Title: Against the Sky (1/?)
Genre: Action, angst, crossover (possibly romance in later chapters)
Word Count: 1,702
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for violence and death
Summary: Axis Powers Hetalia/Temeraire crossover. "It's not his first battle against Britain's Aerial Corps, but this one manages to be different in ways he could never expect."
Notes: For those who don't know Temeraire, here's a link: .org/wiki/Temeraire_%28series%29. Oh! And while all of the British dragons mentioned (Regal Copper, Longwing, Anglewing, Greyling) are from the series, I've made up all of the American breeds (Appalachian Diamondback, Liberty Blue, Scarlet Crown).
.
.oOo.
.
He's exactly the colour he doesn't want to be – a vibrant sunset red. He looks like he always imagined Arthur would, in this form of his other people. Well, almost. He obviously hasn't reached his full length yet; his scales itch somewhat as the muscles underneath shift, like a shirt just a little too large. He figured that when he stops growing, he'll be the size of an Appalachian Diamondback, a respectable middle-sized heavyweight. For now though, he's just glad that the awkwardness of adjusting to his long wings is over and that he can fly without fumbling through every other air current.
Even so, did it have to be red? The first time he had shown his General his dragon form, he had grumbled under his breath about his coloration, quite forgetting that even a mumble was ridiculously audible. Washington had laughed, patting his foreleg comfortingly and saying that it wouldn't be right to get worked up over something so trivial – and would it not be an insult to all of the Scarlet Crowns in the army's ranks? America conceded this point, though he never had quite gotten over being almost the exact colour of a redcoat. Even now, on the eve of battle, the uneasiness remained in his mind, a faint background static like the patter of a soft rainfall.
'All I have to do is look for the one that will look like me,' America told himself as the ground crew secured his harness. 'Unless he'll be human, commanding his troops on the ground? But Arth… England's got generals for that, field commanders that can do almost as well as he. His presence in the air would be much more useful – he'll be there, I'm certain.' The ground crew chief motioned to him, he cut his musings short to rear back on his haunches and flare his wings, shaking himself to be sure that the harness was properly secured.
"All is well," he called as he dropped back to the flagstones. Everything in order, he crouched to let the crew up; topmen, bellmen, riflemen, and lieutenants scrambled aboard, carabineers snapping. He craned his head around to look at his captain, his General, as the man settled into place, immaculate coat of blue stark against his (red red red) scales. They would hang back from the main army because of this, as no one wanted to risk him too much – he was too needed, too essential to the American forces. Washington himself had declared he'd rather be in the midst of the rest of the Air Force, but there was too much grumbling from the tacticians about unnecessary risk.
Washington signalled and he sprang from the ground, mighty wings beating as he rose to join with their formation, sliding into the centre place with practiced ease. They circled as other formations grouped around them, dragons of every breed and colour that had rebelled along with their human countrymen against England's oppression. Pride swelled within America as he looked at them, his peoples, strong and proud against the morning sun.
'We can do this.'
.
.oOo.
.
His resolve burned brightly, a fierce light in his eyes as the formation winged forward, the British ranks almost in sight. He kept to the centre of the inverted W-shape, the points in front held by a Scarlet Crown and an Appalachian Diamondback, both heavyweights, there to punch through the lines of the Aerial Corps. Two midweight Liberty Blues held position to the outside of the larger dragons and the trailing points were both taken by Greylings, British-bred but American-born. America felt a kinship for such as these, dragon or human, for he could sympathize with the pain of having to, needing to rebel against England, no matter their personal reason.
The vague lines of colour against the blue sky sharpened as they closed the distance, nearly close enough to make out individuals. The few clouds present in the sky were not enough to obscure one's vision, especially for the sharp-eyed dragons. America could make out the flag-dragon clearly, the red, white, and blue (can I even call them my colours when they are his as well?) of the Union Jack snapping proud and straight on the back of a Longwing. 'Red, red, where is Arthur?' he thought, scanning the lines as they draw ever closer. 'The only red here is little, just accents here and there. Is he on the ground? He wouldn't be, he can't be…I need to face him here…'
A thundering roar blasted him from his thoughts and America dove to the side, startled, breaking formation like the rest around him as a trio of massive shapes barrelled through the air where he had just been flying. 'From above and behind? Impossible! When did they get behind our lines?!' He tumbled aside as one of the British dragons - 'Anglewing', his mind supplied – made a dizzyingly sharp twist and turned momentum into height, sweeping upwards to engage him.
He heard Washington on his back, his captain-General calling commands, and he slipped down and to the right as the Anglewing rose, his riflemen unleashing a full volley at the other dragon's crew. Bullets flew, battered from their courses by the wind, but the men chosen for this job were the best marksmen in the army and knew how to judge their shots. Even so, it was not just skill but also luck that took out the Anglewing's captain, a spray of blood indicating the man's death even before his limp body slumped bonelessly to his dragon's shoulders.
The Anglewing obviously felt something, as it turned its head only to release a keening cry of utter despair at the sight of its dead captain. Furiously, recklessly, it threw itself at America, heedless of the rest of the crew on its back. Unable to dodge again so quickly, its – her, now that he got a better look – talons dug into America's side, piercing scales and flesh. America roared in pain, but saw a chance – in her rage she had left her head too high. He took advantage of the lethal oversight, darting his head forward and sinking his teeth into her neck, tearing her throat open as hot blood splashed onto his tongue, hit the back of his mouth.
As he relaxed his jaws, her broken form fell away, her claws ripping from his side, wounding even in death as she tumbled lifelessly towards the ground below, much too far for any of her remaining crew to survive. But she was not the only one. Dashed upon the earthen plain were the corpses of the Scarlet Crown that had flown at America's left wing and one of the little Greylings, the dead bodies of crewmen strewn about them.
'No!' America let out a strangled howl for the deaths of his wingmates, his countrymen, his children. 'There were only three, and I took one,' he cursed as Washington signalled to try to regroup with what was left of his formation. 'How could they fall to only two? Another Anglewing and a...' All thought slammed to a sudden halt as pure terror froze his breath in his lungs and made his wings stutter for a beat as he caught sight of the other two ambushers. The second Anglewing was bleeding but alive, but the other...
'God and the Devil. It's Black Death.'
He had heard of the dragon before, but no one ever had firsthand accounts of the beast. Anyone that ever got close enough to see it properly never came back. Some declared that it was a myth, mere legend, because it was only ever glimpsed, and then gone. Black Death – so named because it left naught but destruction and ash in its wake. Up close it was frightening – majestic and terrifying. The size of one of the immense Regal Coppers, glossy scales blacker than a raven's feathers covered its entirety, save for its silver-grey belly scales and splashes of the same colour on the tips of its paws. A crown of spines swept from the base of its head over the top of its neck, flaring as the dragon gave another cacophonous roar and rent the belly of one of the Libertys open with both foreclaws, the American dragon's shattered body tossed ruthlessly away as it descended upon the other. With the formation broken and the Diamondback and Greyling still locked in battle with the surviving Anglewing, America too far and too low to help, it was easy prey as the heavyweight bore down upon it. The riflemen and topmen fired at the descending shadow to no avail, and the Liberty Blue fell, wings shredded and back broken, crew clinging desperately to their dying dragon in the vague hopes that its bulk would shield them from some of the impact.
He saw, out of the corner of his eye, one of his ensigns flagging the remaining two dragons of the formation, their Anglewing adversary having finally fallen. Retreat and regroup went the code, and America could not find it in himself to complain. As the Greyling and Diamondback turned to fly back to the bulk of the Air Force, America kept his eye on Black Death, who had circled lower but made no outright attack. America tensed as it sailed ever closer, waiting for Washington's command, trying to figure out how he would manage his escape.
One thought, small but persistent, niggled at the back of his mind. 'No harness.' The thought became a theory, and dread filled the young colony-Nation as he began to suspect. 'No harness. No crew. No captain. The British are not the Indians, they'd never allow an unharnessed feral to fly in their Corps.' And, as they drew level, the dread and terror solidified in his gut as the other circled in. 'No... no, it cannot be...'
But the dark dragon banked overhead, turning away to wing back to its own lines, ambush accomplished with nearly half a formation of brave Americans lying dead and cooling in the autumn sun. America took the chance and sped away, back to the main body of his own forces, but all he could think of was 'Green eyes. England's eyes.'
Arthur.
.
.
...tbc.