Wana- The Back Horn
"Urgh!"
America fell back, feeling a heavy object collide with his head. Basic knowledge taught him that that never meant anything good.
Suddenly, he felt his body being raised, the centre of the pulling force at his collar. His breath hitched- he opened his eyes, but his glasses were lying in shattered pieces on the floor five feet away.
Smack.
He blinked, feeling a stinging sensation in his cheek as a gloved hand quickly sweeps over it.
"You're being stupid, America," comes a voice that he has known all his life.
He was silent for a moment. He knew who this was. "N-no," he breathes, barely audible. His voice is weak from shouting so much at his soldiers; telling them to move on. Help from France hasn't arrived yet. They can't die out here in the snow. The British ambushed them, yes, but they can't die. He won't allow them to.
"It's all worth something," he says, breathing out, coughing. "Freedom," he whispers, "Is worth it."
England is silent, and lets him go. "Why?"
Alfred can't even answer a question that simple.