(Psssst. Hi. Song that fits this fic: Past Lives by Børns. Okay, continue.)

I'll Be Right Back

Soulmates are a funny thing.

Some people find them romantic, others a myth. In the story I'm about to tell you, however, soulmates are fact.

The year is 1349 and the Black Death is raging throughout Europe. It's the peak of August and the fumes of the deceased are practically unbearable. Alice puts the stench out of her mind to the best of her abilities. She has a job to do and the smell of ruminating death and the fact that the soulmate counter on her wrist is about to reach zero are at the bottom of her priorities.

Little does she know that this is the first life in which she will meet her soulmate. Her entire being is subconsciously jumpy and excited; ready to meet the soul that she is fated to love.

Five minutes left, she notes mildly while wiping down a patient. Why in God's sweet name she decided to be a nurse during this horrid disease is beyond her. She can't even manage to heal them. All she can do is hope to make their passing slightly more comfortable. Alice turns her head as her name is called. Another patient is being brought in.

She and her colleague, Jeanette, quickly made up a bed for the newcomer whilst Jeanette did what she did best: gossiped. "The boy's about to pass," she whispered conspiringly. "The only reason they're letting him in is because he's the son of a wealthy merchant that's passing through."

"Well," Alice mumbled, "the least we can do is make sure he's comfortable when he goes."

Jeanette tittered about as they finished up their task. As a couple men carried in the newcomer's body, Alice glanced at her wrist and saw it was only at a half minute. The full-force of the situation finally hit her. She was about to meet her true love. What if he thought her ugly? What if they're not even a he? What if—

Alice looked down at the sick man being laid before her on a futon and felt a strange blooming in her chest as the counter on her wrist quietly reached zero and dissolved into nothing. He looked up at her with gorgeous blue eyes that were half fogged over with death.

What if he was taken by this godforsaken disease?

"Hello," she whispered as she touched his face. Buboes were decorating his skin and he burned to the touch. He didn't have long at all.

Sweat plastered his hair to his head and his response was weak and hoarse, "Hello." Then he smiled. It was weak and full of sadness, but it was the most beautiful thing she had even seen. Even with his deathly pale skin and black blisters dancing about the sides of his face and above his lips: he was beautiful.

"Sorry," he whispered, nuzzling her hand ever so slightly. "I won't get sick next time."

Tears were leaking from her eyes now, "Promise?"

"Promise."

Alice watched as he left her…

This time the year was 1502 and a disgustingly rowdy crowd was gathered to watch the day's morbid entertainment. Rose wasn't quite sure why she had thought it a good idea to come to the hanging fair at this particular time. She was mere moments away from seeing her soulmate and coming to such a crowded place was quite honestly the most idiotic move she could've made.

Just like last time—not that she remembered her last life in the slightest—her entire being seemed jittery. She nervously wondered what her soulmate would be like. Would he be handsome? Ugly? Crude? Kind? What would he—

Rose was abruptly cut off as the yelling around her grew intensely louder. The soon-to-be-dead were being brought out it seemed. Normally she wouldn't bother caring how much of a hanging she observed. She hated the things. They were cruel and sickening, but for some strange reason, Rose found herself shoving her way forward towards the platform. She stopped her advances about thirty paces away from the execution "stage."

The number on her wrist slipped to zero and dissolved.

Such pretty blue eyes and uncharacteristically short hair engulfed her vision. Just her luck, her soulmate was a woman. And was about to die.

The two stared at each other with an indescribable mix of emotions, blatantly ignoring their own tears. Rose would never be able to know this woman. To kiss her. To even feel the warmth of her hand.

To know her name.

He had kept his promise. This time he wasn't sick.

Rose shook her head ever so slightly in horror as the noose was hooked around the woman's neck. Her soulmate's eyes were fully gushing tears by this point, but she managed a weak, tiny smile and mouthed, "Don't cry."

The executioner walked over to the lever. The woman jolted; Rose choked on a sob.

Their eyes met for a split second, and then the trap door gave way.

Rose never knew you could miss someone you didn't know so much.

The year was 1622. The twenty-second of March to be exact. Clark had arrived in this small settlement in Virginia just yesterday. The place itself had been quaint, but it seemed the indigenous neighbors were anything but.

The assault had come seemingly out of nowhere. The day before the Indians had been showering the colonists with delicious foods and kindness. Today they were murdering children. The day Clark was to meet his soulmate.

Sometimes his lack of luck even managed to impress him.

Quickly he ran into a barn. There was no way he was going to escape these people. No way. He was going to die and—

His soulmate timer was at ten seconds.

Before he could even look around, Clark felt a hand pulling on his wrist followed by a woman hissing, "Get down here!" before being yanked behind some hay.

Clark was about to yell, but was instead met with perfectly blue eyes that almost seemed familiar. Before either of them could speak, Clark pulled her roughly into a tight embrace that she quickly reciprocated. The two's timers dissolved in sync.

They pulled back ever so slightly and his soulmate smiled at him sheepishly before jerking in his arms as the barn door was slammed open. The Indian noticed them quickly and let out a war cry and charged at the two, but right before a sickle was driven into the back of her head, Clark heard her whisper, "I'll see you next time."

Oddly enough, Clark died with a swelling of hope in his chest.

The year is 1779 and the American Revolution is in full swing. The bloody French have joined the war, and the British barely have enough funding after their last war—

And Artur's soulmate timer is down to six minutes in the middle of a battle. Sometimes he really hated his life.

God, he really hated this war.

As Artur ran forward, avoiding gun and canon fire, he felt jittery again. His soul excited, no matter what the circumstances, to meet its other half. Normally, after so long at war, Artur wouldn't have turned at the sound of a man dying. He was immune to that by now.

But not today, apparently.

Artur peeked over to see a blond boy nursing a stomach wound. The boy looked up at him piteously at first, and then his eyes widened when he truly saw who was standing before him.

Neither of them had to check their wrists to see that the numbers had dissolved.

Artur quickly skittered over to the wounded boy and knelt beside him. Carefully, Artur scooped the boy into his arms but quickly noticed something terribly off—

"You're a woman?" he asked, confused.

She winked at him and grinned, "Disappointed?"

Artur chuckled and murmured, "You know I couldn't care less about what you are. I never have cared." Artur was confused by his own words—never?—but he didn't dwell on it. He gingerly leaned down and kissed her forehead, "Next time let's not be on opposing sides, though."

She nestled herself against his chest before leaving him once again.

Archie rested his head against the wall of the trench and heaved a sigh. It was 1917 and those blasted Americans had finally decided to get off their arses and join this godforsaken war. Archie's soulmate timer was set to reach zero today but he was too preoccupied with the bullets flying over his head to care.

He closes his eyes for a moment and hears rustling and a "fwump," followed by a, "Hey, are you…"

Whatever the stranger—judging by the accent an American—was about to say was cut short when Archie looked at him.

For the fifth time, Archie's timer dissolved. "Hello," he whispered.

Suddenly, the American resolutely grabbed Archie's left hand before tearing off the glove there and then, quickly proceeding to do the same with his own. On his finger there was a simple gold band. Was he married already? What?

Archie felt his face pale as he stared at the ring while the American pried it off of his own hand. After the ring was free he reached for Archie's hand and quietly said, "My ma gave this to me for when I met my soulmate. I got the matching one 'round my neck." Archie swallowed thickly as his soulmate placed the ring on his finger before looking up at him sheepishly.

At Archie's confused countenance, the man seemed to lose some of his bravado. "Sorry I did that. I jus' felt like I needed to because…" his face turned puzzled and Archie got one last look at those perfect eyes before a grenade landed not five feet from his soulmate.

The American pushed Archie as far as possible away before the explosion occurred. Sadly, he still lost both of his legs and his American died immediately.

Archie's family mourned a child that died from blood loss and infection, but if he'd lived he would've insisted he'd had died of a broken heart anyway.

Elizabeth had been waiting for her soulmate for 51 years now. That was a damn long time and she was sick and tired of waiting. It was 1969, on the turn of a new decade, and she was a grumpy nurse that was strangely happy today.

Because yet again she was meeting her soulmate.

And he was rolled in on a gurney.

The bloody buffoon had over dosed on some drug that she didn't care about. She was going to lose him again.

Again.

And this time she didn't even see those beautiful blue eyes before he left.

Today was Arthur's fifteenth birthday.

He was meeting his soulmate today.

But this time would be different.

He was walking to his favorite tea shop when he witnessed a car accident. It was a hit and run deal but Arthur saw the wounded man's face and almost wept. Not again.

He ran at full speed towards the man. He was older and just as stunningly gorgeous with blood leaking from his mouth as he'd be without. Arthur didn't move him for fear of hurting him more, but he knelt and leaned over him, staring into his blue eyes.

He didn't notice his timer blinking at zero rather than dissolving.

The man scanned his face with wide eyes, "I'm sorry, babe." Arthur may or may not have slightly scoffed at the stupid pet name, despite his soulmate being on his death bed.

"I-" he started breathlessly, "I'm not leaving you again."

Arthur held back a sob, "It looks like you are, love."

The man shook his head, and before Arthur could retort, reached his hand up, and yanked Arthur down into a kiss. Arthur would never forget the metallic taste of blood from the first kiss they had ever shared.

The man's breathing was shaky and coming rapidly now, and Arthur could tell it wasn't from the kiss. "I'll be right back," he muttered.

And as his breathing stopped, Arthur's timer reset.

Nine more years he waited.

Not that Arthur minded. He wouldn't have to be alone this time.

It was very strange. He knew he'd been through this whole ordeal with his soulmate before; he just couldn't remember when or how. Not that it really mattered. All that mattered was that he was bound and determined to not let his soulmate die during this second chance.

He studied several forms of self-defense, learned all types of first aid and even practiced what he was going to say when he found his soulmate. It was some weird, drawn out speech that, in hindsight, was pretty stupid of him to have thought up in the first place.

Because when he met his soulmate again, he realized words weren't necessary.

Arthur had become a school teacher this time and on his first day of work he felt a rude couple pokes in his back. He turned around swiftly; ready to lecture the perpetrator on how we do not practically bruise someone's ribs when we need to get their attention. Instead he stopped dead in his tracks as he was faced with big blue eyes leaking a tear or two and a lovely smile. "Hey dude."

Arthur collapsed to his knees and drew the boy to his chest, not saying a word as his timer dissolved.

"I'm Alfred. What's your name?" Arthur practically melted over how his voice was muffled by his shoulder.

"I'm Arthur," he croaked.

"I like that name."

Arthur smiled for moment before pulling back abruptly. "You had better not die this time, or else I will personally resuscitate you and then kill you again."

Alfred giggled a bit. "I won't . I'm eight. Are you, like, forty?"

Arthur did his best to scowl, "I'm only twenty-four you twat. And only eight? Not even nine? Bloody Christ I'm an extreme cradle robber."

Alfred cocked his head to the side, "Why are you stealing babies?"

There was no helping the chuckle that escaped Arthur's lips. "I'm not," he assured quietly, petting Alfred's head, trying to smooth down a piece of hair that stood up resolutely.

"I like your eyes," Alfred whispered, placing each of his hands on either sides of Arthur's face.

"I like yours too," he whispered back.

And for the first time—and by no means the last—green eyes met blue ones without a trace of fear or death coloring them.

Fin.

Well. I'm officially Hetalia trash.

I am happy about that.

Anyway, I'm practically living off of USUK these days. Like the pairings slut I am. And I simply couldn't help but write this. I really enjoyed writing and researching stuff for this piece of depressing shit. It was really super fun. This is a one shot but maybe if I get a wild hair up my ass I'll write some ficlets for it. Meh. Anyway, sorry if it sucks ass or if there are any grammatical errors. Also, I'm super sorry for using the name Archie. I was out of ideas. So sorry.

(Also, that final scene was embarrassing to write. How you you shota lovers do it?)

Couple of things:

Buboes: black pus-filled blisters that develop in the sweatiest regions of the body while one is suffering from the Bubonic Plague

Hanging Fair: slang term for execution days in England during the sixteenth century

March 22, 1622: (Indian Massacre of 1622) Native Americans slaughtered a crap ton of settlers because they were sick of the white man's shit. The Powhatans killed 347 settlers in all. Jamestown was able to defend itself because of a sort of anonymous tip.

I just kinda found the cover pic off of google so... I'm not taking credit for anything here.

Hope ya'll have a wonderful day. :) Bu-bye!