England never went to the gaol unless it was really necessary.
It wasn't for reasons that most people would stay clear of a gaol. It wasn't the rank smell, or the iron bars, or the sloppily placed but firm stone walls. It wasn't the chill of the bare halls that was only illuminated by a pitiful torch or two, or the rats that scuttled past your feet in swarms. It wasn't the unfriendly, bruised, battered, and sometimes insane faces, of both inmates and their gaolers. It wasn't because of any of that.
Amongst these cut throats and petty thieves, his boss had insisted on keeping the surrounding nations that they had conquered locked up. His own brothers.
Thinking of the cell that they were kept in made him feel sick. But he would never admit it, in front of them. After all, he had taken control of their lands, and had to assert his importance over them. Every time he faced them, he had to swallow the dread that had built up in his chest.
He recalled every time he visited them. It was like viewing wild animals that had been freshly captured and caged. It wasn't an inaccurate description of them, England thought.
Four sets of bright green eyes would focus on him. They were all identical, to each other and his own, but they relayed him different messages.
Cymru would look up shyly from a corner, unnoticed unless someone was really looking for him. The blonde, only a few months older than him, would look at him disappointedly, but without blame. It wasn't in his nature to hate someone, no matter how badly he was treated by them. He was more the type to fear; but why would he fear his little brother? England would have been angered by the lack of fright from the other blonde, if his heart didn't ache from how empty his arms looked. He had never seen his elder brother without a sheep or a lamb in his arms, and, as he wrapped them around his knees, there seemed to be a part of him missing.
Thuaidh had shocked England at first, greeting each of his arrivals with his usually cheery demeanour. But after a few more visits, England began to notice. It was like he was trying to deny everything that was happening to him. He treated everything as though it was just normal. Deep in his eyes, England could see he wanted the other to play along with him, and pretend everything was fine. But England couldn't respond in the way the youngest ginger wanted him to. With every cold shoulder he gave the other, a flicker of a breakdown appeared, but was quickly hidden, like someone stuffing an overstuffed bin. He feared the mental anguish that Thuaidh was causing for himself would drive him insane, but England could do nothing for him. Not if he wanted to keep control over them.
Eire was the only one of the four to voice his anger. And simply calling what he felt 'anger' was a dire understatement. Every time England would visit, he'd start yelling about the things he'd do to the youngest brother once he was out of jail. Things that will not be mentioned in this text, either because of the sheer stupidity, or the vulgarity of his threats. England was more than exasperated with him; if he ignored him, he would continue to yell, and if he engaged him in a verbal exchange, he would yell even louder, and England would similarly lose his temper. He silently prayed to the heavens that the hot tempered red head would lose his voice soon…
Alba was- England had stop himself for a moment. He unconsciously had clenched the papers in his hands so tightly, that little rips had appeared. Setting down his papers, he looked out the window with its miserable rainy view, as he thought of his eldest brother. The patter of rain was drilled into his mind, seeping through his conscious thought, like the visions of that dark-eyed stare.
It was difficult to explain how Alba acted to him. They didn't exchange any words. Any eye contact was only held for a fraction of a second. But in that fraction, England felt as if a thousand swords were surrounding him, and if he moved, they would all drive into him. It was difficult to describe the way Alba looked at him. To say anger, or hate, or any other word would be understating that gaze by a thousandfold. The easiest way to describe it was complete and utter rejection.
Guilt churned up in the blonde's stomach. He had broken something. Something so strong, yet so frail. Something that only time could build, yet time can never repair.
The worst part was, England still didn't know exactly what that was.
"Mr Kirkland?" He was wrenched out of his thoughts by the man's voice. He must have looked at him with a withering gaze, for the man cringe. He amended his expression before reply.
"Yes, what is it?"
"The king requests you to visit the special prisoners-" That was all that England heard, before his mind went light with anxiety.
"Thank you, I'll get to it right away." It was like an unknown force was making him speak, move rise from his spot. He didn't regain his senses until he was already walking towards the gaol, and by then it was too late to turn back. He wanted to protest, he wasn't ready to visit them yet. Not with his state of mind.
But that would seem weak.