Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
So, we're learning about the Witch Hunts in Socials right now, and the only thing I could think was:
Wait, if people were that hysterical about witches and the Devil and stuff... what about England?
I apologize in advance for any and all historical inaccuracies.
September 3rd, 1555. 3:56 p.m. England. Oatlands Palace.
England briskly walked towards his Queen's bedchamber. It was best to not keep the Queen waiting, especially in her current state.
Mary I had fallen into a depression after her husband Philip had left to command his armies against France. Perhaps she wouldn't have fallen in such a deep depression if Philip hadn't left just after her false pregnancy.
Nevertheless, there was nothing to do about it but try to keep Mary reasonably happy.
Opening the rather heavily decorated door, England slowly made his way into the room. He quickly kneeled down onto the floor. Mary was quite insistant about manners.
Mary herself was sitting up in her bed, her hands resting on the thick blankets.
"Your Highness," England murmured.
"Arthur Kirkland," Mary said, her voice containing more steel than it had for months.
England frowned at the sound of his alias. Mary was perfectly aware of his true nature, and had called him 'England' for years. He couldn't fathom why Mary had refered to him with his alias.
Discretly looking upwards, he scanned the room for any sign of other people. He noted the guards at the edges of the room with some wariness. It was the first sign that anything was wrong.
"You have been accused of practicing witchcraft and subsequently treason against the crown," Mary said coldly. "You will be tried for your crimes, and if found guilty, will be executed."
"Excuse me?" England said in disbelief, jumping up. "You cannot be serious, your Highness! I assure you I have not practiced black magic-"
In the last couple centuries, at least...
"- and these accusations are simply ridiculous!" England ranted. "I wish to know who accused me of such things!"
"Humans are not meant to be immortal. God did not create us in that way," Mary said, ignoring England's demand. "How would you live so long without the aide of black magic?"
"You are perfectly aware that I am not human!" England objected, taking a nervous step back. His foot suddenly hit the wooden door.
"You must be the reason God has not blessed me with a child," Mary snapped, a somewhat manical look in her eyes. "The Royal Family has been lending their ear to the Devil's servant for decades... centuries!"
"Your Highness-" England started, his hand scrambling for the doorknob.
"Restrain him," Mary ordered.
His emerald eyes narrowed in anger as the guards roughly grabbed onto England's arms.
"You'll regret this, your Highness," England insisted. "I assure you, I am completely innocent."
Perhaps this had been a foregone conclusion. Maybe he should have predicted the inevitable.
However, in his centuries by the side of the royal family, nothing like this had ever happened. To his knowledge, it had never happened to any of the other nations either.
But it had happened to him, and now he was forced to deal with the consquences.
September 5th, 1555. 2:39 p.m. Unknown River.
England weakly struggled against the bonds keeping his hands and feet tied. His eyes had dulled, but they still contained the slightest hint of defiance. Dirty water dripped from his tangled hair. Small scars and bruises covered his face.
He was sitting on a chair above the water, connected to a lever of some sort. Using this contraption, two men were repeatedly dunking England into the water.
Pausing the dunking for a moment, one of the men demanded England to confess.
England had already decided what to do. He knew perfectly well that he couldn't drown, and that this 'trial'... this torture... would continue until he confessed. At that point, he would be returned to his cell and likely be tortured until his 'execution'.
There was no reason to meaninglessly continue this rigged trial for 'pride'.
"I confess to practicing witchcraft," England said in a dead voice. The men, while surprised at the quick confession, proceeded to bring him back to land.
He wouldn't die.
He couldn't die.
But he could hurt.
September 11th, 1555. 4:57 p.m. London.
In a detached sort of way, England wondered what it would feel like to burn. To disappear into ashes.
Perhaps he would lose consciousness before his body burned up completely? That would be what happened to a normal human.
But he was in no way a normal human. He always could stand more pain than than the norm.
As morbid thoughts like that ran through his mind, England was tied to the wooden spike with thick ropes. Sticks of wood were piled underneath him, ready to be lit on fire.
A crowd had already gathered around him, but England didn't particularly care. Someone threw a torch, lighting the wood.
The guards around England shooed the crowd away. England really didn't understand why they bothered, because they then proceeded to throw a few more torches on the wood.
The flames gradually spread through the wood and headed towards England's feet. He didn't know if he should be happy that it was going slowly or be unhappy that it wasn't going to finish quickly.
As the flames finally reached the tips of his feet, he quickly decided on the latter.
Why is it that I end up writing these wangsty stories for Hetalia and humor/parody for all other series?