He supposes birthdays are something to celebrate.
For the easily excitable, perhaps. England, on the other hand, is simply too old for that nonsense; having had over a millennium's worth of them already, he just can't be arsed to keep track anymore.
He would have forgotten, even, had France not reminded him the week before. Really, he wishes he hadn't bothered—in part because it was France and there seemed to be a law that England had to argue everything that came out of the frog's mouth; not to mention he said it with that damn cheeky smile, as though everything were normal and they could just skip home after work and have cake and all that rubbish. But anyway, who the hell would even care enough to celebrate with him in the first place—
( BOOM. BOOM. )
The ground suddenly shakes again, jolting him out of his bitter thoughts. The air explodes in smoke and someone screams—someone very close to where England is hiding, crouched next to the ruins of a collapsed wall.
He stumbles to his feet, fighting the urge to hurl up what meagre breakfast he had onto the pavement, and with a colossal effort drags himself through the wreckage in search of the source.
It turns out to be a child half-buried under a massive pile of metal. She stares up at him, pale, wide-eyed, and unmoving. Blood mats her hair from where falling debris had pelted her skull; she's too far gone already, he realises with a grimace. But he tries anyway with all his waning strength to dig her out, just as the rubble at his feet begins to rattle, and the girl's frightened whimpers soon die away as countless plane engines come thundering overhead.
( BOOM. )
Another bomb hits. He shields her body from raining shards—
( why even bother, he asks himself harshly; she can't feel anything anymore )
—but still he takes a moment to reach out a clumsy hand and wipe the dust off her ashen, tear-streaked face. Wetness pricks in his own eyes as a searing pain hits his chest, signalling another blow to the city. He grits his teeth and forces himself to tear his gaze away. Coldly, logically, he knows he cannot afford to dwell on this; hers is an insignificant death, just collateral damage to add to a statistic for when Churchill asks, "how many have we lost today?"
And in that moment he wishes, not for the first time in his life, that he had the luxury of foregoing human emotions along with his decidedly non-human existence, because it'd be so much easier if he didn't have to care—
( but that would never be an option )
( because they were his people and the very reason he was alive. )
Laying the child's head back down, his eyes flicker skyward. Buildings are ablaze now, the flames roaring higher and higher, casting a demonic light from the rooftops—like a dozen concrete candles, burning brightly just for him.
His face cracks into a humourless smile.
All of a sudden the world falls in an eerie lull around him, and he mutters disparagingly to himself, his breath drifting like wisps of smoke from his lips, the words drowned amid sirens:
"Happy fucking birthday to me."