Very well, alone.

10th December, 2011.

Another drowsy winter afternoon, and England was preparing his tea. A standard measure, by all accounts, and the young man found himself tipping the pristine china teapot over the expecting cup with automatic, inattentive hands. It was in these strange moments of temporary unconsciousness that England seemed to melt into his sombre, melancholy surroundings, his moss-green eyes befitting their unfocused glaze.

Solid shadows of the past.

Tipping the teapot up just in time to stop the beige liquid spilling over, he placed it aside on the wooden tabletop and stirred while supplying the required amount of white sugar from its porcelain container.

Crooking a finger around its handle, England lifted the cup halfway up his chest and let it hover there patiently as he moved leisurely from the kitchen and into the living room, stopping at the threshold between the two rooms to survey his surroundings.

Typical Victorian decor, with a pallet of serene browns, whites, greens and golds, all exquisitely executed by hands long since decayed. The wallpaper; a foliage of gold swirls on a forest-green background, the rugs splayed over the glossy oak floorboards; detailed to the very last strand of thread, and were comforting to his sock-covered feet, the lounging chairs and sofa; constructed and chiselled from the finest oak, and softened by the dark crimson velvet padding, the bookshelf; countless ancient volumes read countless times over, and the grandfather clock ticking in its rusty bass note in the far corner; dignified and radiant in its old age.

The room smelled...like the serene and ageing relics that inhabited it, musky and warm. The past was where his heart lay, where he planned to live and vanish away. This beautiful place, his home, his memories of days long gone. Of glory, of pride, of dignity...of love.

Of course, he had salvaged more modern items over the years, including the old gramophone from the '50's sitting silently on the small table next to the sofa overlooking the enormous front window of the house (which in turn gave a clear view of the gardens) along with the pack of old records gathering dust near it. The new laptop, opened and unused in its conservative master's contempt for the irritating contraption of the modern era, sat abandoned on his nearby work-desk.

England smirked as he considered just how impossibly expensive it would have been to build a house of this calibre now. His smirk faded when he acknowledged that times had changed since then.

Indeed, times had changed.

Moving into the spacious living-room and slowing to a stop in front of the wide rectangular window overlooking the clean-cut lawn, fountains and precariously trimmed hedges, wet with the morning's melted frost, aligning it all. The sky was a bitter, murky grey, smudged in various ugly shades and darkening the landscape. The sun had not broken through since last week. Not that England had expected it to, given how his winter months had turned out recently—that is, grey and utterly devoid of anything other than rain, cloud and fog. Snow had been out of the question, it seemed, as barely a few flakes had graced the stubbornly bare land as of late. Only rain. Always rain.

The irritated nation huffed and blamed Ireland for his confounded warm front always buggering their chances. It seemed his fiery-headed older brother was determined to blight his days even when not in his presence.

England's spirits sunk a good deal lower when he grudgingly admitted that perhaps a country's general mood had its effect on its overall climate. For instance, Spain's bouncy, jovial demeanour meant nigh-constant glorious weather, even in the winter months. England, on the other hand, was far more moody, and given to bouts of depression; thus his weather felt obliged to reciprocate with general arsey weather, even in the supposed months of sun. Rain. Oh happy days...

But really, who could blame him? Everything was falling to bits around him, and all he could do was just sit and smile with tears cascading down his face.

Everything with which he had once defined himself, everything that had made him who he was—his status, his wealth, his dignity, his industry, his society...crumbling. His people were leaving him. Leaving him! His own people were packing their bags and leaving for Spain, Germany, America...anywhere! And all because they just couldn't stand him anymore. They couldn't stand to see their beloved country decay into something unrecognisable. England had felt it. Bit by bit, pieces of his soul were breaking away and vanishing from the depths of his profound being. One day, he would be a pitiful husk, a hollow memory, sitting alone amidst the labyrinths of the past, forgotten.

How tragic that the only way one could feel even a flicker of pride for one's own nation was to visit relics of the great and terrible past, closed off from the reality all too monstrous to face. Past greatness, all turned to dust now, and serving as an all-too-aching reminder of what was and what never would be again.

Where was the flag? Where was his flag, flying?

Mechanically, the weary nation lifted his still-steaming cup to his lips and let some of its liquid content slip down his tongue and throat. He twitched a little as he felt its slight burn. His mind conjured the memories of the horrific burns he had suffered as those maniacs who hated him for hatred's sake, and burned the English flag till it was black. England still shuddered as he recalled how every inch of his body had boiled and seared and screamed red in the blistering agony of the flames torturing the symbol of his very existence, burning it to ash. He had been unrecognisable afterwards. A charred mess, some had said.

Luckily, or perhaps not so much, he was the genuine article, the nation itself, and so had survived the attacks.

England silently hoped they burned in hell, and downed the rest of the tea in one jerky gulp.

Pushing these mentally wearing thoughts roughly from his mind, the green-eyed nation recalled far more recent events. Namely, one from that very day. The day his new boss, David Cameron, had for the first time since England could recall, blocked an EU treaty with a stubborn veto. With that single act, the distance between England and his fellow nations had entrenched so wide it rivalled the deep sea caverns.

All eyes glared in contempt, in repulsion. How dare he? But England had not made that decision himself. Gone were the days when his leaders actually confided their thoughts to him. Now he was merely a tag-along, accompanying his master to whichever place he was made to go. Cameron did what he did regardless of any outside opinion. England's interests were ignored. But even so, the damage was done. The rift had been split, and gone was the confidence and grudging respect—replaced by indignation, suspicion, and outrage.

Standing alone in that meeting hall with angry eyes fixed furiously on him, England was reminded of the feeling of true isolation.

Afterwards, he had unleashed his fury on his so-called leader.

'Why the bloody hell did you do that for?!' he had bellowed. 'Now I'm cut off! I'll never be trusted, considered, or included in anything ever again! I'll be second-rate garbage! I'm alone, I'm alone because of your goddamned fucking idiocy!!'

But what did Cameron care? England might as well have been shouting at a brick wall. The man maintained his decision as if it was the most rational and worthwhile thing since the Magna Carta.

Now, he was alone again. Only those outside the EU asked him to visit them, Japan being one. But it did not get rid of that horrible empty feeling of being cut off from the rest of the world, a tiny island amidst a vast globe.

Insignificant...

Something pushed against his trouser-leg, and England was forced back from his angry recollections to the reality of his surroundings, and looked down. His expression softened when he caught the expectant gaze of his brown female tabby cat, Molly.

He smiled, he couldn't help himself. Bending down, he scooped the cat into his arms and cradled it like a baby, rubbing its wide furry stomach affectionately.

"Here, I've already fed you, you lazy beast!" he chided, chuckling as the cat meowed indignantly, bright green eyes irritated. "Come on, let's have a little nap on the sofa, eh fatty?"

Lowering his head, England nuzzled the tabby's nose with his, walking briskly across to the sofa. Easing himself down so not to disturb the cat, England lifted his legs up and shifted them over so he lay flat across it, feet nearing its other end. He lay still, head resting against the hand-made cushions. Molly yawned and began the obligatory kneading of his jumper. England tried not to wince as the cat's claws dug, retracted and re-dug themselves into his stomach, and waited until the cat was satisfied enough to curl up and settle down on him.

Relieved, England let himself relax into the soft comfort of the velvet underneath him, and gazed absent-mindedly at the dozing animal a little under his chin, stroking it.

Suddenly, he found himself remembering the famous line in a comic from way back when in the days of World War Two, when England was faced with an impossible enemy that had left him deprived of allies and options.

Very well, alone.

He smiled bitterly. How patriotic he, and everyone, had been then. How staunchly had they accepted that they were alone and they would fight. How they prided themselves in their nation and its strength and deep connection in their spirits.

How they had loved him.

Now he was alone again, but no such swelling feelings of duty, devotion and desire strengthened him, supported him.

Alone again, but with no options, no voice, no beautiful cheers of his people rallying him on. Everything was silent, and the flag was not flying proud in the heavens now.

All that remained was the merciless ticking of the old grandfather clock, and heavy muffled sobs.

Rain.

Very well...alone.