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Telling England that his age-old rival is dead should not hurt as much as it does. Seeing the blonde Nation's face collapse, seeing more life seep out of him, seeing more tears burn in venom green eyes shouldn't be this painful.

Telling Belarus her beloved older brother isn't around any more should not be as heart-wrenching as it is. Seeing her eyes dim, seeing her hands go limp, seeing the blood drain from her skin, leaving her as pale as a ghost shouldn't make him want to pull her into a hug and hold her close.

Telling Hungary of her old husband's passing shouldn't make his own eyes burn in sympathy. Seeing that look of disbelief, seeing that slight tremble that means she is trying not to show that she is breaking, seeing even her hair go limp from the sudden agony shouldn't make him wish he could have stopped it.

Telling Lithuania that his best friend was killed shouldn't make it feel like the world ended for a second time. Seeing that blank, uncomprehending look, seeing that mouth tremble with suppressed wails, seeing those green eyes swim with tears shouldn't be this hard.

The ending of the world is suppose to be silent. The end of the world means there is no one left to cry, no one left to mourn, no one left to feel the pain of loss.

Spain can't bring himself to voice those thoughts as the silence is broken by England, Belarus, Hungary and Lithuania's wails, grief and anger and unspoken love and misery poured into one long, wordless cry that never seems to end.

Canada looses all coloring in his face when Spain tells him of France's death. The Nation was already pale from bloodloss, and now, he looks far too similar to the countless corpses surrounding them. He is shaking where he is standing, and Spain is barely able to catch him when his knees give out suddenly, plunging him towards the ground.

Canada can't say a word as tears pour down his cheeks, leaving marks trailing in the grime crusted onto his face. He pushes Spain off him weakly, burying his face in his hands, and Spain leaves him where he is, sobbing with shuddering breaths.

Romano sits with his brother, one arm resting across his shoulders, heads touching. Spain can't remember the last time he saw Romano touch Venciano willingly, and he pauses a moment in his rounds to just watch them. Germany watches them, sitting a short distance away, arms folded across his chest. The German's head in covered in blood soaked bandages, blonde hair sticking up in tuffs, and his shirt is in tatters, but there is nothing weak in his clear blue eyes.

Venciano is biting his lip and looking like he's trying not to cry as he clings to his brother. Romano's face is tight and strained; he never did like being touched much, but he allows his brother to sob into his shirt as he awkwardly pats his back. Germany watches silently, saying nothing.

Spain almost smiles. Almost, because his face can't remember how it feels to smile. So he settles for a twitch of the lips as he heads past the rows of the dead Nations, glancing at everyone's faces as he passes.

Prussia, ruby-red eyes still open, fogged by death. Taiwan, long hair stuck to the ground from all the blood. Egypt, head coverings torn to reveal short, messy black hair. Estonia, glasses crushed but still clinging to his face. Greece, looking like for all the world he is merely sleeping.

Spain's lips thin and he turns away, heading for England. The other Nation is kneeling besides America, pressing a cold cloth to his head, biting his lip so hard that a stream of crimson drips down his chin. He doesn't look up as Spain settles himself next to him. America's breathing rattles in his chest, cheeks fever-bright as he shifts, and Spain knows that he isn't going to last much longer.

“The world really is over,” England says finally, voice not wavering, not quivering, even as he presses the cloth to a gash running along America' jawline. Spain exhales heavily, running a hand over his eyes, wishing he could undo everything he's seen.

“I don't know,” Spain replies, helplessly, tilting his head back to stare at the steel-gray sky. It has stopped snowing, but the wind still bites at every bit of skin it can reach. “I don't know. I...just don't know anymore.”

England chuckles softly, sitting back on his heels, eyes fixed on America's face. “God. I might as well stab myself with a bloody dagger right now. Everyone's dying; what point is there in living?”

He inhales sharply, coughing, then continues, “Everyone I care about is dead or dying. That's why it's a mistake,” he says suddenly. “Caring. Because it hurts when they leave. I cared for America and he rebelled. I had colonies that fought back, not matter how much I loved them. France died, even though that prat assured me he'd be around forever to just to bug me.” He falls silent for a second, then says, softer, “Bloody liars, all of them. I shouldn't cry about their deaths, because those bastards probably did it just to spite me..”

Spain feels something inside him snap, and his hands raises and slaps England across the face before he can stop himself. “You're such an idiot, England,” he says, and his voice is shaking with rage. England stares at him, eyes wide, one hand pressed to his cheek. Spain feels eyes on them, but he doesn't care as he gets to his feet, voice rising as he speaks. “You should care about their deaths,” he snaps, hands shaking as he curls them into fists. “You should cry for them.”

He turns on his heel and stomps to the row of dead, kneeling down besides Prussia. He slips his arms behind the dead Nation's back, lifting him enough to rest him against his knee. Prussia's head lolls forward to rest on his chest, and Spain reaches around to raise it, pointing it towards England. Prussia's hair is crusty with blood.

“See this? This is Prussia, also known as Gilbert,” he says, words razor-sharp. All living eyes are fixed on him as he continues to speak. “This guy was one of my best friends.” His voice is shaking. “He could drink a pub dry, he loved fighting, and he got shot by Switzerland once for breaking into neutral land to try and steal some chocolate on a dare. Belarus has tried to stab him more then once, Germany locked him in a closet for a week after he blew up a bathroom at a world conference. He was my brother in every way that mattered, and several ways that probably didn't.”

He sets Prussia down gently, and, as an afterthought, gently pushes his eyes shut. The crowd is silent as he makes his way down the line, kneeling down in the mud besides Greece. “Greece, also called Heracles. Liked cats. A lot. Turkey got him drunk enough once that he stripped in the middle of a world meeting with all of our leaders. Passed out the one time he went drinking with me. Fell asleep on the metro once and ended up going around in circles for hours until he was so lost he couldn't find his way home for a few days.”

Some of the remaining soldiers are pushing their way through the crowd, holding the bodies of France, Poland, Austria and Russia. They freeze when Spain runs up, grabbing France's remaining limp arm. Canada whimpers and buries his face in his hands. “Francis. France. Our own beloved and much abused pervert who hit on everything that moved and some things that didn't. Drank his way through his entire wine cellar once. Fought with England for as long as anyone can remember. Bastard blew up my basement when he was drunk once, and set fire to his own pants another time. He molested everything, even poodles. I loved him like my brother.”

He grabs Russia's chin next, forcing the crows to look at his ruined, bloody mouth. Belarus lets out a strangled gasp and turns away. “Ivan. Russia. Creepiest guy I've ever met. Forced me to drink a bottle of straight vodka the one time I went drinking with him and burst out laughing when I spat it all over the table. He set fire to my curtains once and stole a water pipe from my yard. He scared the hell out of Romano and made us all cower in the corners of the meeting rooms.”

He keeps moving, pointing out even the injured now, words still slow enough to be understood. The crowd says nothing, hanging on his every word.

"China. Wang Yao. He cheats at poker, and sucks at chess. His room is full of Kitty products, and you can't walk through his house without tripping over a sword. He stuck a firework under my bed once and sent it up in sparks. He shoved some candy with a sleeping drug in it into America's mouth during a meeting once, then forgot about that drug and ate some of the candy himself."

"Feliks. Poland. He cross dresses often enough that we don't even notice it any more. He and Toris once broke into Romano's house to steal a shirt Feliks thought was 'so, like, cute!'. He sucks at gambling, and never listened a word we said. Toris almost beat the hell out of a guy who started hitting him once, and he couldn't bake."

"Korea. Im Yong Soo. He's good at drawing, always irritates the hell out of everyone, and China once beat him to a pulp when he groped him. America duct taped him to his chair during a meeting so he'd stop getting in the way, and when he got drunk he blew up the front of the bar."

The crowd is still silent as he stops in front of England, glaring down at him, hands on his hips. “England, these were people.” He speaks slowly, the words shaking. “These were our friends. They weren't just Nations. We grew up with these people. These people...were our family, friends, partners. They were our entire lives.”

He spins on his heel, pointing to Lithuania. Tears pour down the brunette's cheeks, his shoulder shaking as he wraps his arms around his chest. “Toris,” Spain says gently, and Lithuania flinches at his human name, “How do you feel right now?”

Lithuania glares at him, eyes rock hard as he rocks himself back and forth on his heels. “Feliks is dead,” he says, words like ice chips, tears making his eyes shine. “Feliks is fucking dead. I'm never going to see him again...he's gone...” he glances towards Poland's body, and lets out another wail, burying his face in his hands as he sinks to his knees, sobbing as loud as he can.

There's silence for a moment, then Hungary speaks up, twisting her hands in her long, chestnut hair. “They're both dead,” she says, and her tone is flat, as dead as her eyes and the corpses she stands in front of. “Gilbert and Roderich. They're both dead.” Her voice is quivering. “They're my best friends. I loved them both. But they're...” she can't bring herself to finish the sentence, and turns away, hair hiding her face from view as she sobs quietly.

“My whole family is dying,” Japan says softly, leaning against the wall, eyes fixed on the still forms of China, Korea and Taiwan. Everyone whips around to face the Nation as he speaks, ignoring the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “Yao may wake up, but he might not. Taiwan is long gone, and I can never apologize for everything I've done to her. And Im Soo...” he voice breaks. “Why wasn't I kinder to him? Why wasn't the brother I wanted to be?” His words show he is barely able to keep himself from bursting into hysterical tears.

“Francis was the only one who noticed me,” Canada joins in, his words exhausted as he sits back on his heels, hands resting in his lap. His eyes never leave France's corpse. “Francis always listened, always knew I was there, and not my brother. But he's gone now.” Canada bites his lip, trying to hold back his tears as he speaks. “And I can never, ever talk to him again. He's...just gone.”

Spain smiles sadly as he turns back to England. The Nation is pale, face blank, his hand resting on America's forehead. America's eyes are open the thinnest sliver, fixed on the elder's face. “It's okay to mourn them,” Spain says gently, tilting his head to the side. “I know what you're feeling. I lost my brothers. I nearly lost Romano.” He casts his eyes towards Romano, and the Italian stares back, his expression almost tender.

“Mourn them, Arthur,” Spain says, his voice clear. He turns to face the crowd, meeting everyone's worn, weary eyes, seeing the agony and loss, feeling the grief that rolls of them in waves. “Mourn your friends.”

The world erupts in sound; yells and tears, wails and shrieks, cries of agony and loss as people grip their now-gone loved ones. Spain smiles sadly, and goes to meet Romano, pushing his way past the mourning crowd.

He wraps his arms around Romano's slender frame before he can protest, burying his nose in the crook of his shoulder. “I don't know what I'd do if you had died,” he mumbles, words muffled. Romano hesitates, then slowly leans forward, resting his head on Spain's.

“Don't leave me,” he whispers, “Don't leave me now, Antonio.”

Spain smiles bitterly as he listens to the wails surrounding them. Maybe what he did was rash, and maybe what he did was stupid. But maybe everyone's forgotten that beneath their Nation title, they are only human; only human, with human emotions and human attachments, human ways of dealing with loss, human ways of falling in and out of love. Only human in the way they survive the end of the world, only human. A Nation made alive, yes, but given a human form and every burden that comes with that. “I'll try, Lovino. I'll try.”