{Okay so, basically this may come across as an odd slant to the story /however/ I was inspired by a picture I'd stumbled across ages ago of Alfred and Arthur dressed in military and gentry attire while sporting a pair of wings-and so from that, a storm of ideas hit me.
I'd also RPed something similar to this a long time ago with an Alfred whom I dearly miss. ;n; /3
Thus creating the beginning of this fanfic (Which I should've written a long time ago).

Oh and allow me to explain-
While I refer to the characters as being either Eagles or Falcon's it's only their wings that define them as such. Aside from that they're humans-so don't jump to the conclusion that I'm having fluffy birds attacking one another.
Hope you all like what I have so far~ :)
I do not own Hetalia all rights go to Himaruya Hidekazu 3 }

Along with bombs, bodies were raining over London. Often enough, dark eagles plummeted to smash against the streets and rooftops, but the casualties accounted for included many of England's finest. The city was smeared with ash, feathers and blood.

What would later be known as the 'London Blitz' was in its final stages, no longer consisting of nightly attacks, but raids were still frequent. The survivors were coping with massive destruction and the fear of how long they'd have left to live.
England's newest Allies had yet to truly step foot into battle, save for a hand full of Americans that had been stationed in Europe to gather information.

Several of which, had joined the effort in the skies. They were quite effective, but few.
And...they're assistance had been notably...late (And not fashionably by any means).
After a particularly violent cracking of gunfire, one particularly large US bird found himself unable to recover wind underneath his wings.
Baby blue eyes widened in shock as his attempts to flap all became futile. Several pained profanities escaped his lips as the pain took over his system rendering him helpless.
The smouldering city beneath him seemed so far down-the bodies that littered the ground and the few which were still scattering in a panic seemed as tiny as ants.

Each appendage was forced close to his body thanks to the velocity of his fall.
His tail feathers were smoking, their edges lined with the glow of dwindling fire. He was now bulleting towards the ground faster then lightening.

Forty eight out of the fifty seven heavy bombing days had passed so far, the Germans seemed relentless in trying to bring the British to their knees.
Blood, cries and sirens wailed throughout the night and now the daylight hours.
Black outs were a 'must have' for any living souls remaining in the city.
Score upon scores of fires could be seen blazing throughout the once great and proud city.
Planes and eagles soared through the darkened skies blending in skilfully with the grey and charcoal coloured clouds and smoke while they continued with their relentless destruction.

Crumbling and gunfire, smashing and pain.
An emerald eyed Briton now lay in the ruins of one of the schools which had been used as an air raid shelter. Unfortunately one of the bombs had successfully pinpointed the area dropping it right on target, the result; four hundred and fifty lives and many wounded.
Grasping at his now fractured shoulder, his vision blurred slightly as he tried to force air into his pained lungs both from all the smoke and stench of death, he dragged himself to his feet to peer out through the ruins of the building, the gun he'd once held was out of rounds completely useless unless he could muster the strength to bludgeon the enemy to death, however upon observation there wasn't a soul about the area. It almost seemed eerie.
The aftermath of the bomb had left the area in a dead silence.
Though that could also have been from the fact that his ears had gone through shock after the explosion.
He was surprised he hadn't been deafened.
Arthur Kirkland was one of the Falcon's stationed in the heart of London-though right now if London truly had a heart the poor thing would be going through cardiac arrest right now.

Alfred would bullet from the sky in front of Arthur's eyes - not 20 feet away.
Before his skull could be shattered by the ground, he had found the strength of break free of his self-induced wind tunnel; Large wings exploding outwards and giving a great flap as he recovered with a shaken glide across the ground.
Had he wanted to, he could have lowered a hand to touched the street. The tips of his feathers brushed it's dirty surface as he tried to gain altitude. It didn't take long for gunfire to fallow his motions. Not another bird, but that of a hostile aircraft.

He was headed straight for where the English falcon was currently standing, though it was unclear if he could see the other through the thick dust and crumbling rubble surrounding them.
From the distance at which he approached, he could easily have been mistaken for an enemy. His wingspan was similar to that of the Germans.
His only goal was to reach cover so that he could breath a moment before returning to the skies. Closer and closer. He swooped towards the little falcon at an alarming rate.

Jetfire ricocheted on the street surrounding his body.
The bullets bounced upon impact with the rubble - sparking upwards and making the ground come alive with a golden sparkle (though not one which could be deemed as spectacular-only deadly).

The American eagle suddenly swerved with pain, wings flapping desperately as he tried to keep himself mobile and balanced. It would become apparent as he reached the entrance of Arthur's crumbling shelter that he had /not/ been aware of company. Blue eyes widened as he collided head on with the smaller bird.