"There you are, in you go love. Mind your head madam this door is a bit low. Sir, please wait your turn the bombers are far enough away that you do not need to be in such a hurry. Here you are lad; mind you don't drop your pillow in the mud." Britain's calming voice seemed to soothe his citizens as he helped the last civilians into one of the many Anderson shelters* that had been commissioned by the government months prior. Britain felt his hands shaking noticeably as he sealed the shelter behind him and quickly transported himself to the next.
Britain…Germany's Luftwaffe should be knocking on your door within the next hour. They just passed over Normandy. France's message radiated in his head like a dagger, startling him into nearly knocking over a frantic pedestrian as she scrambled for the safety of one of the neighborhood shelters with five sobbing children tucked under her arms or scrambling around her skirts.
Apologizing quickly he offered to carry her bags as well as one of her smaller children begging to be carried. She accepted gratefully her eyes brimming with tears, and allowed Britain quickly begin shepherding her family to the shelter.
Thanks for the heads up, Frog. Britain snapped, shuddering at the sensation of the Frenchman entering his thoughts. Despite having known about the ability to communicate with other nations through a mental link for many years, Britain was uncomfortable with the concept of anyone being able to hear his thoughts: let alone project words into his mind.
Mon ami, I do not envy the suffering you shall be enduring for the next few hours. I wish you luck. France offered sympathetically, his words growing quieter as he began to sever the connection. I fear I must leave you for now, this connection may prove agonizing if I chose stay. Britain nodded though he knew the man could not see him.
Do what you must, but thank you for the warning Bonnefoy. You saved quite a few lives tonight. Britain granted reluctantly, a bit put out when he received no answer in returned. The feeling of solitude in his mind was eerie for a moment, but appreciated as he could finally panic silently to himself.
Britain, knowing that he was finally alone, allowed the emotions of trepidation and uncertainty to flow unhindered into his mind for the first time in hours. The feeling of helplessness almost overwhelming enough to make him wish for the hundredth time he was no longer the conscious representation of his country. At least then, the lives that he knew were about to be ruined would not hurt him like a blow to his own skin.
"Thank you so much sir." Britain barely noted the woman's acknowledgement as he smiled forlornly back at her and handed her the squalling child tangled in his arms. "Aren't you coming in?" She demanded in confusion when he turned to leave just as the roar of distant plane engines sounded above them and the terror of those about to be bombed welled up in Arthur's chest.
"No, don't you worry about me, madam. I'll be fine." He lied tranquilly, allowing some reassurance flow from him like a fountain into the anxious woman. "I've got somewhere safe to go, and plenty of time to get there. Now, seal off this door and get down below with your little ones." He ordered before turning and walking off into one of the hundreds of alleys he knew by heart.
Sliding through the alleys immersed in his worry he came to the startling realization that: he had no plan of where he wanted to go. Not that any physical bomb could hurt him, but being pinned under a couple tons of brick and mortar was not an experience he wanted to undergo.
He was running through a list of potential locations as he wandered aimlessly through his streets when he felt it, the rough tug of a particularly insistent nation wanting an audience with him.
The gruff drag at the back of his mind was enough to make him scowl in fury. What would he possibly want to discuss? Britain had already made it perfectly clear that he had no intention of surrendering, and personally he believed that the Battle of London had been enough to prove him willing to stand by his words. Still, being as curious as he was, Britain had no choice but to evaporate to the location the nation requested.
His enemy was standing by the Thames, a particularly lovely section bordered by fine English architecture and art. Frowning he stalked towards the nation with hate sparkling in his emerald eyes. He despised seeing the man standing so proudly, in his clean pressed uniform and slicked back blonde hair. He couldn't see the blonds' face, but Britain knew it must have held a controlled but knowing self-satisfied smirk.
"I suppose that you're here to demand my surrender, eh Germany?"Britain demanded coldly, stopping his movement a good ten feet before reaching the man.
"A very good supposition, Herr Britain." The youth approved, rotating to fix his frigid gaze upon the livid nation with a passive look on his face. "You have proven to be quite the aggravating opponent thus far; I was hoping to reach an agreement before innocent blood is spilt." Britain scowled, crossing his arms in front of him defiantly.
"I had figured that my actions during the Battle of London spoke for themselves. Seeing as this is not the case I will state it as clearly as I can: I will never surrender Germany, and I will not rest until that madman you call a leader is brought to justice even if that means I must die myself." Britain stated brusquely, his eyes sparking with a challenge. "I don't know what I have to do to convince you that what you are doing is wrong. I assume nothing I say has the slightest effect seeing as Prussia's warnings have not made you change your path of self-destruction." Germany stared back at him passively, his eyes not granting Britain the slightest bit of emotion. "I've seen nations fall that were far greater than you assume you are. So I believe I am being entirely honest when I say: You will not win this war." It was obvious that Britain's warning fell on deaf ears when Germany merely shrugged and instead flicked open a pocket watch sat delicately in his breast pocket.
"I assume this means you will not reconsider?" The German nation demanded. "You would redevelop a considerable amount of your original power if you joined me." He offered clicking the silver machine closed and depositing it back in his pocket.
"I will not." Britain stated firmly, holding his disposition steady despite the terror passing through his population and pooling into him like the slim branches of the Thames meeting the vastness of the Atlantic.
"Then we have nothing more to discuss." Germany pointed out, his eyes locking with Britain in a silent battle of wills.
"I presume not." Britain growled, his eyes narrowing into slits.
"Very well, your fate will be one of your own choosing." The blond snapped turning on his heel to leave. "Auf Wiedersehen Herr Britain." Britain nodded his farewell, refusing to speak a word more with the German.
He was gone before Britain could blink, evaporating from the site as if he had been some sort of demonic apparition the entire time. Of course, Britain had no time to smile at his thought; he had to find a place where he could endure his looming anguish without interruption.
~X~
The doors of Westminster Abbey were locked firmly from the inside when Britain approached; smiling unhappily he passed through the walls into the building with less trouble than a phantom. Stepping into the darkness of the abbey he frowned at the emptiness of the church he had known to always be bustling with life for the thousands of years it had existed.
Outside the world was not quite dark, the late afternoon sun that would usually cast an array of wonderful colors and dancing designs, was instead the dying sun painted the Abbey a deep blood color. The terror of those unable to find sufficient shelter sending waves of grief welling up in Britain's heart; it pained him to know that he could do nothing to help them because by the time he reached them the bombing would begin.
Britain chose a spot directly in front of the pulpit, preferring to remain standing for as long as his body allowed. Grasping the wood of the balustrade he looked up at the cross adorning the wall before him with tears in his eyes.
"It's been awhile since I have been in here…" He admitted sadly, "It seems that the war has always dragged me elsewhere." The silence of the Abbey urged him to continue. "Today I am not here for myself, as is usually the case. I just wanted to request that you protect my people. Burn my city to the ground if you must, but protect them." He begged solemnly. Flinching as he could already feel the bombers rumbling overhead. "And to grant me this sanctuary while I bear the pain settled upon the shoulders of a nation."
He received no answer, but of course he hadn't expected one. Instead he found his hand float to his stomach as the screams of the sirens outside seemed to reach a new pitch and the whistle of the first bombs filled the air. Keeping his eyes on the cross he continued his prayer silently as the Luftwaffe began lighting London in the glow of explosions.
The first bombs struck hard and fast. Unused to such an abnormally mechanical agony Britain let a scream fill his throat and release into the world around him. The pain was centered in his chest and abdomen, each blast wrenching and tearing at the fibers of his core like hundreds of tiny blades.
Roaring in pain he felt his mind scream as one of his docked Navy vessels took the brunt of one of the incendiary bombs sending fire flaring into the air around it. Groaning he looked down at his chest and found red seeping through the white of his shirt. The tendrils of ruby pouring from each wound forming the stems and petals of a rose, curling up his body in a riveting fashion.
Screams and moans of agony filled Britain's conscious as he grasped onto the edge of one of the pews, feeling the wood cracking and crunching under his grasp as the timber succumbed to the pressure.
Women, children, young, old: no one was spared the panic brought from the bombings. Fires raged across London, ravaging everything in its path. Britain rasped out a cry of panic as his chest oozed and seemed to catch fire as more bombs crashed into the ground of his capital city. He couldn't hear the sobs wracking through his own lips as he slumped against the pews his gaze ripped from the cross above him as the screams of his people bounced off his mind like a swarm of antagonized yellow jackets:
Mama!
Why won't they stop…
Don't cry…don't cry mum's here.
If this keeps up…my husband won't have anything to come home to!
My store…my whole life I spent…!
That bomb was so close! I think it hit our house…!
SARAH! OH GOD!
Someone help me! I can't breath!
There's so much smoke
I can't…
Don't…!
My eyes!
Daddy?
Grandpa please don't cry!
Britain's cries mingled with those of his people. He didn't know how long it would last, how long he would suffer, but he did know that he had never felt such agony in his life.
He believed for several moments that he might go mad, the pain and the screams sending him reeling onto the ground in a heap. With each blast his body lurched and a new cut was added to his heaving chest. Each billowing fire sent a new hot iron in his sides. Rolling onto his hands and knees as a particularly large cluster of explosives struck his center he heaved dryly as his stomach wretched in protest of ill-treatment.
A blow to his heart, his core, the very center of London, left his ears ringing in such a way he wondered if the blast had landed on top of him. The stab left him hacking, blood pooling into his mouth as he coughed and spat out the copper tasting liquid.
I can't…I can't take it! This is like nothing I have ever experienced before. The plague…the invasions… they…they were slower…a sluggish burn not this…this torture!His thoughts were a whimper in his own mind, Just audible over the sounds of death filling his conscious. Make it stop…make it stop…Please…make it stop. Make them stop screaming!He pleaded, the world fading into a white sheet, his mind too distracted by its anguish to take note of his surroundings.
Curling into a bloodied ball he felt the gore squelching between his fingertips and oozing onto the marble below him.
If I was a human…I'd be dead. He thought bitterly. Why can't I be dead? Why won't I just DIE! I can't take it anymore! I can't do it! Let it end! Let…it…END! His tears were no longer clear…cuts forming over his eyes seeped into his line of vision, dying the crystalline drops a dull crimson.
He couldn't see his tears fall, but he could feel them vaguely underneath his pain. Listening to them fall he concentrated on the individual splashes on the stone floor with short rasping gasps, counting each one as they fell. Unable to find anything else to fixate on he allowed himself to be immersed in the simple action.
Drop...
France didn't have to suffer as I am…he surrendered…why didn't I surrender?
Drop
Why do my people have to die for the mistakes of another? If I ever recover…I shall make it my goal to destroy the man responsible.
Drop
How is it that destruction caused by any one machine…can cause so much pain?
Drop
So many screams…how much of my city has fallen?
Drop
His thoughts continued to ramble, growing less and less prevalent as he cringed and bucked under the pain of the fire and explosions. He didn't know how long Germany planned to attack, but it seemed that he had a mind to keep carpeting London until dawn broke.
I don't know how much more I can take…
~X~
He vaguely noted the sun rise in the windows above him, the bombing having dwindled off not long after the sun peeked over the shore line. Still the fires blazed and he still found himself unable to move for the pain kept him immobile. The tears hindering his vision had long since ceased, though his choked sobs continued despite the fact his throat no longer produced any coherent sounds.
The screams fell silent with the bombs, they were instead replaced by the sobs of the broken hearted, noises that were nearly as heart wrenching as the shrieks he had endured the night prior.
Staring blankly at the floor in front of him he noted the staggering amount of blood pooled out around him. Barely able to move his neck he forced himself to look away and towards the angels and cherubs gracing the ceiling above him.
They were so beautiful…the only thing he could force into his mind that wasn't charred and broken.
In of the corner of his mind, he could feel other nations probing to gain entrance to his mind. Their frantic pleas for him to respond them scarcely registering in his numb intelligence.
Two of the more forceful minds he noted were Canada and Australia…the nations were confused and in a dull amount of pain, a price they paid for being a part of the British Empire.
Though he was sure the fact that his wards were in pain should have caused him some distress, Britain found he was unable to register any feelings beyond the initial comprehension of the situation.
WHERE ARE YE? The voice literally forced itself into his mind, startling him into reality for the first time in what must have been hours.
S…Scot…Scotland?
Christ all mighty…yer actually alive! Aye…it's me. Ah've been tryin' to get a word out of ye for hours, Arthur. Scotland's voice sounded surprisingly relieved.
I…
Stop trying t' talk! Ye got the British blasted out of ye last night that bloody kraut hit your capital so hard…Ah've got a strange feelin' yer not well off even if yer awake... Just tell big brother where you are Iggy. For the first time in years, Britain felt a great comfort hearing his brother's voice. The annoying nickname that the man used seemed nothing short of a shot of morphine in his aggrieved ears. The man could be insensitive and crude, rash and aggressive, but he had not once allowed Britain to fall.
West…M…m…
Westminster? Like the Abbey? Why didn't ye go to one o' the shelters ye stupid cunt? Ye just couldn't swallow yer pride for a minute could ya? Look at meh! Ah'm Iggy and ah'm too God damn proud to let anyone see meh suffer! Whatever…Ah'm on mah way…don't die. Ah don't have time to train a new little brother.
Y…you wouldn't 'ave…swallowed your…pride either. Britain accused numbly.
When have you ever used me as a good example of how someone should behave? Ye must have hit yer head when ye tried to sit on a pew. Shut up and ah'll be there in a tick.
Scotland wasn't lying when he said he wouldn't take long, almost instantly the red head was passing through the wall of the Abbey with an almost anxious look on his face. For once, the look was actually directed at him. He scanned the hallway for a moment before his emerald eyes fell on Britain, and much to Britain's surprise widened in shock.
"Ah shit…yer more messed up than ah thought." Scotland swore sprinting to his brother's side and easing him into a more relaxed position on his back. "Arthur…Iggy look at meh." He ordered softly, using a tone Britain hadn't heard since he was a child. Hazily, Britain attempted to focus his gaze onto the Scotsman, and even attempted to shift towards him, but found that he couldn't move without a roaring pain shooting through his chest. "Can ye speak?"The man demanded calmly, his green eyes sparkling with concealed worry that Britain barely registered.
"Nnn." Britain attempted, his throat to hoarse from screaming to make much sound.
"Never mind…don't try and talk you sound pathetic." Scotland snapped a bit harshly, but noticing the look of panic on the injured nation's face his tone relaxed. "Ah'm gonna fix yah up alright? Big brother is gonna take care of ye." Scotland muttered, gingerly lifting his limp brother from the ground with all the care of a cat lifting a kitten. "Ah'm going t' kill that kraut personally…"He spat when Britain let out a weak whine of a scream as the man moved him. "Ah'll string him an' all of his followers up like the animals that they are." Luckily for the Scot's pride, Britain was too out of sorts to comprehend his brother's words, but he did feel the gentle reassuring squeeze on his shoulder when the man moved clear of the gore streaked area. Moaning in pain, he buried his blood streaked face into his brother's shoulder, not caring that his action left a smear of gore on the redhead's formally unsoiled shirt.
Scotland looked down at the shuddering husk of his little brother, the brother for which he had nearly died to raise, now a hollow shell, and scowled up at the sky above him.
The war had just become personal.
~X~X~X
This actually didn't take all that long to write(for once), and like most of things I enjoy writing, it has lots of historicalness! =D See if you can name them all!
What the heck is this story about you might ask? The London Blitz! September 7, 1940 – May 10, 1941. Britain (Because Arthur wasn't known as England until later) was berated by German bombers for 76 consecutive nights. Around 20,000 + British civilians were killed and thousands more damaged. Just about 1.4 million were assumed homeless. It truly was a horrific event and sadly is terribly played down by American history classes. Look it up for more info I guess…This particular story is just the first day! O_o.
Here's a list of weird things normal people don't usual know -_-…but I do.
Anderson Shelters: Small cheap bomb shelters commissioned by Sir John Anderson, mass produced just a few months before the actual London Blitz because they had some strange foreboding feeling that the Germans might decide to drop bombs on them.
Luftwaffe: German Air force
Westminster Abbey: One of the oldest Churches in England. This is where all English coronation ceremonies are held and where the royalty is buried. This magnificent building was struck several times during the attack but surprisingly never withstood more damage than a burnt roof.