Three quarters of the North American Family and most of the UK siblings scrambled through the foggy landscape of collapsed buildings and smoking rubble. At some point it had started to rain a gentle, quiet shower, but none of the stumbling countries seemed to notice. America had wandered away a few yards from the others, calling out in a voice hoarse from overuse, "England!" He searched the dense fog, struggling to make out shapes past his rain-splattered Texas. The glasses had fogged up to the point where he was tempted to just rip them off.

'Dammit, dammit it wasn't supposed to happen this way.' America thought to himself. He was the hero and the hero always arrives right in the nick of time... right? America called out England's name again and strained his ears desperately for any sound of reply. Why had he waited? Why hadn't he come when the others had asked for his help? Unbidden memories of a time several decades ago came to Alfred's mind of a conversation he and Arthur had shared privately after the conclusion of World War Two, not a discussion between England and the United States, but one between Arthur and Alfred.

~Flashback~

"What a relief! Thank God that's all over huh?" in the back of his mind Alfred wondered why Arthur had asked to speak to him privately, but masked his apprehension with his Hollywood smile and natural air-headedness. But even as he smiled Arthur looked serious and a bit put out.

"Listen America-no Alfred" he began shaking his head as he made his correction. So he wanted this to be just between them then, that wasn't a good sign. Alfred nodded his head at the elder to continue, the grin falling from his face. England fixed him with a hard stare, not exactly angry, but grave and serious. "You really did make the difference in this war and I'm not sure what would have happened had you not decided to join, but..." he trailed off for a moment and closed his eyes as if it pained him to continue, but he sighed and did so regardless. "But know this, even heroes can fail. Sometimes fashionably late might just be late. And one day you may not make it in time to save the day and really lose something important to you." Alfred felt his lips twitch down in a scowl. Why was Arthur talking like this? He knew Alfred had wanted to help earlier, but he couldn't bring himself to put his people at risk if he didn't have to.

"Arthur" he began.

"No just listen. I understand your reasons, I do. Its just" he looked earnestly into Alfred's eyes. "I don't want to you feel guilty one day because you joined the fight too late" and with that Arthur walked passed Alfred, hesitating a moment to place a hand on his former charge's shoulder, and then continued out the door, leaving Alfred alone with his thoughts.

~End of Flashback~

Alfred was feeling desperate. 'He has to be here somewhere. He has to be. Please don't let me be too late'. Alfred continued his internal mantra while Arthur's words from that time continued to cycle through his thoughts. Had he waited too long? Was he too late? Just as hopelessness was about to consume the hero he spotted a dark silhouette limping in his direction. And as the figure emerged he made out a familiar fitted green military uniform and mop of messy yellow hair and relief flooded his features. "England!" he called again, this time in greeting rather than desperation, catching the attention of his searching companions.

England was stumbling weakly, head bent and his limp left arm held by his right. Forgetting his own injuries America hurdled over mounds of debris and crashed into his old mentor, bringing the smaller nation into a tight hug. Taking a moment to appreciate the reunion America finally registered the shallow, labored breathing of the elder. His body was tense and rigid, as if every muscle was straining to hold his body together. America flinched as he distanced himself from the smaller man while keeping his hands steady on England's shoulders. In that moment he knew. "Arthur?" America spoke in a quiet plea for reassurance from his ex-brother. Empty green eyes rose slowly to meet his own blue ones, echoing back to a haunting memory of a forgotten mansion, before the North American superpower felt a gloved hand on his shoulder shove him back and a tall red-headed nation in a bright blue uniform crossed with two white straps rushed past him.

"Albion!" Alistair Kirkland cried out to his youngest brother, wrapping the younger into his arms as England faltered at the loss of America's support.

Alistair fought panic as he felt the rigidity in Arthur's body immediately drain away at their contact. As if he had been clinging to his strength, refusing to fall for some purpose to only now reach resignation. Arthur weakly met his older brother's embrace, throwing an arm around Scotland's neck but there was no strength behind the gesture. "I found you" England sighed.

Scotland's shut his eyes tightly as one arm wrapped around his brother's back and the other hand tangled itself into Arthur's soft hair, now caked in dirt and blood. "A-Alba" came the soft, choked voice of England before the last of his strength finally gave out and the British nation went limp in Scotland's arms. Unable to compensate quick enough to counterbalance his brother's dead weight, Scotland dropped to his knees, sinking slightly into the damp mud while cradling Arthur in his strong arms. Alistair faintly heard the sound of multiple people approaching. He heard the faint gasp of his pseudo-nephew Canada and a disbelieving "Non" from France. No sounds slipped from his own siblings with the exception of Northern Ireland, the rest of them too practiced in showing nothing but disdain and apathy towards one another.

Scotland looked down on his brother's face and cupped his cheek, a gloved thumb wiping futilely at the mix of blood, mud, and rain dirtying Arthur's face. "Arthur, England talk to me. Oi, come on, say something" Scotland tried to make his voice fill with its usual confident and mocking tone but couldn't make it come.

At the sound of Alistair's voice England's head turned slightly, his face filled with a swell of emotions, relief, fear... desperation. "A-Alba. S-s-scotland is that you?" Alistair's heart clenched at how England's normally steady and sarcastic voice quivered and strained to fight its way out of the Brit's mouth.

"Aye its me Sassenach. I'm here" Scotland threw his pride out the window in his attempt to comfort the fallen nation. "H-hey, come on, look at me" the Scot finally noticed the vacant look in Arthur's eyes, the empty fluttering as they searched for something he now knew they could no longer see.

"S-scotland w-where are you? I-its dark" he gasped, "its so dark I can't see you. I can't feel you." Scotland felt the panic inside him rise to meet Arthur's as North's wailing increased from somewhere behind him and he knew one of his other siblings must be restraining her so that she did not come rushing towards them. Eyes finding his brother's hand Alistair used his teeth to rip off his brown leather glove and reached out to grip England's hand. Tears welled in his eyes as his gentle squeeze was met with only the slightest twitch; and yet he could tell it was all England could manage. So Scotland met the gesture by squeezing back harder in a death grip. Refusing to let his brother feel alone. 'I'm here' he silently tried to convey with the touch, not trusting his voice not to falter. "Alistair please" said nation felt dread seize him at the sound of his little brother's plea. The anthropomorphic personification of England, and in many ways the whole of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, did not beg. "Alistair please t-talk to me. I can barely feel you. Talk to me so I know you're there brother." A choked sob escaped Alistair's lips and he brought their joined hands to his chest and settled Arthur closer to his body.

"A-Aye. I will, wee Albion. I'll keep talking as long as you talk back" Alistair cursed how his voice shook.

"Scotland are you crying?" Arthur's voice had gained some strength at the shock, for the first time not wavering as his eyes widened a bit. Alistair sniffed indignantly.

"O-of course I'm not" but even as he said the words he recognized salty tears falling in steady streams down his cheeks to join the rain on England's face.

England snorted the smallest bit "ha, right" he let out a little laugh but it quickly transformed into wracking coughs as Arthur's body seized and blood started coming from his mouth. Scotland felt a lump rise in his throat as he tightened his hold on his brother; as if that alone could anchor him to life.

"Hey, hold on Albion. Albion!" Arthur continued to cough for a few more moments before he settled once again, this time with a little trail of blood coming from the corner of his mouth. Scotland breathed a sigh of relief.

"S-sorry about that" England smiled apologetically. Smiling was the last thing from the Scot's mind he as he responded gravely, "don't apologize."

"H-hey, shouldn't you be calling me a little brat and an idiot? Its not like you to be nice to me."

"Well maybe I'm too tired to come up with an insult!" Scotland retorted, adding an "idiot" at the end for good measure.

They sat in silence for a moment as weak coughs came from England's mouth again. Then Scotland felt a tingling feeling in his hand which was still clasped with England's. He recognized it as Ireland's magic. Realizing what his other brother intended Alistair broke eye contact with Arthur for a brief moment to turn and catch Patrick's eye.

The other redhead gave the slightest nod, his face remaining the only one to yet shed tears as he maintained the classic Kirkland scowl. Scotland returned the nod, sparing a sad glance to Northern Ireland as she tried in vain to stifle her cries while she clung to Wales' arms. Gwen had always been the closest to Arthur, and he always protective of his only younger sibling and sister. Scotland turned back to England and let his own magic mix with Ireland's and flow to his brother through their joined hands. As the healing magic made its way through Arthur his coughs subsided and some of the pain ebbed its way out of his face. Scotland was relieved but did not kid himself. It would not be enough. 'But it might give us more time' he thought, in consolation, to himself.

"Alistair, are Wales... and the twins...?"

"We're here Arthur" Wales' soft voice cut England off. England took a steadying breath before he spoke again.

"Then... I wanted to tell you all... that I'm sorry" his voice was pleading, like he wished he had the strength to see and thereby be able to tell if his siblings believed him.

"Brother" Wales' voice was kind.

"I'm sorry for the way-the way I treated you all" Arthur's eyes welled with tears as he continued. "I just... didn't want to be alone. Scotland, thank you... thank you for staying with me even after everything we've done to one another." Arthur turned his face to the sky. "And Ire" at the mention of his name the stone face Irishman's expression softened. "I'm sorry I took your freedom. You've done well on your own." The older brother made no response, but the lack of an angry retort or jab at his sincerity spoke volumes. The tears that threatened to fall finally spilled down the Englishman's pale cheeks. Scotland was quick to wipe them away though he knew England could not feel him do so. But it bothered the Scot to see his brother cry.

"Hey enough of that" Scotland chided sweetly. "You know we forgave you a long time ago" a sad smile crept onto Alistair's face. "And besides, its not like we don't have our fair share of things to apologize for". Arthur hummed in response. 'Why did we wait until now to have this conversation?' At the sound of shuffling feet Alistair was reminded of Arthur's second family who was also present. "There's other people here to Albion. Its Francey-pants."

England humphed, "So the Frog actually did something right. Who would've thought you'd be the one to outlive me Francis."

"Everyone but you rosbif" came the French accented reply. The familiar banter mixed with insults was comforting, but France's voice was somber.

"Your brat's here too. The annoying American and the good one. You know" Scotland racked his brain for the name "Canadia."

Canada, who had been quietly observing with steady tears streaming down his face had long since buried his head into his pet polar bear's fur while he tightly held the small cub in his hands. The soft fur keeping his cries from interrupting his father figure's conversation with his brothers. But when he heard his kind-of uncle stumble over his name he raised his head and opened his mouth to give his normal correction when someone beat him to it. "Its...Canada...Scotland..." England panted out. Canada was stunned.

'He remembered my name' . It would have seemed such a small thing to anyone else, but to Canada who was so often forgotten or confused for his loud, obnoxious brother to the south, it was touching. He sniffled, "Dad", the term of endearment was all the North American nation managed to choke out. Arthur seemed amused as he chuckled.

"You... haven't called me that... in at least a century." Canada was about to respond back when England began to cough up blood once again, his breath coming quicker and much more shallow. Time was almost up.

"A-Alba" Alistair heard England call out to him again and he quickly gave his unfeeling hand a squeeze and reassured his brother, "I'm here". Arthur sighed in relief.

"Good."

Alistair fought to hold back the tears he had only just gotten under control. "Are you leaving Sassenach?" he asked even as he knew the answer.

"I-I... I think so Alba" it was Arthur's turn to cry and Alistair to get angry. Cradling Arthur's head against the crook of his neck Scotland began to vent his frustration.

"Dammit! Dammit all I'm the oldest its my job to protect all of you!" Alistair took a shuddering breath laden with yet more unshed tears. "Why couldn't you let me protect you just this once? Why couldn't you let me be the big brother I was supposed to be?" Scotland pulled England's face away so that he could look him in the eye.

"Don't say that Scotland" Arthur tried and failed to squeeze Alistair's hand. "There was nothing you, or anyone could have done. And... you are a great brother, that we are nations may make that harder, but you, Alistair Kirkland, were always great."

Beside Canada, America had his eyes shut, and his fists clenched tightly on either side of his bomber jacket. England's words hit him hard. Tears pushed past his closed lids as stuttering sobs ripped their way out of him. 'Nothing anyone could have done? I could have done something. I should have done something!' And those last words 'you were always great' it sounded like some cruel mockery of an event with so many parallels to this very one. And as the rain pelted down on the standing American and the kneeling Britons on the foggy, rain-soaked battlefield, Alfred couldn't help but regret. The words were so similar, but their meaning could never have been more different. 'This is what it really means to be a brother. Through, pain, through war, through betrayals. I guess blood really is thicker than water" he mused. And so, while others had already begun to mourn and say goodbye, America could do nothing but silently regret. England had been right.

Arthur was silent for a moment before continuing. "Will you do something for me Scotland?" England's voice was growing so quiet now. "Look after my people for me? A-and the kids?" Alistair shook his head violently, refusing to acknowledge the implications behind those words but mouthed a quiet "I will" nonetheless. Typical England, still thinking of his former colonies at a time like this.

England's breathing picked up suddenly, becoming shallow and desperate.

"Oh God, Scotland... I'm scared. I'm so scared. It's cold and I don't want to be alone... I don't want to go Alba" England pleaded. Scotland bit his lip, unsure how to comfort his panicking baby brother.

"Shh, shh it's alright Sassenach, you won't be alone. Mother's waiting for us remember?" the words were meant as much as a comfort to Alistair as they were to Arthur. "And..." Scotland steadied himself before speaking with resolve and determination, "Bher mi an-comhnaidn bi an lathair mhath dhut brathair" (I will always be with you brother).

Arthur seemed to calm down at Scotland's words, but Wales couldn't help but turn away. Too disturbed by seeing his closest brother, who looked so much like him minus his own brown hair, that they could have been twins, on death's door. "I love you my brothers". Conner shut his eyes, trying to hide from Arthur's words. "Rwyf wrth fy modd i chy fy mrodyr" England repeated the phrase, this time in a language only Wales could understand.

'I didn't think you ever bothered to learn my language' he thought, but a simple "Lloegr" was all that he let slip.

Arthur's body was getting colder, and the continuing rain did not help much. His blinking was also getting slower and Alistair knew there was no more time. "Listen to me wee Albion, tell mum we love her aye".

"... R-right" came the slow response. "Scotland... " England's voice was so quiet now. Alistair had to lean in so his ear was just above Arthur's mouth to hear. He missed the contented smile that had crawled its way onto Arthur's lips. The words were spoken in a language so old, so filled with the ancient energy and the forgotten mysteries of their native lands that only Scotland remembered and could understand, "When we meet again... let's go sailing together... I... miss the sea" Alistair grit his teeth and shut his eyes to give himself the courage to say the words he knew he should.

"Brother please know that no matter what we... that I... I lo-" the words died on his tongue. The sound of Arthur's ragged breathing had stopped. Scotland pulled away, his eyes wide as he stared down at his brother. Arthur's chest no longer rose and fell and his green eyes were closed, his face uncharacteristically relaxed and peaceful. Alistair finally dropped Arthur's hand, letting it fall limply to the ground with a small splash, and took England's face in his hands. "A-Albion" his voice was quiet and sounded almost innocent, like the days when they all had been oh so much younger. "Albion wake up" he shook Arthur's body a little. "England get up!" Scotland raged down at unhearing ears. Alistair raged because he feared to cry. Then he felt a soft hand on his shoulder which grew into arms hugging his back. It was Canada, the only one of Arthur's brats he kind of liked, besides maybe Australia, maybe.

"Scotland enough. He's gone" Matthew's soft voice was the only thing to cut through Alistair's haze, his green eyes widened in sudden realization and acceptance as his whole body froze. Slowly, as if any sudden movement would cause Arthur's body to vanish, he brought England's head up and cradled his body so that Scotland could rest his cheek on the mop of blond hair. Then the last of his walls fell and Scotland cried. A proud unicorn weeping over the carcass of a lion. He cried and roared and cursed the sky, the rain, whatever God, fates, or powers that be that came to mind, asking why. Demanding to know why they would take his youngest brother. Pleading for them to give him back. And when he had exhausted his desperate, angry cries he bent his head back to meet the falling rain and screamed.

Canada could do nothing but cling to his uncle as he mourned. His own silent tears falling unhindered and the pure sound of Scotland's anguish given voice making it all the worse.

Behind him America and France had their heads bowed with painful sobs ripping their way out of their throats. Quiet whispers were escaping America's lips, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen, I'm sorry". Again and again he repeated the words, but nobody bothered to listen, to consumed by their own grief. Northern Ireland wept into her older twin's chest as he wrapped his arms around her, the two normally antagonistic twins calling a truce in their grief. Ireland himself did not cry out as his siblings did, but tears had finally broken through his closed eyes and begun to spill down his cheeks. And Wales, Wales had fallen to his knees crying without a sound, as befit the quiet nation, and stared blankly at empty space as if he could no longer comprehend the world around him.

Somewhere in the distance the fog and grey clouds broke, revealing a blinding orange sunset. Canada raised his head and shielded his eyes a bit to take in the sight when he saw something he almost could not believe. A scene only gifted to those with the Sight, for which he was never more grateful to have received from his father. He shook the unmoving Scotsman and pointed. The remaining Kirklands looked in the direction he indicated.

"Mathair Britannia" Scotland's unusually quiet voice joined his siblings' in awe at the sight of the ethereal figure. A tall woman stood in the bright glow of the dying sun; long, beautiful brown hair like Wales had flowing in the wind and framing her pale face. Familiar green eyes shone down at them and a kind smile softened her face. Her long blue cloak billowed beneath her and her smile grew as she beheld her children. Then she looked down to her left at a child of no more than four or five who held her hand. Scotland's eyes widened at the familiar frame.

Short, unruly blond hair rested over thick eyebrows and wide, sparkling green eyes filled with more life than Scotland thought possible. The small boy turned to face the Scot directly, his dark green cloak hanging from his shoulders and draping on the ground like it always had. Seeing Alistair and the others a big grin broke over his face and he waved excitedly in greeting. "Alba! Cymru! Eire!" the boy shouted in a high, childlike voice, waving wildly with his free hand. With his other he tugged at his mother and looked up at her with pleading eyes. She smiled sadly and nodded, dropping her hand from his. The boy turned and sprinted in their direction. Scotland barely had time to brace himself before the child Albion came crashing into him, wrapping his small arms around his chest and burying his head into Alistair's neck. Albion pulled away and, tugging on Scotland's cheeks, pulled the Scot's head down and stood on his toes so as to kiss his brother's forehead. "I love you too Alba." He broke contact. "Until we meet again brother!" he shouted cheerily as he turned and ran back towards his mother, green cloak flapping wildly behind him.

Finally able to move Scotland reached a hand out longingly, as if he could somehow call the specter back "Albion... wait" he begged. The boy did not oblige him. He ran laughing in his bell-like voice, reaching a hand out to his mother's own outstretched one. And just as their hands met the last of the sun dipped beneath the horizon and the two phantom beings disappeared with the light. The sun setting for the last time on the former empire.

For several moments no one moved or spoke as the gathering darkness grew thick in the absence of the sun. Alistair felt Canada's hand on his shoulder once again as he timidly asked, "are you alright?"

Scotland chuckled a little bitterly and lifted his head to gaze at the glittering stars above, this time with a sad smile on his face, tears still falling. "Yeah" he said shakily in response to the Canadian's inquiry.

'Until we meet again' he sent the silent message up to the heavens where he knew his mother and brother were listening.

'Pritani.'