OK, so I haven't abandoned L'Incorruptible, I swear! However, finding the time to do all the relevant research is difficult to say the least. Therefore, I decided to focus on something that did not require an insane amount of reading, and called only for an insanely disturbed imagination. Thus: this. Inspired by what happens when I allow my thoughts to meander, and fuelled by a truly impressive amount of Vocaloid songs.

I have had so much fun with this it's unbelievable.

On the other hand, I'm beginning to think a better name for this account would be 'France's Soapbox' – I can't seem to stop writing from his perspective! Mostly because it allows me to be as verbose as I please, and then some. :)

Well, anyway. As always, enjoy!

Canada stares at the prone figure before him, stunned. Oh hell. Just because it was bound to happen one day does not make him feel any less useless, or any less scared. England was always going to do something to harm himself or others, in a uniquely black-arts-related way; it was one of history's little near-inevitabilities, like the Russian Revolution, or America rebelling from British rule, or England and France nearly scalping each other every time they –

- France.

Ludicrously aware of the foolishness of this venture, but unable to think of a better plan, Canada picks up the phone and tries to ignore England's motionless body, lying in that haphazard circle of candles, books and runes.

"So... what you are telling me, petit, is that Angleterre has done a miniature Faustus routine and paid dearly for his efforts?"

Canada winces. "Not exactly. There was no devil and no deal involved, as far as I can tell. But... essentially, in terms of meddling with magic, yes."

"So what is it that you expect me to do, exactly?" France's voice is kind, but unapproachable.

"... Help?"

Silence on the other end of the line, in which Canada knows that France is only feigning reluctance. He lets him pretend for all of about ten seconds, before breaking into the self-delusion with an unassuming: "Please?"

It is effective enough. "I will be with you shortly," says France, betraying, just slightly, a tinge of worry in the very last syllable. Nothing more, but enough to momentarily assure Canada that assistance is on its way.

"He's in some sort of... trance," says Canada. He and France both turn their gaze to the unconscious England, who they have lifted out of the cellar and moved onto the couch. Indeed, his eyes are closed with a sort of finality which defies any attempt at disturbance. "I came here to meet for tea," he adds, by way of explanation. France snickers at how incongruous this sounds, and shrugs, meekly, when Canada meets his eyes with a reproachful look.

France sits on the armrest of the couch, narrowly avoiding sitting on England's hair, which is splayed out over the end of the seat. "How did he manage this?" he asks, eventually.

"God, France, I can only guess."

"We are at a loss here; so guess away."

Canada runs a nervous hand through his tangled hair. "Sometimes he... look, I barely know what it entails, but he uses magic to... to, you know, look. Into the past, mostly."

"That sounds like Angleterre," says France, with a smile.

"It's really not funny," says Canada, sharply. Then, apologetically, he adds: "He's always looking for something – different, I guess. Little nuances that he missed. Patterns that emerge. I don't know. Stuff. Then sometimes he tries to – to sort of continue the patterns."

"To see into the future?" asks France, sceptically.

"It's difficult to explain."

France runs a delicate finger along the bridge of his nose, allowing it to rest pensively at the bottom of his forehead – a nervous habit of his that Canada thinks dates from the 1700s. "Go on."

"I think he might have gone in further than usual. Deeper. And he couldn't get back out."

"Into what?"

"His mind."

France nods, slowly. "So he is trapped within his own thoughts," he says, in a manner that would be toneless, were it not for the cadences that always seem to ring in his voice regardless of its specific expression. France cannot seem to help but add some form of subtext or extra resonance to the simplest of statements, thinks Canada. Layers within layers of meaning, in which one is liable to become lost.

"Best way of explaining it, really," says Canada, glancing nervously again at England's sleeping form.

France's head snaps up again. "So what would you propose we do?"

Canada does not speak.

"Canada," says France, softly.

"It's stupid. And it's a risk," he mumbles, after a few seconds.

"That can't be helped," says France, amiably.

"You could... go after him."

"I can't believe Angleterre taught you this," grumbles France, as they muddle inexpertly through the rituals of candle, book and bell. He sits in the middle of the pentagram on the cellar floor, with England's head lying awkwardly on his lap, surrounded by the faint smoke of incense.

"Spend enough time with him and you pick things up," says Canada, vaguely.

France raises an eyebrow. "And I suppose it is absolutely necessary that I am the one to perform this ridiculous task?" he protests, weakly.

"You'll be able reach him," says Canada, simply. His voice is almost authoritative, France notes with an odd amalgamation of pride and amusement. Strange how Canada's soft, apologetic statements can often be more convincing than, for instance, the most strident of Germany's orders. "Besides, you can't do the magic – you need me for that – and I can't send myself into a trance."

"England did," notes France.

"He was always better at self-deception."

"Hmm. Faced by me, he will probably retreat even deeper into the back of his perverse and unfathomable mind," sneers France.

Canada shakes his head. He kneels next to France and takes his hand, placing it in England's. France obediently laces their fingers together. Canada dips his own hand in the wax of a nearby candle. He then presses it to France's forehead; France winces at the burn, but remains still.

"When you fall asleep, you'll be in his thoughts," says Canada. "Normally he'd be in control, but I think maybe it'll be a little more chaotic than usual, so you can probably choose the location. Try to think of a neutral place – somewhere he'll feel comfortable, but not necessarily at home."

"How do I find him?" murmurs France. The incense has a lulling effect, and he feels halfway to sleep already.

"He'll be there. He can't hide in his own mind," says Canada.

"That... I suppose makes sense."

"Good luck," whispers Canada, and pulls his hand away.

France's vision immediately fades to black, as he slumps to the floor, unconscious. Canada takes a seat in the corner of the room.

And... waits.

The meeting is meant to take place on neutral ground, but there is no ground that is neutral for them. No place where they can show their true selves, without one being at an advantage, or mutual constraints dictating their behaviour. France has chosen the one spot which even comes close to a level playing field – and so here they are at the sea. The Channel. Their most visible of barriers. The two boats approach – one speeding from Dover, the other from Calais: both meet in what France knows is the exact middle. It was strangely easy to coordinate all this – all France did was imagine the scenario, and it instantly was so. And England is here.

Surely it cannot be so simple.

They approach one another and stop side by side. They both extend planks to bridge the gap between the boats – wide and sturdy enough for one to cross over. The wind roars dully, surrounding them with a barrage of sound.

"Come over here!" yells England over the rush of the waves.

"No. Get into my boat," insists France. He will not allow England to drag him into wherever he has locked himself; England must be the one to follow France. Then, with any luck, they will sail back into sanity.

England growls in irritation and shakes his head.

Teeth clenched, they both stare at each other, unyielding.

Just leave it to the little brat not to cooperate. Fine.

The same thought seemingly occurring to each, they stand simultaneously and climb onto the bridge. It creaks under their combined weight. Both step forwards, until they are a foot apart. Without warning, England stumbles and grabs onto France's sleeve, then glares at him, face flushed. "There? Satisfied?" he hisses.

France moves to grip England's arms, locking them together as they balance. Somehow, the sound of their breathing seems to drown the wind and waves. A second of intensity, as they face each other, striving for some form of unspoken connection, communication, but both failing to understand and be understood.

Business as usual, in this lucid dream.

The wind intensifies and they teeter at the edge. France tries to say "This is ridiculous, Angleterre", but gets only halfway through 'ridiculous' before a powerful gust assaults them unexpectedly; they overbalance entirely and plunge into the water.

External sound deserts them, overwhelmed by the smothering roar of water in their ears. It was a gentle fall, but they are tunnelling rapidly downwards through the ocean. France struggles bitterly for breath, but knows it is not wholly necessary for him – merely agonising not to. He and England cling to each other, helplessly, as they sink at an unearthly pace. Were France not so preoccupied, he would laugh at how uncharacteristic this is – holding each other like children? – but the experience is all too suffocating for mirth. They are descending for what must be fathoms, as the crystal clarity of the surface deepens into an all-pervading blue which blots out the light and obscures England's features. Down, into what seems to be bottomless, lifeless, motionless depths.

Something stirs. Something scythes through the water and slices France's upper arm. Tendrils of blood appear. Another slice, another wound – this time it is England who is caught on the leg. Suddenly, the water around them is heavy with blood, as blade upon blade whizzes from some unknown source, stinging and biting as they grasp desperately at each other and at the tatters of their mangled shirt sleeves. All the time fighting the overwhelming pressure of being unable to breathe.

Through the sharp net of pain, France stares at England, whose eyes widen with an eerie sort of calm. Unexpectedly, England lets go of him and extends his hands, revealing a maze of cuts on his palms, all bleeding into the blue of their dim surroundings. France lifts his leaden arms and does the same, stretching them towards him. Their fingertips touch.

They stop falling, and hang suspended in the water for one giddy, terrifying second.

"A blood pact," says England, his voice echoing dully through the caverns of water.

And downwards again.

France tries to ask how England can speak without the water gushing into his mouth and rendering the words indistinct, but is prevented by the water which gushes remorselessly into his mouth. Choking, he blinks, writhes – anything to relieve this pressure – to silence the relentless agony... and yet, they still plunge inexorably downwards, forever, in a shroud of their own blood...

The blades have stopped.

And then, once more, so do they.

France is barely conscious of his own actions, yet something compels him to wrench himself away from England, whose fingertips are still joined with his –

- He pulls backwards, but a thick, viscous string of blood seems to join them together. France watches, horrified, as it stretches between them – and gradually, its scarlet colour drains away, fading into blue, then white – it is ice, and he cannot break it.

Once again, France tries to speak, and succeeds in expressing an inarticulate cry of surprise and pain.

Are we bound together, then?

"Perhaps," says England. France flinches. "But you have to find me first." He smiles, unnervingly.

Then, England twists away, seeming to absorb the strings of ice which trapped them. He makes a circling motion with his hands and the uncanny stillness of the water ceases. Suddenly, all is turmoil as he summons a whirling knot of water larger than the two of them. The force flings France to the side, as England swims inside it, quickly as an eel, vanishing.

Whatever force caused them to sink, whatever held them suspended, has disappeared along with England. France finds himself being pushed upwards.

No. No! He must not lose him! Summoning what little strength he can muster – a surprising amount, testament to the advantages nature has given to Nations under trauma – France propels himself towards the miniature whirlpool that England created, drawing himself into the inky darkness.

And still he is in water. Yet the crushing force around his lungs has eased somewhat – he is closer to the surface. The realisation lends him resolve, and he forces himself to swim. Aided by natural buoyancy – and the absence of unnatural forces – he drifts upwards.

And surfaces. Breathes. He is grateful even for the searing agony that the first surge of air provokes. He is no stranger to pain, and by now he can scarcely remember how it feels to be without it.

Gradually, he becomes aware of a numbing chill. He is, of course, no longer in the Channel – his current location resembles the Arctic more than anywhere else. Dieu. No land but ice. Elaborate, colossal mountains of ice. Glaciers that stretch elegantly towards the pale, frozen sky. There is daylight, but it does not seem to illuminate – it merely contributes to the rawness of the scene, and seems to be sister to the cold which pierces him to his weary bones.

I am barely living.

The only thing keeping him alive is the fact that he cannot, under normal circumstances, die. As it is, he feels as though his body has turned to ice – a gleaming chunk of frost, floating in a glacial sea.

A profound longing for sleep brushes languidly over him, dulling all sense of purpose save the need for rest. Yet amidst the numbness lies a pinpoint of resolve: find England. It pricks him into action. Clumsily, he swims towards the shore – he stretches and clings to its frozen edge. Grabbing handfuls of loose snow, he scrapes at the surface, desperately searching for a grip or a hold – yet somehow, he hoists himself out of the water and, by sheer effort, pulls himself onto land.

Impossible to gauge how long he lies there, bedraggled and fatigued. The pain, excruciating before, is now almost gentle, lulling him into irregular, disturbed slumber. Yet, every time he loses consciousness, he finds himself faced by a horrifying blackness, unable to dream, and frightens himself awake.

Eventually, he rises into a sitting position, tightening his soaking, tattered coat around him in an irrational attempt to generate heat. It is still drenched in blood.

Blood.

He hastily turns over his hands, but the cuts in his palms have vanished. Every gash that those underwater blades made is gone. Only the tips of his fingers show any sign that he was ever wounded: each finger now boasts a gleaming, circular scar.

He glances around. Before him is a vast expanse of ice – an enormous island or plateau, dotted with slopes and ridges. He lowers his gaze, awed by the enormity of it – and glimpses a shadow amidst the snow.

Curious, he brushes the loose snow away, revealing a screen of translucent ice. Deep below the surface lies a dark shape. He scrapes at the white flakes which obscure it, until he has made a window of almost transparent ice, and presses his face close against it, wincing at the further stab of cold to his cheek, but adamant that he must discern the shape within.

Many metres down is a human figure, relaxed in a foetal position. It lies asleep and tranquil, wrapped in what seems to be a cloak. On its face sits an indistinct half-smile. There is a form of peace, and what almost amounts to content, in its form.

Its face is England's.

And France is screaming, choked, hoarse cries. Vainly, he scrabbles at the ground, prepared to gouge his way down to England, crazed, imagining he can tunnel through to the depths of the ice. He cannot explain why it is so important that he rescue the insane, preternatural creature who ran away from him – only that, since falling into this waking dream, his will has only been half his own.

"You cannot reach," says a flat voice from behind him. "Besides – your touch would only burn him."

France twists around. "A-Angleterre!" His own voice is cracked from the cold and disuse. Before him stands a – a man? – who simply cannot be England, yet there are his features, his tone, his stature. Yet he is not human or Nation! His skin is the same cerulean hue as the bottom of the ocean, although undercurrents of a darker colour seem to swirl and do battle underneath. His eyes, no longer that warm forest green that could both pierce and delight, love and disdain, are now the palest and deadliest of blues. The disdain is still there, but it has gained in harshness. He seems neither human nor spirit, dressed in white robes whose ends trail into mist. Indeed, his entire form is shrouded in a peculiar blur – France imagines he is about to melt into the air, or float away on the breeze. If such a breeze existed – for at present, all is still.

France sits up and reaches towards him. "Angleterre! How can you – we must – I..." He grasps at the edge of the creature's robes. "Imbecile - help me up, damn you!" Reaching like a beggar at England's feet – how pathetic. France grabs for his arm.

England's eyes flash with fury. He casts France away with an imperative sweep of the arm. Although he does not use much by way of force, France feels a physical blow, agonising, as though bludgeoned by a block of ice.

"Ah," says France, breathlessly, sinking again. "Not. Not... England, then." He slumps to the ground, defeated, palms still open against the floor of ice, hope of reaching the England interred there not completely abandoned. Too weary to be lucid, he finds himself confusing the two – the sleeping figure in front of him... no, the one in the ice is sleeping; the one in front of him is very much hostile, and awake, and...

He clutches at the hazy hem of England's robe, half aware of what he is doing, half overwhelmed by everything, tempted to cease wondering and abandon himself to this irrational flow of events.

England recoils in outrage, and once more France feels as though he has been struck by a chilling blow. This time, the force is so great that he is propelled backwards, skidding along the ice and – oh, hell, no – back into the water.

As he plunges downwards once more, he is certain that he can sense the England standing on the island laughing.

Or perhaps that is something taken from his myriad of battle-scarred memories.

Regardless, once more, he falls through the water, watching the edge of the ice plateau as he sinks, reflecting disjointedly on how England's mind is a place almost uninhabitable. No wonder he is always so terse.

The iceberg tapers into a point, deep under the water. France is sinking deeper than this point, down to where sky blue fades to indigo fades to black. He thrashes helplessly, trying to slow this descent, to no avail.

And when he has reached the point where it is almost impossible to see his surroundings, something clutches at the bottom of his coat.

In panic, he grabs at it – a hand, or a claw, black as the inky water around them. Other spindly fingers clutch at his sleeve, his hair – dragging him downwards as he kicks; a gush of water stifles an inchoate scream.

France has all but abandoned himself to his fate, completely at a loss as to its implications – Canada never mentioned a possibility of being attacked or trapped; there is no knowing what will befall him here. In vain, he attempts to imagine a different scene – closing his eyes, he tries desperately to change his surroundings as he did initially: let me go back to the Channel, or better still, back to my own land... but opening his eyes in faint hope, all he can see is that nightmarish blue-black, and talons still claw at his eyelids.

Thinking, furiously: Angleterre...

Which seems to trigger what happens next.

Two beams of light, razor-sharp, slice through the water, illuminating the area. France can make out nothing but countless black limbs of shadowy spirits – holding him are the outlines of bodies, features lost in blackness. Yet, within seconds, they loose their hold on him and retreat – slowly, they swim away. France relaxes in relief, darting an upward glance in the direction of the light's source.

His liberator is the England-figure, trapped in the centre of the iceberg; he has opened his eyes: they are the beacons that the blades of light originated from. He stares directly at France, who cannot bring himself to look away. He is still sinking – the light may have frightened his attackers away momentarily, but France does not doubt that he will soon reach the bottom of this ocean, where surely they will find him once more.

As if in response to this thought, the iceberg England stretches out his arms, one, then the other, as though sweeping away his glacial prison. Almost obediently, two bursts of white light – or perhaps fire – gush from his fingertips. It eats away at the ice, destroying the glacier from within – yet France can feel no heat; if anything, the cold intensifies. For a second, he is bathed in the afterglow of this explosion, and he is forced to shield his eyes until the blinding light ebbs away. When he looks again, the iceberg is even more distant – or, at any rate, what is left of it. A hole has been gouged out of it, leaving a thin crust on the surface of the water – like a shell, or an empty container.

And when France looks away, he sees England before him, his eyes burning into France's own. Despite its power, his gaze seems almost timid. Frightened. Cautiously, England extends an ivory hand, and on his fingertips shine scars, identical to those on France's own. In no way does he resemble the England France knows – today, at least; his expression is innocent, imploring...

France reaches out to join England's fingers with his, as before. Slowly, carefully, so as to avoid frightening this strangely timid creature. "Angleterre," he mouths, deliberately.

The moment they touch, England recoils, with a piteous scream – as though in pain. Your touch would only burn him... He flees, agile, as though flying through the water. France tries to call after him, forgetting he cannot speak – being underwater in this place is different to reality; sometimes painful, sometimes like floating on air – reaching after him, but unable to intervene as England swims upwards, disappearing in a transient glint of light.

And France begins to drown.

All the pain of oxygen deprivation and water pressure floods back, seemingly harsher and more solid than before – and he knows he is to expire, to blink out of existence... closing his eyes almost involuntarily, he succumbs to some indistinct fate.

... But then, strong arms encircle him – not the ghostly, grasping hands of the water spirits, but ones that are smooth, substantial - above all, reassuringly human.

France collapses against them, eyes unable to open, allowing this unknown person to lift him. Up and up and out of the water. He expects the sudden sting of cold as they surface, and is not disappointed – yet the feeling is somehow detached from him, as though something is screening him from sensation. He is certain that it is his rescuer's doing, and sighs in mute thankfulness.

Are they flying? So it seems. Either way, they descend, and France is settled gently on the ground. He is permitted to open his eyes and identify his liberator.

England. Of course. Not the shy creature from the iceberg, but the hostile, frozen entity from the surface. As he scowls down at him, France smiles. The expression is so heartbreakingly familiar that he can do nothing but smile in grateful awe, before he sinks once more into the blackness that is not sleep, but is not consciousness, is not anything but is fuelled by the prospect of something...