Noi non possediamo Hetalia. Wir wissen nicht eigene Hetalia. 我々は、所有していないヘタリアNous ne possédons pas Hetalia. Мы не владеем Hetalia. 没有自己 Hetalia. We do not own Hetalia.


Arthur Kirkland lay across his sofa, his head lolling over one arm. He was awake. His eyes settled on the ceiling, half-focused. Half-closed. His other arm hung over the edge of the sofa, a bottle dangling from it. The un-drunk half of the rum was room temperature now.

How did this happen? It was Alfred's birthday. It wasn't supposed to be the end of the world. He just couldn't let go. Alfred was supposed to be his brother. Why did he want independence so bad? And he'd gotten drunk again. And yelled again. And drove him away. Again.

Now silence rang through his house. Like always. But now, rather than remind him of the life that had gone from there with Alfred and Matthew, it reminded him of how he'd recently made an ass of himself. And he'd been unfair to Alfred. After all, he was an adult. But he couldn't. He just couldn't let Alfred go. He didn't know what he was doing and the world was so big. The Depression had had Arthur up all night. Wondering what would be of Alfred in the morning. Did he have enough to eat? And everyone seemed to be terrorizing America. It made Arthur sick to think he had to sit by and watch his brother get torn apart. He was a failure. An utter failure.

On top of it, he was confused as hell about his life. He didn't even know what he was thinking sometimes. He was starting to feel so nervous around Japan. What was that about? Sure, Japan was really nice to him. Sure he was kind of cute. He shook his head. What was he thinking? As much as he embarrassed himself? The stupid drunk. Japan probably thought he was a raving fool.

He rolled over, the bottle slipping from his grasp and cracking against the marble floor, but remaining intact. He ran a finger over the fissure and chuckled mirthlessly. "Huh. Like me." He ignored the rum leaking onto his floor and stared lazily at the bottle. Rolled it over. Captain Morgan. Ironic. His favorite. An American brand. He stared through the glass at the floor. It was a nice-sized bottle. You could fit a small model ship in it. He smiled. Those were the days.

He was free. Young and free. And powerful. The world belonged to him. The sun never set on him. It didn't dare. He sailed the seas faster than any human, wreaking havoc akin to a natural disaster. People feared. And awed. And obeyed. And never got independence. And never thought he was a fool.

Suddenly the bottle beneath Arthur's fingers shot itself across the room, hitting the back of the lit fireplace and shattered, exploding. Arthur's wide eyes lit up at the plume of fire before it disappeared in a puff of black smoke. He clutched his chest, breathing heavily. "Bloody Hell."

"Yer tellin' me." A voice growled from behind.

England jerked, startled. He fell off the sofa and grabbed the nearest rum bottle, turning to face the intruder. "What the hell?" He was looking in a mirror. A mirror from another era. It was the spitting image of him back in his pirate days, down to the stubble on his face and the dirt under his nails. But it was transparent. He could see through the phantom. His eyes widened. "God, I'm off my rocker."

The vision chuckled. A dry, distant chuckle. "Aye, but when aren't ye?" The vision suddenly stepped toward England.

Arthur stumbled back, away from the figure. He smacked the bottom of the bottle in his hand against his coffee table, breaking it in half. He swung the broken end at the pirate's face. "G-go away! It's just a dream!"

"Cut that out." The vision growled and reached forward, grabbing Arthur's wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

England's eyes widened. It wasn't a vision? What was it? A spirit? His own spirit? Oh God, was he dead? He tugged desperately, but it was no use. He wasn't as strong as he used to be. And well... the other him was. It was exactly as strong as he used to be.

The pirate knocked the bottle from his older self's hand easily. He was disgusted with what he saw. "Wha' kind of li'l nancy did you turn inta, boy?" He threw his head back and laughed.

England was flabberghasted. This nightmare was not only physically controlling him, it was insulting him. He furrowed his brow and gave a little harder tug, wrenching his wrist free. "And just what are you laughing at? I'm you, you stupid git!"

The pirate grabbed England by the front of his shirt and lifted him off the ground. When England winced, his younger self shook him violently. "Stop that! What are ye? Afraid? Of yer own damn shadow?" He drew a hand smartly across England's face. "No wonder nobody respects ye." He spat. "Ye can't even face yer own past. Who could expect ye t' face the present?" He laughed again. This time mocking, and released Arthur, allowing him to crumple to the floor.

Arthur gazed into the fireplace. The bottle shards were still there. He looked around him at all the other bottles. This was his life now? Rum and the sofa? He shook his head. "I don't know where I went wrong..."

"I know where ye went wrong, Arthur." The pirate offered as he flipped through some books on England's shelf, discarding them over his shoulder carelessly. He moved on to his picture frames, casually inspecting them and dropping them. Pictures of Alfred and Matthew and little Peter.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Arthur stood up, flushed with indignation. "Stop that!"

"You let me go." The pirate held a childhood picture of Alfred up, gazing upon the little face with no emotion on his face, before suddenly tossing it into the air. He drew a gold and brass flintlock pistol with ivory handle grips, cocked it, and fired, hitting the picture mid-fall and shattering it into a hundred pieces. "When you should let them go." He turned back to Arthur, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "But that's all about t' change. From now on, I'll just be helpin' ye with yer problems. I'll take care o' them. Ye jus' can't handle it."

Arthur dropped to his knees, watching little bits of glass fall like rain. He felt like he should be mad at his younger self for destroying his things. But somehow, the separation felt... good. It took a little bit off of his chest. He could already breathe better. He shook his head. "No. Absolutely not. The last thing I need is my young, reckless pirate self showing up to a damn conference." He turned to walk away.

Suddenly the pirate was in front of him. Not an inch away. He gasped, clutching his chest, and the pirate threw an arm around his shoulder, closing it around his neck so that he could breathe, but not go anywhere. "Now listen. If ye wan' e'ryone else t' toss ye aroun' like a ragdoll like I do, and believe me, they will, ye better do wha' I say. B'cause you, Arthur Kirkland, are a sorry excuse fer a man."

Arthur struggled, but couldn't escape the stronger version of himself. He sighed and gave up. "You're right. Who am I kidding? I've completely lost touch with myself."

"Now yer talkin'." The pirate ground his knuckles into the top of England's head. "Trust me, ol' man. Ye jus' gotta get yer manhood back. Now, when's the next un o' these "conf'rences"?"


There you have it. I would like it to be noted that Miirkaelisaar is doing the magic of England and Pirate!England, as well as playing Russia and Canada in future chapters. Invader Aoi (me) will be Japan, Italy, Prussia, America, and Sealand. We'll probably share Germany.

The next chapter is going to be a lot longer, and hopefully will be posted soon. (Miirkaelisaar is on vacation so she has limited internet time)