Author's note: Okay. The original ending I thought up for "In the beginning--" was that people go insane, Arthur (who vowed to kill whoever had killed his then-British colony Matthew Kirkland) puts Alfred out of his misery. Francis had committed suicide some time after killing Kanata and the world stays the way it's been messed up.
I was going to flesh out the different scenes into actual chapters but I suck badly. But then, I wanted a happier ending = more plot bunnies. T_T Boo me, my brain, my obsession, and my inability to write out proper long chapters with proper story lines.
I really should stop listening to inspiring music (was listening to We've Been Waiting For So Long composed by Rene Dupere and the 2010 Olympics I believe/J'imagine on repeat). You don't have to listen to it when you're reading. And, no. this is not a song fic. This is an AU sequel to "In the beginning"
It's extremely more happier than its prequel. :D :D :D Hope you enjoy it. I'm going to go to sleep now. (Hasn't been beta-ed either)
In the end.
A week after Kanata dies, England goes home, locks his front door, covers all his windows, unplugs all phone cords, turns off his cell phone, and spreads his map of the world on his living room table. The map is covered with small red dots, indicating places where Matthews were.
The fairies are confused at England's actions. "there is no more. No more. No more. Cannot find what does not exist no more."
"No, we can't." England admits (after all, you can't resurrect the dead) and sets a glass shard on the map. "Is there anymore of this? Are there more somewhere?"
He watches as each fairy take turns poking and circling the glass shard. Minutes go by then, "no magic. No magic. no evil. What do you want us to look for?" They circle him, concerned and confused as he plops himself on the couch with a frustrated groan. He runs his hands through his hair.
"If the magic is gone then why is the curse still in effect? Why is America still paranoid and why does Germany still think he's a Nazi?" England's pleading with the fairies now "What went wrong besides the—" He waves his hand in a general direction, not wanting to voice death of Kanata, but the fairies understand anyways.
"Why is the curse still here?" He finally asks. They don't know the answer.
"Why?" England whispers to himself.
------
Mon dieu, this is so lame. It's sealed. There's no point in-
It's been days and nothing's changed!
...
Come on! We've tried everything else. Let's just give this a try.
…Fine, Al...What do you plan on doing?
-----
The world is in utter chaos. Two months after Kanata died, the numbers of killings, murders, suicides, and bombings tripled all over the world. By the end of third month, France and Germany as allies invaded Russia and its neighboring countries, the soldiers burning and pillaging homes and landscapes.
America nukes China, causing mega-earthquakes and tsunamis that submerge Japan and borderland countries. Someone landed a nuclear bomb in the Pacific Ocean and the United Kingdom is now half underwater. Russia nukes America and by the end of twelfth month, nuclear weaponry and stations were all destroyed or used up, thus, forcing people return to using guns and swords as dust clouds hover above their heads.
At twenty months after Kanata died, peace talks, claiming of lands, and treaties were negotiated. On the twenty-third month, as the remaining 3.2 billion world population tries to return to some semblance of order, the remaining personifications of the world hunts down Arthur Kirkland.
His offence?
Enchanting a mirror.
---
Turning the alarm off, he blinks rapidly before closing his eyes and forcing his body upright on the bed. Willing himself awake, he stumbles towards the closed door, leaving the bed undone, and bumps against the dresser as he retrieves his glasses on the way out.
He ends up leaning against the door frame, head bowed as he is momentarily blinded by the bright hallway lights. As his vision clears and his body wakes up from slumber, he sees the floating white lilies decorating the corridor walls and hears the muffled murmurs of France in the next room. Right, he thinks to himself, he has to switch shifts with France.
He reaches the closed mahogany door in a few steps and twists the doorknob as the mutterings end. "It's your turn." He slurs out. The bedroom is dimly lit by a lone lamp beside the bed and the fading moonlight through the window. The curtains shifts as a breeze flutters in from the open window whenhe closes the door.
"Ah, merci," France turns from his seat beside the bed to examine his guest. If the circumstances were different France would have commented on how adorable his guest looks with dishevelled hair and crinkled cloths. Instead, France settles with concern, "you seem tired still. I could stay a—"
"No," The nation interrupts in a firm tone and moves towards France and the lone bed in the centre of the room, "you need to rest too." He, then, promptly pulls France across the room by the elbow and pushes him out into the hallway. He waits in the doorway as France chuckles, gives him a kiss on the forehead, a "oui, mon petit", and "I'll bring you crepes for breakfast in a few hours" before retreating down the corridor.
"Well, hello." The male nation begins, after closing the door and taking France's position beside the bed. The bed's occupant is deep in sleep and does not stir when he slips his own hand under the unmoving one on the comforter. The hand still has France's lingering warmth from when he was holding it.
"How are you doing?"
But the sleeper does not respond and the visitor tries to swallows down the tightness in his throat. "Ah, how was Francis' singing?" he continues referring to France's murmuring he heard before. "Was he singing his national anthem again?"He says nothing for a few minutes as if allowing time for the bed's occupant to reply.
"It's Alfred's idea, you know. He says it's like in the movies where people in comas can hear you speak to them." He says nothing again, settles for staring at the rise and fall of the chest in front of him.
He gives the hand he's holding a light squeeze. "He's downstairs sleeping on your couch, by the way." He gives the slumbering face a glance then continues to stare at the hand he's holding, willing it to move, twitch, or—just do something.
----
As England jerks awake, his first thoughts are that his right hand is clammy and warm but the rest of his body is cold. He dismisses the trivial idea as because he was gripping his pistol very tightly when he went to sleep last night. He ignores the fact that the air is bitterly cold and focuses on listening on his surroundings.
He feels the ache in his calf muscles, a dull pain from where a pebble dug into in his back, and the wetness of the cloth covering a knife wound on his left arm. He smells the minty tang of the leaf under his nose and hears the running water to his left. The birds—no, they're not chirping.
And he realizes there is talking–no, chanting—in the distance and he feels the slight vibration of the ground on his back. England quickly scampers to his feet and removes the tree branches off of him, throwing them around to appear as if they were part of the natural surroundings.
Still clutching his pistol, he jogs towards the running water he had heard, taking care not to break off branches or flatten the under bush too much, else his pursuers just simply follow the demolition path he makes.
Minutes after England had jumped down the steep sides of a deep, wide canyon-like valley and into knee-deep water, the chanting is louder. He's half hidden by the protruding thick roots of a tree that grew on the edge of the valley, crouching in a tiny alcove with water up to his ankles, when he can make out the words.
"…And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave. O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave…" England almost bursts out in laughter in disbelief.
His pursuers were American.
And they were singing their national anthem.
What idiocy! They're not going to find anyone in that ruckus.
So England stands (he stopped crouching an hour into the singing) in the running water, his hands now both sweaty and warm from exertion, listening to soldiers (dear lord, it seems as if a whole army was searching for him!) sing the USA's national anthem. After 3 hours, he thinks he's learned every version of the blasted song and he thanks the lord when he can't make out the chanting in the distance anymore.
He waits another hour, just in case, before pocketing the pistol and begins to climb up the thick branches. He's about to hoist his upper body onto the leveled ground when he hears, "Allons enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé !..."
He almost screams out bloody murder before stifling it into a low groan and proceeds to climb back down the roots to wait. He is getting very tired of these national anthem singing-soldiers who have been hunting him down for weeks now.
He's also very hungry.
---
"Why won't you wake up?" was the next whisper. Another moment of curtains brushing against each other and slow breathing.
He's too tired to sing or tell a story and he's afraid of waking the others up, so he tries humming his own national anthem. He gives up half way into the song because it required too much effort to reach the different pitches. Plus, he thinks, he's exhausted from worry and from the restless sleep he just had.
He looks out the window across from him and sees the sky has turned a lighter blue.
The tired nation slumps forward onto the edge of the bed and lays his head on the crook of his right arm. Still grasping the other nation's hand with his left, he mutters softly, "Is what you're dreaming that nice, Arthur?"
He misses the pink and red spilling across the sky, the birds chirping, the cooler breeze, and the rays of sunlight slowly gliding into the room.
The Canadian is asleep when he also misses the tightening hold on his hand.
---
After five—FIVE!!—hours of the French anthem, England feels like he's imagined throttling necks to last him one per day for a hundred years.
An hour of silence after the last "…Aux armes, citoyens, Formez vos bataillons,…" he also thinks his pistol's handle has a quite accurate imprint of his right hand, calluses and all. His hands are moist, warm, and weary from clutching the pistol in irritation for hours, so England decides to dunk them in the cool flowing water.
As he listens to the birds chirping instead of horrible opera, he wonders why his left hand feels cold and how his right palm is still warm.
A couple of minutes wondering, with the sunlight slithering through the leaves and a strong wind smacking him in the face, England is standing in the middle of a river when he has the sudden image that someone's holding his hand.
---
As Francis snores in the next room, as Alfred curls on the couch, as Matthew falls asleep out of exhaustion--Arthur wakes up from his dream.
END CHAPTER.
March 8, 2010 update: READ THE NEXT CHAPTER!! :D :D :D :D :D Everything should make some more sense after you do.
Author's (more) notes: I don't think I conveyed the fact that despite days after the mirror was sealed, England's dream was too strong that he can't get out of it. I also don't think I conveyed the fact that it wasn't a paradise fantasy that keep him from waking up, it was the fact that it was a nightmare that he couldn't wake up. So, it took a sort-of happy thing and for him to wake up. Plus the mirror was seal = magic gone!
Yes, the mirror was sealed. By who? Suppose to be Norway and England's faeries but I couldn't fit it in anywhere besides the "It's sealed" part. :D :D :D
I also wanted to include UK's national anthem where France, America, and Canada all sing it in the end. But...it just ended the way it did. And yes, when you're tired, the Canadian anthem has too many pitch changes, in my opinion, to hum.
I'm curious. Which ending did you like better, this or "in the beginning"? And was this ending too obvious?