Arthur Kirkland sighed, and, for what was probably the thousandth time that day, asked himself what he was doing in his former colony.
His government had been against it, saying they needed to stay neutral. His people had been against it, arguing that their country's honor had been insulted in the Trent Affair. Hell – he had been against it, up until America sent him a letter.
It had been short, to the point, and had so many misspelled words (such as the "u" missing in "colour") that the personification of England considered throwing it into his house's fireplace without reading it. Three words at the bottom of the page, however, had caught his attention before he chucked it into the inferno.
I need you.
His war with America had been at least eighty years ago. He was over it by now, and quite was sure America was, but there will still something about his former colony that made him go soft. America obviously still held him in high regards – though he was apt to deny it – and England hoped the "little brother" that he loved was still in there.
It was a foolish hope, though. The "little brother" he knew was cute, adorable, and everything a good child should be. The current America was rude, ungrateful, and pretty much qualified for every definition of "arse."
However, when he had read the letter, an image of a crying little boy had filled his mind; a little boy that had hair like his own and who refused to talk the Queen's English. The little boy had been clinging to his leg, begging him not to go, bawling his eyes out at the prospect of not seeing him every day. England had been so moved by the flashback that he got on the next ship to America the next day, regretting his decision the whole journey.
Stepping off of said boat, Arthur wobbled as he got used to being back on solid land. Being on a boat for weeks had brought back memories of his pirate days, though not necessarily the skills that came with them, such as being able to turn his "sea legs" on and off at will.
He spotted Alfred, the personification of America, straight away. He had grown, Arthur noted, since the last time he saw him and the way he carried himself wasn't as proud and entitled as it usually was. As he came closer, Arthur noticed Alfred had dark bags under his eyes and a good number of bruises and scrapes on him. His signature American smile was tight, but not forced, and eyes seemed to be haunted, as if they belonged to an older country who had seen numerous bloody wars.
Fighting the semi-parental urge (that had died somewhat over the years, but was still there nonetheless, no matter how hard he tried to bury it) to fly into a panic and fuss over his former colony, England kept a cool composition and stopped in front of him.
"America," he said.
"S'up, British dude?" The phrase Alfred had used when Arthur had come to visit him back in his colony days no longer held the same jovialness to it, but more of a grim reminder of what once was. They both grimaced at the reminder of the past.
America swallowed. "You got my letter?"
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't," England said, his sentence sounding more like a retort than a statement. "You said you needed help."
"I do."
"I'm sorry to say, America, but my country can't help you. My leaders want to remain neutral. They're unhappy that I'm even here."
"Why are you here, then? You could've just sent a letter telling me you can't –"
England held up a hand. "I said my country couldn't help you. I never said I couldn't."
"So you'll help?"
"I can't offer supplies, soldiers, financial aid, or any of the other usual items, but I can be here."
"That's all I need." America smiled. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it," England huffed, and America seemed to laugh at it a bit.
"Anyways," England continued, "you said you had a little problem that you especially needed help with. I don't think this war is a 'little problem,' America, and I hardly think you do too, so, would you care to explain?"
"Ah." America's smile turned bitter. "That was a bit of a play on words, I guess. You know how my Southern states succeeded from me?"
"Yes."
"They have their own name, and even formed a constitution and everything. You know what that means?"
"Er…not necessarily…."
America sighed. "The Confederate States of America, the Confederacy, the South, whatever it's called, had taken on its own personification."
"What?" England took a step back with shock. "When?"
"I fought a little boy wandering the battle field after the fight at Fort Sumter. I tried to talk to him, but he started screaming at me about rights. Trying to calm him down was hell, but when he stopped yelling, he started hitting me."
"You think just because a child doesn't like you, it makes them the personification of your succeeded states?"
"Was that supposed to be a joke? 'Cause I'm serious, dude. The kid then started yelling about how I should just give up and let him separate already. I asked him his name and he said –" America took a deep breath "– and he said his name was the South. He told me he was the Confederacy and that he was going to, as he said, 'whoop my ass.' He ran away from me, and the next time I saw him he was riding with Stonewall into battle."
"Stonewall?"
"Stonewall Jackson, one of the Confederate's generals," America explained. "Nick-named so due to the little fact that he refused to move in battle – like a stone wall. He's dead, though."
"Impaled by his own sword then?" England asked, remembering snippets of information about the infamous general.
"I guess, but if by impaled you mean shot, and sword you mean his own men. It was accident, of course, but just goes to show that you should always wave your own flag while riding into your territory."
"They have a flag?"
America rolled his eyes. "They thing they're a country. Duh."
"Watch your tone, wanker. I could hop back on that boat right now if I wanted."
"You won't."
"And how are you so sure?"
America shrugged. "I'm not. I just hope you won't."
England rolled his eyes. "I can't argue with that logic."
America smiled and shook his head. He seemed to have more life in him than before, and was borderline normal-America again instead of his gloomy look alike. "C'mon," he said. "Let's go back to my place. Mattie's probably made pancakes."
England thought for a moment, the name ringing a bell. He couldn't place it. "Mattie?"
America gave him a funny look. "Mattie…you know…you only raised him for a good chunk of his life."
England shook his head. "I don't remember."
America huffed and put his hands in his pockets. "No one does, except me."
"America," Arthur said, getting annoyed. "Who is Mattie?"
"Mattie is Matthew Williams," Alfred said, puffing out his chest as a tone of pride slipped in his voice as he said the name. "He's my brother, and he's helping me in this war."
"America, you don't have a-"
"Yes I do." America smirked at England's indignant face. He always hated being interrupted. "Mattie is also known as the United Province of Canada, and, like I said; he probably has pancakes waiting for us. C'mon!"
A/N: Eh, first chapters always suck.
As for my historical accuracy, it's pretty accurate and the things that aren't will be explained in the next few chapters.
There will be a little USUK fluff in the next chapter involving pancakes, and the Franada will come in after France makes a fabulous entrance.
Also, just as a warning, there will be plenty of stereotypes in this fic, 'cause, hey, it's Hetalia! (I apologize in advance to any Southerners, but again, it's all for the sake of comedy.) Also, they'll all talk in modern day lingo because, again, it's Hetalia.
Review?