"It took a week to convince your crew they could use an extra pair of hands," England said completely unimpressed. Illness had swept over Spain's crew, making working Spaniard hands run a bit short.
"They are technically prisoners."
"I'm sorry, would you like to be stranded in the middle of the imaginary ocean?" England raised an eyebrow, "Since none of this matters anyway." It was one thing to say that the world around them was not real, it was another matter entirely to believe it. England still really didn't believe it, even though it was the best explination. He could still smell the ocean clear as day.
Spain sighed. "At least they are all working together… though I do have a question about your captain."
"What about him?" England tensed immediately.
"He seems different from the rest of your crew."
"He's a captain. I'd expect him to be different from the rest of my crew."
"Not like that."
"In what way are you insinuating?" England gritted his teeth, staring out ahead of him, trying not to look at the Spaniard.
Before Spain could explain any further, a fight let out below between Captain Henderson and two of Spain's crew members. The British captain looked exceedingly worried.
Spain and England walked down on the main deck. The Spaniard was asking his crew for an explination from his crew about what happened. England walked along the edges of the standoff, ready to intervene at a moment's notice. He hoped it wouldn't come to it for the dignity of his greatest captain.
"Basta! Mateo, Samuel!" Spain eventually said, walking to the middle of the scuffle.
It was at that moment one of the two Spaniards in the middle, broke through Captain Henderson's strength and cut his shirt. The British officer started bleeding terribly. With one graceful swoop, England took off his jacket and placed it over Captain Henderson. He escorted his captain off the deck and into Spain's quarters.
"Are you alright?" England asked once he closed the door.
"No," Captain Henderson said, clearly pissed off, "It wasn't a fair fight. I could have easily won if it was one on one."
England raised an eyebrow. "Yes, an excellent example for the rest of the crew, captain."
"I certainly didn't start it. They were egging on Eddy, and we know what his temper is like."
England knew Captain Henderson was right. Eddy was usually in the middle of fights on England's ship. So much so that England knew this was to be that sailor's last trip on the sea under his leadership. England sighed. "Sit," he instructed his captain, "Let's take care of that wound. Ok?" England grabbed some cloth and water. He knew of a trick to get a wound to close up well with water. It was something North taught him a while back.
"Sir, permission to ask a question."
"As long as you keep still."
"Why do you keep me around?"
"Because you are an amazing captain, one of the best. And we both know that's saying something."
"But if anyone knows…"
"Hey, I think I'm the only one who can do as he pleases without fear of losing his job. So long as you wish to stay on the sea, I will protect you."
That made the captain smile. At that moment, Spain came into the room. There was an awkward moment where Spain was frozen in the doorway, and Captain Henderson was questioning whether or not to move.
"Spain, either come in or get out," England glared at the Spaniard, "Either way, close the bloody door."
Spain closed the door behind him.
"Did you get your crew under control?" England asked, continuing to clean up Captain Henderson's wound.
"Si, we have peace again." Spain looked at Captain Henderson. "You certainly are a troublemaker."
"I was one as a child, sir," Captain Henderson explained, "I've grown a bit since then."
"Much like your admiral," Spain said, and he grinned.
"Would you mind keeping this between ourselves?" England said once he finished healing the wound. His head felt heavy again; healing magic did that to him. It didn't come as easy. He grabbed a fresh shirt and handed it to Captain Henderson. "There are some things that are better left in shadows. Speaking of which, sir," England called for attention from the captain, "I don't mean to sound rude, and I only ask because I'm trying to get my head straight," he leaned in so that only Captain Henderson could hear, "but it is still he, correct?"
"Sir, yes, sir," the British captain answered officially. When England called him at ease, he asked, "Sir, you have seemed a bit off recently. Is everything ok?"
"No." England looked at his beloved captain, and knew at the pit of his heart that the man standing in front of him had past away a long time ago. Captain Myles Henderson lived a good long life, even after retiring from the navy. He died in his sleep, his husband by his side out in the country. A quiet end for England's favorite captain. "My memories have been jumbled and trying to sort them out has been a bit of a nightmare. Bear with me."
"I have this far, admiral. And you know I would go to the ends of the earth in your service." Captain Henderson, now clothed properly once again, saluted in gratitude.
"Please keep our crew in check," England kindly ordered his captain, "I don't want another fight like that to break out."
"Will do, sir." Captain Henderson walked out.
England sighed and took a seat at the edge of the bed. Exhaustion swept over him like poison. He heard Spain say something as he fell into a deep sleep.
88888
England patrolled the dark and empty streets of the city of London. This blackout was all over the metropolis, not just in the city itself. The stillness of the place made it very eerie to England; he wasn't used to the city being this quiet. It was like London was holding its breath, waiting for the storm of German planes to come. England looked up to the sky when he heard the first of the planes. He could just make out one flying past in the sky. After a few minutes, England could make out more of them. Scouting, that was what they were doing, and soon the bombs would start raining down. The one time he wished that London wasn't based on the river. Alright, he had wished for that several times, especially during the summer of 1858, but this time more than the rest. Those other times were inconveniences. The planes up there were ready to strike.
The people had been taken to safety already, in the Underground. The tunnels down there were big enough to hold people and deep enough to protect them from the bombs. Not everyone was down there though: England had a volunteer brigade of people to protect the historical buildings of the city. But even then, who could say which buildings would be hit.
The first of the bombs fell someplace inside the city itself. The first round of them hit in some jagged line from around St. Paul's Cathedral all the way to the Parliament building. The building lit up for a few minutes, then all was dark once again until a new wave of bombs came in. Then, the fires lit up the night.
One bomb hit St. Paul's Cathedral directly. England's eyes got wide and he ran towards it. The fires around the city were ablaze by that point in time. The smoke made a large cloud that seemed to sit just over the tops of every building. The orange flames alighting the dark night sky. The wooden buildings were fueling a fire that would not be tamed by any one person alone. Not even by Sir Bloodworth, if he actually tried. Only a miracle could tame this kind of flame before it could do any more damage. Explosions could be heard all over London: from the bombs and buildings being blown up to stop the fire from spreading further.
Another bomb hit the cathedral. Out of all the buildings this one had to be protected at all costs. It could not fall to the might of the Germans. If this one building fell, all hope would be lost. And England could not have that for his people. Especially not after what happened with France's own country with the Nazis taking over.
Another bomb hit the cathedral, and another. England stopped running; all he could do was watch as he saw the building being blown to bits, helpless to defend it.
England?
England opened his eyes and looked up at Wales, who was standing over him. England was in a chair in the reading room near the fire. On the table was a bunch of different spell books, all open to various pages. One of them was his own, but he didn't recognize the others.
"Is everything alright?" England asked, the dream still feeling too real. He shook his head to divert the fog that was clouding his mind. 'Why can't you stay away?'
"About as alright as they can be," Wales said, "I would have left you there, but I don't want you catching a cold."
England nodded. "It wouldn't do me any good to catch anything right now. I'm being shipped out tomorrow." He had received a message recently, calling him in to go to France for undercover work. He couldn't find the letter, though. He could have sworn he left it on his bedside, but it wasn't there. The fog got worse.
"What?" Wales' asked in surprise, though his face was still as unreadable as ever.
"Sudden, I know," England said, but he started realizing that maybe it was because that what he was saying wasn't really going on, "It's just an attempt to get some information on the Nazi situation in France… scouting, that's all."
Wales nodded; his eyes quickly looked away from England to the fire. England knew Wales did that when he was hiding something. His eyes were a tell, something England had picked up on some time ago.
"Is… something going to happen to me out there?" England asked, knowing full well that Wales' visions became more frequent when some dire event was looming on the metaphorical horizon.
"No, no, you'll be fine," Wales said quickly.
"But you did see something," England pointed out.
"Yes, nothing to do with your mission though. Just… an invasion that killed many people… trying to free France."
England tried to read though Wales' stony expression. It wasn't that he doubted what Wales was saying… 'If only this fog would leave me.' "Tell me," England said slowly, "Do you know anything about the German air bombs?"
"The Blitz… plenty." Wales sat in the arm chair next to England, "What do you want to know?"
There were many questions on England's mind. The first being why Wales called the air bombing 'The Blitz'. "Will London survive?" London, the capital of his nation. If it fell, the rest of his country would too.
Wales nodded gravely, "Yes, London will survive. It will take a beating, but it takes a lot to beat the spirit out of your people."
England nodded. He would have asked more questions, but the fog in his head could no longer be driven off.
Author's Note: I feel like this is going to be a popular question, so I'll explain it now. The midsection of the chapter is a dream sequence combining the Blitz of WW2 and The Great Fire of 1666.
And Wales plays along with whatever time period England's head is at. He feels it's better that way than have to explain the present time period over and over again.