AN: Christmas gift for a friend, alternate ending to the revolutionary war episode (episode 20) please enjoy~
Music I listened to: ?v=fK62ICh281o
I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters. They belong to Hima-Papa.
Great big fat raindrops splattered across their faces, sliding into their eyes, flattening their hair, soaking their clothes, making cold their skin, muddying the ground and creating a great rumbling drumroll of a thousand, a million tiny bits of water smacking, splashing onto the ground and their bodies. This, stormy, cold rain may bring you joy, to dance in it, and rejoice in these drops, shards of a blessing as they fall from the heavens to the earth, like the tears of a cloud. I myself love the rain. But the thirst quenching storm did not fall on someone who was joyful, but rather quite the opposite.
In this scene, there stood on one side of the muddied field, a tall, blonde man, with bright blue eyes. He wore the blue uniform of an American Revolutionary, one of those fighting for the once British Colonies independence. But he was no ordinary revolutionary. Behind him stood a platoon of soldiers, yet he was no general. He was Alfred F. Jones, the very personification itself of the young nation The United States of America.
On the other side stood a lone man; no soldiers, no warriors stood behind him. He had pale blond hair, outrageously massive eyebrows, and beautiful green eyes. Despite the fact no soldiers supported him; he was just as important as the other nation. For he was Arthur Kirkland; the British Empire, the greatest and most powerful nation on earth. And yet here he was, exhausted, tired, ready to give up and about to be bested by one of his own colonies. He looked furious, but felt defeated, exasperated, sorrowful and regretful. If only he could have avoided this…
The United States of America, on the other hand, was also furious, an expression of rage on his face, but he felt no sadness or regret. All he could think of was how his people had been taxed with none of their say, forced to give food and shelter to the British soldiers, searched on a whim for smuggled goods, never asked about what laws should be passed, and how even those who had surrendered had been slaughtered. That had hurt the most, that they had committed what was essentially a war crime without a second thought. They had only wanted to crush the rebellion. Force their colonies back into submission. Anger blinded him, making him forget anything good about the one who had raised him; he forgot that the decisions had been made by King George III and that perhaps England had not wanted for all of these things to happen. All he could see was the other nation across from him, who wanted him to return to a docile child, always ready to follow him wherever he went. America did not want this, for 'He was not born to follow; he had to stand up for what he believed.'*
"England. After all, I want freedom. I'm no longer a child nor your little brother. I'll become independent from you now on."* America stated, resolute.
For a moment, England's face fell, his eyes shone, his shoulder s dropped. Then his face once again morphed into a mask of anger and he jumped forward, splashing through the mud and rain shouting: "I won't allow it!" He would not allow Amer – no, The 13 Colonies of British-America leave him. He loved him so much; he just hadn't found a way to tell him how much he loved him yet…
America, heard England's shout, and something inside him snapped. He was sick of it. He was sick of being told what to do, sick of being ordered around, sick of having no say, sick of being a child. No one would tell him what to do. Through eyes blinded by rage, he saw a demon running towards him, man who had never granted him freedom. He did not see a man who loved and cared for him, and was as sick of this war as he was, a man who emotionally lost between duty and heart. And so, vision blurred by his anger, he leveled his gun took careful aim, and did as he had trained to do. He shot to kill.
The bullet flew through the rain, never losing course, and soon finding its place in England's chest. He immediately stumbled, losing grip in his own musket and letting it fly through the rain to hit the ground with a thump several feet away. It lay there, forgotten and unimportant, as England's body slowly fell to the ground, as it crumpled and dropped like a paper doll.
Perhaps it was the bang of his own gun as he fired, the thump of England's weapon as it hit the ground, the gasp of pain from the older nation as the bullet lodged in his chest, or maybe it was the heavy sound of his older brother's body against the muddy ground. But something broke into his twisted rage and shattered it like glass, allowing him to see things they were again.
And he did not see a slain demon lying on the ground, killed for the betterment of mankind, but rather a murdered man, a person he loved, someone he had loved. Someone he had killed.
For a moment he stood there, his gun slipped from his hands, his shoulders slumped, the rain crashing down around him, much like the reality of the situation. He had killed his Older Brother. Killed. Killed. Killed. Killed. The word pounded through his mind. Then a word, softly spoken, but all that much louder for its importance and the emotion in the voice of the one who spoke it, brought him back.
"America." The voice was longing, pleading, tired, sad. England's voice.
America obliged, slowly walking over to the fallen nation on the ground, tears starting to fall down his face. He dropped to his knees, no longer aware of the mud. All he could see was England lying in the mud, slain by a bullet shot from America's gun.
America sat down and gently lifted England's head to his lap. He took in the body that lay before him, from slowly diming bright green eyes, to scruffy blonde hair, slender, short frame and muddied and bloodied clothes.
"F-fool, I taught you manners, didn't I?" England said shakily "You ought to apologize for getting my clothes dirty." He smiled weakly.
"I-I'm sorry. I wish I could turn back time and change what I did, but I can't." Tears from America's face fell to England's, warm and soothing unlike the cold rain.
"You are forgiven of course, a Gentleman always forgives." England's voice was weakening.
"Then do you forgive me for rebelling?"
"No, I do not, because there was never anything to forgive. What you did was perfectly justifiable; I should not have punished you for it. Have your freedom. I know you can and will do great things with it. I did not see that before. I only ask that you forgive me for being such a stubborn and obstinate old man."
"Of course you are forgiven. I can't blame you for loving and wanting you to protect me. I only wish that it was me who was dying, not you. I deserve it." America hung his head in shame, overwhelmed by his impulsive action that had cost a life. How could one tiny bullet create such a massive impact?
"No, you are young, I am old. I have lived. I want you to live and become the great nation you are destined to become." For a moment they sat in silence.
I'm soon to be gone. He at least deserves to know. This is truly my last chance… Thought England
"America?"
"Yes?"
"I just wanted you to know, I love you. Not as a younger brother, but a person." England gasped out the last few words. His time was nigh. There, now I have no regrets…
"I'm glad I learned that before you leave. I love you too." America's voice cracked on the last word and tears dropped once again from his face to Britain's, mingling and flowing away with the rain.
America lowered his head to kiss Britain softly on the lips. It was perfect. For a moment he believed that everything would be okay and that nothing was wrong, that he hadn't shot England. But he had. They had been made for each other, if only they had known sooner…
For a long time America left his lips on England's, knowing that the other had breathed his last many minutes ago. But America was not ready to release his love. If only he could seal in England's soul with his mouth. But he eventually grew stiff and sore and slowly sat up. He brushed away the hair from England's face, closed his eyes and murmured a few words:
"Good-bye, beautiful."
-Epilogue-
America picked up England bridal style and brought him to the British encampment. They surrendered immediately. America became an independent nation. But he didn't really care anymore.
Life went on. America soon learned to ignore the stabbing pain in his heart.
But each year on October 19, he would visit the same field. Nothing had been built there. It was still a beautiful clearing surrounded by trees. Some days it was sunny, others cloudy, some warm, some cold, even some rainy. No matter the weather, he would allow himself to notice the pain in his heart, allow himself the memory of that perfect kiss, and allow himself to imagine how things might have been. How things might have been if had been able to stay with England. He felt that each memory he could have made with England had been stolen from him, that he'd lost them. Can you lose something you never had, simply because of a good bye?
He hated goodbyes. He'd always hated good-byes. He'd always hated saying good bye to England when he was young, but at least then, he'd known England had been coming back. Now they reminded him of how he's had to say good bye to every incredible memory and moment he could have had with the one he loved. How he'd had to say goodbye to the one he loved.
AN: I'm sorry this is so cliché.
*'He was not born to follow; he had to stand up for what he believed.' This is basically from a song – We Were not Born to Follow
*"England. After all, I want freedom. I'm no longer a child nor your little brother. I'll become independent from you now on."* - This is the same basic quote as from the sub of the show, from episode 20.
Pages: Almost 3 ½ in MS Word
Words: 1,706, not counting AN
Time: 2 ½ish hours
Thanks for reading, please review~