AN: Here is the last chapter of this story. After this, it shall be discontinued. Thank you to all who have stuck with us so long. We really appreciated the positive reviews we've gotten. We had fun doing this, and we're glad you enjoyed our RP as well. We hope you enjoy this chapter, and once again, thank you for sticking with us so long.

Disclaimer: We don't own Hetalia.

The crisp beach breeze licked at the tips of Alfred's blond bangs, shifting them side to side in a gentle air. Beside an acquainted sand feathered seashell and velvety white grains of sand he stood for what seemed to be far more extensive than the mere hours that fluttered by. Thailand flew Alfred and Raivis out to his home, much to the American's initial displeasure. A small, verbal quarrel was put up between the two countries. Alfred defended that the battle was in Europe, and that's where he would stay. Thailand simply refused to allow such actions, in which he concluded with an offer to bury Arthur's body in his own country. That jab of moral puncture was enough to seize Alfred's shallow replies and toss it out the window. Reluctant at the time, he agreed.

England to Thailand constituted of a trip just over eleven hours. The time frame was much more than sufficient, and Alfred took the time to get himself caught up in the world (as if reality hadn't already gifted him with a slap in the face). Even in the awfully appalling mood America was experiencing, he knew it wasn't an excuse to remain ignorant.

The English monarchy was tucked safely away under the United State borders. What would happen to them now that their ruling nation was gone was beyond Alfred, but he wished them the best. Northern France was devastated by the sudden Zombie invasion. Francis Bonnefoy was identified as the misshapen shreds that loitered the foot the Eifel Tower. Roderich Edelstein, or better known as representative to Austria, was found with a gaping hole in his head in a French café not too far from Francis's final moments. Both were under the suspicion of suicide.

Sweden was holding up with amazing endurance. The Zombies were cluttered just over his borderlines and progressed at increasingly slow rates. The other countries are continuing to send reinforcements. One piece of news that stunned Alfred was the incredulous sky-rocket of violence rates among the common people that did not limit itself to Infected Regions, but in relatively safe areas as well.

After the update, he prompted himself to inform his boss about his unauthorized trip to the Thai's abode. Alfred's boss was rather lenient, but asked that Thailand keep it out of spotlight. The world knew— or rather, they thought United States representative Alfred F. Jones was stationed accordingly in the infestation formerly known as England. The tempers flared amongst the common people. They were prepared to rip open absolutely any piece of information they could grab and rearrange the innards until it was to their liking; thus, spawning a new "conspiracy" that they hoped would satisfy their longing for a scapegoat, his boss described. The fact that Thailand was an ally to the United States wasn't enough to protect the government from the restless people. A straightforward command (in which the military head Alfred was under would specify once it was carried out) of "head back to Europe as soon as possible" ended the call.

The long awaited slumber Alfred received did anything but rest his nerves. His helicopter seat did nothing to sooth his aching joints or his spinning head. Their arrival to Phuket, Thailand, was quickly addressed with a funeral for their departed friend. A cold shudder ran through Alfred as the occupied casket was lowered into the desolate stretch of white sand beach. He attempted to keep a professional stature throughout the private occasion, but he felt his hands shake and his lips tremble.

The Union Jack hovering above Arthur's sand bed quivered in the salt sprinkled air. He tore his solemn gaze from the set and falsely settled that the view of his war worn boots were much more appealing. His eyes squinted in fear of another onslaught of tears would prevail. Not daring to make eye contact at the other two countries sharing the loss, Alfred muttered "I'm going to go take a walk." He departed quickly without waiting for acknowledgment from the others.

An incredibly vast feeling of emptiness in his chest plagued him once again. The cool breeze was not the cause of his sudden chill, nor was it the cause of his numb body. His scratched and smudged glasses were held lazily in his left hand as his right hand was constantly reaching up to rid his cloudy blue eyes of a familiar invader. Alfred circled the stretch, now lingering not too far from the Thailand and Latvia where he stood stationary staring out into the crystal waves. At one time he chuckled to himself, as proof of his crude sense of humor functioning. The smooth micro-pearls that made up the sand, the crisp sea air, the tranquil azure sea and the cloudless sky— this ideal location for paradise ironically hosted the arena for stark despair.

He sluggishly turned to determine where the small pokes of pressure on his shoulder came from. Surely enough, Thailand retreated the guilty hand now that he held Alfred's wandering mind. America blinked a few times as an attempt to regain full consciousness. "Sorry—" The sheer tepidness of Alfred's small voice surprised even him. The pregnant pause allowed him to regain a fake confidence in his words. "What is it?"

"Alfred… I have a letter for you, ana," Thailand started. "It's from Arthur."

America raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes in pure confusion. Did he hear him correctly? Were his senses still in a haze? His mouth was ajar as his brain worked out the puzzling details in order to make a proper response. However, the folded note in Thailand's hand brought him to a further state of being dumbfounded. He accepted the paper, not quite sure what else to do and what it really was. Alfred nodded a "thank you" to the low-spirited Thai. Carefully, he undid the bends of the crinkled paper.

The paper itself seemed worn with age, the writing smudged and fading slightly—most likely from whatever it had to endure up to this point. There were tear stains on the parchment, showing that the writer hadn't been able to hold back the overwhelming urge to cry and give up. The neat writing—as neat as hurried writing could be—was ultimate proof that the writer of the letter had been Arthur. The entire page was filled with words, squeezed together and written into the margins—England must have been trying to tell Alfred everything; every detail, every feeling, every weakness or strength he had discovered, the cause, his own knowledge and predictions of who would fall; everything.

From the very start of the letter, it was obvious that he was directing all the contents of the letter to Alfred.

Alfred; America,

If you're reading this, then the soldier has done his job properly and I'm no longer in this world. Hopefully, you'll never have to read this, but it is inevitable, isn't it? I just hope it makes it to you. I don't know how much time I have left, or if I'll have time to finish this letter to you, but I feel I owe you—and everyone—an explanation. You all deserve one. This whole bloody mess—the living undead and all that—is entirely my fault. Norway and I had made the mistake of trying to raise the dead in the first place. I don't exclude the fact that this whole thing was my idea. There are no words to describe how badly I screwed up. If anyone deserves to die, it's definitely me; don't fool yourself with the thought that no nation should have to die due to this bloody war.

If anything, I should be the only one dead. But that isn't the case, probably won't be. I cannot forgive myself for possibly ending the lives of everyone on the planet… And if you die, well, I hope I burn in hell—if the place exists—for what has happened.

Whatever else I have to say is useless. But I have too much to say to you that I will never get the chance to say to you directly. For starters...

I don't hate you. I never did. I could never bring myself to do so. Despite all our bickering and among other things, I will never regret anything that has happened to me—never again. None of the wars, none of the alliances, none of the enemies made, none of the pain I endured—I'll never regret it.

Second, don't blame yourself. Not all is fair in war, and you should know that. Hell, you average a major war every twenty years or so. Don't blame yourself for my death, or Norway's, or anyone else's. If they died, it means they died, and there was nothing you—or anyone—could do to prevent it. Despite popular belief—and the fact that Prussia is still with us, even though his nation isn't—nations can indeed die. We live long, yes, but we don't live forever. It pains me that France and Spain, being older than me, will live even longer than me than they already have, but I am at fault for causing this.

I must thank you, and everyone else, for keeping my citizens safe. My royalty and my boss are safe in your country, last I heard. I'm sure the amount of civilians to die would have been much greater if other nations hadn't allowed them to evacuate and stay there. They risk so much doing that, unknowing of who is carrying the infection into their home. I know there is nothing I can do to repay you—or anyone else—for everything.

Please, at all costs, protect Peter. I know I don't act all that caring towards him, but I don't want him to suffer the same fate I have. Tell him about what happened, protect him, and don't let him do anything rash. Make sure to let him know that I care about him.

This paper is small, and now I have limited room to write, so I have one more thing to ask of you. I know this might just add to your already heavy burden, Alfred, but it is of the utmost important that I ask this of you. Please, don't forget me. Don't allow me to fade into history as nothing more than another lost nation in this war. Don't let any of the nations who have or will die in this war to be forgotten. But I don't want you to forget me, above all else. I beg you.

And now, I'm afraid there is nothing more to write.

Goodbye, Alfred. And, I'm sorry. I wish this weren't the end, but I'm afraid it will have to be.

-Arthur

The blue spheres dotting the whites of Alfred's eyes widened at the unraveling of the decrepit sheet of paper. The chalky, lead marks scribbled throughout the frame of the flimsy structure was undoubtedly that of a certain Englishman that had departed from the world a few days prior. An overwhelming sensation of raw happiness surged through the mindset of the childish American as if he envisioned, once again, the purely faux promise that a deceased friend was certainly alive. Of course, he soon realized these were only thoughts fabricated by the absolute naivety that continued to curse those who will be only greeted by inevitable disappointment. Thus, Alfred discarded his silly hopes. He breathed deeply and trudged through the contents of this long, long letter.

Alfred was dumbfounded by the shocking contents of the letter. He was struck by the very fact that Arthur would attempt such a foolish act (even more surprising that Norway of all people agreed to do so alongside him). Alfred hadn't even done as to glance at the second section of the letter, yet he felt such a swell of unquenchable enmity that trembled in his hands and knees.

What were they thinking? Nothing at all, Alfred concluded. What was their motive? Alfred thought about how great it would be if Arthur were alive. Prior to the letter, Alfred would have been happy to reunite with his close friend in euphoria. Now his only wish was to inflict his brutally unique form of justice onto Arthur, to scream and reprimand him, to wallow in the bitterly sweet irony of Alfred's would-be psychologically mandated dominance over Arthur…

Naturally, Alfred was too hasty in his judgments. Arthur undoubtedly felt an extreme amount of grief for his actions. Arthur had admitted to his crimes and agreed to his punishment. The portrayal of emotion was understandable, despite the collision of unruly and gnarled letters. Alfred had calmed himself. This sharp opposition of Arthur's claims took its toll; Alfred was unsure of how to react—how to feel. To this, Alfred simply scowled. His eyes adverted for only a moment before returning. His fingers twitched.

One line, however, caught Alfred off guard: "I don't hate you."

He had a double take upon the sentence that promptly followed.

…

How could he say that he never hated him?

Alfred remembered when he hated Arthur. It reached its most passionate levels during his most rebellious stages against England. He felt so much enjoyment plotting evil against the guardian he loved so dearly. In his insurgence of hatred three centuries ago, he felt it was just to kill Arthur. Now Alfred knew this was nothing more but a fleeting burst of raw and unstable actions, and since then he learned to become more responsible and controlling. Though this doesn't change the fact that he undeniably felt a grossly repugnance for the Englishman at one point. If the feeling wasn't mutual, then just what the hell was he thinking back then? Arthur hated him. Alfred saw it once and only once; Arthur charged at him with a frightening animalistic snarl and horribly glowing eyes. Needless to say, Arthur easily disarmed the petrified Revolutionary.

And yet—

Alfred would obnoxiously claim that no one could ever bring themselves to hate him, though the level of sincerity behind those statements were frail (if it weren't blatantly obvious enough). Perhaps it was simply a sympathetic lie to keep his confidence balanced, something that was vital if he were to survive the influx of Zombies. It was just a white lie. It was just like those times back during his colony days, when Arthur happily accepted the grotesque mud pie that an overjoyed Alfred made one lazy summer afternoon. It was just like when Arthur commented on how dashing Alfred looked in that starchy and uncomfortable tuxedo. It was just like when Arthur laughed and said how great Alfred would be as a big strong hero when Alfred had told his elder of his hopes and dreams.

It was something Arthur would do when Alfred when he was a little kid.

Who the hell do you think you are?

Who do you think I am? is what Alfred would have said.

Am I still a fucking little kid to you, huh? I don't need your stupid lies.

I don't need your pity.

You're already getting' yours, so shut your mouth.

You're the same as always.

If you really, truly needed to say something from the heart, why don't you just say it? Stop bullshitting me.

Well it doesn't even fucking matter anymore. You're dead.

His blood was boiling. He remained in his silent rage; nothing was heard but the screech of the grinding of his teeth, a mysteriously ear-piercing whistle that irritated his mind, and a familiar, sympathetic voice who spoke to him with a wispy voice and a sad smile.

He dismissed Arthur's trivial resolve, his repetitive lecture, his pitiful apologies and his half-hearted thank you's. Alfred kept track of the facts and requests—nothing more; 1) Arthur and Norway were the cause, 2) Arthur wanted it to be sure that his and the other casualties' deaths would not stand in vain, and 3) Arthur requested that he find Peter and keep him out of harm's way. Despite Alfred's unstable mental state, he could not deny a man's dying request. Even if it were the last thing he would do, he would make sure to find Peter and bring him into the bounds of safety.

Alfred tucked the sloppily folded paper into his dusty jacket with unusual tenderness. He aggressively pushed past his Thai and Latvian partners, making it clear that he would rather not answer their confused and concerned glances.

If there were one thing Alfred was most certain of—and perhaps the only thing he absolutely knew; he would never forget his former guardian, his most personally irritating companion, his closest ally, his closest friend…