I do not own Hetalia or this song. Please listen to My Immortal by Evanescence and think of England.

England slowly sinks down into his plush chair. The fire in the fireplace lights his sitting room and fills it with warmth as it crackles almost cheerfully. The nation doesn't even notice. He has a nice, steaming cup of tea on the small table beside him that hasn't been touched since he placed it there. The warm aroma of the tea invites him to take a sip, but he doesn't. None of this matters. Not anymore.

England's eyes rest on a book sitting on the table next to the one other plush chair in the room. It's a storybook full of fairytales. He must have forgotten to take that with him when he-

He can't finish the thought. It's been a week since he left, but England still hasn't come to terms with it.

Sometimes, Arthur would hear the house creak and think it was him walking around before reminding himself he was gone now. He would look up from his newspaper and ask his opinion on some story he just read, and then look back down when he was met with silence. He would see a forgotten item and smile sadly at the memories it brought back. Then he would sit and try not to fall apart. It never worked.

The memories. They aren't bad memories necessarily. In fact, England cherishes those memories far more than any others, but they contain a certain element he'll never have again.

America.

England remembers the countless cuts and bruises he had to tend to over the years. When he was younger, Alfred would cry and cry no matter how big, or small, the injury was. Every time, without fail, Arthur would patch him up and wipe away the big crocodile tears that would roll down Alfred's face.

"Now, what did I say about running through the woods?" Arthur would say, or, "Do you remember what I told you about jumping off the swing?"

Alfred would always reply, "To not to," with a sniffle.

And to that Arthur always said, "And how many more times are you going to make me say it? You need to act more like a gentleman."

Then he would ruffle the young boy's hair and stand up. Little Alfred would jump up, scrapes forgotten, and scamper off to have another adventure or to play with Canada. The two got along quite well back then.

But that was all in the past.

England sighs and shifts in his chair. The past is what seems to haunt him the most. America has his independence now, and England can't change that no matter how much he wishes he could. Did America even consider the effect his choice would have? Did the nation know what kind of pain it caused England to see him standing there defiant and indifferent to the words the older nation desperately screamed? England sighs again and reaches for his tea. There's no point in thinking about it.

He had effectively removed anything that reminded him of his former ward. That's what he figures is best to call America now that the grown nation is no longer his brother. America had made that pretty clear. Any picture, book, old toy, piece of clothing, or random knickknack that even faintly reminded England of America, he had gotten rid of. Some things had apparently been overlooked despite his thorough search as the forgotten book of fairytales testifies.

It had been hard at the beginning. During the first few days, the mere thought of America was enough to bring England a dull ache to his chest and tears to his eyes. Then one day he snapped. In a haze, he furiously went through every room and stripped it of anything and everything that reminded him of his rebellious younger brother. At the time he still thought of America as his brother. Every room he left, he left in a mess. After a while, he stopped differentiating between what really had been America's and what just happened to be in the room. Armfuls of random things were carelessly shoved into bags to be thrown away, and when England ran out of bags, he just threw it out into the yard.

Then he came across something that made him stop. In the middle of the chaos he stumbled upon a picture of the two of them together at some sort of formal event. America was wearing the tuxedo that England had gotten him, and the older nation found himself feeling a little annoyed by the fact that America hadn't bothered to straighten his bowtie for the picture. England remembered purchasing the tux because the younger nation never had anything nice to wear. Everything was always ripped, stained, wrinkled, or unwashed. America had never been fond of the formalwear, but England insisted he wear it. It was one of the few things America actually took with him when he left. In the picture, they were both smiling, and America had his arm around England. That was enough to push him off the edge.

The picture fell out of his hands as he dropped to his knees and bent over. He couldn't take it anymore, couldn't hold it in. All the pain and memories came flooding back. Everywhere England looked, all he could see was America. His face, his voice, his laugh, they haunted him everywhere be went, and he just couldn't take it anymore.

He doesn't know how long he kneeled there crying with his head in his hands. The next thing he remembers was waking up on the floor with the picture torn into pieces. He couldn't even bring himself to feel bad about it. Maybe someday he would regret what he did, but that seemed hard to believe after the chasm that had been torn between the two nations.

Even with his house mostly cleared of memories, England's head can't be cleared quite so easily. He takes a sip of his tea while deep in thought. The steaming liquid warms his insides, but does nothing to thaw the ice in his heart. Even though that fateful day was only a week ago, to England it seems like a lifetime. His life had changed so drastically that he feels like it is something completely. His mind drifts back to that awful day.

The rain had poured down from the dark sky as if the heavens mourned what had become of the two men. One had stood tall with a musket in his hand. The other knelt in the mud, his musket lying in a murky puddle. Arthur had clenched his fist. Why did it have to be this way? Why couldn't he just listen?

Arthur reached for his musket and slowly stood up. Rain plastered his usually unruly hair to his head, and small rivulets of water streamed down his face. He locked his gaze on the rebellious young man with a newfound determination. That's all he was after all, a rebellious kid. Arthur would keep him in line like he had done many times before. How was this any different?

But in many ways it was.

"Hey England," Alfred called, choosing to call the elder nation by his country's name. It had hurt Arthur when he realized they had reverted back to impersonal formalities. "I'm choosing liberty after all." He raised his musket. "Acknowledge it!"

Arthur had said something as he raised his musket in return, but he can't quite recall what. Then he charged.

England shifts in his chair and quickly changes his thoughts.

He thinks of the many sleepless nights caused by a younger Alfred waking up terrified. The boy would get up in the middle of the night crying about some monster that was trying to eat him. Arthur never figured out where he had come up with that stuff, but he suspected it had something to do with all the horror stories Alfred read in his free time. Even then Alfred had liked horror, although he often couldn't handle it.

Arthur had to sit next to the bed and hold Alfred's little hand while he explained why he was so scared. Sometimes he cried, and sometimes he didn't. When he got older he didn't always call for Arthur. Instead, he would get out of bed and light the lamp on his bedside table as quietly as he could. He would lay there with the lamp lighting his room until he fell back asleep. When that happened, Arthur would come in later to blow the lamp out. Alfred never realized he did that though.

England takes a long drink of his tea and sets down the cup. It fits perfectly in a matching saucer with a soft clink. He then slowly rubs his temple as if trying to ease some of his pain through the simple action. Life used to be so much simpler when America was young. It's easier to think about too. England stands up and walks over to a window opposite his chair. It's raining again.

As England stares out into the damp, dark evening with a thought slowly forming in his head, and then a feeling deep in his heart.

All this cleaning and rewiring of thought has just been England's way of coping with reality. The reality that America is no longer here, yet in a way is still here. He's here in memory, but more importantly, England still feels him in his heart. England brightens a little at the thought. Perhaps it's better to have this memory than nothing at all. He ponders that avenue of thought, and begins to enjoy where it takes him. It's better to have loved and lost than never loved, right? He'll have to remember that for a poem or something later, although, writing poetry isn't England's forte, so maybe he'll have someone else do it instead.

But then, why did he leave? The thought hits England like a blow to the chest. Was it possible America wasn't as fond of England as England was of him? Have all these years meant nothing? The nation's mind flashes through every fight, every harsh exchange of words the two ever went through. Some were extremely petty, and some were not. He remembered the worst had come right before those awful events leading to America's independence. There had been so much anger, mistrust, hurt, confusion, and spite that England feels repulsed at himself.

He quickly looks away from the window, his face contorted by pain and regret. Is it his fault America left? Was he not a good enough brother? England clenches his fists. There's no use in pretending it never happened. America was, and will always be his brother, no matter how much worse that makes his betrayal.

England drops to his knees. The pain is more than he can bear. His head falls back as he tears begin to flow down his face, and all he can do is stare at the ceiling. That's when another, more painful thought, crosses his mind. He almost laughs. How could anything be more painful than this? Somehow, he's proven wrong when he allows the thought to take hold in his mind and grow like a malevolent weed. He's alone now, but when has it been any different?

He has always been alone.

Indiscernible wails and pained sounds come from England as he finally lets himself drop to the ground. He pounds a fist on the carpeted floor as tears splash onto his tightly curled hands. It's true. He has always been alone. Since the moment he was born, he was alone. He grew up abandoned and isolated, picked on by Vikings and then by France. No one ever took him seriously. Even now, with all the power and influence he has around the world, no one gives him the respect he deserves. The sun never sets on the British Empire, he thinks bitterly. That's pretty easy when it never rises at all. His world is dark, always was, and always will be.

The defeated nation's mind goes back to all the lonely days he spent as a kid by the lake. Francis was the only one who visited him, and that was just to brag about his newest fashion trends. Trends Arthur would never be a part of. No one wanted him around, not even stupid trends. He had tried to convince himself that it didn't matter, but he knew he was lying.

He was always alone.

But Arthur had thought Alfred would change all of that. On that day when Alfred had first looked up at him with wide blue eyes and uttered Big Brother, that was the day Arthur thought he finally had a friend. Someone who wouldn't laugh at his cooking or his eyebrows. Someone who would stick around through thick and thin. Someone who he could love and love him back.

That's all a dream now.

England kneels hunched over the floor with tears silently streaming down his face. He's stopped screaming, and now falls to his side to lie there numb and unfeeling. All he can think about now is reaching for America's hand when America was little. The memory plays over and over in England's mind as if there is some detail he hadn't picked up on the first time that might be the key to fixing the mess inside. Each time it plays, America smiles and reaches for England's outstretched hand in return. He had spent years holding the young nation's hand and guiding him through life.

Years and years and years.

England slowly closes his eyes as a new, peaceful thought replaces the repeating images. Although America is gone, that doesn't mean he isn't England's brother anymore. They will always have that connection. At least, England will always think so. Being someone's brother is not something that can be turned on and off at will. He doesn't realize it, but the tears have stopped. His weary face finally reaches a calm expression. Though the years are gone, there are many more to come. England decides he will use those years to try to reclaim as much of the brotherhood as he can, no matter how long it takes. Even if takes another hundred years and another hundred after that; he won't give up. Even if the bitterness and pain inside makes it difficult and almost impossible; he won't give up. America is gone, but England is still his brother. Being a brother means you give the other person your all.

"All of me," England whispers quietly to himself.

No matter what.