If he wasn't the person who almost single handedly took care and raised him, Alfred would had let him die. If Arthur did die, then everything would forever change, and he could never return to the way he was before. The innocent happy nation who loved his friends. And did nothing as he watched them die.
Blood that had soaked England and Mattie threatened to land on him as well.
Things were never, ever going to be the same again. Things would never get better between any of them. It wasn't like a scar that was just a thin white line. This was a keloid that expanded far beyond the initial wound, and grew flesh away from the body. To the point where you wondered why it was even there, if its only purpose was to cause pain.
At which point, he realized something alien and yet almost anticipatable, like it was something that was supposed to happen long ago. He no longer loved England. He loved the idea of the old Arthur, but it was only now that he realized that he could no longer admire him, and only felt pain around him. The days were he would lie in his arms as Arthur told him stories, or how he would eat his disgusting food before he associated eating with a penis raping his throat. Where he and Mattie and France and the rest would take care and love and not hate. Only love. Just love.
... It really will never become better again, whether Arthur lives or dies, or everyone coming back to life but being really sorry. He really was all alone.
If who I am is what I have, and what I have is lost, then who am I?
This is the second to last chapter. Week long break next week.
