I do not own hetalia
Our Finest Hour.
The battle of Britain. England contemplates his place in the world, Canada feels powerless, America is strangely absent and France is somewhere they cannot reach. The Second World War as a prelude for change to come. Mentions of FACE family.
The world was going to hell.
England was far too aware of this fact, as the bombs destroyed his most precious city and forceful German hands were most likely harming his much beloved ally. This war, that had started which such vicious display of power was only pulling Europe further and further into darkness. This time, for the first time since centuries, a thousand years even, England was not sure he would be able to overcome the odds.
Germany was young, maybe in that fact lay his strength, so suddenly appearing as a great country, so strong and determent to make his mark on the world. That coupled with the strength and experience Prussia had, it wasn't very surprising they were dominating the battlefield. England had met with them some time ago, it had shocked him how they had changed since the Great War. Hatred and bitterness seemed to have seeped deeply into the hearts of their people and had therefor also taken refuge in their owns. Did they even know what they were doing? Did they realise what kind of power their boss wielded over them?
England did not know.
He had seen the wish in their eyes, that wish every country has when experiencing hard times. A wish for improvement, a better world, a wish for utopia. In Germany's words, a wish for a pure and perfect national community. They did not seem to comprehend that their wish was not realistic and that they were only spreading sadness and sorrow across the European continent. Now that the colonies were fighting too, the whole world seemed caught in the downward spiral that was total war.
"England?"
Matthew, England realised, was in the room with him. Watching as the once-unbeatable nation was clutching his bed sheets and crying out as the bombs fell. He called him Matthew, because although the boy was the country Canada, for England, the first and foremost thing he was was the little boy he raised together with France. The boy who was now fighting together with him in this terrible war. That sweet, gentle boy, forced to fight a battle that would only result in anguish and most probably the destruction of a nation.
Sometimes England really despised himself.
"…Yes?" His voice was steady and he thanked the heavens for that. He pulled himself in a sitting position and turned to his brave colony. The boy was crying, England realised with a start.
"How long will this continue?" The boy sniffed. "How much longer must I watch you in pain and worry about Francis? When will this be over?" Thick tears were streaming down red cheeks and England was once again stricken by how young the lad was. How different the world he grew up in than his own. Both less and more dangerous, both less and more predictable.
"I don't know." That was the truth. "We will have to see."
The boy hunched his shoulders, disappointed that England could not give an answer to his questions. Shocked that the man who seemed to know everything, could not reassure him that the war would soon be over.
England, unable to see the boy in such a state, wanted to console him, give him words of encouragement. However, before he could utter a single world, more bombs fell and the screams of his people and his land filled his entire being. He screamed with them, along with his fallen soldiers, the mothers screaming for their children and the land scorched by fire. He screamed and screamed and screamed. Sharing anguish, sharing pain, but strangely enough, sharing courage too.
His people were strong, they would survive this. Just like he was strong, just like he was far too stubborn to give up, just like he would survive this and be greater because of it. The world would change, he knew, the Great War had started the change, the shift in world power. This war would complete the motions and create a new world. The question remained, what kind of world would rise from the ashes?
Probably not a world much different from now, still with wars and conflicts. As that was the nature of human and therefor also the core of each nation. Maybe he was too pessimistic and bitter…
Matthew was crying again, crying and clutching his hand. He was telling England to wake up, praying for him to open his eyes. When had he even closed them? Through the haze of screams and prayers that surrounded both his mind and heart he pried his eyes open.
There he was, Matthew, his boy.
"Damn it! You are hurting!" His angry words said. "What am I supposed to do?" he sounded so desperate and England wanted to reassure him that he was doing the best he could. "What the hell does Alfred think he's doing, not helping out!?"
England closed his eyes again. The name hurting his heart in more ways than one.
Indeed what was America thinking? Was he really that naïve as to assume that he would not get involved sooner or later? Was he that blind to the hurt and sorrow going on in the world? Or was England himself to focused on his beloved torn Europe, to focused on Francis to see that the war was not the potential end of everything? Was he to egoistic? That even though his world was ending, this did not mean that other's saw it the same way, that Alfred saw it the same way? Did he really mean that little to the brother he raised?
Did Alfred not realise that he and his brother, those young, young nations, were the future? Just like Francis and him had been so long ago. Back when the world changed in a different way, when the tables of power turned and they got their chance to be great.
"Rome is dead." A voice both sweeten and ruined by an evident accent spoke up, and he himself turned around. The bed he was kneeling on was soft and luxurious, the very opposite to the ragged clothes he was wearing. His large eyes locked with the other's and they both understood the magnitude of that statement.
"Rome is dead." He managed to say, replicating the words the other had said but still not fully believing them. His scratched and bruised body moved from the bed and he walked across the room, until he stood opposite to the one that had broken the news. Golden hair like gold, blue eyes like the sky and wearing a smile he had not seen in ages.
He knew, his big brother had not been this happy in a very long time.
"Don't you get it mon petit? We are free! We can do anything we want!"
The words sounded full of happiness and the road to freedom opened before them.
"Let's make this world great!"
The last bombs had fallen and England could feel sleep weighing down his eyelids. For now, he war had gone silent, just for a little while he could hold Matthews hand while the boy slept in his lap. Enough time to gather his courage once more and build up his strength.
Because he was Great Britain, and he did not give up.
His mind and body were already at rest when he felt the barest touch of lips on his forehead and whispered words were just heard before he let himself surrender to the clutches of sleep.
"Good night, Artie. I am sorry."
Oh. Yes. That's right.
For a select group of people, first and foremost, before being a country or empire, before being an imperialist or capitalist, before being an ally or enemy…
He was Arthur.
Nothing more and certainly nothing less.
R&R