"While I thought I was learning how to live, I have been learning how to die." - Leonardo da Vinci

England's story starts around 2067 years ago, when England (called Albion or Britannia at the time) was surrounded by Celts and Picts and being invaded by the Romans.

A scream erupted from the largest and tallest tree in the rich, green forest. A beautiful, blonde-haired woman called Gwendolyn Kirkland, the personification of the present land, Britannia had gone into labour with her seventh child... In the middle of a fierce battle! Her and her red-headed husband's people, the Celts, were battling against the Romans for their land. The Roman Empire, the Roman's Nation, had stabbed her in the stomach, making her go into labour almost a month and a half early. The child would be extremely lucky to survive.

Another painful contraction hit her, but Britannia tried not to give away her position with another scream. The baby's life depended on them keeping him secret, at least until he or she was born. Britannia's looked at her husband, Byron Kirkland, called Papa Celt by the six children they had at home, for assistance. Celt was the personification of the people, an extremely rare phenomenon as Nations were usually the land, though they were once numerous many years ago. Papa Celt had taken a Britannia away from the battle field to help her have the child. Britannia looked at the deep and bloody cut on her stomach and hoped it had not hit the baby.

That was when Papa Celt delivered the hard news. The baby was struck and it's air supply was cut off, it was suffocating. Britannia screamed at her husband to take the baby from her womb using her sword, stained with the blood of many emery Romans. She knew even in early pregnancy that this child would replace her as the personification of her land, along with its older siblings. She was told by whatever god, goddess or archangel in her dream that this child would mark her death. And she didn't care. She was getting old. At over three thousand years, she was ready for the old to be replaced with the new.

Papa Celt was hesitant to cut open his wife. He loved her. She was his angel. Literally, Britannia was a secret angel, the Britannia Angel. She and her sisters - wherever they may be - had been born angels before misfortune had struck the family and they were kicked out of Heaven. The all-powerful superior had left Britannia, as a child of fourteen, an angel on Earth. Papa Celt was a firm believer in magic, an increasing rarity in the evolving world as most older Nations were having children of their own and these new children weren't hard believers of magic. They preferred to concentrate on war and superiority. That was why Britannia and Celt had raised all their children to obey the laws of magic, wizards, witches and mythical creatures. This child would hopefully be raised in the same way and, in the end, could be the new Britannia Angel.

Britannia could see her husband's hesitation, so she took a chance that the Romans wouldn't hear her and screamed as loud as her lungs would allow, "Do it! It can't breathe! Hurry!" she screamed in Nation language.

Seeing his wife's pure white wings falling to her swollen sides, Celt grabbed his own bloody sword and plunged it shallowly into the deep cut on Brittania, and drew it vertically across her stomach.

Britannia bit her tongue so hard that she drew blood from it. Celt gently lifted the baby out of her womb. It wasn't breathing. "It's not breathing." He said. Tears ran down. Britannia's pale face.

Then the sound of crying filled the air. The once strong woman that was Britannia had been reduced to a crying mess, the pain was more excruciating than she thought it would be. Celt laid the dead baby down on the grass. "It's dead." Then, just before they would start mourning,a Britannia gave another piercing shriek as another ripple of pain ran through her. Celt carefully took the second baby out of its moter. And nearly dropped it again. Wrapped around the new-born baby's body, covered in blood and ogre, was a pair of dark grey wings. It clashed beautifully with the child's blood-blonde hair and emerald green eyes. Celt passed the baby, who had still not yet cried out of the womb, to its mother and said, "it's a boy." Britannia chuckled; using the last of her breath she kissed the baby, passed it back to his father and replied.

"I'm sorry, my son," And stopped breathing.

Celt quickly put the baby down, next to his dead sister, wrapped his arms around his wife and cried. The baby opened his eyes and looked at his dead mother with curiosity. Then looked at his dead twin, spreading out one of his wings, he touched his sister's side. Bright light surrounded them, catching the attention of his father. The grey in his wings disappeared, leaving behind clean, pure white wings and a ball of black magic hovering in the air.

The black magic fell and hit the dead child. The girl dissolved into darkness and hit Britannia. Celt simply stared as his wife's body dissolved into a pure white shine and mixed with the black ball. The resulting grey shine shot into his son and caused his white wings to briefly glow before fading back to white. A voice sounded in the air from the angels, "Beware of the third year. Britannia and child shall live again." The voice stopped.

Celt looked at his son. "Less than an hour old and already making a difference. You certainly are something special, little Albion." He looked up at the darkening sky, then back to where his wife's body had lay. "But I can't keep you, you killed her."

A spear hit the tree near where Celt was kneeling. Celt fell over in shock, opening his eyes to see Pictland, Britannia's oldest sister, starring down at him with blood on her hands and face. "Where. Were. You?" she growled, clearly referring to battle Celt had left when a Britannia went into labour.

Celt's eyes narrowed. He had never had a good relationship with his sisters-in-law, especially Pictland, who delighted in torturing his people for her entertainment. He glanced at the baby, hatred burning through him even more. Then, an idea flashed through his head. He shoved the baby into Pictland's arms and ran, ignoring Pictland's cries and threats at him.

Pictland's muscles tensed. The bundle in her arms began to cry. She stared at him. The baby stopped crying and stared at her back. The recognised the baby as her nephew from her sister's blonde hair and green eyes and a strange feeling rose within her. Love. For this tiny child who looked so much like her little sister. She hadn't even felt this feeling when she'd had her own children; then again, their father wasn't very nice. She gave the boy a rare smile. "Well, if your bastard father won't look after you, I will."

Little did she know she wouldn't have long to enjoy her nephew.