Bound To Him Forever

He was so cold.

Yes, he was always cold in England's country, but this was a special sort of cold. Normal cold could be forgotten about with a cup of warm milk (or cocoa if England was feeling especially generous). But this got right under his skin and wrapped around every bone as if it was trying to turn the whole of him into ice.

America tucked himself further into the corner of the room, his back pressed against the clammy stone wall, head buried in his up-drawn knees. He didn't like this. He didn't like it one bit.

And it wasn't his fault, it totally wasn't. England had been all boring and grown-up and had insisted on stopping to talk to all of the guards, and America had wanted to see what was behind the door at the end of the corridor. He'd even told England where he was going, like a good boy, and England had just waved him on.

They were visiting the Tower of London. England had told him that he used to live there, but after a while his masters had needed a big prison for all the people who hated England or his king, and so they'd had a big new house built for him. That was where he and America were staying at the moment.

Why would anyone hate England, America wondered? He knew that England and that odd man France hated each other, but they were nations, and they were fighting each other, so it was different for them. Why would normal humans – humans that belonged to England – hate him? It just didn't make sense.

But apparently some people did hate him, and they were kept here so that they couldn't hurt the people that still loved his big brother, here in this big, cold Tower where America was hiding as the moon rose and slipped through the narrow windows.

Something brushed past him, and he bolted upright, pressing back against the stone wall as if he wanted to become part of it himself. But there was nothing there, not even a cobweb or two.

England would come and find him soon, America was certain. Talking with the captain of the garrison couldn't take that long, and then England would realise that America wasn't there. Not that he was lost, or anything, he just wasn't certain of the way back. It was alright, England would come, England would come, England would come... England had to come.

"Hello, sweetling."

The voice came out of nowhere, soft and hissing in his ear, and he whipped around, eyes wide. Again, there was nothing there. But he could still hear the echoes of the voice in the still air in the Tower.

"Who's there?" he called, and his voice didn't even waver. "Where are you?"

"You cannot see me. You will never see me. No-one can."

"England, is that you?" It wasn't like his brother to play silly pranks like this, but maybe it was because of last night? They'd stayed up late because there was a thunderstorm, and America had wanted to watch the lightning. So they'd sat together in the dark dining room with its huge windows only lit by the occasional flash of light, and told each other spooky stories. America hadn't been afraid of England's ghost stories – come on, it was England telling them, and the scariest thing about him was when the lightning lit up his face and not his eyes because his eyebrows were too big. And that just made America laugh.

So maybe England was playing a trick on him to get back at him for laughing instead of being scared. Yes, that must be it. After all, ghosts didn't really exist, so they weren't scary at all.

"I am not England. I'm very close to you, though. Right next to you."

A cold breeze swept through his hair and he flinched. Something was wrong with the voice – it wasn't England's.

Then it hit him. Not only was the accent wrong, it was a woman's voice. And England might be very clever and be able to speak loads of different languages, but he wasn't a girl so he couldn't sound like one.

But... if it wasn't England, then who was it?

"Poor little thing, all on your own."

No, he wasn't alone! England was looking for him, he must be! Surely by now he had noticed that his little brother was missing, and was looking for him? England would be able to do something about these weird, echoing voices that had no bodies that he could see. England would... would...

"Why don't you tell me your name, little one?"

Was he going insane? He'd heard it could happen to a nation when their people were under threat or in a big battle, but he wasn't even a proper nation yet, and he hadn't been in any big battles yet, and surely with England taking care of him there could be no threat to him or his people? England was big and strong – though he couldn't pick up buffalo like America could, which was funny – and America hadn't met anyone yet who could beat him.

England could do things that sparkled and flashed in the corners of America's eyes, and the world always felt slightly tense when he did them, as if there was some sort of force in the air, crackling like invisible lightning.

And he knew so much. America thought that England must know everything, because he was a proper nation with an Empire, not just a little colony like him. He'd know what the voices were, and how to get away from them.

"Are you alone?"

The voice was a breath of ice behind him, through the wall, and the skin all the way down his back prickled. He leapt away from the wall, backing into the middle of the room, looking around, trying desperately to see the speaker. Nothing, just the blank stone and the heavy wooden door that had slammed behind him when he came in.

"No!" Why, oh why did his voice have to squeak? "No, I'm fine, I don't need any help!"

"Poor child." This was a new voice, deeper, masculine. "Isn't it cruel to let such a delicious young thing like him wander around here all on his own? We should… take care of him."

"Yes," breathed the first voice, eager and full of something that didn't sound altogether harmless. "This place isn't... safe for little ones, after all."

America screwed his eyes shut, knowing that when he opened them he would be back in his nice warm room in England's big house. The window would be open so it would be cold... that was why it felt cold here in the dream. It was a dream, right? The voices weren't real, they were just the wind outside, or the branches of the old oak squeaking against the bricks and glass. It was fine, he was safe...

That was when a hand gripped his shoulder.

"Engl-!"

But it wasn't England who stood before him. It was a tall man he didn't recognise, wearing clothes that America had only seen worn in pictures of England's old monarchs, with sharp, glittering eyes that seemed to look right through him.

America could look right through him too. Literally. He could see the stone blocks of the Tower walls through the man's head. They wavered behind the black of his hair, the fire of his eyes.

It was at that exact second that America realised that the man's head was not attached to his body. There was a gap of at least an inch in his neck, and something dark and thick was congealed on the lower edge. All around him, a faint luminescent glow sent weird, warped shadows fleeing into the far corners of the room.

"Such a delectable youngster," the man breathed, and his teeth flashed in his translucent mouth. "We've been dying to meet His Lordship's new plaything."

Outrage flashed hot in America's stomach, momentarily even drowning out the crushing grip of fear. "I am not England's plaything! He's my brother, and when he gets here he's going to... to kill all of you!"

Something laughed right in his ear, and the fear was back with reinforcements. "Little plaything, your precious England can't kill us. You see, we're already dead."

America's heart nearly stopped. No, this was impossible. England had said that he was safe here, that nothing could hurt him as long as he was with England...

"But you're not with His Lordship right now, are you?" the man grinned mercilessly, and tilted America's chin up to stare deep into his eyes. "Poor thing. Very careless of His Lordship to let his prized toy wander off like this. Perhaps he doesn't care about you after all - you do take up such a lot of his time and resources..."

"No!" America wailed. "It's not true, England's not like that! He's my brother!"

But the man – the ghost – ignored him. "If we got rid of you for him, maybe he'd let us wander out into the rest of the Tower as a thank you. We've been in here for so long, longer than you've been alive."

There was a soft sound of marching feet, and for a moment America's heart leapt – soldiers! But seconds later he found his hopes dashed as the squadron marched through the door. Whilst it was still closed.

Ghost soldiers. Nearly thirty of them, each of them slightly luminescent like the man in front of him, and all armed with muskets and bayonets. America recognised the powerful weapons and shuddered. How could he fight them without England? His country didn't have anything like that, not many anyway!

But what if England had been caught by those ghost-soldiers? He was strong, yes, but surely he couldn't withstand a whole group of people attacking him at once. Humans couldn't hurt nations, but ghosts were another matter entirely. What if England was hurt, or worse – dead?

America felt a shudder run up his spine that had very little to do with the approaching ghosts. If England was hurt... then America was defenceless.

No, he couldn't be defenceless. He was going to be like one of those heroes in England's storybooks, like the Knights of the Round Table who were kind and good even when they got caught by the bad guys, or like Robin Hood, who wriggled out of every trap that the nasty Sheriff laid for him! America could be strong and clever too – he'd get out of this all on his own!

But by now the ghost-army was surrounding him on all sides, and the man who had been forcing his chin up now seized his left arm in a grip so cold that almost immediately America found that he couldn't feel his fingers. He tugged at his trapped arm frantically, realising too late that against ghosts his unusual strength was completely useless. They had no substance for him to hit. His mind was too occupied with fear to be logical, or else he might have wondered why the ghost was capable of holding him, but he couldn't strike back.

"Oh, look at the poor dear," said a soft voice – another woman. America managed to crane his neck around so that he could see the speaker, and promptly wished he hadn't.

She was dressed even more richly than the man currently holding onto his arm, her floor-length dress decorated with hundreds of jewels that glittered coldly in the pale blueish light. From the set of her shoulders, and the straightness with which she carried herself as she glided towards them, she was of the high aristocracy, maybe even royalty.

But the place where her head should have been was empty. Her voice was coming out of thin air.

"How small and alone he is," her voice said quietly as she knelt down beside America, stroking a single, cold finger down his left cheek. He closed his eyes desperately. This had to be a dream. Please, please let it be a dream, please...

"What do you think His Lordship will say if we kill him?" The man asked, and his voice seemed to come from everywhere at once.

"I've been watching them for days," the headless woman's voice answered. "His Lordship seems to like this one. He keeps him close all the time, and scolds him most severely if he wanders out of sight. I think it would make His Lordship very angry."

"Good," hissed the man, and America felt the icy breath on his right cheek. His heart was hammering so hard and fast that he was surprised that the ghosts couldn't hear it.

"I don't want to die," he whispered, at the last ends of fear and desperation. He wasn't even a proper nation yet...

"Do you think we wanted to?" the female ghost hissed back, gripping his hair to hold him still. "You nations, thinking that you are so great and powerful – you're nothing compared to us. You're only alive because your people are. We see both sides of the world."

America didn't understand this, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. But at that moment, there was a horrible snick sound and as he opened his eyes he realised that every single ghostly musket had just been cocked and pointed right at him.

Images flashed through his mind; England, France, his brother – Canada, that was his name! - Spain, Finland, Norway, Denmark...

So many big, strong nations had fought over him, had split him up between them, had made him smaller, more manageable... and now he was going to die at the hand of humans who weren't even alive any more. It didn't seem fair.

"Ready!"

The very first voice slid into his ears like a snake, and America shuddered. Whoever she was, she was still totally invisible.

"Goodbye, little hero."

The ghost-woman was cold against his back, the muskets glittered in front of him. Even if his arm and hair hadn't been held, there was nowhere he could run. He took a deep breath.

"Ai-"

"Get away from him!"

America shrieked. Immediately he clamped his one free hand over his mouth to stop the sound, but it had been pure instinct. The door blasted off its hinges, smashing into the far wall as the room roared with the echoes, and the ghost soldiers went flying. Those that miraculously managed to remain upright swung their bayonets away from America and towards the door, before freezing.

Framed in what was left of the dark doorway, surrounded by swirling dust and falling splinters of wood and stone, stood an avenging angel, silver sword blazing bright in the darkness of the tower.

It was England.

Eyes flashing, twin blades in the corpse-light, and cloak flaring back from his strong shoulders like huge dark wings, he strode through the devastation. One hand was stretched out in front of him as if it had merely pushed the door open rather than across the room into matchwood; the other was wielding that lethal blade America had seen hanging safely in its scabbard only a few hours ago. In the shadows of the Tower stretching high above, he truly looked like an angel of destruction sweeping down from above.

An angel – or a demon.

He looked angrier than America could ever remember seeing him, the green of his eyes more like the flames of burning copper than the familiar moss-warmth. There was nothing left of the smiling England who had burnt the breakfast this morning, or the grumpy England that America had woken up to get said breakfast (it might be burnt, but it was food), or even the serious and solemn-eyed England who had stopped to talk to the captain of the guards on the way in. This man, this thing in the doorway with lightning crackling through his hair like caressing fingers, bleaching it white in the ghost-light, was not his brother. This was a monster.

"I said get away from him!"

The sword flashed and suddenly America could breathe again as the figures fell back to flee the unnaturally bright blade. Swallowing back the dryness in his throat, he found himself instead faced with the huge expanse of dark cloth that cloaked the demonic angel who had come to save him.

"Stay back," England ordered, voice ringing clear through the Tower walls and forcing the ghosts back with the power in every syllable. "If you come within ten paces of him again, I will destroy every last one of you, no matter how long it takes."

He half-turned and scooped America up one-armed, still keeping the vengeful ghosts at swords-length. When one of them took a pre-emptive step forwards, England coolly ran it through, blade biting into the pale, translucent body as if it were flesh and blood rather than shadows and fears.

"I ordered you to stay back," he snarled, and the hatred and fury that lit his face was horrific to see. "I am England, the Lord of this Tower, and you will obey me."

The pale figures laughed. America couldn't watch any more, and hid against England's cloak as three ghost-soldiers raised their muskets and made as if to charge. England jerked back, away from the still-dangerous blades, then lunged forwards and seconds later a shrill cry went up, chilling America to the bone.

It's alright, they can't hurt me, it's alright, it's alright. They can't touch me, they'll just go right through me, they don't really exist, it's just a dream, it's alright...

He felt England take a step back, towards the gaping maw of the stairwell, and heard his brother murmur in his ear, "Lad, get ready to run."

"Where?"

"Down the stairs. The door at the bottom is open. Get across the courtyard to the next gate."

It was all the instruction he managed to give. Whether it was because he was hard-pressed defending two people with the use of only one arm, or because the ghosts which didn't exist, which couldn't exist, which weren't real, it was alright were pushing him backwards down the steep steps of the Tower, at the next pace he took England stumbled and nearly fell. Instantly, he dropped America and roared "RUN!"

America needed no more impetus. If he had been able to fly it would scarcely have got him down the stairs faster. He could hear shouting from above over the pounding of his heart and his feet, and the stone beneath him trembled and flashed at the corners of his eyes. England was doing something, and he had no idea what it meant, but that just scared him even more.

He kept running, but now he could hear quick footsteps behind him and it lent wings to his own feet. If he was caught now it would be the end! There was no way England could rescue him again.

But... but if ghosts could walk through walls, why were they running on the steps after him?

Stumbling to a halt at the bottom of the tower, he risked a moment's glance back, and realised how foolish he'd been. Of course. It was England - marvellous, reliable England - who was running down the stairs behind him, not one of those horrible, headless ghosts. America nearly collapsed with relief.

But England's eyes were wild and fey as he ran, and there was still lightning sparking through the air around him as his cloak flew behind him, dark wings rising into the moonlit night. In his right hand, the strange sword twisted the lightning up and down its length, scattering shadows across the cobbles.

"Keep running, boy!" he barked, and America's legs obeyed before his brain quite heard the command.

It was only once they were out of the Tower and standing out of the shadow of the gatehouse that England dropped the sword, and in the very next second gathered America into a tight hug.

"I thought I told you not to wander off!" His voice was slightly muffled, as America's ears were almost completely covered by the cloak. "Do you have any idea how dangerous the Tower can be if you're not careful? There's parts even I avoid!"

America didn't answer, too occupied by the incredible solidness of England. He was absolutely real, absolutely present... and he was warm, so warm after the chill of the Tower. Mutely, he wrapped his arms tightly around his wonderful big brother, in that instant forgetting everything he'd heard about the older nations treating their colonies merely as goldmines. England had protected him, had come back to the Tower for him, had saved him, even if he had come only just in time.

"Lad," England said softly. "Lad, let go." America looked up, shocked, but his brother's green eyes were gentle now, all of the fire gone. "You're choking me."

Oh. So he was. He kept forgetting how freakishly strong he was for a colony. But he didn't want to let go completely just yet, because that would mean that he might have to leave the safety that seemed to surround England. So he loosened his death-grip a little, but buried his face instead in England's shoulder, England's scent. Heather and gorse, and the sea, and horses – all living, moving things, not dead and cold and glassy-eyed.

"England?" he murmured.

"Yes, America?"

"W-will they come after us?" He didn't have to explain who they were.

"No," England said firmly. "They can't leave or even exist outside the boundary of the Tower. It's ancient magic, older even than me. And they are bound to obey me, as little as they like it. They won't touch you again, or I will make them pay." For a moment, the shadows around him seemed to deepen, and America shivered.

"Who were they? Why did they want to... to hurt me?"

England gently pried America's arms from around his neck, then picked up his sword and stood up, tilting the blade to check for dirt or scratches before sliding it back into the sheath. "Because they wish to hurt me, and my leaders. They were killed because they committed treason against my kings and queens, and because they wanted to tear me apart for their own gains. They have no love of me, and therefore anything that could hurt me is something they will willingly do." He looked down at America. "But they cannot hurt you out here. They can't exist out here."

They couldn't exist? Those cruel, glittering eyes and cold, grasping hands couldn't exist?

Yes, they couldn't exist. They didn't exist. America knew it was true. This was all just been a dream, he knew it! They didn't exist. They couldn't hurt him.

After all, England had said so, and England knew everything.

By the time that they arrived at England's house, America was struggling to stay awake. It had been a long day – well, night, really – running around the Tower. Why had he been running, again? Oh well, it didn't really matter. He was perfectly safe now.

England sent him off to get ready for bed, and followed him fifteen minutes later as he always did, to make sure that his little brother was actually in bed and not playing with his toy soldiers. He was no longer wearing the cloak or the sword, and looked just like ordinary, boring old England again, which was a relief. America gave him a dazzling smile when he walked in.

"Which story are you going to tell tonight, England? Can I have the one about when Robin Hood got all of the Sheriff's men stuck in a pig-sty?"

"No stories," England ordered, and America stared pleadingly up at him until the grumpy frown changed to mild exasperation. "No stories, America. It's too late. Besides, you've heard that story hundreds of times."

"Sing?"

"I beg your pardon?"

America almost never asked England to sing, mostly because England only really sang when he was doing three things – cooking, fighting, and playing football, in order of violence. None of those were things that America really wanted inflicted on him.

"Please, England?"

England had a surprisingly nice voice. Maybe it was something to do with the way he pronounced the words, or the way his voice always sounded like the sea, but America just liked listening when he sang something that wasn't obviously a battle hymn. Unfortunately, this only left him with the option of listening when England was cooking, and America didn't like thinking about England's cooking.

"Alright," England conceded. "Just one. But then straight to sleep. I'm taking you to meet my king tomorrow and you need to be awake early."

America nodded obediently and snuggled under the safety of the covers. Ha. Nothing could get him here whilst England was here.

Not that there was anything to try to get him, of course. That was just silly.

"Hush-a-bye baby, on the tree top..."

England's tenor voice was quiet now, but it was still powerful. It had to be, really – there was no other way that England could order the men he commanded on the battlefield. That white-haired man, Prussia, he'd called it something... Heldentenor. Hero-tenor.

Perhaps one day when his voice was lower he'd try to sing like that.

"When the wind blows, the cradle will rock..."

America knew the song. It was one of his – one of the very first that England had written for him when they had met each other. He liked it. It reminded him of the days he had spent asleep in trees before England had found him, held safe by his land until his brother's warmer and stronger arms had wrapped around him and pulled him into the rest of the world.

"When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall..."

He didn't hear the last line. Worn out with fear and relief, he was asleep before the third line was finished.

"And down will come baby, cradle and all."

Note on England's eyes - "flames of burning copper". When copper is put in a fire, the flame turns to a wonderful green due to oxidation. This is ironic, because "flaming/burning copper" is normally a poetic way of describing red hair.

Hush-a-bye baby – first version of Rock-a-bye baby. First recorded appearing in a book of nursery rhymes in 1765, and used here (obviously) because that's the song America sings to himself when watching the scary movie with Japan. According to one story, it does indeed come from the first poem written in America by an English settler.

The ghost-man and ghost-woman are no specific ghosts of the Tower, except that they are both people who have been executed for treason.

Stay tuned for the epilogue!