Sorry, My Boyfriend is Just Kind Of Old-Fashioned [Hetalia England x reader]

Chapter 16- Arthur Meets Death

It was not 1775. It was not Queensbury.

After (Name) pushed him, Arthur falls into the white of the crack and it turns into more white into more white into more white.

Endless and deep. White as the eye could see.

The blankness of it all was terrifying.

Tendrils of thickness-- still the same color, but he can feel them-- wrap around his ankles and waist.

Fear.

He has a steely determination. It had to be done. He couldn't have stayed. He was a harm.

A moistening of the eyes.

He was, after all, human.

"And that is where you're wrong."

A voice.

He can't hear coming from anywhere, but Arthur can feel it speak somehow. He couldn't tell you what language it was speaking, or what words-- but yet, he understands.

"England."

'What--?" Arthur stammers. "Yes, that is where I was-- where I meant to go-- so-- why am I here? Where is here?"

"You deceive yourself. Awaken and claim it."

The ghastly voice chills Arthur to the core. It feels cold and yet comes from inside him at the same time. He looks around into the blankness.

It's driving him mad.

"What are you?! Please, send me forward-- send me back-- or just kill me here-- not this, whatever this is!" He panics.

The voice is filled with such hate and tiredness.

"This-- you share it. This, is the curse of eternity. Long have I waited and waited and waited for all things to pass and all things to come to me-- in exchange to live forever-- but it is my role. I go by many names. Time. Death. Among two of them. I hate it. And yet it is my role."

"But you! Arthur Kirkland, incarnation of England-- did you ever wonder why you didn't turn to dust and bone when entering (Name's) dimension?"

That thought never did cross Arthur's mind. He finds himself laughing with a twinge of insanity.

"You are England. You cannot die. Wake up, and see it. Stop hiding behind the guise of the patriot sad to lose a silly war. Friends. The lovesick teenager."

At those words, Arthur snaps.

"You cold and desolate thing!" He shouts. "You criticise what you cannot have-- like a fox cries "sour grapes!" The things you mock are the very things that make me human! Whatever it is you think I am-- you're wrong-- it cannot be."

"And so he has chosen." The voice is enraged. "But he must suffer. Feel then, Arthur. It's but a taste of my anguish. Wait. Wars. Death. Rot. Time. All erodes to soft sand in the end, as will you."

"Wait for her, Arthur.

Your reason to be human.

And then-- I will take you as mine, after all."