At first, Alfred didn't see any part of the actual tomb. It was too dark to see, even if he wanted to (which he really didn't). He did, however, see light in a doorframe down the path and assumed that was where the main hall of the tomb was. "Okay," he murmured, adjusting the corpse in his arms before leaning forward to walk. It felt like his feet were nailed to the ground, but he managed to lift a shaking leg up to move forward, despite his numerous, and annoying, mental protests to turn and run. No, he absolutely wouldn't leave. Romeo needed to see Juliet, and America wanted – needed – to find England.
Slowly he began to walk down the path, Paris in his arms, and an unsure look on his face. It didn't feel right down there. The air was warm as he approached the source of light, but he still felt a numbing cold on his skin. As quiet as it was, his mind was racing with questions and thoughts he couldn't slow down. It was contradicting, conflicting, and was starting to frighten him. Who in their right mind enjoyed being in a tomb, anyway? But this? He never expected it to be this bad. It was the feeling of hopelessness. Emptiness. Death.
He turned the corner through the arch and faced a large room with a high ceiling and stone walls on all of the three sides (since he was coming in from the fourth wall). All around him, hanging from the walls or on various surfaces, were hundreds of white candles lit, leaving a sweet aroma and light in the room. It was so deceiving, like trying to cover up all the darkness and despair down in the tomb with warmth and breezy aromas from candles. Alfred stood in awe for a moment at the building before noticing something odd about the walls.
He glanced over at one wall and noticed rectangles that had obviously been put into the wall after construction. Alfred noticed plates on each square, and there were at least half a dozen, if not more. It was obvious that the skeletons of past Capulet's were inside the inserted squares – caskets or something like them, he figured, or pull-out beds for bodies. Chills ran up his spine and goosebumps rose from his skin; he had to look away.
Alfred craned his head forward and saw further in the tomb was a risen stone slab, like a bed, with candles lay all around it. He frowned in realization as he made out a figure on the slab, clad in a white dress. They rested with their head facing up, hands lying over a fresh bouquet on their chest. The body laying in repose looked so peaceful, as if asleep.
He had a feeling that he knew who it was, but America didn't register it until he stared long enough. Nausea gurgled in his stomach when he saw the light blond, straw-like locks on their head. And, he could only imagine the green eyes that were closed in comatose. The body of Arthur Kirkland was completely still. People breathed when they were in a coma, right? They were still alive. Why wasn't he breathing? Was he really…?
Making his way to a somewhat dimmer part of the tomb, he set Paris down and ignored the bloodstain now on his chest from the boy's fatal wound. He looked back to the stone bed where Arthur's deathly still body lay, and he made his way back to the center aisle of the tomb. Candles were lined on either side of the aisle, and America slowly started to make his way over. He felt like his limbs were weights trying to tie him down. Torn between a need to know if England was alive and the fear of what he would find, America paused in his steps and began to walk backwards. His skin felt clammy and his palms were starting to sweat. He quickly glanced down to his hands, which were beginning to pale, and then looked back to the stone slab. His right foot stopped retracing his steps and he steadied himself, freezing in his place.
Just looking at the sight wanted to make him fall to his knees and tear out his heart. Alfred could imagine the anguish Romeo was feeling, the anguish he could slowly feel creeping up to his conscious. He swallowed thickly and started walking again, more hesitant, like at any minute England would popped up from his lying pose, look over, and ask what he was doing there. Then they would get out of that dismal place and find a way back home to the Second World War. Wanting to go home to a global fray sounded crazy, but he would take the toil of war over this invisible pain any day.
The longer he looked at how still England was, the more his hope was killed. He couldn't look away, for some reason. Before him was the person who had raised him, despite being away for long periods of time. He was the one who taught him how to shoot a gun, and who had the gun turned upon him. The one person out of every country America knew the best, besides his brother, was lying before him, seemingly dead. There was something so wrong about that. Memories rushed back into America's mind and he could feel his breathing get deeper as he tried to keep from sobbing. It shouldn't have been that hard.
Standing before England, America walked around to the other side and knelt beside him on a free space on the risen stone. He looked up, trying to make himself believe that it wasn't Arthur. He looked too peaceful to be the scowling, stubborn Limey he knew. But everything about his appearance screamed that this really was England, the person he'd been desperately trying to reach. And here he was finally there by his side, but he was too late.
America rested his chin gently near Arthur's ear, and he glanced over him again. In normal circumstances, he would have laughed at seeing England in a dress. Now, it wasn't so funny. "If you could see yourself," he spoke after a moment, his hushed voice reverberating off the walls in the silence, "you'd probably be having a heart attack." The smile he wore was so weak, so fake. Perhaps he was trying to fool himself that this was all some crazy dream, and that England was back at Juliet's house, leaning over the balcony where all of this began, waiting for him.
He took a trembling breath in, and his hand brushed against England's fingers. They were cold as the stone the body lay upon. Alfred moved his hand to adjust some stray strands of straw-like hair out of his ally's closed eyes, but it just fell back in place. He replayed the scene he'd see all the time at meetings: Arthur scowling at his bangs, trying to keep them from falling. The shorter nation would even try to fix America's bangs, although that never worked out either. As Alfred watched him, his eyes filled with sorrow. He would give anything to see movement from Arthur – any movement, even if it meant him being punched for being too close or strangled for being a 'git'. Anything to know that he was alive.
All the times he was lonely without England hit him like a train as he stared at Arthur's still body. The nights when he cried during thunderstorms as a child, because England wasn't there to comfort him, rushed into his mind. So did the few times after the revolution when the stress of being a nation, as well as the utter loneliness, had gotten to him. Still, they were nothing like how this felt. Arthur was even there physically, unlike the other times. Nevertheless, the knowledge that his long life was over was what brought the heartache and loneliness rushing back to him tenfold.
Then again, he also never had the influence of love in those past times. Romeo's influence, and the love he had for Juliet, began to seep into America's emotions. He recalled the feeling of Arthur in his arms; how surprisingly comforting it felt to hold him like that, for whatever reason that may have been. Arthur had become fairly open about his emotions, thanks to Juliet, and America had enjoyed that brief glimpse inside of England's heart. He enjoyed being treated more like a friend than an ally, even for a few days as two lovers.
Alfred was so transfixed in his thoughts that the quiet dripping of something on the floor almost startled him. He blinked his eyes a few times to try and see what it was that made the sound – there it was again – before he realized that his vision was obscured. That was odd; Texas was in its place, so what was it? Quickly rubbing his eyes, America was surprised to feel the back of his hand become wet. He stared at his hand, seeing a few teardrops fall onto his hand. He'd been crying the entire time…? Why hadn't he felt it? Was he truly that numb?
His other hand slowly reached and touched his damp eyes, fingers trying to catch the tears. His eyes were wide, and his head ached even more. Tears were still rolling down his cheeks when he laughed weakly and looked back to England. "Now … now, you're m – making me cry," he croaked. Of all the people in the world, it was him. England. Arthur Kirkland, the one person he never wanted to cry in front of, or for.
England's still body was breaking his heart the longer he looked at him. 'He isn't coming back,' he thought in misery. He turned so his back was to the stone bed, slumped weakly on the ground. He didn't bother wiping his tears away, and his breathing was becoming sporadic. 'He's gone…' Drawing his knees close, he curled into a loose ball; and America let himself cry. He didn't care about how pathetic he looked. He didn't care about who it was that was crying, because he knew it was himself and not Romeo. It didn't matter anymore.
Two different souls were clashing in the same body. Romeo wept openly for his wife, while America wept for … what was England to him now? He was an ally, of course. But was he more? A rival? A friend, maybe? Or was America wanting him to be all of those things? Romeo could say that his wife had died. But, America couldn't describe what England was to him. Saying he was his friend was going out on a limb; England never seemed keen on being friends. An ally? That wasn't enough. He wouldn't have been crying if he was just an ally. What was he?
In the end, would it matter? He was dead. There was nothing more to it than that.
When Alfred turned his tear-stained face to look over his shoulder at England, the two sides inside met in a clash of control. He didn't fight it, instead allowing Romeo to sweep in and take over with some monologue that he would get lost in. Romeo knelt beside England and wiped at his eyes, sniffling as he tried to compose himself. He almost couldn't bring himself to look at the body before him; it simply hurt too much. He managed to find his core and look forward at his dead wife before reaching and stroking Arthur's cheek.
What Romeo said next surprised Alfred not because of what he said, but because he could clearly understand him. For the first time since they had been introduced into the world of fourteenth-century Verona, America could understand the words. He knew what Romeo was saying – and found himself understanding why he was saying them.
"Juliet," Romeo whispered quietly as he touched England's cold cheek. "Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous?" America could almost hear himself translating, understanding, and believing. Arthur looked a little odd in a dress, but he looked so peaceful that it didn't matter. Was him dying the only way he would ever look so peaceful, so … perfect? "I still will stay with thee; and never from this palace of dim night depart again," he spoke without fear, kissing Arthur on the forehead. America wasn't going to leave England's side, not for anything. Nothing.
Romeo stood and took a knee beside Arthur's body. "Eyes, look your last," he whispered. He glanced over him, from the light blond, tussled locks adorned on his head, to his shoe-covered feet. America knew how small England had been, but now he just looked fragile. He looked back to his face and blinked, a little surprised. Wasn't his face up towards the ceiling? Why was his head crooked slightly to the left now, facing him? Or, maybe he was hallucinating. The dead couldn't move.
"Arms, take your last embrace." With a trembling sigh, Romeo took England in his arms and gently rocked. He buried his face in the crook of his neck and held him close, like something he desperately didn't want to let go of. America wished he could have traded all the hours of useless arguments and bickering for him to just wake up. He set England down gently, but remained hovering above him.
"And, lips, O you the doors of breath…" Romeo leaned forward, his forehead touching with England's. "… Seal with a righteous kiss a dateless bargain to engrossing death." As his lips touched with England's, America didn't find himself protesting. He instead felt like this was, almost, the right way to say goodbye. He didn't blush or fidget like the child he could so often be, but instead could feel a few final tears slipping off his cheeks. His hand unconsciously took England's and he squeezed, so badly wanting to feel a grasp in return. He wanted it so badly that he almost felt his fingers twitch – but that was just an illusion. It wasn't real.
Romeo moved quickly as their lips parted, scooping himself up to standing before the stone bed. He looked mournfully at Juliet, his hand slowly slipping to a pouch on his thigh. America wondered what he was doing, before he felt a familiar, but tiny, object in his hands. He looked down and in his hands was that mixture of God-knows-what, and he was eyeing it so carefully, like he was daring himself, pushing himself, to actually down it. But, he wouldn't. Romeo knew better than that, right?
Taking the sight in, Montague twisted the vial in his fingertips. He stared down at it with a frown, contemplating holding his life – or death – in his hands. "Here's to my love," he muttered. He popped the cap off with ease and took a moment to look inside. The small bottle was then lifted to his lips as he leaned his head back slowly, expecting the probably painful, disgusting poison to stain his throat and seep into his body …
But at the last second, America took control. He jerked his hand away, his head snapping back to front. His palms were sweating; his heart was racing. He even felt like he was shaking a bit, panting. 'No,' he thought as he caught the breath he never knew he lost. 'I … I made England a promise that I wouldn't die.' Why did he make that promise again? It was something about the plot, but what? And why couldn't he remember?
As he looked back to Arthur, however, Alfred began to seriously debate whether holding true to his word would do any good, with England already dead. His eyes and heart filled with sorrow, shoulders sagging as he examined the corpse of Arthur Kirkland. It wasn't right to see him like that. He glanced back at Paris as well. None of it was right. Finally, he looked to the vial.
He could end it all, but he was choosing not to. Romeo was begging him to. He had said his goodbyes, had lived in happiness for just a few days before it was taken from him. He had nothing left to live for, and America was starting to understand the feeling. He wasn't a nation anymore, and he didn't know how to get home. Worst of all, England, the last country he thought would fall in a situation like this, had to pay the price for something neither of them had wanted.
But, what if he still was the country? Would killing himself turn the war in 1942? Was there a 1942 anymore without him or England there? Was the war still going on? There were so many questions he had, none of them that would be answered living or dead. He was too helpless to live, but too scared to die. There was no in between. He had a choice to make.
Alfred took one last look at Arthur. He swore, swore that both his arms were on his chest. But now, only one was. Maybe he was going crazy. A life as a crazy, loveless man didn't sound good to him. Romeo crept over him as he eyed England and closed his blue eyes, his head hanging. "Here's to my love," America whispered in sorrow.
And in one swift move, the vial was to his lips and the liquid inside was down his throat.
He braced himself for a heartattack, a stroke, something, some reaction. Nothing came. Alfred blinked a few times and patted himself down. Was that it? What a ripoff. Alfred frowned slightly. It wasn't like he had actually wanted to kill himself, but something in him he knew was Romeo had told him it was easier than living alone. He sighed and looked at England again. 'What now?' He had chosen the suicide route, the most unheroic thing he could have ever done, and it failed him. What would he do next?
He had thought too soon. Without warning, his knees buckled as his stomach threw itself towards his throat. "Wh-" He had almost collapsed, but Alfred, being too stubborn to fall, steadied himself with one knee on the tomb floor, a hand grasping his racing heart, his breaths labored and strangled. He felt like he would vomit. No, he felt like he would drown in his own perspiration. Wrong again – there were hundreds of needles under his skin. Most of was all a chill sweeping through his blood, numbing him slowly.
With a low grunt, he forced himself to a standing pose and half-walked, half-stumbled to the stone bed. His hands landed on the concrete, and he looked despairingly at England. Did he just … blink? No, he was going crazy. That was it. The dead didn't blink. He was still again soon after, and America fell to his knees. His arms still were on the slab, near England's torso. He leaned forward and trembled as he fought the dark sweeping over him. 'I never thought I'd die like this. This isn't a hero's death, is it?'
This was it. He was going to die. He looked down at England and could feel air failing him, his heart readying itself to stop beating forever. He knew he didn't have much longer, if he had any time at all. "Thus," he spoke weakly, "with a kiss …" Summoning whatever strength he had left, he leaned forward and ever so gently put his lips against England's. He trembled even then, his heartbeat skipping and his strength waning. He drew back slowly, a clammy palm gently touching England's cheek. Was he getting some color back to his face? Or, was it just America's imagination? "I die," he spoke quietly, voice stained with the fear he was feeling.
Black swept into his mind like a curtain being drawn. In his chest, his heart pounded so hard against the wall of his chest that it felt like it was trying to escape from his body. The panging jolted him slightly, but just enough that he fell, his back slamming on the floor, legs slumping limply to the side. His insides felt like they were on fire, burning from his stomach through every nerve. He grit his teeth and struggled to breathe, like there was a weight on his chest and in his lungs. He was ashamed of himself for letting Romeo convince him to take that damned potion. He was also scared, scared of the darkness covering his eyes, scared of the pricks of pain in his body, scared of dying in a tomb with his last thoughts on the person he couldn't save.
A wave of calm slowly washed over him. It kept him from thrashing and writhing in pain, even if he so wanted to. His energy was gone, spent away, but he didn't panic. He felt his head, which was up to look at Arthur, falling backwards. Alfred couldn't hold on any longer.
And then, it was over. His body felt no pain or panic. His eyes closed; his body sagged and became limp with no movement. In his hand, the vial let the last drop of poison settle on the ground. His chest rose and fell one last time.
There was no sensation of the soul separating from the body. He didn't see Romeo's spirit dancing away from the corpse to find Juliet's soul. He didn't see the ghost of England hovering above him, a hand extended, like he had been waiting. Alfred didn't see any light or any golden gates leading to Heaven. He didn't turn into an angel like people believed, nor did he become a ghost to haunt the world forever. It was simple; he no longer existed. It was over, just like that, in the last way he would have wanted to go.
Alfred F. Jones and Romeo Montague were dead.