Ughhhh, final part of the Revolutionary War/Georgian-period segment at long last! The delay in getting this out wasn't just the pissing about in Hong Kong (which was lovely, thank you to all those who wished me well! :3); for some reason I started some other multi-chapter Cardverse fic and then also… this was just hard-going to write. Really it was. I actually feel quite exhausted. DX

Thanks to: MuSiC HaTs, Undying Angel, ilovesmilingfools, NightRaven511, too lazy to log in, Lamashtar Two and Vera-Sama!

The Sun Is In The Sky: IV

He was waiting; his head tipped back against the crack of the double doors with their ornate lock like a belt buckle, sitting with his hands clasped in his lap and his legs straight out before him, crossed at the ankles. It was cold, his shoulders hunched under his travelling cloak, and half-dark, the glow of Boston ablaze tapping at the windowpanes so as to make shadows sweep beneath the eyes of the portraits lining the hall, hollowing out their faces. The spiral staircase beginning its ascent further down loomed twistedly from its vigil in the manner of some great Grecian serpent.

England had been locked up before. He did not remember most of it, though it been only something like five months, a human punishment to fit a human crime, or so he reasoned. Subsequently he did not take kindly to being confined, nor anything which replicated the matter (such as the vanity fashion of girdles and stay-laces). How typical, really, that as such he would develop the thoroughly-human response of claustrophobia, finding even the cabins of the crossing ships to be a test.

This was the first he had actually been imprisoned since. He found this to be unlike America's people, however, and had faith enough in Jefferson that this was a last resort, a final move of desperation. It was likely, he agreed, that he would be enough of a ransom to the king's pride to ensure the promise of a better financial deal for the colonies. Bitterness would likely sour the relations, that was unavoidable, but England's government didn't involve him much in politics anyway - he was a liability, a weakness, emotional and selfish with more to lose than land or a title. They had no time for such creatures in parliament, especially not since the Civil War when he had sided with the doomed Royalists.

(They hadn't punished him for that, for picking the wrong side. They'd thought that watching the king he had believed in beheaded for treason was punishment enough.)

No, provided he was still allowed access to America himself - better still if France took on the burden - then nothing that mattered need change at all. It was this, and only this, which stilled England where he sat; though he was deeply agitated at having been locked up in this building whose walls shook with the colonists' rage, his fingernails gnawing worriedly at his clothing, his heart pounding at the memory of that prior imprisonment.

He stayed for America's sake.

Curled up on the floor beneath his travelling cloak, fitfully asleep with the sound of the conflict ever a dull roar beyond the windows, England roused himself at the heavy lock at last unclasping. The light that fell in now was the dull greyish-pink of dawn, perhaps the very earliest hour of it, and his bones creaked and ached as he straightened - kneeling up in the middle of the hard-floored hallway with his hair wild and his cloak swamping the power in his deceptive body. The doors opened to the dawn and Thomas Jefferson was back, ashen-faced, all the confidence in last night's plan wrung right out of him.

"He has done something terrible," the man said in a hoarse voice.

"Who?" England stood up, smoothing his hair distractedly. The roles had changed now; somehow, subtly, England could taste it, men at the mercy of monsters once again.

He tried to keep the predator out of his step as he approached.

"Adams?" he pressed curiously.

"No," Jefferson said distractedly; and for a long moment he appeared unable to even meet England's eyes.

"You test my patience, Mr Jefferson," England sighed.

"Oh, stow your threats, you beast!" Jefferson snapped, at last losing the composure England had always merited him for. His head rose and he held England's gaze with iron resolve. "America has done something awful. Our America, do you see? Your America, if you will."

His temper frosting over, England folded his arms.

"America is at home," he said. "You yourself left him there in my company, at which I entrusted him to the care of the midwife. Even if the birth is over-"

"Boston is burning," Jefferson interrupted. "How can you have expected him to sit still?"

"And yet the atrocity of which you speak is not the burning of Boston?"

Jefferson laughed coldly.

"What does Boston matter now?"

England lost his patience.

"Get out of my way," he said icily.

He shoved Jefferson aside, stepping out into the decimated street. Boston was in utter ruin, many of the buildings little more than charred and skeletal remains, the others which remained intact with broken windows and bare boards where their signs had been, all marked with the scar of looting. The air was bitter with smoke and there was an abandoned cannon in the centre of the square with a dead man sprawled near it, his flocked coat trodden in with mud and encrusted blood from the wound that had killed him - the rest of the dead had been lined up on either side of the street. It didn't look as though anybody had won.

England idly wondered which of these crimes America was responsible for as he crossed the street. Humans were so dramatic, so cryptic - of course Jefferson wanted to be poetic about it. England was appalled, of course, at the damage, at the number of dead, but it was not a sight that he was unused to. Pity these humans their mortality, that they could only measure these atrocities by what they had seen in their own lifetimes. England had seen worse than this. He would see worse, he knew.

There was a crowd gathered about the scaffold which earlier had been piled with burning British flags. This mob was, contrary to the manner of such gathering, eerily quiet, instead clustered close around the scaffold with the appearance of sickened judgement. Amongst them were all classes of colonist, women and children and working men and nobles and rebels, many of them carrying English guns no doubt looted from the gift-ships; and beyond the crowd England could see some po-faced, Puritan-descended halfwit lauding on about lost values and what this unspeakable act represented.

England failed to see what this had to do with America and turned away from the crowd; he came face-to-face with Franklin, who sported an ugly bruise to the left side of his face.

"Dr Franklin!" In spite of his anger at these men for having lured him into their political trap, England touched a shocked hand to the old man's shoulder. "What happened to you?"

"Mr Revere and his men fired a cannon at one of the ships in the harbour," Franklin said tiredly. "I was fortunate enough to be hit by wood shrapnel at a better angle than poor Mr Adams, who was knocked out. Mr Revere was arrested by the British Army shortly after, thank goodness."

"Where is America?" England pressed, waving this tale of woe aside rather heartlessly. "Jefferson said-"

"Upon the scaffold." It came out heavy-hearted; Franklin shot him an exhausted, pleading look. "I can do nothing for him. He is at the mercy of his people now."

"And what crime, exactly, did he commit?" England spat. "The sin of bearing a child out of wedlock? I am quite done, I tell you, with such human trivialit-"

"Were it only that." Franklin really looked rather ashen-faced. "England, he threw the child into Boston Harbor and drowned it."

"He…" England stared at Franklin, the words of his own language which flowed in him as did his blood utterly failing him. "…The… the harbour?"

"The men were throwing the weapons overboard in protest," Franklin said quietly, despairingly, "and here came America to join them, in his arms the child which he had given birth to in our absence. In front of all of the colonists he committed this evil - perhaps he thought he was rallying to their cause by drowning the baby that you had fathered." And, helpless, "I…I know not his motive."

Numb with the rinse of horror which seared its way through his every atom at Franklin's words, England turned his back upon the old man - looking towards the surge of the crowd before plunging into its midst, fighting his way with an unkempt savagery through their heave. They were not his people - or barely his, anyway, with thinned-out blood - but he could feel their revulsion prickling on his skin at his contact with them. He forcibly parted some jeering youths in acquired, ragged Red-coats as he broke through the front of the mob, standing before the scaffold to settle his rage upon the human who dared to judge America for his despicable actions.

His own revulsion, he felt, could come later.

The man - a pastor with an old Mayflower bloodline - paused upon England's entrance to the scene, noting him with derision.

"The English noble," he said tautly, for this was all he knew him as. "How good of you to come at long last."

England ignored him, looking instead at America, who was curled limply on his side upon the scaffold, quivering, more or less at this man's feet. His clothing was torn, his hair loose and his skin bruised and bloodied with the wide welts which came, England recognised, from being beaten with the spine of the King James Bible. The pastor, of course, held one under his arm, gold-ridged and ruthless.

"America," England said sharply.

America raised his head. His lip was bleeding and there was an angry, bloodied bump over his left eyebrow. His blue eyes clouded with relieved recognition at the sight of England.

"England," he said weakly, reaching out his hand across the scaffold-

The pastor slammed his foot down on his forearm, making America shriek in pain and coil in on himself again, shaking. There was a ripple in the crowd at this, their approval swelling at the small of England's spine; and America did nothing, only lay there with his wrist beneath a human's boot.

"Filth," the pastor hissed. "You would call out for his help when you murdered an innocent child barely hours ago?"

America didn't utter a sound - which only served to anger the righteous pastor more, for he pressed harder still with his heel on America's thin bones, enough to force a sob of agony from his heaving chest. At this, England pulled himself onto the scaffold and was upon the man in an instant, seizing him by the throat. Both his speed and his strength far outranked that of humans and concealing it to wear their mask, as he so often did, was no longer of any use. He pushed the barest of inches and the pastor stumbled backwards, righting himself only as England inserted himself firmly and furiously between he and America.

"Whatever his sin, you will now answer to me," England said icily. "And I will not prostrate myself before you, of that you may be quite sure."

America, revolting in his weakness, cowered behind him, clutching at the hem of his cloak.

"I had to," he bleated. "I could not expect them to understand but I had to."

The pastor gave an angry snort, clutching his bible tighter as he looked to England.

"Sir, if you have any scrap of decency about you," he said icily, "you will join us in the condemnation of this vile wretch. He stole away from its mother a newborn which had committed no sin other than to be born upon the eve of our revolution and in cold blood murdered it as a horrific and ill-judged political statement."

"I had to!" America wailed, clinging to England's legs. "There was no political motive, this I swear!"

England was himself angry and sickened and confused by America's reported actions - to say nothing of his strange, desperate reason for having done so. Nonetheless, he did not move an inch, shielding America as he clutched beseechingly at him.

"Murder is murder, no matter the motive," the pastor said gravely. "You cannot expect to walk free after committing so grievous a crime."

"I have done nothing wrong!" America sobbed. "Th-they will not understand, nobody will ever understand wh-why I did it, but… but I-"

"Enough, America," England interrupted impatiently. "Your words do your defence no credit."

"He cannot go free," the pastor insisted again. "The society that our forefathers built is on the verge of collapsing. In our anger we have stripped Boston to its barest bones. We have rioted, looted, killed in the street, torn apart our fledgling nation at the seams. It will be the final nail in the premature coffin if we do nothing about this depravity." He cleared his throat. "After all, he did it in front of us all. The murder was a spectacle, a statement. He wanted us to see him drown the child."

"And what would your punishment be?" England asked icily. "Beating him to death with your Holy Book?"

The pastor pursed his lips into a tight line.

"You will forgive me," he said at length, "but this matter does not concern English nobles. You have so little care for everything else, after all. I must ask you to stand aside."

The crowd rippled in agreement and England hissed under his breath, glancing from the colonists to the pastor. He did not like being cornered by humans. It made him want to start killing them - an echo, perhaps, of their own bloodlust. Nations were only educated in war, after all, because humans had so lovingly taught them.

England stared down the pastor, ready to rip him in half if he so much as inched towards America; the pastor knew this, it was clear, and he made no motion. There was sudden tumult in the heart of the mob, however, and a surge forward by the youths in crimson coats; they scrambled half upon the scaffold and seized America, dragging him with a start from England and pulling him off the scaffold into the crowd. He was so shocked that he barely even cried out, disappearing beneath the swell of angry colonists as England as last whirled from the pastor and watched him be swallowed up. England was after him in an instant, fighting his way back into the surging sea of filthy and bloodied rebels scrapping amongst each other and ducking beneath to find America sprawled in the mud, barely reacting as he was kicked by a pigtailed boy no older than seventeen. England grabbed this boy by the neck and threw him headlong, breaking bones; and others were then upon his back as he bent to pull America up, knocking him to his knees with the butts of stolen muskets. A foot came against his shoulder, the heel grinding into the bone, and England utterly lost it, twisting to drag this human who dared step upon him down to his level and then seizing him about the throat.

"No, England!" America grabbed his arm, hauling at him in an attempt to break his hold. "England, stop, please!"

"No," England hissed, elbowing him off. "I cannot stand to be civil to these monsters a moment longer."

He tore out the man's throat with his teeth; and the brawling crowd fell silent and parted, repelled by the splatter of gore, shocked into stillness. America gave a defeated, miserable shudder as England wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood up and came limply when England pulled him up by his elbow.

"Lay a hand on either of us," England said coldly, looking around at the terrified colonists, "and I will kill every last one of you."

He shrugged off his muddied travelling cloak and slung it around America's shoulders, drawing it close about him. America wouldn't meet his gaze, looking fixedly at the ground - just beyond the man England had murdered.

"This!" the pastor wailed suddenly from the scaffold. "This was the kind of terrible sin that our forefathers sought to put behind them when they first left England! The Day of Reckoning has come upon us!"

"Yes, well," England replied primly, looking up at the white-faced man, "it cannot be helped that humans are so very good at destroying themselves."

"Enough." Thomas Jefferson appeared at the head of the parted crowd, Franklin not far behind him. They both looked disgusted. "Spare us your wisdom." He narrowed his eyes at England, gesturing with his hand. "Get out of here. You have said and done quite enough."

"Very good, gentlemen." England bowed sarcastically to them and marched America away, the deflated teenager tripping lamely after him.

The mob bristled at their backs, unmoving, seething, terrified. They had seen far more than they had wanted.

It was a long walk back to the house. England had hoped to find a horse loose in the wake of the mayhem but they came upon no such convenience, leaving them having to hack it on foot. They did not speak to one another, America's wrist limp beneath the clamp of England's hand as he was all but dragged along - in shock, perhaps, or too guilty to even fathom defending himself.

England, naturally, had nothing to say to him. He still had the taste of blood in his mouth.

The house, he found upon their return, was bereft of servants. They had no doubt fled in the night, seeing the orange glow shrouding Boston Harbour from the windows and leaving to join their families, to join the mobs tearing Boston to the ground. England was glad of their absence, in no mood for their panicked admissions that they had found America missing that morning. It didn't matter, anyway. They wouldn't be staying long.

"You need a bath," England said crisply as they stood in the empty entrance hall; America huddled pathetically in the travelling cloak, staring at the floor. "I will heat one up for you."

America simply gave an apathetic nod and did nothing else; England impatiently steered him up the stairs and into the bedroom, last used as the scene for that awful childbirth. It still stank of stale blood and sweat and afterbirth, cloistered and shut-up, and England coughed a little on it as he shut the shut door behind them.

"Go and sit on the bed," he ordered flatly, pushing America away. "This will take me a while."

He turned his back on his teenager to go to the fireplace and get the flames started, glad that at least the coal scuttle was stocked up. America stood helplessly beside the bed for a while before finally sinking onto it, his gaze on the floorboards all the while. England didn't look at him as he left the room to get the bathtub, dragging it back in and putting it before the fire to start warming it up.

"I'm going to go and fetch the water in," he said. America didn't answer him. He hadn't said a single thing since vainly begging England not to kill that colonist.

All sorts of ugly things were seeping out and neither of them knew what to say.

It took England four trips out to the well with the bucket to fill the bath halfway, which he deemed to be enough; in the silence of the task he had questioned, briefly, how America could have done something so monstrous - sweet darling good-hearted America, who was not cruel by nature, who bandaged the wings of crippled birds and put out scraps for small animals when the winter set in and played with lonely children. No, England did not think there was a bad bone in the boy's body-

So how, how, could he have drowned his own child? Had it been out of fear? Had he been coerced? Had it been an accident?

But he came upon no answer and it unsettled him to chase the thought any further, putting it firmly out of his mind to concentrate on the menial task of filling the bath. It was only when he was done and the water had warmed comfortably and he ordered America to come to the fireside that it came crawling back into his brain, immovable and horrifying as he watched the teenager undress. He had been so used to his belly swollen like a ripened fruit that to see him pale and sagging, his bodied plied out and rinsed through by labour and left clutching nothing, made him feel ill with a sense of loss. All would be right if only America instead held the baby - the troublesome unneeded baby - in his arms.

But his arms were empty and so were his eyes, his expression, everything about him. He sat in the water with his back to England, his shoulders bowed, and did nothing. England had been helping America bathe for the past two months - with his body so heavy it had been difficult for him to do it on his own - but this wasn't the same thing at all. The pregnant America had chattered happily to him, washing his own hair and everything else that he could reach, and really only needing England's assistance to get in and out of the tub; now he did nothing at all, made no move to do anything for himself or ask England for help.

England fetched the jug from the bedside and knelt next to the bath, rolling up his sleeves. They didn't have time for this. Picking up the rag and the soap, he began to scrub America down, washing off the mud and sweat and blood and God only knew what else. America flinched a little as England rubbed with the rag at a few of the Bible welts but otherwise he made no motion, no sound at all. He didn't even squirm unhelpfully the way he usually did when England washed his hair. The leftover fat floating beneath his skin jiggled grotesquely, his sagging flesh gleaming, and he leaked milk over his belly when England washed his chest. He wouldn't look up.

England left him sitting forlornly in the tub when he rose to get him a towel and some clean clothes; his throat ached with the want to speak, to ask America why, why he had done it, why he had struggled through that dreadful birth only to have nothing to show for it.

But he couldn't do it. The words lay flat at the bottom of his throat like deserting soldiers.

"Dry yourself off and get dressed," he said, leaving the folded towel and clothing next to the fireplace. "I am going to make us some breakfast."

He rose and headed across the bedroom towards the door, his fingertips just grazing the old brass handle when there was a sudden shift in the water, the sound of it gently lapping at the sides of the tin tub as America turned-

"You ripped out his throat with your teeth."

America's voice wasn't accusing; it wasn't confused or frightened or angry. He said it blandly, woodenly, as nothing but a fact.

"Yes." England wrapped his fingers tightly around the handle, not turning to him. "Yes, I did. You… you must forgive me. Sometimes it is terribly difficult for me to control what I am."

England, of course, did not like humans very much. He had had soft spots for the odd one or two and, in the naïveté of his youth, had regarded them with a companionable awe, thinking that he owed them something (most of all his respect). But he had been treated cruelly by them, punished for being what he was, for breaking their rules, and he no longer looked upon them with such kindness. He had killed them before in the froth of battle, when war heated his blood and he could not help it.

They were, after all, creatures of conflict. They were bloodthirsty at heart and sometimes the mask was too much to bear. England often vied with the desire to kill humans who rankled him, stuck-ups like Mulbury who judged him by human terms, who treated him like dirt - though he restrained himself because he existed in human society and was therefore governed by its laws. It would be so easy to kill someone like Mulbury but it would bring him so much trouble that, if he could control the urge, he soothed himself into reasoning that it simply wasn't worth it-

Human reasoning for human rules.

But sometimes, sometimes, it was too much to take - as when war roared in the back of his skull. This was their affliction, one of the many things which made them inhuman (and yet the least of their bridges); though England's bloodlust was not as bad as that of some of the other, older European nations. France had eaten Prussian soldiers before and Spain had picked off English pirates in a similar manner. It was in them as the basest of instincts, almost animal, to turn on humans when humans turned on each other.

(Perhaps that, then, had been America's reason.)

Standing over the stove, absently stirring the porridge bubbling in the old copper pot, England sprinkled in a pinch of salt, perhaps because he could still taste it in his mouth. America drifted into the kitchen doorway, dressed in a plain brown tunic, grey breeches and a coarse-weave shirt, his yellow hair fluffy from being rubbed dry with a towel. England turned to him, gesturing to the table.

"Sit down, love," he said quietly. "Breakfast is almost ready."

America lingered in the doorway a moment longer before going to the table and sinking heavily into one of the tall-backed chairs. England watched him over his shoulder for a breath before returning his attention to the porridge, which was beginning to burn at the edges. He took it off the fire and poured it into two bowls, bringing them with silent ceremony to the dining table. It was accompanied, of course, by tea, which he had done a better job of.

America played with his porridge, dragging the spoon through it miserably. England, between bites, regarded him with impatience.

"America, eat your breakfast, please," he said tersely.

America obeyed at length, doing so in silence, and still the morning was made of orders. England sipped at his tea and watched America do the same, mirroring him. Their manners, their movements, their habits, were like-for-like. England had taught him everything he knew.

Silence.

"Are you not going to ask why I did it?" America said suddenly, dropping spoon back into the bowl with a clatter.

England met his gaze, pausing, waiting. America's face was white and exhausted - dry-eyed, though his voice cracked. The quiet had become too much for him.

"I will ask," England replied, "when I think you are fit to give me an answer."

America said nothing to this, looking down at his half-finished breakfast. His slender shoulders sagged inwards, gold hair sliding over their descent.

"Please," he begged, "I… I do not want to you to hate me."

"I do not," England replied calmly. "I shall never hate you, America. Please remember that while you ready your answer."

America nodded, though he did not look up.

"I thought… th-that you would be angry," he went on, his voice growing ever smaller.

"Perhaps I will be when I understand why you did such a terrible thing," England said.

"Oh, but it was not terrible!" America moaned in an agonised voice. "I fear you will never understand!"

"Well, when you are ready, you must explain yourself to me. We will go from there."

America exhaled, quiet for a long moment.

"Better yet that I never speak of it," he murmured at length.

"I will not judge you as humans do," England promised. "As the humans did."

"No, not because of that," America sighed. "For your safety as much as mine, England."

England watched him, frowning. America rubbed absently at the ivy ring on his hand, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. He seemed done with his half-eaten porridge and his cooled tea, no longer regarding either with any interest.

"For my safety," England repeated warily.

"Yes." America got up, pushing in his chair. "Please, if you will excuse me."

"Of course."

England sipped at the last dregs of his own tea as he watched America go to the kitchen doorway - where he paused for a moment before glancing back at England, his gold hair haloing behind his head, static in the morning sun.

"Thank you," America said, "for saving me."

England gave a nod.

"Well," he began, "of course you are w-"

"I am weak," America interrupted, "and a coward. I suppose you felt moved to pity." He turned away again. "You ought to have allowed them to kill me."

He hadn't cried. He hadn't shed a single tear over what he had done. Lying on the long sofa in the drawing room, exhausted from his short night spent on the floor of the Massachusetts Town House, England stared up at the plaster ceiling rose with the ugly thought gnawing at the edges of his mind like a starved rat. America was quite emotional and got upset rather easily - he had sobbed, after all, at almost every mention that he might be separated from England if the British government got its way.

But he was curiously and defiantly dry over the deliberate drowning of their baby, which - upon thought - made England somewhat uneasy. It simply wasn't like him.

England drifted off in the mid-morning sun, the silence of the empty house an inverted lullaby, and drowsily half-woke some time later as he acknowledged America clambering onto the couch next to him. England sleepily shifted to make room for him and America cuddled into his arms, settling; England baited him to sleep with a hand in his hair, listening for a hitch of breath, waiting for the subtle wetness of quiet tears.

But there was nothing.

He fell into another fit of sleep, America's cheek pillowed in the crook of his shoulder, and stirred again come early afternoon with a crick in his neck. He rubbed it, listening to the usual creaks of the empty house with his eyes closed; America was still cuddled contentedly against him and, after a moment, England eased out from beneath him, leaving him curled up against the cushions. He went to splash some water on his face and make some tea, which he brought back to the drawing room on a tray with bread and cheese and some plain biscuits. America roused himself at this and they ate sitting on the rug either side of the coffee table.

"When we are done here," England said, methodically breaking a biscuit into quarters and arranging the pieces around his saucer, "I would like you to go upstairs and retrieve any small belongings which you might want to take with you."

America blinked at him, his blue eyes bright and curious.

"…Take where?" he asked.

"To New York. We are leaving tonight. A change of clothes would not go amiss, either."

"I…" America seemed to have no answer to this, looking down at his tea. "Alright."

"We will have other belongings sent for if returning to Boston becomes impossible," England went on crisply. "Do not fret over that."

"No, I do not… concern myself with that," America replied. "It is just… w-well, I have always lived in Boston-"

"I know," England cut in, "and I do not like to uproot you - but this situation is getting out of hand. The rebellion is likely to spread, to be perfectly honest; and if it reaches New York, we will depart from Manhattan for Britain."

America looked up again.

"Britain?" he repeated. "B-but I… you said I am not-"

"I cannot be expected to abandon you," England said icily. "I will not leave you to the mercy of humans - not even the well-meaning ones like Franklin and Jefferson, though I use the term laughably."

America nodded, rubbing self-consciously at his chest. He was leaking again.

"Perhaps a few changes of clothes would be in order," England amended quietly. "Shirts, at least."

America lowered his head, biting his lip.

"I apologise," he said softly. "I know… that I am disgusting-"

"Enough of that, please." England's tone was impatient, pithy, as he rose and picked up the tray. "You may wallow in self-pity in New York. For now, buck yourself up."

He left America in the drawing room as he descended to the cold kitchen to wash up the debris of their lunch. These were all very banal things, hateful boring little human necessities, washing up and packing clothes and fleeing and hiding. They, with history and literature and language bursting in their veins, shouldn't have to be subjected to the trappings of the dull life humans had no option but to throw themselves into headfirst.

Of course, history and literature and language - and all other things besides, mathematics and science and wishery - were all human products; without humans nations would be nothing at all, for borders would not exist to separate them (perhaps instead one great sentient mass, a gentle co-existence of eyes and brains with nothing to squabble over). Humans, then, were quite necessary.

Oh, but how England tired of them - and how often. He wearied that he made so much effort, even unconsciously, to mimic them; and now America was making that kind of effort too, now with utterly inept timing, when he was weak and needful and could not afford to have England despise him.

He had some clothes, his best books, parchment, ink and two quills neatly packed into a leather satchel, ready to go. Halfway through changing, England inspected America's own spoils - three shirts, a pair of breeches, two books and a grubby white ragdoll rabbit with real jewels for eyes - laid out on the bed. He was secretly pleased to see the rabbit, which was worse for wear but had been made for America by England himself when America had been very small. The jewels were mismatched rubies, differing sizes and cuts and shades, but they still blinked brilliantly in the dusk like the angry stars studding America's chubby ring finger.

"Alright," England said, nodding. "Those things are satisfactory. Pack them up and we will leave on the half-hour. I took the liberty of preparing the horses earlier this afternoon."

America, sitting on the bed tying his hair back, cast his eyes over the items as though picking for a fault that England had missed. He found none and slipped his possessions into his own satchel, throwing the canvas strap over his shoulder. He buzzed with an electric anticipation, eager to leave; perhaps he saw this as a grand adventure. Both of his books were of that sort.

England looped his silk stay-laces around his neck as he adjusted his waistcoat. They would wear their best clothes to New York, he had decided, and he had money enough to buy them more when they arrived in the city. It would be a good start to leave a lasting and proper impression as refugees from bloodied Boston.

England was deliberating over his stay-laces, which he had feared ever since being locked up by his own people, when the sound of the door being pounded upon sang throughout the silent house. America spooked, winding himself around the bedpost, and England hesitated in horror until he considered breathlessly that it might be France.

"Stay up here," he ordered; and he left the room, with America to guard their supplies, to scramble down the hallway and pad the swell of the stairs to the entrance hall, which groaned with the empty effort of the visitor knocking again.

He hoped dearly that it would be France - because he was afraid and making the movements of a cornered animal, he felt. France said ridiculous things, pointless things, because he was emptier and more joyless than he pretended to be, but he was excellent all the same at smoothing out the wrinkles in England's ego. England was all too willing to take comfort from France without giving him anything in return (except for sex, but they both knew that France didn't even get much joy out of that).

The stables are empty, he almost said as he opened the door, so you can fuck me there - but make it quick because I have botched things so badly that I need to run. I know I promised you that I would not but-

It was William Mulbury. England shrank back, the scarlet stay-laces swinging.

"Magistrate Mulbury," he gritted out, his hands on the doorframe, "this is hardly the best time."

"Do spare me," Mulbury replied archly. He was carrying a musket. "I have been to Philadelphia on business these past few days - and what do I find upon my return?"

"Boston burning to the ground," England supplied dully. "That had nothing to do with me or America."

"Oh, goodness, that is mere collateral damage," Mulbury snapped. "We expected something of the sort. After all, the original Englishmen who came to the New World to begin with were troublemakers, were they not?"

"I suppose so," England said. He shrugged. "At least they have stopped hunting witches."

"Yes, well, I rather think we have better things to hunt these days," Mulbury snarled; he elbowed his way past England into the entrance hall, the musket clattering. "You might like the know that the riots have spread in all directions: Philadelphia, Pittsburg, New York, Providence-"

"New York?" England interrupted faintly.

"Indeed." Mulbury's tone was cold. "Planning a getaway, were you?" He snorted. "I think you'd do better to think along the lines of Governor Gage - he is leaving for the mainland this evening."

"Then that is what we will do," England said, his eyes narrowing at the musket. "And please do not think that you will stop us. I tore out a man's throat today."

"Yes, I had heard from Mr Jefferson." Mulbury ran his hand over the musket, lifting it. "Goodness me, you are turning out to be a nasty piece of work, aren't you?" He sneered. "You and your bastard slut both."

England stiffened.

"You," he breathed, "will not use-"

"Oh, I apologise," Mulbury cut in sharply. "Do you truly think that my choice of words is the greatest of sins presented here? Might I remind you - since you seem to have forgotten - that the unwed slattern drowned the child in Boston Harbor? Did he mean to cover up his sin or is he simply morally deficient on all counts?"

England seized Mulbury by his cravat, twisting.

"Mr Mulbury, I would be so very glad to relieve you of your tongue," he hissed, "or better yet, the breath to use it."

Mulbury certainly paled a shade but he stood his ground, taking England's wrist.

"Are you not satisfied?" he asked frostily. "The blood fills Boston's gutters as it is."

"Says the man who comes to my door carrying a gun," England threw back at him. "What Puritan mission have you entrusted yourself with, sir?"

"Mercy upon the whore," Mulbury replied archly, "though I suspect his soul, if you monsters even have them, is beyond saving. Still… a quick shot would be better than being torn apart in the street by frightened, angry rebels, do you not agree, England?"

"Ah, such splendid justification," England sighed impatiently. He gave a cold little laugh. "Frankly, Mr Mulbury, I should like to see you or the enraged masses even try."

"He cannot go unpunished!" Mulbury seethed, wrenching himself from England's grasp. "Surely even you see this!"

He skittered back a pace or two, levelling the musket at England's chest, and they stood for a moment with the atmosphere static and dangerous between them - England with his eyes on the gun.

"England?"

America's voice was accompanied by a creak at the top of the stairs; and both England and Mulbury looked to the top of the staircase, where America was standing with one hand on the banister.

"America!" England turned towards him angrily. "I told you to stay in the room!"

"And here comes the lamb," Mulbury whispered, aiming the musket-

England flung himself into Mulbury, knocking him off-balance as the musket went off with a thunderous bang; the bullet splintered part of the stairwell, chunks of varnished wood showering onto the marble below. America did not so much as flinch, watching England pin Mulbury as the musket went spinning across the entrance hall. Mulbury twisted, elbowing England in the ribs and knocking him off, and with that he began to crawl towards the musket, his hand outstretched-

England rolled over, snapped the stay-lace cords from about his shoulders and sprang after Mulbury like a cat, slamming him down once more. Mulbury struggled, trying to throw him off as before, and England wrapped the stay-laces firmly around the magistrate's neck. He settled across Mulbury's back as he strained for the musket and wrenched with all of his strength upon the silk cords, putting all of his anger and disgust and hatred into the motion. Mulbury twisted feebly as he was strangled, his feet in their patent buckled shoes scraping at the marble-

"England!" America said again, this time more urgently; he started down the stairs-

"Get our things, please," England said calmly, looping both cords around his hand and pulling back tighter still. It wasn't much effort to strangle a human, especially a weak man like this for whom only laws and legislation were weapons.

"No!" America reached the bottom of the stairs, though paused again uncertainly. "England, stop this! Enough killing, please!"

"This man is a danger to us both." England gave a final tug on the stay-laces as Mulbury's twitching hand fell at last to the marble. "He has made it his habit."

"You mustn't kill humans!" America cried. "You simply mustn't!"

"My God, boy, but you are sickeningly pious at times," England spat. He let go of the cords, though not at America's request. Mulbury was dead, at which England was satisfied to rise. "Really, I know not where you get it from."

America's blue eyes narrowed.

"Neither do I," he said coldly.

"In the face of what you yourself have done," England replied dangerously, "I will thank you to hold your tongue."

America crossly looked away, silent.

"Now fetch our things at once," England went on, disentangled his stay-laces from Mulbury's throat. "I will bring the horses around. We must go instead to the harbour - New York is no longer on the cards, I fear."

"Boston Harbor?" America looked at him guardedly. "And where are we headed hence?"

"To the mainland, of course."

America folded his arms petulantly.

"I will not go," he said. "I will be hated there-"

"You will go," England interrupted angrily, "where I can keep you safe and with me. At present this is our only option bar fleeing into the uncharted West."

"Could we not-"

"Go at once, America!"

Losing his patience, England did not wait for an answer, stepping over the magistrate's corpse to the cloakroom, where he retrieved his red uniform coat and threw it on. He banged out of the front door, not shooting America a backwards glance. Really, he had hoped that America would be past the tempestuous mood swings now that he had given birth but apparently it was not to be…

He fetched the horses, which were already saddled, and brought them around to the courtyard; they pawed anxiously at the gravel as though they could sense the lethal mood in Boston, knew of England's desperation to away as soon as possible. They were good horses - a black mare which England favoured and a young chestnut male - and both the grooms and America himself had looked after them well. It was a pity that they would have to be left behind (but, England reasoned, they were good horses - someone would take them, surely, and see to it that they were cared for).

America at length appeared from the house, pulling the heavy doors behind him. He was carrying both satchels, sullenly handing one to England as he reached him. They mounted and moved off in silence, putting the staccato of hooves between them. England took the lead as they headed out into the deserted road, leaving the house behind them.

He understood that this was difficult for America - who had indeed lived only in Boston for all of his short life. But they couldn't stay here, ankle-deep and higher still in Boston's blood. He looked back at America, who was leaning in his saddle to watch his home slowly disappear, sinking into the wilderness of his land.

Ah, if only America understood-

If he stayed, he would be swallowed up just like the house.

Half of the Massachusetts Town House, England's prison of the previous night, lay in rubble, its innards vomited upon the street. The light of day, it seemed, had not quelled the rebels - and now the night drew close again and, with it, their madness. There was a great crowd at Boston Harbor, sending up an orange glow from the flames so many of them carried, and the dock was lined with a band of scarlet - the British Army, separating with the glint of muskets the colonists from the single ship still afloat and in one piece in the bay. The swelling water was littered with the corpses of the three other brigs, the ones which had borne guns and other weaponry as ill-fated gifts; two of them had been destroyed utterly and sunk to the shallow bottom of the harbour by cannon fire. The third, its masts splintered and lying in all directions like the legs of a spider, was drowning a slower death, aswarm with rebels looting it.

They left the horses at the fringes of the thinned crowd, England taking America's hand firmly and pulling him through to the front, where they faced the soldiers guarding the only viable ship. Now that they were closer, England could see that the line wasn't entirely comprised of the British Army - there were French soldiers here and there, too, with some mounted French cavalry further down.

A captain England knew by face approached, lowering his musket.

"Where is Governor Gage?" England asked him, keeping a tight hold on America's hand; he could feel the ring cold and hard against his palm.

"Not arrived yet, sir," the captain replied. "He has a few more things to put in order. The ship will sail on his arrival. …I assume you will be joining him?"

England nodded.

"I and the boy both," he said. "Part and let us on, please."

The captain's expression sullied.

"Ah, sir, I do apologise." He gave a grave shake of his head. "I cannot let the boy board. Strict orders."

England tightened his grasp upon America's hand, feeling him stiffen at his back.

"Whose orders, exactly?" he snapped, furious. "Gage's? Magistrate Mulbury's, perhaps?"

"Actually, they would be mine."

The voice, which England had not heard for quite a few years, was accompanied by the clatter of settling hooves, which were echoed a moment later by another set, and another and another. This man, as usual, had a loyal following.

"General Washington," England greeted him coolly, turning to him. He kept America close to his side and the teenager, in turn, shrank against him. "A pleasure, as usual."

Washington's response was a cold smile.

"Come now, I do not think that either of us believes that," he said. "Still, I suppose you and I only seem to cross paths in the midst of powder kegs."

"These are volatile lands," England replied gloomily, "and volatile times."

"Then you will understand why I gave my orders," Washington said keenly.

"Not entirely." England stepped in front of America completely, shielding him from Washington's view. The American general was flanked, on horseback, by Jefferson, Franklin and-

"I shall explain, then," France said silkily, stepping his white mare forwards. He, too, was in splendid military dress. "Though I should not need to - this was your idea, Angleterre, and you were adamant to push it upon both myself and Monsieur Jefferson."

He dismounted, swinging off the ornate saddle to stand before England; as usual, he looked terribly impressive, fiercely handsome and a little ethereal, like a doomed prince from a fairytale.

"You… you will take on the burden of the colonies?" England asked, reaching for France's hands. "You truly will, France?"

"Oui, mon cher," France replied; but he did not smile. "You need not worry your heart a moment longer. Amerique will be cared for, you have my word."

"It is official?" England pressed insistently.

France nodded.

"My governors and I have spoken with those who might become American counterparts," he said. "Our friends Monsieurs Jefferson and Adams, the good Dr Franklin and others such as Monsieur Hancock - and, of course, General Washington, who will act as Governor for the French United States… oui, oui, it is quite official."

England almost wilted with relief, squeezing France's hands.

"Thank you, France," he breathed. "I really cannot thank you enough for this, I fear." He turned to America, who was watching Washington rather guardedly. "America, we have been spared." He wrapped his arms around the boy, feeling him clutch tightly at him in return. "Nothing need change at all, my love. General Washington does well indeed to ensure that you stay where you belong."

"And you will stay with me?" America asked in a small voice.

"Of course, of course I will," England said gently. "Come, let us retur-"

"Angleterre." France interrupted gravely, touching England's shoulder. "Everything will change."

Still embracing America, England looked at France.

"Wh… what do you-?"

"I am afraid that you must leave tonight with your governor and your army," Washington cut in. "British presence, as agreed by both parties, is no longer required here. Governor Gage was quite happy to sign an agreement drawn up by Mr Jefferson."

"But… but that is…" England clutched America tighter still. "I-I understand completely that there is no need for further political presence on my part but… you cannot simply banish me-"

"Your king would prefer it if you were to return to the mainland," Washington said shortly, "and that besides, we cannot have you underfoot as we unpick every thread of British legislation and sew it anew with that of France."

"But France is my ally!" England cried frustratedly, looking at France himself. "It matters not!"

Washington shook his head.

"We must have a clean slate," he said. "I cannot allow you to stay here, mollycoddling the boy as you have been doing." He looked at America, who, white-faced, was clinging desperately to England. "See, he grows as pale as a sheet at the mere mention of being taken from you. If we are to become our own nation, he must learn to be without you, to make his own decisions - and the sooner the better."

"No-one can teach him that better than I!" England argued, feeling America bury his face in his shoulder.

"That is unacceptable, given that the British government has cast us off," Jefferson said tersely, siding his horse with Washington's. "You can no longer be his teacher."

"That decision had nothing to do with me!" England said hotly, looking to Jefferson. "I was against it - you of all people bloody well know I was!"

"Yes, we do know that you are constantly locking horns with your government." Washington's voice was level as he headed Jefferson off. "The English Civil War, not to mention the ugly business which put you in disgrace all those years ago - and now this. We cannot have you teaching America such things, England. If we are to be a strong nation, we and America must work together to come to a democratic decision. It would seem that you know nothing of that."

"We are strong-headed in Europe," France said smoothly, sensing the danger; he touched England's cheek. "Angleterre, I beg you, this is for the best. Leave Amerique with us. You have my word that he will be cared for." France reached then for America's elbow, tugging at him. "Amerique, come now. You will stay with General Washington - he will look after you."

"No!" America fiercely pulled away, clinging to England. "I will not go! I want to stay with England…" He took a breath, seeming to hesitate. "…E-even if I must go to the mainland-"

"America, pray do not be absurd," Jefferson interrupted. "You belong here with us - we are your people. Now please, you simply must come."

"You promised that you would not leave me at their mercy!" America said desperately, seizing at England's arms. "You promised!"

"And so I will not," England replied in a low voice, his lips against America's forehead.

"I think our mercy kinder than England's," Jefferson retorted. "This you must know, America - you have seen it yourself."

America said nothing but still he clung grim-death to England - England embracing him tightly in return.

"Really now, enough of this," Washington said impatiently. "We have a rebellion to quell." He looked to the British Army captain, giving a sharp nod. "Please take England on board that we may proceed."

The captain nodded and beckoned to three soldiers, who broke formation to seize upon England and begin to forcibly part him from America.

"Please," England said hoarsely, clinging to the teenager as tightly as he could. "Please do not take him from me!"

But there was no respite: even France helped in a gentle manner, taking America under his arms to restrain him as he fought the separation.

"No!" America screeched. "Let go!" He dug in his heels and flailed angrily, desperately, as he was pried from England's hold. "England!"

England lurched forward against the soldiers holding him, dragging them with him as he reached and grasped America's hand.

"I have you," he breathed, their fingers interlocking. "I have you."

"Angleterre!" France burst out. "Enough is enough! Do as you are ordered!"

The British soldiers heaved at the same moment France did and they were wrenched apart once more. America thrashed in France's grasp as two French soldiers came to help hold him back.

"England!" he wailed again beseechingly.

"Please," England hissed again; he looked to France, who met his gaze briefly before casting his heavy eyes aside. "He's my only treasure, please…"

"Take him on board," the captain ordered crisply. "I think it would be best to put him in the hold."

It took four soldiers to start moving England, for he resisted them with every scrap of his strength, his boots uprooting Boston's earth as they dragged him towards the gangplank. America too fought against his French captives, almost breaking loose by slamming his elbow into the chest of one of the soldiers - but France kept his grasp on him long enough for Washington to come forward, steadying his impressive white horse before the teenager. America struggled a bit more as he was bodily lifted by France but seemed to give up when Washington pulled him into the saddle with him, limp and defeated.

He met England's gaze, however, his blue eyes big and helpless as Washington turned his horse and started back down the dock.

"I won't let you take him!" England burst out, throwing forward once more with every ounce of resolve his had in his body; he would cut Washington's horse out from under him if that was what it took-

The bayonet went into him through his ribcage, jarring against the bone and plunging through his lung. England faltered, stumbling against the blade; the soldier pulled it back and England crumpled, blood rising at the back of his throat. The captain gave a quick motion with his hand and the soldiers heaved again, having a much easier time of hauling England up the gangplank. They got him onto the deck of the ship as he buckled and coughed up a mouthful of blood onto the salt-washed boards; his vision buzzed, flickered, and the roar of the angry crowd seared. He strained for America, to hear him, to see him covetously clutched by General Washington as he rode away, but he was lost to him, they were dragged further and further apart by humans and what suited them.

He couldn't breathe on the right, his chest bucking on the blood filling his lung, and the whole right side of his body numbed and dragged.

"Lift him," one of the soldiers said, the voice floating and a long way overhead, it seemed. "You two carry him. Hurry!"

Oh, but these humans were sly bastards. They knew that nations were immortal - or, at least, that if they obtained mortal wounds, they would die from them only so that their body could throw itself wholeheartedly into healing. England was dying, of course - which was what they wanted. He would revive, unscathed, long after they had pulled away from port.

He twisted fiercely as he was lifted, kicking blindly so that they dropped him; he hit the swaying boards with a hard smack and began to weakly push himself up, readying his body to make a blind break for it even as the blood dribbled over his chin.

"Enough, England," the lead soldier said, the cool muzzle of the musket pressing to the back of his skull. "America is no longer ours."

He pulled the trigger.

Immortality in nations was relative to the thriving of their home soil; their systems were supported by their land, hence their revival, as long as they still had a country to call their own, was inevitable and unavoidable.

England had first woken in the deepest part of the hold, a room lined with barrels and little else. The door had been bolted shut and, for all his throwing himself at it, pulling and banging and kicking, it had remained that way. His threats and tantrums and pleading had gone either unheard or ignored.

The hours had passed and no-one had come down to him. England had assumed, perhaps naively, that they would not leave him to starve; but likely they knew all too well he would kill whoever came near him in a bid for freedom. They had sent no-one, not even with water, and the hours had dragged on and on, creeping rat-like over the wooden walls of the ship's belly. Likely a day had passed, then two, perhaps even three.

They had left him to starve, knowing full well that he could not die; left without food and water, the bodies of nations rode out the terrible pangs for sustenance for as long as a human could before they shut down and entered an unconscious state supported by their land.

Too weak to even sit up, England at last banished all thoughts of diving overboard and swimming back to Boston (thinking even if he drowned, he would at least be washed ashore to revive), of storming Washington's house and taking America back. America had been taken from him, and though he trusted France, he did not trust those men, the ones who would undoubtedly become America's new government. They cared for themselves, for the colonists, and America was so young, so weak and impressionable. They would break him - for they did not love him as England did. This situation had gotten desperate and England knew (as the humans killed him to keep him quiet) that he would have to play by their rules now if he wanted America back.

He would have to beg.

The familiar crumble of soil was in his hand when he woke again, the way of waking nations in their sleeping state; his hand flexed and the earth - London, likely, he could tell by its grittiness - broke on the bed sheets. England opened his eyes to a wood-beam ceiling he had seen before, as had many other prisoners of the Tower of London.

"This is a joke," he said faintly, threading his fingers together on the silk covers.

"I am afraid not," his king, George III of England, replied sagely. He withdrew his hand, with which he had put the soil into England's, and sat back in his plush chair at the bedside. "I fear I have seen fit to keep you here, England."

England sighed, closing his eyes again and settling into the pillow. He was weak, and would be until he ate and drank and slept properly, his body accustoming itself to the pursuit of human existence once more.

"And what, pray tell, is my crime this time?" he asked coldly.

"Conspiracy with the American colonists Misters Jefferson and Adams and Dr Franklin to go against my wishes," the king said. "It is almost treason."

England snorted.

"Do not be ridiculous," he said icily. "Cromwell tried to accuse me of that as well. It was ludicrous enough that he accused a king of treason. To accuse me of it is absolute madness, he and you both, you German tosser."

"England, I do not care at all for the way you speak to me," George said delicately. "Which brings me to my next point: it appears that you are terribly ill-at-ease with humans, at least those who do not agree with you. You killed two upon your final day in Boston - a colonist and Magistrate William Mulbury, dispatched upon my orders."

"I was protecting America," England sighed impatiently; he opened one eye briefly to steal a glance at George III. The king didn't look all that much different from the colonists, with his powdered hair and straight, sharp nose. Their gazes met and England looked away again, exhaling tiredly. "…Is that so difficult for you to understand? It is a human sort of love, after all."

"Were you human," George replied shortly, "I would have you hanged."

"Not beheaded?" England smirked. "I am offended, Your Majesty. I would expect a swordsman at the very least."

"This amuses you, I see," the king said sagely. "Well, I do not think you will be so amused when I inform you that you are no longer allowed to leave the confines of the Tower of London."

England opened his eyes again, turning his head on the pillow to look sharply at George III once more.

"I apologise," he said frostily, "but what was that, Your Majesty?"

"I think you heard me well enough," George replied, his voice terribly calm. "You have proven yourself unfit to be allowed amidst humans - in addition to abusing your freedom in all manners. I do not feel that I may trust you to act as my representative any longer, and besides which, I know perfectly well that you will flee straight back to the colonies if I do not restrain you. The decision to leave the American colonies to France, which will in turn facilitate their independence, was agreed upon and you deliberately sought to undermine it." He shook his head. "No indeed, you are untrustworthy and damaging to me and to our reputation. You must accept the consequences of what you have done and remain under permanent house arrest here in the Tower. There is no other option."

England at last sat up, though he was so weak that it was a real struggle to do so. His king put a hand to his shoulder to steady him, though England angrily shrugged him off.

"I would like to see you keep me here," he said in a low voice.

George shrugged.

"You have been kept here before," he replied. "In the Beauchamp Tower - in worse conditions, too, or so I have read."

"And how would you propose you best my previous captivity, Your Majesty?" England asked icily. "Aside from imprisoning me in the better-furnished and more comfortable Queen's House, that is."

"You are not a prisoner," George pressed. "As before, you will consider this to be house-arrest. You will be well provided-for - servants and the run of the house completely; books and whatever else you may want, only say the word and you shall have it; and you may leave the house as you please, of course. The rest of the Tower grounds are yours to wander."

"How very generous." England looked towards the window. "And how long, dare I ask, until my spell is through?"

"That is not worth asking," George replied gravely. "I have decreed it officially and legally that you are to remain here for the rest of your life. You may think it unfair but you have been given two chances to prove yourself worthy of the freedom you have been granted in the past and twice you have behaved ruinously. If this is the only way we can control you then so be it."

The king rose from his chair, seeming to imply that the conversation was over. In desperation England seized at his arm, clamping hold of it.

"Rethink this, I beg of you," he said, looking up at his king. "I accept that I have behaved poorly in some ways but this… this is not necessary, I quite assure you!"

"It would seem that it is," George replied coolly, plucking England off his arm. "I cannot have your selfish whims getting underfoot a moment longer. There is more to running a country than letting your national personification do as he pleases, as strange as that may sound to you. You may regard yourself removed from we humans, England, but your actions affect your people. As your king, it is my duty to control you, and this I shall do even at the expense of your approval."

He turned away. England fumbled with the bedclothes, throwing the sheets aside to try and scramble after the king; his feet touched the floor and he crumpled, his legs giving out from weeks lying motionless, breathing through the thrum of his landscape. He pushed himself up on his hands, his legs folded awkwardly beneath him, as George looked down at him again.

"America," England insisted, growing very panicked. "Please, h-he is all I want…! Give them the land, give them whatever else you would cast off, but America, they will not look after him properly. Bring him here, let me have him, and I will stay without a word of complaint!"

George III simply gave a shake of his head.

"England," he said gravely, "you know perfectly well that I cannot do that. The boy must stay where he belongs - as must you."

"Then-please, you… you cannot just-!"

"You must understand that there is more at stake here than your wish to tuck your brat in at night," the king cut in shortly. "You have seen the last of America. Rest assured that he is in good hands with France, at least."

"May… he not even visit?" England asked in a small voice.

"Oh, do not feign ignorance. You know perfectly well that he is forbidden from ever setting foot here. His Majesty King James I decreed this himself."

"But I-"

"One of the servants will be along shortly with a meal and some clothes," the king cut in, going to the door. "You will eat and dress and then you may spend your time as you will." He shot England an exceedingly sharp look. "But know that if you harm a single hair upon her head, you will be dealt with accordingly. Do not think you can escape here by brute force. I know well your ways by now." He gave England a nod and opened the door. "You have a letter, by the way. Good day."

The king left, pulling the heavy door behind him. England hauled himself back onto the bed, leaning back against the wall and wiping at his face; his eyes were gritty from the weeks asleep, damp from the human weakness of tears. For the first time in a very long time he felt utterly and completely defeated by these conniving little bastards. He had tried so so hard to keep America with him - even an annual visit would have sufficed in the face of never being allowed to see him again. And now he had nothing, not even his freedom.

They should have run. They should have fled long before the riots began; upon finding America pregnant, England should have taken him and hidden. He had been foolish and naïve to have expected this to end happily. They could have lived undetected in the wilderness of America's untamed lands, away from the prying of the humans, they and the infant America had instead felt the need to drown. He did not blame America for this, really - he would not have done, it, he knew, if not for the humans. On his own merit, America was not so dreadful.

He should not have heeded France for as long as he had. Humans played cruel games and England should never have waited to see the hand they dealt him.

With nothing else to do but wait for his meal (and he might kill the girl anyway just to spite George), he looked over to the bedside to see the letter the king had spoken of. It was a thick parchment envelope, heavy, and England recognised his name in France's delicate cursive upon the face. He opened it, curling against the head of the bed; in blue ink and their original tongue, the Medieval marriage of Old French and Old English, it went thus:

My dearest angel, my lovely Angleterre,

When you read this, I am certain you will be in some despair. I know not what awaits you upon your home shores but the humans have treated you unkindly before and so I would expect no different now, given that you have displeased them once again. I do hope, therefore, that this letter finds you in at least good physical health. Were I only there to hold you when you most need it; alas, my duty binds me and I must ask you to be brave, my little one.

As to the matter of Amerique, I would urge you again to put all sickness out of your heart. He is being well cared for by President (this is the title we chose) Washington and his other mentors. He misses you greatly but you will be glad to know, I am sure, that he is faring well nonetheless and doing wonderfully in his learning. I am sure he will be a splendid nation one day and I assure you that I shall do my best to guide him when he needs it.

You must know that I love you and that my thoughts are ever with you. You have been made to do a very difficult thing. I do understand, my darling.

I know how much it hurts.

All my love,

France

Yaaaaay, at long last! Finally we can move on… when I get the time to get back to this fic again, lololol~

Because yeah, this is not over. Nowhere near. T.T

Thematically and also physically (in the manner of things actually happening in the narrative), this segment was very challenging to write, as I said. I got writer's block on it a few times, where I just sat staring at the screen like nuuuuuu what now WHAT NOW?1111!1 I wanted it to have a realistic sense of lapsing time and, with it, the right sort of emotional reaction. I don't think I'm able to step back from it enough myself to assess how well I did at that, haha, but I really tried. I didn't want it to seem rushed but also didn't want to drag it out, you know? Sooooo I hope people liked it! It was my best effort!

The next segment, which will address the questions raised here, moves up to the Victorian period and from there drifts into WWI. Hope that piques some peoples' interest, at least~

Thank you all for your patience!

RR xXx

Places to visit (if you are in the area):

The Old State House is referred to in this as the Massachusetts Town House, which is the name it would have been known by at the time. You can still visit the Old State House right in the heart of Boston - I believe it is a little museum, or at least that's what I gather from the official website. It's a stop on the historical Freedom Trail as it is the site of the Boston Massacre - and is in fact visible in the famous woodcut by Paul Revere of the massacre (the tall building in the middle). It still has the British lion and unicorn on the roof from all those years ago!

The Queen's House… actually, you can't go in here if you visit the Tower of London. It's one of the only buildings there off-limits to the public; however, you can see it next to the Beauchamp Tower on Tower Green (the site of many famous beheadings, such as that of Anne Boleyn). The Queen's House is named so because English queens Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard stayed here before their executions and Princess Elizabeth, who later became Elizabeth I, was imprisoned here on the order of her sister, Mary I. Guy Fawkes was also imprisoned here! I have no idea what it looks like on the inside but the outside is very beautiful and very different from the rest of the buildings at the Tower!