As usual, Arthur lay awake on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Unsurprisingly, that night as well, he was not able to sleep. He wondered how long he would continue like that until it affected his health. He could not die, he was well aware of that, but he could still have -temporal as they might be- health issues.
Just as every other night, he lay awake, thinking about how he had changed from the greatest empire on Earth to a mere country; wondering where he had gone wrong, when his empire had started to crumble. It was funny, almost sadly so, how in a single second, your whole world could be smashed to smithereens. He had lost everything he so treasured, and it had been because of him trying to cage it, keep it only to himself.
He rubbed his eyes, waiting for e tears that would not come. He wouldn't cry, he just could not anymore. He wished he could cry himself into sleep; even that would have been better.
But he knew, deep down, that even in his sleep the memories would haunt him. The nightmares would be worse.
So he just lay there idly, letting the memories replay themselves in his mind, burning in he back of his mind.
What he regretted losing the most was him.
"What the hell did I do now?", Alfred complained, glaring at the Brit who had just hit him. He had grown much these past years and was now even taller than his aforementioned ruler.
"Don't act as though you don't know", Arthur scoffed, his voice full of scorn and disdain. "The tea at Boston".
Had England not been so drunk, and had he not been so strict with Alfred for a long time by then, he would have joked about him being so exagerated over tea. But that was not the case, on either thing. It was not about the tea anymore.
"It's not my fault you're supressing my people too much", Alfred replied, clenching his fists at his sides.
"Well, learn to control your people unless you want me to do so myself", England stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Only now did he realize how much he had pushed him towards that war. Only when it was too late did he see his mistakes.
Even though the wound was long cured, every time he recalled that war, it started to hurt. His leg had been shot, and he had spent quite some time in a wheelchair because of it.
The memory was so bright and vivid, he could even smell the gunpowder, hear the yelling and screaming of both sides of e war. And the bright red, everywhere, on everyone.
And what hurted the most to remember was when he held the gun against Alfred. He had not been able to shoot him. He would not have died. Why, why hadn't he shot him?
And then, he simply broke down and cried, unable to believe he finally was losing it all. The one person who had once looked up to him, now looked down on him.
Sleep never came.