Hey there, Fang here. Sorry I havent posted in forever, fics have been taking time to write...And I finally did it. The Blitz fic that everyone does. But, well...Oh come on, I had to do it too!

Arthur shrugged on his long coat over his suit jacket, signing a breath of relief. It was a small piece of satisfaction in this cold, hard new world, the knowing that he was now heading home to a warm, if slightly charred meal and a hot cup of tea. This war had been hard fought, and Parliament was more on edge than ever before.

The Englishman walked out the main door of the House of Lords, rubbing the back of his neck wearily. He really ought to get some sleep, he thought to himself as he began walking down the streets of London. Even Churchill had remarked had remarked on his appearance before the meeting had convened. In curiosity, England stopped in front of a store window to glance at the man reflected in the lamplight.

He was met with a haggard face, worn and exhausted from the few years of fighting. His hair was duller in color, either from the grime of the city of from his lacking in full health, and if possible, messier. The circles under his eyes were larger, more accentuated, but the emerald orbs were still as fierce as ever.

Arthur straightened himself up, even though the numerous bruises and small cuts he had managed to treat himself groaned and ached in response, and walking with an assured step that almost hid his growing weakness, continued on towards his house. Since July, Germany had been bombing his ports and airfields in the south, and his legs were never feeling up to snuff. But #!*% if he was going to use a cane.

The war had turned a direction that he hoped it would not come to. Europe was almost entirely under Germany's command. Wait, he corrected, not Germany. Hitler. Germany had no more control over his totalitarian dictator than England had over America. That still didn't mean he didn't want to punch the f*ucking b*astard in the balls, though.

H*ell, he allowed himself a small chuckle, if he was in charge of America, he'd be having a better time defending against the Nazi b*astards. He'd be pushing them back where they came from, he would. But, he sighed, he'd have to make do with that Lend-Lease Act. Not that it wasn't helping, but he wished America would come to his senses and fight.

Arthur looked up at the sky, and then down at his watch. Almost midnight…the meeting had run long. Not that he was surprised at all; urgency made them a necessity. With only himself standing in the way of Germany's complete takeover of Europe, there was no room for rest. Right now, his only prerogative was himself.

Arthur could hear the sound of planes in the distance but he dismissed it as his own. Strategy. With only himself to rely on now, he needed some sort of strategy change. England needed defense, if it was going to survive long enough for any other countries to join in.(He wasn't naming names, and he wasn't holding his breath.)

The planes were getting louder, he though absently. Why are they flying over London? The streets were quiet, only making the sound louder. Some sleepy-eyed citizens were cranking open their windows, looking up in confusion. Arthur paused, listening carefully to the almost overhead aircraft. His eyes widened. Those weren't the engines of the RAF…those were-

A plane flew overhead, and Arthur's heart froze. A moment later, his world erupted.

Even though the explosion of flame two streets down emphasized plenty, the disruption on his hear was what dropped him to his knees. London was under attack, he dimly realized. London was under attack.

The pain hit his chest like a red-hot knife. Arthur gasped as he thudded onto the pavement face first. Another hit. And one more. He could feel each bomb ripping away his breath, tearing his body apart. Arthur gasped again, trying to draw any air in, but he met with a choking, gurgled noise that crept up his throat. He coughed violently, spewing scarlet specks across the sidewalk. Blood, he thought wildly, his blood.

Arthur stumbled upright, clutching his chest tightly, teeth gritting through the pain. Now he could hear people screaming, crying in fear and shock. They were running past him in blurs of color, running for the bomb shelters, the subways, he noticed, before two more bombs hit his city. He slammed up against the wall of the building behind him, blood being coughed up again. Arthur's body was racked with insurmountable torture, yet he pushed himself off the wall and began struggling blindly through the throngs of distraught people.

London was bombed, he thought numbly as another white bolt of lightning shot his heart again. London was bombed. He stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk, and finally looked down to see a red trail behind him.

The now constant hits upon his heart had numbed him to any other pain, so when he glanced down at the hand covering his chest, he was surprised to see blood trickling through his clenched fingers. He brought his blood-covered hand to his face and stared at the red liquid dripping down his wrist. Only when he lowered it did he see it.

Fire. London was burning. Oh, dear God, no.

Smoke was everywhere. The orange flames licked the tall buildings, traveling in and out of the streets of his city. Those streets were transformed into a burning crescendo.

Arthur coughed again, but his eyes were open in shock. Without thinking, he tore off his coat and jacket, and one look at his shirt confirmed it all: a scarlet stain was blossoming on the white, thin fabric. With a panicked jerk, he tore the buttons off and nearly passed out from the morbid sight that greeted him. A hideous burn originated at the left side of his chest and was rapidly continuing to spread across his torso. With the realization of the severe wound, the wrenching, fiery pain of the new injury added to the constant attacks on his heart. Arthur hit the ground hard on his side, the impact sending waves of agony to his left arm. Arthur couldn't scream now even if he had wanted too; the last of his strength had failed him.

His arm jutting out at an unhealthy angle, Arthur writhed in the middle of the streets, mouth open in a silent cry. God, this was the end of the world. He was dying. He was honest to God dying. Everything was blending together; agony was the only constant.

Arthur was staring at the sky now. The blackness that filled his now was reflected into the heavens, with tiny, mocking stars laughing at his plight. The burning city was all around him…the flames and wood were growing closer to him as his eyes fluttered closed, his mind all but shutting down. H*ell raged all around him.

AUTHOR'S COMMENTS:

Well...I really need to stop bombing Iggy...I have another bombing fic thats ready to be published as soon as I get this one up. I'm going to write happy stuff, I swear! Really, I do!

Hope you like, and keep reading...

-Fang