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Rain pools in his boots, a sickening squelching sound whenever he steps, deafening in the silence of this battlefield. Haze at the edges of his vision, red creeping in on every side, assaulting him even now that the bloodshed has been paused. It’s all red and grey and black: red mixing in with mud, grey clouds hiding the sun, black everywhere England’s eyes refuse to settle. A musket weighs down his gloved hands, loaded and cocked and ready to be shot, ready to be shot at him. Bullets will attack ceaselessly until even the memory of his face is burnt from existence, as that is what needs to be done.
Another step. Another squelch. England nears his destination, the image of it clear in his mind, even if tinged crimson. Water on his skin is not a welcome distraction from the thoughts running rampant, running and ruining what little fond memories he has left. No time to linger on what is best not be lingered upon. This time, there are no men marching beside him, just he, himself, and England. Other soldiers aren’t needed, not for something as simple as this. Hands shaking, he grits his teeth and carries on, avoiding any humans he may meet on his journey. Haste is of the utmost importance—he can’t complete his own given order in the daylight, can’t see that face and those eyes looking up at him as they’ve done so many mornings before.
War is a torturous thing.
It isn’t a long walk, but he extends it as long as he can, taking detours just to admire the scenery of a land that is rightfully his; autumn leaves falling from tree branches, small yet rapid streams of gushing water that threaten to spill over to drown the settlements by its mouth. With the moon perched high in the sky, England knows the clock is ticking. No more dawdling. No more procrastination. The night is young no longer.
There is an encampment near that heaving river, settled just by the bushes as if such a meagre attempt at camouflage would trick him. Only the starlight guides him towards the place where he wants to go least, to that lone tent on the outskirts, the one closest the mouth of the river. Solitary. Not reliant upon anybody.
“How fitting.” The murmur leaves England’s lips before he can think.
All the better, the isolation simply makes his job simpler. Footsteps now inaudible, he creeps along, a wisp in the night, here for one job and one job only. Even weighed down by his musket, he makes quick work of the remaining distance until he stands outside, watching with steely resolve as the tent’s flaps billow in the wind. Already open, as if he’s just asking for his recompense. Stepping inside is too easy. No guards, no soldiers, no military presence at all. There isn’t much in this tent, either, aside from blankets obscuring the very thing he came here to stop. Bundled up in furs and quilts, asleep as if in his very own bed, is America. Drool dribbling down his chin, pinched expression on his face, arm slung casually behind his head, it’s the boy he’s here to kill. An angel in rest, a monster awake. Nothing as he used to be. Corrupted. That volunteer army, implanting false ideas into his small mind until they all spill out into this silly war.
One shot to the head and this nonsense will be over.
England’s musket is already loaded, has been for hours, all it will take is for him to aim and fire. That’s all. One press of the trigger and this conflict will end. America, the land, will be his again.
America winces in his sleep, and England’s breath catches in his throat. He won’t stumble back, he won’t retreat, he’ll just wait for a moment. It would be merciful, England knows, to allow America the peace of his dreams to die in. After a moment, when his nightmares will stop, that’s when England will pull the trigger.
Night continues on. America continues to squirm in his sleep, brows furrowed, face pale and sweating. If he really is having a nightmare, it seems a horrible one. Whatever America dreams about eludes England; all of his dreams as of late feature the younger nation battered and bloody, bruises in the shape of the Union Jack along his back. Surely America dreams of him as he does America, conquering and owning and possessing—or, just maybe, America remembers sweet memories in his sleep, scones for breakfast and linen hanging from a clothes line. However improbable, it’s still a thought England remains torn on. Sleeping as he is, America looks so startlingly like the fledgling country England knew and adored. If only things could have stayed how they were.
Sunrise is sooner than expected. The first creepings of daylight sneak through that open tent flap, crawling towards the resting America, casting the form of England’s shadow over him. Somehow, with every minute that passes, the musket in his grip only feels all the heavier. Then America’s eyes fly open, shocking blue, and he reacts. His finger goes taut. The bullet leaves the barrel before America can blink.
It blows through his head with a splatter that drowns out England’s scream. America did not have the opportunity to scream, or to recognise that his life had gone out, or to even see the face of the man who snuffed it. No, it all happened far too quickly. America was here, and now he is not. All that’s left in his place is a limp body crumpled in blankets, and a caved-in skull. Although in all his hundreds of years of life England has been fascinated by the macabre, has never once turned away from it, now it takes everything in him not to spew onto the fresh corpse of his colony.
Half of America’s jaw hangs open, the other half blown to bits in that tornado of blood and flesh and death. No more blue eyes, no cute nose that England used to kiss the tip of, nothing that made America America. A red, sunken abyss stares back at England. Red on the walls, red on his clothes, red on his hands and England isn’t aware enough to understand how the red got on his hands. England knows what muskets do. England knows the wreckage muskets cause and yet still brought one. England can blame no one but himself.
When America twitches, that’s when his screams finally come to a halt. Complete quiet consumes the tent once again as he watches the lifeless form of America convulse, foam dripping down what’s left of his chin, turning such a gentle shade of pink as it mixes with his blood. Stray teeth are strewn all over the tent floor, crunching and crushing beneath him even when England doesn’t move an inch, grinding down like bone in a pestle and mortar. Although he could have sworn only a gaping hole remained where America’s head used to be, two eyes stare into him, hanging dull from their sockets, only attached by a piece of sticky flesh cauterised at the back of his eyeballs. Peering up at him, blue like the sky only the sky is black when England looks up despite knowing sunrise was just on the brink of the horizon.
And the tent is gone. It’s all America. America’s dull, sparkling eyes looking at him. America’s hands twitching, as if longing to reach out and pull England to his doom. America’s mouth filling with spit, throat unable to swallow because he’s dead. America is dead. America is dead and moving.
It’s when a hand grasps at England’s wrist does he finally scream again, a sorrowful thing that rips through his chest and tears at his throat, like rough clawing at layers of skin. Screams turn to gurgles. Cold blood dribbles and spurts from his agape mouth. England can feel every sickening second of it. How cold America’s hand is, those dead fingers unnaturally tight, refusing to give him a moment’s rest. No rest for the wicked.
“England…” America should not be able to speak and yet the words assault England, coming from behind, in front, every side encircling him. It’s just as young and soft as he remembers, America’s voice. Almost pleading, almost accusing.
What has he done?
“England…” Repeat, repeat, repeat. His own name fills his ears, never stopping, calling at him for something England does not know. Shaking, trembling, quivering, there is not a word to describe just how strongly he’s wracked with tremors.
Shaking and shaken and shook until his eyes fly open. Blue fills his vision. Worried blue. It confuses him.
“England!” America. That’s America’s voice. America right in front of him, looking down at him although only moments before he himself was lying down on the ground.
There’s colour to his cheeks now, blond hair sleep-tousled but unstained with red. It’s America, alive and breathing and England has never felt more relief in this moment than he has in his entire life.
“America.”