It was raining again. That, in itself, Arthur could handle. It was always raining. But this time the usual rain was accompanied by lightning and thunder, unusual for this time of year. The thick clouds covered the sky, making it dark enough to be midnight.

Even though it was still early, the storm would mess up his body clock, so Arthur decided to turn in. American Independence Day was coming up, and knowing himself he would probably be too busy getting drunk to sleep when that happened. So, he reasoned, get as much sleep now as he could. Then at least he would have a bit more energy.

All his tailored pyjamas were in the wash, so he pulled on a pair of old sweats from some random designer the youth population seemed to worship. Jack Willis or something. Then he go into bed and shut his eyes.

However, Arthur was not in the habit of going to bed early, so he found himself tossing and turning within a few minutes. The lightning got under his eyelids. He furrowed his eyebrows in some small hope that their sheer mass would help with the flashing, but it was useless. Apparently his body clock was more efficient than he gave it credit for.

So he sat up, and rubbed his eyes. He cautiously squinted before opening them fully, wincing when lightning flashed, and shut them again. The blinds were drawn as tightly as possible, but it did little good. England distantly regretted losing the heavy leather curtains he had had before. Well, it wasn't really losing; that bastard France had snuck into his house and replaced them with the more 'fashionable' curtains that were doing nothing to help him sleep. Arthur often wondered why he hadn't gotten rid of them yet, but he was going to be damned if France saw and began calling him 'uncultured'.

He cast his gaze around the spacious room. When France had snuck in, he had replaced more than the curtains. The formerly medieval style room was now filled with objects decorated with roses. Arthur only kept them because the Rose was his national flower, after all.

But he had been sure to get rid of France's smell.

Arthur realised that he hadn't yet checked his cupboards. He didn't have anything better to do, and before he realised what he was doing, Arthur had gotten up and walked across his room towards his closet. Dreamlike, he opened it and brushed his various outfits from times gone by.

Some were new, fresh from whatever designer. Some were old, so old that he could barely remember when he wore them. Some were elaborate, such as his Tudor get up- good old Lizzie had been fond of embroidery- and some were simple and dull, no more than a plain shirt and trousers.

But some held memories that he only thought of on rainy days like this, when the thunder and lightning pounded down. From the American revolution. From the World Wars. His fingers stopped at one.

God. He remembered this one.

This was from his military's darkest day. Darker than America's revolution, darker than any number of battles fought with France. It was a uniform from World War One. Or more specifically from July, 1916.

The Battle of the Somme.

Memories rose, unbidden, from dark corners of his mind. The constant bombardment for almost a week, iron enough to fill a bloody mountain...

And the whistles blowing.

He had been there, of course. He always was. Frontline. He had walked across No Man's Land, along with the rest of the troops. He had thought that it would be the final battle, that it was the end. But then he had seen the slight twist of a machine gun, and a split second before the guns started firing, he had known that it wasn't.

Tears threatened to flow, as more memories came. France telling him that he couldn't give as much support as planned, that he wanted the British to 'take the strain' for this offensive. And oh they had. That day was when what they called Pals Battalions had first been used. Young, eager volunteers, Patriots to the end, in the training for two years...

And only thirty minutes in the Slaughter.

He became vaguely aware that he had taken the uniform off its hanger and was now clutching it. Then the memories swelled again;

The population of men in entire towns had been next to decimated in one day. He had felt each and all of their deaths. All of them. And every time he remembered that day, he felt them again.

Now the tears flowed freely, down his bare chest. He should have planned better. He should have gotten more information. He should have been more careful.

It hadn't just been that battle. That whole bloody war had been awful. Both of them.

England smiled bitterly. It was all too easy to forget about it, all too easy to overlook the bloodshed as statistics, or maybe a strategically advantage that whole war had been one giant battle of attrition, and victory or defeat could be argued as the other. And as for that whole business with the Ypres salient... He stopped there finally, before the memories became too much.

He snapped back to reality. He was shocked to find that he had somehow pulled on the outfit. From force of habit, he looked at himself in the closet's door mirror. Not knowing why, he pulled the matching hat from a box on a shelf. He placed it over his messy blonde hair, and peered at his reflection from underneath the brim. It still looked good on him.

And he hated that. Not just physically, but metaphorically too. Even if he was more mature, if the whole world was more mature, they were still capable of horrible things like war. The whole bloody planet thrived on it. He hated that. As much as he hated the uniform.

He glanced at the digital clock by his bed. Six thirty... He made a snap decision. He turned and strode out of his room, out of his house. He paid no attention to the rain, and got into his car. He revved the engine and drove out the drive.

How long, he wondered, allowing for time zones... would it take me to get to Belgium?

Belgium stood, protected from the rain, underneath the Menin Gate. It was Seven fifty-six. Nearly time to start the Last Post.

Since the Menin Gate was completed, the Last Post ceremony had been held every night at eight. Every night. It was held to honour the men of the British Empire who had died protecting the town of Ypres. It wasn't long, and though it always got a large crowd, it wasn't a popular tourist attraction. It was solemn.

And was also utterly deserved.

"Belgium." She turned at her name, and was surprised to see England standing there.

"Arthur?" She said incredulously "What are you doing here?" Her eyes widened as she took in the outdated military uniform.

He obviously noticed the look on her face, as he quickly said "I wanted to think about the war. I need to remember these men, so I don't make the same mistake again."

"The mistake of helping me?" Belgium asked, more than a little coldly.

He smiled, and reached over for her hand. She let him take it. His green eyes looked into hers.

"No. That wasn't a mistake. I just wish I could have saved more people by being more... sensible."

The coldness melted. She returned his smile. Then she glanced at her watch. 8 o'clock...

"Arthur... It's time." He nodded, and stepped to the side.

She turned to the crowd. The buglers started to play. To her, their song was the only sound in the world. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Arthur standing apart from the crowd. He was receiving some looks, but no one said anything. The buglers stopped. Belgium paused, then spoke to the crowd;

"They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old. Age will not weary them, nor the years condemn. In the going down of the sun and in the morning..." she turned to face England. The brim of his hat covered his eyes. "We will remember them." She saw something shining on his cheek. It fell, glistening, to the floor, showing her that it was a tear.

The bagpipes started to play Amazing Grace. A group of girls in blue laid a wreath of poppies on the stone memorial. Then some other groups. England raised his head and looked straight to the heavens.

It went on, seemingly forever. All the while, England stood there, unmoving. If she had to label his expression, she would probably call it sad, perhaps pensive. More so than she had ever seen him. She remembered, from fighting with him, that while he was disgusted to be effectively helping France by helping Belgium, he still fought, with amazing strength and passion. She had never quite seen anything like it before or since. She remembered just how much he had done for her...

And how much he had lost.

The buglers had stopped. A low murmur began in the crowd, which grew to conversations as people began to file out. England still stood there. Belgium could see, in his face, a trace of the former British Empire, then it was gone. Just England. Just Arthur.

She took a step towards him. He broke out of whatever trance he was in, and smiled at her.

"Every night?" He asked.

"Every night." She replied. She reached over to take his gloved hand. "You're worth it, Arthur."

His smile widened as he pulled her into an unexpected embrace. She leant into the hug, her head on this shoulder. Her ear was close to his mouth, but even so she could barely make out his next few whispered words...

"So were you."

THE END

NOTES-

This was heavily inspired by a recent trip to Belgium, more specifically the battle fields- the girls with the poppy wreath were really there when I attended the ceremony. I actually started this as a Revolutionary Fanfic, but it kind of evolved. I did include some references though. I started with England leaving for Belgium at 8, but then realised about the time difference, so i had to rewrite that. This beget more problems as this would mean Arthur went to bed at 6. Thus the thunderstorm came in, along with the excuse of 4th July coming up. After rewriting a couple times, I think that I explained it okay.

I don't really know why this became a WW1 Fanfic, I suppose I just wanted to show that America is not England's only source of pain. I also wanted to show how easily, even in modern times, war can break out, as shown by the uniform 'still fitting' Arthur. I suppose I'm kind of a cynic.

Now for history stuff:

The Battle of the Somme, which started on the 1st of July, 1916, is indeed known as 'the darkest day of the British military'. It was supposed to be a 50/50 Anglo-French attack, but the French were attacked further up line and had to send in some reinforcements, so it ended up being around 80/20 British and French forces. There was a constant 6 day bombardment, but due to lack of Intel, it did not wipe out the Germans as anticipated, so when the signal went- the whistles- to invade their trenches, all the army walked across No-Man's-Land... as the Germans were arming their machine guns. On the first day alone, around 57,470 men became casualties, around 19,240 of dying. The whole battle lasted until the 18th of November.

Regardless, some argue that it may have been a tactical success, due to the laws of Battles of Attrition. By the end, German forces were also greatly depleted, weakening their overall hold over Europe. The final allied offensive against the Central powers, the offensive which ended the war, was based off the tactics of the Somme, but with much more Intel, planning and preparation.

As a side note, Hitler actually fought in the battle of the Somme, and received a bullet to the leg on the 7th of October.

The Ypres Salient was a bulge in the frontline of the British trenches built to encompass the town of Ypres. It was a dangerous place to be, as one could be fired on from three sides instead of just one. The amount of bloodshed in that localised area is greater than any in the Second World War by comparison- with the possible exceptions of the bombing of Hiroshima and Holocaust.

The last post ceremony really has been held every night at the Menin Gate since completion- except during WW2 when Belgium was occupied by Germany.

Wow, I've gone on a long time! If anyone has projects about WW1, feel free to use this Fanfic! *laughs*

This is my first Fanfic, please review to tell me how I did!