Here's an ending for any of you who desire one.
The study walls were coated with books and had many more scattered around the ground. Dust hung in the air, seemingly not having moved for the past eternity. Stale light beamed in through a tall window, only about person width, a crack in the dark book shelves. Dust flew up in the air as Atlantis sat herself down in a thin and tall chair, the head of it looming over her several feet*, the small seat gripping to her hips.
"I know that Scotland's advances bother y-" England began.
"Actually they don't," Atlantis started, cutting him off. "Everybody needs a little constant chaos in their lives, right? Some small catastrophe that makes life worth living, especially for those of us who live rather long lives."
"So what did you want to talk about if not that?" England questioned, taking a seat in a dark green, square-shaped arm-chair across from Atlantis's cartoon shaped navy one, the white detail's on it accented by their dark counter part.
"You," she chuckled. "And your magical tin of genderbending wonders. I know you keep it in your pocket."
England pulled out the tobacco tin looking container, staring intently at it.
"I don't think you need it any more."
Atlantis's comment shocked him and he looked up at her in surprise.
"What? But you said the spell was never going away and that either I or America needed to be female for the rest of eternity."
"Excuse me while I attempt to break the proverbial 'fourth-wall' for a moment" Atlantis began. "I was always fond of the idea of life being like a book, the author deciding every detail. An old pal of mine always thought of her author as someone with a sick sense of humor, putting her through physical torture on a regular basis with broken bones and other clumsy injuries but giving her the love of her life. I think our's is trying to let that tin be a symbol of something."
"What?" England was thoroughly confused.
"I think, though I may be wrong," Atlantis began, "That the tin is a fear of her's, supposing our author is female, and that the release of it, or say the burning" she gestured towards the fireplace, "would symbolize the end of that fear, the death of a restriction. And maybe, just maybe, if we follow along this poetic path she may just grant us the wish we desire."
England swallowed.
"You're sure about this?" he asked, his voice shakey.
"Hate to say I'm a profet, but I'm the author's favourite, she tells me things."
England rose to his feet, slowly making his way over to the flaring fire.
He tossed it in, the flames turning green and licking the bricks, charring them black with the debris.
"So how does this work?" England asked, staring at the raging flames. "Do I have to wait?"
"Maybe you do, maybe you don't, it depends on what kind of story you're trying to tell."
"Okay." and with that he sat down on his chair, in a cloud of dust and waited.
Yeah... I just ended it...