The train whistled as it passed through dashing green trees and under a bright blue sky. The sun shone down on it, feeding its loving rays to the grass and the flowers that looked up at her with such love and compassion. Their mother, as plants call the Sun, watched the train flow by curiously. It was a lonely thing, moving about in the wilderness, as it is the only main man object to grace these woods, though it did so only once a year. Besides the train-tracks, it was travelling alone in the natural world, burdened with dozens of young witches and wizards (as well as an old one).

Inside this train sat Arthur, watching outside the window in such wonder. He had long disdained himself from the conversation had by the excited 14 year olds. Hermione was chatting up eagerly on her classes, Harry and Ron about Viktor Krum, and the likes. I would tell you this conversation, but in all honesty it was dreadfully dull. I could doze off telling it, and where would this story be without someone to tell it? Why, the story would go on discontinued while the writer slept from boredom. Arthur also found this conversation of utmost dullness.

He fingered the small pipe lazily, wanting to play it, but it had its side effects. He felt very sleepy after only the first note, but yet peaceful. He feared any more would pull him down into a sleep so deep he would miss the stop. Therefore, he settled with watching the world go by outside the windows.

England, same as all nations, is patient. Why, he could watch grass grow. Such patience only comes from old age. He eventually slipped into a daydream. With his most abrupt troubles gone, he felt at home almost. He was still broken hearted for his wand and the ink, and the arrow did trouble him so… But he could finally interact with mortals by some sheer form of luck that dropped his pipe into his bag. Why, it was not luck. It was, in fact, on reason. At this time, our dear friend England did not know why it was there. He hadn't the slightest clue as to who placed it in.

I trust you, my dear reader, recall the poor fellow who tumbled over his bag? I trust you also remember that England did not turn around at the moment. This poor lad that we speak of, did not fall on accident, he was not clumsy. It was also did not just happen that the woman was so close by. Arthur's hand was still in his bag when she rushed over, England did take note of this. He declared that it was his sharp intake of breath. He had been near enough women to know their keen sense of injury. He may be a nation, but England does not know of every little detail that goes about.

Sighing, England stretched back and turned his attention towards the children. Hermione was looking at him, with the appearance of one who was clinging onto a dream that was slipping away. Regrettably, this dream was lubricated too well, and Hermione's grip was not strong enough. Her queer look turned into one of failure. She shook her head, upset that the memory slipped away. She could just hardly recall what Quinn had told her, the dream, or even the poems Arthur had told her. What a pity, too, she really did like those poems. Funny, were they.

England looked at her, returning the look. His great ogles [eyes] shone, shimmering with little drops of water. Those droplets glistened like morning dew. Sparkling like stars, they were brushed away when England's long and black lashes soaked them up with several easy blinks. England brought a finger to his hair and brushed away any loose hair, though they only fell back. The tears were noticed by Harry. He thought it odd to see them. There was no cause for sadness. They were heading to Hogwarts after all. As most people do these days, he placed a logical label on them and dismissed it. He shrugged and turned to face Ron, who launched into a new conversation about Harry's godfather. He inquired of the letters, and Harry replied in a soft voice. Just a tad too loudly, came the words "Sirius Black" it was a simple mistake, a slip of tongue, a raise of pitch. The three children looked at Arthur, eyes wide.

Arthur said not a word for he was lost in thought again. His face was cast in the direction of some invisible object or idea. His eyes glistened again with the same beads of water. They threatened to pour. The three children's voices quieted down and they watched Arthur for a long time.

For children, even fourteen year olds, it is a bitter sight to see an adult cry. Such tears could not, would not, and should not be shed. They were not ugly, in fact they were beautiful. It was mesmerizing, to put it, to see a nation cry. They did so seldom it was a rare sight indeed. Wars happened, and only a few of those great wars sparked tears. England felt them and wiped them quickly, pulling out a book.

England does not shed tears for a reason. The last time he recalling doing so was during the Second World War, the dead, the war, the burning, it all hurt. His lip was torn and bloody, his arm was broken, and his heart was throbbing. He could cast stray looks at the dead, all laying down and kissing the ground, crying blood. Those he would never get back. The men and woman and children, all those he'd lost. Those who had a chance at life, who had love and happiness. He sat atop his pillar, built of death, thrones, tears, blood, lies, and the wars. He traced a hand down the pillar, feeling the pain. He regretted it at that moment, staring out to the war he had barely won. He was one of the last standing nations at the time, and it was not something he could celebrate. He could stand, though, and raise a glass to the air—the poisoned air filled with hatred and war. It smelt horrible but it was air, and he breathed it in. The glass he raised was make-believe. He had slipped into a pretend world and fancied himself walking around a pretend table, pouring pretend drinks, and talking with pretend people. He laughed at pretend jokes and made pretend remarks. It was all pretend at that moment. And it hurt. It stung worse than a bite in the knee or a blow to the head. He dropped the pretend glass and cried. The tears could not stop flowing.

That is not why he cried, at that moment, though. He was planning his fate.

He was going to die.