Disclaimer: I figured Himaruya would sue me if I said that I own Hetalia.
A/N: Okay, so I was going to use this for 'Joy to the World', a Christmas-themed fanbook anthology. But then I realized that this was a fail!fic and decided against using it. So I post this one to the net and hope that you guys enjoy the failness~ Oh, and would you mind to please order one copy? Please? The sale will be canceled in case it receives orders less than 200 copies _. It's really expensive... BLAME THE SHIPPING PRICE. ;A; The link can be seen over on my profile page. Thankies~
The sky is a milky white.
Not blue, not grey. White.
And under that, there are no buildings, no trees, no humans. Just a vast expanse of ruins as far as the eyes can see.
And snow. Beautiful white snow falling freely from the white sky.
They all joined a thick layer of white snow waiting underneath, burying pieces of what was supposed to be a vital part of a building, tall and proud in the middle of London. They all joined a thick layer of white snow waiting underneath, slowly completing what can be called a perfect world.
The world where there's only white connecting with equally white sky.
The world where there are nothing except for white, soft, cold snow as far as the eyes can see.
Where there are no bickers, no crimes, no illness nor death nor murder.
Nothing.
Only white and the beautiful red flowers forming on its surface.
Blood. The sticky, iron stench of that crimson substance filled the air together with the scent of gunpowder and dust. It should've threatened to suffocate anyone present if only the white, white snow didn't fall and cover the smell. The white, white snow covers all.
Except for the crimson liquid pooling under it. They seep through the tiny flower crystals of the ice, finding its way to the surface, creating tell-tale patterns on the supposedly perfect whiteness. Screaming out the pain and agony that happened before the snow, sobbing out the existence of frozen limbs under the perfection. (Screams and explosions tore the air, together with wails of alarms and cries of pain. Horrible, horrible pain comes with burning heat. The stench of human flesh burnt and rotting filled the air. On that night in poor, poor London, everything ended.). Crimson blooming beautifully on perfect white. They were the only ones marring the perfect whiteness of the snow. But it looks so, so beautiful.
So it's okay.
It's okay.
A red flower field in the middle of white.
With a young, ash-blonde man sitting in the middle of it all.
Up, up on a building's debris. Even without its former shape, anyone can tell that the piece of wall formerly belongs to a tall building of some sort. The man just sits there, emerald eyes empty as they gazes to the far away white horizon. His pale, scratched face is unreadable, looking as if he is in a deep trance.
Silence.
It's a wonder, where might the birds of London be? They've never forgotten to chirp in the morning, filling every nook and cranny of the beautiful city with their songs. Where might they be now? The silence sure feels unbearable now without them.
Have they left UK?
Have they found a better place to life than this white world?
Hope they do. Hope they will be safe wherever they are now. So that there can at least be a piece of UK that is still intact. So that they'll be able to sing it, the tragedy of London. So that they can foretell a tale of weeps and blood and white wherever they go.
And inform the whole world so that the UK can forever live on in everyone's memory.
The man suddenly closes his eyes, slight hurt crosses his face behind the thick mask of emptiness he puts up before. Once those pink eyelids flutters open to reveal the brilliant green hidden behind it however, all traces of emotion was already long gone. He lifted his chin up to the sky, pale cheeks scratched all over. His gaze was strong and proud, looking as if he was about to challenge the whole world and win.
But then again, he /had/ challenged the world once.
And he /had/ won.
He opens his mouth, now wind-chapped lips parted. And suddenly, the world stops. The snow stopped falling and the wind stopped blowing. All waiting anxiously as to what the Englishman might say.
Silence.
He inhales deeply.
"O Holy night...", he began, voice dry and cracking, yet still held that air of dignity and certainty that was so rightfully his.
(The city was exploding. Screams and explosions and thumps and cries abusing the eardrums. Groans of pain and shrilling screams as people died painfully. Some were even sobbing while praying, hoping that whoever is up there will save them from the unavoidable fate of death that awaits them all.
Futile.
Because they will all die anyway as another bomb hits the area. They're all gone with a deafening blast, a blinding explosion. Some gurgled their last words, never able to be heard because of the blood spilling from their mouth. All gone.)
"The stars are brightly shining", hopping down from the broken wall.
('It's beautiful', was what Arthur thought at that time as he watched his beautiful city, London, from the top of a hotel room. He would deny it out of pride and self-disgust, saying that it was all his half-concious-with-pain-condition saying. But it was true, no matter how much he tries to deny it.
And he knows it.
It really was beautiful.
Those explosions, those beautiful sparks of fire it creates, was shining in the middle of the dark, out-shortage city. Whenever one goes out, there's always another one to light up. And there must be thousands of them there, exploding so, so brightly.
On the city of London
That night
The sky came down upon the land.
And it was beautiful.)
"It is the night of the dear Saviour's birth.", crouching down on the white snow, he gets up slowly. All the while still looking up at the white sky.
(Another explosion, and another centuries old architecture masterpiece now blown to bits, residing solely in the people's memories. Briliant, hand-cut glassworks picturing the beauty of the angels are now nothing but shiny dust on the ground; Huge, luxurious domes that made people clicks their tounge in amazement for centuries now lay flat on their finely-painted inner surface; the most beautiful paintings of the sky fell down upon the stone floor underneath.
And even with the death rate now, there's a good chance that there will be no one to remember those buildings anymore.
Thousands years of majesty.
Now reduced to nothing but mere ruins.
The great cross has fallen down.
And the last Cathedral of London is no more.
A drop of tears rolled down on Arthur Kirkland's ash and dust-covered cheeks, leaving a small, cleaner-than-the-rest-of-his-ash-covered-face trail on its mission of kissing the ground hello. It fell down as a drop of black, bearing no hints of its previous clarity. Cold and chilly in the cold, snowy night.
Yet the man remained strong. Tight-lipped and tense jaws, he lifted his chin up stubbornly with fire blazing in his brilliant emerald eyes. He won't cry, he won't lose his ground. Because he is Arthur Kirkland, the proud, proud personification of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. He knows never to show any weaknesses in front of his enemies, even in his very last moments.
Because the UK is coming down.
He is coming down.
And he knows it.
He knows it really well.
More than a thousand years he has lived, and it might not be an exaggeration to say that he has finally met his end. An end of the world. And as thousands of a thousand year old paintings, buildings, art works fell down to the ground,
So will he.
A firm squeeze on his left palm. Without even averting his gaze from the sight before him, he knows. He can feel those pair of azure eyes—as blue as the bluest summer sky. Ones that Arthur doesn't see often from his home— sending him a sympathetic yet determined, firm stare.
'Don't worry. You won't be alone.'
In the night when He was born
He fell down with his people)
"Long lay the world in sin and error pining.", he exhales a little too long, obviously starting to feel the difficulty to breath as his feet touches the snow-covered ground. Aren't they supposed to be soft, harmless?
(The condition worsens, the atmosphere thickens, relationships strains.
And when he came to realize it, years has passed.
It's too late to be stopped now.
The train has long been gone, and the world has been left on an endless dessert.
On its own. Alone.
Decaying slowly. Slowly decaying.
And the world was nothing like they used to know anymore.
Wars. Wars are everywhere. Even the closest, sweetest couples fights, trying to kill the other. The reason? It doesn't matter. No. Not anymore. Because when they saw hatred, pain, and grief frickling on the other's faces—Enemies, friends, lovers, it doesn't matter anymore. Because it feels good. Killing people, killing countries. POWER. It feels oh so good.—their lips would be curled up into a wide, wide grin—A sinister, sick, twisted grin that shouldn't have been there. It shouldn't have existed. No, no. Something so evil, something so...—
When-...? How-...? No one just-... No one remembers anymore. No one, no one knows. Just suddenly, they're already there. One moment standing tall and proud on a mountain of bodies, the other sputtering out blood, sprawled on the filthy street under another's boots. And it's always late. They'll always realize it—this madness. This cruel, cruel madness—when they're already laying on the ground, wide-eyed, witnessing a face so, so familiar contorted into something different—Scary. Scary, scary. Those grins, it's as if everyone bears the same grin now.—, blood seeping through clothes, a gun between their eyes. That's when they'll always realize.
Too late.
Where? Who? Those planes, those bombs, whose are they? Where are they coming from? No. No, Arthur can't even guess. The world might as well is attacking him together right now. He'll never know. No, never. And it doesn't matter. Not anymore.
He'll die, anyway.)
"Till he appeared and the soul felt its worth", standing up slowly. No. Don't forget to lift your chin up high. No weaknesses, Arthur. Not even in your last moments.
("No Christmas meal this year, huh?"
An Englishman turned his head to his side, averting his gaze to an American crouching down beside him. The newest guns in hands, grinning sheepishly. They're not the usual grin of his. His eyes, they're different. Weary, dark, the eyes of those who has lost all hope. He missed it, those smiles. He wants his sunshine back.
A forced smile. "Yes, Alfred. Unless if you somehow managed to stop this war and recover the world's economy back right at this very time.", he answered. Gently, since he doesn't have the will to fight with him anymore. Too tired. Alfred's laugh rang loudly in the air. Humourless, empty. Loud. But it's okay. No one will hear it over the loud gunshots and screaming. And if someone does, and it's their enemies, it's okay. They'll die anyway.
"You should've went home, Alfred."
And the laughter stopped. The American froze, staring at the Briton with widened blue eyes. Slack jawed. Brilliant emerald eyes just stares into azure ones, waiting. "Wh- Wha-? Arthur, I thought we've talked about this. It doesn't matter even if I'm home, or here..."
'Because we'll still die anyway.'
Those words, those words that they all dreads, hung in the air. Unspoken. But both of them knew. Both knows what he's going to say.
Strangely, Arthur is not afraid. Not at all.
Alfred stays quiet for a long time, dirty hands—dust, dirt, gunpowder, BLOOD—reaching to grasp a smaller one in his. He squeezed his hands.
'I'll be here with you')
"A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices."
(It stopped. The bombs, they stopped. Just like that. None of them believed it at first and refused to leave their bunkers. But time passed.
Time passed
And no more fell.
So people came out. People who are brave—or maybe stupid—enough to actually risk their life out there. Alfred was one of them. He looked around to check his surroundings, then stood up. Arthur with his blood-soaked shirt—Pain. Unbearable, excruciating pain. Which one are his, and which are others? His people's, his enemies'?—did not fail to notice the movement however, and tugged on his equally blood-soaked jacket.
"Where are you going, Al?"
Fear, anxiety, nodon'tleavemealone-pleaseanythingbutthat. And his emerald eyes stares. Deep, deep into a pair of azure. Begging, pleading. A pair of thick—but cute. The American has told him that over and over again—eyebrows furrowed slightly. The American swallowed hard, anxious. Bigger, caloused hands grab hold of smaller, lithe ones. Slowly, gently.
Because the man is breaking.
He is breaking down.
And he knows that.
They both know.
"Arthur...", he began. Voice shaking and raspy and hoarse. Scared. He's scared. Arthur will break down. He knows. "I have to go out there.", answered by a shake of the head. No, Alfred. It's no use. Futile. Don't leave me alone. "Look, Arthur. There's still some people buried down the ruins. And maybe it's not too late to save them yet. I've got to go."
"Alfred-"
"Arthur, they're a part of you. And I will save them. They're a part of you."
A gentle tug. It's all the American need to shove the older man away. He's weak. Too weak. And wasting no time, he fled. Down the road. Far far away from the Briton.
No.
No.
NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!
Hands frantically pushing down the ground, heaving badly injured body up. Stand. Stand up, dammit! Frantically, frantically standing up to run after the American. NO NO NO NO NO! Don'tgodon'tleavemealoneAlfredAlfred!
But he's too far away.
Arthur reaches out, hands after the American.
But he's too far away.
Untouchable. Unreachable.
Far away.)
"For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.", silent steps. He walks across the vast expanse of white. White. White. White. With crimson flowers blooming on it. And once again, he's reminded.
They're blood.
(It's already dawn.
That was what buzzed through his mind as he looked forward. After Alfred. After the purplish sky of the beautiful dawn, peeking through the smokes flying up the burning city. The burning London.
There.
A morning star.
And seconds fly and it's all gone.
A blast of air, heat, light. Blinding, blinding light.
And he can see nothing.)
"Fall on your knees.", he fell on his knees.
(Dazed, pained, he felt all power left him. He fell on his knees.)
"O, hear the angel's voices!", it's silent. Still silent. The winds dare not to wail, the snow dares not to drop.
Silence.
(The bright light roared. Breaking the windows, shaking walls.
But Arthur, he heard nothing.
Nothing.
Silence.)
"O night divine, the night when Christ was born.", crouching down on the cold snow. He stares into the white snow, face empty and unreadable, boring holes into the soft surface.
He keeps on singing.
But it's ending. Don't worry.
It's ending.
(Everything ended.
Everything.
It feels as if the world has decided to crumple down his feet, swallowing him whole into its centre.
But then again, maybe it's better if only that's what happened. Disappearing. Swallowed. But no. The world is a far crueller place. It didn't decide to end his sufferings. His hundreds years of sufferings.
Because just then a realization dawned upon him.
Alfred is dead.)
"O night divine!", he reaches out his hands, burying it inside the soft snow. Cold. Freezingly so.
He doesn't care.
(He should've been the one who died. Why, why, WHY?
This is his land. He has lived hundreds of years, tasting wealth and poverty. He has gone through a lot, and he's ready. He's not afraid.
But Alfred died.
Screams and explosions and weeps. All thick in the air. But Arthur can't hear them.
Not over his own screaming.
And his heart, aching for Alfred, whywhywhyohgodwhy.
His lands crumbled down around him. And he can't hear them. Not one bit.
Then who is he?
Is he still a nation? But he doesn't hear, not anymore. He doesn't see either.
He's not dead.)
"O night, when Christ was born...", he trailed off, finished. He takes out a pair of broken spectacles from under the snows. Covered in blood, cracked in several places. He smiled. Arthur smiled. His brilliant, emerald eyes dim and sad and hopeless and...
A cold kiss on a cold surface.
"Merry Christmas, Alfred."
A/N: Review?