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It’s a good thing Russia built his house big enough to fit all the other nations and then some, Davie thinks as he stares up at the mansion. Already, a line of graves lies baking under the swelling sun. Davie can’t make out the names on the headstones from this far away, but it’s obvious who is buried by the flags flying behind the headstones. Finland, Iceland, Sweden, Belarus, and Latvia, both Italies and Sealand and Wy. He never got to meet the last two in person, but he’s sure the children were delightful in life.
Davie entered the door. Sitting on the old, worn couch is Norway and Denmark, Iceland’s puffin perched on Denmark’s shoulder and tears streaming down Norway’s cheeks. From what Davie recalls, Iceland was Norway’s brother. He must have been buried quite recently.
He climbs the stairs. Russia stands at the top of them, coat and scarf still on despite the blistering heat (and though Russia always wanted to live someplace warm Davie can’t help but feel bad for him; a warm home, but with death looming over his shoulder) and violet eyes staring blankly into nowhere. His hand grips the stair railing and Davie politely steps around him, even though Russia can’t see.
In front of one of the doors in this hallway sits England, head in his hands and hair long and unruly. His body hitches every do often with sobs, and Davie knows immediately that the room the Englishman has taken residence in front of must be America’s.
(Davie knows England is lonelier than he’s ever been– his colonies are all dying in their own rooms and his magical friends left with the humans. He’s taken up sitting outside his former colonies’ rooms, accompanying whichever one is closest to death.)
Davie slips into America’s room, and immediately his heart twists with the country’s strained, rasping song.
“Davie, Davie
Give me your answer, do…”
He’s grown since Davie last visited. Last time he was a bright, cheery teenager. Now…
“I’m half crazy
All for the love of you.”
He’s a pale, shaking man of twenty-four, skin graying with death and hair limp (even that cowlick which never seemed to stay down) and spread in a dull golden halo around his head.
“It won’t be a stylish marriage
I can’t afford a carriage…”
Davie sat by his bedside, and America opened his eyes. They, at least, were as clear and blue as the summer sky was thousands of years ago.
“But you’ll look sweet
Upon the seat…”
And his voice gave out there. Davie sang the final notes, forlorn voice thick with the promise of tears.
“...Of a bicycle built for two.”
His smile is bittersweet as America reaches out to him, and the golden-haired man falls limp as England bursts through the door and wails. His eyes meet Davie’s (unseeing and glassy, they don’t see him at all) as Davie pulls America’s ghost out of his body and wraps the man in a tight hug. America returns it, and they leave England to mourn.
Russia has stopped on the stairs; his eyes are brimming with tears but his face is split into a laugh. He outlived his longtime enemy, yes, but he lost one of the few people that could match his strength. Denmark and Norway, too, are hugging– Norway’s sobbing into Denmark’s shoulder and Denmark has tears of his own beading in his eyes and streaming down his cheeks.
As they leave the mansion they’re greeted by Iceland’s spirit (he’d grown into a charming young man before his death, strikingly similar to his brother Norway), who pulls America into a hug. His voice is quiet when he speaks, but Davie can just barely hear him ask if they want to join him and the other dead nations. When Davie looks over, he sees the other ghosts playing a drawing game in the dry dirt between Sealand’s and Wy’s graves ; free from the responsibilities that came with being a country, content in death to live carefree afterlives unaffected by wars or plagues or economic downturn.
America is happy to join them at last, and so Davie is too.