The Fine Line
by TheNarcolepticOne
AO3
Summary: Heroism can't always be defined by what anyone can do on their own. Sometimes you need divine intervention. And sometimes, that same divine intervention can make a man take desperate measures to ensure the safety of the one they love.
Characters: APH America, APH Nyo!England.
Warnings: Violence.
A/N: Hey, so this is my Secret Spectres present for Mary ( @anglaland on Tumblr) based on the topic of Forgotten History. I tried really hard not to aim for the witch trials event, so this was the next best thing I could think of that's semi freaky. I'm a little late posting it but it's midterm week so I've been trying my best to keep my focus on school and classes. I hope you like it. There are some OOC elements but I hope that's not too distracting. Also, warnings on violence on this once. I mean, this isn't quite as violent as many other fics out there but I just gotta be sure people are aware.
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The full moon bore down its radiant beam right onto his people like a spotlight as if the Eyes of God were staring down into each of their hearts and judging them every second they took a breath.
The evening air was permeated with white smoke, which stemmed from the torches hoisted up into the sky amid the fall wind. It was an odd tradition to always use torches (America liked to preserve tradition), but they never actually had any practical use. Full moons were the best time to begin the Hunt, and it provided enough light to see miles away, without the torchlight.
America’s grin was unmistakably visible on his face and defined itself against the white spotlight above; he felt the wild adrenaline rush seep its way into his blood as he eagerly went to lead the charge into the forests toward the neighboring towns to begin the search. The witch search.
The Purification.
And, as such, America was determined to ensure that there wouldn’t be any witches that would be able to leave tonight without facing the Final Judgement. America felt as if there was something supernatural taking his hands like strings, guiding him to be the leader like he was destined to be. But of course, that supernatural figure being God himself, allowing him the power to vanquish the evils tonight with the command of with his own Right Hand.
Now, witches, unsurprisingly, were a common evil amid his own community of Colonists. They threatened the safety of his own people across all town and overall, the livelihood of his own future as a nation. Did America want to be a nation of women being controlled by demons! Of course not!
So, in this instance, he already vowed himself to be the self-volunteered protector of these villains. After all, America needed to be sure that when England returned, he would be able to show her that he could take care of himself. And maybe then, could see her as something much more than a simple nation in need of help.
America, the game changer of the world. That was a title that had many merits by just saying it aloud and it made him almost giggle with delight.
But, of course, the end goal was still in progress. No title like that could start without a clean foundation, and so America made it a point to be thorough with his search party tonight so that he could sleep easy before England’s return.
“There!” a voice called from the crowd that was behind America and he turned his head to look in the direction indicated. There was only about 9 of them all together, but the voice was distinctly coming from the youngest in the group at age 18. America tended to trust the younger ones, as they often showed themselves to be much more perceptive than the older men. America himself didn’t look a day over 17.
Sure enough, there was an isolated cottage in the middle of the undergrowth, well concealed within the hemlocks. The brightness of the moon had provided the right amount of light to uncover its location where it would have not been noticed otherwise. The lights were off inside, but it could very well only be a ploy meant to throw them off their search.
With a rush, America grabbed his pitchfork and began for the cottage.
“This way,” he called to his people and they all went to follow him. It was an unquenchable itch that made Alfred practically run to the doorstep and it was practically impossible to calm him down because of this.
The hero of the story. The one to rid the land of something that could potentially be the death of him and his remaining citizens. These were legendary tales meant to be carried through the voices of parents to children from times to come.
And no, America did not like to consider this quest to be of only seeking the death of others. That was something that monsters did. America only had to kill out of necessity; out of survival against those devils that liked to hide behind the form of a woman.
It was because of this cockiness that he ended up being the one who instigated the first knock on the door (or perhaps better described as banging). America couldn’t help but tap his foot on the ground, waiting for anyone to answer. There had to be an answer because if there was no answer, someone had something to hide from him.
Nothing. America gave another heavy knock.
After a moment of waiting, America forced the door open and the crowd of men only followed him like sheep following their shepherd. Tonight was a night that this could be justified; if the people inside weren’t witches, they had nothing to fear. This was already suspicious enough.
The house was old and rickety the second the group stepped onto the aging wood. Their footsteps were very audible, which provided enough intimidation, America thought.
The environment around them was covered in a light layer of dust and after bringing the torches into the room and America could practically smell something off about this place. There was a knocked over the table in the kitchen and a kettle that looks as if it had also been used as it was billowing with steam. Recently.
In short, it appeared as if the house hadn’t had any occupants for the longest time, but the room’s ancient status contradicted itself with more mysterious information that was found. One of the older men had spotted the glowing fire embers still sizzling in the fireplace. When this was pointed out, the men began to split up. Perhaps the perpetrator didn’t go far.
“You can’t hide forever, witch,” another one of America’s men threatened, jostling the knob of a door a little to scare them out. “Come out and face God.”
The sound of another door opening with a followed cry in fear broke the silence. America burst forth down the hall, spotting an adjacent room where the noise was the loudest and walked in.
Upon entering, he spotted two silhouettes huddled in the corner of the room, hiding under a desk and cowering behind a chair. The man who had found them shoved the chair out of the way and brought the light up to their faces, revealing their identities.
Had the room been in total darkness, they would have not been noticed. But the moonlight was on America’s side that evening and the forms that were in front of him were not what he had expected.
In fact, one of them was the least expected person he had expected to see alone in the woods. England was there, dressed only in her nightgown with a younger girl in her arms, head leaning against England’s bosom with tears and mucus running down her nose and sniffling.
“Alice,” America said immediately. Confusedly. “Why are you here? I thought you were not to arrive until a week’s time.”
“Is it not obvious?” England said, eyes never leaving his. “This girl has lived here all by herself for the last year. She’s been alone, unable to fend for herself and absolutely helpless,” England went to pet the girl’s hair.
“She needs a mother figure. And from what I understand, you and your people were the ones who took her mother away from her.”
“Me?” America widened his gaze at the accusation. “How could I be the one to take her? Unless the child’s mother had committed a crime of her own I do not understand why she would --”
“You’ve burned her,” hissed England, holding the girl close to her with a protective grip. “You’ve burned the girl's mother for being a witch. How could you even think to do that to a child, Alfred? And--”
“And?” one of America’s men stepped up with intimidating height. “If her mother was a witch, that means that her judgement has been made. Christ has forgiven her mother of the transgressions she had put upon the earth.”
The man’s eyes flickered to the shaking girl, who was staring right back at him with a shaky expression.
“If her daughter is also a witch too, she will also need to face against the wrath of Christ himself.”
“She is not a witch!” England yelled, turning her gaze to America pleadingly. “Alfred, please. The girl only needs a mother. She is innocent. Just move on and find some other witch!”
“That is not up to me to decide,” America huffed, practically grabbing the young girl’s arm as she screamed. With annoyance, America brought his hand up to slap the girl. And she fell silent.
“What is her name?” America asked. Clearly, there were no answers coming out of this girl and her whiny attitude.
“...Jessica,” England murmured. “Please, Alfred. Please. She is only 14 years old. She’s not--”
America paid no mind as he let his own “Right Hand of God” guide him. His hand went to pinch the young woman in several places, ranging from her arms, legs and pubic area. The girl screamed all the same, causing America to grow more annoyed. It seemed, for the most part, England spoke the truth.
With a final glance, he noticed a few very peculiar lumps on the teen’s chin. They were oddly colored and popped from the skin as if it were the plague itself.
Warts.
“Alfred,” England tried again as she came closer, but she was roughly shoved back against the wall by the men surrounding them but she ignored them. “Alfred you can’t!”
“It is out of my hands,” America mused. “She is a witch.”
The men shouted in victory at their prize and England only lamented in despair. America shoved the screaming teen into the arms of her captors, who began to tie her up and carry her to the jailhouse. America went right up to England so that she may be pacified enough to keep her place. All the men had left, leaving the two alone to their devices.
“Move out of the way,” she snarled at America. She was a few centemeters taller than him, but clearly wasn’t quite at her normal figure; she was much skinnier. Weaker. It provided a much bigger advantage to America, who so easily shoved her into the wall a second time, causing her own glasses to fall off her face with a loud ‘clink’ against the wood as well as her head to also smack harshly against it.
The moonlight from outside highlighted the features of her face in the most romantic way, and almost blended into the color of her skin. It was like porcelain; glistening but fragile.
England groaned opened her eyes again slowly to try and focus, blearily looking in the direction of America’s face. And with a very exhausted attempt, tried to shove him back in order to catch up with the men after Jessica.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” America warned, suddenly grabbing a hold of her neck and squeezing enough to make her gasp and fall to her knees. “God is watching and I said I wanted to protect you from women like that, remember? The cursed ones?” America cooed. “She’s put a curse on you, England and I have to save you. If you followed her, you’d be hanged along side her for sure!”
England gasped, hands attempting to grab a hold of America’s squeezing wrist. He wasn’t squeezing too hard to prevent her from fully breathing but her inhaled breath was raspy.
“America,” she coughed. “You can’t... do this. If God watches... then surely he would drag you to Hell.”
America only rolled his eyes, watching her blink a little slower as he squeezed tighter.
“One day you’ll understand, England,” he murmured. “I’m doing this all to make sure you’re safe. No harm will come your way; not while I’m here.”
