Alfred Washington 2 Re-upload

America flinched at the sound of England calling his name.  Other than that, he made no other movement.  He stayed glued to his hiding spot in the apple tree.  He was having one of those, "Maybe if I ignore him, he'll go away," moments.

"Alfred!" came the voice again.  "I know you are up there, so you might as well come down!"  

Once again, America stood his ground.  He closed his eyes.  In disparity, he had now switched to "Maybe if I can't see him, he can't see me," mode.

"Alfred!"  England called a third time.  This time his voice had England's "I'm warning you," tone to it.  This was it.  America was feeling sicker by the minute.  "This is your final chance.  If you are not on the ground, in front of me, in the next sixty seconds, you shall go without dinner this evening."

That got America's attention.  Anything but that!  He hated going without a meal.  Granted, England's cooking may not have been very good, but America wasn't very picky, and he was almost always hungry.  He considered jumping out of the tree right then and there, but a thought stopped him.  England had only mentioned dinner.  Going without dinner was not the worst thing that could happen.  After all, there was always-

"And no," England continued as if reading the boy's mind, "You shall not be allowed desert either."

America had been beaten.  Going without dinner was a tragedy, but no desert was just cruel and unusual punishment.  Besides, he had to face reality.  He knew he couldn't hide in a tree forever.  He might as well get his chastisement over with.  He began the long climb down.  Halfway down the tree, he became conscious of the sound of England's foot tapping the grass, impatiently.  Suddenly he was having second thoughts.  Maybe life in an apple tree didn't sound so bad, after all.  He could always eat the apples.  He liked apples.  When there weren't any left in the tree, maybe he could learn to hibernate so he wouldn't need to eat any until they grew back.  It's strange what goes through the mind of a boy who believes he is headed to his doom.

Before America knew it, he was on the ground.  He was still hiding behind the tree.  England was on the other side that faced the house.  He was waiting for him.  America glanced out into the open field and the woods past the fence.  Maybe he could make a run for it.  He could live alone in the wilderness!  He had done that before.  England interrupted his thoughts.

"Well…are you coming out, or not?"

America flinched again.  He looked with longing at the open space in front of him one last time.  Dutifully, he turned away.  He knew deep inside that running away from his problems would only make things worse.  Slowly, he peeked his head out from behind the tree.  As soon as part of him surfaced, England barked at him to hurry it up.  America quickly jumped out from behind the tree in obedience.  He looked up.  There stood England with his arms crossed; his face flushed in anger.  He was holding the remains of the cherry tree in his hand.

In a moment of terror, America realized he still had the axe in his own hand!  Reflexively, he hid the axe behind his back.  In his mind, America knew hiding the axe now was a ridiculous thing to do.  England had just seen him holding it.  Still, America kept the axe behind him, and instead, averted his gaze downward.  He could only stare at the ground in shame.  

"I'm waiting," England finally said.                                              

America gulped.  He was supposed to be standing in front of England, right?  He marched forward until he and England were about a foot or two apart.  This whole time America was thinking of how stupid he was to still have the axe with him.  He could have at least hidden the evidence!  Why was it he never thought of things like that until it was too late?  Once America was right in front of England, the older brother decided to begin the interrogation.  He held out the tree, and spoke:

"It would seem as though someone has cut down our cherry tree," he began calmly.  "Do you have any inkling as to who might have done this, Alfred?"

Why doesn't England just say "I know it's you," and get it over with already?!  

America thought.

Why is he torturing me?!

"Answer me," England demanded.

America was already racking his brain for an answer.  Instinct told America to make something up.  To say that he had no idea who could have done such a horrible thing.  Anything for the sake of survival!  He looked up at England with an open mouth, ready to protest his innocence.   But as soon as his eyes met England's, no words came out.  Again, America hung his head.  He couldn't do it.  Suddenly, he was not only ashamed of himself for what he had done, but also for the way he was acting.  He was being such a coward!  This whole time he had been wanting to hide or run away in order to save his own neck.  That was bad enough, but now he was going to stoop to lying?  Even after he had been caught red-handed he was still going to try to cover it up?  He was disgusted at himself.  His grip began to tighten around the axe.  He decided that if he was going to go to his doom, he was going to go (as England always put it) honorably.  He would not be called a coward or a liar!  He took a deep breath, and tried his best to speak out in a strong voice:

"Yes.  I know who did it."

America knew he might have failed slightly in the "strong voice" department, but for now he was just relieved that he had a voice.

"Well then, do enlighten me."

America started to lose control of his breathing, but he forced himself to continue.

"I…I did it….I'm sorry….I cut it down with my axe."

After finally getting the words out, America produced the axe from behind his back and held it out to England.  America still couldn't look at his brother.  England took the axe away from America.  

"You cut it down?"  

America could only nod.

"With the axe that I gave you?"  

Nod.

"The axe that you promised to use wisely?"         

Nod again.

"Why would you do that?" England demanded.

"I-I don't know."

"There must have been some reason for you to have cut down this tree," England's temper was rising.  "Now explain to me why you did this-and why to this tree?"

This was going to be hard to explain.

"I…I didn't mean too…I swear.  I was playing around, and I…accidentally cut it down," America's face was turning red from embarrassment as he remembered the idiotic way in which the tree had met its end.  "I would never have cut it down on purpose.  I'm really sorry."

England was fighting to control his temper.

"You disobeyed me."

"I know."

"I gave you strict orders to be extremely careful with this."

"I know."

"I told you it was not a toy, and yet you were "playing around" with it?"

"I know.  I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't mend the tree, does it?!"

With that, England threw the tree on the ground in rage.  America couldn't take it anymore.  He started to sniff and wipe at his eyes.  England stared at the shrinking boy in front of him.  He let out a frustrated sigh.  Maybe he was being too hard on him.  He was just a boy.  England rubbed the back of his neck and began to ponder what to do about this.  On the one hand, he had a young charge that had deliberately disobeyed his orders.  In any other instance, an act like this would have to be met with cruel retribution.  After all, England had to keep order in his colonies.  

But on the other hand, he had a pitiful little boy who had made a mistake, admitted it, and seemed genuinely sorry.  England was surprised in spite of his anger.  America was so young, independent, and free-spirited, that England had been expecting him to run away or put up some sort of fight.  Yet, the boy had done neither.  He was standing before him totally submitted.  He had bravely admitted his crime, and was awaiting judgment without even begging for mercy.  That kind of bravery was rare, even for grown occupied countries.  What was England supposed to do?

Meanwhile, America was starting to get nervous.  He still could not look England in the eye, but he could see that England had not moved for a while.  He couldn't tell what England was thinking.  The suspense was worse than England's fury.  When he could no longer bear the silence, he spoke up, and humbly made a suggestion about what he thought was supposed to come next.

"D-do you want me to get the lash?"

England's wondering mind came back to earth at the suggestion.  "The lash?"  He did have a leather strip hanging on the wall in America's house.  He had meant it to be warning to discourage any insubordination, but he had never really had to use it.  He looked back at the tormented boy in front of him.  Had he been expecting that this whole time?  Now England was really unsure of himself.  Should he use the lash now?  Did he have too?  He was not unaccustomed to dealing harshly with insubordination, but could he really strike the boy he thought of as his little brother?

America, still not daring to look at England, decided the continued silence meant yes.

"I-I'll go get it.  I'll be right back."

America made a mad dash for the house.  He mainly just wanted to get away from the tense situation.  He figured once his punishment was over, things might get back to normal.  As he brushed past England, England instinctively turned, dropped the axe, and grabbed America by the shoulder.  

"Wait!" he ordered.  

He then turned America around to face him again.  America closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and waited.  He was sure he was going to get yelled at some more, or slapped, or something.  As England looked down at the boy, England's face began to show his inner agony.  He had still been torn over exactly what to do, but when he saw the small boy brace himself for the worst, his heart had melted.  He knew he couldn't do it.  With his own heart aching, England knelled down, wrapped his arms around the boy's shoulders, and hugged him.  America opened his eyes wide in surprise.  

"It's alright," England assured him.  "You don't have to be afraid.  I know you're sorry."

America was too stunned to do or say anything for a moment.  Did he hear England right?  Did he say it was alright?  Did he say America didn't have to be afraid?  What did that mean?  Was England saying that he was seriously just going to forget the whole thing?  That couldn't be it.  

"But," America finally said when he got his voice back, "I broke my promise.  And I cut down our cherry tree."

"I know," England stated calmly.  "And I am quite disappointed in you for that," England then paused, backed away from the embrace and forced America to look him in the eye before he continued: "but I am also quite proud of you for telling the truth.  At least you aren't hurt.  That's worth more to me than an entire orchard of cherry trees."

America stared at England in disbelief.  Slowly, it began to sink in that he was not going to get the punishment he knew he deserved.  He was just going to be…forgiven.  Suddenly, he felt himself tearing up again.  Without warning, he tackled England and buried his face in England's chest.  The force of America's sudden leap forward knocked England to the ground.  With much difficulty, England tried to sit himself up and stay in an upright position.  America kept his arms tightly wrapped around England and sobbed into him.  

"I'm sorry!  I'm sorry!  I'm so sorry!" He began calling out through his sobs.

England was doing well to just catch his breath.  The boy had knocked the wind out of him, and it was especially hard to find his breath again when America was squeezing the life out of him.  America may have looked like a normal boy, but England had to constantly remind himself of how strong he really was.  It seemed as though he was getting stronger all the time.  

"I know, I know," England finally managed to get out through his gasps.  He tried patting the boy on the head to comfort him.

"But I cut down the cherry tree!"

Was it his imagination, or could England hear his back cracking?

"It was just a tree," England made a desperate attempt to comfort him again.

"But it was our tree!" America protested.  "I killed it, and I let you down!"

England looked over at the tree on the ground.  He couldn't pretend the tree had not meant anything to him.  At last he seemed to find the right response.

"Life will go on without it," England reassured him, "and I forgive you."

America calmed down a little bit but kept crying for a few more minutes.  Again England was at a loss of how to handle the uncomfortable situation.  Part of him felt as if he should tell the boy to man-up and stop his foolish crying, but when he looked at him, all he could think about was the tiny tot he had found in the wild.  Finally, he gave up and just hugged the boy back.

"There, there, it's alright.  It's alright."

He continued to hold America as his sobs died down.  England sighed at his own weakness as he lay back on the grass.  Being a big brother was hard.