Chapter 12: Trial

Locked in a quiet cell, America didn't quite know what to expect. The shadow of the bars fell on his face as he lay, body curled tight, on the sheet that had been laid on the floor—some parody of a mattress. He heard footsteps in the distance and surged to his feet, stumbling as sudden weariness took over his body. A snort came from the direction of the door. He looked up.

"Ye look tired, laddie." The voice sounded amused. America stared at the man, trying to remember where he had seen him before, but all he could think of was a confused haze of red and blue, and a desperate cry. He stared harder, taking in the man's red hair and green eyes, he'd seen those on Ireland before, but this was different. The man's frame was broader, and he was more scarred. He had a scar down his left cheek that sort of looked like a bayonet had scratched… oh! That was it. This was Scotland. America shook his head to clear it, and glanced up at the man—Scotland—again.

"You…You're Scotland, right?" He asked, voice shaking slightly.

"On the nose, laddie." Scotland grinned. "The wee one said you would be able to tell who I was, given time. Guess he was right."

"Wee one?" America shook his head. Now was hardly the time to wonder. "Is it time for the trial?"

"Aye." The grin widened, and those grey-green eyes gleamed. "It is. And you'd best hurry. The beasts are hungry."

America couldn't help himself, he trembled. He grabbed his coat, smoothed his shirt as best he could, and stumbled to the doorway. "Right. Okay. I'm ready."

"Ahh, that you are, lad." Said Scotland, making no move to open the door. "But perhaps I'm not."

"What?" America rattled the bars. "What the hell do you mean you're not ready?"

"Manners, laddie. Mind them." Scotland's smile fell away. "Why should I want you there on time? Think of the trouble you'll face if you've made them wait."

America paled. He could clearly imagine his fate if he upset the people who held his life in their hands. "Please." He whispered. "Please let me out. I'm begging here."

Scotland met America's eyes. "I remember, once, my brother pleaded with you not to leave him." Scotland's eyes turned flinty. "I remember him on his knees in front of you, throwing away his pride to set you free." Scotland's face twisted. "I remember you shooting him. Your own father, lad, and you shot him in the heart."

America turned away, unable to meet Scotland's eyes.

"Tell me, laddie, why should I do you any favours?" Scotland almost spat the last word out.

"I…I don't. You don't. I can't." America shook his head.

Scotland sighed, and unlocked the door. "I'll tell you what, lad." He said as the door swung open. "Be grateful that your pain will only hurt him more, else you'd still be in that cell."

America nodded. "Thanks."

"I'll make this clear again," Scotland pulled America's face up by his chin. "I am not doing this for you. I just don't want my brother hurt any more." He let go. "You ever hurt him again, and I will personally ensure that your life turns into a living hell. Are we clear?"

"Yessir." America nodded quickly and repeatedly. "Perfectly." As the two began to walk up the stairs America added. "I don't ever want to hurt him again anyway."

Scotland's snort of disbelief was the last thing he heard as he entered the courtroom.

-x-x-x-

America did not know what to make of the whole charade, the flow of 'confidential' information across the courtroom, from documents and witnesses, simply to drive the point home. He had known he was screwed before walking into the courtroom, so he didn't understand the point of all the 'procedure'. Perhaps it was to prolong the agony, or maybe it was to publicise the entire shameful affair.

America chanced a glance at France's face, and suddenly, the answer was clear. They were enjoying watching him squirm, watching him suffer through the entire testimony. America's eyes slipped sideways to meet England's. They both looked away. Shame settled into America's gut as he noted the pure exhaustion that permeated every line of England's face. With a swallow, he looked away, refocusing on the trial, but not even the images brought up by the testimony could erase his father's exhausted face from his mind.

At the end of the day, he was escorted back to his dingy cell. He shivered as he curled back into a ball on his thin blanket of a mattress. The seasons were changing, and the wintery breeze that ripped through the cell refused to let him rest. As the door on top of the stairway slammed shut, America was bathed in darkness. It was a new moon night, and the cloudy skies allowed no light through. America was still terrified of the dark, scared that monsters and ghosts (that England swore were real, that he had seen) would attack him. And now, he was without defences. England would not come to save him, and no one would be able to hear him cry—and no one would care if he did cry, except to rub salt into his wounds. He cried till he had no energy left, then drifted off into a fitful sleep.

-x-x-x-x-

Six days after the trial had begun, the sun rose on its final day. Locked in a stone cell, two reddish-blue eyes were clearly glad. This would be the final day that he would be defending himself against the various accusations against him. He knew that there was no chance he would get off, but there was a chance the charges would be mitigated if he played his cards right.

He stretched in his cell, knuckles grazing painfully against the ceiling. He swore, brushing off flecks of blood from his knuckles, and slipping on his slightly tattered coat. He stood straight in the centre of his cell, trying to look dignified, or at the very least, to look a little less than terrified. He knew he had failed when he heard a very familiar snort at the door. His escort was here. America slumped, head finding a home in the palms of his hands, as he tried not to sob.

He suddenly felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He tensed, expecting to be pulled upright, but the hand moved to cup the back of his neck.

There was a sigh. "Up, lad." Scotland's voice was gruffer than usual. "Court's a-waiting."

America made a choked sound and his body shuddered.

The hand on his neck squeezed gently. "C'mon, laddie. Not much longer now."

America forced himself upright to meet Scotland's eyes. There was no flinty glare today, no sadistic grin, just a gentle smile.

"Why aren't you making this harder?" America whispered.

"You really want me to?" Scotland shook his head. "Your day will be hard enough."

"But…it's you."

"Aye. It is." Scotland sighed. "Call it a mercy to my brother's brat."

"Al…right." America forced his feet to move forward. The Scot's gentle behaviour had been all the proof he needed. His fate was sealed. He was a dead man walking, and the scot was going to get all the revenge he wanted at the end of the day.

As America managed to move up the stairs into the courtyard, he noted that it was a clear day. Beautiful, full of life, even the birds were singing. It was almost as if his own land was revelling in his upcoming death. As he took the final steps into the courtroom, he spared a thought as to whether this was how the nations he had brought to their knees had felt. This swirl of fear and helplessness, mixed with a sense of finality.

-x-x-x-x-

England was preparing his papers for court. Today they'd hear America's 'defence'. Somehow, England didn't think that pleading insanity or diminished capacity would impress the court. A quick glance at his fellow judges confirmed his suspicions, and he nodded to himself. Proper procedures his left bollock, they were using the trial as a means to tear America into pieces—completely legally, of course. They were as bloodthirsty as ever, they had just changed gears—from battle to trial, war to politics. America would have to think fast and talk faster to avoid becoming mincemeat. Hopefully the lad knew it too. A quick sigh later England was walking towards the main hall. He walked to the raised table and sat himself down on his chair—centre—arranged his notes and poured himself some water and waited.

Alfred entered half-a-step before the other judges did. The lad glanced up at him as he took his seat. Judging by Alfred's eyes, he had done little sleeping and much crying the previous night. England's arms itched to embrace him, but he clamped down hard on the instinct. This was neither the time nor the place.

England glanced at the other judges, they were ready. With a sharp nod, the trial was underway.

Alfred's voice shook slightly as he began speaking, but became calmer and clearer as he fluttered through his papers, carefully going through his arguments. He called forward a number of people who testified as to America's role in the war. The judges were mostly unmoved.

After a short break for lunch, England noticed that Alfred had shifted gears. He was intent on getting the charges for the gas attacks dropped. Given that he had evidence that he knew nothing about the gas, and that he was unconscious during the attacks, there was little that could be said against the claim. The charges were dropped with little open protest. England repressed a smile, the charge had been some of the worst against America, and with them dropped, America actually had a chance of coming out of this alive.

During the England-instituted break for tea, England found America slumped against the water cooler, obviously trying to calm himself. England approached him.

"Well done Alfie." England said, voice gentle.

America raised his eyes to meet England's tender face, and coloured slightly.

England continued "You caught the other two off guard with your tactics. They were honestly surprised you had all that evidence. I'm impressed."

"Thanks." Alfred's voice was hoarse. "I thought…"

"What?" England's eyebrows rose in concern.

"That judges were not allowed contact with the defendant."

"Yes, well…" England coughed and flushed. "You looked completely miserable this morning."

Alfred snorted. "I didn't sleep."

"I could tell, child." England threw Alfred an exasperated look.

Alfred's face turned completely red. "I missed you." He whispered to Arthur, unconsciously reaching out to the older nation.

England took his hand and squeezed it. "Hush, darling." He whispered back. "It will all be over soon."

"M scared dad." Alfred's hand was shaking and his eyes were filling with tears. "Real scared."

The tears overflowed from Alfred's eyes, and England drew him close, holding him silently, giving the only support and comfort he could. They both knew that England couldn't chase away these monsters. Not anymore.

"Just do your best in there, Alfie." England murmured. "You can do it. It's your life on the line."

Alfred flinched against England's chest, but he nodded.

As the final stretch of the trial was set to begin, England wiped Alfred's cheeks dry with his thumb. Alfred took a deep breath, turned, and marched back into the main hall.

England returned to his seat cradling a cup of tea, and gestured for the trial to begin.

The trial went on for a half hour before England felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, and his eyes met another pair of green eyes. Scotland was leaning against the table, using England's shoulder as a crutch. With a sigh, England called the trial to a halt and turned to his brother to see what the problem was.

England raised an eyebrow at his brother. "What is it?"

"Someone." Scotland gasped. And England glanced down at Scotland's other hand for the first time. It was covering his stomach, stemming a waterfall of blood. England's eyes widened as Scotland fell forward, crashing against the table as he went.

Alfred was frozen in place. The scene at the judges' table had the courtroom in a frenzy. Through the chaos, Alfred caught a glimpse of a familiar glint of silver. Gun. He followed its trajectory and paled. It was aimed at England's head. Unthinking, he reacted, mind racing with images of Arthur's smile, his gentle hands, his kind face and warm arms. Desperation, love and fear collided as Alfred rammed into Arthur. The bullet rammed into both of them, and then there was silence. England groaned and Alfred hurt, arm in agony. The bullet had pierced both of them, through Alfred's arm and into England's chest.

They lay side by side, bleeding together. The gunman stood still, an expression of utter shock on his face as he viewed the results of his bullet. Then Arthur groaned again and Alfred pulled himself off the ground, stumbling to his feet. He glanced up, and his eyes met France's. The ice had melted from those blue eyes, and they were wild for a moment as they took in the destruction before refocusing on America. France's face hardened for a moment as he looked at England's prone form, then he looked carefully at America and, apparently, came to a decision.

"Take him." France nodded to a door off the back of the hall, close to the judges' seats. "He cannot protect himself like that… I will follow with l'Eccose as soon I am able."

Alfred gave France a tight nod and bent over. He tugged his father into his arms, ignoring the ache from his injured arm, he stumbled into a graceless run, throwing himself through the door and running until he stumbled into a wall. Then he slumped against the wall, allowing exhaustion and blood-loss to hit him as the adrenalin receded. He was unconscious within a few moments.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Alfred woke to the sight of Matthew stitching up his arm. He heard a muffled shout and forced himself to sit up to see what was going on. He was met with the sight of his various siblings holding their father down while they extracted the bullet from his chest and stitched up the wound.

England's already bruised chest was not being helped by the surgery. America shoved himself to his feet, leaning heavily on Matt for support, and edged towards his father, who calmed significantly when he noticed Alfred approaching.

"Alfred." England reached towards him, and his siblings parted, albeit reluctantly, to let him through. Even if they hated him, they would not deny their father anything, least of all this. Keith glared at Alfred as he passed and Christopher wouldn't look at him, but all Alfred's attention was fixed on his father, whose face had broken into a gentle smile at the sight of Alfred.

Alfred knelt by his father's side. Within a moment, a gentle hand was on his head, ruffling his hair.

"Thank you, darling." Came the soft whisper.

Alfred could barely stay upright , but he leaned into the land on his head. "Are you alright, dad?" He whispered, as soon as he got his balance.

Arthur smiled. "Yes, lad. The bullet didn't really reach too deep." Arthur's eyes strayed to Alfred's arm for a moment, "The same cannot be said for your arm. I'm truly grateful, Alfred, for your help and presence of mind."

"You…froze." Alfred realised, and suddenly he couldn't stop himself from trembling. "There was a shooter in the room and you just…why?"

Alfred finally gave in to the hysteria that had been bubbling under the surface since before the trial had begun and began to sob uncontrollably. He found himself drawn closer to his father, and pressed his face into Arthur's shoulder, hands clenching in the fabric of Arthur's shirt back. He couldn't seem to stop crying, and his father continued to hold him, rocking him gently in his arms. Slowly, Alfred began to regain control, but didn't raise his head.

"Why'd you freeze dad?" Chris' voice was calm, even if it did sound slightly off key.

England sighed. "My mind blanked. Scotland was unconscious, bleeding all over my shoes, and I just…couldn't." He shook his head. "I'm sorry lad." His hand rose to stroke America's head.

Matthew flinched, it had been too close, he'd nearly lost both of them. "I think," He said in his soft voice. "That you've been a real hero today, Alfie."

Alfred shook his head, finally calm enough to raise his head. "Nah." He said, voice still watery. "It was absolute selfishness. I just wanted dad to be safe, if it'd been anyone else, I doubt I would have even moved."

Keith snorted. "You wouldn't have." There was an edge in his voice. "You've only ever done things that benefitted you. You've always been a spoilt, selfish, arrogant brat."

"Keith!" England's voice was angry. The room collectively flinched. "Apologize to your brother this instant."

"No." Keith's voice shook slightly, but he lifted his chin proudly.

"Keith Seamus Kirkland, apologize to your brother this instant, or so help me I will tan your hide so you can't sit for a month."

"Fuck you. I won't apologize for telling the truth."

"What did you say to me?" England's voice had gone completely cold. Both Matthew and Chris had edged as far away as they could, and America swallowed tightly.

"I said I won't fucking apologize."

"Before that, boy."

Keith finally noticed the tone of voice. "I said…" He paled. "I didn't mean…"

"I should certainly hope not. I raised you better than that." England smiled, but it was as cold as his voice. "First you insult my parenting skills by calling your brother spoilt, then you insult me directly… what am I to do with you?"

Keith swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"Perhaps I shouldn't have named you for Seamus." England's voice remained cold, but the smile slid off his face. "You're beginning to remind me of him during his rougher days."

"I didn't mean to insult you, sir." Keith's voice was shaking completely, and he backed away slowly.

"I'm 'sir' now, am I?" The voice had thawed, and was tinged with amusement.

"I'm sorry mum, I really didn't want to hurt you…I just…" Keith was on the verge of tears. "I'm sorry Alfred."

Alfred nodded. "Wasn't mad in the first place. You're right about me."

England sighed and crooked a finger at Keith. "Come here, you silly thing. I'm not angry at the moment."

Keith approached and slid into England's arms.

"The outback probably roasted your brain." Matthew stated, sticking his tongue out at Keith, who glanced back with an annoyed expression.

"No." Keith huffed waving a fist at Matthew. "Dad fried my brain with too many history lessons. I thought everyone knew that, right Chris?"

"Leave me out of this, Keith. I know how to pick my battles." Chris shifted from one foot to the other, trying his best to ignore his sibling.

"That scary am I, lad?"

"It's just easier if you aren't on the other side, is all." Chris muttered, shaking his head. "I love you too much to choose anyone else."

England smiled brilliantly and reached out for Chris. Chris came at once, kneeling by England and burying his face into the crook of England's neck. England shifted slightly so all of his children could sit close by him.

They made conversation for awhile, but England's eyes constantly strayed to the door and back again.

Finally after a few hours, France appeared in the shadow-light of the corridor.

"l'ecosse is safe and awake, if in a bad mood." France flicked a stray strand of hair from his face. Eyes fixed on England's face. "The gunman has been arrested. What do you wish to do with him?"

"What does Alba want?" Arthur shifted so he was face to face with France.

"His head on a pike and his entrails in a bowl." Sniffed France. "Ever the barbarian."

A grin quirked its way onto Arthur's face. "We'll always be barbarians to you, frog." The grin fell away. "Get España to do the questioning."

"Are you certain?" Asked France. "And are there any limits?"

"Tell Tonio that for the purposes of this interrogation, that man is a heretic, and this is his inquisition." Arthur smirked. "And if he survives the questioning, I want him hanged, drawn and quartered. Then Scotland can have the remaining bits to do as he pleases with them."

France shuddered. "I haven't seen this side of you in centuries, Cheri."

"Aren't you glad it isn't aimed at you this time?" Arthur's smirk dimmed. "But really, frog, I only have one rule, is it so hard to remember? No one touches my family."

"Non. It isn't hard." France sighed. "I shall have it done. I shall also send down some food and blankets. Good Night Cheri."

As France departed, England finally turned and noticed the terrified looks on his children's faces.

"Remind me never to upset you, dad." Matthew whispered.

"Yeah…" Muttered Chris, unable to form any further words.

"Too late for me," Shuddered Keith. "Now I'm really sorry I made you mad."

Alfred shrugged. "Always knew you were scary when you're mad." He tilted his head to a side. "By the way," He asked, slightly louder, "What's going to happen to my trial?"

The mention of the trial caused all attention in the room to be immediately focused on America, shaking off the after effects of the scary-England incident.

England sighed. "Hopefully," He began, raising a hand for silence. "Hopefully, you've done enough to mitigate your sentence from death to life."

Alfred flinched. "Life?" He ran a hand through his hair. "How does life work for a nation?"

England hesitated. "One of two ways." He said, voice shaking. He cleared his throat and focused his gaze on a corner of the room. "The first would strip you of being a nation. You would live out the rest of your life as a human either in prison, or, in the old days, as a slave. When you die, your remains are cremated and thrown into the ocean or a refuse pile, so you have no permanent resting place."

Alfred's face had gone horribly pale, his hand clenching and unclenching in a desperate attempt to retain control. "And…" He swallowed. "And the other way?"

"It is a crueller way." England shifted in his seat, returning his gaze to Alfred's. "But most nations prefer it." England twisted his hands together on his lap. "You remain a nation for the rest of your existence, but are bound, body and soul, to another nation." England cleared his throat. "The binding lasts only so long as the other nation lives." He clarified, "But once bound, you would be incapable of refusing them anything." England shuddered. "It was the preferred method of colonisation when I was a child. Rome used it often."

"Why would anyone prefer that?" The words slipped out of America's mouth before he could stop them.

"Because of the chance of freedom it offers in the long term." England replied.

"What would happen to my people in either case?" America asked, tugging at his hair.

"In the first case, they would have a war debt similar to Germany's after the First World War, and they would also have to build a new administration from scratch, and accept any and all conditions put to them by the victorious nations."

"They'd be suffering for centuries!" Alfred leapt to his feet and began to pace. "They'd never be able to survive…what about the second case?"

"Their suffering is the entire point, lad." Sighed England. "The second case…I don't want to lie to you, child. Your people would become the colonised people of whichever nation you are enslaved to. They will essentially be second-class citizens, almost slaves, for two or three generations. Then they will probably become equal to the other citizens of that nation."

Alfred's face brightened, then fell. "It won't be easy, will it?"

Arthur looked away mind clearly miles away. "I doubt it." He muttered. "If your people rebel, you will bear the brunt of the punishment. If you offend your master, you will be punished. Whichever nation you will be given to will want revenge and restitution, so…"

"They'll work me half to death." Finished Alfred. "But it gives my people a better chance…do you know if any nation has survived this slave thing?" Alfred asked softly.

"Quite a few have…" Replied England. "You're looking at one of them." This time his voice was bitter, self-hatred oozed from his posture, with slumped shoulders and hunched back.

"Dad?" Matthew's voice intruded on the conversation. "What do you mean?"

"I mean." The bitterness had seeped deeper into England's voice. "That when I was four years old, Rome invaded and bound me as his slave. I only escaped when he fell, but my people rebelled throughout, almost every day."

"He hurt you, didn't he mum?" Keith grabbed England's hand.

England looked at his eldest son, and knew he couldn't and shouldn't lie. "Yes, child, he did." The colour drained completely from Keith's face. Chris had slumped to the floor, and Matthew was sobbing into his hands. But now England had started, he could only go on. His eyes met Alfred's. "I was incapable of lying to him, hiding things from him or betraying him in any way. I was little more than a toy, and a disobedient one with a bad attitude at that, as he took great pleasure in reminding me as often as he was able." England blinked back tears. "He beat me often, branded me, burned me, and used me unspeakably…and I hated him. Even though he is long dead, I hate him still."

"I hate him too." Keith replied, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand, and gripping England's hand tighter with his other one.

England half-smiled. "I am grateful that he let me live, though." He sighed. "Killing me would have been personally kinder, but because I lived, my people were able to come through that horrid time, and rise to their greatest era." England took a deep breath. "When we became empires, we all agreed never to use that method of colonisation."

"'We' da?" Chris raised his head and asked. "who is 'we'?"

"Spain, Portugal, Netherlands, France and me. Later Belgium joined in too. It was the first agreement we made. It was the only one we ever kept with each other, too."

Chris made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, he, more than any of his siblings understood slavery, and the pain that came with it. England moved to Chris and pulled him into his arms, even though Chris was bigger than him, somehow it worked, and Chris was enfolded in England's embrace completely.

"I never wished that life on anyone, least of all any of you." England whispered, eyes fixed on Alfred.

Alfred shook his head. "I…if it means that my people have a better chance, I owe it to them to grab that chance and hold on with both hands, no matter what that means for me."

England inclined his head as he tucked Keith into his embrace as well, and tugged Matthew as close as he could with a single arm.

"After all," Added Alfred. "I don't know who would get me, right? I hope it isn't Russia, or Mexico, or Prussia…"

"Stop it." England's voice became sharp. "Come here, lad. This is a family dog pile, and you will be joining."

America nodded. Sliding forward to join in the family 'dog pile' by cuddling up to his father. They lay there until the food France had promised turned up with blankets in tow. The food and their hunger forced them to shift into a slightly less concentrated huddle, and dinner passed with England telling stories of America's youth, with France sometimes joining in to tell of Canada's various misadventures. No one mentioned the tenseness in England's shoulders or the redness in his eyes.

Finally, in the after dinner haze, England leaned back against the wall, and the children snuggled up to him, Alfred and Keith claimed a lap each, and Chris and Matthew each claimed a shoulder. England drew the blankets around them. As France departed, nearly overwhelmed by the cuteness, he heard England's voice singing a soft lullaby.

As America drifted off, he found himself praying that, should he live, that his new master would not take him away from England again. Even deeper in his heart of hearts was a wish he would never acknowledge, that England himself would be the one he was bound to. True it would be slavery, but England was still his father. America knew that if England could love him despite all his betrayals, he could love him as his slave. America allowed his mind to drift as the familiar lullaby echoed in his ears, who would have thought it? The largest and most powerful empire the world had ever seen had once been a slave…

But even that thought was unable to stay for long, as the lullaby weaved through America's consciousness and he drifted completely into sleep.