That must've been the moment it started.
It had been the deciding factor of the Revolutionary War. If England could shoot the American, then Britain won. America wouldn't gain his independence, and Britain would still have control over him. This should've been enough reason to shoot the man, but still, he faltered. He couldn't shoot him.
Arthur Kirkland couldn't shoot him.
Of course he knew that if he shot the man, he would not die. Even if he were to shoot him straight through the heart, it wouldn't have been a fatal wound. But despite this, he still could not shoot him. By doing so would forever damage the American's pride. It would've made him forever hostile to Britain, and especially to England, to him.
And no matter how he tried to deny it, he didn't want that to happen.
Often, the nation had abused his previous colonies, even shooting them as he'd refused to do to America, but the blond was different. He could never bring himself to be angry at him, even as a child, much less abuse him. Sometimes he wondered why, but deep inside, he knew. It was because he was his brother.
Alfred F. Jones was his brother.
To him, to Arthur, he wasn't just a nation, not just one of his colonies, but he was Alfred F. Jones, his younger brother, the one he'd raised and… loved. To Arthur, he would always be his brother.
That's why he lost.
He dropped to his knees, musket abandoned on the wet ground as he held his head in his dirtied hands. He could only hope that the blond couldn't see his tears thought the rain as violent tremors wracked his body. He didn't dare look up, in fear of seeing the American's face. Would it hold an expression of triumph? Would he treat him cruelly and sadistically?
He didn't want to look up at the man before him. He'd grown so much since he'd found him. Had it really only been a few decades? It seemed as though it and only been yesterday when he'd seen the blond as a young child, proudly holding a rabbit he'd managed to catch. He'd grown so much since then, so much stronger. He couldn't help but feel torn between feeling proud and being so indescribably sad. He had watched the boy grow, but now he was leaving. He didn't need him anymore. Did he ever really need him in the first place?
He feared that if he looked up into those youthful blue eyes, he'd absolutely lose control. He could only accept his defeat, his failure to hold onto the American.
That day, Arthur felt as though he had lost a piece of himself through the American Independence. That moment was when his feelings of longing, regret and doubt began, when he stopped smiling while faced with the American. It was the day he began to see Alfred F. Jones as a nation, as a man.
'You used to be so small…'