May 4, 2012
New story here! It's going to be a long, multi-chaptered fic as I try to explore the changing relationship between America and England. Plus, a rare take on India's role in England's life and how America truly wasn't all that important during his colonial years; India was considered "the crown jewel." However, it'll be more of the effects on America and England more than anything.
Summary: The years throughout; since the colonial years to the present time, America and England had never truly been able to sever all ties. From one thing to another, they end up back in the life of the other. A story of love, rebellion, reluctance, and renewal.
Letting You Go; Letting Me Leave
...but somehow, we both wound up in the same place...
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.1637.
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He sat silently on the large boulder, staring out at the vast expanse, as a soft breeze brushed against the tips of the tall, greenish-yellow grass, creating ripples along the prairie. His blue eyes, round and dominant on his childish features, shone in the sun's light, warm and comforting on his small figure. A shadow of a smile graced his peachy lips, an expression of contentedness as he observed the beautiful nature of his country.
He lifted his arm in front of him, tracing the birds' flight and the flow of the leaves with his puny finger, entranced by it all. He loved watching the fluff of clouds idle by in the scenery, slowing cruising along the never-ending paint of blue that was the sky.
The corner of his lips stretched upward, his smile growing into a full out, white-toothed grin once he noticed the black silhouette in the distant tree soar into the sky.
That majestic and young bald eagle, the one he had always looked for whenever he came here, on his place atop the boulder, overlooking the prairie around him.
Little America had felt giddy the past week, his excitement surging exponentially as each day passed, waiting for that day. The day he would, once again, be able to hear stories of adventures at sea, of pirates and privateers, of wars and glory. The breeze brushed through his sun-kissed, blonde hair, bright due to his young age. The short, stubborn cowlick fluttered at its tip, blowing with the zephyr.
A letter from England arrived last week, informing the little boy of the former's visit in a month.
And that would be in two weeks.
Young America enjoyed England's presence; he learned of so many things he'd never imagined before, heard of so many ideas that he never knew was possible. Before England and France came, he only knew of wandering the lands, working with nature, and living as the wind guided him.
America had no problem being by himself; he never truly was alone. The animals kept him company while the plants gave him shelter. He loved being out in the lands, out in the prairies.
Pushing himself off the boulder with his soft arms, he jumped into the tall grass and ran. He inhaled a deep breath of his favorite fresh grass fragrance, laughter bubbling out from his lips as his little legs carried him away.
The two older men had come not too long ago, bringing with him curious objects, people, and customs. America still wondered why all the frills and elaborate designs of the clothes were necessary.
At the time, he didn't realize the two had been trying to win his affection, what with the goods they brought and the attention they gave. In the beginning they visited rather frequently, every time with more people, supplies, and gifts.
That one time, in a last desperate attempt, they both offered their last resort. France lured America with promises of culture and delicacies, and America did not understand. Why would he want any of that, when he didn't even know what they were, what those words meant?
England had tried, to America's horror, to perform some terrifying ritual. Behind his tears, the boy noticed the perplexed expression in those dark green eyes, noticed something in them that he didn't quite understand.
That man, England, Arthur, him; there was something more about him, something America wanted to know. He wanted to find out what exactly made that man so intriguing.
Or maybe it was just because Little America hadn't seen nearly enough of the world yet. Maybe that was why England captivated him with stories of battles, of worlds he hadn't seen before, of games he, at that time, didn't know were malice intentions shrouded in apparent munificence.
He recognized the familiar river, the constant sound of rushing water, and he knew he was nearing the English settlements. They hadn't explored that far into the lands yet; not where America had been, in the seemingly continuous expanse of the prairies.
America slowed his stubby legs, coming to a casual walk as he entered the town. It was bustling with people; not that there were many, but enough that the area was noisy with work. Men pulled their horses through, women hung the laundry, children chased after kicked rocks. No one paid America any heed as he passed through, though he was watching every action with a curious and keen eye, his head turning at every fluctuation of sound, his face lighted up in delighted eagerness.
Once he began to grow bored at the repetitiveness of the townspeople, Little America quickened his pace. Maybe he'd be able to reach the ports before England arrived.
"Alfred!"
The little boy turned at the call of his name.
"Where are you rushing to, lad?"
Alfred remembered the man. He was the one who taught him how to care for cows properly. That was surely a fun experience.
He walked up to the middle-aged man, who was leaning against the stable, both with grins on their faces.
"I must get to Boston, sir! A friend of mine is arriving in two weeks." America continued smiling.
"Boston! Did you say Boston? Why, how would you travel so far by yourself?" The elder man looked incredulous. The boy didn't know what he was talking about.
Little America's smile did not falter, although his forehead creased slightly and his eyes reflected some confusion. "By feet, sir." How else would he travel?
The man was rendered speechless, his mouth slightly ajar to speak, but he uttered no word, until he finally regained his senses and exclaimed, "By Heavens, no! You'll not live to see another ray of the sun sooner than you'll breathe your next breath!"
America's face dropped into a small pout. Why, he had done it before, years ago.
"You're still considering it, aren't you, lad?"
America's lips pressed into a thin line, and he avoided eye contact, staring to the side at the dirt floor.
"I still have no idea where you came from, but damned would I be if-"
He stopped abruptly and called behind him at the shout of his name, answering with, "I'm here! What do you need?"
A woman's voice shouted again, "Quit your idling and come along to give me a hand!"
America had taken the time to slip away, silently sliding to the side before sprinting down the road and into the forests again.
When the man turned around to persuade America again, the little boy had disappeared. The man sighed, shaking his head in defeat. That boy was a delight, and respectful, but dear God, was he intransigent.
America ran on, relishing the fresh scent of nature around him, hearing the birds flutter and squirrels scurry away from him.
Oh, was he elated!
Finally, he'd have company, someone who he can tell everything to after years bereft of such. Running around the lands, living with nature, with the native tribes, and occasionally with the townspeople, America couldn't say he disliked that type of lifestyle; rather, he loved it.
But, the contrast England brought excited America. He knew so much more than him, taught him so many new things. Maybe he understood America's life; maybe he'd understand everything America cherished-his lands, the people, the natural life.
If he could get to Boston soon, he'd see England. How long had it been since his last visit?
Sixteen years ago...this time was the longest interval England had ever been away.
When he'd first arrived on these lands, he never left for long. America had seen him arguing with France, both on very high tensions at first, until France visited him less and less.
England had always been there, making sure France was no where nearby, had always asked America about what he had done in England's absence.
Once France stopped coming nearly as much, however, England seemed to relax-because of what, Little America did not know, and stopped visiting as frequently, too.
America didn't mind. He'd lived long enough without them. But knowing that he'd see England soon made his stomach knot in anticipation. It was fun being around him.
America did wonder, though, about what delayed England so long. The longest he had ever been away since meeting America was five years, and now it had stretched to sixteen...
America made a small mental note to ask England when he saw him.
Oh, when he would see him! America pumped his little legs faster, beginning to feel the fatigue starting. He knew he'd be able to continue for a while more; it was fine.
But England! He'd see him soon, so soon. America's lips broke into a wide grin, ecstatic at the thought.
Two weeks, just two more weeks.
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1637.
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To be continued...