Author's comments: Hello! (Finally, I get to post a story on this account!) This was inspired by a request about mirrors and dark counterparts on the hetalia kink meme. Enjoy!
Title: In the beginning--
America was only curious. It's not America's fault.
—They were reassurances they always tell him. Though, it doesn't stop him from waking up sobbing in the middle of the night or spending hours staring blankly at the wall. It doesn't stop America from giving England pleading stares like he wanted to die, like he wanted the knife he's holding for peeling apples to be in his heart, like he wanted England to reassure him the whole mess was not—
Like he wanted England to yell in his face or grab his shoulders and shake him, making his glasses fall off his nose, or for England to throw couch cushions, budget reports, pencils, pens, a stapler, a giant hole-puncher –OH SHIT!
America has his hands in the air as he steps away from the office desk. Damnit, no weapons in arms reach to defend himself with. "Look, I'm sorry, okay?"
—You'll stay with me, right? You won't leave me, right? It was supposed to be a prank. I'm sorry, so please don't leave me. I didn't mean for it to happen. Don't leave me too. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry—
"Sorry? Where is it?" England hisses out as he moves from behind the desk, hand still holding the hole-puncher menacingly.
America takes another cautious step away from England, towards the center of the room. "Calm down, man. I'll buy you another mirror—"
—because America did not plan to return the one he has hidden in his jacket. He'll bring it home. He'll leave it on the marble counter where Canada will pick it up. In his brother's kitchen, beside the fridge as his polar bear laps up water in a bowl, is where Canada will lose himself to the mirror's magic and his own fear of vanishing.
"Bloody idiot! I told you not to touch it!"
"—and I'll even get it magic-alized for you!" And, England flings the hole-puncher.
With Bush-like reflex that dodged the flying shoe, America ducks out of the line of fire, rolls to the other end of the room, and grabs the fallen couch cushion, just in case. "I'll pay you?" America squeaks out in a last attempt to appease the Englishman.
Apparently, out of things to throw or they were too important to throw, England settles for giving America The Glare of Death and The You Are So Dead look.
The mirror was a mysterious artefact and the only common thing between the recent string of suicides and murders all over the country. When questioned, the perpetrators were too mentally unstable to gather much information from besides things along the lines of 'you're lying', 'I didn't do it', and 'the mirror! The mirror did—'
—it was them. It was their darkest parts, the part of them that they fear and hate the most manifesting and emerging itself.
It was the arrogant blue eyes blond hair German who found the limping Canadian soldier in tattered uniform decades out of production. It was the German, lost in a haze of military glory and bloodshed, who gunned down the time-displaced teenager.
Just as it was the angry husband who loathed his bickering family, the jealous girlfriend who wanted her lover's attention to be only on her, the stressed high school students who wanted the bullying to stop, the bitter prostitute who wanted change, and the resentful outcast who—
—came into possession of the artefact after a Metropolitan Sergeant clutching the mirror tried to hurl it at the Prime Minister. It took a few more incidents of supposedly accidental friendly fire among the Metropolitan police force before the artefact was finally delivered to a Mr. Kirkland, to whom all cases of supernatural degrees were directed to by royal decree. England was entrusted with examining the mirror for harmful characteristics and dispose of it if necessary.
And now it was gone—
—to be torn away from translucent hands by a polar bear protecting its master in vain. The polar bear watches as the mirror crashes and morphs into broken chunks. He observes, powerless, as his master cracks like thin ice into hazy forms of Mattie, Mathieu, Matthew, Matthias, Matteus, Matvey, Canada, Quebec, Ontario, British Columbia... "Who?"
The pet whimpers as too many are dissolving and fading like smoke and the only one to solidify into a small huddled form on the ground is, "Kanata."
Once again, the polar bear will defend and protect this child who should-not-be, from a time long past, in a time that should-not-be-needed. As the mirror crashes and morphs into broken chunks, as it grasps for its own survival, it latches itself to the conscience and memories of its latest victim—
"I want the mirror," England huffs out, "not your money."
Seeing England's dejected look, America lightens his hold on his shield cushion. Kicking the fallen stapler out of his way, England moves briskly towards the bookshelf, smirking when America flinches. Breathing out a sigh, "Go home, America"
"But—"
—"but *cough* " Blood gurgles out of the moving mouth.
"Sshhh. Hush, lad."
The fairies inform him, "It's coming, it's coming, it's coming, death's coming, he's coming."
"mir *gasp* or *cough* jo--"
"I understand. Sshh, it's okay." A lie.
Now, the fairies are chanting, "Here, here, he's here!"
Wet rasps. "...love," the whisper is a drawn breath. Silence.
"Yea," he's seen countless deaths before, been the instigator of wars and winner of many battles, but he is also a father, "love you, too." Too late, too late, too late, late, late, late. The body disperses like tiny powder on the floor.
He'll find out who attacked his charge. He'll torture and kill—
"Alfred. Go home." England repeats. He does not have time or the patience to deal with America's problems or does he want to listen to him sprout some heroic idea to magic-alize a mirror for him. Grabbing a map of Britain of the shelf, England moves towards his desk, "I need to locate the mirror before someone else turn's up dead, thanks to you."
Before America could defend his pride (after coming all this way to visit England and 'better relations') and protest ("You can't die from a stupid mirror!") and before England can tell America to "get out of my sight before I curse you", there was a knock.
"Pardon me," the head of a lady who looks like the typical secretary peaks out from the sides of the door. After a nervous glance at the carnage around the room, she spots England as he looks up from clearing his desk and glowering at America.
"Mr. Kirkland, the Commissioner has arrived. Should I, uh—" She glances at America clutching his cushion for a second before standing tall and clearing her throat. "Should I direct him to one of the conference rooms?"
—where a Miy Paluk tells them the information British colony Matthew Kirkland could not in death. He informs them of the merger of the original Matthew Williams and mirror fragments, of returning balance as each Matthew dies, of the cursed artefact. He speaks of the transferring memories of dead Matthews before him and of restoring the world order.
The Inuit Matthew at the podium, in front of other nation embodiments, instructs them to kill him. "Make me whole to destroy the curse." He orders. Finally, with a smile and a 'good luck', he drinks from a clear glass he's been holding throughout the speech and dies. His body dissolves.
Feeling a headache building, England pinches the area between his eyes in hopes of dissipating it before it grows into a migraine. "Please and thank you, Ms. Taylor. I'll be there in a few minutes. " Buttocks, he now has explain to the Commissioner how and why he does not have the bloody mirror.
"Hey," America starts as the secretary closes the door, "I came here to visit you. Don't ignore me!"
—"Don't you see? He's just using you for your furs!"
"Alfred, snap out of it. Furs are outdated and I'm an independent country already."
"Britain's holding you back. Come with me and we can become strong together."
"Al-you should get away from me. You're not thinking straight. Arthur said—"
"And you're not thinking enough, Mattie! Why are you siding with him?!"
"It's 2010, July 4th. You're already a superpower. You already have independence. You ARE the United States of America! WE were celebrating your birthday, remember? Alfred? What are you—ah!"
"...he can't have you. Only, I can protect you."
"...*gasp, cough*...Al..."
"Whatever it is, it can wait." England retorts at America as he sets the map of Britain atop his desk and trades it for a yellow folder and pen.
"Fine." With a slight pout America tosses the cushion he's holding on to the couch. "See if I visit you again."
England frowns at America's odd behaviour. They both know national duties are a priority among their kind, and even though international and family relations are also important, an unannounced visit does not mean he will drop everything else—unless, "Is something wrong, America?"
"Huh?" America's eyes snaps up from his concentrated staring contest with the carpet.
England does not answer, choosing to glare half in concern, half in exasperation, turning to face America. Looking like a reprimanding parent, England's arms are crossed, the folder hanging under an elbow, and a foot tapping.
Like the child that stole the cookie before dinner, America squirms under England's scrutiny. A minute passes as America returns to glaring at the carpet again before he declares, "Canada hasn't been talking to me a lot and, uh, I think he's avoiding me." England raises an eyebrow in disbelief.
"I kind of said something about the Arctic." America says sheepishly, right hand going through his hair before settling on his hips. England raises the other eyebrow.
"And, um, France's not at home today", America whispers. America must really be desperate, England thinks, if he was willing to go to France for advice.
—And France's tragic role was to personally wedge a dagger into the heart of a sleeping Canada. The toddler's snuggling form held in shaky arms as it whimpers and wheezes before stilling. Minutes and hours go, yet England can still hear the winds' roaring and the polar bear's whine. He still feels the falling snow melt upon his face, hears his own breathing and his beating heart. He notices the dead body does not disappear and nothing changes (but for the last family on the once strong and free land to never wake up from their slumber).
So, England stands there and wonders whether France's greatest fear is his love as the French nation sobs into the memory of an innocent, smiling child. The memory of a lovely child who giggles when France picks him up, who gives a sloppy kiss to England, who dances in the falling snow, and who sings with a finally, grinning American.
Then, England falls on his knees and realizes that 'Kanata' never spoke of a mirror or fragments, never knew the names of the nations approaching him, never brought out the horrible parts of people around him, and never knew who Matthew was.
So the white snowy ground turns red as England crumbles with France because they should have ended the killing.
England, pitying his ex-colony, relents, "I'll have a word with him." As if anything England says has any influence on what the Canadian decides to do.
—He believes he does not deserve to have that kind of influence because it had taken him longer and longer to recognize the Canadian. He does not deserve a loyalty he forgot about nor does he deserve the trust and responsibility all his colonies had given him because it took one to swim in a pool of red liquid on his living room floor before he remembers it again.
Was it England's pride or forgetfulness that led him to clutch a boy, choking on blood and gasping for air, as England tried to catch the broken mutterings (on 'rejoining fragments' and 'mirror's and 'find me's and 'kill me's)?
"YES!" Arm pumping in the air and with a thousand watt smile blooming on his face, America thumps England on the back as he passes through the doorway like lightning. "Thanks, England!"
Remembering the mirror, England calls out at the retreating man down the corridor. "Alfred!" America stops mid-push on the stairway door and England hesitates for a second before saying, "Call me if something happens. Stay safe."
Unusually, America says nothing in response but flashes his smile in acknowledgement before disappearing behind the stairway door.
How was England to know that America did not respond because he couldn't, because he wasn't the America England was hoping to be safe and because America was already twisting into something unrecognizable just five minutes before England opened that office door to find the mirror gone?
They killed Canada and virtually everyone else because they can't reverse or heal from the creation of a new reality- a reality that is a twist of both the mirror-world and real-world; where the fears of nations are amplified and has occurred; and where the helpless attempts to rectify a shattered Canada left deeper scars.
Before England was careless to leave an object belonging to a crime scene unattended, before America was curious, before the shattered fragments in Canadas amplified the faults of the people around it, and before France killed an innocent (and the last) Canada—
—a part of the mirror was already chipped off.
Author: The END! Miy Paluk (which is Inuit for Matthew the Kind One) is actually a real person, which I got from http: // blackhistory pages. net/ pages / mhenson . php.
Dates of some major deaths (yes, I thought of this too):
—27 Feb 2010, Matthew Williams.
18 June 2010, World War II Lieutenant Williams, World War I Cadet Williams.
4 July 2010, Colony Matthew Kirkland.
25 Sept 2010, Miy Paluk.
2011, Matvi (Ukraine), Matteo (Italian), Matthias (German), Matfey (Russian), Matteus (Norwegian), M, M, M, M, M, (other Matthews)
12 Dec 2012, Colony Mathieu Bonneyfoy, Dominion of Canada, Francis Bonneyfoy
31 Dec 2012, Alfred F. Jones
1 Jan 2013, Arthur Kirkland —