Warnings: Vocabulary (swear words).

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me.

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SANKOFA

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CHAPTER ONE

"Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, tired with the world's weight he had never chosen to bear."

(F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned)

Night had fallen by the time he finally got home, and rain poured heavily from the dark clouds that had been hovering over London since dawn. Cursing, the blond man ran to the porch of his house, seeking protection from the rain. "Bloody rain," He cursed, but the anger in his voice was halfhearted, at best; he was already used to the unpredictable weather of his country.

Huffing, he carded his fingers through his blond hair. A few minutes were needed for him to fish for his keys, which just served to aggravate the man further. And when he finally opened the door with a frustrated sigh, he was too tired to be angry anymore; too tired to feel much at all, in truth. It had been a very trying day, he mused while removing his rain-soaked waistcoat. But, then again, these past few decades all days became a bit of a blur in his mind; one differed not from its progenitors or successors in no shape, form or content. Boring, all of them. And he was always – always – tired, so much so that some days he could not stand the thought of getting up, of doing something, at all.

"I'm getting old" He murmured morosely. "Or maybe it's the world that's turning on a faster pace than I can match..."

A cuppa and then bed, he decided as he entered the house with a sigh and a curved figure.

The house – his house – was a small manor on the outskirts of his capital, London. And, secluded and inconspicuous, it had been his for a couple of centuries already. He had only definitely moved in, however, at the beginning of the seventies – when there were only a handful of his colonies left, and staying in the old one (although he much preferred it) was simply a waste of money and awfully painful due to the memories. Before that, he had used it during WW1 and WW2 to be nearer to his capital and thus any meetings he scheduled with the Allies.

The smile he had at the recollection of his old house, full of children – his children – screaming, or playing, or arguing, or simply being children, was bittersweet, so he forced himself to think about other things. Like the tea he would share with Her Majesty and the Duchess of Cambridge in two days time, on this Wednesday. If the latter hadn't child, that is. The thought of a baby, the first in many a decades, brightened him considerably, and he considered himself yet well enough to make both tea and a batch of scones. And it was with thoughts of a similar nature – of holding the young prince or princess, giving food to him or her, playing with him or her – that he threw his waistcoat on the floor, followed by his suit, a ruined tie, brown dress shoes with big rain-spots on them and wet socks, before all but running to his kitchen.

He only delayed his quest a little while to admire his hallway. Not that it was any different from when he left it at six in the morning sharp. No, there wasn't; not even a single particle of dust was out of place. It had been the same for one, ten, twenty years. And if it was up to him it would remain so. He, after all, liked it just the way it was. The floor of dark cherry wood, the heavy – only a few hues darker than the floor – furniture, the carmine wallpaper with intricate designs on it. And then there were the few antiques he kept in the house, remains from his Empire days; the old Chinese vase near the threshold, the Persian rug that covered his floor, a few paintings from France and Italy that decorated the rooms of his house.

With a small – pained, sad, forced – smile he resumed his way. And as soon as he crossed to the kitchen, he started to fret. Looking for his favorite porcelain cup, which had an extraordinaire hand painting on it and bits of gold on the mouth and bottom, the perfect tea for such an tiresome day – Darjeeling, without at doubt in the Brit's eyes –, how strong would his tea be, the flavor of his scones; served to distract him from darker thoughts. When he put his apron on, and started to cook, he concentrated solely on the task at hand, quite aware of his natural talent to mess even the simplest of plates. He dutifully read the instructions twice, and separated the ingredients, later on mixing them together with the utmost care. He knew the biggest reason he messed up so badly on his cooking was due to, well – nerves. He got anxious, and extremely nervous at the thought of cooking; centuries of nations like France, China, and many others telling him how awful his abilities in the kitchen were had made him doubt himself every step of the way. But, this time, just this once, he was determined to get it right.

He would've liked to say it was "just because". But that wasn't the truth. Not even close.

He wanted that, at the very least, one thing ended up okay on this chilly Monday. Differently of how it had been going on so far as he and the Prime Minister got on a verbal fight about the PM's plans towards the United Kingdom; especially about Scotland's plebiscite, and foreign policy (the US in particular). Or how he received another cursed letter from his beloved and caring brother Ireland, which was promptly thrown in the bright flames of his fireplace – Bon Voyage, as the frog would say (and England would never admit to knowing and speaking fluent French). Or even how his secretary brought him cold tea, or mistook his Marlboro for another cheap mark of cigarettes. And maybe not the worst but close enough: he had forgotten his umbrella. This last one still got to him. How could he?! He was the effing country, for God's sake, and as such he knew better than anyone how unpredictable and rainy England was.

Sighing heavily, he put the batch in the oven. And with attention he set the clock to chime exactly in – minutes. Chuckling a bit half-heartedly, the Brit went to his tea. Almost ready, he thought, the pad of his fingers lightly caressing the handle of the cup. "Now," He whispered as he removed the leaves of tea from the box and let it rest on the saucer while he put the water to boil and retrieved both milk and honey for his drink."Now," He repeated, breathing in deeply as he dropped the mulch in the boiling water. "Now, I just relax" He chortled.

"Forget the PM, forget all the slips, forget them," England told himself. "Relax,"

It was a worth a try, he supposed. And he had been quite stressed these past few weeks. Maybe he should call someone to go out drinking with. Denmark and Prussia, he knew, would always accept. And they were fun to hang out with, from time to time. Even if he did resent the former a bit for conquering him and the latter did tend to act as an egocentric baboon with delusions of grandeur most of the time.

He was snapped out of his train of thought when the kettle went off.

Quickly putting his gloves, which had Flying Mint Bunny proudly embroidered on them, on, he removed the whistling boiler from the stove mouth and put it on another that wasn't lit. He turned the stove off, and without missing a bit, poured milk in his cup. No way was he ruining one of his finest pieces because he was inattentive. The honey would be put last, so he did not mind it yet. Instead, he looked for a spoon to mix the contents in his cup. "Where, where, where," He repeated like a mantra, going through his drawers. "Ah! Here!" He shouted victoriously, the corner of his lips lifting upwards in a small smile.

Taking his gloves off, he caught a kitchen towel and wrapped it around the kettle's handle, so his hand would not burn. Soon enough he had a perfect cup of Darjeeling tea in front of him, and as he looked at the amber liquid, deciding to forgo the honey, the alarm of the clock sounded, startling him. "Already?" He exclaimed a bit surprised.

Normally he would leave the scones for much longer! Then again, normally everything would go wrong.

Licking his lips is anticipation he left his tea and quickly bent over his white stove, opened the lid and stared at the insides with narrowed eyes. And sniffed. And when there was no smell of burnt food, he did it once again just to be on the safe side (And because he really couldn't believe he had done it right!).

"Yes! YES! Take that, frog!" He celebrated with a small grin on his face, which was flushed in elation.

He put on his gloves one more time, and removed the fresh – and perfect – batch of scones, putting it on the table, followed by his cup of tea, and jam. Then he sat. Looking at all the food – edible, at that – in front of him, however, he found himself without hunger. The mere thought of actually eating made him nauseous.

It was with a heavy sigh and slumped shoulders that England realized he was in for a very long night. "Great," He grumbled as he roughly grabbed his cuppa and began to drink "Just bloody great,"

Life wasn't fair.

He should have realized as soon as his scones hadn't burnt that something was wrong – oh so very wrong.

.-.-.-.

"It's all in the mind"

(George Harrison)

Still tossing and turning after a good half hour, England finally gave up and moved to a sitting position. With his green eyes closed, he sank in the many fluffy pillows that adorned his king sized bed; a sigh escaped his parted lips. And his hands fisted the covers over his legs and waist, clutching tightly until the knuckles were white.

His green irises travelled through the whole of his private chambers, place where no one but himself was allowed to enter. The deep red walls, the cherry wood floor, the golden details here and there, as well as the antique furniture – wood, all details hand carved –, told stories of times long gone. And when England saw one book resting innocently enough in his windowsill, his breath got caught in his throat. Good God, he would have exclaimed hadn't a lump formed in his gorge. A bittersweet smile pulled at his lips as the balls of his hands pressed in his eyes. That, he supposed (though there was little room for doubt), was the cause of his uneasy. He must have removed it from its place and looked through a few pages, drunk most probably at the time, for had he been sober he wouldn't dare touch the thing with a ten-foot pole. "Good gracious!" He groaned, as he threw his head back, hitting the headboard of his head with a muffled 'THUD'.

"Christ!" He shouted as he hastily got the covers of himself. He would get rid of the ruddy thing, once and for all, he decided. When his feet were thrown off the mattress and he made to get off the bed, however, he stumbled and toppled. His knees painfully connected with the wood, and he gasped in surprise as he found himself face first with the floor. Looking behind himself, he saw that one of his feet was loosely wrapped in the covers, and he cursed while getting up and massaging his tingling face. "Bloody hell," He grumbled as he slowly made his way to the book.

But when he finally got closer, not even two feet from where the book should be – was –, he blinked. And then he blinked a few more times before rubbing his eyes, and gaping at the empty space. "Did my eyes play a trick on me?" He asked himself out loud, his green eyes clearly displaying the confusion he felt. "Maybe it's the sleep speaking." He tried to reason.

But he wasn't convinced, not one bit. He had seen a book – that album – right there; he could have sworn he had. Frowning, England thought that maybe one of his faerie friends might have tried to prank him. If that was the case, he thought with a sour expression, he would have to talk with them about ambits. And remind them that, even for them, some rooms in his house were off limits.

Breathing in deeply, he closed his eyes with force. No time like the present, he thought while pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, right," He snorted, opening his eyes slowly to see that his room was still empty but for him and his usual things.

Even if it were only 21:38 PM, he was tired – exhausted, really. And he could talk to the faeries tomorrow... But he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep peacefully until all this 'mystery' was solved. He would have a serious talk with his friends, ask them if putting the goddamn album there was their idea of fun, and then go back to bed. It would be quick, he was sure. In no time he would be back in his bed, sleeping serenely. Like a bloody angel, really.

Stretching his arms above his head and letting out a satisfied moan, England made his way to the door, already thinking of places where his friends could be. The kitchen, the bathrooms, the library, his study, the living and the dining room were quickly discarded. As they were the few rooms he actually used nowadays, his friends tried not to play in them (too much). England made his first stop at the wine cellar, and then he went to a few unused guest rooms. No one ever stayed the night at his house, not anymore at least, so the rooms were pretty much abandoned.

No. That was incorrect. France had stayed in one of these rooms during the last few months of World War II, and a few more after the end. He had also housed Lady Diana and Thatcher for a few days at times. And before that a few of his colonies had resided in some of these rooms, although they weren't meant for guests at the time... Lips twitching upwards, he had to admit these rooms had seen quite distinguished guests. No more though. Yes, no more, because no one bothered to stay the night when they visited him.

America would show up unexpectedly, spend the day with England, and then go his merry way when night fell. His ex-colonies would always stay in a hotel when they came to London, and they only came because of World Conferences. France would come, bother England and disappear to God-knew-where. His brothers didn't like him all that much, and the feelings were reciprocated; He and Ireland weren't on speaking terms these past few months, Scotland just visited to piss him off, Wales preferred his sheep, and Northern Ireland was too busy with Ireland and trying to assert his independence from England himself to wait upon. In the end England was always alone in his manor.

The thing is: he hated to be alone. Since he could remember himself as a personification, he never had (good) company, and was always in the middle of some conflict. And most of the people he had close by just liked to push him around; his brothers, Denmark, and Rome, being only a few examples. And all the people that actually liked him, and that he also liked having nearby by, of course, either left him or died. His mother, who passed away shortly after he was born, was a prime example; His Monarchs whom he got close to because of a lack of friendships with other nations, and because he actually cared for them; America and some of his ex-colonies, as well.

And, right now, he couldn't help but feel a little frightened. He couldn't find any of his magical friends. And it scared him, because even though he was screaming their names from the top of his lungs, they did not come, neither hair nor faerie dust could be seen from them. "Erline!"

He couldn't hear their wings flapping around, quiet as the sound was, and he couldn't hear their mischievous giggles. "Marigold!" Fear gnawed at his old heart like a famished beast.

"Faylinn! Alston! Gelsey!" He shouted frantically, heart beating fast inside his ribcage, painfully so. And his eyes widened to the point it seemed they would pop right out. He would have lied if he said he did not feel his eyes watering after the continual silence in his residence. "England?" He heard someone call, and, startled, quickly turned towards the voice. Only to meet a small faerie dressed in different hues of maroon.

"Braun? Whe- where are the others?" He asked, not caring an ounce if the little faerie saw the messed up state he was in or if she heard him stutter. "Where have they gone, Braun?"

She fluttered around the Brit, her paper-thin wings beating frantically as her face contorted in confusion. "What do you mean, England? They have gone back to –shire to welcome a new faerie in our ranks... I stayed because I would only hinder them," Said she, clearly upset at the last part and looking bitterly at her bandaged leg. "Didn't they warn you? I was sure Faylinn had written a letter, a note..." Braun said, clearly surprised, and by the way she scrunched up her face, England knew she was thinking hard about something. "I have to go back to sleep in a few minutes; rest, you know... But wait here a moment, yes?"

And then she was gone. And England stayed rooted to his place. How...intriguing, he thought. That his night was unraveling to be such a mystery (And he hated mysteries almost as much as he hated surprises, but a bit less than he hated pranks of any kind) when he first thought of it something as simple and common place as his faerie friends looking for some fun. Crossing his arms over his chest, he tried to reason what was happening in his house-hold.

First, the album had been in his windowsill. He assumed it had been the faeries. When he went to chastise them, however, he discovered they had been gone (For how long though? And since when?). So how had the album somehow appeared in his private chambers? How had it disappeared? Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Had stress finally drove his mind over the edge and he was now hallucinating? Massaging his temples he postponed the answers to some – if not all – questions. He would see the letter, and then he would go to see if the album was in its place. And if it was-

He was going to get rid of the album once and for all.

"England! England! Here! I found it!" Braun exclaimed happily, startling him out of his thoughts. A folded piece of paper was being thoughtfully shaken in front of (and almost rubbed on) his nose. "I told you they had written!" She stated contentedly, puffing up her chest and looking mighty proud of herself.

"I must go, I fear. But I hope everything will turn out okay with you, England! Bye-Bye,"

And then she was gone, and England found himself alone in the desert hallway once again. "Oh well" He said while reading the letter, that, true to Braun's words, fully explained where they had gone, why, and for how long they would remain in –shire. "Dear-"

"I worried myself silly for nothing, eh?" He questioned, a small – if shaky – smile pulling at his lips. "One less thing for me to concern over, I reckon" He finished with a surer smile, although it was soon wiped out of his face and replaced by a frown.

Carefully, he folded the paper on the same marks, and put it in the pocket of his baby-blue pajamas'. "Time to find that album, then"

.-.-.-.

"The past is never where you think you left it."
(Katherine Anne Porter)

His footsteps were silent as he made his way downstairs. Although in the current stillness of his house, his soundless steps could easily be heard. England minded each step, and when one of the wooden plates protested, he stopped, afraid. Of what, though, he did not know.

It had been years since he last visited this particular library. It held some of his most precious books. And the Brit had made sure that, should America or Sealand ever visit with their rambunctious selves, they wouldn't be able to find it. Unlike the library he had on the second floor, the biggest by far, or the one in the basement, that was the home to his magic-theory, spells, and potions books; this one was the place where he put his most precious books, books thought lost forever by the world, and his own dearest memories. This place was where he hid the photos of his precious children, from Australia to New Zealand to Cameroon to India. He also had pictures from Sealand and Hong Kong. And Egypt and Seychelles and...

"Bloody hell" England cursed as he made an abrupt halt. His hands, he could tell even though he couldn't see them, were dithering. "Damn it!" He inveighed again, clutching his hands together in an effort to control the shaking. His eyes burned, his breath was labored, and England could literally feel the tight mastery he had over himself slipping between his fingers.

Knowing he wouldn't be able to continue until he reigned in himself again, he sat. The wooden steps of the staircase, he noticed with little enthusiasm, were uncomfortably hard, and thus it wasn't long before his bum felt the aftereffects. The only source of light came from his wristwatch, which emitted a sort of green-ish light, and whereupon the Brit's eyes never strayed far. Not astoundingly, time practically dragged by. And England was man enough to acknowledge it took him torturous forty-three minutes to get his bearings together again, although he would never ever confess it out loud, not to his friends, be they human or not, and much less to fellow nations. The last sure as all hell did not need any more material to hold over his head.

Being called the black sheep of Europe time and again by France; seeing the scorning glances China still directed at him sometimes; the burning anger in Spain's eyes, bordering on hate on occasion; his ex-colonies distrust, India in particular; not to forget how long they took to accept him in the European Union. All of it was well-deserved to a point, with the exception of France's taunts, yes, but childish and unfair in modern times. They couldn't keep blaming him for things that happened centuries ago!

He wondered why he still bothered to try and appease them most of time.

Once in a while he felt his blood pumping faster inside his veins, and he had to suppress the need to beat them all to a pulp. Just by the few times this happened, he knew. He hated them. In these moments, solely – he hoped –, he absolutely despised them. As if they can judge, he thought angrily, stomping his feet a bit more forcefully than required.

Thank God, the times he felt such strong disagreeable feelings were few and far between. Otherwise he would never be able to have successful dealings and agreements with the other countries.

But he couldn't understand why... Why they feared him so much. Why the distrust? Why the cautiousness? They didn't behave like that with Germany, responsible for not one but two World Wars (Well, sorta). They didn't behave like this with Japan, or France. Heck! They didn't behave like this with Russia. Oh! They feared Russia, but Russia was already half-mad and a psychopath by all means in the other Nations minds. With England? It was as if they expected him to snap. To suddenly turn into his old self: the pirate, the imperialist.

It wasn't a comforting thought, so he willed it away.

When he finally got to his destination, England had half a mind of turning around and going back to his bed. The memories, he knew, were already too close to resurfacing. Too close, dangerously close if his little breakdown fifty minutes ago was anything to go by. And his emotions were spiking out of his control if his loath filled thoughts meant something at all. "But I am already this far, might as well finish the job."

"Never will have to worry with the damn thing again, at least..."

With such convictions and determined to end it all, one hand probing the wall in search for the switcher, and the other in front of him to make sure he would hit nothing, he carried on. His lips quirked upwards, and he did not resist quoting the phrase that became astoundingly famous in these past few years, "Keep calm and Carry on".

The meaning wasn't lost on him. It fitted rather nicely, he had to admit. And a small – tremendously dwarfish in this case – part of his good humor was restored. And lasted until he finally found what he looked for, the interrupter. His eyes, unaccustomed to the light, watered due to the sudden brightness of the room, and a firm scowl was soon plastered on his face. "Should have seen that coming," He grumbled after a few seconds blinking repeatedly, and then grimaced. "Hope that's not a sign of my intellectual prowess diminishing..." He joked.

"I would hate to find myself at the same level as that-" He continued only to pause midsentence. His green eyes taking everything in; from the bookcases that almost touched the ceiling to the cobblestone floor, a testament of how old this place was. Rare books, maps, diaries, and letters filled the shelves, trinkets here and there – invaluable both in historical and price value –, made the place look like one hell of an ancient bookshop. Smiling, England went closer, and as he walked, his fingers touched the books, caressing like an old friend. The pads delayed over one book or another, but never stopped. Searching, searching – searching for a particular bookcase. Smaller than the rest by half its size and much more delicate than the sturdy wood of the rest, it was the odd one of the bunch.

One securely closed under seven keys, and which England had protected with the most powerful wards he had known. Not even his brothers, who shared the same blood, and were gifted with magic, would have been able to surpass them with ease. And they would have already being bloody (literally) and unconscious by the time they trespassed them, too hurt and damaged to even lay a finger on the books inside.

No, not exactly books, England reminded himself. Albums and notebooks, some paintings and sketches, filled with memories of times long past, long gone.

Feeling cold sip into his being, as it always did when he came down here, England began praying. Because praying could always ward off against evil spirits or beings that meant harm. He liked The Lord's Prayer (from the Elizabethan Era) well enough. "Our Father which art in heaven," He chanted. "Hallowed be thy name"

England could feel it; the magic he himself had laid there years ago – bare and selvage and with the intention to protect against all but him – seemed to kiss his face, run through his hair, and embrace his body. It fed directly from him to these days, for such magic could not sustain itself for very long without a source. His magic abilities were crippled, but he found the price fair. So what if he couldn't summon demons anymore? So what if he couldn't invoke the wrath of deities over the other nations? What he had here was more important – much, much more important. "Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven"

His precious memories, these tokens that proved he had once known true and undiluted happiness. That he wasn't a monster. That he could care for another being. They were infinitely more valuable to England than magical leverage. Or they had been, once upon a time. "Give us our daily bread."

Had been because they now haunted him like a sin, like a black scorch in his otherwise blank life – they made him weak. They were the reasons he mourned and wept, brought down to his knees; they were the reason he was morose and taciturn; a man whose only solace was the bottom of a bottle of liquor – a drunkard. No more, though. Emotions, in his mind, now were equal to weakness. Love was but a fraud. And acceptance was a myth. "And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespasses against us."

No more, then. No more. "And lead us not in temptation. But deliver us from evil"

Because the same way they broke free from him, now was his time. It was his time to forget – To turn his back and walk away. Even if there was no one to turn his back to, no one who had stayed by his side. Did they care? England couldn't tell, but he had beaten himself through the years, blaming himself for not being a good brother or father or caretaker (and thus the reason why they left), but no more of that. No more.

This time he would be the one breaking free. And they all could go to hell for all he cared.

"Amen" He finished, approaching the bookcase he had been looking for with hungry eyes. Lime green irises stared with intent the unassuming furniture. Put there last then all others, in the early XIX century. It was completely locked in 1997, after Hong-Kong was handed back to China. And thus it rested, barely touched, for 17 years.

When he finally touched the glass separating him from the possessions inside – his possessions –, it glowed with magic. Bright; warm and cold at the same time, dangerous, volatile – Alive. He felt a rush of emotions; protectiveness, possessiveness, worry, care, happiness, joy, pride, sadness, pain – Love. And so many more, so many he couldn't count them all, couldn't pick one apart and understand what the heck it was. Had he locked all of this away?

And then the flashes began. Flashes and images overlapping right in front of his eyes. Memories, his memories. He felt like a nail was being buried in the middle of his forehead, at the same time his head was compressed as if someone was trying to squeeze it to the size of a tennis ball. God!, he wanted to scream, but no voice came out of his throat.

Runes, golden in their color and precise in shape and form circled around the bookcase and England himself. And the Brit worried. How long? How long had his magic remained untouched and yet continuously growing in this small container? And when had it become so powerful that it numbed his emotions and clouded his memories? Had it assumed they should be protected? Or maybe-

Before he could finish his trail of thought, however, one last pulse of magic broke all the barriers around the bookcase, and sent England flying to the other side of the room. His back collided with great strength against the stone walls. Black spots grew and diminished in his eyes, the room swayed, and England knew he would pass out. He felt blood slowly streaming down the nape of his neck – A concussion. Damn.

And then he slid all the way to the floor. Thankfully, the friction between the wall and his clothes stopped his head from hitting the floor too hard. Trinkets fell from the bookcase, now without glass for it was spread – broken in tiny pieces that shone in the dim light of the room – on the floor, as well as a couple of tightly bounded scrolls. A single book, in truth, remained in perfect condition, the rest fallen around with dust on top of them and their pages crumpled and teared – a shame, for they were as old as some countries. With a leather cover, dark brown in color, and wrapped in strings and twines, it rested against the wooden furniture as if nothing had happened.

On the front, the word ALBUM, in beautiful calligraphy – obviously engraved a long time ago – could be read. Scratches all over it, though, proved that it had seen better days. Mockingly, it was right in front of the unconscious form of the Englishman.

.-.-.-.

A/N: Hello, there! This is my second attempt at a multi-chaptered story. Unlike FI, this one is centered solely around England. And focuses a whole lot more on his past. Iniatially, it was supposed to be an one-shot. It turned into a five-chaptered story instead. Well. I hope you like it, for I certainly did enjoy writing it.

Posted: 28/06/2014

Last edited: 28/06/2014

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