Even as long as England had lived, it still amazed him the lengths that his people would go to in order to protect him, and all that he was -- their nation, their fellow man, their land, their families.
Perhaps it was a good thing that he was not yet jaded to the dedication of his citizens. It hurt, of course, to see them sacrificing, and it hurt that he knew he would never be able to give that much back. Such was the burden of a nation, though, and England took it in stride; he considered it in his international affairs like any other factor. Balance was crucial to survival -- especially in times of war.
The Luftwaffe was relentless. His body ached with the strain of resistance, as if the RAF were human antibodies desperately fending off some muscle-atrophying disease. He felt every bomb that touched down, and the sensation of fleeing, hiding, an odd tremble just beneath his skin as his people ran to the bomb shelters.
He let out a sigh as a Luftwaffe plane went down and took parts of at least three buildings with it, like stalactites cracking off inside of him. Even in his office, far away from the front lines, the battle raged around him, within him.
It made it understandably hard to focus on paperwork.
Calloused fingers curled elegantly around the handle of a teacup, he had a dollop of Earl Grey in the back of his throat when a knock sounded at the door. Green eyes focused themselves on the door over the rim of the cup. In the moment that it took him to swallow and set down the delicate half-filled china, his visitor knocked again, impatience resonating along the wood.
"Come in," he invited coolly, lacing his fingers together over top of his desk.
A girl entered immediately punctuating his response. Fiery amber glared out at him from beneath the brim of a uniform beret and caramel skin tensed underneath rich teal sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She bore patches of her coat of arms on her shoulder straps, under one of which was threaded a crimson braided cord that knotted to a hook on one of her breast pockets. It crossed England's mind that he had no idea who this young lady was, until he realized the puffed-up red ribbons beneath her ears weren't part of her uniform.
"…Seychelles." He hardly recognized her out of her tropical islander garb, uniformed up like she was one of the world superpowers. She had grown a little, but her face still looked childish and odd peeking out from all the neat creases and precise folds of her military dress. "What is your business here?" Whatever it was, he most likely didn't have time for it; his worries were much larger than her 115 islands.
"I'm going to help you," she stated, her fingers splayed out atop his documents and the upper half of her body leaning forward, like this was a plan of action they had formulated through intense calculation.
England frowned, and he wasn't sure if the slow knotting in his stomach was the collapse of a structure in London or a reaction to Seychelles' words. "I think not," the once-Empire answered, words clipped off like he'd taken them from a much larger portion of speech.
"Well, I think I am!" challenged the island collective as she crossed her arms over that uniform of hers -- he noticed, now, that it was the same color as her favorite dress. "The Axis are in East Africa. They have Ethiopia, you know that! And Somalia too -- that's my closest neighbor to the north!" Admittedly, he'd been a bit preoccupied with the endless air raids, so his knowledge of the Axis exploits in Africa weren't exactly the clearest. As he put this information in order, she continued to speak.
"We've increased our defenses, but I'm not going to take this. I'm going to hit first; I'm not just going to sit and wait like a good little trophy to be won at their leisure."
She was so young, and she had always been a little on the simple side. Not quite stupid, but absent. England scoffed a little. The condescending gesture riled her, and he was thankful for the reaction; she was blissfully unaware of the protective creature that clawed at his insides, longing for the safety of his former territory. "You do know that if you declare war, you'll be facing Japan as well, do you not?" If she was worried about just Germany or Italy alone, he couldn't imagine her going up against the full trilateral axis.
Seychelles huffed. "I'm not dumb! If I were going to declare war, I wouldn't be here."
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, this bit of information at least managing to temporarily quell the territorial beast. "Then why are you here?" he asked exasperatedly.
She frowned. "I told you, eyebrow bastard, I'm going to help you!"
Specificity was never really among her strong points.
His green eyes were locked upon her in a deadpan stare, his face unimpressed even as his heart struggled to swell within the stone he had encased it in.
The brunette glared at him some more, her eyes defiant. The silence eventually became too much for her and she relented to explaining without prompting. "…the pilots from my Air Wing," she started, and his heart broke free from the stone shell in its expansion. "They can fly with the Royal Air Force. I'll still be going up against that jerk, without the formal war stuff." She averted her gaze -- he noticed her cheeks reddening beneath the tan pigment of her skin -- and crossed her arms again. "…a-and I'll be helping you. I'm not going to let that saleté nazie get you too."
The "too" piqued his curiosity for the briefest of moments before his mind answered the question it brought up: France. His treacherous heart was pulsing with sentimentality; the fact that she actually wanted to help him despite their past in combination with his protective streak screaming to keep her out of this conflict was a little too much for it to handle.
"…And what will you do if you end up needing those pilots on your home front?" he inquired, his voice businesslike even as his chest pinched at shutting her out. "I am fine here. Keep your soldiers."
The pinch turned into a painful stab when she took in a shaky breath, as if regaining wind after being punched in the stomach. "…if you don't let my people fly for you, I'll move into Somalia." The breath came back out in a threat.
There was no way she had the military strength to liberate Somalia. Her defenses would be annihilated, and that would clear up the way for a clean Axis takeover.
Since when did she matter so much?
The silence thickened like one of his puddings on the stove. His eyes (which he recalled that she used to detest, saying that they were "an insult to pretty plantlife everywhere") were on her hands, balled into tight fists and trembling with juvenile anger. England remembered the days of that collar, a physical indication of the attachment his younger self felt towards the female nation. She may have been older than her name, but she was isolated; absently, he wondered if there was a scar anywhere to be found on her body. He could not recall her being involved in any conflicts.
Somewhere, he felt an RAF plane go down.
"Fine," he relented, his swollen heart fit to burst within the clutches of that creature. "Keep the rest of your troops. If I find them enlisted anywhere besides the Royal Air Force," but he blanched and could not think of a punishment, and so made the cut-off of his words look intentional, a purposeful implied threat.
She smiled, and good God, he may as well have been his younger, colonizing self, the one so enamored with the African archipelago. "They'll be over. We'll kick that jerk clean out of your skies!" Seychelles hit her fist into her palm with a resounding smack, countenance the epitome of triumph.
"Right." All flustered and dopey like an adolescent, England felt rather tired. Honestly, he thought her days of bothering him were over and done with once he'd made her a crown colony. Troublesome little girl.
She took this as her dismissal and turned to leave. The door was open and she had one foot out when England lost control of his mouth. "Thank you."
The pigtailed girl turned and blinked dimly at him a few times. His cheeks were just beginning to flush at the escaped show of gratitude when she smiled and saluted him, hand angled neatly under the flop of her beret. He acknowledged her with a nod, and Seychelles finally departed, closing the door with a wooden thud and the click of a knob.
He sighed as the emotions running rampant in him started to settle into the background of the aerial struggle.
Colonies, reflected the former Empire with more nostalgia than bitterness.
Translation notes: "saleté nazie" = Nazi filth
A/N: so, this spawned out of reading that a lot of Seychellois actually served on the Royal Air Force in the Battle of Britain, and my brain immediately went "k, Hetalia time" and this happened. i actually have a sort of small follow-up thing planned sort of, so...look for it?
research-wise, omg please just kill me. i could not find clear images of Seychellois military uniforms anywhere, so what Sey's wearing in this fic is kind of a mash-up of what the Chief of Defense Forces of Seychelles was wearing in a photo taken with Rear Admiral Jose Domingos Pereira da Cunha (of NATO) and the uniforms in one photo that i found that i am 95% sure is of Seychellois military guys. except the colors, those were all me. i guess she got her uniform flamboyance from France. i'm sorry if it's, uh, dead wrong, which i'm sure it is. OTL
not just the uniforms, though, the Seychellois military in general. and the Axis occupation of Africa. i fail researching, and military things, and accuracy, and everything. for this, i am very sorry. overall, i just hope it didn't detract from the enjoyment of the story! if i was able to make this entertaining despite sketchy details and things, then i will be a happy Cee. sorry for rambly author's note (again), and thank you for reading!