La Islas Filipinas ( Hetalia fanfiction )

2018

The date is December 7, 2018. Exactly 22 days before the year 2019.

The broken dark clouds hover over the county of Berkshire, leaving no trace of the once bright blue heavens that reined in the early morning. The celestial body threatening to shower and pour heavy rain on the historic English land.

Unbeknownst to the people of England, along with the rest of the world's population, a hidden assembly has been set in the fortress of Windsor.

Along the endless green planes of Berkshire, a row of black cars follow each other like a procession for the dead. Veiled by the dark tint of the car's windows sat Alfred F. Jones, personification of the United States of America, looking at the graying skies. It has been almost a year and a half since the last time he cast his ocean blue eyes at the gloomy weather of England.

The young nation wondered about his fellow countries. As the years flew by, they have been seeing each other less and less. Long friendships slowly fading like their past. Promises that never took place. He frowned at the word. Promises. The vault in his head opened its gates, making him think of someone he did not want to think of. A girl with sun-kissed hair, smiling at him from a meadow covered by the warmth of the sun. How dare he think of her smile after everything he has done?

America cringes away from the window, sighing away the image of the girl.

The vehicles arrive in front of the castle gates, one by one, country after country, hopping out of the cars. A soldier clad in red approached them, specifically America.

" Sir," he salutes, " please, follow me," he gestures toward the 11th-century entrance. The American nods a thank you then follows, the others do the same.

The interior of the ancient castle took everyone that entered to centuries ago. Enormous glass windows deck the hallways, red satin curtains opened to let the small gleam of sunshine light up the gold-trimmed walls. Out of 241 recognized countries, only 11 can attend the last World meeting for 2018.

The nations avoid talking with each other, careful of the guard walking before them. A cinnamon haired Italian looks around, still bewildered by the detail of history standing within the castle walls. He thinks of the past, the smiles, the jokes, the friendships before reality tore it all apart. The personifications knew that it would happen once, but never like that, never so sudden.

He looks toward his allies, his friends. He noticed their eyes, their cold eyes. In a way, in peace, there are the shards of the broken wars and conflicts left. Feliciano Vargas sighs, his joyful past only left in his memories.

The guard stopped abruptly in front of a white-painted wooden door, golden vines engraved on the entrance. The nations find it amusing, the fact that they still tense up at every meeting. They have done this for centuries, eons even. However, this is different. Each year they take another step into the future, to a more modern world. Also with every year, comes problem after problem, death after death. 

What can they do? What can they do, to the best of their capabilities, to stop the coming obstacles that could destroy governments, economies, and countries? They can't just keep meeting like this and end it with more questions than answers.

The door opens to reveal two Europeans countries already inside.

"--- As I said in our last meeting, I think that---Oh, Gott sei Dank, you're all here," says the personification of Germany as he turns away from his conversation with Arthur Kirkland.