"Light thinks it travels faster than anything, but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has gotten there first and is waiting for it." -Terry Pratchett

June 1944

It had been almost three years since England had first kissed America, and over two years since he had vanished.

America worried.

He was pacing back and forth, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth, not caring about his other duties.

Romano stared at him. "What is your fucking problem, hamburger bastard?" There was no malice in his tone, just a sort of curiosity.

"England," America murmured. Only he and France knew about the true nature of England's disappearance-after telling him, France had promised that the news was now only America's to share.

Romano looked unimpressed. "Wasn't the tea bastard captured like two years ago?"

"Yeah…" America nodded. "But he's vanished again. France says that he was deported. That means...god knows what. He's just vanished; he could be anywhere. Dead, in a camp, held in Berlin itself...there's no way of knowing."

"He can't be dead," Romano said, surprisingly tenderly. America pretended not to notice the tone. "His country still exists, unoccupied and independent. There is no reason England should-could, even-be dead. We still don't know where the hell he is, and he could be anywhere, maybe not doing so well, but he can't be dead." He laid a hand on America's shoulder, oddly and frighteningly comforting.

"Are you okay?" America asked without thinking. "You're acting...odd."

Romano snatched his hand back immediately. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, hamburger bastard!"

America just arched an eyebrow, and Romano deflated. "When I was a kid, Spain would leave for weeks, even months, at a time, off being a fucking conquistador. I didn't miss him! More like...he was supposed to take care of me, you know? If he died, I wouldn't have been so well off myself. So I would check every once in a while to make sure that Spain was still a country, a country on its own and in its own right. And since Spain was always still a country, I knew the tomato bastard was okay. It should be the same for England."

Alfred was silent for a moment, then whispered, "Grazie."

Romano gave a half-smile, surprising America, who thought that the Italian reserved such expressions only for his brother and Spain. "You're welcome, hamburger bastard."

They had hardly talked, even among themselves or to themselves, since the murder of the boy, now two weeks past. It was as if they had been shocked into silence-or scared into silence. England wasn't sure which.

He fingered the red triangle on his shirt, cursing Germany silently as he stood in the square. He wasn't sure whether or not the nation had ever set foot in a camp, but he had to know what went on inside them. After all, he was a high-ranking official, not to mention the personification of the nation committing the atrocities. He had to know.

And, even if Germany didn't, Prussia clearly did. He was in a camp as a guard.

Speak of the devil, England thought as Prussia approached.

The albino grinned maliciously at England, and England fought the urge to swear at him. It would only make whatever hell Prussia had in mind that much worse.

"With me," Prussia ordered.

England knew that he risked punishment for breaking ranks and that his leaving would likely force the count to start over, making the others angry with him, but, on the other hand, he risked worse punishment for ignoring a direct order. With a sigh he headed towards Prussia, who started off at a fast pace.

England raised his eyebrows when he saw where they were heading. This area of the camp was much nicer than the rest, but, then again, of course it was. The Germans would hardly live in the same conditions they subjected their prisoners to.

"What are we doing here?" England dared to ask.

"Shut up," Prussia replied distractedly, leading England into one of the houses, and then to a smaller office.

Before Prussia could even say anything, England saw the pile of paperwork and understood. Prussia was going to use him as a secretary. It was a task that only he, as another personification, could do. No one else could even see the paperwork that being a personification required. Like so much else they did, even their existence, it was top secret.

"Sit," Prussia ordered, gesturing at the wooden chair at the desk. "I assume you know what you're doing."

England nodded as he sat, pulling the pile of paperwork towards him.

For the next several hours England worked and Prussia supervised, giving information where needed and signing papers as England finished them. It was surprisingly relaxing—England had always hated paperwork, as did all the personifications, but it was familiar, a sort of North Star in the unpredictable hell he was living in.

Finally, they were done with paperwork for the day and Prussia escorted England back to his usual task of hard labor.

As he worked, England wondered what had become of his own paperwork. He hoped and prayed that there wasn't an accumulated two years' worth of paperwork on his desk in London. That would be a new kind of hell entirely, and not one he thought he could deal with after everything else he had been through in the time span. It took long enough to do paperwork as it came in. Two years' worth would take him days of non-stop work. It was a personification's nightmare.

A shot rang out, uncomfortably close to his head, scattering fragments of rock. One sliced England across the cheek and he swore in pain. But he knew that it had been a warning shot telling him to keep working. He had stopped for a moment, distracted by details related to his status as a nation.

That was how he was going to end up getting himself seriously injured, though not killed. He couldn't be killed. Prussia would have told him if his country had fallen—rubbed it in, mocked him.

England shook his head hard. He needed to focus.

They were digging trenches, bombing trenches for the inhabitants of the camp and even possibly the German guards. The guards did have their own underground bunkers; that much was common knowledge, but there was always the possibility of unexpected raids making it impossible for the guards to get to safety. The prisoners had to make do with the trenches regardless.

The shovel had, at first, left terrible blisters on England's hands, hands more suited to holding a pen or a gun than a shovel, but those blisters had, over time, hardened into calluses, for which he was grateful. But, on the other hand, the job was not getting easier, as it should have been. He should have been gaining muscle, but the malnutrition made that impossible. Just like the others being held with him, England was not being fed enough to support the level of work he was being expected to do.

Children died quickly here, starving to death as their tiny frames withered away or worked to death by the expectation placed on them to do the same amount of work as their adult counterparts. Regardless of how they went, they died in pain.

It made England wonder if the boy so calmly murdered those weeks ago was really one of the lucky ones.

England drew in a harsh breath, nearly dropping his shovel as he realized that he had not thought of America since the boy had died. With that came the much more painful realization that he was forgetting the little things—the feel of America's arms around him, the twinkle in those bright blue eyes, the sound of America's voice. It killed him to realize that he was losing those things, the things he had tried so hard to cling to.

His mind raced as he dug, trying to focus on America, or at least the America of his memories. But this made England panic—what if he was remembering America wrong? What if his memories were wrong? What would happen to him if he finally got out of here and America wasn't who he remembered? He was wrong—the forgetting wouldn't kill him, it would just hurt him badly. If he was to find out that he had misremembered America—that would kill him.

God, there was so much that could go wrong, even if he made it out of the camp with no problems.

Germany had to admit that, for all of his other faults, Prussia wrote excellent reports. It probably came from his years as the Kingdom of Prussia, a major European power.

Regardless of the reason for their quality, those excellent reports added to the fact that Germany trusted Prussia entirely, not to mention that they were the reason that Germany had placed Prussia at Buchenwald with England. He knew that he would know every single last important thing.

Germany pulled one of those reports towards him. It was one of the ones focusing solely on England, really the only thing from Buchenwald that Germany cared about at that point. He would look at the papers about the rest of the camp later.

There really wasn't much of interest, which was good. The boy he had been helping protect was dead. Prussia had used England as a secretary to do paperwork. The captive nation was working like he should have been. He wasn't causing any problems. Everything seemed good.

Having read that, Germany started going through other reports, both from Prussia and other guards, which spoke of the camp itself. It was all calm and normal enough, a relief for Germany, who had enough to deal with already, as the Allies were approaching.

All's fair in love and war. The mantra kept running through America's head. But it wasn't true. Not with the current war laws. The war laws that it was becoming clear Germany had ignored. America was hearing more and more stories of German atrocities. Rape, murder, using infants for target practice…it was making America sick. And this had been going on for years now. He couldn't believe that he had ever been neutral.

An Italian burst into America's borrowed office without bothering to knock. "Vargas needs to speak to you."

America nodded, standing. "I'll go see him."

As he approached Romano's office, America could hear the indistinct murmur of voices. He could pick out Romano, louder and harsher than the other, but he could neither recognize the other voice nor tell what they were saying.

He knocked carefully.

"Come in!" Romano shouted.

America opened the door slowly, easing his way in to see an irate Romano sitting on a whining Italy.

"We caught my fucking idiot of a brother," Romano announced.

"I see that," America replied, looking at Italy, who stared up at him in return, eyes huge and not closed, for once.

"America…" he whimpered. "Help."

America just frowned. "Why should I? You were at war with me and you continued to resist even after your country joined the Allies. And besides, I doubt Romano is actually hurting you all that much. You're fine and you can stay there. If he got up, you would probably bolt." Italy was trying to shake his head and America narrowed his eyes. "You know it's true. And, even more to the point, you've been siding with Germany. Do you have any idea what he's done to England?"

"N-no…" Italy squeaked.

America sighed. "Technically, neither do I. But he's been held for two years, tortured, I'm sure. And now he's vanished. Got sent to a concentration camp, France and I think. Germany's been hurting all of us. He us not a good person, Italy, not with Hitler and the Nazis running him. They've ruined him these past ten years. He can rebound, of course—it's hardly his fault; he'll be better once we get the Nazis kicked out of power. But for the time being he's more than toxic and deadly dangerous."

Italy's eyes were huge. "Germany?" he managed. Then he burst into tears.

"You can get up," America murmured to Romano. "He's not going to try anything or run."

Romano stood and, true to America's words, Italy did nothing but stay on the floor, sobbing. "But Germany is my friend!" he wailed, and Romano sighed.

"Veneziano, you know how sometimes our bosses do bad things and we go a little crazy and are forced to be the same as them?"

Italy nodded shakily.

"This is just like that. Germany's people and fuckin Hitler are forcing him to be crazy, be bad, and do bad things. He's not the same person as your friend was. But just wait and that potato bastard you fawn over will be back. The Allies are going to win this fucking war and that is going to be a good thing for Germany. They'll get the Nazis out of power, just like the hamburger bastard said, and then you'll get your Germany back, I promise." He rolled his eyes. "For better or for worse."

Italy looked like he was going to start crying again. "Grazie, Romano."

Romano rolled his eyes again. "Don't get used to it."

Following an unexpected call from his boss, America found himself having to leave Romano to deal with Italy on his own, as he was to lead a very important storming of Nazi-occupied territory.

Just a few hours after leaving Italy he joined a new division of his men off the coast of France and was ushered immediately to the command center.

Four men looked up as America entered command, one in an American uniform, one in a British uniform, and two in Canadian uniform, one Canada himself.

America approached the one in his own uniform. "General Eisenhower?" When the man nodded, America offered his hand. "I'm Alfred F. Jones. President Roosevelt sent me here."

Soon enough, America knew their plans and was fully ready for the morning's attacks. He was sent off with Canada to get some sleep until they were needed again.

The brothers were quiet as they walked to their assigned cabin, neither one sure what to say or really having the energy to say it. It was just nice to be together again.

When America was woken in the morning by a wide-eyed boy, Canada was already gone.

"This is my first mission," the boy whispered as America got dressed. "Got drafted four months ago. You?"

America shook his head. "I've been doing this for ages. Since the start of the war. This is the first time I've been allowed in France, though. Well, officially, anyway. I was here unofficially while on leave to see a friend." He stood. "Shall we?"

The boy—he looked no more than eighteen, and his youth made America's heart ache—nodded, leading America up to the boats they'd be using to approach Normandy.

"We spread false information about our landing site," Eisenhower informed America. "We expect there to be a small force at the beach, but not much. This attack should be as smooth as anything ever is in war."

America grinned. "Great. Let's do this." He climbed into the boat he'd been assigned to, greeting the other men there, a combination of American, British, and Canadian forces. "I'm Alfred," he said cheerily, trying to raise morale as best as he could. "We're finally going to free France!"

The men responded half-heartedly at best and America sighed. "Really? We're at what could be a turning point in this fucking war and that's all I get?"

They just stared at America as if he was crazy and he sighed. "Fine. Whatever."

Finally, they reached the furthest point the boats could go and America jumped into the water, heading towards the beach. The water impeded his motion, especially weighed down as he was with supplies and equipment, but it didn't matter. He, and all the other men, had determination on their side. They would make it. They all knew that freeing France meant that they were one step closer to driving the Nazis out of Europe and winning the war.

They did, of course, meet resistance, but it was nothing they couldn't handle. And then, when America stood atop a hill beside his brother and a British commander, each of them holding their respective flags, he noted an unsurprising amount of pride in what they had done. They were in France. They were that much closer to winning.

"Amerique, Canada," murmured a heavy voice and America turned to find himself crushed next to his brother in a sudden embrace. The first thing he registered was a mop of blond hair tied back with a red, white, and blue ribbon and—was France crying?

France pulled away, wiping his eyes awkwardly. "I apologize. It's just…" He started crying again.

America smiled. "I understand. You're finally tasting freedom again after so long."

There was an unbearable amount of noise and England was about ready to scream. He just needed to sleep—they all did. So why the hell was everybody being so bloody loud? And worse, in a way, they weren't even properly loud. It was just a lot of whispering and movement.

He sat up, running his hands through the returning stubble of blond hair and looked around the barrack. Everyone was murmuring to each other and casting wary looks around the room. Something was going on, something it seemed that everyone except England knew about, and it was going to be big.

David, one of the men England shared a bunk with, crept over to him. "We're staging a breakout. You joining us?"

England bit his lip. He definitely wanted out, but he knew that the escape attempt wasn't likely to work and he did have his people to consider. He didn't want to think about what Germany might do to them if he escaped, or tried to.

"I can't," he admitted.

David looked terrified. "Please don't tell the guards. Please, Arthur."

England shook his head. "Of course I won't. I just really can't come with you. I'd love to, but I can't."

"Why not?" David asked, insistent.

"You know Beilschmidt, the albino guard?" David nodded and England continued. "He knows me personally—knew me before the war—and the Germans have my…family." England felt sure that anything he did that could be against the rules would be taken out on his people—or America, if the Axis could get their hands on him. "If I do anything out of line, Beilschmidt will ensure that they suffer."

"You know Beilschmidt personally?"

England nodded. "He was actually sent here because of me."

David's eyes went huge. "I knew you're a political prisoner, but you're that important?"

England grinned crookedly. "Yes, lad, I'm that important."

If only you knew.

The men who had stayed behind gathered nervously the next morning. They knew that whether or not the others had gotten out successfully that they would still be punished. It was how the Germans worked.

The fate of the would-be escapees, however, had been obvious as soon as they had stepped outside. The bodies, ten of them, were still lying where they had fallen, some shot and killed cleanly, others less so.

"Line up!" a German guard barked. "Single file."

There was a sense of general unease, one growing into terror, as they did as they had been ordered. Something was going to happen, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be good.

The guards were counting. That seemed bad enough in and of itself—and then the shooting started. Every seventh person they shot. They watched carelessly, pausing only to make sure that the victim really was dead.

England did a quick count. He would be a seventh person. That was going to be a problem.

The guards approached England and Prussia cut in. "Not him. He's extremely important, a higher up in the British government. We can use him as leverage—leverage against both the Brits and the Americans." He glared at the others, daring them to argue.

None did, and England was hardly surprised. Instead, they moved on, counting as if England wasn't even there.

England just looked down, pretending he knew nothing of what was happening. He hated this, the casual slaughter of humans. He knew more died in war, but this was different. These were civilians and this was cold-blooded murder. The Nazis were acting like they were gods.

Gods and monsters.

And the deaths, despite not being of his own people, were taking a toll on England. He wasn't sure how many more humans he could watch die. He was a personified nation—he should be doing something.

But, of course, he couldn't. Germany and Prussia had made sure of that by locking him in this infernal camp.

England felt completely useless. There was no point to a personification who couldn't even protect humans—any like that, frankly, didn't deserve to be a personification.

He couldn't wait to get out of the fucking hellhole he was currently ensnared in. And then he could actually be useful again, not just the dead weight he was currently.

How much longer could the war last?

He was going mad. He was going actually, properly stark raving insane. He was willfully murdering hundreds—thousands—millions of his people, and it was driving him insane. He could feel the blood coating his hands and he didn't…fucking…care.

Yes, Germany was going insane. A beautiful, beautiful insanity. And he welcomed it with open arms. He embraced it. His mind was a small price to pay to prove he was right. And damn straight he was going to prove to every single nation that ever doubted him that he was right and that he was the only world power.

I am so, so sorry for vanishing as long as I did. I went to college, for one, and I also kind of fell out of the fandom a bit. I promise that this entire work is finished-I just need to type it. I'll try not to wait almost a year again. So sorry.