Author's Note: This was originally requested on the Hetalia Kink Meme. I've never done anything that refers to the change between a country's own history (here is Alfred going from a native boy to an English colony, and then from a colony to an independent nation) and I hope I didn't bunk anything up! It's an AU, considering I moved history around here and there.
Oh! And for the sake of simplicity, I used English for all of the characters, even though it would not be accurate for them to know such fluent English.
Warnings: Character (sort of?) Death, and Inaccurate History
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters.
Original Request:
any/any or gen, the specifics of immortality
"the nations are immortal. i want to see what, specifically, that entails. maybe they don't have to eat, or drink, or sleep, or breathe, but they do it anyway because it's enjoyable or makes them feel more human. do they die and reform/resurrect, or can they just not die at all? if the former, how does regeneration work and how long does it take? do they heal faster than humans? are they harder to injure? how much pain do they feel? do they experience the passage of time differently?
so, basically, anything that touches on this stuff, including anything i may have missed."
"We just want the boy."
Two young men, practically teenagers, stood facing a third man, who was sitting on what looked to be a throne. The two seemed to be from another world, dressed in different fabrics and covering far too much of their body. They must've been ashamed of how pale they were. The one that was sitting down was the ruler of the land, with different markings painted on his skin. He slowly stood up, the wooden beads around his neck clinking together and the cloth around his waist going down to his thighs. He was dressed elaborately yet simply, giving him an air of a chief.
"You have taken more than just the boy." He frowned. "You have overstayed your welcome. My father would not have allowed this. There are too many people."
"Give us the boy." One of the two, alien men changed his phrasing and ignoring the other's points. "That hadn't been a request."
The other foreigner lifted his chin, as if to make himself appear taller. It didn't matter, the two of them were the same height. "He is different than you. We can tell- he is one of us."
"He is nothing like you." The leader insisted, looking to his side as if to prove it. The young boy in question was standing next to the throne, glaring at the others. He was hardly a boy- he seemed to be rather close in age to the two foreigners. He had his black hair pulled into a ponytail behind him, and his skin, the colour of the clay in the earth, was marked with blues and reds. His arms were crossed, his chin held high and confident, and there was no way he was going to abandon his people.
"We can prove it-" The first man insisted, tucking a hand inside of the long garment that covered him from the shoulders to his thighs, and he pulled out a long contraption of wood and metal. He lifted it up, positioned it in his hands, and aimed at the boy.
"Arthur- we should wait-" The other man tried to say, but he had been caught off by a loud bang.
With the sound still ringing in his ears, the chief looked over to where the boy had been standing. Instead of standing tall and proud, he had fallen to the ground, his chest dripping with blood. He hadn't seen that coming in the slightest. The boy was dead.
"Why the hell did you shoot so fast?! You could've been cleaner about it!" The second man growled at the other, reaching for his own weapon to defend himself from the inevitable retaliation, but it didn't seem to come.
"The others are going to die of disease anyway- this way we spare the lad from suffering the slow, terrible fate the others will." Arthur went ahead and reloaded his musket, pointing it at the chief. "Will I be taking the boy, or will you be next?"
The chief trembled, trying to comprehend the events which just took place. He looked to the boy, then to the men, and reluctantly nodded. "Take his body." They could preform a burial with a stand-in if they had to. One boy was not worth the chief. One boy, however, was worth war.
"Francis- you carry him." Arthur ordered, lowering the musket.
"How is he doing?" Francis turned the corner and approached Arthur's seat beside the bed with the boy's limp body. The greatest change was how the young Native lad had seemed to go back in time- he physically resembled a toddler compared to how he'd been a young man from before.
"He's almost done." Arthur replied bluntly, taking the last feather out of the boy's hair. He'd gone and cut his hair too- it was far too long for a young gentleman- and all that was left of the dark black was the tips. The rest of it had already bleached itself blonde. The boy's skin seemed blotched, with patches of red and tan remaining on an otherwise pale, creamy complexion. "He's a rather handsome man. Once he finishes, of course."
Francis chuckled softly, looking over Arthur's work of sewing him a robe. "You planning on baptizing him?" He asked, noting the specific build of the fabric. It was a finer cotton, with delicate details sewn into the hem. It was a little colourless, so Francis undid the ribbon in his hair and gently tied it, rather loosely, around the boy's collar.
"You think I wouldn't? He needs a fresh start, and I'm going to give him one."
Once the red blotches faded and his hair was blonde, it was done. Slowly but surely, the boy started to move again. It started small, with his fingers and then his hand and then his arm and then his shoulder. Bit by bit, the boy seemed to come back to life. He slowly opened his eyelids, carefully blinking as if he had entirely new eyes. They had to be the most dazzling blues Arthur had seen in a long time.
"About time you woke up, lad." Arthur smiled softly, taking a damp towel and running it over the boy's face.
He had been shivering. He knew that for sure. Everything was cold, even his own touch. What had happened? He tilted his head to the side, and seeing the two pale men in front of him was honestly terrifying. "W-Who...are you?" He asked, his voice hoarse and soft.
"Don't push yourself too far- you've just woken up." Francis insisted, sitting by Arthur.
Woken up? The boy looked at the two, confusion written on his face. He didn't remember this place, or these clothes, or this skin! As his memory caught up with him, he threw his hands to his chest, grasping at the white fabric above the injury. He pulled the fabric away, eyes widening when he found no trace of a wound at all. Absolutely nothing. He didn't even feel sore. Yet, he felt empty inside, as if that man with the weird green eyes had bored inside him and tossed away what he had. He seemed to panic, not knowing what this entailed. All he knew was that that man-
"You- me!" He huffed, glaring at Arthur. "Th-that thing! With the loud noise- you-!' He motioned to his chest, trying to get across the idea of the bullet.
"That I did." Arthur nodded, unfazed by the accusation.
"You'll slowly regain your memories, bit by bit." Francis explained, reaching out to put his hand on the boy's shoulder where he was almost immediately pushed away. "Feisty one, non?" He chuckled, looking to Arthur.
"I-I- H-Home!" the boy insisted, sitting up and shakily trying to get down from his bed.
Arthur stopped him, gently pushing him back onto the bed. "This is your home now." This probably wouldn't be the last time that he would have to restrain the boy.
"No it isn't!" he started to tear up, trying again, only to be rejected.
"You aren't one of them." Francis added in, pulling the boy back into the bed and putting the blanket back on him.
"N-Not after what you- what you've done!" He whined, showing Francis his hand and how his skin seemed so very sickly- whose skin was this pale?!- the boy started to freely cry, "I need to get back-!"
Arthur chuckled softly. "He's rather dedicated."
Francis went to comfort the boy, using his hands to wipe the boy's tears. "He needs a name, too."
"A name fit for a ruler."
"Fit for a king."
Arthur pondered it for a while, all while the boy sobbed about his lost family and people. "...Name of a king. We shall call him Alfred." He smiled, rather happy with his decision. "That settles it. Your name is Alfred, young lad."
Alfred sniffled and shook, looking up at Arthur with teary eyes. Alfred didn't sound too bad, but he could never go home! "W-What's g-going o-on?" He sniffled in between sobs.
"We'll explain one day when you're older." Francis ran his fingers through the boy's hair. Alfred would thank them someday.
"Y-You promise... I'll wake up again?"
"I promise." He looked the other in the eyes. "You've done it before."
"I...d-don't remember that."
"It'll be cold. You won't feel a thing once you black out- and I'll be here." Francis assured him. "You have to let this part of you die before you can live on."
Alfred still seemed nervous about it, doubting that something like this could ever help him. "And...I'll be independent? How do you know this'll work?"
Francis picked up his musket, aiming it at the chest panel of Alfred's blue uniform. "I can prove it."
"I swear on my life, Francis, if you kill me, I'll never forgive you."
Chuckling softly, Francis rested his finger on the trigger. "If I kill you, you'll thank me."
Author Note: So, essentially, my interpretation is that a nation must have their physical body destroyed, via human death, in order for them to go on to a new form. Like Alfred here, in the colonization of New England and then founding the United States. I imagine a similar thing would happen when France underwent revolution, and to Russia at the fall of the Soviet Union, and so on and so forth.