Notes: De-anon from the kinkmeme. Original prompt was: "Somehow (magic, invention, fate) America and Canada get stuck in the past and are unable to get back to their own time period. Therefore, they have to live out the time until they reach their own time period. It can be a long story, or a brief snippet of a certain time period, it is up to the author." Bonus included Rome taking them as servants, which isn't quite what happens here.
Anyway, this story is told in a non-chronological order.
In his arms, Francia—as he has asked Canada to call him—sleeps. At his side, Canada wishes he could claim the same for America. Next to him, America sits, wounds bandaged but eyes unfocused as he looks up to the night sky. His lips are mouthing something, but Canada hears nothing but breath too soft for real words escaping his brother's lips. In his hands, America holds the sad, twisted remains of Texas—it will take ages to repair the frames, never mind the special glass that both it and Canada's own glasses use. That might have to wait for centuries; it's only good luck that neither of them actually need their vision corrected, otherwise America would be much more upset than he (probably) already is.
Canada's leg aches from where a spear nicked him; America nearly flipped out when he saw the blood, and no amount of protest could stop America. He insisted Canada take care of his own wounds before Canada could even get close enough to inspect America's. At the moment, Canada decides he'd give up ever complaining again about people not recognizing him if he could have a bottle of antiseptic and a hot bath. Or a stack of pancakes, smothered in maple syrup. Actually, he might just be willing to let the leg go for a decent meal. Francia could only offer him crusty bread and molding trail rations before Canada went hunting.
Said child shifts in his arms, but Canada's fears prove unfounded as the child merely drifts back off in sound sleep. At least one of them is resting.
Finally, he glances back to his brother. He's still mouthing words, but every now and then something intelligible slips out. "Ursa Major…Mizar…north to Thuban…Kochab."
The silence and curiosity are killing Canada, so he decides at last to comment. Carefully shifting Francia to his other arm, he rests one hand against America's shoulder; when he gets a continued lack of reaction, he eases down next to his brother. "What are you doing?"
America nods up to the sky. "Mapping the stars."
Canada blinks and glances up. "Can you tell where we are?"
"They've shifted," America sighs. "I didn't exactly commit the night sky of nearly two thousand years ago to memory."
Despite the fact that they're speaking in English, Canada still elbows his brother. Best nip this problem in the bud before America one day actually says something like that around someone that can understand them.
America grunts. "Yeah, yeah. No future talk. I remember."
Canada softens and looks away, sighing as well. Francia has fisted his little fingers—it's so weird, to think of anything about France as little—and curled his head into Canada's chest. Such a sweet looking child, it's almost hard to imagine this little cherub as the fierce little fighter he saw earlier or the conquering empire and gentle lover he would one day grow up to be. Silently, Canada reaches up and cups his hand to the back of Francia's head, prompting a smile from the sleeping child.
Everything is so messed up.
"I can tell the way north though."
Canada starts before glancing back up to his twin. "You mean the North Star?"
"Yep—well. This time's North Star." Before Canada can jab him again, America swats his arm. "You asked."
Relaxing, Canada looks up to the stars as well. "It's not Polaris, then, eh?"
"Nope. Kochab now—at least it's still in Ursa Minor."
Canada smiles. "Well. At least I know where that is."
America goes silent again; this is the quietest Canada's heard his brother in a long time. Just another thing adding to how fundamentally wrong everything about this picture is. Only Francia's sleepy sighs and the crackling of the fire break the silence. Desperately, he longs for his little polar bear, his constant companion. Instead, he has to make do with cuddling Francia closer to him, gently running the pad of his thumb against the boy's blond crown.
"So."
His brother is speaking again; Canada turns back to him. "Yes?"
"You can just ask about it, you know."
Ah. That is so like America. Canada looks down to Francia and forces himself not to fidget, if only for the tiny nation's sake. "I wasn't sure if you wanted to talk about it or not."
"It'd be better than you acting like I'm about ready to bite your head off."
Now Canada has to fight not to roll his eyes. "Forgive me for thinking you might want some time to yourself." He pauses, temper vanishing as he glances sideways to his brother. America looks weary and wary, not like he usually does after a battle, especially one that they essentially won. This look of his is more like the tired bitterness he wore during his Civil War. Canada reaches out and rest his palm against his brother's arm. "What was it like?"
"Horrible," America answers promptly, fast enough for Canada to realize that America probably really was waiting for him to ask. He feels a swell of guilt for more than one reason. "I forgot how much I hate being bossed around. Or how degrading a slave auction actually is."
There are a hundred loaded statements Canada can think of to answer that, but Canada is almost certain America wouldn't think twice of pounding him into the dirt for them, holding a child or rescuing him aside. Besides, he isn't that much of an asshole. "I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner."
"At least you came," America replies, shrugging. "I still would have busted myself out sooner or later."
"I'm sure you would have."
"And you can bet your ass it would have been amazing too."
For the first time that day, Canada has to smile. "I don't doubt it."
America finally tears his gaze away from the stars to look at him, his hand finally coming up to rest against Canada's, still pressed against his arm. "Better not."
They fall into a far more comfortable silence than before, America shifting back to the stars and Canada focusing on tossing another log onto the fire, stirring up the flames once more. Sitting back, Canada frowns before looking to his southern neighbor. "Was it…"
"What?"
Canada fidgets, trying to find a more comfortable position for his leg before continuing. "Was it bad working for Rome?"
"You mean, did it suck as much as you think it did to be a slave to the Roman Empire?"
Canada winces. "Something… like that."
"Well then, yeah. It really sucked. Really, really sucked," America grunts and glares up at the stars. "…to be honest, it's probably a good thing you came now." Canada looks up in time to see America's grim smirk. "I probably would have raised all kinds of hell if you hadn't shown up when you did."
Meaning America would have been in serious trouble, trouble that could have landed him with very painful consequences. Ones that neither of them are one hundred percent certain their bodies can withstand anymore, being as literally far away from their homelands as they are.
Still, at least America's bravado isn't dead yet. There's only so much of a quiet, harsh America he can take at a time, and Canada's half sure he's at his limit already. So he sidles up closer to his brother, leaning his head down until he can rest it against America's uninjured shoulder. After a moment, America loops his arm around Canada's shoulder and rests his head against Canada's head. "How did they figure out that you're a nation?"
"Germania did," America grunts, annoyance clear in his voice. "At the auction, I tried to break out—he stopped me and then he just looked at me. I swear, you know that look Germany gives you when he's trying to figure you out? Germania could beat that any day. Rome decided to buy me after that, but I pissed them off when I refused to say which nation I was. So they decided I needed a little 'discipline'." America snorts. "Like that has ever worked on me."
That explains all the bruises. "Everything's so messed up," Canada finally whispers, giving voice to his thoughts.
America sighs and squeezes his shoulder. "I know. But we ain't dead yet, so don't give up on me now."
Well, looks as though America's daring has returned in full force. Canada smiles to hear that familiar certainty once more. "I won't if you won't."
"Nothing to worry about there. What we need to do next is find England and see if he can send us home."
Canada flinches and pulls away. "America, I don't know if England's even alive yet. I talked to Britannia after I found her while looking for you, and when I asked her about her youngest son, she talked about Wales. Well—I think it was Wales—she kept calling him by that name Scotland and Ireland does…"
"Cymru?" America shifts so that they are face to face. Without thinking about it, they lower their voices while Francia twitches in his sleep.
"Yeah. But, America, even if England is around, who's to say he can send us home. I don't even understand how we got here, so, how would even begin to explain about this?"
America gives a real smile finally. "I'll think of something."
"America…"
"Look, Canada, do you want to stay here?" America asks bluntly before his eyes flicker down to the child in Canada's arms. "I'd understand if you want to stay with him, but I'm going."
Canada has to stop and force himself to take a breath, counting up in his head until he can control himself. "Splitting up won't do either of us any good," he says finally. "And I'm not sure I trust you running around Britain, chasing down a nation that might not exist at the moment, without blabbing to the first person you meet that you're from the future and that you need help to get back."
America's distressed and melodramatic wail is enough to make Canada smile. "Dude, that was cruel! I can totally keep a secret, you know—I don't have the CIA for nothing."
"Point," he concedes, or rather pretends to. "But I would like to hear an actual plan before we go running off anywhere."
"Details, details," America grumbles. To Canada's distress, that weary look creeps back into America's face. "But you know… I really wouldn't mind if you did decide to," he pauses, staring so pointedly at Francia that Canada knows he can't ignore it now. "To stay here."
Canada looks down at the small blond in his arms. Never in all the centuries that he's lived, did Canada ever imagine that his and France's roles would ever switch. Everything is so messed up, he thinks again, glancing away from the child. "No, I won't be staying here." He knows without looking that America's eyes are trained on him, but when he looks he finds they aren't accusatory, but rather curious. "I… it's hard enough just to be here like this. I don't think I can stand having to stay like this." Close enough to touch, but not enough to trust. Canada frowns at his neighbor. "I don't see how you're going to stand being near England without…" He trails off at America's sardonic look and blushes. "I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."
America sighs and looks back to the stars. Canada's worries that he might have accidently murdered the conversation, but America finally smiles. "I've waited nearly three hundred years for him. I'm not giving up now."
Canada pauses to consider his brother before gently letting go of Francia to rest against his lap and turning to drag his brother into a tight embrace. America doesn't resist and in turn buries his face into his northern neighbor's shoulder.
"We can't stay here long—we need to get some sleep," Canada murmurs. America nods and pulls back one arm while leaving the other tucked behind his brother's back. In his lap, Francia slumps to the side until he spills over into America's lap. Rather than shrug him back, America uncurls his legs so that Gaul's son can rest easier against the North American brothers' laps. Canada smiles and glances up to the stars.
Once upon time, he overheard America singing—which was not unusual, and was something that he still did to the point of driving others to their wits ends. But those songs were different, songs of freedom. Follow the Drinking Gourd, follow the North Star, to freedom and salvation they said. That must be what America is doing now.
He didn't know if following the North Star would still lead to freedom, but Canada lays his head against his brother's shoulder once more and prays that maybe it still will. If nothing, at least, he had his brother back, and that is all he truly cared about at the moment.
Canada watched his brother, musing at how unkind time could be. After five minutes, America looked somewhat amused—"and he complains when others are late?" he asked, rolling his eyes—ten minutes later, America looked down at his watch in confusion. Fifteen minutes and he checked his phone. Half an hour, he tried to call, worry clear in his voice. One hour and America was bored out of his skull.
Two hours passed, however, and America was furious. "He ditched us," America said again. This time his voice was deceptively tranquil.
Canada was starting to worry that if England didn't show up soon, his brother would pitch a tantrum that would impress a colicky newborn. "Maybe there's traffic."
"Or maybe one of his imaginary friends decided to invite him to a tea party and he ditched us."
"He's only…" Two hours late. Canada grimaced. "We could try calling him again."
America snorted. "Fuck it, why bother?" he sneered, snatching Canada's hand after grabbing his luggage. "Let's just get a taxi—I'll chew him out when we get there."
When his protests fell on deaf ears, Canada sighed and let his brother drag him out of the airport. He really should have insisted on staying at a hotel for the meeting.
One thing has to be said for the Roman Empire—he certainly had a fine eye for architecture. It is no wonder where Italy and his brother got their tastes. Even now, in what Canada is mostly sure is late fourth century, when Rome's power waned, he still kept his townhouse in a luxurious state. It is a shame he could not see it better in the dim light—the moon barely revealed the bright walls and their shadowed red bases, noticeably clear of graffiti. Either everyone knew whom this home belonged to and didn't dare touch them, or Rome had the walls repainted recently. America no doubt would have loved it, if it only it weren't for the current circumstances.
Ahead of him, Francia waits for a signal from one of his soldiers before waving Canada and the others forward. Quietly, they all creep in through the servant's entrance—which was unusually fancy with a decorated border, probably just one of the coming signs Rome placed about his home to herald his wealth. They spread out through the hall and Canada takes a moment to glance back over his shoulder; he sees the carefully maintained garden of the peristilum, with its uniform bushes, bubbling fountain, and elegant columns. On the far wall, Canada sees a hint of a mural, but there is not enough light to tell what it might be pictured.
It really is a shame. America would really have adored this, but then, perhaps his ever optimistic brother did manage to find some joy. At least Canada hopes so.
They move to the right, slipping behind a curtain and entering the tablinium. Again the light is dim, but Canada sees faint gleams of bright colors of the frescos, and nearly mistakes a bust for a crouching figure while they slip past the low tables and short chairs.
On the other side of the next curtain, there is a torch burning, tossing a faint glow out into the atrium. The impluvium shines bright in the flickering light, the mosaic and polished marble nearly glowing. On the far side of the impluvium, there is an altar and statues of a god Canada doesn't recognize. The doors leading to the vestibulum are shut tight for the night, but useless now that Canada and the others are inside already.
For a moment, Canada worries that the Roman Empire is really still there, instead of being with his grandsons in one of his villas in the country. Canada would hate to run into him or Germania—it was bad enough to run into France, who knew what would happen if he ran into anyone else and somehow throw history off course. One of the men, however, gives a hand signal which Canada presumes to mean 'all clear'—he really should have remembered to ask what it meant, but it's too late to worry now.
They sneak further into the atrium, clinging to the walls as they near closed doors. This is not an ambush, Canada wants to remind them, only a rescue mission. All the same, the warriors hold their weapons at the ready, looking a little too eager to make use of them in Canada's opinion. An in-an-out operation Francia promised; it hardly looks like that to Canada.
The first room on the east side is empty, the second as well. The third, however, opens to reveal a sleeping form on the bed. Canada doesn't ignore that fact, but still he his heart hammers when he sees the familiar shape of his brother curled up on the floor.
It takes a considerable amount of his willpower not to rush in—no doubt like America would, guns blazing and lips split in a wide grin—but the others part so he can slip inside, Francia following on tiptoes as they near his brother.
America's back is to them, his shirt gone but somehow he still has his pants even if they are in tatters, and Canada sees a dark smudge of a bruise, starting from the base of his shoulder blade, winding up around the shoulder. Canada's stomach twists at the sight and he wonders how many other bruises his brother must have gained since he was captured nearly a month ago.
America is awake, he realizes, and probably has been listening this whole time, although what he is thinking, Canada has no clue. Slowly, Canada reaches out and takes a steady breath before he taps his brother's arm four times. Three dots, one dash; V, V for Victory. America tenses, but then relaxes, nearly going limp in relief at the familiar pattern—it was a habit they got into during the World War, knocking at doors or tapping each other to let the other know who was there. America then taps the ground four times as well, one dash, one dot, another dash, and finally one last dot then three dots and two dashes—C for Canada and a question mark. Canada merely clasps his brother arm in silent confirmation and America's hand comes up to squeeze his fingers.
It's when his brother's arms move that Canada hears the rasps of chains against the floor. On the bed, someone snorts in their sleep then turns over. They both tense, Francia at Canada's side does as well, but then Francia carefully steps over America's side and reaches for the manacles. They have no key, but Canada tries to rub his brother's arm to soothe him while Francia picks the locks.
Carefully, Francia eases one manacle off before prying the other loose as well then moving down to the shackles on America's feet. Just what sort of trouble has his brother been getting into, anyway?
There is no time to ask; Francia gets both shackles off quickly and he steps back to give America room. America, however, doesn't jump to his feet like Canada half expects him to. For a moment, he starts to rise then nearly falls back with a thud—face hidden, he squeezes Canada's fingers again before letting go to point downward, to his hip. Confused, Canada glances down and sees the problem—the pants hide the worst of it, but there's a dark stain where a bruise has blossomed on his brother's skin.
Francia looks confused, but Canada understands instantly. Someone has injured America's leg and he needs help standing. Gently, Canada takes the arm closest to him and pulls it around his neck before snaking his free arm behind America's back to wrap around his side. America winces and Canada bites his lip to keep from apologizing as he hits more bruises. Slowly, Canada starts to pull his brother up to his feet, while America can only push himself upward with his free arm.
Upright, there's enough light here that Canada can see how much his brother's body has been marked. There are rings of bruises around areas that Canada knows how to hit to inflict the most pain—whoever did this to America, they knew exactly what they were doing. He isn't entirely certain, but Canada feels his stomach sink to realize that nearly every inch of America's torso has been hit at least once, old bruises overlapped with newer ones, like a bad tie dye shirt. There is another bruise on America's jaw and his left eye is puffy—he was hit perhaps barely an hour or two ago and the swelling is only starting to go down, even with their speedy healing. Still, America smiles when their eyes meet and it's almost enough to make Canada smile back.
Quietly as they can manage while hobbling, Canada repositions himself so he won't constantly brush against America's hurt side before they turn together and make for the door where Francia is already hurrying through. America limps along besides him, and then they're through the door, moving as quickly as stealth will allow back to the tablinium. At his side, America is grinning as much as his sore face will allow and Canada finds he really can smile back now if he wants. They are almost free.
And then, the warrior on their right falls to the ground, an arrow in his back.
At least America has sense enough not to fight as Canada scrambles away, ducking behind a column as more arrows begin to slice through the air. Francia's warriors scatter and ready their weapons—the fight they wanted earlier has arrived.
He eases America down to the floor—although the column isn't wide enough to make for decent cover, there isn't anywhere else to put him. Without prompting, he hands America a spear before he pulls out the pair of knives Francia gave to him earlier.
There are more people now, although Canada doesn't think they are guards. Only a trio of men holds their weapons with an expert's grace; the leader could have passed for a long haired Germany. Germania then, like Francia had warned him.
Just before he ducks around the column, knives at the ready, America catches his arm. He will not be any use in this fight, but America still gives him a careless grin. "Hey—give him hell, bro."
Canada pauses then presses a kiss to his brother's cheek. "Don't die before I get back."
"What? When I'm so close to being free? Like hell I will! You worry about yourself, bub."
Canada nods. "Back in a minute, eh?"
America grins wider and Canada surges out of their hiding spot, off to protect his family again.
Outside the airport, it was pouring rain. America barely stopped to mutter a "Figures" before running out to wave down a taxi. Canada merely sighed and waited under the overhanging lip of the building while America hailed a taxi.
Luckily, a taxi pulled up and America spoke to the driver for a moment before hurrying back to Canada. "Come on, he won't wait forever."
Canada sighed and grabbed his things before he too ran out into the rain. Of course it would be pouring when they arrive, instead of the light rainfall Canada usually associated with England's home this time of year. By the time they toss their things in the trunk, his hair was plastered to his face. They both jump in the backseat, shivering and soaked. America told the driver England's address before falling back against the seat with a wet thud that makes the driver wince.
"I am so letting him have it when we get there," America groused, shaking his head like a wet dog. Canada sighed and tried to wring out his hair. This visit was somehow managing to look worse and worse with each passing moment.
Although this is his first time meeting her, Canada feels a little disappointed to have not met Gaul earlier. The (once mostly) Celtic nation is still lovely and elegant as she stands to greet him—she knows he is another nation and treats him respectfully, something he tries to return in earnest—but Canada can only imagine what a stunning beauty this woman was centuries before. There are shocks of grey running through her blonde hair, but her violet eyes are still sharp as she studies him; without a doubt, France takes after his mother.
She smiles, holding out her hands in welcome. "Greetings, my brother," she nearly purrs, and God, she even sounds like France, her voice low and rich like France's wines. "It is always a pleasure to meet a new nation, although, I am afraid I must admit that I know not your name."
"Forgive me, my lady," he replies, nodding to her in deference. "My name is Matthaios. The pleasure is all mine; I'm honored that you agreed to meet with me."
Gaul barely bats an eye, but the small twitch of her right hand before she clasps them in her lap gives her way, just as it does France when he does it. "Matthaios? That is a Greek name, isn't it?"
Canada tries not to shrug since he can't remember what gestures would be offensive in this time. "It's the closest translation of my name." Human name, anyway.
She smiles as she considers him. "I take it that your lands are not near here?"
"No, my lady. I'm afraid I'm a long way from home."
"Ah, I see. Having traveled so far then, may I ask if your trip is for business or pleasure?"
He tries not to fidget as she watches him. "Family matters. It seems my brother's gone and gotten himself in trouble in Rome."
Gaul perks up at the word 'brother', but then frowns when he mentions Rome. "Oh dear, that must be quite dreadful. Your brother, he is a nation as well?"
Canada nods. "We're twins."
She acts sad enough that Canada can't help but hope that she sincerely feels for his plight. "And he is in trouble—my, that simply is awful. Have you any idea what might have befallen him?"
Canada waits a moment then decides to take a risk; it has been so long since the days that France once told him bedtime stories of his mother and her struggles with the Roman Empire. He can only pray that she might sympathize enough to help him, if only to spite Rome. "All that I know is that he was taken by Roman soldiers."
Her eyes widen, but the rest of her expression goes poker blank. Even Japan, who always seems to delicately decipher the atmosphere around him, would have a tough time seeing through this mask. Finally, she sighs and sits down. "Then that is trouble. Come, Matthaios, and sit with me. I believe I might know something of interest to you."
Canada perks up at that despite trying to firmly remind himself not to get his hopes too high. He sits on an adjacent couch and leans in towards her as she makes herself comfortable.
"I had heard rumors from my—ours now," she pauses to smile gently. Canada makes himself turn up the corners of his mouth in return. "From our siblings about a new slave of Rome's."
Canada's blood runs cold.
"From what I know he is a nation, like us, but neither Rome nor Germania has managed to loosen his tongue as to who he actually is." Well, that sounds like America, he sighs grimly, resisting the urge to plant his face into his hands. "They acquired him nearly three weeks ago at some slave auction, if I recall right." She pauses, her lips pursed sympathetically. "Forgive, Matthaios, if I appear flippant to you and your brother's troubles. If he truly is your brother, you have my most sincere sympathies."
Well, at least I have somebody's, although a fat lot of good that does me, he sulks. How does America always get into these messes? "No, my lady, I do not think as such."
"Do you think, then, that it might not be your brother now in Rome's household?"
"No," he answers, pushing his frustration back down. "That is too much like him, and it fits too close to be wrong." He sighs and sits back, trying to think. "I shall go to see Rome and hope that I can somehow convince him to release my brother."
No sooner do the words leave his mouth then Gaul bolts upright shouting first in Gaulish then Latin before falling back into the language all nations understood. "No, no, you must not let the Roman Empire know of you—Matthaios, hear me and listen well. If Rome knows that your brother is his slave, he will know that he holds the advantage and will use it. At best, he will make you pay dearly for his freedom. At worst, you might become a slave yourself."
Watching her, he wonders if maybe she might have some sort of experience like that already. Finally, he nods. "I see your point, my lady." That idea thoroughly shot down, he finds that nothing else springs to mind. Seeing little choice else wise, he turns back to Gaul. "My lady? May I ask what you would suggest I do?"
For a moment, Gaul pauses to consider the question. After a long moment of silence, she turns back to him with a smile on her lips and a gleam like the flash of a knife in her eyes. "Brother, I might not be able to risk helping you, but I know one who can."
Canada stares in stumped confusion. He doesn't understand until later that night when he sees Francia, who is slender and barely goes up to Canada's waist and makes Canada's heart ache in sheer agony, at his mother's side, smirking at him. What they propose honestly doesn't sound that much better of a plan than Canada originally thought of, but to be sure, it seems more likely to succeed even if it runs perhaps an even higher risk of punishment.
Canada agrees anyway, wondering afterward if his good sense was captured when America was.
When they arrived at the house, America jumped out of the taxi, forgetting to pay the driver. Grumbling, Canada did so and then hopped out as well to find that at least America remembered to grab his luggage as well. The taxi pulled away and they rushed to the door.
England didn't answer when America pounded on the door, nor did he when America began to shout so loudly for him to open up that Canada winced when he realized that the neighbors were peeking out their windows to see what was going on.
At last, America gave up and fished out the fake rock England used to hide his spare key—("seriously, how uncreative can he get?" "Well, it does work well enough for him I suppose…" "Dude, shut up.")—before unlocking the door. They hopped inside quickly, pausing for a moment to shake off the rain and shed their coats.
"Old man, are you dead or just deaf!" America screamed up the stairs, ignoring Canada's attempt to hush him. "If it turns out you're drunk in a gutter somewhere in this rain, I hope you catch pneumonia."
"America!"
"What? It's not like he actually can get it."
"Still, you shouldn't even say things like that."
"Dude, you worry too much. Knowing him, he's probably lost in a book or too busy knitting tea cozies for the queen to remember what time it is," America claimed, not bothering to take off his muddy boots before walking on the living room carpet despite the loud squelching of his socks. Canada gagged at the noise but forgot to remove his own in his rush to follow his brother. "In which case, I'm still totally gonna kill him."
"America!"
"It's a figure of speech," he laughed back before quietly adding under his breath "mostly."
Canada could only roll his eyes and shake his head as he tried to keep up with his brother.
One week. That is how long they spend in the past before trouble finds them; Canada isn't sure if they should be grateful of the fact that it isn't even America that caused it for once or if he should just have just known that their luck only could run so far.
As it is, even he admits there's no way they could have prepared for the ambush. After leaving Londinium, in hopes of finding England to see if he could help them, they set off for the west. One moment, he and America are stumbling down the dark road, the wind trying its best to snuff out their torch, the next, the highwaymen descend on them. The forest cloaked them so well, muffling their already stealthy movements, that both of them are instantly caught off guard.
Despite that, they are still two of the most powerful nations—in their times at least—a super and a great power and do not go down so easily. Canada is pulled away from his brother, but over his shoulder, he can hear America tossing men around like a human throws junk mail in the trash. He can't focus on America though, and instead tries not to smash in the face of the man he punches. He almost misses the twang of a bow before America screams.
His blood runs cold. "America!" he shrieks and tries to turn.
There is an arrow buried deep in America's shoulder; thankfully, his brother remembers to not pull it free, but America's right arm is useless now. The men around him converge on him; Canada starts to push forward to him, but another man jumps on his back, screaming murder into his ear.
All he thinks is my brother might be dying and I have an idiot on my back. Canada's patience snaps.
With a growl that would have impressed Kumajiro's fiercest relatives, Canada reaches over his shoulder, grabs hold of the man on his back, and flings him away. He turns back to his assailants, fists rising to crush those that would harm him or his brother. He feels bones break beneath his fingers, hears scream of pain as he retaliates, but in the end, he finds himself suddenly alone.
Glancing around, he finds those that fell to his anger and sees that America must have stopped tempering his own attacks with more men lying dead on the ground. Most of their attackers have fled, apparently.
To his horror, he realizes America is gone as well. The only sign remaining of his neighbor is Texas, crushed and abandoned, left half smashed in the dirt.
Canada walks over to collect the glasses, numb. America will want this back, he thinks suddenly, and then his resolve snaps back into place.
He looks up to the half choked stars, hidden behind the tree's branches. He will find his brother, get him back, and return his glasses. Tucking the glasses into a pocket, he scrambles to collect the torch and follow the trail.
He has a brother to save.
"We shouldn't be down here."
"Canada, chill out. It's not like we're going to do anything—where else could England be but down—oh, wait, hear that?"
Canada frowned. He did hear something, something that reminded him vaguely of a television set. It was the sound a television made when it was on, but not on any particular channel—a faint, high pitch whine. But what would a TV be doing down here?
America wasted no time. Instead he clamored down the steps like a stampede of buffalo before reaching for the nearest door. "Hey, England, you down here?" he called in. "What the hell was with standing me—us up?"
Scrambling once again to keep up, Canada raced down the stairs just in time for America to turn the knob and for a flood of light to spill out, blinding them both with its brilliance.
All at once, they fall to the ground. Stunned, Canada sits up slowly, staring in confusion.
They aren't in England's basement anymore—instead, they have collapsed in a field. America sits up as well, groaning as he rubs at his back where he landed on a rock. In the distance, Canada spots what looks to be a settlement of some sort, perhaps a city, with a stone wall facing the lands outside. Vaguely, Canada is aware that it is still pouring rain, only this time, neither of them is wearing coats.
America looks just as confused as Canada. "Dude, where the hell are we?"
Canada glances back to the walled city. "Told you we shouldn't have gone downstairs."
America makes a face. "Okay, you? Shut. Up. I'm being serious!" He jumps to his feet, looking around and finally seeing the city as well. "Dude. I have no idea where we are or what actually happened, but I say we try that place out."
He joins his brother, climbing up to his feet. Seeing no other choice, they set off. Heading to the distant city, he can't help but feel that that wall looks somehow familiar. Looking to his brother, he sees that America is looking at the wall strangely as well.
Something twists in his gut and he has to swallow a lump in his throat. He has no idea what has happened, but instinctively he knows something is wrong. And from the way America moves a little closer to his side, America must know as well.
"Hey, Canada?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't think we're in Kansas, anymore."
Canada twitches and rolls his eyes, but appreciates his brother's humor. Something is wrong, he knows, but at least he is not alone.
Francia-territory controlled by the Franks from the 3rd century up to the 10th, later the Frankish Empire where France get its name. It later broke up into the many small fiefs, duchies, and kingdoms that would one day be the Kingdom of France and the Kingdom of Germany. In my headcanon, this is the birth of France as we know him.
"Ursa Major…Mizar…north to Thuban…Kochab."-Ursa Major is the name of the large bear constellation where you can find the Big Dipper. Mizar is a star in the tail of the bear, or the handle of the Dipper. Thuban is a star in the constellation Draco the dragon, just north of Mizar. Kochab is a star in Ursa Minor, the Little Dipper or small bear; it's in the "bowl" of the dipper, or the body of the bear. All three stars were at one time the North Star due to the earth wobbling on its axis. Eventually, they will be the North Star again.
Polaris-the current North Star, a star in Ursa Minor, the little bear or the Little Dipper, the last in its tail/handle.
Slaves in the Roman Empire-captured enemies were often sold as slaves. As a slave in a townhouse, America would have had much better than say one in a mine, but knowing America and his ability to not keep his mouth shut, he ended up in very rough shape. Slaves would sleep on the floor near their masters.
Follow the Drinking Gourd-an American folk song, apparently made by slaves or conductors on the Underground Railroad to help guide fugitive slaves. These slaves were heading north to Canada, where they could be free—they used the North Star, or the Little Dipper, to guide them.
...late fourth century, when Rome's power waned...-During the fifth century, the Western Empire collapsed, but the Eastern (Byzantine) Empire survived for much longer, although it was much more Greek.
Rome's townhouse-a domus, a townhouse kept in the city. The outside walls were considered public property and often got graffiti on them. The main entrance was called the vestibulum, but here Canada and the other's enter through a servant's entrance on the side. The atrium was the most important part of the domus, where clients were greeted. It was a wide, open space without a roof—in the center, there was the impluvium, a drain pool for the rain which could have decorative mosaic around it. The atrium was the front of the house and had rooms shooting off it, such as bedrooms. After the atrium was the tablinum, a sort of office and study were records would be kept and people did business; it was separated from the rest of the house by curtains. The peristyle was a courtyard in back where you could find murals and gardens. Fauces were passages between or around rooms.
Gaul-according to Wikipedia (that bastion of knowledge that never ever lies, yea verily) it "was a region of Western Europe during the Iron Age and Roman era, encompassing present day France, Luxembourg and Belgium, most of Switzerland, the western part of Northern Italy, as well as the parts of the Netherlands and Germany on the west bank of the Rhine."It was a sizable empire that was conquered by Rome, although at one point she, Britannia, and Hispania broke free to create the Gallic Empire. It didn't last long. In my head canon, this is France's mom, while Germania would be either his father or grandfather (I don't think nations give birth, they just claim other nations as family).
Britannia-once called Albion, she's England, Scotland, and Wales' mother. At one time, she was the whole island, but then Scotland-or Alba-was born and then she was conquered by Rome. She later had Wales, or Cymru in Welsh, when they begin to identify themselves as separate from the Anglo-Saxons, who created Engla Land, land of the Angles, which was eventually shortened to England.
Londinium-Roman London, not the capital of Britannia. It had a brick wall made around it to protect it, which still stands today.
Highwaymen-Before law enforcement, bands of thieves would stake out roads in the dark, waiting for travelers and then attacked them.