The sky was bleeding again.
Careless hands had torn it open and left the wound to fester and rot.
There are no hands to blame any more than I blame my own.
A warm flush of red pooled across the rooftops of London, spilling over the roads and seeping through the windows. The colour smeared so far across the sky that England fancied every soul in his entire empire could see it.
In fact, he rather hoped they could; he refused to suffer alone under this smothering light.
"Has the Great War proven nothing?" his words cracked in a dried throat. He squinted at his city through the dusty glass, voice lowering to an incredulous whisper. "We're bloody fools to think it would ever end."
When he fell into his thoughts again, the silence resumed its pace—not that England expected a reply, or even wanted one. He raked a hand through his hair, trying to offset the constant pain in chest—it'd been there for centuries, but as evening approached it was sharper than usual, like a metal pin pushing through the core of his heart, or a piercing sword from one of the wars of his youth.
The artery threatened to snap.
Why so apprehensive? All this animosity has made you strong, a familiar devil in his head insisted. Europe is writhing in its steady ruin, and still, your soul stretches across the reaches of the seas. It's damaged at its core, but don't worry, the devil assured him, the minions of the Empire will tend the wound, so long as they are yours.
Tell me: do you think they would be yours if you did not first cleave them from the grasp of your enemies?"
London blurred in England's vision until the devil was all he saw beyond the window. It had a face much like his own, but the forehead was swallowed under the brim of a privateer's hat—a gift from Elizabeth's ghost—and a stiff collar rose up under the chin, stately and proud, though the pride in its emerald eyes went unmatched, as if there—in its very gaze—rested all the earth the British Empire claimed.
As you fought for them, they will fight for you. Don't you see? Red is your colour, the devil cooed, red is your colour.
The world was muted in red.
Scarlet light stained his carpet like a swatch of blood, but he'd consigned himself to this way of life a long time ago.
His empire was one of the few to have survived the onslaught of the Great War; if anything could affirm the tenacity of his very existence, it must be that. Germany—poor, weakened Germany—would suffer more than England in this coming war, wouldn't he?
England watched the sun fall, soon to disappear for London. "It's alright." He allowed himself a bitter, hollow smile, finding a crude sort of humour in his strength.
"The sun never sets on the British Empire.