A/N: This shall be less gory than the previous chapter. I'm thinking that I really ought to add another chapter later on, though. I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, though, so I may simply add to it as I see fit.

The being that was the soul of America lay on his side. The plank under his face was hot from the many hours of sun, and the salt in the air left his lips feeling swollen and cracked, and his tongue, a fat purple mass that hardly fit into his mouth. His face pounded with heat, and every cubic centimetre of his body ached.

He'd lain on the slick boards when they'd left. Now, they were dry, but his hair, formerly soaked in the stuff, was crusted over, and his face, sticky with the clotted remains of his own blood. The sun's glare stabbed into his naked blue eyes and gave him a terrible headache, but he no longer cared. In a vague sort of way, he wondered what he would do for a glass of water, now.

The waves pounded, as they had for what seemed like thousands of years. The ship rocked in time with the beat, and America found the feeling strangely comforting. He wasn't comfortable, by any means: he was tied so that he couldn't even turn his head away from the sun's glare. But the rocking of the waves was one of a very few sensations that didn't actively cause him pain, like a strange lullaby.

A lullaby… Suddenly, he shifted slightly. He'd thought he'd heard… no, he hadn't. It was just a ghost of memory, coming to taunt him.

But then, there it was again. Yes… it was… a sound beneath the wash of the waves. It was more than a sound: it was a tune, a song. As he struggled to listen, it grew stronger. For the first time in god-knows-how-long, his heart was filled with something that could be akin to hope. He recognised that song.

How did it go again? Pain had stretched the hours into days, years, and the agony of the time he'd been here had atrophied his mind to imbecility. His sluggish brain struggled to recall the words that went with the melody. It was a song very familiar to him; it was written into his soul, almost.

There it was! He remembered. How could he have ever forgotten? Breathless, he caught the verse round the middle with his mind.

Sweet land of liberty: of thee I sing,

Land where my fathers died,

Land of the Pilgrims' Pride,

From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

The other voice grew louder, more confident. If America had been listening closely, he would have detected a note of hysteria in the words, words he still could not hear. The tune, however, was unforgettable, and he drew the lyrics from somewhere in his heart.

My native country, thee,

Land of the noble free! Thy name I love;

"That's me!" thought America. "They love my name! Someone's coming for me!" At this, he felt his resolve return. The hero couldn't be caught like this, dead inside. America never gave up!

I love thy rocks and rills;

Then, there was a crash, some shouted words, and a period of painful silence.

America struggled against his bonds, but to no avail. Where was the song? Why had it stopped?

He waited. The sun was now very painful, the rocking motion made him slightly nauseous, and the waves, agonising and distracting. Maybe… maybe he couldn't hear the song, as it'd been vanquished by the noise of the sea.

He shut his eyes tightly and tried to listen. Hope was truly a terrible thing: he thought that his chest would burst. His ribs throbbed, and the ugly gashes in his back burned cold and painful. He was sure he had sunburn on his face and arms.

Someone was coming for him, right? They wouldn't simply abandon him, not after all this. No, they must have been waylaid somehow. Perhaps they'd caught a glimpse of England, or one of his brutish brethren, and were even now hiding away.

What of the crash, though? What of the shout? If there'd been a scuffle, it certainly hadn't lasted long.

No, he couldn't allow himself to think that. He clamped down on the thought, but it surfaced anyways: England's the strongest nation in the world, and he's in his element here at sea.

What if his mysterious rescuer had run across the sea-captain? What if he'd been defeated, to be brought up here and subjected to the same pain as the rest of the prisoners?

What if he was dead?

No! He couldn't be! He couldn't be dead, not after all this! Okay, sometimes the hero needed rescuing, but that was so that he and his sidekick could unite, and he could beat up the evil empire with his supreme badassery. They needed an epic battle scene! It was cheating, killing the sidekick before he managed to free the hero. They wouldn't have the epic battle scene! He struggled all the more against the ropes holding him fast, grunting in pain, trying his best to ignore the feeling of the coarse rope against his red and peeling skin, the skin against which the sun had wrought such violence.

Gasping in pain and betrayal, America's struggle ended as suddenly as it had begun. He slumped in his ropes.

Nobody was coming.

He couldn't quite believe it at first. He'd been abandoned.

It was all over. He was going to be here till he died. There was no hope at all, anymore. Nobody cared. Truly, he was alone.

America blinked. Under the sound of his whimpering, under the crash of the waves, he heard a sound.

It was the song. It'd started up again. He still couldn't make out the words, so faint was the voice, but the shape of the tune nonetheless betrayed the verses.

He nearly laughed out loud. What an idiot he'd been! The American Spirit can't be so easily beaten. What had he been thinking of, giving up?

He worked all the more fervently at the ropes. The hero had to be ready. While he struggled, he sang the words out loud, working at the knots in time to the music.

Somewhere below the main deck, the singer of the song stopped and listened. Sure enough, someone else was singing along with him. His eyes widened. Someone was singing with him. Someone else was actually singing with him, singing a song that might as well have been engraved onto his heart. He looked down at the bottle of cheap rum he had smashed.

He dragged himself up off the floor, knocking over a few other bottles – empty, thankfully. He made his way over to the door and staggered out onto the deck, singing as loudly as he could. He wasn't even barely listening to the words the other man sang, he was so amazed, simply amazed, at the sheer joy of not being alone.

The two voices rose into the sky, unconsciously falling into a sort of harmony.

My country, 'tis of thee / God save our gracious queen

Sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing; / Long live our noble queen, God save the queen:

Land where my fathers died / Send her victorious,

Land of the pilgrims' pride / Happy and glorious,

From every mountainside, let freedom ring / long to reign over us, God save the queen!

The two men stopped and stared at one another. Hope really was a terrible thing.

Then, suddenly, England began to laugh. He laughed and laughed, a sound that was part bark and part shriek. Tears began to spill from his eyes. "You git!" he cried, wiping his face, "You stole… you borrowed…" he couldn't finish the sentence, he was laughing so hard. "You took the tune of my anthem," he choked out at last. "To think that I thought…" his laughter degenerated into a fit of coughing. He leaned heavily on the railing, but something about it seemed to enrage him. With a roar, he ripped the balustrade from the ship in a splintering of wood, and threw it into the sea with all his strength.

He turned around and met America's eyes. They were like the eyes of a blind man: bright and dead and blue and unseeing. His mouth hung slightly open, and he looked as if every part of him was sagging.

England began to chuckle again. He smirked sardonically at his former colony, and kicked him in the ribs. The other man gasped in pain.

He then turned and sauntered off the deck, singing softly as he left.

Oh, Lord, our God, arise

He smiled slightly, and there was something hard in his eyes.

Scatter her enemies,

And make them fall.

A look of rage passed across England's face so quickly that America wasn't sure he hadn't simply missed it.

Confound their politics,

Frustrate their knavish tricks, he winked at America as he opened the door,

On thee our "hopes", we fix, he made air quotes, the words dripping with sarcasm.

God save us all.

England stumbled back into his quarters. He was shaking for some reason. The strange sense of triumph he'd had earlier was draining from him, leaving him empty once more.

He lay back on his bed and closed his eyes. His mind returned to perfect calmness. Yes: that was the word for it – perfect calmness, like the smooth grey surface of a pond. It was only the energy of crushing America's spirit that made his breathing so uncontrolled, and it was out of the victory he'd won that he was now twisting the sheet between his hands so hard they hurt.

He sighed. Unbidden, the last line he'd sung came to his lips.

God save us all.

A/N: There. I wrote fluff the last chapter, and a songfic this chapter. Whatever has gotten into me? In any event, am I the only one who is surprised to find out that the Americans have copied our anthem in order to write a patriotic song of their own? It was sort of funny, and so I knew I simply had to write a story about it: I had to look up quite a lot of lyrics, though. (**) Actually, the second verse of God Save the Queen is rather confrontational.