Last chapter, woo! Sorry for not uploading sooner, brain was stupid and I completely forgot on several occasions. But hey, it's here! Enjoy!

Chapter 9

The fever wrought its wrath upon England, unrelenting, merciless, draining away England's fight until there was nothing, forcing the man into unconsciousness. With the oblivion came the muttering, the nightmares, the recounting of old memories. He was very rarely awake.

France began to pace, back and forth in front of the hearth. Chewing his lip became habit. He stopped accepting visitors, concerned as he was for England's health. They were alone once more. The house became far too empty, too quiet, too big; footsteps echoed in the hall, no words were uttered and the silence hung heavy on France's shoulders, like a blanket he just couldn't shake off, a blanket that he didn't wish to remove.

And he knew how much time was left.

His anxiety grew with each hour, each day he spent tending to the fever, trying and failing to lower his temperature. His mind was focused on the future and as much as he wanted to think about other things, all he could imagine was the land growing dry, crops failing, people starving, The economy will fail, the banks will fail, politics will fail. Citizens will grow paranoid and panic will spread like wildfire across the nation. Terrorist will strike, populations will fall, babies will be stillborn.

This is the fate of a dead nation.

This is the fate of England.

Four days France laboured over England, his love, his life, doing what he could to keep him alive. With a damp cloth, he dabbed at the other man's forehead, trying to lower his temperature. It wasn't working. Tears welled in France's eyes. England's breaths were laboured, his face a sickly pale, and his body was all skin and bones.

He drew the cloth away with trembling hands and sat on a stool beside England. He had set up a cot for England in the living room so that he wasn't constantly overheating, as one so often does. In his place, France had taken up residence on the couch so that he could keep an eye on his love, and be at his side whenever needed. In the cot, England slept fitfully, muttering and wincing every few minutes. France bowed his head, sighing heavily through his nose.

"Mon cher, ever since our pirate days, I-" He gulped, "I grew to love your wild green eyes. So filled with fight that I could never stay away. And now... now you have been taken from me..." His fists clenched. Anger rose in his throat.

"Why!?" He yelled suddenly, knocking over the stool in his haste to stand. "Why bring me back!? None of this would have happened if you had just let me stay dead!" He felt warmth on his cheeks, and he discovers that tears were falling down his face, thick and fast. He couldn't bring himself to care, not even as he collapsed at the side of the bed. Not even as he sobbed into the sheets.

He didn't see England open his eyes, only felt clammy hands grip his own.

His head snapped up and he gazed into emerald eyes, so tired, so worn. A mockery of his former glory.

"Because I love you, frog." He rasped, weak as a newborn lamb. France's eyes widened and the tears began anew.

"I love you, too." He whispered back, afraid that if he looked away from those captivating green eyes, he would be gone.

"I know," England replied, weaker than before. France leaned over, not at all hesitant, and captured England's lips with his own, unintentionally closing his eyes. Finally.

But it was too late to let this love flourish.

Because when he drew away and reopened his eyes, those magnificent emeralds had become glassy stone.

A heavy silence fell upon the country.

England had fallen.

France began to grieve.

And all that remained was the lingering scent of earl grey and roses.