England walked up the grassy hill leading to their home for the first time in a month. He smiled, thinking of the little colony that was waiting for him. Hopefully the maid had taken proper care of him in his absence... Arthur had tried to stay; after all, Alfred was still very small. Ever since he found the colony decades ago, the empire had even temporarily switched his personal headquarters to their land in Virginia just so he could take care of him. This was not the most convenient place for others, though, so he would occasionally have to take trips to larger towns to conduct business.
England rapped his knuckles on the door. "Alfred, I've returned-! Oh... Oh my..."
The door gave way under his fingers, the heavy wooden door bar that blocked it shut (and only used in emergencies, he added with increasing worry) falling into pieces without its support. The interior was a complete wreck. Tables were overturned, chairs had rips in the fabric, and broken ceramics littered the floor. It looked as if the place had been robbed. Or worse.
"Alfred! ALFRED!" Arthur called frantically, running up the stairs. The boy wasn't in his room. "AMERICA!"
The nation ran out the door and down the slope, heading for the square. If Alfred wasn't there, someone there may have seen him. Looking down the road, there seemed to be a sort of crowd... Realizing what it was about, Arthur's stomach dropped.
"You two there! To the square, now! As fast as you possibly can!" England barked to the British soldiers that were his drivers. The nation jumped onto the carriage, holding onto the side as it sped off.
It was just as he feared. Standing in the middle of the square, pointing to the sky as if to pierce it with its monstrous carved pike, was a stake. Surrounding that stake was a gigantic pile of firewood. And on top of that pile, tied to the stake and gagged, was a familiar little boy.
"This boy is a demon child!" a man declared, standing on a small stage in front of the stake. "He has lived in the house on yonder hill for years, and has not aged a single hour! He is possessed by the Devil, and we must cleanse him of his satanic master!" he raised a torch into the air. "With FIRE!"
Alfred's innocent, tear-filled eyes widened in fear and he gave a muffled shriek. The crowd cheered, waving pitchforks, torches, and other make-shift weapons above their heads. They were cut short as a musket shot blasted through the air.
"You will do no such thing." the quiet words sliced through the silence.
The crowd craned their necks, looking at the English nobleman holding the smoking gun. England panted slightly, filled with a cold rage like he had never felt before. Red flashed before his eyes. He wanted to slaughter every last one of these, these creatures that dared to threaten Alfred, his precious America.
The townspeople cleared him a path as the empire slowly marched up to the stage, his footsteps the only sound.
"Sir," the false preacher protested. "This child has been taken under the devil's thorny wing! Animals and wild beasts are drawn to him, like moths to a candle fire. He has outlived even the eldest of our village. Surely, you don't think such a creature innocent-"
The man was cut off as a bayonet was pushed against his throat. The crowd gasped.
"That 'creature'," England growled, his green eyes burning. "Is my son. You will release him from this barbarism at once."
"Your son? How?" the preacher gasped. His eyes widened. "Unless-"
"You are in no position to ask questions!" the empire barked.
"-'How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning!'" the man turned to the audience. "If this man is the demon's father, then this man is Satan himself!"
The townspeople flew into absolute panic. The air was filled with shrieks and screams. Half of the people turned and ran, while the others rushed the stage, brandishing their weapons.
Arthur sprinted to the stake, ignoring the priest as his continued to rile up the crowds.
"It's alright," England whispered gently to the sobbing America. He worked at the ropes around the colony feverishly with his bayonet, glancing over his shoulder at the far-too-rapidly-approaching mob. "It's going to be alright, I'm getting you out of here- NO!"
Britain threw himself in front of his colony just as a vicious-looking man lunged at the child with his pitchfork. The farm tool caught England in the stomach, and nearly came out the other side. He fell to the ground, blood mixing with the mud.
Then he started to laugh.
It was an icy, bone-chilling chuckle, filled with rage and tinged with hysteria. It struck a deep, primitive fear in all the people within earshot. Those frightened people would tell their children, then grandchildren, of this horrible, horrible, laugh. Then, one day, nearly four centuries later, a struggling author would find their great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother's diary in a bin in the corner of their attic, and read a story in it that her grandfather had told her. A story about a horrible demon with a terrible laugh. That author would then write a book about a horrible demon with a terrible laugh, inspired by the old diary, and become a bestseller. And that bestseller would become a classic, allowing that laugh to haunt many generations after that.
The crowd stilled, watching the man on the stage. He stood up, blood dribbling out of his mouth. Wincing, he slowly pulled the farm tool out of his abdomen. He threw it on the ground beside the man who attacked him and chuckled.
"You idiots." England said, wiping his mouth with his white shirt sleeve. He took his bayonet and sliced the bonds holding America. He pulled the gag out of the colony's mouth. The boy started sobbing and threw himself into his caretaker's arms.
"They bust down the door and came in an' I tried to get away but I wasn't fast enough an' t-they snatched me up an'-" Alfred blubbered.
"There, there," the nation cooed gently. "I've got you. You're safe, just hush, yes? Be very quiet-"
"-Like a rabbit?" the colony asked hopefully. He loved rabbits.
"Yes," England replied, looking nervously as the people started fidgeting. "Yes, quiet as a rabbit. But hold on tight to me now, alright? And don't look at anyone. Keep your eyes right on mine."
The nation made his way across the crowd, not too fast, but directly to the carriage. They watched him with wary and terrified eyes, but didn't make a move. England clutched America tighter.
After what seemed like an eternity, they finally reached their carriage. England quickly got in, keeping America securely on his lap.
"Get us away from here."
The carriage drove off, leaving the rioting colonists in its dust.
This is set around the Salem Witch Trials, aka when everyone was bat-shit crazy. Therefore, I don't mean to offend anyone of any religion or anything, (Unless you burn people at the stake. That's very bad and should be frowned upon) because everyone was crazy paranoid and they obviously aren't now.
Although, even if they weren't bat-shit crazy, a nation living in a colonial town would be pretty suspicious anyway, with the whole barely aging bit.