The Brit and the Patriot
Summery: Arthur Kirkland is a British soldier, following his brothers' footsteps into the ranks of the military in a quest to halt the rebellion in the colonies. But when his life is saved by a mysterious statesman, he begins to questions his loyalties.
Rated T for language, suggestiveness, and violence.
May change rating to M.
Pairings: UsUk (America x England), Franada (France x Canada), Spamano (Spain x Romano), GerIt (Germany x Italy), PruHun (Prussia x Hungary), and a hint of Scotland x Ireland.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. All rights go to Hidekaz Himaruya, the great genius he is. I will probably never own Hetalia, and let this disclaimer suffice for this entire story. I own only the interpretation of this historic event. Let me put it this way; If I ever own Hetalia, I'll let you know. Until then, DISCLAIMED!
A/N: Welcome, my lovelies. Apparently, every single year in Social Studies, we have to cover the Revolutionary War. Then this little plot bunny popped up when we were going over all the countries that were involved in the war (like me, France). Naturally, some of my cosplay friends (Russia and Turkey) and I all started laughing at our poor, confused teacher after he said that France, the Dutch Republic, and Spain didn't like Great Britain and were glad to help America. Enjoy!
Chapter One
Arthur ran as fast as his legs would carry him, bullets whistling past him in waves. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He thought frantically, taking cover behind a tree. This was supposed to be an easy victory. They weren't supposed to know we were coming this way.
Regardless of the information they had been given, Arthur's regiment had been ambushed.
He ducked behind a tree, his heart beating profusely. The canons fired, making him jump. A reddened bead of sweat worked its way down his forehead and landed on the back of his hand, alerting him to his head wound. He pressed his palm to his temple, warm wetness meeting his cold hand.
He tried desperately to calm his breathing. As it was, he was gasping and panting for air. Resting his head back on the oak, he closed his eyes for a moment. Another round of gunfire jerked him back to reality, and he risked a careful look past the tree.
More bodies littered the ground, and the sight of them turned Arthur's blood cold with a guilty shame. Those men had given their lives, no questions asked, out of loyalty to their king, while Arthur had cowered and hid in an effort to preserve his own.
Quickly thinking, Arthur turned his body around the trunk of the tree, leveled his musket. Taking only a moment's hesitation to aim, Arthur pulled back the flintlock, and squeezed the trigger. A puff of black smoke erupted, and a musket ball sailed towards the line of Patriot soldiers. Not a single one of the men so much as flinched when the projectile missed them completely, flying between ducked heads.
"Damn!" The Brit swore in whisper to himself, wasting no time before ducking back and beginning to reload. He brought a paper cartridge from the inside of his jacket to his mouth, using his teeth to rip it open. Within seconds, the Brown Bess was balanced vertically, resting on the tree's roots and in the crook of Arthur's elbow. The pan was primed and set on the end of the barrel, powder poured into it. Arthur ran the pads of his fingers over the lead orb, then shoved it in and finished reloading.
The entire process took about twenty seconds, followed by a second shot at the enemies. That was his undoing.
One soldier noticed through the thick haze a scarlet coat, trying to conceal itself. He raised his own weapon and fired, barely catching the hidden assailant.
Arthur was forced backwards by the force of the shot, falling to the ground. Fight-or-flight instinct finally realized it would have no luck with the former, and tried the latter.
The blond tore through the woods, musket held against his chest. His right side was bleeding heavily, eventually causing him to slow. In the distance, he saw a light. Light promised warmth, promised help. He moved towards it, eventually having to crawl. Collapsing at the back of a manor, Arthur tried to cry out, succeeding only in moving his dry lips.
He wanted to move closer to the light, but it was too hard. Now its welcoming glow taunted him, begging him to join it. Why won't the light just shut up? he asked himself in vain. It's a silly thing, to ask oneself a question. Arthur decided. If you don't know the answer, you can hardly hope to answer correctly.
Madeline flitted about the parlor, straightening something there or adjusting something here. Alfred watched her, seeing no sense in trying to perfect a perfect room.
"Maddie, what are you doing that for? I doubt he'll care how much the doilies are turned." But his insistence that there was no point to it was dismissed with a small wave of his wife's hand.
"Alfred, how can we expect a guest who is doing so much for us stay somewhere less than magnificent?" She asked in a soft voice.
Before Alfred could think of a reply, however, the butler stepped quietly into the room. "The captain is here, sir." He said with a bow.
"Thank you, Toris." Alfred said, rising from his chair.
Leaving Madeline to finish her frantic fixing of the room, Alfred walked to the front door of their home and Toris opened it, revealing a man with shoulder-length wavy blond hair dressed in the blue and white uniform of a French officer, hat under his arm.
"Capitaine Francis Bonnefoy II, at your service, Monsieur Jones." The captain said with a flamboyant arm gesture and bow. "I thank you for allowing me to reside in your lovely home."
"The pleasure is all mine. Please come inside."
The Frenchman stepped in, Toris closing the door behind him.
"Toris, please tell us when dinner is ready." Alfred instructed, hearing a gentle hum in reply.
They walked to the parlor, where Madeline was fiddling with the ornaments on the mantle.
Alfred cleared his throat, almost making her jump, and she backed away from the fireplace and tried to compose herself.
"Capitaine, this is my wife, Maddie." Alfred introduced.
"It is wonderful to meet such an exquisite creature, Madame Jones."
"Welcome to our home, Capitaine Bonnefoy." She said as he took her hand and kissed the knuckle of her middle finger, making a blush rise to her cheeks. He released her hand delicately, as one would a butterfly.
"Well, I'm going to go take care of some important business." Alfred said, turning on his heel and leaving the two alone.
'Important business', as it turned out, was merely Alfred's excuse to get some fresh air outside. He walked around the back of the house, contemplating a stroll through the woods.
Well, a walk would burn some of his energy and allow him to focus better through dinner with the captain, therefore it was important. He took a few steps into the dim trees, when he heard a sound. A moan of pain, a noise of someone requiring assistance.
Alfred moved towards the sound as quick as he could, and was rewarded with the sight of something bright red. A man lay sprawled out on the ground, bleeding from his side and head. Without so much as a second thought, Alfred set about staunching the flow of blood. The man's shirt was soon ripped into strips, which were tied around his head and lower torso.
Somehow he seemed out of place, a nearly shirtless man just laying inside of a red coat. That's what set the gears in Alfred's mind in motion.
Red coat.
Redcoat.
British.
The enemy.
But there was no time for such notions. This man's life was in danger.
First and foremost, this man needed shelter. Glancing back to the house, Alfred checked that off in his mind. Scanning around a little more, he saw his opportunity in the stable. He hoisted the short Brit into his arms, carrying him to the small structure. At the end of the stable was a large pile of hay in a blocked-off segment. Perfect.
Alfred set the soldier down, then got a good look at him. He had messy straw colored hair, a firm jaw, and enormous eyebrows that resembled large furry caterpillars.
Using a bucket of water, Alfred washed the wounds and rewrapped them with a horse blanket he ripped apart.
There, that would be good enough until he woke up. But what about after he woke up?
In all fairness, this man was their enemy. Taking a length of rope, Alfred tied the man's hands together, then his feet. Another horse blanket was thrown over him, then the padlock to the stall of hay was locked.
Oh God. Alfred thought to himself as he left. What have I gotten myself onto?
A/N: Well? What'd ya think? Please review and tell me what you think. Or else face the wrath of Russia. Kolkolkol...
And yes, Madeline is Fem!Canada. More characters to come next chapter. Au revoir, mes beautés!