A/N: Trying to get my muse flowing again for my big WIP's and this is what popped out instead. Can't say it wasn't fun to write, though I don't believe I have ever done this pairing before. *checks* Nope. Never done it before. I think it came out fine though!
Also! Is it just me, or are none of the forum related things on this site working?
Freedom.
The word leaves Mathew's lips in a rush, barely audible over the cascading booms of the cannons and the sound of guns being fired. But he says it a second time anyway, just as softly. And then a third time and a fourth time. Again and again he whispers the word to himself.
Freedom.
Pain courses though his body. Every time he moves. Every time he breathes. Like someone is digging knives deep into his flesh and twisting them, hard and fast and mercilessly. Smoke fills his lungs and burns his throat; the acrid taste having been a part of him since the war began three years ago.
Mathew is leaning against a large boulder in the middle of a field. Soldiers surround him on all sides, running and shooting and screaming. They are fighting for their countries. For their families. For the pride and the dreams that fuel them. But even louder for the comrades that fall beside him.
The Canadian isn't a fool. He knows that all sides fight for the same thing. He also knows that only one will win this horrid war.
A particularly loud gunshot rings in Mathew's ears and a new wound opens up on his chest. One of his soldiers has just died - leaving behind a gaping hole, both physically and metaphorically.
Freedom.
Mathew forces himself to whisper it again. The skin inside of his throat, raw and blistered from the chlorine gas and the fires that his troops have run through, tears. Blood fills his mouth as he coughs, one thin arm coming up to grasp his chest.
He cannot breathe right anymore.
He cannot see straight anymore.
All he knows is red hues and searing pain.
Still, the Canadian nation forces himself to lay an arm on the top of the cragged rock he is leaning against. It feels cold compared to his fever warm skin. Mathew digs his scraped and blood-tarnished fingers into the stone, does his best to get a good grip, and then does his best to haul himself into a crouch. A scream rips from his throat when he does, and even more of the metallic tasting liqued trickles down his throat.
Mathew refuses to waver.
He slings his other arm over the top of the boulder as well, ignoring the stabbing sensation that this brings. There is a large slash on that arm, running from his elbow nearly down to his wrist, caused by the trenches that his people have been forced to live and to die in. Then he takes a deep breath and hauls himself up on both feet. Ignores the pain and the sudden rush of light-headedness and the way his vision blurrs and fades.
Mathew throws himself into the battle alongside of his soldiers, his men, his people. He wields a bayonet just like they do. And his hands turn red just like theirs.
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Love.
Mathew gazes down at the long-limbed boy, no, not a boy, but at the man cradled in his arms. Dark green eyes are covered in a thin mist. The skin of the man's face is pulled taunt against bone, nicks and bruises decorating the pale flesh. A small trail of scarlet marks a line down from his mouth to his chin.
His name is Henry Freagh. He is seventeen years old. The only son in the Freagh family, the only father that either of his little sisters have ever known. War was not something he had ever wanted to take part in - but the letter arrived at his house almost seven months ago to the day and he was not one to turn down the request of his country.
Love.
Mathew thinks the word but doesn't say it. Cannot say it or anything else at that moment because the air that surrounds him is too thick with ash. But he thinks it, again and again, just like he has every day since Arthur told him about the war.
Because, really, that is what they are all fighting for when you take it apart. His people because they love their country and their families, because they want to keep them both safe and free. And Mathew...Mathew fights for many loves.
He fights for his people and for his land. Because they are a part of him. They are his children. His family. His very being.
He fights for Francis, who has lost so much in this convoluted war. Because though the french-nation has done him wrong time and time again, he still served as a father-figure in the young Canadian's life.
He fights for Kiku, for Ludwig, and for Feliciano. Because they are only in this war on their leaders wishes. They had no choice in the matter; yet they are still hated for it.
Mostly though, Mathew fights for Arthur. For the nation that was never quite a father-figure in his eyes but was always something more. Now is Mathew's time to show the British nation this. To show what he really means to Mathew.
First though he must take care of his fallen son.
Mathew takes one shaking hand, so thin that every bone can easily be seen, and slides Henry's eyes shut. He carefully lowers the soldier on the ground before standing up; because here, in this war, there is no time to bury all of the fallen. There is no time to bury Henry Freagh.
But there is time to write to his sisters and his mother back in Ontario and tell them what their young man was fighting for.
Love.
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Secrets.
Mathew wants to scream the word. To curse it. To make it so no one can ever utter those syllables again.
Because, now that he thinks about it, sitting there in the medical tent, that word has caused so much trouble. It has destroyed kingdoms and families. It is what has made this war so grand and terrible all at once.
Across from Mathew sits a soldier. Wearing the same uniform as the French regiment with short, curly auburn hair. Worried light green eyes gaze across the dimly lit tent, boring straight into Mathew's heart, mind, and soul.
Secrets.
They surround this soldier. Mathew spots them easily, because secrets surround him as well. He takes in every detail, every scratch, every bit of posture and he can tell.
This French soldier, who is being honoured for bringing home a fellow man from behind enemy lines, is not a man. This soldier is not a boy. It is a woman. Brave, bold, and courageous. Just like every other man, child, and hidden girl that fights in this war.
The name that she goes by is Tony Borne. Her real name is Charlotte. She fights because she is able and her younger brother, Antoine, is not.
So Mathew gives her a small smile and holds a thin finger up to his lips. He is greeted with startled eyes, then a grateful smile.
Mathew understands her struggles. He understands having something that is considered a fault and then being beaten down for it. There have been many a nation who told him he would never amount to anything - never have dominion over his own land, never be trusted, never be able to fight like everyone else. They told him, and they still tell him, that he will never be able to free his people.
Never be as good as the others.
Never live up to standards placed upon him before he could even speak.
Never be...Himself...Mathew...Mathieu...Matvey...Canada. Always, if they know the truth, he will be treated as a pre-figured thought to them.
So, yes, Mathew understands this soldiers secret. And he hates himself for it all the more.
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Finally.
It comes out as a sob. Wrenched from Mathew's throat even as he tries to hold it back. The noise that bursts from him burns his throat. The tears sting his eyes, one light blue, the other a filmed over grey.
Finally.
He sobs again, louder this time. The action shakes his frail body. But, for once, Mathew isn't ashamed to cry. He isn't worried about what the other nations will think, even though he knows that Alfred and Arthur will be coming over that hill any moment.
At this point, he just doesn't care.
Another sob leaves his throat. His legs give way - the khaki pants stained with dirt and blood, torn and ragged, no better off then the rest of the soldiers he has been in this war with. The moment Mathew's knee's hit the ground, jagged bolts of pain shoot up his back. Through his neck. Out his shoulders.
The tears run down his face freely, leaving behind almost clean looking streaks. Except that the skin they reveal isn't a light peach color. It's pale and sickly looking. In spots, around his left eye, the chlorine gas used on his men and women has left bright red blisters on the flesh. But the skin still looks stark and new compared to the mud and ash that coats the rest of his face.
Finally.
Mathew can't get anything to leave his throat but that one sobbed word. Can't get anything else to enter in his mind. He is so tired and sore and sick and happy.
The war that had taken up six years of his life, and the lives of his people, was over. Finally over - troops everywhere would be able to go home, including his own. After six long and grueling years of not touching Canadian soil, Mathew could return to his home in Yukon.
That one thought sends a light-headedness through him that no wound or fever could. Vision blurring and ears ringing, with both the cries and the cheers of his country, Mathew takes a shuddering breath. His body lurches foreward. Vaguely, underneath the sound of blood rushing to his ears and millions of people screaming, all for different reasons, Mathew can hear footsteps. Then warm and steady arms are around him, pulling him into a warm grasp that feels so incredibly close. Mathew smells gun powder, chamomile, and something that is everything and nothing all at once. Someone speaks and, though the Canadian nation can no longer make out the words, he knows it is in a comforting and soothing voice. And when Mathew looks up, just before his world goes black, he sees the worried face of Arthur looking down at him.
He can think only one thing.
Finally.
I'm free to love you.
No more secrets.
Finally.