One Day in Quebec

Genre: family/betrayal, aka hurt/comfort

Rating: PG-13

Characters: Canada, France, England, America

Warnings: Nothing really.

Part: 3/?

Disclaimer: Do not own. Characters only bear resemblance to living counterparts or other people through extreme coincidence. Characters' views do not represent my own.

Notes: ... So I kind of came right back from history class and started writing this, and finished it before I could go wait but I just posted another one last night and I have homework. My history notes are filled with symbols like --^-C and = and ~o~~ for today (...yes, I came up with a shorthand to make it easier than constantly having to write out 'France,' with that inadequately represented doodle of a rose; 'England,' because he is always 'Eyebrows' to France in particular; and 'Canada,' with the inadequately represented doodle of his ahoge, respectively. What? Hetalia lets me keep up in class when my prof talks too fast). The thing that struck me out of this mass is what follows.

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September 1759, Quebec City.

The soil was damp as Canada dropped to his stomach and wriggled forward through the yellow grasses to the edge of the cliff, and rested his chin on his hands. His heart was in his throat. Ships, so many, anchored on the far side, glimmering like a mirage against the yellow-green smear of horizon beyond. Not French ships. British. Somewhere over there, Canada knew, was a general that had been rumoured of even among his own people. And beside him, Canada knew as well, England would be standing, tense and impatient, just waiting for the opportunity to take on France one more time.

... England. He wasn't sure how he felt about that just yet.

England is the best! A familiar voice, cadences similar to his own, bright sparkling blue eyes, lighter than his own, a warm hand clutching his. He pays lots of attention to me and gives me presents, and even if I don't always like them, at least it means he's thinking about me. I think you'd really like him. You should come live with us. I want you to. We should stick together, right? Because we're brothers.

Right.

France had been otherwise occupied with his own generals for most of the summer. The ships had been camped all but on the doorstep for the whole time. Canada was left to his own devices. Canada was almost always left to his own devices, nowadays. That was fine.

Ever since the letters, I -

He'd known better than to go into France's room while he was gone across the ocean. He'd known better, but knowledge and emotions are two different things, and France had been gone for a long time; Canada's chest had ached with missing him, with expecting every set of footsteps coming up to his door to belong to the elegant man, who would sweep into the room and scoop Canada up into a big hug, covering him all over with kisses like he hadn't done since Canada was very small.

Canada had forgiven him, for not being there, even though he wished he was. France was always busy, and his own country was doing many things at once, that all required his attention; it was all right, if he couldn't spend as much time with him as he used to. After all, Canada was growing up. He didn't look as old as his brother, who still lived with England and still didn't mind the occasional babying, if what he'd heard from France was right, but it was different, he figured, if one was left alone a lot more often. So it was all right. He'd get stronger and grow taller, and then France would be proud of him, and then maybe France would let him help ease his burden instead of coddling him, and they could spend more time together again.

And then he'd found it.

Sir Francis Bonnefoy -

The wording in the letter left haphazardly on France's desk had been complex and long-winded, leaving Canada lost and dizzy in the maze of the sentence, but enough words and phrases jumped out at him to make his stomach go cold, even in this most familiar and comfortable of rooms. He read through it again, slowly, puzzling out the threads of the diction, and sank down to the floor. It was as though his knees were no longer there. He could hardly feel his legs at all. The letter trembled in his hands.

A... financial drain? An unprofitable market? A... a... burden to France? Just a few yards of snow, worth nothing?

No. No, that couldn't possibly be true. France wouldn't still smile at him so kindly if it were true. France would have told him if he were having problems, wouldn't he have? There was a reply, still being drafted, from France, and surely that reply would refute everything, would tell His Majesty flat out that this is not my will. I won't allow this to be done. You cannot part us; this land is now as much a part of France as Versailles and Nice and Savoy and Paris, the soil we build our cities upon.

But France's smooth hand told a different story from what he was expecting, behind the equally complex diplomatic language, and Canada read the draft through three - five - seven times before he could bring himself to understand the meaning. The gist of it was not very comforting:

What am I expected to do? Send him over, gift-wrapped, to England? Drain or no, I will not give the English bastard the satisfaction. I have my pride as well as you, your Majesty. We will hold onto him, and fight for him. But if we lose him, we lose him. We have our colonies in the West Indies to take his place.

He hadn't been able to look France in the eye, when at last the approaching footsteps did belong to him, and he swept in and dropped a familiar kiss onto Canada's forehead.

"Why so glum, darling?" France had asked, running a hand over his hair. "I thought you'd be glad to see me."

Canada had wanted to swear at him - America had taught him a new one that he thought singularly appropriate - and run out of the room. Canada had wanted to burst into tears and apologize for causing France trouble. He'd wanted to look him in the eye and ask why he'd never been told about this, why France couldn't trust him to try harder, for his sake.

What he'd said was: "Just tired, I guess," and swallowed hate and pain and guilt, done his best to put on a smile, for France's sake, because no matter what happened, France was still the most important person to him. He'd held back the tears until he was alone.

You promised you would always love me, Canada thought, tiredly. How many times, now? Foolishness. But knowing it to be foolishness didn't heal an aching heart. He glanced back over his shoulder at the walls of the city, stark and forbidding, and wriggled further forward in the grass, turning his gaze up and down the river.

There was a ship, bearing the English banner, further downstream, coming into view and beating against the current, and a thought occurred to him as he watched its slow and patient passage.

He'd heard the talk. Sometimes, now, it seemed that France hardly noticed him, and he could sit quietly in a corner with Kumajirou on his lap, and listen in on important meetings with important people, generals and emissaries from Paris or Versailles, and nobody even knew that he was there. So he knew this much: the English and their general were trying to find a way up to the city, to a place where they could meet the French on the most literal of level grounds, and show their might. But there was no way up, no way without being seen, and France's people were confident in the protection their cliffs and their superior position afforded them.

What if -

He sat back up, almost dizzy with it, and had to scramble away from the cliff edge to avoid plunging headfirst over the edge into the sunlit waters, and fell back onto his rear, nauseous yet exhilarated. Was he mad? To do such a thing - what would it mean? Was it worth it? Was this what he really wanted, or would he only be lashing out to hurt the person who was breaking his heart in two?

"Am I mad?" Canada whispered, and pushed himself, trembling, to his feet. He brushed off his clothes, dark with damp loam, and stared at the blackened palms of his hands.

France doesn't want me anymore. He doesn't care what happens to me. Why should I care what happens to him?

I love him. So much.

Just a few yards of snow.

"I'm mad," Canada said, and felt his eyes pricking with tears, even as he tilted his head back, smiling broken-crooked at the wild blue sky, and yelled it again to the heavens. "I'm mad!"

And he took off running, grasses whipping past his legs with a hiss like snakes lying in wait below the waving blades, and into the trees and scrub, branches scraping at a face that he shielded with one arm as he skidded down the narrow pathway to the rocky shore under the overhanging gloom of birch and maple.

The ship was drawing nearer. Canada could just make out tiny figures moving on the deck, and wriggled loose from shoes and stockings before wading out into the cold water of the river, undoing the sash at his waist as he went. It was white, and still gleamed in the sun despite the smears of dirt that darkened it. He held it up, high above his head, and let the wind catch and flutter it, bare toes gripping the riverbed to keep from being swept away. The water tugged at him and his clothes, trying to pull him loose. He held firm, though his feet and legs were soon aching with the chill.

He wasn't sure it was working until he saw the ship slow, and drop anchor about a quarter league away. He waded out, shivering, as a longboat was lowered from the rail, and was rowed towards him. Canada jumped up and down on the spot, retying his sash.

When the longboat finally ran aground, the only person he had eyes for was the man with the short choppy blond hair and summer-green eyes under thick brows raising rapidly in surprise as he splashed for the shore. The other men followed.

For a moment, Canada quailed under that gaze. What was he doing? What was he bringing on himself, on France? How could he do this? How could this possibly be right?

A few yards of snow. Valueless. A drain. A burden.

... How could he not? Even France would be better off if he just let himself be taken, as quickly as possible. He'd said so, himself, from the nib of a pen that was, after all, sharper than the blade of a knife. He took a deep breath, and steeled himself.

"... Canada?" England said, and Canada lifted his chin, proudly, trying not to show a trace of fear or uncertainty. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm going to show you the way up to the city," he said, and turned to gesture towards the shadowed intimation of a path behind him.

England's smile bloomed sudden and fierce, and he stepped forward and hugged Canada roughly to him, regardless of his sodden state. Canada buried his face in the warmth of England's waistcoat, still shivering. He smelled like salt air and old books and spices and tea. Very different from France. Canada's throat tightened.

"Get the boy a blanket," England ordered. "Mark well this place, all of you. We've found our way in."

Canada sniffled as England let him go, and one of the men brought forth a blanket from the compartment under the stern bench and draped it over his shoulders. He wrapped himself gratefully in it.

"Now, tell me everything," England said, and Canada bowed his head, eyes prickling again.

"There are hardly any guards on this side of the city," he said. "They think this way is foolhardy and stupid." He sniffled, a little. The man who'd given him the blanket pulled out a dry pocket handkerchief as well, and pressed it into his hand. Canada risked a watery smile for him, then took another deep breath. Once committed, never give up. He forgot who'd taught him that. "And that's why no one will ever suspect it."

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Notes:

The Seven Years' War between England and France began in North America in 1756. Lots of bickering over territory.

The Battle of the Plains of Abraham is generally considered to be the deciding factor in the overall victory of the English; however, it's also true that the Thirteen Colonies were busy being rather successful and prosperous, which made England considerably more committed to gaining more colonies and gaining more prosperity, giving them greater incentive to win Canada in the first place. The French crown, on the other hand, found New France/Canada to be, as Canada finds out, to be more of a drain and a disadvantage than anything else, and was beginning to focus its efforts elsewhere, such as in the West Indies, where the sugar plantations were doing a brisk business. They couldn't really afford to fight hard enough to win. This probably did more to direct Canada's eventual fate than any individual battle, no matter how decisive.

Apparently the phrase "a few yards of snow" is a translated quote from certain correspondence between the king and the governor/intendant of Quebec. I don't know if anything like the letters I made up here exist, but it covers the basic gist of that feeling. And yeah. That would hurt like hell.

The generally favoured formal writing style of the 18th century in Europe seems to have been that of long, complex sentences that run on for paragraphs at a time. I have seen a translation of a letter from the French king from around this time period, and watched in fascination as a single sentence filled the entire page. It's not hard to get lost in the sub-clauses.

This time period may really be where Canada first began to show his invisible qualities.

I'm not sure of the exact location of the little cove where the English found the narrow ravine route up onto the plains in front of the city, but it does exist, and it would have been within sight of the old city walls, which is why the French still weren't all that bothered by its existence. The French call it luck that the English found it and managed to utilize it. The English probably attribute it to the persistence and skill of General Wolfe and his men, who'd been searching for a way up for the majority of the summer.

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