Author's Note: Warning - Mention of substance abuse. It's not bad, and it's more of a suggestion than anything. But I'd rather have the warning for those who are sensitive to that sort of content.

Scotland tried slapping England in the face again, knowing it was probably in vain by that point in time. He had England in his arms as if his younger brother was wounded in battle. England's breathing was barely noticeable; it was very slow like one of a coma patient. His face was very pale, almost as if a white plaster was put on his face. He was also very cold to the touch, no doubt because the heat in the flat wasn't working. The fall chill was in the air at full force.

"You idiot," Scotland said in a chiding manner.

It had been three months since the dissolution of the United Kingdom. The first week after the dissolution, Scotland and Wales had kept very close tabs on England to avoid a scene such as the one Scotland was in the middle of now. England had a tendency to drink himself senseless; it was a habit that started with when America gained his independence and carried on with each colony after that. As the weeks went by, England seemed to be alright, and Scotland at least left him alone. Apparently, England wasn't fine at all.

Scotland scooped up England and put him to bed. He could sleep off the alcohol and then answer to Scotland after. Maybe Scotland could get Wales over and the two of them could chide England together.

Though, as Scotland went back to the common area of the flat to have another look at the scene, there was something about it that wasn't adding up. There was only one bottle of ale in the room. Scotland know well enough that England couldn't handle his liquor, but he could handle way more than just one bottle of the stuff. One also wouldn't knock him out cold anyway; one would make him tipsy enough so that he couldn't walk straight. Two would get him all emotional about things that have long been resolved. Three would probably make him pass out.

Scotland tossed the empty ale bottle and checked the rest of England's flat. There was nothing to suggest any more ale was consumed recently. He went back to the room he left England in. It was a simple bedroom, with a study desk and a bookshelf full of magical items instead of books. There was nothing really out of the ordinary. Scotland walked back to the common area. What if this was a backfired spell? It would make sense, but there was no open spell book.

However, there was a syringe lying on the ground. Upon inspection, Scotland saw that there was some residue inside. It was clear and hard to see, but it did reflect pale rainbow colors in the light. There was something familiar about it, though Scotland wasn't sure from where. He scoured the flat again to see if there was a container of some sort that held more of this liquid. He eventually found what he was looking for; on one of the bookshelves was a plastic bottle of the clear liquid. It was labeled ambrosia.

'I remember this,' Scotland thought, his anger rising as he held the substance. It wasn't at England though. Scotland had several run-ins with ambrosia, the last time a few centuries back. A "miracle healer" sold the stuff; it killed a ton of people. Many suspected witchcraft (as everyone does), but the "healer" was caught and was dealt with accordingly. The ambrosia was disposed of so that it would no longer endanger anyone else. Scotland thought that he would never have to deal with the stuff again. Obviously not.

'But how did England get his hands on this stuff?" Scotland thought as he put the bottle down on the table in the common area.

There was only one thing for this. Scotland took out his mobile phone and dialed Wales. He was going to call Wales regardless, but now he at least had something tangible to tell his brother.

"Scotty," Wales said when he picked up the phone. He sounded annoyed, but that was more at the phone than at Scotland. Wales, out of all the Celtic brothers, hated mobile phones the most. He was surprising fine with computers, which Scotland still couldn't understand.

"Aye. I need you to get your ass over to London."

"What is it?" Wales asked. Scotland could hear roaring flames in the background. "I'm in the middle of a ritual."

Normally, Scotland would have let it be, since Wales' rituals were very delicate. But this wasn't a normal situation. "It's going to have to wait. England's in need of an intervention." Scotland noticed a small collection of photos in the corner. A few were of the Celtic brothers, some were with France, and then there was one that caught his eyes. It was of England and North American brothers in front of the Olympic torch in 2012.

"Again?" Wales did not sound amused one bit, "Not that I'm surprised. I'll be over, but it's not something that pressing, is it?"

"Aye, it is actually." Scotland sighed out of frustration, the reality of the situation was starting to sink in. "Look, I also need you to get a hold of Canada and America."

The roar of the flames died. "What happened to England?" Wales asked. Scotland could hear a subtle panic in his voice. "You don't ever bring other people to our family problems."

"Ambrosia. Apparently he's gotten his hands on the stuff and overdosed on it."

Scotland could hear a thump on the other side as if the phone had been dropped. "…I'll be over." Wales hung up with Scotland.

Scotland turned off his phone, then changed his mind to call Northern Ireland.

"Scotty!" the Irishman on the other side said in his usual cheery voice, "It's been a while. What's up?" Scotland could hear music in the background; an upbeat tune on a flute.

"I need you to come over to London. England's put himself in trouble."

The music was turned down. "What kind of trouble? Has he gotten mixed up into something bad? Oh, I knew this separation wasn't going to be good for him…"

"He's put himself into a coma. Overdosed on ambrosia."

"No…" Northern Ireland gasped, "I'll be over. Yes, brother, I'm going." The last part was directed away from the phone.

"You cannot be serious!" someone else on the other end shouted. Probably Ireland. The voice then proceeded to keep swearing in Irish Gaelic. Definitely Ireland.

"Is it alright if Ire comes over too?" Northern Ireland asked slowly, almost guiltily, "I kinda promised him that I'd spend time with him since it's been ages and ages that we've been apart."

"Aye." Scotland would rather not have Ireland come along for this; there was already going to be enough problems considering he asked for America to come. Maybe something good would come out of it. He certainly hoped so.

"See you in a few hours then. Now, Ire, calm down…"

Scotland hung up the phone and went outside on the street, where the light mist made everything damp and cold. He took out a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He angrily held the cigarette in between his teeth and breathed.

Author's Note: The next update will be next week. Until then, please comment. It lets me know interest. Even if it is just to say you like what's going on. I'll also open up questions for the Celtic brothers (namely Scotland, Wales, Ireland, and Northern Ireland), for fun.