AN: Hey, look who's back! Sorry guys, no update for Duplicity, but I'm trying out an old idea to try and get my rhythm back. This is a short little three chapter thing I dreamt up after learning about the London Blitz-and coming to hate my portrayal of it in Perfect Enemies (where America comes in and saves poor England :P let's get real here...)

Tis not USUK. If you're looking for that, turn around.

London, December 29th, 1940

8:00 am

The air was stagnant, unmoving like the sky itself was holding its breath in wait.

England breathed in the cold air deeply, tucking his hands into pockets with a tired look at the sky. It was gray, overcast with no patch of blue visible. He paused, wishing for a long moment that the thick shroud of clouds would break for a moment, just one small moment, and show him that the sky was still there.

Give me something. Please… anything. He begged silently, allowing his eyes to pass over the scene surrounding him on the ground. A shudder ran up his spine.

London was gray, pale and lifeless like the sky above him. Smoke rose in distant columns from the centre of the city, the remnants of the previous nights bombing. It had been a lighter one, only focused on crippling the government, but England was still trying to shake off the jolts of pain that shot through his chest whenever a fire sparked up again.

Sending one last glance at the sky, he began his slow walk down the street with a sigh. Really, he mused wryly, why was he looking for hope from the clouds? The only thing that came from them was more destruction, more hurt as he felt every single civilian death. Some nights, like last, he would have only pinpricks that made it difficult to sleep. Others... others he would barely remember, only find himself in a hospital the next morning with one of his leaders watching over him.

"Blitzkrieg." England spat the word like a curse, kicking a loose brick from a levelled building. 'Lightning warfare'... he had to admit that damn Kraut had aptly named his way of fighting. On the worst nights it was impossible to tell whether it was planes dropping the bombs, or if the heavens had just opened and unleashed their own fury.

Stopping again, England clenched his fingers. Bloody hell, what was going on with him? It was Christmas time, and he was moping around in a way that reminded him all too much of a certain Frog. He was English for God's sake; he would not stoop to self-pity.

Not when his people wouldn't.

England smiled slightly, lip turning up into less of grimace. Despite the ruthless attacks, specifically designed to panic the citizens, Londoners and the rest of the country had held together and supported each other through the terrifying nights. Even at his worst moments, England could still feel their spirit burning in him.

Never surrender...

That had been his motto for months, specifically 114 days. Whether anyone stood by him or not Britain would never be taken while he could stand.

1:00 PM

With a tired groan, England finished going through his enormous pile of mail that had accumulated on his desk while he had been busy helping with the repair of a hospital. How the RAF spared anyone to deliver the cursed letters, he had no idea; however, they arrived daily nonetheless.

The first, and largest, pile was the propaganda rubbish that Germany was always trying to force down his throat. England tossed it in the wastebasket with a disdainful flick of the wrist. That Kraut was truly delusional if he believed a few Nazi pamphlets, each prophesising the demise of the British Empire, were going to get him to surrender peacefully.

The next, and slightly more helpful, was a shipment order from America's boss. England had mixed feeling upon seeing the younger nation's seal on an envelope. Although America was financially and, covertly at times, slipping him arms and supplies, the other nation's claimed neutrality on the entire issue was... a slap in the face to say the least. While he had forced himself to grateful, England couldn't help but feel bitter about being left in the cold. Again.

Not that I care. He thought vehemently. I'm fine on my own. I can fight my own war without any Yankee, Pole, or Frog...

Which, speaking of said Frog, that led to his next letter. It was marked with the French tricolour, but with a red symbol and yellow stars taking up the central white stripe. The handwriting on the envelope was unfamiliar, but that was no surprise. The nation it had come from no longer had the same name.

England ground his teeth, opening the letter with loathing. As usual, the greeting at the top was formal, ringing of German censorship.

Britain,

My superiors have asked me to request that you stop harassing my navy. I am still separate from Germany, I have my own government. Please stop treating me like an enemy.

Vichy France.

That letter followed Germany's, only in a considerably more torn up state. It needled England to see that 'France' was still signed in the same hand, although the rest was completely alien to him. It forced him to remember, as much as he didn't want to, that France was his enemy now. Half his country was German territory, the rest was controlled by Nazi puppets.

I'm fine though. I can fight my own war.

England forced France and the other occupied nations out of his thoughts, looking instead at his last pile of notes. They bore his own marks, but also Canada's. Unlike America, Canada was fighting on his side, if out in the Atlantic. The mild-mannered nation sent him a worried letter every week, asking if he was alright, if there was anything for the rest of the family to do.

England smiled fondly, appreciating the help his colonies were sending him. A warship or two, planes, money to relocate the children in his cities...

It was all very nice, he couldn't deny that, but when the bombs were falling, it wasn't Canada, India, Jamaica, or anyone else taking the hits. It was him, and after the warning sirens went off he was alone. There was no one there to hold him when he couldn't walk the short distance to his bomb shelter. There was no one to smile, to whisper in his ear that everything was going to be alright when planes were screaming by overhead. There was no one at all.

Not that he cared.

Really.

England shook his head, picking up a pen and reminding himself that his work wasn't finished yet. He had no time to dwell on idiotic things like company. Who the hell would want another person there? They would probably just cry and blubber.

No, he was alright and he had to finish his letters. One to Churchill, warning him that Scotland was getting rowdy about the RAF not protecting his cities more. Another to Canada, downplaying Germany's success in the bombing. A cold answer to France, telling him he would back down when hell froze over.

And finally... one more.

The last letter, which he took the time to write every day, was not on official business. It was a tradition he had started months before, almost an unconscious therapy for him.

He would take a paper and begin to describe his day; the tea he had managed to find, the boring details of haggling over a turnip at the market, it all went in there. Slowly though, he would gain momentum and end up describing the struggles of the bombings. Those letters were the only place he would allow himself to admit how tired he was, how difficult it was to even roll out of bed some days. Then he would finish the letter with another rarity, a true plea for help. Begging, he realised.

Then he would seal it, and address it to a certain Alfred F Jones.

Those letters never got a response; England was relatively sure in his "isolationist" mood that America never opened a single one of them. Besides, after their last meeting there were no fond feelings between them.

But whether he read them or not didn't really matter to the British nation; it was more about having one tiny moment in his day where he stopped lying to himself. What Alfred did with it was up to him.

Todays would be a short one; after all, it was Christmas still and nearly the new year. He didn't have much to say; there were only the barest few celebrations in the city, none of which he was able to attend. He had spent most of the past few evenings taking walks alone, breath clouding the chilly air and hands tucked into his pockets.

There wasn't even much news militarily. The air raids hadn't stopped, but they had decreased notably. England was no fool to think they were going to end, but he was enjoying the brief respite. Thinking that to be a positive note, he focused the letter on it and had finished within a few minutes. He didn't bother much with his usual pleading, which left him in higher spirits.

"Well, that was simple." England murmured, filing the envelope away and standing slowly. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, scratching at the back of his neck absentmindedly. He was relatively sure he had no more official work for the day planned, so he was free to do as he pleased. Leisure time, in another world.

But, England reflected with a grim smile, this was Britain, 1940. There was no leisure time.

So he quickly changed his clothes and, forgoing a nap that he would probably need later, put on a borrowed hardhat and grabbed a shovel on the way out of his door. London needed repairing, and whether Germany tried to level it that night or no, England was determined to never give up.

6:00PM

Wiping a hand across his sweat drenched brow, England stood up straight to survey his work. Over the past few hours he and a handful of fellow Britons had managed to unearth a trapped family who had been buried for almost a day and a half under the rubble of their home. As smile ghosted on the nation's lips as he turned away from the tearful reunion between relatives who thought they would never see each other again.

But, even as England relished the small victory, a haunting wail filled the air, cutting the moment short. Green eyes went wide and his fingers turned white from gripping the shaft of the shovel. Slowly, loathingly, England turned his eyes toward the sky as the sirens increased in volume.

The sun had barely gone down, making the sky a dusky blue that played tricks on his eyes. Was that a plane? A hint of the black shadows that haunted his nightmares?

Abruptly cold, England took a shaky step forward as everyone around him scattered and began shouting. No one seemed to notice him, the lone person who couldn't seem to move fast enough, who couldn't force themselves to find a life-saving shelter. He was alone, shaking uncontrollably in the stifling night air.

Dammit, move Arthur. A voice ordered him from somewhere in his conscious. Don't just stand there, what is wrong with you?

Shivering, England tried to figure out what was wrong with him. He rarely acted like this during a raid, especially in the past month. They had almost become part of everyday life... but he just couldn't move. Something was very, very wrong and he knew it.

The sirens wail increased in pitch, raising the hairs on the nape of England's neck. He wrapped his arms around his torso and set his jaw, taking a halting step toward his home. One, then two, and three... he kept going at an alarmingly slow pace, inching closer to the slight shelter of his house.

"Bloody hell, what would Churchill say if he saw me?" England growled to himself, realising how idiotic it was to be walking. Both his pride and fear of the coming Germans propelled him into a jog, and eventually a full-fledged sprint. Even with that, he had only just reached his doorstep when the first bomb streaked by, red against the sky, and crashed into central London.

"Mgf." England tsked in the back of his throat, ignoring the jolt to turn the doorknob. More bombs fell in quick succession before he could step inside, but he kept going. He had only a few moments before the attack would move toward other parts of London and himself.

Throwing open the door to his study, England snatched his letters from that day and a pen. There was nothing else valuable to him in the house; he had long since moved it into Canada's care. As soon as his fingers closed on the papers he was out into the hallway, displacing the rug in his rush to get to the front door.

Outside the horizon was already beginning to glow a molten red, bright enough to light England's way through his garden to the makeshift shelter he had set up there. His boss would have had his head if he knew the nation spent the raids here, but he had sent his neighbour to take his place in the underground tube station.

England ran the last few feet, dropping down under the flimsy metal covering he had rigged up. Above him the raid sirens had been silenced and the lights of the city extinguished, but the fires still burned and another unholy screaming rang out. After so many raids he could pick out the sounds of different planes with ease, and, to England's dismay, he could only hear the growls of German Messerschmitts and shrieks of Stukas overhead. If there were any Hurricanes or Spitfires among them, they were woefully outnumbered.

"God save us..." England muttered, covering his head as a plane dropped a bomb on his block. It was just another pang adding to the growing ache in his chest, like a flame being kindled in his heart. It tore at him, building and building until it was a raging bonfire.

Fingers tight in his coat and eyes stretched wide, England stared at the sky and tried to keep quiet. It became a losing battle though, as real fires sprung up all across the city. It was like burning from the inside out and no matter how he beat at his skin or coughed smoke there was no relief. It was hell, hell like he had only experienced once before in 1666.

I swore I would never allow it to happen again... England thought, squirming helplessly against the heat. I would never let... London... "Gaahhh!"

His vision blanked to red, coming back to the ground under his cheek. England coughed again, tasting ash on his tongue, and let out a groan. Dirt lodged itself under his fingernails as he clawed for something, anything to hold onto.

It's so... hot... A drip of sweat ran down his forehead and stung his eye. The burning became unbearable right over his heart and England tried desperately to pull the fabric of his shirt away, hoping the cool air would help, but the motion only showed him the blackened burn spreading like magic across pale skin. His breath caught, coming out in pained whimper.

I'm never going to last.

It had been a mere five minutes, yet he could barely push himself upright. How long would the raid go on? It was a heavy one, he could already tell, but the Germans would have to turn back within twenty minutes.

Unless, of course, they brought reinforcements...

England sucked in a shuddering breath, bracing himself against the garden wall. No, this wasn't going to be a short raid. The fires would continue, even the Thames would dry up for lack of water, and he would be nothing but ash, a burnt out, dead nation. Germany would have a simple task to come across the Channel and start the invasion he had wanted to do for so long.

England would fall, just like the others.

I c-can't hold on... He closed his eyes, feeling minutes tick by agonizingly slow. Seconds, minutes, hours... it had to be midnight and there was still no end in sight.

...g-going to pass out. England's head felt too heavy for his neck, and the world spun in a slow, confused circle around him. Rockets wove light patterns across his vision, planes played a hellish symphony for his ears, and the dying screams of his people were echoed in his own tormented cries.

Half-delirious, he turned to the side, hand searching across the ground in jerky movements. He couldn't die like this, he had to thwart Germany in the one way he could. His weapon couldn't be a rifle, but a pen.

It was difficult with his sight threatening to go black and hands shaking uncontrollably, but England managed to find a paper and his pen. He addressed it without thinking and scrawled out a note, not even sure what he was writing for at times. All he knew was that his time was running out, and this was his last chance to say...

...to say...

I just want to say...

His hands finished the word his mind couldn't process, and he managed to sign his name as another bomb took him down into black oblivion.

The letter remained clenched in his hand, safe throughout the night to be found the next day by rescuers, sent by a worried government to find him. Sympathetic hands found the note, and eventually it was placed in the mail to begin its long trip across the Atlantic.