This takes place just after the Battle of Oriskany. Long story short, the British won ground and lost morale, and the colonists lost 450 men. Not a good day for anyone. (I think the British and Native American casualties combined were about 150.)

It's up to you to decide if you think this was a dream or a hallucination or reality or what. I know what I think, but part of the fun of this one was leaving some wiggle room interpretation-wise.

America staggers into the abandoned house, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his side and hip. It's more of a shack than a house, really, one bare room with a fireplace and a lone window letting in the moonlight – but it also has a bed, and that's all America is concerned about. He collapses onto the hard straw mattress, wincing slightly when he jars raw skin but still not really caring. He'll heal, he knows he will.

"What am I doing?" he asks aloud. It's easier to doubt himself when he's alone in the dark, easier to question his decisions. Talking keeps the ghosts away, at least.

"Oh, you know full well what you're doing."

America isn't particularly surprised to hear the voice, this isn't the first time this has happened. He gazes silently at England's silhouette through half-lidded eyes.

"After all," England continues, "you wrote it all out for me, what you're doing and why." He takes a step forward, and another, and now America is uneasy, because England isn't supposed to come closer…

England steps into the pool of moonlight. America shrinks back, shocked at his appearance. The nation looks pale and lifeless in the sparse illumination, with his tattered coat and the dark stains on his uniform, his face, his hands…America can't help but wonder whose blood that really is.

"There is no possible way for you to win this war," England continues, and his voice is almost a hiss. "Do you really believe that France will send you aid? It doesn't matter how amusing he finds your little woodsman costume. He won't risk war with me."

America sits up. Anger has been awakened in his veins, an old anger that has its roots in fear. "France has already begun to send me aid. He sent gunpowder, and – and other nations have sent men…"

"And it's not enough." England takes another step forward, out of the moonlight, and yet he is still illumined by the ghostly pale light… "It's still not enough to challenge me. And you know that, don't you?"

"N-no – "

Something lands on the floor with a quiet plip. England is bleeding, maybe that is his blood staining his uniform, but he didn't lose that many men, did he…?

"Yes, you did this to me," England purrs. Though his face is shadowed, America thinks he sees teeth flash in a quick, sardonic smile – or is it a snarl? "You are the one hurting me this time, America, tearing me down and destroying me. Is that what you want?"

"No!" Now America is truly angry, pushing himself to his feet in spite of the pain. "Don't try to blame me for this. I tried, England, you know I did, I sent you the letters and the petitions and I…I didn't want this!" And now it is America stepping forward and England retreats slightly, falling back into shadow. The show of submission only increases America's confidence, and he takes another step. "But you wouldn't listen," he continues, his voice stronger. "You wanted me to – to get down on my knees and grovel at your feet, or beg for forgiveness, and…you invaded me because I wouldn't. So don't – don't try to blame this all on me."

America sees the flash of the dagger before it strikes, slips out of the way and reaches for the sword he's taken to sleeping with. He's too slow; England is already on him, his hands pinning America's wrists to the wall, the rest of his body pressed uncomfortably close. America struggles, trying to tear himself away, but the empire is too strong, much too strong…

"You are mine." America can feel England's breath on his face. "You are mine, and you always shall be. You wouldn't be able to stand on your own.

"You are nothing without me."

England is gone.

America finds himself collapsed on the floor next to the bed, clutching his side in pain. He can feel wetness seeping through the cloth; one of his wounds must have reopened, he can almost smell the fresh blood. He curls into a tighter ball, tears pricking his eyes.

"I didn't want this," he whispers into the darkness.