Nation's Divide - By Lady Kirkland
Things in the Britannian household had finally reached its breaking point. Rifts had formed between the eldest and youngest brothers, tearing them apart and dragging the other two down with them. Fighting was a regular occurance as one fought for his independence while the other was fighting to keep him dependent to his own nation. And after years and years of fighting and arguments, even bloodshed in the hundreds of wars that had taken place, things had finally peaked. So now, here England sat, alone once more, as he heard the door to the house slamming shut. Tears slowly streamed down his cheeks as he tried to remain strong, tried not to break down. He had lost, again. Wasn't losing America enough? Seemingly not as Scotland, Ireland and Wales all turned their backs on him. His economy was in rapid decline and his physical state declining with it. He was a mere ghost of his former self. He used to rely on his brothers to keep him going, to ship in the neccessary materials for his people. But now he had been deserted by those he needed. In Europe's hour of need, he shot down so many Nazi bombers and destroyed German troops. But now, in his hour of need, there was no one there for him. No one cared. Especially his brothers.
"Why..." he said softly, silently crying as yet more tears spilled down his pale cheeks.
Scotland had been the first to leave, slamming the door open and running out into the cold air outside, screaming curses at England until his voice couldn't be heard. He had torn up the document that bound them all together, thus freeing Ireland and Wales in the process. The next to leave was Ireland, the forest-green eyed nation giving England one last look of almost pity as he left in a more quiet way. Then Wales went last. England had begged him not to, his eyes full of tears as he watched him go. The dirty-blonde nation left without a word too, not even looking back unlike Ireland. And so England was alone once more. No one cared about him. The United Kingdom of Great Britain was only 'Great Britain' now. It wasn't even 'great' anymore. He was just 'Britain'.
England gave a strangled sob as he looked up at the photograph of the four brothers, his blurred acid-green eyes blinking slowly but refilling with salty tears as he realised that they were gone. Forever. And they weren't coming back no matter how much he cried.
"Please... come back..." he said, his hands clawing at his head, needing the pain. It was his fault after all, he now realised, that they had gone. The empire that once ruled the world was in ruins. No one knocked on his door now, no one wanted to associate themselves with him, not even the Royal Family. They had long since given up with him, leaving the tattered nation to himself. And now he couldn't cope. So many times he had thought about just ending it, so many times he had chickened out. He couldn't kill himself. But at the time, it was completely different circumstances. At the time, he wasn't alone. At the time, he had his brothers around him. But now there was nothing stopping him.
England stood, his knees weak as he was shaking, and slowly made his way up to the balcony of the mansion. His fingers traced the beautiful hand-carved patterns in the mahogany banisters, remembering exactly how they had been done. He breathed in the musky smell of wood and marble as he climbed the stairs, still heading to the balcony. Many more painful memories were conjured up from the darkest depths of his morbid mind as he climbed the stairs and slid open the door to the balcony. The silk-linen curtains waved and flowed in the cold air breeze of the September night, the stars mocking him again as they shined so bright.
"Why must you mock me again...? I know I have lost my world, my life, so must you continue to mock my suffering...?" he said softly to the stars, looking up at them as he stood on the railings of the balcony. He didn't want to continue in this life anymore, for he'd be better off dead. Hung in the gallows. Beheaded by a bloody guillotine. Anything than to continue living. He wobbled slightly on his perch as he looked down below him even for a fraction of a second, where a small crowd had gathered. Shouts telling him "Don't jump!" reached his ears and even a cry of fear from someone. England looked straight ahead, tears spilling down his cheeks as he prepared himself to jump. A door slammed behind him and there was three shouts that followed.
"Arthur!" came the bellow of a mix of a strong Scottish, Irish and Welsh accents. England nearly froze as he prepared himself to jump, but he didn't falter for a second.
Scotland burst into the room first, followed by the Almost-Twins Ireland and Wales. His emerald-green eyes widened as he ran forwards just as England jumped. Time seemed to slow down around the suicidal nation as he jumped from the balcony, muffled and distorted shouts and screams of horror coming from below him as he fell. Scotland screamed at him to stop, seconds too late, as he reached the balcony. His strong hands reached for England's top but close around thin air as he missed his brother by a fraction of a second.
"NO!" Scotland roared, all hope of saving his little brother lost to the wind. Ireland and Wales sprinted back downstairs as they saw the crumpled form of their youngest brother in the street far below, tears streaming down their cheeks. Scotland practically hurled himself down the stairs, four at a time, silent tears flowing down his cheeks. The reality of it hurt too much to be true, it couldn't be true. Scotland refused to believe it. England wasn't dead. He wasn't. He can't be. But his vision was justified as he threw open the front door and sprinted over to where a small crowd had gathered around his two brothers who knelt beside his fallen sibling. Scotland roughly shoved people out of the way.
"LET ME THROUGH!" he all but bellowed at the bystanders, instantly pulling his brothers out of the way and kneeling beside England, cradling his cracked head in his lap, "No... Arthur... Please..." Scotland said brokenly, wiping away the blood from his brother's forehead. Wales instantly began ringing 999, demanding for an ambulance to be deployed to their location. But was it too late?
As the blues-and-twos screeched and came closer, the crowd began to disperse. Scotland remained beside his fallen brother at all times, flatly refusing to leave his side. The medics ran over from the ambulance and began asking what happened, England's teared eyes shining and reflecting the twinkling stars in the sky.
Scotland sat beside his brother, watching England's chest slowly rise and fall as the heart monitor beeped.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep
The beeping's pace never changed, neither stopping nor slowing, as England remained unconscious. He was blissfully unaware of the world around him, lost in his dreams of smiles and laughter. But in the real world, Ireland, Wales and Scotland were all crowded around him as well as the rest of the world being crammed into one ward. In one corner, the Baltics were sat with Russia, Belarus and Ukraine, all of them fretting and worrying, even Russia looked afraid for the suicidal nation. In another corner by the doors Austria, Switzerland, Lichtenstein, Prussia and Hungary were sat in a huddle, Hungary clinging to Austria in fright for England's health. Nearer to the fallen nation sat the African and Asian countries, even Egypt looking afraid for once. The rest of Europe was in a group in the middle of the ward where even Greece and Turkey were getting along for once. But finally, all of them crowded around a single bed, sat and stood America, France, China, Canada, Germany, Italy and Romano, Spain, Japan, Scotland, Northern and Southern Ireland, Wales, Australia and New Zealand. Each of the 30-odd nations had been crying, mourning over the near-loss of a fellow nation. It was a surprising turnout, no doubt one that would surprise England if and when he woke up.
A twitch from England's fingers sent everyone into a state of relief and excitement, the Axis and Allies members all moving in closer until Scotland roared at them to back off. Silence fell over the room again as varying hues of blues, purples, browns, greens and a single pair of red eyes were focused on the pale nation who lay so still in the medical bed. Another twitch was seen and England's dulled eyes flickered open slightly. They were unfocused for a while, dull green eyes that once held so much fire and life in them, but as soon as they refocused the went wide. It was impossible that they had all come just because he had tried to kill himself. Impossible. Stupendous. Downright bloody ridiculous. It was a miracle that every single nation had come to his aid, a complete miracle. And yet at the same time he recieved smiles from everyone, even the most emotionless and stoic of nations. Smiles from all across the world were turned in his direction. There was no way in hell that this was even happening. They had all come because he nearly died?
"W.. W.. What..?" he only just managed, his voice raw and hoarse as he blinked a few times and turned his head towards Scotland who had placed a hand on England's.
"We're all here lad... Everyone..."
"E... Every.. one..?"
"Aye lad, the world."