I was sitting down, having tea with my father when it started. The worst pain I had ever felt or will ever feel in the future. A ripping pain shot through my body as my tea cup filled with hot tea clattered to the ground, shattering into thousands of tiny pieces, tea spilling everywhere. I was frozen in place by pain, a silent scream written across my face. All I knew was wave after wave of pain, impact after impact of destruction upon my city.

I could tell my father was beyond worried about me, but my mind was too clouded by the horrendous pain I felt to formulate any type of response to the frantic questions asked of me. Finally, my pain was expressed in an ear splitting scream of terror and torture.

What was wrong with him? We had only been having tea. What could have gone so wrong that my poor little London sat stock still, tea on the floor. I tried questioning him, "Henry? Henry, love, can you tell me what's wrong?" I waited for a minute, hoping against hope that he would respond with something small and simple, something that I could do to stop whatever had caused this.

Instead, the only thing that met my ears was the gut wrenching scream of pain from my son. The sound made my heart clench with worry for my city and son. As his body began to spasm, he began to fall, but I managed to catch him before he reached the ground. As I held him close to me, I could see blood pooling on his blue sweater and his nice trousers. My eyes widened. This could not be good. London must be under attack if this level of pain and harm came to my poor Henry. I tried to restrain his flailing limbs, attempting to protect him from further harm. I offered him soothing and kind words, though I was unsure if any of my words reached him through his screams. It is doubtful, but I have to try.

After the first hour filled with screams and blood and panic, the screams began to lose volume. Not because there was a decrease in pain-his thrashing told me otherwise-but because his vocal chords were being overused and could no longer create as much sound.

At some point in the second hour, Henry dropped into a fitful and uneasy sleep, a permanent frown on his face and the occasional loud whimper escaping his lips. Several times, I would try to move him to one of the beds in the house, but every time I made an attempt, a scratchy scream, barely there, left his mouth, so I decided to stay there on the floor with him, hoping and praying to God that whatever was happening would end soon.

After the two hour mark, Henry finally began to settle down, moving less and whimpering even more quietly, almost inaudible. I slowly and gently lifted him off of the ground, relieving less resistance than I had in the past. Maybe the attack was over, maybe this was a one time thing. I know I was being irrational. This was a war. There was going to be more than one attack. I can only hope that the other attacks aren't on London. That way, Henry won't be the receiver of the pain. I don't want him to endure anything like what just happened. I can tell it really did a number on him. Hell, anyone within a mile radius would be able to tell just by the sound of his screams.

I shook myself out of my thoughts as I arrived in his room and placed him in the bed, not putting the covers over him so that I could address his wounds once I got the chance. I wiped some of his blonde hair from his eyes, taking note of his sweat covered forehead. I frowned worriedly, for I had the bad feeling that this attack was the first of many. I'm going to need some help taking care of him, as much as I hate to admit it. I suppose it is time to call in the family. I sighed and left the room to call in the army otherwise known as Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. Who should I call first? Wales would be the most calm, but Scotland or Ireland might be more upset if they weren't informed first.

I picked up the phone and made a quick decision. The phone rang once, twice, three times before Scotland finally picked up. "Aye? What da ye want?" He asked gruffly in the thick accent of his.

"Scotland?" My voice was thick with tears. I hadn't even realized I'd been crying. "It's London. Somethings happened. I think he's been attacked. It..." I took a deep breath, "he's not doing well, Alba. I'm worried for him. I don't know what to do." By this point, I was close to sobbing. The only thing stopping me was pride.

For a while, there was silence on the other end before a determined voice said, "I'm coming Albion. Don't ye worry."

Right before Scotland had a chance to hang up, my small, weak sounding voice asked him a simple question, "could you... Could you call Ireland? Tell him what's happening? I'm going to call Wales. Tell him to come. I don't care what it takes, we just need the whole family here for this one."

There was a short silence, then, "don' ye worry. Ah'll get 'im. Ah'll drag him if ah have to."

"Thank you Alba. Thank you."

For the second time that night, I used the name I used to call Scotland when we were children. I hadn't said it in a long time, and absolutely refused to say it in public. Scotland knew that if I was using that name, I was truly worried and scared.

After saying our goodbyes, we both hung up. I grabbed onto the table holding the telephone, trying to gain some strength before calling Wales. I knew he wouldn't tease me for crying, but I'm the bloody British empire. I can't cry when talking to my brother! I've already broken the rule I set up for myself once. I'll try not to do it again.

I took a deep breath and dialed the dragon loving nation. This time, the phone was picked up after five rings. He must have been doing something. Perhaps with one of his dragons?

"Hello? England? Why are you calling?" Always straight to the point. "Not that I don't love our chats, I'm just a little busy, training Merlin and all..."

Trying not to let any emotion into my voice, I said, "London has been attacked. He's not doing very well. He won't wake up, and he's bleeding all over. Please come over as soon as is possible. I can't take care of him by myself." It was an injury to my pride to have to say that.

Wales was silent. I could tell he was shocked. After all, this was his nephew. The next words said were very comforting, "don't worry, I'm coming over right away. We'll all get through this. Together."

I nodded, knowing he couldn't see me, "thank you Dylan. I'll see you soon."

"Right, right. See you within the hour, Arthur." And with that, we both hung up.

Tears began streaming down my face as I began searching for bandages to stop some of Henry's bleeding, and maybe take preventative measures for future attacks. After finding some in a linen cupboard in the hall, I returned to Henry's room. By now, the sheets were soaked with blood, and I regretted waiting to wrap his wounds. He could have bled out, and it would've been my fault. No, it would've been the fault of whoever it was that attacked his city. When I find out who did this, I will personally tear them limb from limb for harming my son. My son. They dared attack the son of the bloody British empire! They may have thought that by doing this, I would back off, but they were wrong. This only makes me want to fight harder, for I now have a reason, a personal reason to fight harder and do more.

I wrapped his wounds as gently as I could, knowing that no matter what I did, he would experience some pain. That thought was terrible for me. When I was done, nearly every inch of his body was covered in white cloth bandages, some of them already beginning to stain red.

Kneeling there beside him, I poured my heart out, "oh God, oh Lord, oh Savior, please. Please save my son. Save my people. They did nothing wrong to deserve this war or this amount of death. My son did nothing wrong. Please Lord! Save him from the consequences of another's sin." At this point, I began sobbing. "Why is this happening? He's just a boy! He doesn't deserve this kind of pain!"

I took my son's hand in mine as I continued to pour my heart out to God, begging him to spare my little one. Looking at him now though, I suppose I can't quite call him little anymore. He is over a thousand years by now, though his body doesn't show it. He looks to be the age of 20. To any outsider, he would look more like my brother than my son, but I'll always know and remember when I used to be able to hold him in my arms and comfort him, rocking him back and forth. I smiled reminiscently, thinking back to the old times. Things were so much more simple, not having to worry about guns and bombs and the like.

I don't know how long I was sitting there, thinking of all the good times I'd shared with him and wondering if there would be more in the future. I sure hoped so, but at a time like this, one could never be so sure. Soon enough, I heard an insistent knock at the door, signaling that one of my siblings was here, and I slowly stood up. As I made my way to the door, I wiped away my tears and tried to compose myself before opening the door.

There on my porch stood a man with long hair in a braid going down one of his shoulders and a stray curl coming off the opposite side of his head. His green eyes and large eyebrows would be an indicator to an outsider that we are related. So Wales is the first to arrive. To be completely honest, I'm glad that this is the case. I'm not sure I would be able to stand being alone in the house with Scotland and Ireland and maybe even Northern Ireland if they dragged them along.

I nodded in greeting, "hello Dylan, thank you for getting here so fast." I stepped aside and opened the door wider, a silent invitation for him to enter.

He wiped his feet on the front mat before walking in, "I'm just sorry I couldn't get here sooner." He smelled of smoke, most likely from one of his dragons.

I shook my head, "no worries, I know you're busy. I did call you last second after all. Have you got any clue what happened to London? I haven't had a chance to check the news."

He sighed as I shut the door. "I wish that I had. As soon as I heard the news from you, I put Merlin up and got out Myrddin, flying straight here." Myrddin is the dragon he trained from the time of its hatching to fly him places and then back home. It explained how he got here so soon.

"I understand. I suppose you'd like to go see him then?" That was a stupid question. Of course Dylan wants to see Henry. That was the whole reason he is even here. I cringe at my internal dialogue and lead him up to Henry's room, staying at the door while Dylan goes up next to him, repeating my actions of moving Henry's hair from his face. I can tell that this sight hurt Dylan, maybe not as much as it hurts me, but Dylan cares.

I smile ever so slightly as I recall how Dylan and Henry used to play when he was a small boy.

Seeing tears on Dylan's face brought me out of my memories. I suppose I was right, this really is putting a strain on him as well. "Cymru? Are you ok?" I used the name his people made for him, just as I had done for Alba. I must be going soft.

He wiped the tears from his face silently, "I'll kill whoever did this. No, my dragons and I will make them suffer a fate worse than death. They'll beg for it." I'm not sure if I've ever heard his voice so dark or menacing. He was always the peacemaker of the family, always trying to sort things out with words instead of a fight.

I walk up next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "I'll be there every step of the way. We won't let them get away with this."

As he nods in acknowledgement, there is a loud banging at the door before it slams open. I can only assume Scotland and Ireland are here. I sigh and go out to meet them, maybe intercept the storm before they wake Henry. "Hello Alba, Erin." I used their old names. The names we used when we didn't all hate each other. Sure they would tease and bully me. I always knew they loved me, despite their harsh words and actions. Well, I've done so much to Ireland that it's questionable now, but now isn't the time to figure that out. I suppose my mind is trying to distract me from the horror that is happening just up stairs.

They both looked absolutely pissed. "IT WAS THA' STUPID KRAUT!" Alasdair roared. "He did this, he fucking bombed our little London! 'Im and 'is fuckin' Luftwaffe or whatever it is 'e fuckin' calls it." His face was nearly as red as his hair. Alasdair's hair was only a shade lighter than auburn, and he has the green eyes and bushy brows that are a part of this family. He is rather tall, 6'3", the tallest in the family. He was clearly enraged. It's not that I'm not pissed as hell, I'm just too worn out at this moment. As soon as my brain is back to full functionality, I'm sure I'll be just as animated as Alasdair, however, at the moment, I merely mutter curses towards the nazi country, hoping at least one curse does indeed take effect.

At this moment, the short ginger known as Kenneth or Ireland spoke up, "ah may not like ye very much England, but no one feckin' touches me little nephew. Not unless they got a few screws loose." The 5'5" man spoke darkly, in a tone that would scare even Russia.

I nodded in agreement with the two. "We'll make him pay. Don't you worry lads, he won't come out of this war unscathed. Not if we have anything to say about it."

I feel my anger boil, but right as I am about to let out some of my rage, Wales pops his head out from Henry's room and calls out and down the stairs, voice full of hope, "he's awake."

All three of us on the ground floor quiet and look up before rushing to the room. Ireland and Scotland run, but I, being the gentleman I am, walk hastily. Oh who am I kidding? I was the first one by my son's side.

When I arrived by his side, he was looking around the room as if in a daze.

When my eyes open, everything is blurry, and there seems to be some sort of itchy material covering most of my body. There is a dull ache all over. I can hear a voice... Was that... Uncle Wales? I can't understand his words, they sound much too far away, as if I am submerged in water. Why can't I understand him? More voices join my uncle's. I am able to understand none of them. I shake my head, trying to clear my mind in any way possible. The fuzz clears slightly, just enough for me to make out the voices of my father and uncles. I can see my fathers face.

"Nnnnnn..." My voice is almost completely gone, my throat feels scratchy and dry.

"Get him some water," the warbled voice of my father says.

I start coughing and hacking, sending pain through my body, feeling as if my lungs are full of smoke. Uncle Scotland comes rushing in with a glass half filled with water. Some of it spills but no one seems to care. I try to take the cup, but any movement I make causes more pain, so I allow him to help me drink. Because of my coughs, not much of the water actually makes it down my throat. I am lucky that enough makes it through to slightly sooth the burning of my lungs.

"More... More..." I practically beg them for more water. I feel like I can't get enough. Once more water is in my system, I ask the question that has been on my mind ever since I woke up, "h-how are the people? What happened?"

My brain had cleared enough by now to see their faces and hear their voices clearly. Sadly, that also means I feel more of the pain. The pain worries me, how many had died? How many are injured? How many daughters lost their mothers? How many mothers lost their children?

Ireland is the one who spoke up, "it wa' the kraut. 'E sent in 'is bomb an' 'e burned a good portion o' yer city." He sounds enraged, as if he's ready to rip someone's head off. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he does just that.

I look down at my injuries, hearing the cries of my people in my ears. It's so clear now, the burning he had felt at the very beginning of the onslaught of pain, that must have been incendiary bombs being dropped. My voice was shaking as I asked the next question that came to my mind, "t-this isn't the end, is it? There's going to be more? More deaths? More pain?" As I went on speaking, panic grew in my voice. I don't want to endure more of the last onset of pain. I wasn't sure if I could live through another round.

No. I have to. If there's another round, I must stay strong, for my people. I've got to fight.

My dad, who I hadn't noticed sitting next to me, grabs my hand. "Don't you worry love, we'll get through this together. We'll all be here with you, helping you get through this. And don't worry," his face darkens, "Germany won't get out of this unscathed. He will pay for his transgressions."

As I am am about to respond with my thanks, my words get cut off with a scream. The pain has returned, at least twice as bad as I remember the last round.

"He will pay for his transgressions," I assure my son. I can tell he is hurting, both emotionally and physically. What personification wouldn't be after losing a large percentage of their population?

He opens his mouth as if to speak, but instead there is another gut wrenching scream as his eyes clench shut in apparent pain. My eyes widen, there must be another attack. He clenches his teeth and grips the sheets in the hands, trying not to scream or flail. I can tell he is in immense amounts of pain.

"GAH! It burns!" He says through gritted teeth. "London is burning!"

His words sent my mind reeling to the fire of London back in 1666. It was a horrible time, only six or eight died, but there was so much destruction of property. Many people lost everything. Some later died of smoke inhalation.

My mind snaps back to action as he screams again. "Alasdair, go to the medical cabinet, bring me some morphine and some sort of sedative. Dylan, go get more bandages, I can only assume that he will gain more wounds. We need to be prepared to stop the bleeding. Kenneth, go get a bowl of water and a cloth. We've got to try and keep him clean and cool. On second thought, get a lot of cloths. We can never be too prepared. Any of you, while you're looking, try to find something to restrain him. We don't want him to hurt himself."