England often slept without dreams. Often enough, it came to his responsibility to comfort Northern Ireland, who was plagued with nightmares and recollections of the chaos that had plagued her country since she was born. "England!" He remembered her crying out to him, her face pale with blood and tears running down her cheeks. "England, please! Make the stop!" Blood had started to pool from a wound from her abdomen, soaking the traditional Irish dress that England had given to her to wear when she had been born. "Please…" Her blue eyes pooled in sorrow. "Big brother…please." The day of the heaviest violence in Northern Ireland was the only time when she had called him big brother. Even as a toddler only wearing ragged clothes stained red from the strife that she had been born to somehow understood that England didn't like being called big brother.

England still remembered her giving her that dress on that day in late spring shortly after her birth, her plump face becoming a smile when he put it on her gently. She still wore the dress, despite the mockery and bullying her brothers gave her, especially Ireland. "Why do you still wear it, Northern Ireland?" England had asked her after a disastrous meeting with Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. The fights had gone too far that day, calling Northern Ireland "a traitor to the cause" among others, including even "England's bitch." The young nation had simply looked at him and suddenly smiled at him. "I won't ever not wear it England," she told him quietly with strength that England had only seen once. "I will always wear it because…you're important to me." England couldn't sleep that night, and he spent most of his insomnia recalling the memories he had of his youngest sibling.

Now as he looked into the blank space of the darkened room, England thought about the situation that had occurred with his brothers. Many times the brothers had stated words that they regretted later, resulting in added wounds to the scars with physical ones. "Ancient Rome should have killed you!" A statement such as that hadn't been stated before, one of the de facto rules that the brothers had agreed on. Their mother, their beloved Britannia, had been mentioned in such a way England had been beyond the emotion of tears.

It appeared that his brothers wanted him dead. I guess…they've finally caught on, England thought as his thoughts became more morose. India refused to speak with him whenever they met at World Meetings, and China called him "Opium" still. Although once having the vastest empire in the world, England understood that most of his former colonies still haven't forgiven him for his actions in the past. America had grown stiff when England had criticized his actions in the Middle East.

Although the conversation had been spoken almost four decades ago, England remembered the tear in his heart of how America had responded with such anger and resentment. "How is what I'm doing different from you did to me, England?" England didn't respond despite the cautious and concerned glances by the other nations. Unlike that time now, England couldn't ease his mind by embroidery. He had told himself that America often had uncontrollable bouts of anger from the amount of violence in his country and of the political bullshit he dealt with every two to four years. That didn't stop a new scar from forming, however.

Ironically, even with the rubbish of the peace of the twenty-first century, England felt more alone than ever. France was the only one that truly visited him, often speaking in his frog tongue and flirting with him, it often ended with England furiously screaming obscenities at him and the Frenchman laughing across the goddamn Channel. The only closest to a friend I have…and it has to be the perverted frog. England remembered of how many times France had tried to comfort him whenever any of his country's became independent, each of the colonies departing with sharp words and resentment. The latest had been when Ireland had separated from their house in 2024, the prideful flags of the Welsh people waving as their national anthem was sung. England had been too bitter and his body too built up holding the sorrow to even care that tears were trailing down his cheeks and France's arm was on his shoulder. When Scotland had declared independence earlier that year, England had been numb to the fact that America was celebrating for the freedom that Scotland had gained, his Revolutionary uniform bright blue against the snow. A jolt had shaken him when America had suddenly pulled his arm around him and told him that he and Scotland were now best friends. "After all, alike minds think alike, don't they? The tyranny is over!" England supposed his former colony didn't see him stumbling among the celebrating people as his heart, again, drowned in the sorrow leaking from his mind.

England sighed again and broke his thoughts from the memories. His emerald eyes searched the room, smiling inside at the numerous pictures from memory. Paintings of the English countryside and people that he had met throughout his history were against every wall. A large library, where he had taught numerous countries how to read and write, was across from his bedroom. Northern Ireland slept in the room across from it. In the office that he mostly worked in throughout the days and especially before another chaotic World Meeting had many documents neatly stacked and into piles. A framed picture of the only boss that he had truly loved was the first thing he saw every time he first opened the door. "Help me, Bess." England whispered as he thought of the beloved – his beloved – English queen. "I don't know what to do." He held his head in his hands, his blond hair soft against his fingers. "Am I…truly what they say I am?"

There was no response. England licked his lips, attempting to hold the emotions at bay as he closed his eyes. Suddenly, he thought he heard a voice.

"Like what, my dear?"

England inwardly started at the sound, his eyes immediately narrowing when he turned on his light and couldn't see nothing. Northern Ireland is asleep…so who it is that is making that noise? It wouldn't be the frog, as he would speak in his perverted tongue…and America wouldn't say that either. He has an intelligence of a teaspoon, so he wouldn't say something so elegant or …refined. As England thought, he became unaware of a person coming up behind him. England blanched at the thought that suddenly came to him. He thought about the voice again and what was said. It sounds like…me. Before anything could be said however, England felt a tight hand around his neck and something pressed against his mouth.

Before he could even scream, everything went black.

Japan could only stare at the character that he had somehow created. The nation had been unable to sleep again. It wasn't uncommon for such an old nation like himself. Similar to humans, the older they become, the less they sleep. There were times when Japan couldn't sleep from the horrid memories of his past, particularly the war that caused him to sit outside and stare at the sky. Today was one of those nights. Sometimes too Japan writing kanji whenever those nights happened, and somehow he found himself staring at the kanji before him. "Kyōdai," he whispered. Siblings. Japan thought about that word for a moment.

At one moment of time he had many siblings. At one time he had adored China as an older brother. "Oniichan!" A young Japan called to the taller older nation as China started to walk to his house, actually running towards him despite the shouts from his bosses. "Okearinasai, oniichan!" China had crouched down to Japan's height and smiled, stroking his hair fondly. Japan still remembered the words that China had spoken to him despite that moment being over one thousand years ago. He remembered of the time when China had introduced him to both of the Koreas, now separated for over eighty years. "It's your fault the Korean War happened!" They had all been shy, with Japan trying to run to China for comfort despite his boss' tight grip on his kimono. It was the future South Korea that had spoken first, smiling in contrast to the heartbroken expression that had echoed on his face that night. What happened to that bond?

Japan knew that there were times when words could not heal wounds. He had wounded all of his siblings deeply, almost beyond repair. History is only a breath away, Japan thought solemnly. Although the conversations with China and South Korea had not changed since the end of the war, it hurt Japan that they believed him to be in the same manner of his bosses. He couldn't. The stain of the war was still deep and ingrained in his memory. "You are a kind nation, Japan-san. I can see it in your eyes, and I know that your siblings will see that as well someday." Akihito-san… Although his face had been a mask of emotionless when Emperor Heisei had died, Japan had in fact been devastated.

Most bosses, whether emperor or prime minister, had not cared for their nation as much as Akihito-san did. Japan had known him as a child, and remembered of the hug that had been one of the only fleeting peace that he felt from the child that would one day inherit the throne. He treated the nation as if he understood the pain that Japan was going through. That something even many nations could not do. Japan still visited his grave every chance he could despite the twelve years since his death, and he wondered briefly what he would think about the current situation with China and South Korea.

They do not want me to exist. Japan swallowed, thinking about the conversation that they had that night. They want me to die for something that still echoes in the past… Japan softly touched his cheeks, as if remembering the feeling of the tears falling down his face. Even in his darkest moments as a nation, he didn't cry. The knowledge that the four people that had once been close to him wanted him to cease to exist broke him. As the Asian nation continued to stare at the sky, he suddenly became aware of how cold it was. His feet and hands were as cold as ice that shielded the grass from the snow in the winter months. Stiffly Japan stood and picked up the rice paper with the ink brush that he had brought. His back was turned when suddenly he felt a familiar weapon piercing through his back. Japan was still as he felt the pain coursing through his body as his mouth slightly opened in agony as blood started to seep from the wound. He dropped both items from his hand. Japan gulped as the katana cut deeper through his back and as the pain continued to increase.

"Dare desu ka?" Japan whispered, feeling the pain's effect on his voice as it shook. The question was met with silence, but the wounded nation suddenly felt himself being pulled to the opposite side. Japan's eyes widened impossibly wide. Iie… Japan thought as the color drained from his face. Iie... The emotionless eyes and the dark hair. The red eyes… Japan felt a tremor shook through him. Masaka… he pleaded. Masaka… The nation couldn't even react from shock when he felt an exploding pain through his skull as he fell into his unconsciousness.