this is the way you left me;

[wingborne]

Prompt
Artbook





ten.

There was nobody left to blame.


nine.

America suspected that England was the only one who completely knew, because his eyes always turned downward.

England would sometimes sit alone at tea, back halfway turned to America. He adjusted his dark plum waistcoat, ran his fingers down the tidy line of golden buttons in the bruised colors of his shirt. His thin fingers ran along his white ruffles, and then finally, hesitantly, reached the large golden clock that always sat behind him. He dragged the clock around with him everywhere, even when China scoffed their palace was heavily protected by guards and their spades, nobody would steal the clock from him, brows.

But the clock always told the wrong time, always running too late, running too early, but never right. He mentioned it, briefly, in passing to England, as their parchments spread over the table with their black ink newly dried.

“It’s the right time,” England said shortly, eyes half-lidded, “for the wrong world.”

That night, he slipped out as England slept next to him. He sat at the edge of the bed, hesitating, as England groaned and shifted in his sleep, brow furrowing as he searched for the missing warmth. He looked smaller in his sleep, half-curled and anxious. But still, America slipped from the white sheets, leaving England’s hand grasping at the fading warmth of the pillow. He padded silently across the room to their stone balcony where the moon washed over their kingdom.

He should have been happy. He had every right to be happy, always studiously bent over his papers, working for the happiness of his people. When he gazed over the garden, with the soft waterfall trickling into the serene pool, he thought that he could be happy. But there was always something in the back of his mind, an unsettled feeling,

A quiet ticking filled the room. He glanced down at the small watch, shaped like a spade, that always hung from his waist. Turning it lightly in his hands, he watched his faint reflection stare up at him from the clock face. Unlike England's clock, his told the right time twice a day. But, still, something pinched and pulled at him, because even if his clock wasn't wrong, it wasn't right.

His small watch had been frozen at three.


eight.

But America gathered up bits and pieces, flickers that appeared on the back of his eyelids.

He dreamed in short bursts. Air, too light to breathe. A chill in his uniform, collar stiff, the world racing towards him as he spiraled downward. Explosions that scattered clods of dirt. All the explosions happened too near too close, and he ran, stumbling into craters and leaving the parachute behind him, gun in his hands, lips dried and chapped, head bent down, running. Always running. Operation Market, D-Day, Operation, the rumble of explosions hummed in the soles of his feet. Everything began to tumble together, head throbbing with the whistling sounds. A symphony of screams, the low groan of dying men with mud mixed in their intestines. Intestines, shriveled and dried, caught on wires and trenches, and he ran. But there was one image, a single picture that floated above the rest. On the bright red pool of blood, still trembling as the bombs came down, he saw himself sitting in his tent. He took off his helmet, the helmet with the black spade painted on its side.

When he woke up in the morning, he stared up at the spades that surrounded the room, and felt a sudden, tumultuous feeling. He was the King of Spades. He was the King, and he had never fought in any war. But nothing felt right, and the spade stared down at him, choking the breath in his throat.

England stood by his bedpost, and watched him with silent eyes.


seven.

There was no "once upon a time." There had just been time, and a King and a Queen. America felt that he was a good king, and England wasn't a bad queen. He couldn't remember how they met, or why they met, or even if they had known each other before they sat on their thrones. He didn't mind it, but England seemed to mind.

England always seemed anxious over him. Dragging his large clock behind him, as if he had been chained to it, he trailed America around the castle. He laughed too loudly, then fell too silent. Every time he spoke, his eyes flickered to America’s face, trying too hard to read his expressions.

America tried to be kind to him. England was his Queen, after all, and he thought they should have a good relationship. But there was always something missing when he talked to him, and he knew that England felt the same. They both tried too hard, saying hello too many times, falling into an awkward silence, grasping at loose strands.

As they talked about their subjects, the safest ground, England would sometimes touch America’s hands. He would only grasp his fingers lightly, his hands warm. But America drew back, abruptly repulsed. The action was too intimate for him. And England would draw back his hand, curling his fingers to his vest, and speak in lower tones for the rest of the conversation.

Sometimes, when he thought nobody was looking, America caught him with a trembling expression on his face, fragile and lost, like a child who had lost too much.


six.

America noticed the guards had numbers stitched on their fronts.

“There are no numbers,” China said firmly, and kindly added something about America getting his poor eyes checked and lose some weight while he was working on that. England, sitting near him, only sullenly agreed there were no numbers, but his lips were drawn tightly after that.

When America tried to count them, though, there were always a few missing. He counted five, seven, eight, but couldn’t find four and two. Then he could find two, but not seven, four, and eight. Sometimes he saw three and nine, and then lost them amongst five and six all over again.

“Stop counting them,” England finally said irritably, in their rare moments when they almost got along. “They’re looking for something.”

“What are they looking for?” America drummed his fingers irritably on his papers. “Aren’t they our guards?”

“They’re looking for the missing guard.” But then England snorted, softly, into his tea. His eyes stared bitterly down at his shaken tea. “As if we ever lost that in the first place.”

“Lost what?” America, for a moment, though he saw the flickers of empty helmets stranded in mud, empty streets with abandoned toys, bodies like islands on oceans stranded upon beaches with blood staining the foaming waters.

“Don’t think too much about it,” England finally said, too flippantly. “They’re nothing but a pack of cards.”


five.

His kingdom was full of happy people, and he was full of missing things. He took coffee now, black as the spade that hung around their castle walls. England always drank tea in his white cup, eyes unfocused on the spades before him.

America had once tried to drink tea. He tasted it, gingerly, with his tongue, and England watched him almost eagerly. Their relationship had only newly begun, and England had still grown warm and happy at America’s ventures. His face flushed, he added some sugar to the tea, and passed over the cup again, fingers accidentally brushing over the golden spade watch on the table.

And suddenly the tea tasted strange, and he couldn’t describe it. He could almost hear the sound of horses clopping outside, and a small store, purchasing a hard, small, rectangular object, and passing over his money and feeling this strange feeling, that something wasn't right, and the tea was strange and tasted like money and salty ocean water, and he put down the teacup, and England watched him.

That night, he stared down at their papers, and told England that they should adjust the taxation to be representative. He said their people deserved a voice in their government. He said that taxes couldn’t be imposed on their people. He said they needed to rethink their government. He said constitution he said independence he said freedom.

England said he was going to bed early tonight because his stomach hurt. But his hand must have misunderstood, because he touched his heart instead.


four.

There were—trees. Mud, stuck to his boots. A strange humidity in the air, not like the coolness of his kingdom. Green, it was green. Rain, falling for days, nothing but mud and rain, and villages burning. Fires, lit, that ran for days, the sickly scent of burnt flesh. Dead bodies, card hard in his hand. Bending down, the ace of spades. The ace of spades, the ace of spades on the forest floor in the humid air, the Bicycle Secret Weapon, labeled on the wooden crate, dropping card after card, sticking the card on his helmet, the single ace of spades, with its sharp point and endlessly inky black night.


three.

“You don’t love me.” England bent his head a little forward.

America, startled, glanced at him over the throne. England had turned his gaze towards the wall, fingers brushing against his mouth, as if trying to silence himself. They sat in some small silence, with only the loud ticking of England’s clock resounding in the room. Finally, England laughed, short and sharp.

“I’m a fool,” he said, sharp eyes roaming back to America. “In the game of hearts, of course I’m going to be unlucky.”

“I’m not going to be mean to you,” America said softly, “and you can love whoever you want.”

“No,” England said, fervently, hands passing over his eyes. He sat on his throne in his slim coat and dark vest, and shook his head slowly. He looked almost handsome, slim and noble in the throne. He deserved a crown, America thought slowly, though he didn’t realize why the thought came to him. But America didn’t like thrones and crowns, just as England belonged to them.

“Hey,” America said, and he searched for something clumsily kind to say, in their silent golden-gilded room with the black spades staring down upon them like small gaps in time.

“No. I’m going to die an old maid,” England said, hands pressed over his face, “if I can’t have what I want at all.”

Someone sharply knocked on their doors, and the delicate moment shattered into the floor. By the time China had left again, and America turned towards him, England only said that he was tired and old, and needed to sleep.


two.

“Do you know too much?” America knew he shouldn’t ask, but the spades had begun to creep upon him now. The blackness of the color, the sharpness of their shapes, it all became too much for him. Distant feelings fluttered into his throat, but he couldn’t discern his memories, all clouded like they were shadows in the mist. Everywhere he turned, he thought he saw skeletons with melting flesh, or missing limbs torn on the battlefield, or dead children lying on matted floors.

If England had the answer, then he wanted to know.

“I’m far more intelligent than you,” England said. But his flippant joke turned sullen, and he became quiet again. “Of course I know too much.”

“What do you know?” America swallowed dryly. “Why do I have these dreams?”

“Countries, not kingdoms.”

“What?” America tried to test out the word “country” on his tongue, and it felt strange. Almost warm, to his throat, nostalgic, to his heart. He tried to say the word, but the utterance trapped and died in his throat. His muscles trembled, his body strained, but the word splashed down into his heart and melted into his cool veins.

“It’s not your fault,” England said, staring at the whisper of his reflection in the large clock. “It’s France’s fault, really, because he made you, David, and me, Pallas.”

He rose from his seat abruptly, taking up his heavy clock, that made his shoulders slump his eyes rest so heavily.

“It would be his fault, anyway,” he finally murmured, “if there was anybody left to blame.”



ace.

The clock chimed at three.

(It would have chimed, if anything chimed. But there was nothing left to chime. There was nothing left to breathe, nothing left to hope.)

“Don’t be afraid,” England whispered to him. They were alone, in the dark room that smelled like choking medicine. Outside, the gray ashen sky stretched into the horizon, where only dark lonely trees stood out like cracks against the morbid background. The black dirt strewn back and forth on the cement floor, and only the absurd green light of the monitors bathed his skin.

His mouth felt heavy, tongue thick and swollen in his mouth. He tried to talk, saying no, no, but his tongue fell flat against the side of his cheek, drool dripping from the side of his mouth.

England fumbled for his handkerchief, and dabbed the side of his mouth gently, like they were both children. They were alone in the small basement, the last ones in the world. America tried to roam his eyes back towards the small window, but the sky had never changed. The oceans dried, the sun crashed. His limbs hung heavily.

(He had never thought the world as big, but now it looked exceeding small. After his legs gave out, he could only wistfully stare out the small square window, and think the world was the same small window wherever they went.)

“It’ll be like falling asleep,” England was saying, and he was lying. With his pallid hands, he finished attaching the tube into America’s arm. He sat on the chair with his legs together, hands pushed on his knees, never looking directly at him. “You’ll have good dreams, America. So don’t be afraid. The others have gone ahead, too.”

America wasn’t afraid for himself. But he couldn’t say it, head heavy and thick. He was running out of time, before England pressed the switch.

“Will…” His raspy breath managed to rise above the dusty mists, and England leaned closer, until his ear almost brushed America’s chapped and bloodied lips. “Will… we...”

England leaned back before he finished, as if he had been burned. America knew the reason behind his closed face, and he hated it. He didn't want to leave England as the lonely last man on earth, sitting in a small room with the small window. But he could only move his eyes, watching England smile faintly and painfully.

“Of course,” he said, and he was lying. America could always tell when he lied, a sad swan song that trailed in his bones. “Of course, we’ll still be… you’ll still like me. I’ll still like you. Come, now, rest. We’ll all be together soon. You fought long and hard. You fought well. Rest.”

England passed his hand over America’s forehead, and America made the mistake of closing his eyes. He only meant to rest his eyes, but it was too late (far too late, except there was nobody left to blame) and he saw England press the switch to the machines. He tried to jerk away, because he still had things to say, things to choke out from his swollen tongue and burnt mouth. But the room swam before him, and his breath died on his lips. He was tired, so tired, and he tried to reach for England's hand. He only managed to tumble the pack of cards onto the floor, the ones they had played as lakes burned and mountains drowned, until there was nothing left to blame.

He saw England sadly pick up the ace of spades from the floor, playing with it between his fingers.

Slowly, with his other hand, he raised the gun to his temple, and pulled the trigger.








The Ace of Spades (or the spadille) is known as the Death Card. In WWII, the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment of the American and the 101st Airborne Division had spades painted on their helmet for easier identification. In addition, during the Vietnam War, spades were also used in psychological warfare against the NLF, who viewed the spades as ill fortune. Soldiers would leave the cards on the dead bodies or litter the forest floors with them. The crates of playing cards were marked Bicycle Secret Weapon. The ace of spades improved the morale of American soldiers.

The Ace of Spades also played a role in the Stamp Act of 1765. King James I, and later Queen Anne, implemented the taxation, where the Ace of Spades was used to recognize the tax had been paid on the pack of cards.

Traditional Paris court named the King of Spades as David and the Queen of Spades as Pallas, another name for Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. The king of spades is generally characterized as intellectual, a strong leader, but difficult to get along. The queen of spades is characterized as distant and cool, wise in her choices, and a trustworthy warm friend if having gotten close to her. She may also represent Rachel and Judith. The card is considered unlucky in the game of Hearts and called the "old maid" card. Another nickname is the Bedpost Queen.

"You're nothing but a pack of cards!" - uttered by Alice in Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland. Considered the point when Alice "wakes up" from her dream, defeating the childishness and ridiculous circular logic of her dream.