A/N: Since I'm going on a trip soon, I better put this up now. I can say this is one of my favorites, and it's in England's POV. And more British Isles, :3. It's also pretty long. :D

DISCLAIMER: I obviously don't own APH, so this thing is a bit useless.

Chapter III: Death of the Fireflies

"England? What do you think?" Wales asked, and England snorted. "Absolutely not," he said. "We're not trying this again, Wales." "Why not?" Wales asked. England looked at him as if he were crazy. "Don't you remember… when we…" he trailed off, his hands balling into fists.

Wales was older than England but was barely taller than him; Wales never did eat as much as his siblings because he had more self-control (and yet England was still so short). His hair was a few shades darker than England's, his eyes a bit paler. His hair, although a bit unruly as well, was neater than his brother's and could actually be held down by combing. Like all of the siblings, he had thick eyebrows.

"We've only failed two times, England…" Northern Ireland said, putting his hand on England's arm. He had neatly combed red hair (but some strands still stuck out in several directions), bright green eyes, and a face with so many freckles you would've thought orange was his skin color.

England yanked his arm away. "And those two times we failed… don't you remember? How can you do this to me when… that happened?" England said. He turned away from the others. Ireland sighed at him.

"Let's not bring that up," she said, brushing her wild red hair out of her face. "But I do think you're being unfair, England, Jones is more similar to Prussia than the other two, you know?"

"You're being unfair! You don't care about how I feel, do you?" England said, and Wales looked at him with exasperation. "We do care, England, but that was a long time ago, and we should be ready to try again," he murmured. England fell silent and lowered his eyes.

"So how are we to do this?" Northern Ireland questioned, looking at Wales. "I think we shouldn't let on just yet. We should tell him that he is no longer our prisoner, that he is to be treated as a guest," he said. "If he asks why, we tell him so that he can change his mind about us."

"And then?" Ireland asked, raising an eyebrow. "Then, we don't teach him our ways, but we will try everything we can so that he can See, not just Hear. If he asks, we can teach him magic. And when he can, we will make him promise us something," Wales answered.

"What promise?" Scotland said warily. This brother had curly and unruly red hair, like Ireland and Northern Ireland, and eyes that are a bit darker but a more distinct than theirs. He had his legs on the table, which greatly annoyed England.

Wales said, "That he is to keep our secrets. If he even thinks of telling those heathens where we are and what we do, pain will remind him of the consequences. If he tells, then…" he trailed off, a grim look on his face. "So a death threat?" Northern Ireland said quietly. No one answered, but everyone knew the answer.

"Afterwards, we give him a choice, to stay with us or to go back. If he goes back, he can help Lithuania and Poland, as well as Estonia and Latvia," Wales said.

"But why are we doing this? Why?" England asked, and everybody turned his or her head. "He might look stupid, but he's pretty good at convincing people," Wales said as he closed his eyes. "We may be able to get him to change at least some people's way of looking at us.

The room fell silent again. After a few tense seconds, Scotland decided to break it. "Speakin' of, he looks a mighty lot like that tyke ye used ta play with before we had the Separation by the Blacksmith's Hand, England." England scoffed at this. "Bollocks. The chances of me and Alfie meeting each other again are as minute as the chances that the King will come back to life and fight the bloody Blacksmith," he said.

"Right little ray of sunshine, aren't you," said Wales with a sarcastic smile. A typical comment from the third oldest of them, the one with the most sarcastic sense of humor. England snorted. Ireland and Scotland laughed. Northern Ireland chuckled. The ice was broken.

"Well then," Ireland said airily. "Meeting adjourned."

After a delicious dinner of Peking duck and dim sum (courtesy of China, of course), England cornered Wales.

"What's your real reason for doing this, Wales? You're not a very good liar," England growled. Wales looked at him with a hard stare. "I wasn't lying," he said and clicked his tongue. "Can't you trust this brother of yours?"

"Have you started working with those hell-sent people of the Blacksmith's now, Wales?" England said, a dangerous edge in his voice. Wales' glare intensified, now burning with anger and disbelief.

"How could you accuse me of such treachery?" Wales asked. "I'm bound – if not by my own beliefs, then by blood – to us, the King's people! You – you need to get over what happened, England! It's all in the past!" he said heatedly.

England glared back at Wales. "I'm not talking about the past, Wales. I'm talking about what is happening now. He's one of – one of them!" "We can change that," Wales replied, trying to regain his composure. "We can, and we've done so already, remember? We've succeeded more than twice, and they are loyal to us now."

"And how can you guarantee me that he will turn out the same?" England demanded. "Remember Prussia?" Wales asked. "This Jones is more like Prussia than the other one who was with him at the time."

"And when we failed to convince him, remember what was lost?" England said. Wales turned away, feeling his stomach churn at the thought. That cry of pain… England's despairing scream at the sky… the day the earth stood still for the siblings… No, he had not forgotten. As if he could forget.

Wales gulped. "You're straying into the past again, England. That's not what we're talking about." "The past has very much to do with what you have decided," England retorted, and then walked away from his brother, shaking with anger. He looked as if he couldn't bear the mere memory as he turned away, anger, sorrow, guilt, fear and betrayal in his eyes.

As he watched his brother's retreating back, Wales could feel the real answer on the tip of his tongue, about why he had made the decision to accept Alfred and try to convince him to join them. Why he had decided to gamble on their safety.

Wales had always been perceptive. He knew people's feelings, and he could tell what kind of person you are just from the stories he heard or being with you for a short time. If it wasn't for the Separation, he might have become a psychologist. The only thing that might keep him from being one was his temper and his particular habit of making snarky comments at everything people said.

And no matter how much they fought, Wales loved his brother. He loved his brother, but that brother had shut everyone out, pushed them away, years ago. No one has been able to break down the walls. All the smiles England ever gave were dry or sarcastic now. England used to smile with happiness and love and laugh with mirth.

And from the stories Belgium and England told about this Alfred F. Jones, Wales had drawn a conclusion.

He's the one who can help you move on, Wales thought. And I hope that he can make you open your heart to us again.

"Arthur! You're baaack! I missed you, why didn't you tell me you were going somewhere?" Alfie yelled as he ran towards his friend, hugging him. He was a few years younger but already the same height as Arthur; something Arthur took comfort in as the blue-eyed boy hugged him

"Eh?" Alfie looked at him with those innocent blue eyes. "Wh-what's wrong, Arthur? Is-is something wrong?"

Even the child could tell that something was wrong. Parts of Arthur's hair were singed, and he looked haggard, tired and worn. His eyes had none of its usual glow; no trace of the usual smile. His face was flushed and his clothes were dirty and torn in several places. He looked like, to put in Alfie's dad's terms, 'he looked like he'd been to hell and back'.

"What's wrong? Tell me, it's okay… I'm your friend, right?" Alfie said, trying wildly to calm Arthur down. His dad said that part of being a good friend and a hero was making other people feel better when they were down and comforting them.

"I'll have to go, Alfie… My house… my house was burned down yesterday. I came here to say goodbye," Arthur said breathlessly. "My siblings don't know. They'll probably come looking for me." Alfie's eyes widened. He had known that a house had been burned down, but when he asked his dad, the man refused to let Alfie know. That day, he also refused to let Alfie out of the house and continued to peek out of the window.

"People I love… gone…"

"Gone?"

"I'll never see them again…"

"But how's that possible? You-you can always see people! All you have to do is call them! You'll see them again for sure!" Alfie said, looking puzzled and then smiling up at him brightly. Arthur smiled at him tiredly.

"It's death, Alfie," he said. "People don't come back from death."

"B-but… how?"

Arthur inhaled sharply and decided to change the subject. "Yesterday, I went to your house… my siblings gave me some time to say goodbye but your father chased me away…"

Alfie nearly let go of his friend in shock. Was that the time when his father had carried him into the bedroom in the middle of the house (which had no windows), locked him in and went out? Alfie wondered what that was, although when he came back his dad merely said 'There was someone dangerous outside, but I chased him away.'

"You're not… you're not dangerous," Alfie said. "What?" Arthur asked, looking stricken. "My dad… Yesterday, he said that there was someone dangerous outside our house… You're not dangerous…" Arthur's eyes widened and he shoved Alfie away, fear in his green eyes.

"Ow! Why did you-"

But Arthur was already sprinting away from him, and even as Alfie attempted to chase after him, Arthur only seemed to be gaining more and more speed, and again some sort of strange green glow seemed to emanate from him. Alfie slowed down when he felt himself tire.

Gasping for breath, his reached his hand out as if hoping to pull Arthur back to him. He closed it into a fist and lowered it, squeezing his eyes closed in frustration. His breath was shaky, part from the exhaustion and part from the shock of having his best friend push him away and then run from him.

"I don't want to… never see you again…"

England sat on the grass, looking up at the sky. The black blanket of a night sky was speckled with shimmering stars, and England let out a sigh before burying his head in his hands.

If they failed this time, who would be lost? Who would they have to sacrifice for a lost cause? He grimaced, his mind flying to motionless bodies and empty eyes, last whispers and dying wishes, blood and flesh exposed.

He groaned, trying to banish the images from his mind, but he couldn't and found himself neck-deep in agony. He could hear whispers of those he mourned, whispers of those long gone, and he closed his eyes for a moment and let a small sigh escape him. He opened his eyes, looked up and saw the stars, blinking down soothingly at him, and he wondered.

Do my fallen friends roam the sky now?

He imagined them walking, catching stars in their hands and setting them free, like fireflies. He imagined them riding the crescent moon like a glowing boat, and during the daytime, they walked on the clouds and painted rainbows in the sky. He imagined laughter, happiness, and the feeling of warm belonging, and he let himself fall on the grass, lying down.

"Do you believe in heaven, England?"

He let out a dry sob, and a soft lullaby filled his head, a piece of memory he wanted to revel in, to hear forever, and he was taken back to a time of lying comfortably in bed, sunshine streaming through the windows, sleeping until noon as a small child who did nothing but smile.

"Hey, wake up, sleepyhead, the sun's up!"

England closed his eyes, feeling memories cloud his head and blend with reality, and soon he drifted off, long-gone loved ones and forgotten lullabies embracing him in his dreams.