Dreams. Memories. Juliet's life and his own, intertwined in slumber. England's mind was flooded by them, flooded with Juliet's life and her times and feelings and opinions. He felt the heartbreak of having her parents disown her, the distaste she had for Paris and their so-called 'marriage', the love for her maternal nurse, and the strength of her love for Romeo. His life slowly bled into hers, from the crusades to civil wars, the great majesties he had the pleasure of serving, every piece of his life.
England never had odd dreams. His were always memories, thoughts. Reflection of better, and worse, times. He never had the time to think back and fall victim to nostalgia during the day, so he did so at night, when he was alone, when he couldn't be woken by present day problems. Arthur often half-dreamt, half-remembered the times he cherished and the times he loathed, but one thing he rarely did was remember America. He had trained himself to wake up during dreams involving Alfred. He had spent enough time of his life waking up with tears in his eyes, and he had decided enough was enough. The sleep-induced memories of America faded through the years, becoming less and less recurrent.
So, why was he dreaming of him now?
In his mind's eye, he saw the times they had together and the times they had apart. He didn't get a chance to dream of every single one, but he saw, heard, and felt something different every time. For instance, he recalled the time that his heart melted when America, as a toddler, showed him a very bad scribble drawing of the two of them. (England remembered that he was the color green, while America was blue.) There was the pride he felt when Alfred first fired a rifle and successfully hit the targets marked on the maple trees; how the boy jumped up and down and shouted, 'I did it! I did it! Did you see?'
And then, there were times he didn't want to remember as much. One time, a teenage America walked out of the house during one of England's visits because of an upcoming tax. Arthur managed to find him in town, but he didn't receive a 'good night' like he usually did. There was guilt, when he visited during a particularly nasty thunderstorm and trudged through the rain, only to be met halfway by a soaking wet, likely ill Alfred. The tiny child had an umbrella that was flipped inside out from the harsh winds, and when the two saw each other, America started to cry; England couldn't remember if it was the rain on his cheek or if it was tears that followed after.
The memories of America were the signal, deep in his subconscious, that this was no normal sleep. If the memories of a teenage girl hadn't done the trick, then the memories of America did. Every time the dreams would stop, and a new memory of the blue-eyed, sandy-haired boy would begin, he would ask and himself to open his eyes, to wake up from this odd slumber. He couldn't, no matter how much he willed himself. His mind and his body were two separate entities, one ignoring the command of the other.
Maybe it was five minutes that he had been asleep. Five hours. Five seconds. But thankfully, after a long while, England finally managed to send a jolt through his body, through his mind, that it was time to get up from what he thought was nothing more than a nap - however bizarre it was. In his unconscious state he had twitched, fidgeted once or twice, movement most people did while sleeping; but therein laid the problem: he wasn't asleep. It was a coma that kept him still and made him reminisce, comatose of forty and two hours, something befallen upon him by his own accord. Even the four corners of his wise mind couldn't have reminded him of that. But forty and two hours was over, and Juliet Capulet was alive again.
Thick eyebrows furrowed along with a few blinks under closed eyelids. His chest rose high, then sank, then raised again, air filling his dry lungs. His heartbeat started to speed back up to its normal pace, and his fingertips twitched. Ever so slowly, his body began to respond.
England's eyebrows furrowed, and he peeked one eye open.. It felt like someone had used an invincible adhesive to bind his eyelids to his eyes. Wherever he was, it wasn't blindingly bright like the morning sun or any light. It was dark, but he could feel and see light from the corner of his eye. Where was he, anyway? How long had he been out? The other eye opened, and with a breath Arthur groaned. He stretched out; his body feeling like boulders had been dropped on his muscles, and gave a yawn that popped his frozen jaw.
Blinking to remain conscious, he sat up and heard odd rustling. When he looked down to see his body clad in a white dress, both elegant and sad in its appearance, he found himself unpleased but unsurprised. 'Right,' he thought with a quiet groan, hand covering his eyes, 'I'm still in this bloody situation.' He tried to reflect on the plot and remember where he was. His mind was in a haze, and nothing was making sense to him. This was either the worst hangover he ever had, or something was very wrong.
Suddenly, England's heart began to flutter. He saw a face in his mind – Romeo's – and looked down at the simple ring on his finger. A small smile came to his face. Juliet's personality merged with Arthur's, her thoughts infusing with his. 'I do remember well where I should be,' she thought before looking to the left at the back wall of the tomb, 'And there I am. Where is my Romeo?'
Juliet made Arthur pan the tomb slowly, neck craning and head looking around slowly. Something - the feeling of dread - crept up in the back of his mind that made Arthur stop her from looking too far. He snapped his head back to staring at the back wall and he tried to pinpoint what the feeling was. There was something wrong with this situation – and it wasn't just the idea of waking up in a tomb filled with dead relatives. This was something that was impossible to describe, like the world was ending. But, what was it? Arthur's green eyes shut tightly, his teeth biting into his lower lip as he thought. She took the potion, he remembered. It felt like he had drunk tar and earwax, a concoction that was unforgettable. And now, he had woken up. What happened in between? Why couldn't he remember?
'Death-like state.' The friar's words rushed back to him, and he looked down at the white dress he wore. His hands grabbed at the fabric, and he blinked in realization. Paris! Arthur looked up at the ceiling and around the back wall. That dread was forbidding him from looking anywhere else. "At least I avoided that fiasco," he murmured, furrowing his brows. Now he wondered where Romeo was. Friar Laurence had told Juliet that Romeo would be there, waiting for her when she woke up. Did his message get to Romeo in time? He forced the rigidness from his body so he could get a proper look around for any sign.
Even if he had remembered the plot beforehand, Arthur wouldn't have been able to brace Juliet for what she was about to see. In truth, if given the chance, he wouldn't have been able to brace himself for it. He craned his neck to the right and, as if drawn by a magnet, his green eyes fell immediately to a form crumpled on the floor. The person was taller than himself, lying with his legs crooked to the right. His torso faced up toward the ceiling, although his face was towards the opposite wall, so Arthur couldn't see him. The attire, tawny-colored locks, and distinctive cowlick gave away his identity, however. The wind felt like it was knocked out of Arthur when he realized that it was Romeo – Alfred.
Chills shot up his body and goosebumps covered his skin. His heart skipped a beat, and he could feel himself starting to sweat, his eyes widening, and terror starting to infect his heart. The plot came rushing back into his memory too late; the message didn't get delivered, Balthasar had the wrong story to tell, and Romeo … He looked away quickly, eyes wide, a hand flying to cover his mouth. Juliet wanted to scream. She wanted to gasp, wanted to express her shock. All he could do was let a low groan escape, his stomach making him lurch forward as if to vomit. He choked back any potential bile with a forced swallow, his eyes shutting. No. It wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening.
America couldn't be dead! He understood that countries could very well die, but not in the same ways as humans. It was very hard to kill a nation. America had great odds against being killed. America was strong. He was young. A little naïve and in over his head, perhaps, but he was simply too young to die this early in the game. Alfred knew better than to deliberately kill himself. He should have been able to control Romeo and get out while he still could. He had even explained that Romeo killed himself. But, then again, Arthur hadn't been able to stop Juliet from going into a coma. The plot was greater than them.
England's eyes opened slowly, and he waited a few seconds to let the queasy feeling pass out of him. After his stomach stopped twisting and his muscles got feeling back, he swung his legs over the side of the stone bed. His bare feet brushed against the cold base of the slab. He stood, slowly, shaking, and felt his leg muscles stretching. He took a step down, feet sliding, and nearly tumbled from weakness. He wondered whether it was from the shock of seeing what he had, or that damned coma he was in.
He faced the back wall and tried to steady his shortened breaths. England glanced back to the stone slab and noticed a pair of glasses lying abandoned, where he presumed Romeo had been sitting. England knew America; he scarcely let Texas out of his sight if the glasses weren't being worn. He was also careful of where he put the Lonestar State. He would have never neglected the spectacles like that. England's heart ached, and he reached an unsteady hand out. Picking them up, England inhaled a shaky breath. America, also, was strict about not letting anyone get near or touch the glasses. Holding the state in his hands was a telltale sign that this was all too real.
Arthur looked at America and his breath hitched. He slowly made his way over and knelt by the boy's still body. Turning America so his face was up, England swallowed and tried to force the tears back into their ducts. His hands took Texas and gently placed the spectacles back on the face of their owner. He didn't pull his hands away, instead brushing one against America's cool cheek. "This isn't funny, you know," he spoke quietly, shakingly, desperately. "… Wake up."
There was no reply. Arthur blinked a few times, his brows furrowing slightly. He rapped lightly on the youth's cheek, gently trying to slap him awake. That didn't work either, so he moved to nudging his shoulders with both hands. "Come now," England's voice croaked out louder than before, "st-stop this!" His breathing was becoming short, and his hands were trembling as he gripped America's shoulders. He shook him harder, trying his best, but America was completely limp.
"Look at me!" America's eyes didn't open. "Say something – anything, please!" He didn't make a single sound. England drew back slowly, shaking his head. "No," he whispered, eyes widening. Arthur drew up with a stumble, standing as he started to look around the tomb. "No, no, no!" His green eyes searched desperately for any sign that America was alive. He was trying to add it all up, and trying to figure out where Alfred was hiding, because the body before him absolutely couldn't be the United States of America. His voice echoed as he cried out, "I know you're in here somewhere! This isn't funny, America!" He was falling to hysteria, and he knew it. 'This isn't real,' he tried to convince himself in a last ditch effort.
He took a few steps in one direction and then headed in another, completely lost and frantic. Tears had welled in the corner of his eyes, and he raised his trembling hands to grab his temples. He must have looked crazy, but he had to be to believe that America would die. His grip slackened, and Arthur looked back at the body. Slowly approaching over once more, he knelt down again and rested his head to where America's heart should have been beating. England closed his eyes, trying to focus all his energy into listening for a heartbeat. Anything. Even if it was faint, it was better than nothing. He bit his lip, trying to concentrate, waiting, waiting for a response.
There was nothing but the night wind on the tomb walls.
He drew back quickly. England stared down in disbelief. His eyes were still wide, and his shoulders began trembling. He considered attempting CPR, but he knew it was futile. He knew it. He now knew, for certain, that America was gone, but for some reason it couldn't sink in all the way. He was in shock, and Arthur could only stare down at Alfred, tears slowly slipping down his cheeks, silently gaping at his corpse.
"You promised," he managed to whisper, the tears falling harder. "Y – you promised me…" Arthur took a trembling breath. His arms fell to America's torso, and he lifted him up, one hand supporting his limp head and the other cradling him. His tears began to fall on America's chest, above his heart, as England looked at him, wishing so badly to see those sky-blue hues open once again.
England let out a heartbroken cry and half yelled, half sobbed, "You promised me you wouldn't die! You promised!" He felt a twisting inside of his chest; an uncomfortable pressure he could only assume was his heart breaking into hundreds of tiny, irreparable pieces. Arthur hoped all of this - the insults, the yelling, the crying - would have woken him up. Yet Alfred remained still. His heartbeat was nonexistent. His eyes were closed, body frozen in death. England hiccupped in his crying, looking at the body in his arms.
One of Arthur's hands gently moved the hair from Alfred's eyes, but it fell back in place. He cautiously touched Nantucket, trying to place the cowlick flat. It bounced back up, as it always did. He chuckled, a low, hollow sound and feeling, as his fingers gently wove themselves through America's soft hair. "I … I could never fix your hair, even when you were a child." England smiled a smile that was ridden with sadness and heartache. "You always did keep your bangs m - much too long." He inhaled and his body shivering as he did. "They always made you look so … s – so …" Young? Boyish? Rugged? Handsome? He couldn't describe it in words. He never could.
He swallowed thickly, his hand moving to touch America's cheek. It was cold. He remembered from the embraces of the Romeo and Juliet fiasco that America was warm. He was the comforting kind of warm, like everything would be okay, the reassurance that life would go on in the midst of war. Now, that was gone forever from Arthur's life. The boyish smiles and skyblue eyes that seemed to brighten the room were no more.
Arthur felt himself break. Without stopping himself, he moved so his forehead was resting on America's unmoving chest, and he started to sob, weeping without reservation. His voice echoed off the walls, and he swore that God was taunting him. Here was the child he found in the grass, the eager boy who ran and hugged him when he got off the ship, the teenager who broke away to find his own path, and the nation who had saved him from facing war alone; the hero he loved. Feeling that child, that teenager, and that nation dead in his arms was worse than any plague, any battle, any war. This, England knew, was what was going to kill him: losing Alfred.
His body was wracked with tremors. He managed, somehow, to stop the crying long enough to look at him again. Two hundred years of life was over. Arthur cast his gaze to the side, where America's hand lay limply against the floor. He blinked through the falling tears, a hand wiping them, and he squinted slightly. "What's here?" he murmured, a frown creasing his face as his hand took Alfred's. His still fingers, frozen in death, were pried open, and a slim, empty glass vial was wrapped inside. England's heart skipped a beat. Poison.
He caught himself considering Alfred a fool, and quickly stopped himself. No, no; it was Romeo. Romeo was the one that killed America. Goosebumps remained on his arms as he lifted the vial up and out of the body's hand. He eyed it in the light of the candles, and couldn't help but vainly put the mouth to his lips and lean his head back. Nothing. Not a drop. Arthur leaned forward and glared at the glass in anger. "Churl!" he shouted, his teeth gritting as he threw the vial with little might against the wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces, and he shut his eyes tightly, sorrow grasping his heart, as he spoke lowly. "Drunk all, and left no friendly drop to help me after." Juliet's idea of suicide was insane, but Arthur found the appeal in it as alluring as she obviously had.
It hurt, knowing he was alone in Verona. It hurt even more knowing that America had actually died because of this. He looked to the dead nation before him and swallowed a knot in his throat. Laying him down on the ground, Arthur remained leaned forward, his forearms resting on either side of America's head, his fingers gently stroking his hair. Tears were falling on his young face, but England hardly cared. Tears would never bring him back. He leaned farther, his lips ghosting tenderly against Alfred's; to his shock, they were warm. He had only died recently. If he had woken up sooner, would he be alive?
Pulling away with a heavy sigh, Arthur bit his lip and gripped the dress above his heart. This shouldn't have been as hard as it was. He was supposed to hate America for what he did. Yet no matter what he did, no matter how he tried, he never could. Now he was alone without America, without hope, and he wished he had never tried to hate him.
His regrets shattered when he heard the door to the tomb opening. He swore he heard talking but didn't focus on the words. What would he do now? He wasn't going to face the world of fourteenth century Verona by himself, get married to a man he, and Juliet, hated, and leave someone he loved behind to rot in a tomb alone. Green eyes glanced to the archway entrance and his stomach dropped, fear making him shake more than he already was. He looked around the tomb despairingly. Where was an exit? An escape? He hissed in frustration, eyes looking to Alfred once again. His face, once upset, fell into one of realization as his eyes met a short, slender weapon attached to Romeo's belt.
A dagger. An idea.
He wasn't thinking when he grabbed the weapon. "O happy dagger," he whispered as he quickly uncovered the silver blade, "this is thy sheath…" His eyes fell to the sheath on the ground and then to the metal knife in his hands. His left hand placed itself on top of his right, arms extending out far before him. He stared the blade down, hands trembling. His breathing was uneven, heartbeat racing. Juliet's conscious might as well have been saying, 'I dare you to. I dare you.' England's eyes closed, and he felt his grip slackening, his arm muscles loosening, and his will to do it fading.
He let his guard down for one second; that's all it took for the blade to pierce through his heart.
A sound that resembled a choke, a cry, a gasp and a hiccup pushed through his lips, and his body lurched forward. His hands fell from the hilt, the silver remaining in his chest. He hadn't the strength to remove the knife now, and it wouldn't matter. His shoulders loosened and he shook when he tried to breathe. Pain shot through his body with every breath. It wasn't worth it. Blood was slipping down his chest, pouring out, spreading, like the fear he was feeling. He was going numb and everything was becoming dark. "There … rust," he told the knife with a choke. Was that blood in his mouth?
England felt himself falling, the vision around him slipping sideways. He collapsed next to Alfred's body, one arm lying on his chest. He had just enough strength to move his fingers across America's still heart, and lift his head to look at him. "And let me die," he spoke barely above a whisper. Anything. Anything was better than the pain of his body and the pain in his heart. It hurt to look at Alfred, but now, as he lay dying, it was oddly comforting. He would see him open his eyes again. He would be able to see him again, or so he had been told. He truly hoped so. Being alone in death would be as bad as being the only one left alive.
His limbs were numb. He couldn't feel himself breathing; every time he tried, it hurt. He was sure his heart had stopped, since the previous pain of a heartbeat was no longer present. Fuzz covered his vision, his already limp body freezing as it had been: left arm draped on America's chest, right arm twisted back slightly, legs crooked in the same direction as Alfred's. He had been looking up at America as well, drinking in the sight of him before he closed his eyes. Tawny hair was the last thing he saw before he slipped away. His last thought was the wish that he could have seen his smile once more.
It started with two people, then three, and then more that discovered what had transpired in the tomb that night. Balthasar was there soon to see good friend Romeo - and Romeo's lover - dead on a bloodied stone floor. The Friar was distraught at the sight, and within the hour the entire town had heard of the news. Paris' life was over. Romeo's life was over. Juliet's life was over. The guilt was stained across everyone's hands for the loss of three young lives in the midst of love and a family war.
In spite of the sorrow, none of the weeping residents of Verona, not even the closest family members of Romeo and Juliet, knew that two great nations had fallen in the shadow of the two star-crossed lovers; that their town's youth were but characters, and the players, along with the parts assigned by some godly force, had died as well.
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
Author's Note: This isn't the end of the story, I promise! Stick around and put your feet up by the fire, because this is going beyond Shakespeare!