Wolver Menace
Title: Wolver Menace
Author/Artist: Moi, aka DestinyShiva.
Characters: England.
Pairing(s): Slightly hinted USUK.
Rating: T
Warnings: Violence. Mentions of murder.
Summary: Five years ago, a monster began to terrorise the streets of London - and England soon found out the hard way that hospitality was not always a good and prosperous thing...
He had no idea when it had begun.
It probably started, he decided once he finally thought into the subject at hand, about five years ago.
He didn't believe the rumours at first; but then, neither did anyone. It was ludicrous, wasn't it? It made no sense from the very beginning. Whoever heard about an animalistic menace terrorising the backstreets of London? A beast that stood taller than a man, claws and teeth flashing ominously and eyes glimmering like cat's in the moonlight… an animal standing on nothing more than its hind legs… nothing like that existed; England knew that all too well. It was something confined merely to the textbooks and shameless mystery or horror novels. No weight behind the theory. Werewolves, England and his populace knew - or thought they did - did. NOT. Exist. End of the bloody debate.
So when he started hearing shuffles outside his window, something unknown growling to itself and knocking over his rubbish bins… England dismissed it as merely a stray dog searching for some straps of food or a cat whining to its self, craving to lap up the last residues of fish and chips stuck to the greaseproof paper.
The neighbours didn't bat much of an eyelid either; although it was true that England lived on a manor, half a mile away from the nearest house. He had to live in isolation; his government wouldn't let him mingle much with his own people, unless it was in the heat of a war situation - and even then, they made sure to keep his identity hidden.
Nobody knew who the slightly irate British man living in the darkened manor on the suburb outskirts of the capital city was - and personally, England preferred it that way. He loved the seclusion. Although he still was lonely, sure, about as lonely as the moon… the Earth just half a million miles out of its reach; but yet, it could never be reunited with it, despite how much it could have begged. It reminded him of his relationship with a certain American twat, actually.
England wasn't sure why he begun to leave trays of milk and food out at his doorstep all of the sudden. It probably was because his heartstrings leant to the sweet little whining and whimpering he heard from outside; they reminded him, for no reason he could have thought of at the time, of a man crying softly to himself. It was an act of sympathy, he knew. It made him smile, knowing that almost every night for a week, the creature - cat or dog, maybe even badger… although they were getting extremely rare in England nowadays, especially near the big cities - returned to his house to feed.
He didn't understand why none of his fairy friends visited him that week; though whenever he spotted one while he set about his usual business in Parliament, he found himself frowning softly at their petrified little faces. They were scared… of what, he didn't have a clue… but he could tell that it was only a matter of time before he found out. He was right.
And then the creature stopped coming. It was pretty sudden; the 'thing' (England hadn't quite discovered what it was, although he had always wandered over to the windowsill to peak out whenever he heard the whining and scratching. It was like it knew he was watching, and purposely avoided him.
Since it was only an animal, England dismissed the thought with a simple, typical British 'Huh, that's odd then. Oh well, time for tea and hobnobs') had come every night - sometimes twice a night - for a whole week, and then just disappeared. Just like that. No warning or signs.
It was odd, to say the least. It got England pretty worried. He wondered at the time whether or not the stray dog had been captured and taken to a Vet or something along those lines, but then again dismissed the thought. He had other businesses to attend to, after all, and had no time to worry about a sick little animal. He was pretty glad when the fairies came back to speak with him again. Although none of his fluttering friends cared to mention why they had disappeared… or why they were so scared…
And then, about 28 days later, it returned. When, at the exact same time, the tabloids were going on and on and on about how 'the wolver menace' was back - terrorising the streets, knocking over bins… they even blamed a few terrifyingly violent murders on the ridiculous non-existent beast - England didn't make the correlation. But as the fairies disappeared again in fits of panic, it was impossible not to deduce that something was wrong. That, was the last he ever saw his fairies again.
…He couldn't remember the accident vividly. It was one of those situations, filled with tremendous pain, blood and grief, where all the events in the timeline just come as a jumbled blur. It made his eyes water just to think about it; writhing desperately in the nostalgia as it came back to mind. He wasn't one to deal well with severe trauma. And of the entire collection of severe trauma's a person could possibly have… this one really took the treacle pudding.
He remembered the grazing and whining had gotten seriously loud, unlike all the other nights. Instead of whimpering sadly to itself, the beast was practically livid - almost humanoid in its mood swings - shrieking and growling profusely. England was ever so slightly frightened at that point, admittedly… but no where near as frightened as he was when he heard the chronic scrape of claws scratching at his door … into his door - the heart-wrenching crunch as the wood faltered and cracked in half. His hand dove into the cutlery draw and whipped out a silver butcher's knife.
"Who's there!" He knew he had said. Or something along those lines; needless to say, you don't often pay attention to your speech properly when something tears apart your door…
He remembered being able to hear his own heartbeat scream awfully in his chest, beating so strongly that he could see his chest bounce up and down in reverberating rhythm. And then there was the breath; his own dancing haphazardly out of his lungs and mouth… and the shrill whistling low groan of the beast sinking in through the gap in the broken door.
Everything else was silent. Not a single thing stirred for what seemed like hours… the only sounds or hints of movement came slowly from England's rising and falling chest. Whatever was outside… whatever broke apart his door… it was getting quieter and quieter, until the noise stopped altogether.
The silence was worse than anything England could have imagined. It was like the calm before the storm, preparing to break apart into lightning and destruction any second. His heart ached painfully in suspense.
…Nothing…
Eventually, he let his guard down. The beast had obviously gone elsewhere… minutes and minutes had passed without anything else happening, after all. No animal was so patience or strategic. He had gave a slight sigh of relief, and cautiously went back to whatever the hell he was doing at the time - happy in the knowledge that he was safe.
Oh God.
How wrong he was.
The door burst open, wood splintering apart and shattering into a million little pieces. The next thing he knew, he was forced against the wall; dozens of inch long teeth impaled in his neck, tearing into his flesh like it was as viscous as jelly. He could have sworn that his eardrums split after the deafening scream that sounded soon afterwards, following by drowning chokes and the sensation of blood falling back and filling his lungs.
He felt something like poison blasting into his veins - and a cold feeling filled him, shivering frost sinking deeply as far as the tips of his fingers and toes. He had never known so much pain and fear. His whole body instantly fell numb - but not before he thrust the silver knife into the creature's torso, a last bid to escape.
The last thing he remembered was the wolver menace's screech, before suddenly everything went black.
…When he came to… nothing was the same. He could feel it. There was something drastically different about him; the sinking feeling in his chest, the taste of blood lingering on his lips… different. The gigantic bite mark that should realistically have killed him on the spot had obscurely healed over, and presented only a thick aching nuisance instead of invalid agony as he expected.
His body felt different too - limbs felt like they had been pulled and stretched far beyond the usual muscle's strength, then condensed right back into normal shape again. The numb lasting feeling, as well as the unseasonable cold, was callously disorientating. And when he opened his eyes, the scene before him almost made him lurch and be sick on the spot…
…Right in his living room, the wallpaper and painting canvases were all splattered violently with dried, crusted blood… expensive porcelain vases he got from China laid smashed against the floor, television overturned with the buzz of a news reader's voice jumping in and out of synchronization sounding annoyingly besides him… and there.
There, right on his living room carpet… the corpse of a man.
His entire throat clawed out, scratch wounds torn in his skin and bite marks around gigantic chunks of body that were missing. The man's legs were not even connected to the rest of his body - something of tremendous strength snapping the two halves apart. And embedded ominously in his chest… was the silver butcher's knife that England had shoved inside the belly of the beast.
…It took England a few moments, in his sheer immobilising shock, to realise that he was sitting up completely naked; stripped of clothes and bare as the day he was born. And then it was impossible to not notice the red coating his fingertips… and the formidable feeling as a line of blood red dribbled out of the corner of his mouth…
Ah yes. That was it. That… was how England - the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland - had killed the 'Wolver Menace'.
…And, against his will, took his place.
Every 28 days, for a whole week or so, England would call in sick from work and pull out of whatever engagements there possibly were for him to attend. He started walking around with a little pocket calendar/diary… specific dates so badly scribbled out with biro that you couldn't distinguish that there was a single piece of white on the page in the past, no matter how hard you tried.
Whenever someone asked him what was wrong on those days, he'd just make up any old nonsense. 'Family relations', he used once. 'Just an illness, don't worry. My economy isn't dealing the best these days, with the recession and all', was a common one. 'I simply have looked at France's face far too much, and it's made me nauseous' was probably one of his favourites…
Sure, the other nations were suspicious. It was all so sudden, and all so regular. Five years of complete and total avoidance. But mostly they stayed out of it, giving him the privacy he needed. Some of them joked that he was on his 'man-period', while others worriedly thought that he was slowly dying of something chronic. A serious everlasting illness - and they were correct on that part. Whenever they quizzed him about it, he only ever gave vague answers. Eventually, no one bothered to ask anymore. It was accepted knowledge.
England could deal by himself, they thought. England was strong! He could take care of himself! He'd dealt with far worse!
The truth was far from that… how could he deal with it? How could he deal with the knowledge that he… that he… he was a monster…
…Werewolves existed. They were as real as the fairies that used to visit him. He hadn't seen a single one of his fairies for five years by now. It wasn't as if they had abandoned him, far from it… although England remembered crying out for them to return to him many a time - especially during his transformations.
They merely knew that they couldn't help him. That everything was useless.
He was doomed from the very moment that he tried to feed that shy, whimpering dog outside his door. No one could help him. Nobody - not even those from the magical realm… he probably was nothing more than a murderous mutt to them now - an old dog, howling enviously at the far away the moon… the metaphorical moon that he used to be. He was nothing more worthy than scum…
And on those days off of work… he would lock himself up inside his house, triple lock the door, and shut himself away in his cellar - making sure that he never got out, under penalty of death. Penalty of other people's deaths, that is. England couldn't count the amount of times he woke up, not in the cellar, and in his bed instead - blood and grit dug in his nails, and that disgusting taste of flesh in his mouth.
The amount of murders caused after he became 'The Beast' had increased tenfold in comparison to the last deceased fright. Maybe he had a reason to loathe the world, or maybe he secretly enjoyed the feeling of bones getting crushed in his jaws… sadism and pessimism going hand in hand. He really was pitiful.
…And all he knew, truly, was how much he wanted it all to stop. How he wished, begged, that he could stop it all from happening again and again. The pain was splitting him apart - same with the guilt. And heaven knows… he'd rather be dead, than to suffer through every single awful month. He'd rather die…
Oh how he wished he could die, and put an end to it… once and for all.
But he was simply too afraid to tell. No one could know. No one could know just how savage and lethal he really was…
Or at least, the beast within was. While England, Arthur, could only sit back and watch himself kill in vain.
England dove his fingers into the pool of water welling up in the sink, and leaned down to splash the cold water on his face. He surfaced, glaring in a daze down at the water and expelling a thick drawn out sigh. The reflection staring straight back at him, with his same features and distant expression, was by now someone he didn't even know.
Those hazy emerald eyes seemed so alien that he could hardly believe that they belonged to him. The next thing he knew, England had slapped the water in anger - displacing most of the contents on the floor and against the walls of his bathroom.
America was right, and of course he was. Suddenly England had changed, and everyone could not help but agree that it was not for the better. He ended up forcing himself away from everyone, purely because he was too grieved and fearful to seek their help. It wasn't like anybody could help him regardless. If the fairies couldn't provide any help… if the whole realm of magic and the supernatural had abandoned him to his horrific fate, then, damn it all, the countries of the world would not be able to lend a hand either.
What would the world do anyway, if he told a soul? They'd lock him up… tie him down with chains, bars, security locked doors... and heaven knows that those defences were not enough. England didn't remember what exactly happened while he was under the curse of the fully lit moon, but he knew for a fact that his efforts so far were docile.
He could do oh so much worse, especially while fuelled with the desperate animalistic urges for freedom. He could tear his prison and the whole planet apart.
Would they try to kill him? England snorted at the very thought. The other countries knew all too well. You could not destroy a country, just like that. Even if every country in the world decided to declare war on him and work to split him apart, then it wouldn't even make a dent. Tear off his limb and it'll just reattach itself. Gouge out his heart, and a new one will follow. Either that; or an empty cavity will remain in his chest, while his body - defeating the odds and logic both - will continue to run.
A country cannot be killed. Not easily at least.
And with the wolf's poison running through his veins, the healing process was twice as fast as even that. He was unstoppable. If it wasn't for the humanity left inside him, he could have mercilessly conquered the Earth without so much as a panic. He was weak as he was, incredibly so - but the beast within him, combined with his status, might have possibly been the greatest antagonist of all time.
Yes, he was unstoppable.
…Unstoppable to everything but a single, perfect, silver bullet.
Silver, any fanatic of mysterious legends and dynamic tales would know, is the only way you can kill a werewolf; and therefore, England's one last weakness. His kryptonite, you could say. He could easily have gotten a gun and pointed it straight at his temple and pulled the trigger, splattering his all-British mind all over the cellar wall. But how could he have done that? No matter how hard he secretly begged for it, no matter how difficult it was to breathe when the monthly pain gripped him… he couldn't do it.
He couldn't pull the trigger.
Despite it all, his pride told him that he didn't want to die.
And so he lived; mentally breaking in the knowledge that all of the deaths - men, women and even little children, ripped to shreds and dismembered by what seemed like animals' claws or multiple knifes. Killing needlessly without harbouring a single shred of mercy or solace for the poor victims his teeth found themselves engraved within.
He was a monster. Not only because he destroyed them; but because he was too vastly terrified to kill himself. His life was more important, wasn't it - his mentality often used to state. But it was not an excuse. Kill or be killed. It was far too in touch with his nature to survive.
He really was a monster.
Menace, perhaps, was a title that suited him far too well.
Author/Artist: Moi, aka DestinyShiva.
Characters: England.
Pairing(s): Slightly hinted USUK.
Rating: T
Warnings: Violence. Mentions of murder.
Summary: Five years ago, a monster began to terrorise the streets of London - and England soon found out the hard way that hospitality was not always a good and prosperous thing...
He had no idea when it had begun.
It probably started, he decided once he finally thought into the subject at hand, about five years ago.
He didn't believe the rumours at first; but then, neither did anyone. It was ludicrous, wasn't it? It made no sense from the very beginning. Whoever heard about an animalistic menace terrorising the backstreets of London? A beast that stood taller than a man, claws and teeth flashing ominously and eyes glimmering like cat's in the moonlight… an animal standing on nothing more than its hind legs… nothing like that existed; England knew that all too well. It was something confined merely to the textbooks and shameless mystery or horror novels. No weight behind the theory. Werewolves, England and his populace knew - or thought they did - did. NOT. Exist. End of the bloody debate.
So when he started hearing shuffles outside his window, something unknown growling to itself and knocking over his rubbish bins… England dismissed it as merely a stray dog searching for some straps of food or a cat whining to its self, craving to lap up the last residues of fish and chips stuck to the greaseproof paper.
The neighbours didn't bat much of an eyelid either; although it was true that England lived on a manor, half a mile away from the nearest house. He had to live in isolation; his government wouldn't let him mingle much with his own people, unless it was in the heat of a war situation - and even then, they made sure to keep his identity hidden.
Nobody knew who the slightly irate British man living in the darkened manor on the suburb outskirts of the capital city was - and personally, England preferred it that way. He loved the seclusion. Although he still was lonely, sure, about as lonely as the moon… the Earth just half a million miles out of its reach; but yet, it could never be reunited with it, despite how much it could have begged. It reminded him of his relationship with a certain American twat, actually.
England wasn't sure why he begun to leave trays of milk and food out at his doorstep all of the sudden. It probably was because his heartstrings leant to the sweet little whining and whimpering he heard from outside; they reminded him, for no reason he could have thought of at the time, of a man crying softly to himself. It was an act of sympathy, he knew. It made him smile, knowing that almost every night for a week, the creature - cat or dog, maybe even badger… although they were getting extremely rare in England nowadays, especially near the big cities - returned to his house to feed.
He didn't understand why none of his fairy friends visited him that week; though whenever he spotted one while he set about his usual business in Parliament, he found himself frowning softly at their petrified little faces. They were scared… of what, he didn't have a clue… but he could tell that it was only a matter of time before he found out. He was right.
And then the creature stopped coming. It was pretty sudden; the 'thing' (England hadn't quite discovered what it was, although he had always wandered over to the windowsill to peak out whenever he heard the whining and scratching. It was like it knew he was watching, and purposely avoided him.
Since it was only an animal, England dismissed the thought with a simple, typical British 'Huh, that's odd then. Oh well, time for tea and hobnobs') had come every night - sometimes twice a night - for a whole week, and then just disappeared. Just like that. No warning or signs.
It was odd, to say the least. It got England pretty worried. He wondered at the time whether or not the stray dog had been captured and taken to a Vet or something along those lines, but then again dismissed the thought. He had other businesses to attend to, after all, and had no time to worry about a sick little animal. He was pretty glad when the fairies came back to speak with him again. Although none of his fluttering friends cared to mention why they had disappeared… or why they were so scared…
And then, about 28 days later, it returned. When, at the exact same time, the tabloids were going on and on and on about how 'the wolver menace' was back - terrorising the streets, knocking over bins… they even blamed a few terrifyingly violent murders on the ridiculous non-existent beast - England didn't make the correlation. But as the fairies disappeared again in fits of panic, it was impossible not to deduce that something was wrong. That, was the last he ever saw his fairies again.
…He couldn't remember the accident vividly. It was one of those situations, filled with tremendous pain, blood and grief, where all the events in the timeline just come as a jumbled blur. It made his eyes water just to think about it; writhing desperately in the nostalgia as it came back to mind. He wasn't one to deal well with severe trauma. And of the entire collection of severe trauma's a person could possibly have… this one really took the treacle pudding.
He remembered the grazing and whining had gotten seriously loud, unlike all the other nights. Instead of whimpering sadly to itself, the beast was practically livid - almost humanoid in its mood swings - shrieking and growling profusely. England was ever so slightly frightened at that point, admittedly… but no where near as frightened as he was when he heard the chronic scrape of claws scratching at his door … into his door - the heart-wrenching crunch as the wood faltered and cracked in half. His hand dove into the cutlery draw and whipped out a silver butcher's knife.
"Who's there!" He knew he had said. Or something along those lines; needless to say, you don't often pay attention to your speech properly when something tears apart your door…
He remembered being able to hear his own heartbeat scream awfully in his chest, beating so strongly that he could see his chest bounce up and down in reverberating rhythm. And then there was the breath; his own dancing haphazardly out of his lungs and mouth… and the shrill whistling low groan of the beast sinking in through the gap in the broken door.
Everything else was silent. Not a single thing stirred for what seemed like hours… the only sounds or hints of movement came slowly from England's rising and falling chest. Whatever was outside… whatever broke apart his door… it was getting quieter and quieter, until the noise stopped altogether.
The silence was worse than anything England could have imagined. It was like the calm before the storm, preparing to break apart into lightning and destruction any second. His heart ached painfully in suspense.
…Nothing…
Eventually, he let his guard down. The beast had obviously gone elsewhere… minutes and minutes had passed without anything else happening, after all. No animal was so patience or strategic. He had gave a slight sigh of relief, and cautiously went back to whatever the hell he was doing at the time - happy in the knowledge that he was safe.
Oh God.
How wrong he was.
The door burst open, wood splintering apart and shattering into a million little pieces. The next thing he knew, he was forced against the wall; dozens of inch long teeth impaled in his neck, tearing into his flesh like it was as viscous as jelly. He could have sworn that his eardrums split after the deafening scream that sounded soon afterwards, following by drowning chokes and the sensation of blood falling back and filling his lungs.
He felt something like poison blasting into his veins - and a cold feeling filled him, shivering frost sinking deeply as far as the tips of his fingers and toes. He had never known so much pain and fear. His whole body instantly fell numb - but not before he thrust the silver knife into the creature's torso, a last bid to escape.
The last thing he remembered was the wolver menace's screech, before suddenly everything went black.
…When he came to… nothing was the same. He could feel it. There was something drastically different about him; the sinking feeling in his chest, the taste of blood lingering on his lips… different. The gigantic bite mark that should realistically have killed him on the spot had obscurely healed over, and presented only a thick aching nuisance instead of invalid agony as he expected.
His body felt different too - limbs felt like they had been pulled and stretched far beyond the usual muscle's strength, then condensed right back into normal shape again. The numb lasting feeling, as well as the unseasonable cold, was callously disorientating. And when he opened his eyes, the scene before him almost made him lurch and be sick on the spot…
…Right in his living room, the wallpaper and painting canvases were all splattered violently with dried, crusted blood… expensive porcelain vases he got from China laid smashed against the floor, television overturned with the buzz of a news reader's voice jumping in and out of synchronization sounding annoyingly besides him… and there.
There, right on his living room carpet… the corpse of a man.
His entire throat clawed out, scratch wounds torn in his skin and bite marks around gigantic chunks of body that were missing. The man's legs were not even connected to the rest of his body - something of tremendous strength snapping the two halves apart. And embedded ominously in his chest… was the silver butcher's knife that England had shoved inside the belly of the beast.
…It took England a few moments, in his sheer immobilising shock, to realise that he was sitting up completely naked; stripped of clothes and bare as the day he was born. And then it was impossible to not notice the red coating his fingertips… and the formidable feeling as a line of blood red dribbled out of the corner of his mouth…
Ah yes. That was it. That… was how England - the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland - had killed the 'Wolver Menace'.
…And, against his will, took his place.
Every 28 days, for a whole week or so, England would call in sick from work and pull out of whatever engagements there possibly were for him to attend. He started walking around with a little pocket calendar/diary… specific dates so badly scribbled out with biro that you couldn't distinguish that there was a single piece of white on the page in the past, no matter how hard you tried.
Whenever someone asked him what was wrong on those days, he'd just make up any old nonsense. 'Family relations', he used once. 'Just an illness, don't worry. My economy isn't dealing the best these days, with the recession and all', was a common one. 'I simply have looked at France's face far too much, and it's made me nauseous' was probably one of his favourites…
Sure, the other nations were suspicious. It was all so sudden, and all so regular. Five years of complete and total avoidance. But mostly they stayed out of it, giving him the privacy he needed. Some of them joked that he was on his 'man-period', while others worriedly thought that he was slowly dying of something chronic. A serious everlasting illness - and they were correct on that part. Whenever they quizzed him about it, he only ever gave vague answers. Eventually, no one bothered to ask anymore. It was accepted knowledge.
England could deal by himself, they thought. England was strong! He could take care of himself! He'd dealt with far worse!
The truth was far from that… how could he deal with it? How could he deal with the knowledge that he… that he… he was a monster…
…Werewolves existed. They were as real as the fairies that used to visit him. He hadn't seen a single one of his fairies for five years by now. It wasn't as if they had abandoned him, far from it… although England remembered crying out for them to return to him many a time - especially during his transformations.
They merely knew that they couldn't help him. That everything was useless.
He was doomed from the very moment that he tried to feed that shy, whimpering dog outside his door. No one could help him. Nobody - not even those from the magical realm… he probably was nothing more than a murderous mutt to them now - an old dog, howling enviously at the far away the moon… the metaphorical moon that he used to be. He was nothing more worthy than scum…
And on those days off of work… he would lock himself up inside his house, triple lock the door, and shut himself away in his cellar - making sure that he never got out, under penalty of death. Penalty of other people's deaths, that is. England couldn't count the amount of times he woke up, not in the cellar, and in his bed instead - blood and grit dug in his nails, and that disgusting taste of flesh in his mouth.
The amount of murders caused after he became 'The Beast' had increased tenfold in comparison to the last deceased fright. Maybe he had a reason to loathe the world, or maybe he secretly enjoyed the feeling of bones getting crushed in his jaws… sadism and pessimism going hand in hand. He really was pitiful.
…And all he knew, truly, was how much he wanted it all to stop. How he wished, begged, that he could stop it all from happening again and again. The pain was splitting him apart - same with the guilt. And heaven knows… he'd rather be dead, than to suffer through every single awful month. He'd rather die…
Oh how he wished he could die, and put an end to it… once and for all.
But he was simply too afraid to tell. No one could know. No one could know just how savage and lethal he really was…
Or at least, the beast within was. While England, Arthur, could only sit back and watch himself kill in vain.
England dove his fingers into the pool of water welling up in the sink, and leaned down to splash the cold water on his face. He surfaced, glaring in a daze down at the water and expelling a thick drawn out sigh. The reflection staring straight back at him, with his same features and distant expression, was by now someone he didn't even know.
Those hazy emerald eyes seemed so alien that he could hardly believe that they belonged to him. The next thing he knew, England had slapped the water in anger - displacing most of the contents on the floor and against the walls of his bathroom.
America was right, and of course he was. Suddenly England had changed, and everyone could not help but agree that it was not for the better. He ended up forcing himself away from everyone, purely because he was too grieved and fearful to seek their help. It wasn't like anybody could help him regardless. If the fairies couldn't provide any help… if the whole realm of magic and the supernatural had abandoned him to his horrific fate, then, damn it all, the countries of the world would not be able to lend a hand either.
What would the world do anyway, if he told a soul? They'd lock him up… tie him down with chains, bars, security locked doors... and heaven knows that those defences were not enough. England didn't remember what exactly happened while he was under the curse of the fully lit moon, but he knew for a fact that his efforts so far were docile.
He could do oh so much worse, especially while fuelled with the desperate animalistic urges for freedom. He could tear his prison and the whole planet apart.
Would they try to kill him? England snorted at the very thought. The other countries knew all too well. You could not destroy a country, just like that. Even if every country in the world decided to declare war on him and work to split him apart, then it wouldn't even make a dent. Tear off his limb and it'll just reattach itself. Gouge out his heart, and a new one will follow. Either that; or an empty cavity will remain in his chest, while his body - defeating the odds and logic both - will continue to run.
A country cannot be killed. Not easily at least.
And with the wolf's poison running through his veins, the healing process was twice as fast as even that. He was unstoppable. If it wasn't for the humanity left inside him, he could have mercilessly conquered the Earth without so much as a panic. He was weak as he was, incredibly so - but the beast within him, combined with his status, might have possibly been the greatest antagonist of all time.
Yes, he was unstoppable.
…Unstoppable to everything but a single, perfect, silver bullet.
Silver, any fanatic of mysterious legends and dynamic tales would know, is the only way you can kill a werewolf; and therefore, England's one last weakness. His kryptonite, you could say. He could easily have gotten a gun and pointed it straight at his temple and pulled the trigger, splattering his all-British mind all over the cellar wall. But how could he have done that? No matter how hard he secretly begged for it, no matter how difficult it was to breathe when the monthly pain gripped him… he couldn't do it.
He couldn't pull the trigger.
Despite it all, his pride told him that he didn't want to die.
And so he lived; mentally breaking in the knowledge that all of the deaths - men, women and even little children, ripped to shreds and dismembered by what seemed like animals' claws or multiple knifes. Killing needlessly without harbouring a single shred of mercy or solace for the poor victims his teeth found themselves engraved within.
He was a monster. Not only because he destroyed them; but because he was too vastly terrified to kill himself. His life was more important, wasn't it - his mentality often used to state. But it was not an excuse. Kill or be killed. It was far too in touch with his nature to survive.
He really was a monster.
Menace, perhaps, was a title that suited him far too well.