asleep. Strange and trusting creature! He felt a stab of pity for the boy.

The physician cleared his throat, and Russia almost jumped, very nearly dislodging America. He'd forgotten to dismiss him.

"How long can we keep America doped before his health is threatened?" Russia asked softly, his voice urgent, strained. The doctor blinked.

"I can give him a draught or two to keep him quiet for the rest of the night," he said hesitantly, his brow creasing as Russia turned his attention back to the baby. "Though he looks exhausted, and the vodka should be enough to settle him. No need to waste our drugs."

Something flickered in Ivan's dark eyes.

"I want you to dope him enough to make him sleep until tomorrow night." The physician started.

"Why, what do you mean to do, Your Excellency?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Russia asked sardonically, lying America down and tucking him in before kneeling by the boy's side. "Fetch for me my officers. We must prepare the ship. And the men. Send word to our brothers up North that the time has come to go home."

"Home?"

"We are going home to the motherland, of course," said Russia simply, dragging a hand through America's messy yellow hair. "With the boy. The king will be thrilled to see him."

"You want to take the boy off American soil?" asked the old doctor, his brow crinkling, his troubled eyes reflecting pain. "I...do not know if..."

"It is Russian soil now," Ivan breathed, eyes sparkling. "Rich, lush soil. By the end of this year, when the English and French have been driven out, America will be marked as a Russian territory, and our people can begin building homesteads."

"I thought your orders were to try and win America over," the graying man faltered. "And to not kidnap him unless under the most extreme circumstances—"

"Do you presume to question me?" Ivan asked sweetly. The doctor cringed.

"N-nyet, my lord. But what of the boy? He will have no choice but to allow Russian forces to take control of his country once he is on our soil, but chances are he's never left his homeland," the physician said warningly, resentfully. "He'll be weak if he's separated from his country for too long."

"He'll be well," said Russia dismissively, as the doctor reluctantly handled him a glass phial that he pressed against America's lips. "I will take good care of him. He's mine."

"Did America agree to leave with Russia?"

"Non, mon capitaine," reported the soldier, saluting respectfully. "I believe they doped him and are hoping to whisk him away by dawn. To the Russian capitol."

Francis swirled the contents of his wine glass around, staring at his own, displeased reflection. He swore quietly in French.

"You realize that America will be much weaker on Russian soil," he said softly, pinching the bridge of his nose with the tips of his fingers and sighing dramatically. "Not to mention Russia has his ghastly weather protecting his land….well, I suppose this is good news for us. At least we won't have to thrust our hands into the mud searching for the petit chouchou. It ends tomorrow at dawn."

"Capitaine?" asked the soldier in some confusion as France poured his civilian a glass of wine and offered it to him, smirking.

"Let us have a drink, shall we, Jacques?" he asked languidly. "We will cut the Russian forces off before they can get to the harbor—no doubt England's already heard of Ivan's foolish scheme by now, and will be chasing from the opposite side. We'll trap Russia's fleet in a deadlock, and I'll let our French spies in Arthur's pitiable army tell Angleterre that they've captured America. While they rush off with the dummy and Russia pursues them, we will take the real America to France."

"It sounds ingenious, sir."

"It does, doesn't it?" France raised his glass in a toast, and his soldier loyally clanked his own glass against it. "To our new territory, to glory, to France."

"To our new territory, to glory, to France."

~*oOo*~