England's initial fear was quickly replaced with curiosity as the eyes' owners remained hidden in the shadows. He rose to his feet with a small gasp of pain and slowly edged towards them. After a few steps, however, his foot caught in an unseen crack in the floor, sending him to the ground once more.
"Help!" England managed to squeak mid-fall in the rough Latin the sailors had taught him.
A pair of arms caught him a split-second before he made contact. England peered up at his rescuer's face, his eyes straining in the dim light to make out any features. His rescuer was a tall, pale man with flowing blonde hair and blue eyes, who had an expressionless face. He was dressed in a tattered, dirt-streaked tunic and frayed sandals. The man released England before stating in a flat tone,
"You should be more careful in here; it is dangerous."
The man merely glanced at him, yet England felt as if his very soul was being turned inside out with the depth of that gaze. After nodding almost imperceptibly, the man motioned the other two sets of eyes forward. He then walked back towards the other end of the cell without another word.
"Thank you for helping me," England called to the man's retreating back.
"Are you all right once again, little one? I despise having to speak these animals' language, but it seems to be the only one all of us prisoners will know!" exclaimed a new, higher-pitched voice from the darkness.
The owner stepped closer to England to reveal a boy around his own age, but not anywhere near (to England's annoyance) his height, causing him to look up to see the boy's face. It was framed with golden, shoulder-length locks, and his eyes were a wide sapphire blue. Although wearing a torn blue tunic, he had a regal purple cape that seemed untouched by his dire living conditions.
Irritated by the "little one", England replied heatedly,
"Of course I am all right! Why would I ever not be? It is not as if everything is wrong!"
The boy's eyes narrowed, and he was about to speak, when another boy came closer.
"Why do we not all calm down a little and tell each other about ourselves, no? We may have to fight to the death later on, but we should all try to get along now, si? My name is Spain, what is yours?"
With his curly, brown hair and jade green eyes, Spain smiled encouragingly at England. He was taller than England as well, and one sleeve of his tunic was torn off, used as a bandage for a wound on his leg. Unlike his other cellmates, Spain seemed to be quite cheerful, as if he was unaware of his surroundings. England almost returned his infectious smile before catching himself as he answered,
"My name is England, son of Britannia, protector of Englaland. Do your friends have names too, and what do you mean, 'fight to the death'?" he waited with held breath.
"Of course we have names too; it would be very strange to not have one, England! My name is France, despite these barbaric Romans referring to me as Gaul! Oh, and that is Germania over there; since he does not say much. Did that pig of a man Rome not tell you? We are gladiators; they will take us to the Coliseum, where we will fight either lions or other gladiators, and will watch us fight for our lives to amuse themselves!" The blonde boy spat on the floor in disgust after this speech.
England's lower lip quivered as his mind futilely attempted to absorb France's words.
"How will I ever be able to fight against a lion or another man? I am too small, and they took my quiver and bow away! If I only had those, I could do it, but would Rome give them back to me? Either way, I will have to try to survive, for Daddy's sake, which means I should know more about who I may fight against."
"Well then, we will have to make sure they are disappointed by our survival! Rome conquered my home and took me captive; why are all of you here? Are you captive countries as well?" he paused, waiting for their answers.
"Yes, we shall show them all how strong we are, my friend," Spain nodded, "and Rome took me captive as well, about two years ago. It was harvest time for my family's tomatoes, and I was out in the field. A whole legion came that day and burned the plants and my house to the ground. I ran frantically to the house, calling my family's names, but I never heard them answer. That was when the legion general rode by on his horse and swung me into his saddle before galloping back to Rome. I have been here ever since, but I have only been in the Coliseum once; that is where I got my wound from a lion. The emperor chose to spare me, or else I would have been killed."
Tears formed in the corners of his eyes for a moment, but they quickly dissipated as he leaned forward to reassure England,
"My family could have escaped before me, and I am still living after the horrible lion; life is not so terrible after all, no? I am sure that they will not call you for the arena for a long while, if ever!"
"You should not lie to him, Spain; he could very well be taken in at any time! You and your ridiculous optimism would be the death of us all if we were not going to die already," France exclaimed, "but to answer your question, Angleterre, my story is tragic in the extreme. It was three years ago when my mère went out to collect food for my père and I, while my père chopped wood for the fire. I was alone in the house when the soldiers burst inside, dragged me out of the house by my hair, and rode away with me as their captive. I only hope they did not kill my parents first," France wiped a tear from his eye and continued, "and I have never been in the arena, I have been stuck in this horrible cell for all this time! It is a wonder that my cape has survived these wretched conditions!"
"Perhaps I heard wrong, but I think he was concerned with his cape of all things! Angleterre?! What does that mean?" England puzzled after France's dramatic speech.
"My story is simple; my ally betrayed me and took over my land, throwing me in his cells. I have fought in the Coliseum for ten years, and you should be prepared, young one, to fight. You are a fighter, I can tell, and Rome will know it as well as I," Germania spoke gravely, and then relapsed into his silence.
Eyes widened, England was about to respond when a soldier appeared at the cell door. Unlocking the door, he strode through the opening while his voice resonated off the prison walls,
"The one called England is required by the people of Rome; which one of you is he?"
England swallowed once before answering, "I am he; what am I required for?"
The guard grabbed England's arm roughly and dragged him out of the cell before locking the door behind him. He looked pityingly on the boy and thought,
"He is so young; my son is around his age! Perhaps Rome was mistaken?"
He answered England with the rough voice only strict training allowed him to have,
"You will find out soon enough."
The two walked down the torch lit corridor until they came to a platform, which the soldier placed England on. England peered down at the smooth surface and glimpsed patches of blood covering the platform. His stomach turned as he wondered,
"Where am I going? Is it…that place? Help me to be strong now, Daddy."
The soldier drew out keys and unlocked the shackles from England's arms while locking his legs unto the platform. As England rubbed his bleeding wrists to restart his circulation, another soldier appeared with England's bow and quiver. These he placed directly in front of England on the platform, where England could not reach them.
"Your legs will be unlocked once you reach the top," the soldier explained as he stepped off the platform.
The platform began to rise, and a trapdoor in the ceiling suddenly opened, causing England to shut his eyes quickly as the sun shone into them. A few seconds later, he opened his eyes to find his platform fully raised and his leg shackles unlocked. He was standing in a wide, circular arena with thousands of people watching him. He barely noticed the massive crowd's roar as he appeared in the Coliseum; he was much more concerned with the roar of the massive, yellow animal that was charging at him.
After a moment's pause, England dove for his bow and quiver, his hands curving around the familiar grooves and drawing an arrow in a fluid motion. He aimed at the charging beast's forehead, directly between its eyes. His entire frame shook from the tension of the bow; his battered muscles unable keep the bow steady. The beast was only ten yards away and coming in fast, as he thought,
"If I miss, I will die. Let my aim be true!"
Staring into the gaping jaws of death, England released his arrow.
A/N: Thank you all so much for reading this! Over 1000 reads! It totally blew my mind, and sorry for this chapter, I hope you guys didn't get bored with all the character development! Will Iggy get away unscathed?