pledged_to_me: (A Church Yard By The Sea)
Brigid Erin Aine O'Donnell [Republic of Ireland] ([personal profile] pledged_to_me) wrote2010-11-28 09:53 am
Entry tags:

Last Day

Title: Last Day
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Summary: This wasn't supposed to happen, this couldn't happen! So why was it?!
Timeframe: Uh... hopefully never fucking ever, but for purposes of the meme of origin, present day.
Word Count: 1265
Notes/Warnings: OCs, bad accents, death, probable tearjerker, inspired by the "Last Day" meme over on [livejournal.com profile] adddictions, particularly the thread with England and Ireland. Posted here to avoid associations with my RL/fic journal.


This would be how it would happen, wouldn’t? How England would finally say he was sorry for being a shite brother. She knew all along that he was sorry for it, the awkwardness after becoming first the Irish Free State and then the Republic of Ireland was enough of hint. He didn’t know how to act around her, how to talk to her. He never really had, not since his bosses started looking at her and her lands as somehow valuable territory, and that had been so much of his life that he probably didn’t remember how they used to be.

So he’d never had to say it. She’d always known, and he never would anyway because he just didn’t know how.

And yet somehow, despite all that, despite all the history, all the awkwardness, there they were sitting in Hyde Park near the Serpentine, England saying those words. England saying them because, somehow against all odds, against all logic, was dying.

The wee little brother who had clung to her in tears after Mother had died, who she had sat in her lap and attempted to teach the harp to, taught him everything she knew about magick and the fae and everything that a mother should but a sister had to. The wee brother that decided to invade her, take her land, her people, her freedom whilst the rest of Europe went mad. The wee brother she’d been married to for over a century and fought two wars to be free of. The wee brother she’d lost the peat child of her heart to. He was dying.

Truthfully, she had long thought that if anyone of the family was to die -- and her darling grey eyed nephew had proved conclusively that even the younger Nations could die as well as ancient Empires, so what chance did any of them stand? -- that it would be her. She was old, almost as old as China, and her health… well, as much as she protested, as much as she insisted she was fine, Connor was right, healthy Nations didn’t have chronic bronchitis from yo-yoing economies. And with the recent appeal to aid from the IMF and the EU… things were looking at their bleakest since at the very least the Eighties Economic Crisis. If things were going proper, it would be her in England’s position, her dying instead of him.

And of course, it would only be because that he was dying that he could say “…then I’m sorry. For being a shite brother” while wearing the Slytherin house scarf she’d spun, dyed, and knit as a Christmas gift. Christmas. Which he wouldn’t see, because he only had a day. Twenty four hours. Not even enough time for Terra, Alfred, Matthew, any of his non-European Commonwealth members to see him before…. Barely enough time for Luís, and oh good Lord poor Luís. Slytherin. Grey and green. Aaron and Arthur. Suddenly she hated that house, those books, those colors. All they were were pain, grief, anger, loss. She swore then and there she would never knit another Slytherin scarf, her only one for her brother.

She would change places with him in within a heartbeat. It was what older sisters did, it was what mothers did, what she suspected Mother had done, died to protect the four of them, leaving her and Llewellyn to watch over Arthur and Douglas. And Llewellyn wasn’t here -- yet, she had convinced herself, wasn’t here yet -- so it fell to her until he was. And she would gladly die for him, for any of her brothers, her nephews, her nieces, any one of her friends and family. If she allowed herself to sit and think on it, really think on it like Greece would think on the writings of Socrates or France would think on Voltaire, she knew she was a doomed Nation. Old and in fickle health, no longer able to run out painted blue, screaming, running naked or barely clothed into battle with knives raised high, eager to draw her enemy’s blood. Really, she should be the one dying, not him.

She’d sobbed, nearly screamed, clung to him like a limpet, begged him not to go, not to leave her and the rest of them, she would take the IMF money, would get back up on her feet, even rejoin the Commonwealth if he would just not die. He’d argued, she was his sister, she shouldn’t want to trade her life for his, and he wouldn’t allow it if there was a way to do it anyway so she shouldn’t even think about it.

Too young to die, that’s what he was. Too young, not in bad enough shape to be dying (And if she wasn’t, which as far as she knew she wasn’t, though by all rights she should be, he certainly wasn’t), and just flat out shouldn’t.

Eventually though, she’d calmed enough to help him go through what remained of his contact list, calling those who still didn’t know, holding his arm tightly as he did, for support, because how could you tell your family that you had twenty four hours left to live even though you shouldn’t be dying at all? She’d remained silent through the phone call to Matthew, letting the lad think that England had remembered him all on his own, even as watching England have to tell him broke her heart for the thousandth time that day.

Finally, there was only one more name uncalled on the list. The most important name. Silently, noticing that England’s hands were shaking, frozen over the call button, she held her own out for the phone. He passed it to her and she pressed the button for him before handing it back.

“Port? I… need to tell you something, can you come to Hyde Park in London immediately?” It was a short conversation, one that both Nations attempted to hold back tears during, and neither succeeding.

After that, all they could do was sit and wait. Wait for the Portuguese man to all but run his way down the walkway leading to their bench, all but latching onto her brother like a limpet when he reached them.

She’d hugged them both, clinging tightly to her brother even as she knew he hated it when she hugged him, before pressing a kiss to England’s temple.

“I love ye, me brother. Always have, nay matter what happened.” He only squeezed her arm, but that said more than Arthur had words in him to say to her.

I’m sorry. I regret it all. You’ve always been my sister, even when we fought. I wish I could do it all again. I love you.

She shot a heartbroken look to Portugal, sure that his expression was a mirror of her own. Six hundred years, and it was all about to come to an end. An end neither of them expected nor wanted, and she felt what remained of her heart break as they walked away from each other, England and Portugal in one direction, she in another.

She never saw her brother again, never returned to the lands that once were his, dressed in black every day from then on, suffered the haunted looks in everyone’s eyes even as she tried to be strong, tried to be a support for them all.

She failed in that the moment she’d gotten a phone call. All through her history, her brother’s bosses, the world it sometimes seemed, had tried to break her.

In the end, it was a park bench and a Slytherin scarf worn by a dying brother that finally did it, finally broke the Republic of Ireland.