Last chapter! ...At long fucking last, omg.

Thank you to all my lovely reviewers: Mythomagic101, Narroch, AnyaZeAwesomeGlaceon, Londonut, yoong, Dirunal Days, Angelfaux, Ash, Sdiana7 and Aengland!

And England Keep My Bones

V

"Of course, none of it is official yet," England says calmly, "but that is essentially the long and short of it."

There is silence. The room is crowded with men – nations and a great many of their human representatives, gathered from all corners of England's empire – and for a long stretched moment, a pin might be heard to drop. America, standing quietly by his side at the podium, smiles benignly over them all as their gazes run wildly between he and England. Nothing like a bombshell to shake up a boring old gathering of the clans.

Still, they should have realised that something was afoot when they were all called to New York.

Canada puts up his hand. England tilts his head at him.

"Yes?"

Canada stands, his lilac eyes settling on America. "So let me just clarify," he says, "for everyone here – because I think we can all agree that it sounds like complete insanity."

A murmuring of disgruntled agreement goes through the crowd.

"I fail to see how I was unclear," England replies, "but by all means, if it pleases you."

"As I understand it, what you have said is that you are passing over the sovereignty of your empire to Alfr—I mean, to America." Matthew's eyes narrow as he looks at his twin. "And, with it, all of us."

America smiles at him. "It's not exactly a gift," he says. "More a sharing process in which we both have an equal measure of power. Arthur will still be the British Empire."

"Yes – in name only," Matthew says savagely. "I'm sure you've seen to that, Alfred."

America shrugs. He looks at England, who has nothing to say, before turning his attention back to the room. "Well, the way I see it, I'm doing you all a huge favour," he drawls. "Who the hell wants to be part of an empire? I mean, what is this, ancient Rome? You can all be states instead."

This is met with an uproar of disapproval, a great many of them getting to their feet, shouting, gesturing. He can see Australia flipping him off from the back row.

"What is the meaning of this?!"

"How can you have made such a decision without consulting us?!"

"Does Her Majesty know?!"

The Canadian ambassador stands, red in the face as he points an accusing finger at America. "The United States did all it could to sever their ties with you and now you reward the foremost culprit! It was he that orchestrated the treachery for his own gain, raising an army against you while Matthew remained loyal!" He claps a trembling hand to Canada's shoulder. "Is this how you will repay him? Is this how you will repay us after all we have given to you?"

"You speak the truth," England replies, perfectly unruffled, "but times are growing uncertain. Europe is restless and warfare is growing ever more mechanised. None of you in this room have military strength equal to my own. The United States does. Alfred is the only logical choice."

There is another outcry at this.

"A logical choice? I was not aware that you were a debutante!"

"India's military strength is second to none!"

"The United States has no place amongst us, never mind atop!"

England is completely unmoved by their wails, standing impassively before them, his face barely flickering. America grins, enjoying the show. This is even better than he had expected. Many of these grown men, reserved in their waistcoats and top hats, are going into complete and utter meltdown. Still, he can't blame them. It is unexpected news.

"My decision is final," England says over the rabble. "That will be all. Good day."

He steps down from the podium, sweeping down the steps and out of the room in clean, quick succession. America follows him, aware of the crowd jostling from their seats, baying for blood. He turns, shuts the doors and bolts them, keeping back the tide. Now they will have to go around the other way and that will take time.

He trots after England, catching him up.

"That was good," he says reassuringly.

"Do you think so? I do hope nobody thought I was acting strangely." England sighs through his nose. "It really is bothersome having lost my memory, you know. I really can't recall the simplest of things." He takes an uneasy look over his shoulder. "You were certainly correct, though. It is for the best that those men do not find out about my amnesia. The way they behaved back there when I announced our joint sovereignty... well, they are quite savage, aren't they?"

"They would definitely take advantage of you if they knew," America says solemnly. "They'd tell you that you agreed to things that you never promised, they'd want money and power... Still, you can trust me. I can do all the dirty work until you get your memory back."

"Yes." England frowns, rubbing at his forehead. "It is kind of you, Alfred. At the moment I'm not good for much, I confess. I'd forget my head if it wasn't attached."

America laughs. Perfect. "At least you're good at acting," he says cheerfully. "Just remember to say what I tell you and everything will be alright, Arthur."

England nods. He's still frowning. He always reacts a little bit... off to the name. Still, early days, early days.

Their cab is waiting outside to whisk them off to America's townhouse and they're able to make a speedy getaway before the hoarde of angry British subjects spill out after them. They still have a lot of paperwork and legislation to finalise, after all – this is quite unlike acquiring a new state, which consists of either a war or moving the Frontier (or sometimes both). They spend the rest of the afternoon in the drawing room creating favourable agreements, slicing and dicing over coffee and cigars.

"I don't see the need to break it all up," America says. "Ivan might see that as an opportunity to invade."

"Ivan?"

"Braginski. Russia. You know."

"Oh, yes. Of course." Another frown. "My apologies."

"It's alright, Arthur."

"...Are you truly sure that that is my name?" England is rubbing at his forehead again. "Something about it just..."

"Of course your name is Arthur – like King Arthur." Alfred folds his arms. "Or you can be England or Britain or British Empire or the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland."

"Yes, that last one... that's when King James..." England is looking rather absently at the wall. America shakes him.

"Arthur."

"Oh." England shakes his head, blinking at him. "I beg your pardon. I keep doing that."

"It's alright," America says again. He kisses him on the cheek. He tastes like wax. "Still, I think it would be best if I were to take charge of running everything for now – at least until you're better."

"Won't that be too much for you?"

"Not if we make them all states. I know they didn't seem too keen but at least that way, I won't have to create separate laws and taxes and the like for them."

England looks a little bit dubious. "I suppose... that does make sense but..."

"But what?" America takes his hand. "Arthur... don't you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you–"

"Or would you prefer to break it up after all? If the others are going to make such a fuss, then perhaps they should get a share too."

"For some reason I feel that such a thing would not end well," England says. "No, I agree that this way is best. On the surface of it, I will still be in charge – but the power goes to you. You take it all, Alfred."

"Only if you insist."

"I do insist. In my current condition, I really am not fit for it. Besides, if things are truly as you say, with Europe destabilising and weapons growing ever more deadly, it makes sense to me that we should form this alliance."

"Hm." America looks away, his eyes glancing over George Washington above the fireplace. "Still, I can understand why the others are so outraged. I have leapfrogged over all their heads to become more powerful than they could ever dream of. They do not forgive what I did in 1776." He looks again at England, clutching his hand tighter. "But you forgive me, Arthur, don't you?"

"It would seem so." England, too, is staring at the painting of Washington. "Not that I can recall."

"It was just a little quarrel. You were being very unreasonable."

"Oh, I'm sure."

"But it's alright," America goes on warmly. "I forgive you, too."

England squeezes his hand but does not look at him. He is staring and staring at the painting of Washington. He does this a lot, frowning, empty-handed. Of course he doesn't recognise him.

A knock comes at the drawing room door and an aide leans in.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but you have a visitor." The aide pauses. "A Mr Matthew Williams from the Canadian Embassy."

England stiffens ever so slightly at the name – at Williams, specifically – and America stands up.

"Tell him I can't see him right now."

"I already let him in, sir. He's in the parlour."

"Well, too damn bad. Can't you see I'm already occupied–"

"Alfred, it's alright." England stands, too, placing a hand to his elbow. "I really ought to be going, anyway. I'm sailing back to London in a few days and I have much to do before then."

"But we're not done, I mean, you haven't–"

"I can spare you a few hours in the morning. We can finish the paperwork then."

Ugh. America knows he doesn't have much choice. He nods to the aide.

"Fine. Show him in."

"Very good, sir."

"Don't look so sulky." England pinches at America's cheeks, tugging at his scowl. "You'll get what I promised."

"He's doing this on purpose," America growls, shaking his head free. "He knew you'd be here, he–"

"Hmm." England smiles at him. "Possessive, aren't you?" He steps past him. "I will see you tomorrow."

"Wait." America catches at his arm, stopping him–

Just as the door opens and Canada enters the room. He looks livid.

"Arthur, don't let him bully you into this!" he cries. "I don't know how he's talked you into this but this isn't like you, it's...!"

He trails off – probably because England is looking rather blankly at him. He looks between them in complete despair. "Alfred, you know this is total madness!"

America gives a lazy shrug. "It's Arthur's decision what he wants to do with his empire."

"There's no way in hell he'd want to give it to you!"

"I'll thank you to mind your own business," England says coolly. "Now I really must be going."

"Alright." America gives a tug on his arm, pulling him in for a kiss. It's chaste, no tongue, barely any teeth, but it's enough that it's done right in front of Canada. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip as he releases him. "See you tomorrow, Arthur."

England gives him a smile, a nod, a brief glance up and down before turning away. He doesn't give Canada a second look as he sweeps out of the drawing room.

America pauses a moment to give it just the right effect when at last he slides his gaze towards his twin. Canada is speechless.

"Can I help you with something?" America asks, folding his arms. "Because honestly you did interrupt us."

"What did you do to him?" Canada asks in a low voice. "Alfred. Seriously. That is not Arthur."

"Of course it's Arthur. Who else would it be?"

"Then you've... brainwashed him or... or something!" Canada bursts out. "How could his personality – and his opinion of you – change so much?!"

America shrugs. "Guess he saw the error of his ways. He always did like me best, you know."

"Yeah – before you and George Washington stabbed him in the back!"

"We agreed to let bygones be bygones. It's done now, right?"

"Oh?" Canada says nastily. "And his way of making it up to you was to give you his entire empire?!"

"Hey, he's a generous guy. I mean, maybe not to you – but to someone he sees as an equal–"

"I"m not buying that bullshit, Alfred. I don't know how you did it but you engineered this. You're the only one who stands to gain from it."

Alfred grins at him. "Well, good luck proving it," he chirps. "Now why don't you go home and start deciding what number state you'd like to be."

Canada shakes his head at him in disbelief, his lilac eyes wide. "You're an absolute monster, Alfred."

"I'm good at getting what I want. That doesn't make me a monster."

"It does if you crush others to get it!"

"Then your precious Arthur is the biggest monster of all, isn't he?" America tilts his head. "You might argue that we belong together."

Canada says nothing for a long moment. His fists are clenched at his sides.

"How did you do it?" he asks at length.

"How did I do what?"

"How did you, of all people, manage to make him fall in love with you?" Canada snaps. "Your idea of a romantic gesture is to dig up a disgusting skull!"

"Oh, that." America's smile does not waver. "Well, let's just say... that the skull played its part after all."

He put a new lock on the door but it's probably unneeded. Better safe than sorry, is all. The key gleams like a new quarter as he turns it, the old door creaking open at his command. He locks it again behind him, sliding the key into his pocket as he crosses the room. It's dark, the curtains drawn, the evening closing in, so he turns on the gaslamp at the bedside. The greasy light flickers over the faded wallpaper and tattered hangings as America sinks onto the edge of the bed.

England doesn't react to either. Well, he wouldn't.

"Arthur." America talks to him gently, leaning down, touching his face. "I came to see you."

England does not react at all. This is nothing new, nor is it unsurprising. He cannot see, after all, and he cannot speak. America gives the ropes at his wrists a quick tug to check them. The knots are still tight, securing him to the bed posts. He hasn't been struggling.

"I thought you might like to know that William is getting on splendidly," America says. He lies down alongside him, getting comfortable. "Your eyes, your tongue, your brain... He is making good use of them all. I prefer to keep him amnesiac, otherwise he'll start taking on all your petty grievances against me and he won't do as I suggest, but overall his performance is to be marvelled at." America smiles. "Well, I suppose he was an actor too, wasn't he? Who better to play the role of England than William Shakespeare?"

Nothing. England is definitely still alive – he's breathing, his fingers twitch – but truthfully America has hollowed him out, transplanting him into an abomination. It was the only way to do it, in the end. England is an empire – his body is much too powerful to be bent to America's will.

"He's so much nicer than you are," America goes on, rubbing at England's cheek. He goes too high, hits the bloodied gauze wrapped over his eye sockets. "But I suppose that's only because he doesn't have your memories. You used to be nice like that. I really shouldn't have needed to pull out your brain to get a kind word out of you." Now he runs his fingers down over his lips – dry, cracked. "I mean, it's your tongue, too, so I suppose that counts."

He puts his head on England's chest. He left his heart in, mostly because William is powered by electricity and doesn't need it, but also because it's comforting to hear it. England is otherwise akin to a corpse – and besides, it reminds him of when he was a child.

"I think he sort of knows, in some way," he mumbles. "I suppose it is still his skull, even if your brain is in there. There's bound to be a bit of an echo." He looks up at him. "...This isn't really what I wanted, you know. I mean, I wasn't planning it. If you had just been nicer to me, I wouldn't have had to do this." He runs his thumb along his jaw. "This England never did, nor never shall lie at the proud foot of a conqueror but when it first did help to wound itself." Silence. Then, reproachful: "See, I know Shakespeare."

Nobody is accusing him of anything, of course, least of all England, but he finds himself defensive all the same. He cuddles against him, closing his eyes. "...Well, anyway, you forgive me, Arthur, don't you?"

Long has he imagined what he would do with England at his mercy, fuelled by lust for bodies and bloodshed and borders; but when it comes to it, his tongue and eyes and mind given away, he is but earth. This is what he should want, perhaps – in England's Shakespeare's Richard's words, blessed plot, earth, realm (without a tongue to talk back; to tell who 'twas that cut thy tongue and ravished thee). His kiss is lost in an empty mouth. He is too early, perhaps, or far too late. Shakespeare never wrote words of worship about America's earth.

All form is formless, order orderless, save what is opposite to England's love. The game is afoot. The rest is silence.

If eyes and tongues being cut out seems gruesome... welp, that's Shakespeare for you! This has echoes specifically of Gloucester in King Lear, whose eyes are gouged out, and Lavinia in Titus Andronicus, whose tongue is cut out (and her hands cut off, both to prevent her from naming her rapists). Interestingly, King John's Prince Arthur – who speaks the line this fic takes its title from – is also meant to have his eyes put out with hot irons; he manages to talk his way of out of it but then dies anyway. By falling off a wall. I know I mention this a lot but I really just can't get over it (and apparently neither could he).

There are a lot of Shakespeare quotations in here – the last three sentences notwithstanding – but sadly I did not get my bae Mercutio in here at all. :C

Halloween is fast approaching so next up: The Waning! (...Finally. T.T)