Firstly, apologies to all who got an alert for this and saw it was in the Shakespeare section (as opposed to Hetalia). As you may know, FFNet is experiencing some failage of an epic degree and hasn't yet gotten off its bitch-ass and dealt with it. Initially I had planned to post this last Wednesday but FFNet was having none of it. I originally decided to wait out the failage but the failage is yet ongoing and I figured... you know what? God knows how long this failage is going to last. So I turned to the clever clever get-around of posting it in the wrong section and moving it.

SO. Right. Let's get down to it. If you read the summary (and I would hope that you did, having clicked on this), you will know that I based this story on a wonderful comic by Otoshigo, who seems to primarily lurk on LJ. Some of you may be familiar with her work, particularly if you obsessively hang about the USUK LJ community like a starving stray cat around the bins at the back of a Chinese restaurant as I do. XD Her comics are almost all USUK (with some exceptions with regards to it being a pairing) and they can be really cracky and hilarious and, conversely, really... not.

So. This. What is this, exactly? This is a fanfic based on (more a sort of continuation of) a comic of Otoshigo's called Roanoke/The Lost Colony, which I first read probably about two months ago. Okay. It's amazing. Seriously. A plot bunny, which was bred by my initial misunderstanding of the comic's fantastic ending, sank its teeth into my writing hand and refused to let go – so I grovelled to Otoshigo to let me spill my writing guts by elaborating on it and she very graciously allowed me the loan of her plot and her lovely fairy king.

To that end, given that this is a continuation of Otoshigo's story and not a fanfic "adaptation" of it, it would be beneficial to you if, before proceeding, you read the comic in question. It's 55 pages but a lot of these pages only have one panel on them, so it really shouldn't take you much more than five minutes to get through it. Sorry to spring homework on you but I assure you it's worth reading. =)

The link: http: / community .livejournal .com/ shigo_stack/ 22887. html#cutid1 (Take out the spaces, obviously, and enjoy the serious punches this comic throws at you!)

I'm not going to spoil the plot of the comic by recapping it any more than what my summary gave away, so ignore the comic at your own inconvenience. You won't understand this fic without reading it. Not to ostracize you but, you know... It's like watching Return of the Jedi without bothering about the two that come before it. It's just not done, gentlemen.

Thank you to Otoshigo for allowing me to write this! All credit goes to her for the original plotline this was based on and England generally being a bamf.

As Ours Fell Before the Scissors of the Witch

[I will show you fear—]

"What are you expecting to find?" England asks coolly. "Communist spies lurking behind every public telephone box?"

"You're being clever," America replies archly, not looking up from his paperwork (more invested in his duties than England has ever seen him). "Or, at least, you think you are."

He pauses.

"It's cute," he says. "Endearing." He signs his name impressively – great loops and flicks in the capitals. Showing off.

Showing how powerful he is. How he can do what he likes. Blacklists are only the beginning, if he feels like it.

"But don't get too clever," he adds lightly. "You know very well what comes of that."

He looks up then, his blue eyes meeting England's across the office. They are clear, intense, hunted. He pushes up his glasses, looking at England very intently, almost pleadingly.

Shut up. For god's sake, shut up. Hold your tongue.

Of course. Disobey him, go against him, scare him, and he punishes. Oh, how he punishes.

(And how England lets him.)

England shakes off the little shiver that scuttles down his spine, looking away.

"This is getting ridiculous," he says. Icy. Defiant. "You know it is."

There is another hideous hanging hesitation between them.

"...You mean like before?" America looks up. He is smiling and it's not a pleasant expression at all.

England knows it well and wishes that he didn't. It isn't like before, not really – and yet it is. It's exactly like before. America will be merciless about it, desperate and reckless and paranoid; England looks at him and sees the dark circles under his eyes, at his nails bitten raggedly right down. He is just as frightened as he was back then.

It is exactly the same.

"Relax," America says breezily, standing. "You don't have anything to worry about. You're Capitalist. You're my ally." He comes around the desk, towards England; bigger than him, broader, stronger, his fists clenched so that England can't see his ruined nails, can't stare at them and judge him, diagnose him as mad. "It's Russia I'm after. China, too. Bastards – sly little Red fuckers, hiding in plain sight all throughout the war. At our side, weren't they? Could have done anything to us while we trusted them, turned our backs on them without thinking ill of it—"

"Stop it." England resists the urge to put his hands over his ears. "Stop it, America."

America cants his head to one side; gentle, lolling, still smiling.

"Stop what?" he asks innocently.

England looks at him. It isn't America's fault. It isn't. It never has been. It's just that the blame falls on his shoulders when others about him – the people he should be able to trust – are the ones who have been making deals with devils.

(One deal and one devil in particular.)

"Half of Hollywood's walking on eggshells," America informs him happily. "I'll get them, don't you worry." He presses his hands together in childlike, greedy glee. "Gotta make sure everyone's safe, you know? Part of being a hero an' all."

"Indeed." England can't bear to look at him anymore and turns away. "Well, then, enjoy your witch-hunt," he says stiffly.

America catches at his wrist. He doesn't pull him close. He does nothing except hold onto him – holding, holding, until England looks at him. Has no choice but to look at him. Trembling. Despairing. Guilty.

"Oh," America says gently, pressing a kiss to England's forehead, "I will."

"Do you know," America said conversationally, sprawling himself across the wide bed, "that it was not as easy as you might believe?"

England paused in undressing, not turning to him.

"What was not?" he asked after a moment. "What, pray, might warrant my disbelief?"

America laughed; it had a delighted childish kick to it, a squeal of merriment quite unbidden by the nature of England's words.

"The trials, of course," he replied, resting his chin on his hands. "Oftentimes it went in mere circles – everyone believed that to accuse someone else would be to save their own skin."

"That is the nature of these things," England said stiffly. "The same can be said, too, of the trials in my own lands some fifty years ago. Fear is a powerful thing."

Is it not, America?

England glanced at the boy on the bed, dressed for slumber in a cotton shift with his thin, awkward legs bare. He was beginning to properly hit adolescence, taller and broader than he had been before. For all his changes, however, nothing about him looked deadly or devilish – just that same sweet smile England had always known.

(Had he smiled like that as his witches swung?)

"It does not matter," America said, looking up at the ceiling. "I vowed that justice would be done and so it was. Nineteen witches hanged; twenty-six in total convicted of their crimes." He clasped his hands together. "But there might yet be more." Glancing imploringly at England, he added, "Will you not help me in seeking them? Users of magic will not be permitted to live. I will see them all destroyed."

"Do you not think," England replied evasively, "that twenty-six might have been the whole sum?"

America gravely shook his head.

"I am certain that there are more," he said, "hiding, waiting, denying what they are to preserve themselves. Why, even some of those that I had condemned to death would not confess!"

England faltered.

"Is that so?" he muttered.

America nodded, smiling again.

"But t'was to no avail," he babbled happily, "for I saw the evil in their hearts. One I had crushed – stones piled upon his frail body for each time he denied his wickedness. Still he did not confess. That, I am sure, is dedication to the Devil, to keep silent under such circumstances. What but a witch could have withstood such pain and still had the voice to deny their craft?"

For a long moment, England looked at him. As before, nothing in America's face belied the capability of such cruelty, the ability to delight in anything so awful as what he was describing with that joy alight in his clear blue eyes. It was hidden well, all of it, behind a mask that couldn't have been more perfect. New, stainless, sinless world.

"Sweet boy," England said gently, uneasily, drawing close by the candlelight, "my dear America... Do you not think that these might be games gone too far?"

America looked at him guardedly for a moment.

"That is what some of the others said," he replied airily, feigning a yawn and rolling over. "Right before I had them hanged."

—

"What think you, England?"

Even the voice slithers, every syllable sliding, squirming, beneath England's skin. It is a voice that he hasn't heard for a long time.

It has been decades since he made the deal, after all.

"I did not call you," England says coldly. "That was the bargain – you would come to claim him only if I called."

"Perhaps you ought to," Crow suggests lightly, "given what he has become."

He is everywhere and nowhere, not physical in his presence as he was before when England bid him forth from the Faerie Realm, all around instead, crawling in every shadow, creeping in every corner, oozing from every crack. His malevolence is like rot on the walls, putrid and permanent; so thick and obtrusive that it almost rattles in England's chest when he breathes in.

"This is a dream, of course," Crow says when England does not reply. "Your dream. We have dominion over dreams, as you know. 'Tis a plane perfect for the planting of tiny seeds to bloom and grow – although rest assured that I have nothing to poison you with, dear England."

He smiles; England can feel it constricting in the air, some twisted, warped half-moon in which teeth gleam.

"I expect," England replies icily, "that you have little poison to spare after what you have done to America."

"Oh, am I to be blamed for that?" Crow scoffs. "Truly, England, you have no-one to blame but yourself. Were he a changeling, I would grant you my interference – but a deal is a deal. I gave you what you wanted at no cost."

"But for the price of his sanity!" England cries angrily. "For how long have you haunted him?"

"You make it sound as though I have little better to do," Crow says, his tone petulant and ugly. "I have not the time to dedicate to the unravelling of weak and fragile minds. Perhaps once, twice, I have toyed with him, that I will allow you, but to suggest that I have spent my every waking hour burrowing deeper still into your precious boy's brain is insulting to the king of the faeries."

"Then to what, your majesty," England spits, "do I owe the accusation?"

"Not I," Crow sings, "but rather our deal." His voice shifts about the walls, bouncing back and forth like an echo. "What do you expect, you ridiculous creature, from breathing life back into a corpse? Nary a heartbeat nor a breath passed through his body for days before you sought remedy. Did you truly believe that all would be well when he was reborn only by a bargain?" He laughs again, rich and rasping and delighted. "T'was powerful magic indeed employed to banish such putrefaction as that which had set in – silver stitches, potent and priceless, to stop his flesh from falling away from his tender bones. I restored him to you for no price of my own. Anything taken – such as his mind – was not my doing but only the natural design of such things, the etching of its mark; or are you truly too stupid to see this?"

"But does it not delight you?" England hisses in a low voice. "Nonetheless, does it not satisfy you to see what he has become?"

"Of course," Crow sighs, "but it is the magic in him – and not I – which rises behind his eyes, which threatens to burst out of the very skin that confines it. Were he human, I daresay it would have killed him long ago."

"Baptised in magic, then," England retorts, "and yet he turns on those whom he professes to be witches – murders them for their crimes with glee, no less!"

"Ah," Crows says, his voice musical, "that would be fear. Terror of the substance which restored him, which holds him together even now – yet he recognises it not in himself but rather in the repulsiveness, the baseness, of human nature." His breath is suddenly on the back of England's neck; but when England turns, terrified, furious, fists clenched, there is nothing there. "And what of you, dear little deal-maker? Do you not fear? Are you not the worst of all? Reveal to him the reason that he breathes and he will have you hanged – and do you not deserve it? After all..."

There is a long, considering pause; England clenches his fists and breathes in sharply, waiting, heart pounding.

"...Had you truly loved him then with all the truth that you proclaimed, you would not have offered up his corpse to be a vessel for such wickedness. Your anger at this, your despair at what he has done, is only because you thought that he should be perfect; that was mere greed on your part." Crow's long, spiderlike fingers curve about England's shoulders and he doesn't dare to move. "The self-same greed with which you condemned him."

England shudders miserably but can say nothing. It is the truth. The terrible, hideous truth.

"Still." Crow is gone again, dancing lightly away into the darkness before England can catch a glimpse of him. "It is simple. Our deal still stands. Call to me and I shall come for him. You need not inflict him upon the world any longer." Another gleaning, dreadful pause. "Unless your selfishness knows no bounds and you wish to keep him even now – with the blood of twenty-six people on his pretty hands."

"And what if I do?" England asks dully.

Crow laughs, a high screech of mirth something like an owl or a kestrel mere moments before the kill.

"Be it on your own head, then," he says graciously. "Know that he will not suffer a witch to live."

England opened his eyes, wide and blind in the pitch darkness of the bedroom, with a faint gasp that jolted him back into wakefulness. The room was silent but for his own quick, frightened breathing and the slower, steadier in-and-out of America's, who slept next to him with a peace strange for him. Nothing, nothing; England listened and heard nought of deals and bargains, promises and predictions, no hissed mockeries or repulsive, deformed truths.

Exhaling wearily, he rolled over, gathering America closer, protectively, into his arms; the teenager was almost getting too big for him to fit comfortably against his chest but England felt him curl into his grasp intuitively, nuzzling close the way he liked to when begging to share the bed. Tonight at least, it seemed, his dreams remained unhaunted.

Was this enough? England wondered. Twenty-six "witches", mere facsimiles projected from the ills and ugliness of America himself; all that was wrong with him, all that England had cursed him with, which had warped hideously into hysteria and gone amongst the townspeople of Salem, passing like a plague between them.

Would it stop at twenty-six or would he seek more to pay for his pound of flesh?

(But, if not, England knew guiltily that he would still hesitate to call for Crow; better yet a persecutor of witches than a plaything of fairies.)

"My precious and only treasure," he whispered into America's hair, "I will condemn you no further no matter how many you kill."

There was an air of skittishness, of mistrust, hanging low about the town; England knew it well from home, the foul perfume of man-eat-man that collected on street corners and in stores, round about the church, anywhere that people gathered and gossiped.

England hadn't wanted to come anywhere near the town, preferring to steer himself and America clear of it, having now come to know what the boy had done to this inward, isolated little society; necessity, however, had brought him forth on errands, America trotting along at his side with the paper-wrapped loaf of bread in his arms as though perfectly oblivious to the atmosphere of Salem.

Their presence did not go unnoticed. Gazes slid over them from street to street; knowing America, naturally, having followed his lead in the witch-hunt, but with him still standing apart from them in his brighter, fancier clothing. These were Puritans, of course, and so in distaste they regarded England (who, in return, had never liked them and had been rather glad when they packed up and left in the years following the English Civil War), no doubt thinking him vain and sinful for his velvet and lace, for the jewel that glittered in his cravat pin. They gathered in groups of two and three where England and America stopped, clustered like plain grey pebbles on the shore, not daring to come too close or speak even a word of greeting, simply clinking instead. England ignored them but watched America rather warily nonetheless.

It was America, of course, who had put the fear of witchcraft into them – not the other way around – but still England didn't trust them not to turn on him all the same; perhaps reasoning that his intuition in "knowing" witches when he saw them was a witchcraft of its own.

"Come, America," he said in a low voice. "It is drawing near noon and the walk back is not a short one."

America smiled and nodded.

"Very well," he said cheerfully, scampering obediently after him.

He strayed near a small cluster of women, barely regarding them; but they drew back, England noticed, and away from him, perhaps in fear. America stopped, glancing at them with his head to one side.

"Why do you shy from me?" he asked lightly. "What injury does my presence cause you?"

The women shook their heads, looking down, away, anywhere, not answering. Still smiling – though it began to twist at the edges – America drew closer to them.

"You shy," he said, not posing it as a question this time. "You fear me. What dread could I possibly instil in an innocent with nothing to hide...?"

"None!" burst out one of the women. "We have nothing hide and nothing to fear from you!"

"Ah," America said gently, "but is it not in your nature to deny what you are?"

The women – three of them – paled and stumbled back from him, one falling upon her knees to beg that he not accuse her of witchcraft.

America looked positively delighted.

"Enough of this!" England seized America's arm and hauled him away, holding tight when he resisted. "Come home with me at once!"

America stopped struggling, seeming strangely agreeable.

"As you wish," he said pleasantly. He let England pull him away, only glancing back over his shoulder once at the trembling woman, who was now being helped to her feet by one of her companions.

He seemed satisfied, England noted, for he came along without further acknowledgement of the matter, humming a hymn to himself instead. Watching him two or three paces ahead, a bounce in his step, England suddenly felt that it would be irresponsible of him to leave America by himself ever again. How many hanged witches might he come home to next time if something so simple was enough to make the boy seek out invented fancies to fit his regime of punishment, of purification? What would the king and queen say to that, if only he knew what had happened in the colonies – what would no doubt continue to happen if England so much as let America out of his sight? Deals for the dead aside, was it not England's responsibility? America was only a child, after all; still only a colony, not even a century old. Perhaps he ought not to have ever left him in the first place.

But, if he could not watch him at all times, what else to do with him other than leave the world at his mercy?

Coming level with the churchyard, America turned suddenly to England, holding out his empty hand.

"Come with me," he implored, "only for a moment. I wish to show you something."

England hesitated. He hadn't, after all, liked the last thing America had so excitedly shown him; his proud display of hanging witches swaying like windchimes.

"We shall not be long!" America insisted at his silence, already reaching out to grasp England about his wrist. "Come! We shall away soon enough!" He pulled at him, forcing him to follow.

England allowed himself to be led through the tall grass and overgrown wildflowers of the graveyard, carefully stepping over poorly-dug graves already beginning to sink and vanish into the ground. A handful of butterflies, bright shards of dizzy drunken flight, flittered between head-high foxgloves and threads of tightly-woven forget-me-nots; and several rabbits rustled at the disturbance of their feet. At the back of the churchyard, beneath the weeping willow, were fewer graves, the place not yet filled.

"T'is a surprise," America said, wedging the loaf at his elbow to cover England's eyes with his hands, making it an obscene game of Blindman's Buff as he urged England onwards from behind. "Keep going..."

"America, stop this nonsense," England said coldly, trying to wrestle his hands away – only to find him too strong. "I shall fall and break my neck at this rate."

"I daresay it would take a fall of around six feet to do that," America replied sweetly. He stopped, England with him, and took away his hands. "Here we are."

An open grave lay before them; freshly-dug, perhaps a few days ago at most. The headstone was plain, clumsy but well-serving, already carved out with a name.

"What think you, England?" America asked softly at his ear, his words enchanting his very blood (that it ran cold all throughout him at those familiar words).

England looked over his shoulder at him.

"What," he asked acidly, "is the meaning of this, Cr—?"

He stopped himself, his heart jolting as the name – bidden by the familiarity of the query pattern, the same amused, indulgent tone – almost slipped off his tongue and into the irretrievable ether of reality. He bit at his bottom lip, not trusting himself to speak again, instead clenching his fists fiercely, frightenedly, at his sides.

America laughed prettily at his ear.

"Do you like it? I dug it myself. Only the best for you, of course." He sighed, dropping the bread in order to wrap arms about England from behind, pressing his forehead to the back of his neck. "But pray make it a gift wasted and a promise unfulfilled."

England read the gravestone again. England. 1693. Heretic.

"Heresy?" he asked quietly. "Is that the title you would befit me?"

America rested his chin on England's shoulder.

"Stop me again," he said blandly, "and I will fit you with more than just the name."

The summary says two-shot. This is indeed a two-shot. Second half will be up when I finish it, lololol.

Literature references (there are many... T.T):

1] Given the importance of deals in this story, the title (which is long and a bit awkward, you have no doubt noticed) was deliberately chosen not only for its connotations of witchcraft; it's a line from Hans Christian Andersen's original The Little Mermaid, spoken to the title character by her sisters after they trade their long, beautiful hair to the sea-witch to bargain for the condemned mermaid's life.

2] "I will show you fear" is the first half of a line from T.S. Eliot's poem The Waste-Land; the second half, "in a handful of dust", will be the sub-heading of the other part of this fic. (Random bit of trivia: Evelyn Waugh quoted this line when naming his novel A Handful of Dust.)

3] There wasn't any actual specific reference but the first scene (set in the Cold War around the time of the major Hollywood blacklistings) is a reversal, of sorts, of the allegory present in Arthur Miller's The Crucible, which uses the Salem Witch Trials as a social commentary of Cold War-era America.

4] "Pound of flesh" is from William Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice; it, too, is part of a deal, Shylock's price to Antonio in return for borrowing money (if he cannot repay it). Essentially Antonio hangs his life in balance in making this deal.

5] "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" is from Exodus 22:18; the ambiguous but imperative nature of this command made it an excellent weapon for so-called "witch-hunters" to use in trials.

6] England's line "My precious and only treasure" has undertones of The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne, in which Hester Prynne's illegitimate daughter Pearl is referred to as "her mother's only treasure"; part of the reason Hawthorne wrote the novel was to attack Puritan culture due to the guilt he felt. Hawthorne's great-great-grandfather, John Hathorne, had been an executor at the Salem Witch Trials, something which Hawthorne was always ashamed of, prompting him to add the 'w' to his name by means of disassociation.

Soooo... I think that's it for now! Second half, as I said, when it's done, perhaps next week sometime.

...Unless Otoshigo orders me to take this down on charges of bastardisation, hahaha. (Speaking of, I hope you don't mind that I borrowed Crow! I found him really intriguing and felt that he ought to be revisited.)

Well, I hope everyone, including Otoshigo, has enjoyed this so far. Thank you for reading! :)

Ooh, and lastly, this seems to be the best place to mention this given that this fic is based on a comic strip. SHAMELESS PLUG: Some of you may already know but I'm working on a doujin entitled Rockets with the wonderful Hakuku. Well, my part is done - I wrote the script based on her original plot notes - and Haku is working very diligently on the artwork. Two chapters are up and Haku is working on the third. It's a USUK AU about fashion-designer!Arthur and model!Alfred. =) A link to the tumblr account, which has links to both chapters so far, is on my profile, if you would like to read it!

Aaaaaaaaaaanyway... that's that. I think. o.O

RobinRocks

xXx

(Final fun fact: Foxgloves are sometimes called "witch's fingers", presumably due to how freaking poisonous they are.)