Wow. This took forever to update, didn't it? And I am ashamed with how short this installment is. It's the first step back on the road to getting this story completed. More is sure to come. An apology and a thank you to those who have been waiting for this thing to update. I hope your patience will not be met with disappointment. Blub.

World War 1 - Part One

1914

To All Visiting Nations: Those not involved in the current military situation in Europe will be meeting in Conference Room C to cover the proposed agenda for non-belligerents. Nations of the 'Allied Powers' will hold their meeting in Conference Room A while nations of the 'Central Powers' will meet in Conference Room F. All parties at war are reminded that they are upon neutral ground. Any acts of hostility will be dealt with immediately - with bullets.

-Switzerland

America stared at the sign pinned to the front doors of the Swiss Conference campus. Read the words once, then again. He had heard that war had begun over in Europe - yet that happened so often in the past, and had never caused such blatant division when it came time for the Conference. Was Europe so thoroughly divided that they actually needed to be separated for fear of fighting each other here? America might have remained standing there in stunned silence if not for the arrival of Canada.

The other man was relieved to see him. He sighed out a quick burst of breath, reaching to take hold of the American's arm to pull him along inside through the doors. "Thank goodness that you're here. I wasn't sure if you were going to risk the trip across the Atlantic or not. Luckily, you managed to get here in one piece."

"I still don't care for sailing too much," America responded, allowing himself to get tugged along, "but we're still ironing out all the issues for our flight machines. Though I can promise you that someday we'll just come flying over the ocean instead of sailing across it. I'll make sure that it happens just so that I don't have to set foot on another boat."

"I'm sure they'll find a way to attack those too." Canada said, a bitter edge to his tone.

It was rare to hear that voice so dark. America was beginning to suspect that things were worse than he'd imagined. He studied Canada's face as they walked together, having settled already into mirroring each other's strides perfectly. "Is it really that terrible? I mean, I've heard some things. I've just been so busy that I haven't even stopped to really pay attention. So how bad is the situation?"

Canada shook his head grimly. "Everything's all torn apart. Not just in Europe, either. It's spreading like wildfire. Watching them argue over maps of the world to claim territory is like watching children fight to gather the most toys. And you can imagine how dysfunctional things are when you have Britannia and France banded on the same team. If they can manage to quell the internal fighting, then we might actually have a chance at getting all of this under control."

"Do you think they'd mind if I popped in to say 'hello'? Britannia and France, I mean. I haven't seen any sign of them since things went awry."

"I..." Canada looked away from him, lips thinning together. It was apparent that he didn't think it was the best idea. "Wouldn't that endanger your role as a non-participant?"

"Nah. If anyone asks I'll just tell them that I got lost looking for the men's room. That wouldn't be so hard to believe. I haven't even seen one since I arrived."

There was still obvious hesitation on the part of his brother. Canada pushed out a sigh like he knew that any effort to resist would eventually be worn down by American persistence. He waved him onward, releasing the other man's arm. "Come on then. If you act up or get me in trouble then I'm not going to talk to you for the rest of the Conference. Don't touch anything. Don't ask dumb questions. Don't be...so American."

A pout crested itself on America's face, whining his offense to that last rule. "Careful. You're starting to sound too much like Britannia. Next thing you know you'll be burning your food and sprouting eyebrows the size of the Atlanti-"

"And don't make comments about eyebrows." Canada added quickly to drown him out. His hand rested on the door to Conference Room A. Violet eyes were firm on the American's face. "No one inside this room has much humor to spare these days. Just keep that in mind so you don't get thrown out."

He pushed open the door to the room. It became apparent that there must be some sound-proofing on them because the hallway they stood in was filled with a sudden din of noise from inside that America had not heard before. He followed Canada inside to get a scope of the place. The room that would normally host a sizable group of nations for matters of international discussions was a flurry of activity dominated by the Allied Powers. America recognized many of the faces here right away. He lifted a hand to wave that went ignored since everyone was absorbed in the task at hand.

The chamber had been converted into a full war room. Chairs were shoved against the perimeter of the walls, along with all tables that were deemed useless. A station in the back had a couple of telephones on it that Australia was manning, speaking tersely into one. Morse codes were being transmitted nearby that New Zealand was already translating onto paper in quick scribbles. India had his back to the room with a pair of radio headphones on his head, hands moving quickly to plug in across the communication lines. The majority of the activity in the room was focused upon the table in the middle of the room.

That central table was dominated by an expansive map of the world. Miniatures of military units, ships and tanks coated it, painted with the flags of the nations currently active in the fighting efforts. America noticed that many of them were coded by colors; red, blue, green and yellow. As he continued to scan the room he witnessed Australia slamming down the telephone receiver before make a gesture to one of the uniformed soldiers waiting nearby. He grimly pulled a cluster of those miniatures with the Australian flag back into the blue territories, while New Zealand shook his head nearby. The war was happening, people fighting across the globe, while their nations fulfilled the obligation of another year's Conference. America experienced a pang of guilt that his area of the map was marked in dull, uneventful white. His color code as a neutral party.

"Naturally we try to keep everything updated as reports come in from the front lines. A few of us rotate the task of remaining here with the phones during meetings. New Zealand, India and I take shifts waiting for codes that get transmitted through. Britannia is concerned about people listening in on the telephone lines despite the rules, so vital messages get sent in a special code he designed." Canada explained as they walked together further inside. "I think most of us would prefer to be there with our troops. At least this way we can still be useful. As things stand it's still frustrating but I have faith in my people."

"That sounded dangerously close to complaining." Teased America, covering his surprise at hearing that rare strain of displeasure from the Canadian. "I'm sure if you talked to Britannia about it he'd cut you loose to return to the lines."

Canada shook his head. "That would work if he were the only one calling the shots. Unfortunately... Well. You can see for yourself." He gestured forward to direct America's attention to the gathering at the head of the table.

It was clear that this was the area of central command. America saw Britannia and France standing together, their tense faces and bodies in synch in a way that the men would always deny. The top half of their bodies were clouded in smoke due to the redhead standing beside Britannia that America didn't recognize. There were others there that bore a strong resemblance to England, and he realized suddenly that these must have been the Englishman's brothers. This was the first time that America had seen them attend a Conference.

"The lines of defense throughout the northern regions of France are critical." England was arguing some point, as far as America could tell with the volume of his voice and the pounding of his fist upon the map. He had witnessed this side of the island nation before; that stubborn nature that wasn't going to make compromises. "We can stop their progress here - I know we can. If we just fortify our defenses then we can make a counter-offensive motion-"

"They're already knifing a path in our direction." Said the towering, intimidating redhead. He had no problem interrupting England's tirade. Just by the thick sound of his accent - America had heard it plenty of times amongst his own people - he guessed that this must have been Scotland. "No offense to France but we can't put all our stock in hoping his territory will be enough of a buffer zone." Scotland's hand waved, the cigar in his hand wafting smoke into acrobatic tricks through the cloudy air.

Beside him, a man with bright orange hair nodded along in agreement. Before he even opened his mouth America had already assumed this was Ireland. Sure enough, the accent was a giveaway. "Not to mention the fact that they've already got the momentum going. They've had time to plan all of this out and stockpile their arsenal. By the time we get ourselves all piled together in France they will just run us right over. Our best chance would be to strike offensively while they think we're still just scrambling into ranks."

France was silent nearby, blue eyes grim upon the map of Europe. He didn't have any need to speak in his defense since England was charged up enough for the both of them. The opinions of his brothers merely bristled him further. "That won't be enough! I'm not throwing my men out there blindly when we don't even know the extent to which they've prepared-"

Another interruption by Scotland. This time he wasn't looking at the map. He was staring directly at America. That look wasn't remotely friendly. "Who the hell let him in here?"

Everyone's attention was on him all at once. America lifted his hands into the air, fingers spread as he tried to look harmless. "Aw, hey guys. Don't mind me. Canada was just giving me a tour, that's all. I'm gonna head right back out. Love that map of yours. Lots of shapes. Very ... uh ... shapely."

England was already marching around the table in a rush. He hooked the younger man by the arm to start dragging him hurriedly for the door. That angry volume had pitched low into words meant more for America's ears alone as he hissed. "You shouldn't be in here. If the others thought even for a second that you were cooperating with us then it would be a disaster. You ought to know better, America."

America continued to wave to the chorus of apprehensive - or downright hostile - faces until England had pulled him out into the corridor. He straightened when released, huffing as he straightened his suit jacket from the rumpling it had suffered from the manhandling. "I wasn't worried about that. You guys have all been locked away behind closed doors since I got here. The people that are left to actually meet for the Conference are all ones that I don't know well."

"It's a world war." England told him in hushed exasperation. "Look, you're already being viewed as a target because they know you lean towards favoring our side. Our association is dangerous enough for you without giving them more reason to believe you'll turn on them. If you really want us all spending time together, America, then we can do so when it's safe. Just not here."

"So what are you saying then?" America asked him, frowning. "I'm not supposed to talk with you guys at all while we're here? They can't blame me if I just want to spend time with the people I'm close to."

England shook his head. "They can if they choose to. This a precarious time, America, when the slightest sign could be mistaken for an act of intended hostility. Everyone is paranoid enough that if you don't distance yourself well enough they will decide that you are in cahoots with us and act accordingly."

He released the American's arm, face softening. "If you really want to visit with us, then I'll summon you at a better time. For now, just try to stay out of trouble. As hard as that is for you to manage it's the safest course."

Later that night, America was surprised when Canada came knocking on the door to his room. The Canadian came inside with a heavy sigh to drop his body on the spare bed. "Whew! I didn't think I'd ever be done. You don't mind if I stay in here to get my rest shift, do you? Normally I have to share rooms with Australia but he is a horrible snorer."

"Are you sure you're supposed to be in here? Britannia told me that it was dangerous for me to be around you guys." America told him, watching as the Canadian removed his glasses to place them on the nightstand nearby, his brother's body heavy with exhaustion.

"It'd be dangerous for you to be around him and France, oui." Canada murmured, that French slipping out of him more freely whenever he was tired. His face turned on the pillow to squint at America. "I'm not as important as they are. Being a Commonwealth, I don't get to make any vital decisions. And half the time the Allies don't even know I'm around - so you can imagine that our enemies don't pay me any mind either."

The lack of energy in his sibling bothered America. He moved to sit down on the edge of Canada's bed. A hand rested upon his brother's head to pet at it with fraternal affection. "Why are you even doing this? We're halfway across the globe from all this mess. It'd be easier just to let Europe tear itself apart without either of us getting involved. You wouldn't be working yourself so hard if you just followed my lead for a change."

"I don't mind." Canada told him quietly. His head pushed up into the affection of America's hand, eyes closing with a tiny smile. "I'm independent, yes, though as a Commonwealth of the British Empire it's my expected duty to engage the Empire's enemies in combat within war. The fact that it's required of me isn't why I'm doing it. I want to help. Britannia has done so much for me. He protected me when he didn't have to. The same goes for France as well. They have both shown me the care of parents and the respect of fellow nations. So if I can repay just a little of my debt to them by helping then I want to do whatever I can."

"Yeah. You've always been better than me with that kind of stuff." America nodded. Those praising words towards Britannia and France had him contemplative. He wanted to ask Canada a question, yet upon looking down at his brother saw that after that small speech, the Canadian had already sunk into a deep sleep. America put the blanket over the top of him to keep his brother warm.

He moved over to sit on his own bed. Canada's words were still in his mind. He protected me when he didn't have to. America was troubled by them for reasons he couldn't explain. Britannia's conquering ways didn't exactly make him seem an altruistic type. The island empire was in fights more often than at peace - and for what? Personal gain. Expansion of an empire.

That's not entirely true though, is it? America thought to himself. At one point in time, didn't he protect you too?

His head rested against the wall behind him as the American closed his eyes to search through his memories of the past.

When he received word that England was due to arrive at his home, America made it a point to be outside along the road so he could meet his caretaker's carriage. He didn't have to wait long into the afternoon before dust kicking up heralded the lumbering roll of the carriage, and America's anticipatory smile brightened with excitement as he came hopping down off the fencepost to chase behind. Canada had warned him that he'd get a scolding for doing so because he was sure to get dirty. Being dirty didn't bother him; neither did getting scolded.

He came to a halt when the carriage stopped in front of his home. The boy bobbed in place while the driver came climbing down from his station to unlatch the door. America's bright smile slipped when he saw England fumbling a hand to get himself out from inside. His caretaker appeared worse for wear. The last time he had turned up with his arm in a sling it was because he claimed he'd hurt himself crafting America's treasured toy soldiers. There were for more bandages this time that disappeared into England's sleeve, and he held that arm very stiffly when stepping down carefully to the ground.

His smile for America showed no discomfort with the injury. He knelt down to one knee to spread his uninjured arm out. "What is this? Am I not to receive a hug from you, America? I take it that you did not miss me if that is the case."

"No, no - I did. I missed you very much, England." America declared as he hurried into that space. His hands clasped around the man's shoulders to embrace him. He thought he heard a quiet noise of distress out of England when he squeezed the man's body, quickly releasing his hold to peer in concern at the Englishman's pale face. "Are you alright? What happened to you?"

"This? Oh, this is nothing for you to concern yourself over, America." England's tense features lapsed into a warm smile. He tottered back onto his feet to pat the boy upon the head. "Just the usual riff-raff causing trouble along the coast. They shan't get the best of me and I certainly have no intention of permitting them to take advantage of your youth. Though that is far from my mind right now - my eyes are being deceived, I think, because it looks as if you have grown a little in my absence. Is that true?"

America brightened again. His troubled feelings were put aside with this new topic. He puffed his chest out proudly, shoulders squaring. "I have! I can even reach the high shelves in the kitchen without any help. The nice farmer from next door told me that I'm going to be 'tall as a beanstalk'. Do you think I could ever be so tall, England?"

His caretaker was already hobbling for the house while the driver got his luggage removed from the carriage. England winked down to him as America walked alongside him. "It wouldn't surprise me. You are growing quickly, America, which is a very good sign. That means that you are getting stronger as a nation, with developing territory and people. You're certainly far taller than I was at your age."

The maid hired to help care for America met them just inside the door. She greeted England warmly before starting to assist the man with removing his traveling garb. America was divided from his fascination with picturing England as a child when he noticed how gingerly the man was moving to get free of his jacket. Not only was he favoring that bandaged arm but most of his body seemed effected by injury. America wondered just how bad England's fight must have been if he'd been hurt so much. He also wondered how bad the other guys must have been if England had won.

"I have a few items of business to complete in the office before I can settle." England told him once he was comfortable in just his clothing. "After that, why don't we sit down together for supper? You can tell me all about the adventures you've been having here by yourself, you little imp."

That had been several hours ago. America gave up on waiting for England in the dining room. He'd stalled as long as he could on his meal before it got too cold to continue picking at. The boy went seeking him out in a sullen mood, believing that England had let himself get too wrapped up in business despite having promised to join him to eat. He opened the door to the office to peek inside to see what had delayed his caretaker.

America found that England was not doing any work at all. The man was asleep curled over the desk. Even America's entrance into the office wasn't enough to stir him. Crossing to the man's chair on the other side of the room, America peered up at the bent, slumbering nation. He thought about nudging England awake but couldn't bring himself to do it.

Up this close, without the Englishman's words or smiles to distract him, America was able to see that England's face was paler than usual. Exhaustion deepened the lines on the man's face, which seemed different to America who had never thought of it as anything except ageless. Peeking out from the fold of England's collar was the shadowed presence of a dark, ugly bruise. America thought once again about how England had dismissed his injured arm as a trivial fight.

He went into his bedroom to pull the blanket off his bed, dragging it back into the office with him. America draped it clumsily over that bent figure to try and get the fabric's warmth settled securely upon England's body. It frustrated him to see the man in this state. Whenever he was hurt and England was around, his injuries were always tended to. Having his caretaker with these level of injuries, America wasn't sure what else to do for him.

Sliding down to sit on the floor beside England's chair, the boy pulled his knees up to his chest. He wasn't strong enough to go hitting anyone on behalf of England. America wondered if he'd ever even be allowed the chance to be the one to protect the older nation for a change. England got firm with him when America raised his voice to people; if he wanted to do more than that then he'd definitely risk the Englishman's ire. He turned his head to peer up at the sleeping face above him. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad? America figured he could learn to tolerate England getting after him if he could stop the man from being hurt all the time.

America was broken out of his reverie by a knock on the door. He pushed memories back into the recesses of his brain to go answering it, afraid that the noise would wake up Canada. The sleeping man didn't show any signs of being disturbed - far too deep into rest for that. Standing at the door was one of the Conference's attendants. A folded note was placed wordlessly into America's hand before the man hurried off.

After watching him go, America unfolded the paper to see what was written on the inside.

The quaint little bridge across the river nearby is a great spot for fresh air during this time of night. - Britannia

Okay. That left him scratching his head. Had he said something earlier in the day that indicated to the island empire that he needed breathing room? Going out to take a stroll on a bridge in the middle of the night when everyone was settling down to sleep didn't sound like any kind of- oh.

Oh!

America crumpled the note up to stuff into the pocket of his jacket. The door to his room was closed behind him to let Canada sleep while he went hurrying out stealthily.

The night air was clear. He could see a mass of stars throughout the black sky, punching through the blanket of darkness in sparkling brilliance. They, along with the moon, reflected nicely on the calm trickle of the river that went winding near the Conference's structure. All of it very peaceful. Was it all so peaceful because it was Switzerland? Did everything automatically default to a state of peace here?

He spotted a familiar figure waiting for him. England's body was poised in a hunched lean at the peak of the bridge's arch. Smoke clouded the air around his head in a silvery halo. Though America was sure the Englishman had told him he'd quit the habit sometime ago, it appeared that England had fallen off the wagon. When he came strolling up to the bridge to stand beside the other man, England exhaled a fresh wave of smoke. "Took you long enough. I wasn't sure you were going to figure it out."

"It did take me a few seconds." America confessed, ignoring the insinuation that he was stupid for not immediately divining that vague invitation. "Canada's back in my room, fast asleep."

"Good. Let him rest." England said with a nod, visibly relieved by this information. "He's been working so hard these last couple of weeks I am half afraid he will wear himself out when we're just getting started."

"I told him that we shouldn't get involved. He said he was doing it out of a sense of obligation to you and to France."

England received those words with a low sigh. His face lowered to watch the flow of the water passing beneath them. "I wish that he didn't have to get wrapped up in this. Or any of my colonies, for that matter. If this were just a small skirmish I could solve with my navy as usual then I'd do it. What we're getting into here is on a whole new scale. Even when the Frog's damned Midget General was kicking up a fuss on the continent it didn't seem this...daunting."

America frowned. He thought back to the memory he'd just been dwelling in before. A troubled feeling nagged at him even when he stated firmly, "I have no intention of getting involved. I mean it. Whatever you guys decide you're going to do on your old, dusty playground has got nothing to do with me."

"You're quite right, America." England straightened and turned to face him, face tense in the moonlight. "Don't get involved. I don't want you tangled up in these affairs any more than you do. I think it is for the best that you maintain your stance of non-interference in our matters. My instincts are sharp; they're telling me that the state of warfare is going to change with all of this. It's an ill future ahead."

Finally finished with that smoke he tapped it out on the stone of the bridge. "I'll do what I can to keep it from spreading across the Atlantic. And try to keep Canada out of the worst of it. You just leave it to me." He squared his shoulders proudly, an empire to be contended with, as America knew from experience. "I ought to be getting back to the war room. My brothers can't be left unattended with these matters for too long or else they'll slip all the control out of my grasp while my back is turned. Goodnight, America. Remember what I said - under no circumstances should you step into this mess. Turn a blind eye if you must. Please."

The Englishman left him standing alone on the bridge. America watched him vanish off into the night. All throughout their conversation he'd kept his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He removed them now to look down at the clenched fists that had helped him maintain his frustration. You idiot. This was your prime moment to make good on a promise, and you blew it.

He was right, though. America's head angled back to squint up at the sky. There was nothing he could do. Even if he felt guilt in his heart for standing idly by while his brother and his friends clashed in war, the interests of his people were to remain distant from that violence. If their hearts could not be stirred to war then his hands were tied. Knowing that didn't put his own heart any more at ease.

1916

"These propaganda films are gonna be a nightmare for moviedom, Al." America's producer friend complained over their lunch. Naturally, the man only knew him by his human moniker, Alfred F. Jones, and even that name was pretty loosely acknowledged. "If these start catching on then we're going to start seeing these big budget films getting cut in favor of spitting out one war drama after another."

"People are curious about what's going on over there, Freddy." America told him honestly. He poked at the food on his plate. His appetite was dying the longer the topic lasted. "Sure, we get plenty of stories over the papers about how bad things are going but that doesn't beat them being able to see it visually. I mean, when the Lusitania got sunk last year the studios were lining up for the chance to make a movie out of it."

Freddy chuckled, picking up his cigar from its ashtray nearby to gesture with it. "I still stand by what I said, too. People enjoy a comedy, and they love a romance - but they'll fill the seats plus standing room only if you put a real life tragedy in front of them. Everyone loves to be horrified."

"Then let's hope that we don't end up finding out just how horrible it is on our own."

America felt a tap on his shoulder. He flashed a smile to the message boy, patting him on the head. "Got a message for me? Thanks, little buddy." His hand shot into his pocket to flip out a coin for the kid. America was distracted from the bright smile on the child's face when he looked at the name and address upon the envelope.

Freddy must have sensed the change in his mood. "You okay there, Al?"

"Nn." He responded absently. America hurriedly tore open the envelope and read over the letter inside. He barely made it through half the letter before standing up from his chair so fast that it went knocking over. "Sorry, Freddy. I've gotta go."

The producer stood up with a frown of concern. "Now? Right now? We've got to work out plans for this next film, Al. Where are you running off to in such a hurry?"

"Europe. I'm going to Europe."

London, England

The city didn't seem remotely vibrant when America arrived. There was an ashen grey coat over the sky that tinged everything with a tired energy. Even the car that he stepped out of when it dropped him off in front of England's home sputtered weakly when it went lumbering away. America clutched his small suitcase in a vice-like grip so hard that the leather creaked. It only held a couple spare suits - he intended to keep the trip short - but breaking it would have been a hassle.

When America knocked on the front door he expected it would be England to greet him. It confused him when a man he didn't know answered instead. The man's hair was dark, close to black. He stared at America while America stared at him, with a passive expression beneath a thick set of eyebrows. Voices spoke up questioningly from deeper in the house and the man turned to answer. Whatever the language was it sounded very full of vowels. It might have been gibberish for all America knew.

Whatever it was, it got results. A shadowy figure detached itself from the recesses of England's home to come to the door. America found himself looking at the unfriendly face of Scotland. The redhead was openly hostile at his presence, and before the younger nation could open his mouth to say a word, he cut America off. "You're not welcomed here. Leave."

Then shut the door in his face.

Well. That wasn't what he'd been expecting when he got there. America knocked again on the door, this time with a fist. He could hear voices on the other side in a disagreement. When the door finally opened again, both Scotland and the dark-haired man were gone. It was only France standing at the door, looking very out of place amongst the backdrop of such a British home. He also looked worn out. France's apologetic smile was tired.

"You'll have to ignore them. Britannia's brothers can be protective of him at the strangest times and indifferent to him at others. You happened to arrive on one of the special days, Amerique. On behalf of our indisposed host, let me invite you inside. Come in."

"How are they doing?" America asked as he hurried inside out of the gloomy day. He took the Frenchman's advice to heart, already putting the presence of England's brothers out of his mind. After all, they weren't the reason he was here. "Where's Canada at? Can I see him? Is Britannia with him? Are they okay?"

France placed his hands on the American's shoulders and hushed him. "Too many questions. You must think my mind is still alert with everything that has been taking place but that is giving me too much credit. They are both here, resting. I've been personally tending to your brother. He's..." Here, he paused, as if deciding if it was wise to continue, "he's been through a lot."

That didn't sound promising. America put his suitcase down to start wringing his hands together. "I've heard about some of it. Just rumors and what little information we're getting through the reports. Is it true that Germany's using gases to kill people?"

"Oui. I wish I could say that such a claim is just a fantastical horror tale but it is true." The Frenchman kept one hand gripped on America's shoulder to steer him through the house in the direction of the bedrooms. "Your brother's people have received a considerable amount of abuse from the German army. They have discovered that the Canadians are a force to be feared and consequently have set their focus upon favoring attacks against them. Though he provides us a golden opportunity as a decoy for their harshest blows, it pains me to see what a price he's been paying."

He was lead to one of the larger guest rooms. Two small beds were shoved against the opposite walls. In each of them was a nation - Canada and Britannia. America hesitated in the space between both before he hurried over to his brother's bedside. He bent over the bed to give a thorough study of the Canadian.

Canada's face was unrelaxed even in sleep. There was a hardened pinch to his brother's mouth that America had never seen before. He placed his hand across the slumbering nation's forehead to try calming the small twitches that shook Canada in his dreams. His skin was a healthy flush compared to the sickly hue beneath his touch. America felt the persistent conflict of emotions that had been troubling him since the start of the war rise to wakefulness yet again. "What happened to him?"

"The gas, mostly." France said quietly behind him. His eyes, clear blue, were darkened by the weight of his own emotions as they gazed down at Canada. "He was cornered in his last battle with Germany. They pinned his unit down in the trenches and flooded them with it until only he was left." The Frenchman crossed his arms tightly over his chest as if holding himself together against a threatening explosion. "Wales found him. He brought him back from the battlefield in a horrible state. The doctors believe his lungs might be p-permanently damaged from the incident, and- a-and..."

Overcome, France turned away with a quiet, choked sound. America removed his hand from Canada's forehead to gently squeeze the older nation's shoulder. He knew that Canada was very dear to France. His brother's people were tied to the British Empire now but their culture would always be connected to the French. Canada had told America when they were children that he would never turn his back on the past. In opposition of that, America was always discarding his, picking and choosing what he wanted from the other cultures that had shaped him.

France patted him gratefully on that comforting hand. He recovered himself with a sniffle, pulling a handkerchief out to dab at his eyes. "My apologies, America. It has been a harrowing year for us all and sometimes it is hard to remember to remain strong. Wales should be returning in here soon - he's been in charge of their care. I think you met him at the door?"

"Black hair, thick eyebrows - sounds like he's got his mouth full?"

"Oui, that is him. His language is quite unique. We all tend to slip back into what is natural to us in times of stress. He is not as talkative as our friend, Britannia. Try not to get too much in his way if you intend to remain in here. I must be getting back to the other room. We are still needed to guide the frontlines." France slipped out from beneath America's hand with a wan smile, striding out of the room. Left alone, America took a moment to make sure Canada was tucked in before he crossed the space to England's bed to give him the same inspection.

America studied his face closely. The profile of England's face showed the signs of strain; lined with tension, the pores bled of color as if exhaustion had stolen even the healthy pallor of his face. How many times had he seen this before in his youth? As a child it had confused him on those nights when he and England would sit together near the fire while the Englishman read to him out of storybooks.

Back then he had not understood why England always appeared so tired. It was plain to see with his child's eyes that his caretaker was burdened by things that made him doze off mid-tale, only to jolt awake when America's hand would shake upon his arm with demands for the story to continue. Those were the times where any visit from England was too short for his liking, and every moment felt uncomfortably temporary, because at any second the man could announce his departure back across the sea. Thinking back to how demanding he had been of England's time in his youth made America feel guilty.

He was wise enough now to know that exhaustion for what it was. The strain of war. In those days England was constantly involved in one skirmish or another. He would arrive on America's shores seeking recuperation, or a refuge from the fighting. Sometimes the scars were still fresh on his body. And tired as he was, England's smile for him was always warm as he indulged America in every demand like there were still reserves of energy left inside him. How often was it that America would discover England asleep in odd places, fallen to sleep in the middle of a mundane activity? Then Canada, insightful even as a child, would scold him if he proposed the possibility of disturbing England from his rest.

"So why is it that I'm getting strong now but you still won't let me use that to protect you?" America asked him quietly. His hand touched the backs of its fingers on the Englishman's face, stroking them in a slow caress over the ridge of a thick eyebrow. "What's it gonna take for me to be strong enough?"

"You should have seen him when he was a wee thing."

Wales' voice in the silence caused America to jump, hand leaping back to his side as he turned to the open door. He gave the man a wide-eyed regard, shocked that words had finally come out of the man in English for the first time since they'd met. The accent was heavy, yet the Welshman painstakingly shaped every word for America to understand.

The dark-haired man brought in a bucket full of water, a rag draped upon the handle in his grip. Wales placed it down next to England's bed with a dull thump. He tested the temperature of the Englishman's cheeks and forehead before kneeling down next to the bed with work with the bucket.

"He was next to nothing. All skin and bones with his swampy marshes that no sane person would have thought to settle upon. Those bones had iron in them from the start. His blood had fire. So it went that he challenged everything. He challenged us, France - the world. Just look at him now. Most of this wild world is a bauble in his possession. It's a marvel, really. Like he never forgot what it was to be that starving creature in the wilds that wanted a little piece of something for himself. The problem is that he forgot to stop along the way and now all of this heavy burden falls on him." Wales murmured as he wrung out another cascade of water from his rag, folding it up to rest across England's scowling brow.

Once he had it settled into place he stood up to pluck at the edges of Englishman's pillow. "There's not much else for us to do for him except wait for him to surface out of this stupor. His empire is being pulled in so many directions at once, it's hard to believe that he managed to keep himself together for this long. I'll let you know when he wakes up."

As soon as the words ended, Wales resumed his customary silence while keeping watch over England's restless figure. America took this as a sign of dismissal. He turned to step out of the room since England seemed in good hands.

Frustration bit deep in him. America didn't like the helpless feeling he was experiencing. It reminded him of a dream in which he was a remote witness to events beyond his control. He could only stand by impotently without the means to effect a change in the proceedings. These thoughts of dissatisfaction were suffocating. America stopped along the hallway to shove both sets of fingers through his hair, unaware of how it twisted the strands into a wilder mess.

The air in the house felt too thick. He couldn't remain in here with his emotions building pressure inside him, and if Scotland turned up again to treat him with more of that previous hostility then America wasn't sure what he'd do. His feet steered him for the back door of the home to seek the fresh air outside as the American retreated to the garden. It'd been so long since he'd visited England and they seemed a promising refuge while he worked through his racing, tumbling thoughts.

England's beloved garden was in a serious state of neglect. Without the man to tend to the rose hedges, they had gone wild. Some of them had even died. Those shriveled patches were curled upon the ground with all hope of survival given up. America shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks as he walked around the pathways. His shoulders felt weighted down by the burden of his guilt. Had France brought him here in the hopes that he'd be this badly effected?

America ducked his head down as he stepped up into the old gazebo in the center of the gardens. The paint was peeling. It looked like it needed a fresh coat and some of the wood had been eaten by time. If this were back home he would have rolled up his sleeves, gathered new wood, and repaired it himself. He wasn't sure that England would appreciate it.

Leaning his shoulder against the gazebo's post, America stared across the span of the garden. He could see the outline of the statues towards the back. Beyond them was where the iron gate had once been. England had removed it at some point in time to insert a brick wall in its place. Had he done it because of the day America had let France in? He didn't think his former caretaker would have made the change over such an incident.

That last trip, when England had brought him here as a colony, had changed the course of everything. It had lit the spark of rebellion in America.

He felt that same need for rebellion now. That was the feeling nagging at him, below the anger and the guilt. But the need to rebel against what? He was his own nation, answering to no one, and able to make his own decisions. So if he had the freedom to make choices for himself then what was it that he wanted to do? America exited the gazebo to return to the house when the skies darkened with the threat of heavy rain.

Maybe France would have advice for him. He went heading down the hallway to seek the Frenchman out, hand pushing at cracked open doors to try to locate the older nation. America stopped when his pressing hand sent the door swinging open upon an empty room that he recognized immediately.

It was his old room. His eyes blinked wide in surprise to find it just as he remembered. Except, of course, for the signs of age that had faded it with time. It was like a moment in time, frozen and preserved for so long. Why had England kept it this way? America placed his hand to his chest to cover his heart, since it had begun to beat quickly. For all the denials England had ever made that he was unimportant here was proof to the contrary. He was touched, almost to the point of tears.

Yet this was the crux of it, was it not? Did England believe that by keeping this room an intact memory of America's childhood, he was somehow protecting the younger nation from being an adult? America thought about the conversation he'd had with Britannia at the last Conference. That England had told him to stay out of the mess, to keep his distance. To remain safe.

America focused his gaze on the dresser. Faded wooden soldiers were still standing at attention. The cobwebs and dust that coated them didn't completely hide the painted features on their faces. America walked over to pick one up, holding it in his palm. All these little soldiers lacked was a leader. He curled his fingers around it to squeeze it tightly, jaw firming in determination.

"I make my own future. It might not be tomorrow, or even next month, but one way or another, I'll just have to make my people believe in the future I decide on. And I know exactly what it is I want to do."