Cheerio, everybody!

A total Sealand moment there, sorry...ahem, this is my first angst story. I'm more of a fluffy person, but the Battle of Britain is so fascinating and I couldn't resist doing this for Iggy's birthday! He's my favorite character!

I tried to be as historically accurate as possible, but with only a Wikipedia article and an (American xD) history textbook, there're bound to be mistakes, and frankly I'm quite interested if I got something wrong. Well okay then, I feel like this will need constructive criticism, but please enjoy! ^_^

"Sir...France has fallen under German control."

England froze, unable to comprehend what he just heard. Moments earlier, he was hunched over a map, thick brows furrowed, searching for ways to foil the Axis, when this messenger arrived and told him preposterous news.

"What? It can't be!" the blonde-haired man burst out. "It has been barely two weeks since the invasion began! The old frog couldn't have surrendered already!"

The messenger, a young man, swallowed nervously. "It's true, sir…he requested for an armistice just yesterday, the seventeenth of June…" As the messenger described the details of the surrender, England blanched whiter and whiter.

A heavy silence hung in the room for a long pause. "...Very well," England said stiffly. "I...I will need a moment to myself. Thank you." The nation sank low in his seat as the door swung shut, one hand gripping the arm of his chair as if it was a life support and the other coming up to meet his suddenly clammy forehead. Was this real? He found himself needing to take a conscious effort to fill his lung with air.

Nothing puts things into perspective better than being all alone with a mass murderer, hm? was the only thing that was coherent in the nation's mind. England had always shooed others away for his valued solitude - yet now that he was truly by himself...

His eyes were fixed on the map before him: the nations of Europe. The map had recently adopted quite a depressing color scheme. In less than a year the evil crimson color – representing the Axis – had crept across the parchment like spilled ink and now nearly engulfed the whole continent.

England and France remained un-captured, though, and planned to stay that way to fight together. As distasteful as it was, they were war comrades – and the best bet against that lunatic Hitler. But of course France had to break. Had to submit like a new-born country. Had to hand himself over to Germany and leave the island-country alone. Completely.

England was the only one left to stop the Nazis now.

In a fit of rage, England snatched up his red marker and scribbled the word "DOUCHE!" within France's borders on the map. His green eyes swam with frustrated, hapless tears until all he could see was a blurry, bloody Europe. "That spineless, good-for-nothing France! He ducks out and leaves me alone against Germany just to save his precious Paris. Absolute wanker. He's more useless than that coward Italy!"

The Brit flung the marker against the wall – leaving a mark that looked like a cut on pale flesh– and seized fistfuls of his already-messy hair. Hatred dissolved into sheer terror. There were Nazi air bases surrounding him entirely, making the isles pitifully vulnerable to attack. The Germans have been preparing weapons for years and probably had enough artillery to blast apart the whole island. And there was no doubt that he was severely outnumbered.

"Alone…all alone…damn you, France...how could you abandon me…how am I supposed to do this?" England choked on his words and slowly crumpled to the hardwood floor.

Becoming a subordinate of any type to anyone had not crossed England's mind for centuries – yet now the possibility was like an encroaching storm cloud, dark and massive and chilling. He was going to become a slave to that bastard. His lovely empire, one that took so long to build, would no longer bear his name. And his people. What twisted suffering would Germany force them to? How the hell was England going to stop him?

Sniffling, England slowly lifted his head to stare into the full-length mirror hung on the opposite wall. I look weak, he thought bitterly, observing his streaming eyes and dejected scowl. Truthfully, he was always on the scrawny side and nicely described as more lean than muscular, but with hair more disheveled than usual and eyes red and puffy, he appeared downright pathetic. Since the beginning, people said he looked weak.

But never to my face, he added after a moment of consideration. Because if anyone dared to insult England, they did so quietly, for he fought like hell. He did not give up. Rather like a dog, he never let go of the bone. "And I'm not going to spoil that reputation just because of some Nazis," whispered England softly to himself as he slowly rose to his feet.

For, no matter how long he studied his reflection, the country could not imagine being a slave to someone else. He could not exactly say why. Perhaps there was too much rebellion in his emerald eyes or too much assertiveness in his sharp jawline that could be weakened by an iron fist. He would not become Germany's property, like the rest of the captured. He was simply not born for such a fate.

He ripped open the door of his room, scaring the crap out of the messenger, who had been waiting outside. "Tell everyone to make preparations! Ready the RAF! That git Germany won't take this country without a fight!"

"The British nation and the British Empire finding themselves alone, stood undismayed against disaster. No one flinched or wavered; nay, some who formerly thought of peace now think only of war. Our people are united and resolved, as they have never been before. Death and ruin have become small things compared with the shame of defeat or failure in duty." ~ Winston Churchill.

BOOM. England fell to his knees on the trembling streets of London. Panting heavily, he tried to get up again only to have another bombardment burn his side like a hot iron. Ash flew from his disheveled hair as he collapsed. England grasped his midriff and gritted his teeth together, trapping a pained moan within his mouth. Bombs fell more frequently than rain nowadays. Being a country, he could feel the weight of every moment of suffering. Every scream, every lost loved one, every tear...

Don't give in. Don't give in. Dammit, absolutely do not give in…

A shadow fell over England's crouching form. The wounded nation, with an effort, lifted his neck to see a tall figure against a background of smoke and flames. Under the brim of a hat, ice blue eyes glinted with an unquenchable thirst for power. Germany looked hostile and dark and absolutely maniacal. England could not fathom how Hitler distorted his morals so badly.

"Ah, Brittanien," the formidable nation said with a soft smirk. "Red never looked more fitting for you, ja?"

England returned the insult with a glare that could've shot daggers. Not funny in the least. Red. It covered the heels of his hands and the front of his uniform thick, wet, and shiny; reminding England of that damned map he had waiting in his bedroom. He willed Germany to go away. Naturally, few would want to chat with the person responsible for bombing the crap out of him or her, but England had his pride to defend. It was embarrassing to be seen in such a state – curled up, trembling, moaning for his losses. And surely the kraut was here to boast.

"What the hell are you here for?" England spat, blood spitting from his lips. "You had your twisted little fun with the bombing – just fuck off, would you?"

Germany knelt down so they could see each other eye to eye. "The gentleman country wishing to be alone. You've always preferred to be by yourself – or so you claim – and you've gotten that wish, yes? It's only you now, England. Has your solitude been enjoyable?"

"Fuck off! Just fuck off, you bastard!"

"I thought so. Loneliness never felt so bad, has it England? I'm offering you some relief. Stop the suffering of your own while you can. Surrender. It wouldn't be wrong; there were many nations before you who did the exact same thing without a struggle, many who simply deserted you, leaving you the only one against me…" The Nazi tilted his head to the side, seeming amused. "You are abandoned quite often, aren't you Eng—"

With a roar, the island country suddenly shot up from the ground, clenching a fist destined for his enemy's face, but the German deftly blocked the punch.

"I'm alone because I can beat you myself! I've faced bad odds before – remind you of a certain Great War, you bloody kraut?"

A twitch jumped in the German's jaw. "You were supposed to surrender after France fell. But due to your stubbornness, you had to complicate things. You won't be treated kindly—"

"Excuse me?" England interrupted. His jaw locked in a fierce snarl. "You know nothing of me if you thought I even had the notion to surrender when the frog failed! Sick, sick bastard! Go – to – hell!"

England suddenly staggered as another bomb bloomed destruction on his land. Little black dots obstructed his vision as fresh pain stabbed through him. England grimaced and clutched his side, groaning. He despised this. He loathed every second of it. He loathed the nation before him, too. Green eyes flashing, the former pirate shouted, "You'll regret this, Germany! "

Perturbed, Germany swung his arm at England and struck him hard to the ground. Germany pressed England's face into the gritty concrete with his boot, cutting his cheek and wetting the stone. Yet still the Brit cursed him with all his might. "I don't understand. You are all alone and have no chance, yet why don't you surrender?"

"I…don't have…the luxury…to surrender," England rasped. "I could...never...allow my people to experience your torture…and your horrors. I can't submit. Even though it hurts…I cannot submit. That excuse…is not good enough. I can't let down the whole world. You will pay. I – will – see – it – through!"

"Silence, dummkopf!" Germany stamped his foot down harder, making England hiss with pain. "No one was ever able to understand your delusions!" the Nazi sneered, even though the clarity of England's words honestly puzzled and unsettled him.

"The luxury…the luxury of surrender," murmured England, darkness eating at the corners of his vision. The nation gained consciousness hours later, lying on his back and facing the pale gray London morning sky, knowing that he had made it through another day.

Ah! It is done. Happy Birthday, England.