Chapter Text
"Mother? Please come back... I'm sorry for almost touching the pendant, please!"
The boy quietly pleaded with his mother, begging her to return to normal. Waves crashed against a nearby beach, drowning out any more of his pleas. He was just a voice among voices.
The woman looked at him, but she did not see her son. She saw a citizen, part of a collective. She saw a human. She was no longer a human as well. Her soul was replaced with that of many hearts beating with one ideology, and there was no way now that she would ever return.
Lest the nation be struck down.
"Sorry, but... She isn't here any more." The mother spoke her apology into the night, opening her eyes to satin sheets and darkness. Her breaths stilled gradually, finding a steady rhythm soon after she grasped the mattress. Her nails were no longer feeling the sediment of the past. Try as she may, she looked around for her son, but found only darkness..
She was no longer the mother. She wasn't even in the same body any more. But the face of that young boy haunted the mind of England, forcing the nation awake in the dead of night.
He clutched the medallion at his chest, a deep green emerald and a symbol of his inhumanity. His eyes were the same green, almost glowing in his distressed glaring towards the wall. He was afraid, in spite of everything, that he was losing something he never had: humanity.
Remembering his first consequences hurt more than remembering any war. It activated a part of his mind still driven by the mother's instinct, hoping to protect the boy from his fate as a mortal. Though an inherently human thought, England couldn't suppress it. It pained him to this day even after refusing female vessels.
At the bed to his side, France stirred. The sapphire on his finger shimmered in the moonlight, momentarily blinding the emerald green eyes.
England scoffed to himself, startled out of his mind's grip on his memory.
France looked up at him, smiling. It was his fakest smile yet. "Reminiscing again, Angleterre ?" He had a way of knowing. Maybe it was the apathy.
"I can't help it... Part of me will always be a mother to that poor child." England found his voice hoarse, yet still trying to speak with that woman's softness.
"You-and Russie, eugh - and your collective tendencies to mother! I don't know how you live like that." France adjusted his grip on the hotel pillow he held. It was no more than a pillow, and yet it held the weight of replacing someone from the past.
"You say that, and yet every time you've been found on accident, it's been by a desperate lover. That, and you always try to stay with their old companions." England scoffed. Country of love, breaker of hearts, and ultimate hypocrite . "You're the ultimate heartbreaker. That's almost evil, you know."
"Perhaps..." France adjusted the ring. He kissed it once. An act to make a tribute to someone he'd lost long ago. "But I like to let them down gently. Much unlike you."
"Truth is kind, France." England stood and stretched, then put a hand to his aching back with a sigh. He'd seen it coming. The body he currently inhabited was accelerating through its age. Then, he put another hand up to the emerald hanging from his neck. It radiated energy, almost seeming to watch over his land. The very immortal thought of England was within this thing, taking this body, and using it for its resources.
"I'm getting older..." England scoffed. His discontent for life no longer was bound . "I'll have to find the eye a new home soon."
France could only chuckle at his companion's dismay. "Maybe pick a woman next time. I'm tired of seeing you with your strong jaws and sad jowls. Please?"
"Oh, quiet, you." England smirked. "You love it when I pick the men."
"Ah, but is it not fun to be pretty? I'll be picking a woman next time..."
"Fuck you, honestly... Don't you dare make a joke out of that."
France smiled more genuinely, standing and stretching before dressing himself and leaving. He didn't go without blowing a kiss to one of his many confidants, though.
England couldn't help his scowl.
Soon enough, the conversation wasn't important any more. It was one of many interactions that England and France had. They were neighboring representatives, after all. If not for their long history together, they would not have the strength to find solace in each other's warmth. Even if each body was different, they were closest of anyone. Even if rivals were friends, they exchanged banter as they always would.
Time after that day was a blur for England.
The day came for England's new faces to be presented. It always boiled down to the same ceremony, but every year, his monarchs tried to make it more and more lavish every year. Everyone dressed in at least one article of emerald green. Everyone watched very carefully as the procession led England to his new choices.
They did not see the agony in his eyes, for they were all too accustomed to this tradition. England was here to select one of two new bodies from candidates trained for this express purpose. Leaders of some important organization offered their children with green eyes and blonde hair.
England could care less. If neither child wanted the eye, he would demand new candidates. After all, the eye only needed to remain unbroken for England to live on. He did not need a body, no matter how the masses demanded one. They had to hear the words of his eternal wisdom, because they could not live with their own lives.
Even if for some reason, in his youth, England had convinced the citizens that he would die if he had no body. It was a terrible decision really. Terribly dramatic. He'd only die from boredom without a body, and even that was impossible.
Now, the consequences were clear. In this new world, England was still faced with cultish choosing occasions. A ceremony only perpetuated by mad sheep.
What a nightmare.
The time finally came. England was eye to eye with each candidate before he could think about it. Both had recently turned eighteen, and both were ready to relinquish their souls for an old man's prosperity.
England felt evil.
But, he had started this. He would end it. Just as he had planned to from the beginning.
"May I have a moment with the lad?" He asks the one who presented the pair of candidates. It's been a while since his conversation with France. Twenty years, he thinks.
This body has aged fifty since then.
"Of course," Answers the woman. She leads them both to a small room inside the building behind them. There, England and the boy are left alone.
"Well then." England starts. He's been through this hundreds of times. "You realize what you're doing here, don't you?"
"Yes, sir." The boy answers, shining green eyes meeting ones glazed over with cataracts.
"Oh, please. Don't call me sir. What's your name, lad?" England is no nation in this moment. He's the mother that he's always wanted to be. Before him, he doesn't see a young adult, but a scared child.
"Arthur," The boy answers with caution. His brows are unkempt, and his eyes are avoidant. "Why are you asking me this?"
"Because, well... I want to know who to mourn. I never like losing citizens. This, however, is all too personal." England sighs. The boy has a point. "If you want to, I can say I've changed my mind and let you live. Would you like that, Arthur?"
The boy genuinely thinks. He hasn't been taught to live normally, he only knows a routine of physical fitness fit for an athlete. That, and ways to resist pain. He's the perfect vessel; why would he give this up? His one true purpose in life is to be England's.
He pities the girl.
"No, I wouldn't. Plus, I'm not getting any younger. So I accept the eye."
England huffed. He knew this was coming. Every year, the candidates got less and less human. Eventually, he'd probably have test tube children made for the express purpose of his use. To curse life itself with this horrible habit was not his proudest act.
The mother within him grieved for every soul he consumed. He had to ignore a tear threatening to run down his wrinkled cheek. All in favor of appearing eager to steal another soul from the world, just like the monster that his people worshipped.
Whatever it took to survive, though... Better yet, to thrive.
"Take it, then. I won't stop you."
The boy, Arthur, reached forward. He immediately grabbed the pendant by its jewel. Soon enough, the old man truly died.
Just as quickly, there was no Arthur to speak of.
England felt his joints suddenly become elastic, his spine less bent, his eyes able to see. There was an odd brightness in this vision, but that was fine. He put on the pendant, leaving the body for someone else to handle.
The roaring crowd before him sounded like the waves crashing against the beaches. The same waves he remembered looking at when he first found the jewel. The waves from both rocky beaches and unbecoming pirate eras.
The crowd was proud of their man, unknowing of his former humanity slipping further away. Soon enough, there may be nothing but the gem, for that is all his body truly is. This *thing* he speaks through is just a vessel, but at the very least, he can try to hold on a little while longer.
England greeted the world with his indifferent attitude. He put on a small smile for publicity, but that was all he could muster. Somewhere in his mind, he was still a tired old man, just with a new body to carry him further into the future.
Ignorance was bliss. He ignored everything as he jogged back through the procession, his new body able to handle a quicker journey. The bastards made him run this time, but it was easy. All that mattered was that the eye wasn't damaged. Well, that was all that mattered to them.
They don't truly care for themselves. Nor do I for them. Why try to love them like they believe I do?