A/N: Parts four to the end. Again, this fic contains graphic violence and noncon.

IV

'I do not matter, I'm only one person; destroy me completely and throw me away.'

The box beside his mattress is finally opened.

England cannot see what is inside, but he fears it all the same, because America looks lost in thought as he handles the contents carefully. There is a silence in the stale room, a thick silence that sinks down into their bones and wraps around both their throats, a silence broken only by harsh breathing and the rustle of fabric, and for the first time in a long time England feels connected with America again.

His calendar isn't working, England thinks absently. He has by now lost track of the number of days he has been America's prisoner and the lack of awareness frightens him. There are no windows in this room and there are no leaks, no steady drip-drip of rainwater to give him a clue as to what is happening outside, and his world is slowly shrinking down to four walls and pain, a naked light bulb and America.

The box looks familiar now that he cares to take a look. It is so old that even though it seems America had tried to keep it in perfect condition, the wood is cracked and crumbling, and the paint has faded to the point that England can barely tell colour from darkness. There is a breath that seems to come from the box with every creak and groan of wood, a sigh that speaks of ages and ages of existence, of dust and darkness and life from the ancient grain.

When England remembers, he cries.

"Shh," America says softly, brushing the tears away with a gloved hand. "Don't cry, England. I kept it, see? I took care of it, just like you said."

"I-Idiot," England says in reply, because he has not quite let go of the habit yet. But he knows this America is not the one he knew (or maybe it was him all along, and he just never noticed) so when he brings out the first soldier, England shudders.

He remembers pain as if it were far, far away- oh how insignificant that old pain seems now- as he worked through the week, lovingly cutting and carving and painting until his hands were stained red with blood from scratched fingertips and from the scarlet coats of the men he was creating. Every soldier had a different face, a different expression, and he remembers the joy in America's eyes when he discovered this and the pride in his voice when he told the boy that it was made for him and only him.

But the soldiers are faceless now and their red coats have faded into a sombre grey-brown that reminds England vaguely of America's jacket, and he reflects on how America has taken something that was so English and turned it into himself.

America is good at that, England thinks. At making people change.

America takes England's free hand and wraps it around the soldier, and England can feel old wounds opening with the simple motion, bleeding life into the wooden figure. England can close his eyes and recall; this soldier has the buttons all askew, from when England's hand slipped from weariness, and when he tries very hard he can remember the face that he painted on later had been joyful and young to make up for the imperfection.

"Do you remember giving me this?" America's voice is almost a whisper, disturbing England's thoughts. "You said it was custom-made, but I knew you didn't tell me that it had been you who made it. But I could always tell when you gave me something you had made yourself. It would smell a little like you, I think. Brown sugar and sage, and, if you worked at it hard enough, iron."

England does not want to open his eyes. If he does then he would be forced back into reality again, where America is not America but a monster of a man. America brings both their hands up to England's face, their fingers still interlaced. The warmed wood touches his cheeks, and now England begins to tremble.

America buries his face in England's neck and inhales slowly. "It's still there," he murmurs. "The scent."

England can only smell blood and sickness.

When America looks at him next, blue eyes insane, depraved, England has an inkling of what is coming. So when the toy soldier is traced down his cheek to his neck to his chest to rest on his hips, England struggles as hard as he can, straining against the chain and the grip that America has on his hand. America settles himself comfortably in between his legs, still idly tracing patterns with the figurine. "You're so beautiful, England," he breathes. "So beautiful lying there, naked and open and vulnerable, just for me. I won't let anyone else have you. I won't let anyone else ever hurt you or scar you or take you again, England, do you hear me? Honey, say something for me, England, please, England, England, England..."

England stays silent.

America sighs in disappointment, and the toy soldier slips in between England's thighs. "You don't listen to me. You never have, and even if I bring you here and show you how much you need me, you still don't. Why, darling? Don't you love me?" His eyes harden, and he speaks now with more conviction than ever. "I'll make you want me. I'll make you beg for me, England, just you wait. You'll love me."

England's hand is removed from the soldier and he snatches it back to push weakly, desperately against America's chest. He knows where this is going, he doesn't want it, he doesn't want it, and the panic and disgust are so real they're almost tangible. "No," he says hoarsely. "No, no, no, America, don't do this, I don't want this, please, America..."

The toy soldier is shoved into him, and he screams.

America doesn't give him time to breathe before he draws it out only to slam it back in mercilessly. England screams louder, writhing against his chain and fighting back with all his strength, but America forces the wooden figurine in and out again and again.

England arches his back in agony, pleading desperately. "America no, please, take it out, take it out! Oh God, America, please!"

"Beg for it," America groans. "Want it, please want it..."

"Oh God, please stop!"

"No!" America cries, and he pushes it in harder. England shrieks. "No," he repeats, shaking his head furiously. "I want you to beg for more.

"Never," England gasps.

The motion of America's hand stops halfway out. "You don't understand! You belong to me, England. Do you want your people to die?"

"What?" England whispers shakily.

"The United Kingdom is a wreck," America explains, eyes gleaming with malice. "The government doesn't know what to do, Scotland and Wales are fighting over everything, Northern Ireland is on the verge of seceding. The people are rioting in the streets, England. They're outraged their nation is gone, and fingers are pointing at everyone but me. They could start another world war."

England's stomach drops as he realises exactly what is being held over his head. "If you just give a push in the wrong direction..."

"People will die, and no one would ever know it was me." America's eyes flash in excitement. "So, will you love me now?"

England is frozen. "Have mercy," he pleads, his voice breaking. "Have mercy."

"Tell me you want me. Call me like you used to." Without warning, the torture begins anew, and England cannot suppress his screams.

"Do it!" America roars, and England can do nothing but obey.

"Please," he whimpers, hating himself for sinking so low. "Please, America..."

"Please what?"

England closes his eyes. "More," he begs.

America lets out a pleased growl, and moves faster. "Call me the names you used to call me, and plead for more."

"Oh God, I can't, I can't..." A hand fists in his hair and pulls sharply.

"Dearest!" England shrieks. "My darling, my baby doll, my sweet one..." He is babbling now, incoherent with pain and grief as he feels his America slipping away with every word, replaced by a nightmarish, monstrous creature who takes what he wants without mercy. "My little one, I love you, I love you..."

The toy soldier is pulled out and cast aside, and England screams again as it is replaced by America himself. A large hand wraps around his limp length and pumps it to life, and try as he might England cannot stop himself from reacting. He is saying things, words which he cannot hear over the ache in his mind and the pain in his body. When England comes, he does so with a fresh wave of tears; America finishes not long after with a sated grin. The hot liquid burns the lacerations left by the toy soldier, but England cannot find it in himself to scream anymore.

America settles down beside him and drifts off to sleep. England reaches out a trembling hand to smooth through his golden hair, and shakily presses a kiss to his forehead, crying in fear and self-loathing.

"My darling, what have you done? What have you become?" he asks, voice rough from screaming. "When did I truly lose you?" Were you ever mine at all?

He slumps down against the wall, but does not stop stroking America's hair. "I love you," he whispers, and with a choked sob he realises it is still true.

.o.o.o.o.o.

It had been one hundred and thirty days. Of the original ten, only America, Canada, France, and Portugal were left. The rest had given up, returning to their normal lives trying to advise their governments and prevent war.

Wales felt like an outcast, despite being England's brother. He could feel all the reproachful looks like knives under his skin. Why so late? Don't you really care? You're not one of us.

He was tired. Scotland had his hands full trying to run the country, the Prime Minister wanted to resign, the royal family had been sequestered in Buckingham Palace until the riots subsided. He was lucky they were united as brothers still, although it seemed Northern Ireland wanted to change that too. He buried his head in his hands and sighed.

"Hey." A hand clamped down on his shoulders, and he looked up. "Don't be so sad. We'll find him."

Wales cleared his throat. "Sorry, Portugal." He offered up a small, strained smile. "I'll try."

The doors suddenly flew open, and Canada ran in, panting. "We've got a lead!" he said, and everyone was on their feet in an instant.

"Someone said that months ago, they were sitting outside when a man dragged a body that fit England's description into his house. They said they couldn't see the man's face or hair, but he was tall and big."

"Why wasn't this mentioned before?" France demanded.

"The person apparently thought this England lookalike was drunk. He can't remember where it was exactly, but he said..." Canada hesitated. "He said it was somewhere in West Virginia."

All eyes turned to America. He was pacing back and forth, eyes wild and almost crazed, and Wales had to take a step back from the force of his fury.

"I promise you," America said suddenly, addressing the nations. "I am going to find the guy who did this. And when I do," his mouth split into an enraged snarl. "I'm going to kill him."

V

'If my life were important I'd ask, will I live or die? But I know the answers lie far from this world.'

America is in a black mood.

Normally England would be afraid of it, but he only watches listlessly, head cocked to the side as America wraps him in thick cloth and sets him down on the floor. The broken chain trails uselessly from his wrist, and he plays with it, holding the end in one hand and moving it from side to side, entranced by the almost liquid flow of the metal links. He does not have much to be happy about these days, so he takes what he can get.

America is bleaching the tiles where the blood soaked through the mattress and into the grout, sweat dripping off his face and his movements panicked. England feels a little satisfaction at this, but it is barely enough to get him to raise his head and watch as America deteriorates further into a frenzied mess.

"Come off, come off," America growls at the blood staining the wall, blood that he is trying to peel off with his fingers. A few flakes fall, but that is all. England wouldn't be surprised if it had soaked into the cement as well. It occurs to him then to ask what America thinks he's doing- he hasn't questioned anything in a long time. The weight of war still hangs over his head, and never will he be responsible for the needless death of his people.

"What are you doing?" he asks softly, cringing as if expecting a blow. None comes, and he relaxes slightly, hating himself a little more than before.

"Protecting you!" America explodes, giving up and flinging a wardrobe from across the room into England's old spot in an attempt to hide the stubborn stains. "If they find you here, they'll take you away from me, and God knows the likes of them can't be trusted with you."

The likes of you more so, England thinks absently. His thoughts are muddled and in the back of his mind he realises that there is something wrong, but he cannot bring himself to care. America is in a terrible mood, and that is all that matters.

"Done," America announces, sighing, and surveys the room. It is messy and haphazard, but there are no traces of evidence left to show that England was ever there. Just as a storage room should be. "So, now, I just have to get rid of you." America turns around and regards England contemplatively, and England feels a prickle of fear shooting through his murky thoughts.

"I'll move to Minnesota and take you with me," America decides, and, relieved, England goes back to playing with his chain. He remembers the house there. It is secluded, white and pretty, but America had never been able to make his flowers bloom properly. It had been England who had finally put up gardens in the backyard, one of roses and one of herbs. He remembers faintly that it was his favourite house of America's. He doesn't think it will be anymore.

Suddenly his fingers go slack and he drops the end of the chain without meaning to. He stares at it mutely, uncomprehending, and then he is lifted into America's arms and brought to the car.

The drive to Minnesota is uneventful, but England stares silently at the world outside the window, swathed in blankets from his shoulders down, because his face is the only unmarred part of him left. It is the first time he has seen the outdoors in- how many days has it been? He can't quite recall- and he has never seen America look so beautiful, not since he was a child. He ponders this for a moment, then decides nightmares are beautiful in the same way.

He is cold. He gathers the strength, barely, to wrap the blankets more tightly around himself. America spares him a glance, then turns back to driving. The sound of Muse, tinny and garbled over the radio, fills the silence, and the familiar tunes make England feel less alone.

By the time they arrive at the house England is shivering uncontrollably in America's arms, unable to protest as he is carried into the basement and tied securely with thick rope. His head lolls against the cement wall, and he is too tired to shift it. By now he realises something is very wrong, and his blood turns cold as he figures out through the haze in his mind what it is.

The infection has spread.

He feels the heavy ache in his bones and the burning in his numerous wounds as if they are far away, though part of his brain is painfully aware. He listens to America doing something upstairs, perhaps unpacking, and suddenly England realises he is going to die here in this dark basement, with only this monster for company.

The revelation does not shock him as much as it perhaps should have. He feels a sudden, fleeting moment of panic, but it is soon gone, replaced by a tired resignation. It's hopeless, he thinks. It always was.

He does not realise that he has dozed off until America shakes him roughly by the shoulder. "England," he whispers urgently. "England, wake up!"

England opens his eyes blearily and tries to speak, but he does not have the strength to move his mouth the way he wants to. It falls, slack and wide, and a trail of saliva drips down his chin. One more shred of dignity lost. Honestly, he does not care anymore.

"Hey," America says worriedly. "Are you okay? You're not saying anything... England? England!" He places a hand on England's forehead, feeling the heat through the layer of cold sweat. "Baby you're burning up! Why didn't you tell me sooner? Oh honey, you should have said something!" He gathers England into his arms and rocks him back and forth, crooning soothing words softly in his ear.

England's head lolls against America's chest, and he closes his eyes and pretends it is the second World War again, and America is the hero he always wanted to be, saving an ally from faceless enemies. But the fantasy disappears when America lifts him up, cradling him gently, and carries him upstairs to the bathroom. He is laid in the tub, head pillowed on a towel, and America leaves. England breathes a small, pained sigh of relief.

But when America returns, England opens his eyes to find him standing over his prone body, carrying a pail filled to the brim with cubes of ice in water. England struggles to move away, to protest, but he is paralysed by exhaustion and sickness.

America smiles, reaching down and smoothing back ash blond locks. "I told you baby, I'd take care of you."

He tips the ice into the tub, and England cannot scream.

.o.o.o.o.o.

"He wasn't there," Canada groaned, sinking into the soft leather of America's sofa. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his temples tiredly. "We must have searched every house in the state!"

Canada gazed at his brother sadly. The normally energetic America looked haggard and worn, the stress of searching for England obviously taking its toll on him. Canada knew he looked no better himself. Though he spent more time with France, England had still taken care of him, had sacrificed a lot for him. Canada wouldn't forget that, and he knew America wouldn't either.

"Is France still here?" America asked.

"No. The others all left. Portugal and France were called away, and Scotland needs Wales back across the pond," Canada replied with a sigh. "This search has been really stressful for all of us."

There was a lost, desolate expression in America's eyes, and Canada's heart went out to his brother. "Sometimes..." he heard him whisper, blue eyes wet behind his glasses. "Sometimes I wish we could just call it all off. Stop searching."

Canada was on his feet in an instant. "No!" he yelled, bringing his fist down on the coffee table and sending a spider-thin crack through the wood. "We can't give up, America! England's done so much for us, the least we can do is bring him back!"

"But he might be dead!" America shouted, rising to his feet as well. "He might have died, and would have turned into some lost little kid in a forest, and we'd never know!"

"Wales would know! Do you think he wouldn't drop all of this and help his country if he didn't think his brother was still alive?" Canada was breathing harshly now, his hands still balled into fists. "You already left England once, America. Don't do it now that he needs you more than ever."

America seemed stunned into silence, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Then he turned away, shoulders shaking, and Canada knew better than to go near. He had known his brother for many, many years, and yet something about America still frightened him. There was something cold, something ruthless that had been a part of the boy since Canada had met him, and he was glad the anger was not directed at him for now. America's wrath was something to be feared.

Nothing can save the man who took England, Canada thought. Somehow, he didn't mind the idea all too much.

"Hey," Canada began softly. "I was thinking, could I pop up and take a look at your old storage room? I know you've got lots of stuff there from England, and I... Well, I kind of miss him."

America looked conflicted for a moment before he motioned to Canada to follow him, and they silently climbed the stairs to the next floor.

When Canada walked into the room he was assaulted by the strong smell of bleach. The tiles were sparkling and white, but the items in the room were messily arranged and scattered everywhere. He clicked his tongue and moved to stand beside a large wardrobe that looked out of place where it was.

"You keep your old clothes here, yeah? Come on, America, this is a horrible place for it. We should move it-"

The hand he had placed on the wardrobe was roughly shoved away. "No!" America shouted, panicked. "Don't move it!"

"Okay, okay... Really, America, it's like you're trying to hide something!"

America did not smile at the joke.

Canada could feel the hair rising on the back of his neck. Something was wrong- very wrong. The tiles were bleached but the room was in complete disarray. The wardrobe was not to be moved, despite it being in an inconvenient place. Some items had a thin layer of dust, and others looked recently used. Memories of Russia's knowing smiles and his own fleeting doubts flashed through Canada's mind, but he pushed them out determinedly. America would never kidnap England. Canada knew this to be true, but he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling he had.

"Oh, would you look at the time," he said nervously, not even glancing at his watch. "I should go. I'll show myself out. Bye, America!"

He nearly tripped over his own feet backing up and going down the stairs, pulling open the front door hurriedly. He walked down the street to his car, berating himself for his overactive imagination and rude, irrational retreat.

He didn't have to look back to know that America was watching him.

VI

'Close every door to me, keep those I love from me; children of Israel are never alone.'

When England is lucid, he likes to think of death.

The moments of clarity are rare, caught between troubled sleep and fever-granted delirium, but they are there and for that England is grateful. Gone are his screams. Gone too are the pitiful, rasping whispers that passed for screams. He prefers to stay silent, listening to America's grunts as he takes his pleasure, America's soft lullabies and America's murmured, deluded words of adoration. Lost in America.

When England is lucid, he curses America, curses his captor and rapist and torturer for making him become but a shell of the man he used to be. He curses fate, chance, the angels, even France out of desperation and regretful remembrance. He curses himself, too, for loving America so much that despite all this, he still has his place in England's heart.

But mostly, he thinks of death.

He knows he will not go to heaven. Nations were not born of man. Nations were born of the land, baptised by their seas and rivers and rains, raised among the joys and dangers of their vast homes. Heaven's gates are closed to them. But Rome had said once that dead nations live on in their land, for as long as the country stands, so will the soul of the nation. England had laughed at the words, had never believed, not until Italy had told him in a hushed voice of Germany and the childhood sweetheart who had disappeared so many centuries ago. England knows now that when he is gone, another will take his place, perhaps without his face or his memories but with his history and soul, and that is what matters.

Above him, America gasps, moving closer to his release.

England never feels it anymore. The pain is not important. He doesn't remember when it happened, but somewhere between the torture and the fever he found himself retreating to his own thoughts. Instead now he lets himself be played with like a doll, and inwardly thinks of his future.

He knows his time is up.

He brushes his hand over America's as hard as he can, though it is only a feather-light touch to the other country. I love you, he mouths, because he does not want to die full of hatred.

Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.

Shakespeare. Sonnet 116. The words have never been more true.

With this last thought, England smiles, closes his eyes and slips away.

.o.o.o.o.o.

Scotland stood in Hyde Park, watching the young lovers around him laugh and kiss. He looked out of place here, this solitary giant of a man with his wild, flaming hair and sad frown. He was out of place here, he knew. He longed to be back where he belonged, perhaps staying in Edinburgh or wandering around Glasgow greeting his people with a wide smile and a pat on the back. He longed to be away from the chaos of London, from the bickering politicians and rioting protesters.

But he had a duty to do, and he would complete it at all costs. He left Wales to search for their missing brother, despite the way his conscience roared at him to do the same. He hadn't been the best of brothers to England, he knew. There had been a time when they had hated each other, had fought and invaded and killed, and even when their hatred simmered down to the rare argument as they passed each other in the corridors, Scotland knew England had never completely warmed up to him. But every time Scotland closed his eyes now he saw little England, tiny and struggling to lift up his sword against his elder brothers, strong despite the invasions and the fights between his own kingdoms. His head hurt to think of England locked up somewhere in the world, maybe alone, crying, terrified- he didn't know, and that was the worst thing. He wished he could see England again, tell him that he was sorry, tell him that he should have been a better brother, tell him he loved him.

A shadow passed over the grass, and he looked up. Six ravens flew above him, cawing and crying out their mourning, and around him the people pointed and gasped.

Scotland stumbled over to a bench, sitting down and putting his head in his hands. There was a heaviness in his chest, and a choked sob escaped him despite his best efforts.

It was over.

.o.o.o.o.o.

America was never one for goodbyes.

He hated them, hated them with a passion since he was a child and looked up to England as a father, a brother, a role model, as the only person who cared for him in the vast, unknown world. When England would leave, he would insist on a kiss on the hand and a hug for good luck, and America all too happily complied. But when England's eyes filled with tears and his lips moved to place a light kiss on America's forehead, he would pull away and tell England that his ship was leaving and he'd better get on so he could bring back presents. And England would fall silent, his lower lip jutting out in a small, unintended pout, and then he would ruffle America's hair for the last time and set sail. America never looked to see if England was waving from the deck. America never said goodbye.

But now, England was limp and cooling in his arms, a soft, sad smile still gracing his perfect face. America pulled out with a sated sigh and gazed at him sorrowfully, brushing a tanned hand over a pearl-pale cheek. He cringed at the sight- England was beautiful, so beautiful even in death, and America was so unworthy. He was marred, tainted with the sins of his history and himself, and never could he come close to the perfection that England held.

His hand trailed lower, smoothing over the burns and scars he had left behind. His lips twisted into a grimace. They were disgusting, like America himself. He had marked England as his own, claimed him so that no one else would be able to have him or hurt him again, but he had had to bring England down to below his level. He had to. England would never have realised he needed him otherwise. It hurt him to see England in pain, but the sight of him pleading and begging for America and only America gave him pleasure like no other. It was delicious; it was right. It was perfection for a man beyond saving.

But England was dead now, dead and gone. America's eyes started to water, but he blinked the wetness away stubbornly. America had brought this upon himself. It was no use crying over spilt milk, England had always told him. Dear brother England, with his warm smile and gentle hands and sweet kisses and charmingly terrible cooking; witty England, sarcastic and confident and strong; his England, bleeding and vulnerable and begging.

America bowed his head, his shoulders heaving with shaky, silent sobs. He took England's cold hand, still soft despite the crusted wounds, in his own, wrapping his fingers around it and pressing a reverent, grateful kiss to the back.

America had always hated goodbyes, but he hated it more when he never got to say what he needed to say.

"I love you, England," he murmured, holding the body closer to himself. "I love you so much."

But it was not goodbye. It never was.

'For I know I shall find my own peace of mind, for I have been promised a land of my own.'

England rubbed the sleep from his eyes tiredly. He was exhausted, lost, and confused. He had woken up in a little yellow field a few days ago, a small, fluffy round thing staring at him with concerned eyes- rabbit, his mind supplied- and now he was desperately hungry. His tiny legs had taken him as far as he could go, and he slumped to the ground in defeat. He wasn't even sure what he was looking for, but he wanted food and warmth and comfort, and the woods didn't look very inviting anymore.

He touched the trunk of a huge oak tree in apology, feeling the years and years of history coursing through his fingers from the simple contact. "I'm sorry, tree, but I really can't live in the forest anymore," he told it softly, knowing he was understood, because somehow he was born not of man but of the soil and water and air of this place, and the voice of every creature from miles away resonated in his tiny body. He knew every winding path and blade of grass that lived and died on this wide expanse of land that was his and his alone, knew every person from their first breath to their last. Despite his hunger and exhaustion, he knew the land would bear him fruit even in the dead of winter. He just had to be desperate enough.

He was sitting by a narrow road, and maybe that was what made the car see him and stop. He looked up as the door opened, looked up until his neck hurt at the giant man who stepped in front of him. He was immediately on his guard- he couldn't tell what about the man made him dislike him so much, but he was frightened. This man, he did not know.

"Hey there, little fella," the man said, grinning brightly. "Now what's a little boy like you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?"

England bit his lip. Should he answer? He figured he should; maybe the man would help him. "I- I don't know," he said shyly, taking a step back. "I'm looking for food. I woke up in the field a few days ago and I don't know what to do!"

The man grinned. "Maybe I can help you. My name's America, by the way."

England looked wonderingly at him. "I'm England. Are you- are you like me?"

"Hey kid," America crouched down and looked him in the eye. England liked that; he didn't have to crane his neck so far anymore. "I woke up in a field too! At first I lived off the land, but it was hard, and eventually someone also came to take care of me."

"Was this person nice?"

America beamed. "The nicest ever! I loved him very much. So why don't you come home with me? I'll make sure you'll never want for anything."

England didn't want to go, the very land was whispering no, but his stomach gave a loud, painful rumble and he blushed, nodding and allowing America to take his hand and lead him to the car.

"Don't worry," America said with a grin as he lifted England up and settled him in the seat, buckling him in. "I'll take very good care of you."

The car doors locked.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you weren't too disturbed. :( This is the edited version of the kink meme fill, found here http :/ hetalia-kink .livejournal .com/ 15769 .html? thread=41731481 #t41731481

Please leave a review if you liked it, and if you didn't please tell me what I can do to improve my writing. I know this fic has a sensitive topic, but please don't give bad comments about the plot- it was for a request after all. :) Again, thank you very much for reading!