For a second time, England awoke in a state that didn't fall into the 'normal' category. White walls, white ceiling, white floor (what colour were the stairs? Just kidding). He knew that most of the walls in France's house were white. Uh oh. He sat up hurriedly, only to find he was in a hospital room, which was still a relief on a level I couldn't begin to describe. He was clad in pale blue and, of course, white, with curious yet sinister tubes protruding like tentacles from both his wrists and an oxygen mask that was carefully fitted to his face. On a chair the same colour as the room, taking notes with a barely-worn notepad and pen, sat Switzerland, dressed in the uniform of a doctor. His gaze shifted to the patient when he heard the rustle of England becoming startled and making a fast movement.

"Herr Kirkland. Guten Tag. Do not worry, you are in hospital now; we will look after you and everything will be alright. I'll give you a couple of minutes to recuperate then I will tell you what happened, if you have disremembered," he said emotionlessly with a stoic face as he raised himself from the chair, lay down the notepad and pen, and strode over to his bedside. "I allowed Herr Bonnefoy to watch over you through the night as he refused to leave your side. I am very sorry if that decision seems unsatisfactory to you."

England's stomach performed a somersault. His heart skipped a beat. That name.

He had completely forgotten to search the whole room with his eyes. To his right, France stood in silence bearing a friendly yet concerned smile. England turned scarlet again upon realising that his hand was resting on his. After the burning in his cheeks subsided, he managed a small, nervous laugh that came out as a peculiar, drunken-sounding, pathetic giggle. The two nations stared lovingly into each other's visages (a word England stole from France's language that he 'loathed'), watching the sparks of adoration hidden beneath their deep, swirling pools of pain and bloodshed that were their eyes. But, however, the 'peaceful' and boring Swiss doctor interrupted without a hint of apologetic tone in his voice with: "Sorry to interrupt, but can I get on with explaining please?"

Both of the non-neutral men, in terms of warfare, exchanged glances with "That was rude!" written all over them.

"Errrm… Y-Yeah, you can tell me," England whispered, still in shock, while frowning faintly at the immaculate, clear mask that caused his breathing to sound somehow robotic and heavy.

"What do you remember of the incident?"

"A-Ah, well-"

"Is it personal?"

"Somewhat… But I can remember everything quite clearly up until I felt something flip in my stomach and I collapsed. I tried to stop it but I just passed out. I'd be grateful if you could t-"

"Ja, Herr Bonnefoy here called the ambulance, you were taken to the hospital and we have done some tests and such. We are not sure what is wrong with you."

I don't think he meant to word it like that, but putting that aside, what does he mean, they are "not sure" what's wrong?

"I am afraid to say that we have never come across a situation like yours before. Ever. Nevertheless, we have found your symptoms to bear a likeness to those of a… an extremely rare form of a cardiac arrest, or heart attack. It looks serious… I… I have bad news. We… do not know how long you have to live. I am sorry. I am so very sorry."

Everything froze. Eyes widened. Tears flowed. Bodies quivered. Break down. Error. Malfunction. But life is not a game: it's real. So real. If you die, you don't get back up or revive, it's just black. The kind of black you can feel. The deadly black that England felt. The Feeling.

"No… Why…? Why is it always me…? Why is it always me who lives at the end of the difficult path? WHY?! You know what, scr*w my goddamned life! I hate it! Let me go to hell!" England spat, ripping off the tubes and oxygen mask then jumping up onto the cool, tiled floor. The two other men protested in vain whilst reaching out to block the exit. France barred his way as Switzerland pushed a button on a walkie-talkie and spoke calmly and professionally through the speaker.

"Arthur, I-" began France, sadly yet urgently.

"Get out of my way, damn you!" England shouted angrily, attempting to shove him aside. The French nation kept his balance; he remained upright, as he desired to protect England for eternity. It was his fate, his destiny, and everyone knows that fate and destiny aren't to be tampered with. That will lead to consequences filled with strife, angst, blood and pain.

England had interfered with his fate and destiny long ago.

"I said move! Now! Or I'll kill you like I've wanted to since I first set eyes on you!"

"I still love you, and I always will. Please, Arthur, accept that. Please. Pour moi."

The confused Englishman reluctantly slackened his grip on the other's shirt and proceeded to bury his head in his chest. France breathed a sigh of relief as he wrapped his arms around him gently and glanced briefly at the doctor. He said all was well and almost draped England over the bed. And, relax. The non-emotional Swiss man then said over the communication device that there was no need for backup, as England had returned to placidness. He walked over to attach the vital mask and tubes to the island nation's face. Even so, he was still on his guard.

I can't seem to match these symptoms with anything…! Mood swings and fainting are things we see regularly! Surely we have dealt with something like this before. Surely… However, there is the possibility of this being an illness that no one has discovered yet. That will be the case, and Herr Kirkland shall leave the hospital in one piece. That is my duty: to help people, even if they threaten to kill.

The pathetic, limp nation in blue and white froze suddenly and his heart stopped thumping against his chest for a second. The sign of the Feeling rising again. He squirmed and screamed, "NO!" repeatedly, trying desperately but hopelessly to ward off his enemy, which earned him greatly frightened and concerned looks from the two (other) Europeans. The Germanic raced over to a sophisticated-looking machine that measured one's heart rate; its normally mainly black screen appeared terrifyingly white, with dark tendrils flickering across like a child flicking the paint-soaked bristles of a toothbrush across paper.

"I need backup! This is a legitimate emergency! I want two soldi- nurses down here A.S.A.P!" the now slightly panicky Switzerland said into the walkie-talkie he hadn't put away just in case, considerably louder than usual. "I have a patient with a heart rate of 250 B.P.M here!"

France was utterly horrified. England was his future. And nations can't just die like that… can they? Tears started to gather in his eyes as he thought of what life would be like without his beloved Angleterre. He would be lonely, isolated and heartbroken. First the droplets, next the springs, next the streams, next the waterfalls. There he stood, crying into his hands while the Swiss man sweated out of concentration onto his gadgets and appliances. He couldn't face that dreaded sickening, sinking feeling of loss again – the feeling of losing someone you hold dear and call precious.

June 11, 1429

"What? You need a girl to lead you?! How depressing! You must be desperate!" the armour-clad England smirked as the rows upon seemingly endless rows of soldiers behind him laughed without a thought for the enemy facing them. "What am I saying? Why wouldn't you be desperate after all our crushing, humiliating defeats?

The enemy, France, glared as sharp as daggers at his gleeful face. "This girl is a courageous leader! She's a better man than you'll ever be!"

"Oooh…!" the French military chortled at the witty retort as England's stare pierced their leader's eyes.

"I'll lead this army to victory with God on our side," a soft voice that brushed the ears tenderly like silk echoed across the battlefield, a ghost of purity. "Now… Courage! Do not fall back!"

May 30, 1431

He sprinted as fast as he could manage when he heard the news. The infinite whispers of varying moods of the townspeople were the truth, not just random gossip and rumours like outsiders thought. He tripped and stumbled over mud-caked rocks and near-dead plants and vaulted clumsily over a fence with a clatter, mind racing frantically like his legs to calculate what was actually happening. He had never thought for the most minute fraction of a second that something like this would occur. It was a nightmare… A nightmare reality.

France dug his sharp heels into the damp ground in order to grind to a sudden halt. He stared in disbelief, confusion and terror at a black-cloaked figure tying an angelic, calm teenage girl to a tall post with thick, fraying rope.

"Non! Why are you doing this?!" he cried over the townspeople's voices of mixed emotion, tears streaming down his face as if he had never wept before.

"You have been deceived by this witch!" England shouted back, tightening the reinforced knot at the back of the post. The girl reacted with merely a soft sigh that sounded like one of relief. Slowly, she opened her eyes that widened with both sadness and joy as her gaze rested on France.

She did not cry.

"You can't do this! You can't! She has committed no more sin than you have, you monster!" the Frenchman yelled in fury. He struggled desperately as several English guards restrained him, preventing him from running up to, and tackling England, who was now reaching into his deep, cloak pocket. Two sticks…

The angelic voice of the young female rang out, "Please, mon cher… Let it be…"

Everyone stared.

"If God has chosen this path for me, I shall venture down it. If God says I am to die here, I shall accept His words."

"This can't be happening! Stop this! Save her!"

The fire was lit.

"… Someone… Please…"

Smoke danced.

"I love you, Jeanne! I love you very, very much!"

"I love you too, Francis… I love you so much…! Perhaps we shall meet again in another life."

The sky became a black darker than black itself. A crucifix was quickly brought from the church and held above the flames in front of the silhouette.

"You will forever be in my heart-" she said sorrowfully yet happily whilst clutching another crucifix to her chest, then stopped to inhale and cough. "My Voices were from God. They have not deceived me! … And, my dear Francis, I shall… love… you… forever…"

"Jeanne…? Jeanne! Please! Jeanne!" France wailed, remembering how he had cared for her, tended to her wounds, loved her with all his heart, and now, England had done this: a heinous sin that calls for a fate worse than death.

As the crowd began to depart to continue with daily chores and tasks, France heard a faint shimmer of sound. He recognised her voice.

"Jesus… Jesus… Jesus… Jesus… Jesus… Jesus… Jesus… Jesus…"

"We are lost; we have burned a Saint," a guard said, solemnly.

Then there was silence and darkness.