Grief

He'd loved her life, her spirit, her boundless energy. She'd been the light of his life.

They'd met on the Tube; she'd read the book he had his nose tucked into. She was talkative, so talkative, and yet she always seemed to have something interesting to say. They'd hit it off immediately – when they got off at the same stop, it was as though their fate was sealed.

She loved his formal speech, his fascination for fantasy, his absolute stereotypical Britishness that was almost unbelievable, even if she herself was a Briton. He found himself obsessed with the light blush that would bloom across her cheeks when he slipped that one stray hair behind her ear.

But of course, it never could last.

He was not human, after all. He was a nation, and so he would live as long as England stood, tall and proud. When she proposed marriage, he finally told her the truth – of the nations, of his unimaginably slow aging, of his veritable immortality. She'd cried at the news, but did not leave – no, no, she said, she could never leave, not ever. The last thing I want to see before I die, she'd told him that night, is your face, just as you are.

He never grew tired of her as she feared he would, even as she grew into her forties, her fifties, and yet he still looked not a day over twenty-five. When they went out, they were too often mistaken for mother and son; they never corrected them. It was their secret, this relationship.

England never told his fellow countries of her. It was easier, he thought – for the only person who could possibly understand his situation would be France, and that just made him even more depressed.

Sometimes, she would catch him gazing at her with a distant loneliness she couldn't hope to understand. And when his green eyes would catch her brown ones, then, he'd only sigh with age-old sorrow and make himself a cup of Earl Grey.

She would die, he knew – and yet he couldn't imagine his life without her.

One night, they'd chosen to stay in, to watch Jeopardy, for her to laugh at his wild guesses and him to act insulted and give her wrinkled face the softest and most tender of kisses. And her cheeks would turn just the faintest pink, still entranced by him after so many years.

They'd fallen asleep together, smiles on their faces as they drifted into dreamland.

The next morning, she never woke up.

England had screamed, wailed, cursed the sky and all above it. Why?! he'd shouted. Why give me so much just to steal it all away?!

He almost wished he'd never met her, if only so he would not have to endure this pain. And yet he could never give those precious moments, so brief and so eternal, not for the world.

He longed, more than anything, to have been able to die by her side. But he could never grow old and grey, never die with the one he loved.

He could only live, live with his memories and his grief.

x-x-x

So…yeah. This is what happens when I watch too many feelsy Sherlock trailer-things. (AAAUUUUUUGH. REICHENBAAAAACH.) Thanks for reading, and thanks for the review!

(Hint, hint.)

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