Disclaimer: I do not own any of this.

A somewhat short man decked in a heavy trench coat and tan scarf briskly walked through the streets of London. The morning itself was cool and crisp, no nippy winds to bite at you, or falling snow to chill you to the bone, yet the man still walked quickly.

"Freezing my bloody arse off here..." He muttered to himself.

This winter had been unusually cold for England, and he had received heavy snowfall throughout the course of November, of which it seemed had no intention of relenting for this December either. Walking as quickly as humanly possibly, without tripping up on snow or slipping on black ice, he made his way into a small, yet cosy tea house on the side of the cobblestone market road.

Upon entering, his senses were enlightened with the pleasant smell; of tea, scones and Christmas wonders, all of which was followed by a very welcome warmth.

Taking a seat, he pulled off his leather gloves and looked around the said tea house with a nonchalant look on his face. Couples in red leather booths huddles together for warmth, a middle aged man with grey hair and spectacles was reading the paper, groups of girls chatted ecstatically about the latest events and a fireplace crackled merrily in the far back.

It seemed many people were burning wood or coal in them as of late, no thanks to Jack frost...

Before his thoughts could continue any longer, a young woman with a kind face and brown hair tied neatly back appeared.

"May I take your order sir?"

Snapping his head round so to face her, the Englishman's expression went from blank to pleased, and he replied in a velvet voice,

"Ah yes, I'll have a pot of earl grey tea and several cheese scones please."

The waitress smiled, noting down the order and soon scurried off to fetch the requested items. Returning to his thoughts, he wondered if this was how cold America and Canada always were at this time of year. Mind you though, they were probably used to harsh climates and so showed no sign of discomfort at the world conference this Monday. Speaking of which, this January it would have been running for a decade now. It certainly does help to know what fellow nations are thinking about, not constantly worrying about being stabbed in the back or betrayed or even-

His thoughts were cut short yet again as the waitress appeared with the teapot, saucer, teacup, scones and plate in hand. If he wasn't so intent on getting the warmth of the tea within himself, England may have been impressed as to how she could carry that of all without a tray or dropping anything.

Replying with a curt 'Thank you', he took the tea and scones, and upon placing it on the table, he decided to buy a newspaper as well.

Time within the tea house seemed non-existent and England paid it no heed, as he would much rather pay attention to his tea and scones. Nothing huge was reported in the newspaper, just recent local events and how everybody was getting together again for Christmas, and how there would be more snow...more of the bloody stuff?!

Upon the realisation that there would be more England almost choked on the remainders of his tea, but after a few rough coughs managed to get it under control. Looking outside the window, he noted that it was around 11am now and that he should probably get moving, he had spent enough time in the tea house.

Getting up from his comfy spot and reluctantly away from the warmth of the fireplace, England paid a short visit to the counter, paying for his tea and then made his way to the door.

Stepping out into the cobblestone street again, he swiftly lit a cigarette and brought it to his mouth. He didn't really give a damn if the doctors called it healthy, that was only a small benefit to his crave of nicotine and tobacco. After taking a long puff and released it though his nostrils he repressed a cough rising in his throat and threatening to rack his lungs. Maybe he had caught a cold? Brushing the idea off, he threw it on the ground and stepped on it, putting it out, and made his way to the Victorian fair to go shopping for bargains on Christmas presents before the 'mad dash' begun. Besides, the American idiot would whine if he didn't get him something, and he made a very high priority mental note to not forget Canada's present this year, as that has been a very difficult situation to weasel out from.

Brushing his way past people, he visited multiple stalls, all of which held exotically coloured and patterned items, but nothing that was of real significance caught his eye. After about half an hour of browsing, he came across a native American themed stall. Smiling inwardly to himself, he made his way to easy presents.

The man at the stall looked surprisingly genuine, not the sneaky and suspicious kind of person you may expect, trying to get as much money as possibly by selling fake antiques and pieces, but instead looked like a true native American. He had long black hair, the front two pieces braided and effortlessly rested atop his chest, his eyes deep and weary, but sparkling with wisdom and a tanned face to prove his heritage. Although he wasn't wearing 'native clothing' and instead a thick fur and skin coat, he still looked realistic enough.

Approaching the said native American, England cleared his throat. After getting no response and physically trying not to let his eyebrow tick get to him, he took in a deep breath and was about to clear his throat again, but his lungs were racked with coughs.

Unable to stop himself, his body bent slightly forward as he held up an arm to cover his coughs, his body shaking with every one. Hearing this, the man slowly exhaled from his old pipe and looked up to him, waiting for him to finish coughing.

After a minute of coughing and harsh mental berating, England stood back up again, shoulders back as to prove it had not affected him, yet he was tearing at the corners of his eyes.

"Do you-" He was cut short and his voice was raspy. After successfully clearing his throat and swallowing, he tried again, "Do you have any good suggestions for gifts?"

If one was bad at reading human emotions, they would have thought that the man wasn't phased. England however, noticed the smile in his eyes as he turned, picking up two objects and then placing them down in front of him.

England's eyes widened in slight surprise when he saw what they were. Before him were two beautifully made wood carvings, one of a polar bear and one of a bald eagle in the finest of ebony, polished to perfection.

"How much?" He asked quickly, not daring to take his eyes off of them for a single second, and so missed the man's smirk.

"Nothing." He replied in a deep voice.

"Pardon?" England questioned again, his eyebrow piquing in curiosity as if he spoke in another language.

"They are free." The man responded with a chuckle.

"But why?" England asked. Now he was truly confused. "These can be worth a fortune!"

The native American simply looked at him, a wise smile gracing his eyes and face, and replied,

"I could tell the moment I saw you that these gifts were meant for you."

England simply looked at him, astounded that he was saying such a thing. Meant for him? What on earth was he talking about? Maybe this was a practical joke, to send him off kilter, but who would-

Without even realising it, a paper bag containing the two said items was swiftly placed in his outstretched hand, the native American brushing past him, and whispering his ear as he did so,

"I just know Canada and America will love them."

He whirred around, eyes wide in shock as he heard that, questions buzzing through his mind at the speed of light. How did he know them? Was he in on the secret of nations? Maybe he was a nation himself. If so, why would he care about them?

But when he turned to ask him, there was no-one there.

Light dimly entered through the windows, yet with little enthusiasm as it did so. Off yellow floral curtains hung lamely by their side, collecting dust. Furniture sat still in suspension, tensely awaiting for something to strike at any possible moment while silence deafened and dominated the house.

All of this was quickly disrupted as a Brit loudly entered the house, forcing the heavy doors open and then closing them in the same lightening speed, giving out a loud BANG. England sighed, leaning against the door for support. He had almost been run over by a double decker. A bleeding DOUBLE DECKER for Christ's sake! How could they not see him?!

Looking out the window, he noticed that a dense fog was quickly collecting outside and repressed a cough, realising this was no time to be wandering the streets. He turned to the old grandfather clock. 12 precisely. England nodded to himself, placing down the bag containing the presents in the broom cupboard and hung his coat up, deciding to make himself some lunch and tea.

But before he could get any further, he was stopped again by that damned cough. Unable to even curse his luck about picking up such a wretched cold or something along those lines, he found that he couldn't stop, and his hand was doing him little favours by covering his mouth. Continuing to cough, he gasped for breaths between them, yet that did little more but give him a greater reason to cough. Eyes already tearing, he fell to his knees, body quaking as he tried to stop it, as he was becoming light-headed.

In an instant, the coughing ceased, and he let his shoulders slump in relief leaning slightly back. Pulling his hand away from his mouth, something on it immediately caught his attention, emerald eyes aflame with anxiety.

His hand was completely covered in something black.

Running his fingers through it, he realised that it was in fact ash, letting it slide through his fingers and fall to the floor, not caring about his rug. Before he could even gasp, he felt the all too familiar feel of restraint around his lungs, trying and failing desperately to get any air in as panic grew in his stomach.

England felt his head grow lighter, sounds fading and colours blurred, unable to suck in any air, mouth gaping, trying again and again. He half felt the feeling of falling backwards, but was given no chance to realise it as he was swept over by a wave of black.