Alfred gulped, feeling the shackles tighten around his wrists and ankles. He was shaking, cerulean eyes glistening with unshed tears as he pressed his lips together, brows furrowing as he struggled to keep his composure. You're a hero… he mentally whispered to himself. Heroes don't cry. He was being strapped to a giant structure. If he craned his neck upwards, he could see the faint rugged shape of what looked like an eagle head, proud and majestic. Like you. He bowed his head, struggling to hold down the aching lump in his throat as it almost screamed at him to let it out. He couldn't wipe away the regretful tears anyway; his arms were shackled outstretched to the sides, to the wings of the regal bird as if he himself were the bird, flapping out, trying to fly. But Alfred could not fly away, not even if he tried. As his head sunk onto his chest, eyes shut and waiting, his eyelids slowly opened as the sound of a familiar, tinny sounding tune played into the room. It was usually such a loud, proud tune that the American would chant along with until his throat gave out. It would bring tears to his eyes, but now the tears were there, but it was not because of tune, or more the fact this would be the last time the song, his song would grace his ears. Alfred inhaled deeply, leaning forward as his trusty glasses slipped off the bridge of his nose. That had been the last time he had seen life defined; now it was just a mess of dark and fear, much like his vision.
"Oh say, can you see…" he mumbled with the anthem, his voice cracking. No, he couldn't see. "By the dawn's early light…" The only light that was visible was the blinding white spotlight trained on his face. Alfred's shoulders shook his brow furrowing as he forced back the tears. He was going to die like a hero. A metallic chinking sound made him swallow nervously, as a bar lowered down from the ceiling, five sharp knives pointing from it, towards his body. The American pressed his lips harder, willing himself to hold it all together.
"In fully glory reflected now shines in the stream…" he choked along, as the bar moved forward and the knives grazed his skin, cutting long magenta ribbons. "…home of the…b-brave…"he grit his jaw as the knives moved up a level, cutting along his knees, then his thighs, hips, stomach, chest; as it reached his neck he made a small guttural choke, before biting through his bottom lip as he shoved his emotions further and further away in his mind. As the bar of knives stopped their slicing, ending by cutting off the top of his curl to which he whimpered slightly before biting through his lip again, Alfred tensed up even more. What was yet to come…
As his shredded skin bled through his clothes, staining him with pink, the American clenched his fists. A new fire was burning inside him. He was going to fight, as much as he could.
"And where is that band who so vauntingly swore," he cried out, his voice aching with emotion. "That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion…" Alfred looked up at the sound of a cartoon spring, and a trap door opened above his head. He gulped, clenching his fists, still watching. Slowly, a large red, generic boxing glove lowered down from the trap door. He sighed, closing his eyes as he heard more mechanical clunking. All the while, his song was chanted from his lips, and his stomach knotted as he realised that he was getting to the end of the anthem. The boxing glove pulled up a bit, before slamming down onto the top of his head. Alfred interrupted his singing with a scream of surprise, feeling his skull shatter. His vision clouded, never to be clear again. As he felt the last of his life drain from him as the glove smashed into his head over and over again, a disgustingly innocent sparkle sound playing each time the glove made contact, he slurred the last lines. He sagged in the shackles, knees giving way as he slumped, arms stretching, and wrists grating against the metal.
"And… the star-spangled… b-banner in triumph shall wa…wave… O'er the land….of the free a-and the home of the…of the… the…" Alfred's head drooped, as the anthem finished, the magnificent ending never reaching his ears. The pink blood mixed with mangled brain tissue and fractions of skull dripped down onto the floor. The many stripes of cuts soaked his shredded jacket.
"Brave…" croaked Arthur as he watched Alfred fade, tears spilling down his red cheeks as his shoulders shook. The American had never sobbed, not through the whole thing, and now the Brit was crying his tears for him; Crying the tears that had never been, and now never would, be shed.