Disclaimer: No, I do not own Hetalia.
Note: Hello, hello. The story you are about to read what I would call a very small autobiography of America, as a nation as well as a person. Well because I am attempting to use so much of history in this story, there is no way I can use all of it. Therefore, there will always be discrepancies in text. The information used will never be truly accurate, nor do I claim that it is. I will try to be accurate, but will have to spare accuracies in line with the story. Certainly mixing a fictional character with true life will create discrepancies. Oh yes, Please excuse my grammar. I'm not a grammar nazi, nor do I tend to look at my work often. I also tend to only write late at night mostly during three in the morning. Therefore, there are a lot of mistakes. Please forgive me.
Oh right. If you see *, its a foot note. Scroll below to see the details if you like.
Chapter 1: Dreams
America's blue eyes twinkled as he flipped on the television. Tonight was the night he would watch a documentary that he's been dying to see. Normally he wouldn't dare watch a documentary as boring as England, but he was assured that it would keep him at his feet. The President, who Alfred enjoyed to play basketball with during the weekends, told him it was worthwhile to watch it. Therefore, being the loyal man that he is, he has taken time off his busy schedule to watch the series. It was a relatively new series the History Channel created called America: The Story of US. America grinned, he saw that playful pun there. Normally, he wouldn't dare watch any documentaries about himself despite having a chance to glorify his achievements. He clicked his tongue silently, it was either to glorify his achievements or to chastise his shortcomings.
He stretched back and watched the opening, which he found to be exaggerated but awesome. He grinned like a little boy when the narrator, Liev Schreiber*, said, "We are a land of many nations." He felt his body tingle slightly in recognition. People falsely believe that his origins are predominantly from Europe, specifically England, but that is not the case. It certainly is not today, it was never the case yesterday.
Truthfully, America couldn't trace his origins. As a personified nation, he is made of many people. Therefore, there was no real way to trace his direct origins. However, he can trace them by memory. Honestly, his very first memories were scarce and hazy like any child's. They were snippets of a tiny movie in his mind, only awakened during the dark hours of the night. He couldn't make sense of most of them, but he remembers the sensations clearly.
America's blue eyes glazed over as he sat in deep thought. He glanced dully at the television and realized the first episode was the development of the first English colonies. "No," he noted silently, "that isn't right." His first few memories was not at all about European civilization. He closed his eyes in deep thought. No, his very first memory was raw and untamed wilderness. He took a deep breath and swore he could smell the grass underneath him. He could almost feel the sunlight hitting his body and he could taste the crisp New England air. He could hear the birds chirp away and the other animals rustle in the bushes. That's right, that is his first memory.
He clicked his tongue in annoyance. The sensation was as clear as day, but the vision was a foggy cloud. He couldn't picture it. "Am I getting old?" he wondered out loud. He stretched slightly, feeling his joints creak. Alright, perhaps he was. He let out a chuckle, not as old as England and France. He opened his eyes and drew his attention to the screen once more. That's right. It started with the rebellion. He let about a bittersweet smile. The rebellion against England was a great beginning for his nation, for him, but it wasn't the beginning.
America looked away again and scanned the room. He wasn't quite sure why he was so irritated but perhaps looking around the room might jolt something out of him. What he spotted deepened his frown. He stared straight as his original video taped copy of Pocahontas*, given to him along with a package of the Disney Classics by the Walt Disney Corporation. He leaned over and grabbed it in distaste. He loved the movie and even found himself singing one of it's songs in the shower a few times. "But," he muttered, "it's a bunch of bullshit."
Pocahontas's inky black eyes stared straight at him, as if it meant to suck him dry. Sighing, he leaned back and closed his eyes once more. They were eerily familiar. It reminded him of a long lost memory suppressed by the ages. He could vaguely recall a woman with inky black eyes and billowing black hair. She was dressed strangely, he could remember. That's right, she was dressed in tanned hides, moccasins, with colorful decoration. Her face remained obscured from his gaze, as if she meant to hide from him. His frown deepened once more, she too far to reach. She was always too far to reach.
As far as America could remember, he was always branded as special. He was special because, despite the years that passed he still retained his baby like features. He was special because he when he played with the other children sometimes the elders would send him odd looks. Sometimes they would take their children away from him. Sometimes they could take him away instead. He didn't like being dragged away because he was always scolded after. He could scarcely understand what the elders meant, but he would nod and take his whippings. After he would run to his mother in shame and cry. He remembers asking why they would do that, but his mother would soothe him and simply answer, "It is alright. They do not understand how special you are my son."
She was right of course. He was a special boy because he looked so different. His golden blonde hair would shine brighter than the rest. His milky complexion was seen in a tan crowd and his sky blue eyes twinkled when he laughed. His mother would always run his hands through it when he cried. She would kiss his milky white forehead softly and look into his eyes as she whispered, "No need to cry about something like that. They will understand someday."
As he snuggled closer to her, he grasped the tanned moccasins in one hand and played with the shells of her top idly. "When will they understand?" he would ask softly, "Soon? Tomorrow? Today?" He frowned as she laughed softly smoothing his hair.
"Only time will tell child. The river runs at it's own pace, so so will you." With that she lowered him to the ground and resumed her work cutting wood. America watched her enviously. His mother was so strong, so powerful. Everyone looked up to her and accepted her authority. She was very beautiful. He admired how her black hair was soft and fluid like the water, while his was a birds nest. Even more so, her stature was slim and powerful while he was frail and pudgy. He hung his head in shame. Her son was a failure.
"Mother?" he called out to her, "I- Do you think that..." the words faltered in his throat. He swallowed and began again, "Mother, do you...do you need help?"
His mother turned to him with a sweet smile and said, "No, no. I am fine. Why don't you run along to the creek and get us water yes?" He nodded and ran along, holding a water proof woven basket with him. As he dipped it to the pool, he scanned the area. The remaining children were with their parents, intent on staying near them during the night. He sighed and heaved the basket up.
"Flying Eagle, Flying Eagle, why don't you spread your wings?" he heard someone sing behind him. He turned to his cousin, Black Bear grin down at him. He continued to sing, "Spread them high, in the sky, and -"
"You can't sing," America said, "and Auntie would be mad if you don't hurry home with water." He indicated to the basket he held in his hand. Black Bear only grinned at his little cousin and slung his arm around America's shoulder.
"You got a whipping again didn't you?" he asked lowering his voice. America only nodded and Black Bear tsked at him, "That's why I told you to play away from sight. Perhaps the hunters would have seen you, but father wouldn't mind. Just stay away from the elders!" America pouted and nodded earning a small smack in the back. Black Bear continued, "Tomorrow, at the break of dawn, the hunters will leave to the forest south of here. Do you want to come alone with father and I? Father said it was okay to bring in a group of boys to earn experience. Come along with me!"
America's face broke into a grin. He was happy, relieved, that someone cared enough to invite him. He nodded gratefully at his older cousin but stopped short when he realized one thing. "I...I have to ask mother," he said looking back to her direction, "I can't leave her alone. She needs my help and -"
"She will be fine," Black Bear assured looking towards her as well, "Others will help her. The women and some men will all stay together while we are away. Besides, Auntie is a strong woman. She even influences the elders! And anyway, you may look like a baby but we all know you're stronger than one! So it'll be fine! Now then, I must go." He shoved America along his way and said, "Ask her tonight and tell me tomorrow." With another fond smack in the back, he turned away to dip the basket into the water.
America found himself running towards his mother, carefully maneuvering his way to her with armful of water in the basket. "Mother! Mother! Black Bear told me that, he told me that I can come with him and Uncle Sparrow to go hunting! Mother can I? Can I go with the hunters?"
His mother eyed him seriously for a moment before letting out a small smile. She motioned him to put the water in the waiting pot near the fire and said, "We shall talk about this later when work is done."With that she set of the work along with the other women, leaving America alone. He pouted as he watched her walk away.
It was only until late at night did he face his mother again. They sat near the fire, far away from the crowd, and he watched her weave a basket between her nimble hands. She sang softly to herself, almost ignoring his existence. Almost. From time to time she would glance up at him and smile, her eyes glowing amber as they reflected the blazing fire. "Flying eagle, Flying eagle, why don't you spread your wings? Spread them high, across the sky, and look down upon the land wise and true," she crooned softly, "Do you see what I can see? Do you dare to tell?*"
He squirmed in his seat impatiently. He loved to hear his mother sing, but he wanted an answer. She looked down at him and gave a small smile, "You are far too young to fly my Flying Eagle." America could almost feel the disappointment slither into his stomach. Does that mean the he couldn't go? "Tell me," his mother continued, "Will my flying eagle be ready to leave the nest? Will he fly across the sky like all the rest?"
"Yes mother!" he answered automatically, "I can fly! I can!" He leaned forward with determination, "Just watch me!"
His mother's face took him by surprise. Instead of a smile she awarded him with a stern frown. She reached forward and ran her hands through his hair once more. "You cannot fly. Not just yet." He opened his mouth in protest but she quieted him once more, "You are too young. Too rash. Too proud. You need to learn to be steady, to take action at the wisest time. I do not think you are ready."
America found himself silent. What was he suppose to say to that? His mother was always always right. His mother's abrupt action took him by surprise. Suddenly she stood up stiffly and gazed at the stars. Her lost gaze stared at the dark abyss and landed at the celestial moon. She looked back at him and whispered, "But it is not I who thinks you are ready or not."
She motioned for him to come forward. Suddenly, America found that he felt smaller than ever. He barely made it up her hips. The sudden realization scared him. He grasped at the material of her dress and looked up at her warily. She patted his head and said, "You may go with Uncle Sparrow and Black Bear. Now go to sleep, we will wake early tomorrow."
America could only look at her shocked. So he was allowed to go? He stared at him expectantly as if daring her to take back her word. She only laughed and ushered him to bed. "I will see you off in the morning." As he closed his eyes and welcomed sleep, he was vaguely aware of his mother movements.
She stayed awake smoothing his hair from time to time, as she began to pack his belongings for the trip. She began to sing the same song earlier under her breath, " Flying eagle, Flying eagle, why don't you spread your wings? Spread them high, across the sky, and look down upon the land wise and true..." As he rolled over in his sleep, he silently answered the question. I don't want to.
America was jolted awake by the instant buzzing sensation he felt his pants. Grumbling he reached for his ringing cellphone and barked, "What?"
A moment of silence followed and then a cough. "Alfred?" he heard someone squeak on the other line. It took him a moment to realize that it was Canada.
He sat up awkwardly and immediately responded, "Ah sorry Mattie. I was sleeping. Wassup?" He grinned lazily into the phone, keeping his eyes to the television. Oops. He fell asleep. He mentally reminded himself to watch the series another time. Hopefully then he'd be more interested.
"The g8* nations are meeting tomorrow before the World Summit," Canada replied, "Something of a pot luck like France suggested. I was wondering if..." America rolled his eyes. Rather it was night of booze and the occasional left fist.
"Yeah sure Mattie," he answered immediately, "I'll pick you up at five then?"
"Okay."
"See yah then Mattie!"
"Okay Al. And...we might meet the O5* there too so Al please...:
"Yeah, yeah Mattie. I'll keep my hands to myself," he waved his brother's plea nonchalantly, "It's not like I'll start another World War." However he mentally noted that with France hosting this said pot luck, it was like eating a meal in midst of Normandy. That or the suspicious prostitute alley he accidentally found himself in the other day.
"Anyway, say something the next time Russia sits on you," he joked halfheartedly making Canada sputter in response, "or if England runs over you. Or if India pushes you out of the window. Or if -"
"Alright Al! I get it!" Canada shrilly shouted, "Goodbye!"
America only laughed in response, "Okay Mattie. Bye!" As he hanged up, he wondered how he was ever related to Matthew in the first place. He was the complete opposite of him, despite sharing the same face.
However, he was his North American brother. He was someone he could rely on and occasionally share a competitive rivalry when it came to ice hockey. Now Mattie was a beast at ice hockey. Now if only he held that amount of rage when it came to dealing with other nations. Maybe then he won't be so invisible that they could at least see him enough to stop unintentionally hurting the poor guy. Well, so much for miracles.
As he stood from the couch to turn off the TV and DVD, he glanced down at the other Disney Classics. "Why is it," he began to wonder out loud once more, "that there are more Disney Movies for girls?" Still he reached out for them, suddenly feeling it was high time he had another Disney movie marathon. As he sorted through them, he found one that was more...manly.
"Aha! Tarzan!" he decided, popping the DVD to play, "God I love Phil Collins!*" As he watched the movie, he suddenly found himself even more upset than before. He growled in frustration. Weren't Disney Movies suppose to make you happy!
He scowled sourly as he watched the baby Tarzan being cradled by his gorilla mother Kala. He didn't remotely understand why, but the scene made his heart wrench. At the same time he felt unbearable anger, as if the scene was a complete abomination. It was something that he never had a chance to see or feel, as if it was never an experience he could have again. Of course that would have been a lie to say that he hasn't. Perhaps.
He was ready to throw the remote at the television screen when his phone rang again. Angrily he snapped it open screaming venomously, "What? What now Mattie! What the fuck do you want? I told you already! I'm getting you at 5! Jesus!"
"Alfred!" another voice barked at the phone, "Bloody Hell lad! Is that the proper way to greet someone!"
He almost cringed when he heard the English man on the phone. Damn. "Uh...I'm sorry England I was -"
He was ignored completely by man who was ready to rant of his mistake, "Have I taught you nothing? A gentleman never speaks blasphemy as a greeting! You aren't a bloody pirate! How many times have I told you that -"
"Yeah but England..." he began to whine.
"Don't you start once more Alfred! You may an adult now but you are acting like a rash child! I didn't raise you to behave so...so...so damn-"
"Awesome?" he interjected with a small smirk.
"Alfred F. J-"
"Ah England, are you my mother?" America found himself asking as he started at Kala comfort the dejected Tarzan. It felt like an idiotic question but what can he say? He wasn't exactly human per say. He was, but he was also a nation. Thus, when it came down to it, was England really his Mother England? Mother England. He forced himself not to laugh out loud. Jesus, that cranky, stiff old man who was virtually the definition of a fun sucker was a mother? Ha.
He heard England swallow hard on the phone before croaking, "Wh-what?"
"Well you know," he pushed on, "seeing as you raised me and all. I mean I don't have a mother per say, so..."
"And you think that I'm your mother? Alfred what-"
"Well since France said call him 'Mon pere' when I was little," he answered switching to his badly imitated accent of the French Man.
He could almost feel the England cringe at the mention of France as a father. "Alfred," Arthur began feeling his voice waver, "After centuries of knowing me, I would have thought you knew what my gender is."
"Well," America decided glancing at the ceiling, "I never thought to look..."
"I'm man you git!"
"Ah...is that so?"
"Alfred!" Arthur sighed exasperated, " I am not your mother you idiot! I am a man, ergo that means I am your father!" America stayed silent for a moment and England added, "I don't understand why you even bought this up. Honestly Alfred, I thought it was obvious enough."
"Oh," America whispered, "nothing. I was just...watching something."
England rolled his eyes. Figures. American TV shows can be wholly unrealistic. His eyebrows scrunched together when he caught the noise in the background, "Is that Phil Collins?"
"Oh what? Yeah! I'm watching Tarzan so..." America answered trailing off.
"Is that why you asked me?" England asked suddenly piecing a few things together.
America sighed for a moment, "Well it's just... do you know who my mom is England?"
England tensed at the question. He opened his mouth, which seemed to disagree with him at the moment. Instead he felt his tongue twist, making it hard for him to speak. He had always found it hard to talk to America about the past, for obvious reasons. The Revolution was a touchy topic for him. Despite the years that have passed, he found that he couldn't completely let go of the event. However, the Revolution wasn't the only topic he wished to ignore.
He could still recall the first few weeks he spent taking care of little baby America. Well, in human terms the child was well beyond his teenage years, however as a nation he was still a budding baby. When he won baby America, he was always amazed at how happy the baby was. However, he found that during his slumber the poor child would begin to whimper in his arms. At that time he wasn't quite sure how to handle it, having no prior experience with actually taking care of children.
Upon further investigation he found that the baby would always cry out for his mother. He was at lost at what to do, so he would lie awake trying to soothe the child. He always found that humming a lullaby helped, at least for a while. He always dreaded the worst nights, when America would be wholly plagued by nightmares. His pudgy little hands would curl into small balls, his small figure would shiver uncontrollably, and his face with scrunch up in sorrow. He would jerk about, as if running, frantically grabbing at the air.
As Arthur tried to soothe the child, he would jerk awake and grab at Arthur fearfully. His sky blue eyes filled with uncontrollable tears would make his heart throb with once glance. America would whimper, keeping a tight hold of Arthur's dress shirt and cry out, "Mother left me! England! Mother left me!"
As he tried to calm him down, America would suddenly push him away with a hard shove. It would take all of his might to gather the small nation into his arms and hold him gently. All the while America would be wailing, sobbing hard as he fought away screaming, "No! No! Mother left me! She said bye bye England! Bye bye! No! I want mother back! Noo!"
Eventually Alfred would grow limp in his arms, weary of fighting. All he could to was sob through the night, ignoring Arthur's comforting words. Still England tried, patting the nation in the back and pleading him to stop crying. Even in his weariness, America would direct his sullen face to him and asked in a broken voice, "Why did mother leave me England?"
He always hated it when he didn't have an answer to provide. He couldn't possibly provide an answer, not when he hasn't even met America's mother in the first place. "I...I d-don't know America." He winced at America's face. He simply couldn't face it without his heart restricting painfully.
He had sorted to try and find out before. He talked to Finland many times, prodding the nation to remember if he has ever seen America with a woman before. He talked to villagers who spotted the tiny nation before he had taken him under his wing. All the answers were the same as his. He remembered feeling angered, annoyed, and bitter.
Silently, he hoped that the woman would have stayed a mystery and be gone forever. Who in their right mind would leave a small baby as cute as America behind! Granted, America could fend for himself quite nicely, but still. He decided early on that he instantly hated this woman. She took no responsibility for the child. She left him to fend for himself. The New World was still a dangerous place, even for America. He bet that she left him to die. She left him in this uncivilized, unwelcoming world. And for that, she was a horridly disgusting person. So, even if he tried to find answers to locate this woman, he had always hoped that she would stay unknown. For America's sake. For him as well.
"America," he began slowly clutching hard on his cellphone, "We..I talked about this before..." Even now, he wasn't quite sure who this woman was. Truthfully, she was buried in the back of his head until now. He was fully taken aback when the topic even chose to resurface in the first place. As America grew, the nightmares began to lessen until it ceased all together. Since then, it became just another memory of the past.
"I know," he heard America say over the phone, "I just... I was thinking about it and... she just came you know?"
"You remember her?"
"I..I...no I don't."
"Alfred..."
"I know it's weird but -"
"Al," England interrupted gently, "Do you want me to come over tonight? I'm already at the hotel after all." He heard America take a small intake of breath.
"Yeah, that'd be great Iggy. We can have a Disney Marathon night together!"
England found himself smile a little at the change of attitude. At the very least, it was a good thing that he was so damn optimistic. "Don't call me that you prat."
"Awe, Iggy!"
"Alright, alright. I'll be there soon." America heard the click of the phone, as England hanged up and grinned halfheartedly. He glanced around, contemplating whether or not to tidy up. He shrugged. It wasn't like England minded the clutter. Well, it wasn't like he minded England complaining about the clutter. That is, until he begins to hit him.
Alfred stood up, grabbing hold of the eight pizza boxes stacked on his coffee table. He peeked inside and saw one last, cold pizza slice still inside. "Should I?" he wondered. Taking a small bite, he instantly recoiled at the taste. Okay, he shouldn't have. He gathered as much crumpled tissue paper off the floor and table and set of the the garbage in the kitchen. Surprisingly, this kitchen was the cleanest room in the house next to his guest bedrooms. It was only because those rooms were never touched. Alfred rarely ventures into any of his four guest bedrooms, nor does he ever use his kitchen. What good would it be if he didn't use all of the gathered take out menus tacked on his kitchen wall?
Feeling like he's done enough cleaning, he went of to enjoy the rest of the movie. He decided to forget about his previous anger, and just try to enjoy the movie once more. Besides, it was fun to watch Terk and Tantor interact. Terk was always a funny character. He was taken by surprise when he found about that he was a female gorilla though.
"Way to ruin it for me Mattie," he grumbled sleepily. He felt his eyes drop once more. He yawned, silently berating himself to sleep more from now on. Three hours of sleep was simply not enough for him anymore. With one last glance at Terk the gorilla playing on screen, he let himself doze off. At least until England gets here.
It was during first light when he was roused awake by Black Bear. "Wake up!" his older cousin urged, "Wake up or we'll leave you behind!" America rolled over with a groan. Black Bear sighed and began to heave him upward into a sitting position. America yawned and slapped his hands away, "I'm up! I'm up!"
"Good," Black Bear said, "Auntie is outside with father. She has already informed us that she packed your things. Now come on." Sluggishly, he followed his cousin outside where his mother stood along side his uncle.
Uncle Sparrow was an impressive man with a tall, athletic physic, piercing gray eyes, a stern expression, and a scar running from his left eye to his chin. It was a the reminisce of a fight he encountered with a neighboring enemy when his tribe was burned to the ground. That was years ago, before he joined their tribe. "You two," he said, "take your belongings and join the others. I will join you shortly."
The two nodded and began to make their way to the larger group. A warm hand stopped America before he could leave. He felt his mother pat his head fondly and whispered, "Be safe my son. I gave you a little more food than you would need. Share with Black Bear and the others yes?"
"Yes mother," he answered obediently as he grinned up at her, "I'll miss you!"
"As will I." she gave one last warm smile before ushering him away, "I will see you soon."
Whatever happened after was a blur for the young America. All he remembered was what happened after they stopped for a break. He remembered Black Bear grabbing a hold of him and dragged him over to a fallen tree to sit on. He remembered gazing enviously as Uncle Sparrow tampered with his new spear as he explained what kind of game was present nearby.
As he watched Black Bear and Uncle Sparrow talk, he couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like to have a father. Currently, he didn't have a real father despite having numerous uncles to fill the void. However, he always wondered where his father had gone to. He had a mother after all.
He remembered asking about him once but his mother only sighed. "Do you want a father?" she asked him. Well, no. He didn't really need one, although it would have been nice to have one. He was just curious. His mother carefully explained to him that he didn't have a father. It was upsetting to say the least.
What she said after was even more so. "My son," his mother whispered to him once, "I found you in the woods one morning. I found you on a hollowed tree bark, sleeping peacefully near a field of flowers." He remembers his expression turning from utter to shock to mild anger. He even remembered yelling at her about lying to him. He remembered his own twisted feelings; feelings of abandonment, distrust, betrayal, anger, sadness, and a million more jumbled into one. He remembers his pudgy little fists angrily hitting her chest, as he sobbed into her bosom.
"Does at mean that you are not my mother?" he asked. He was afraid that she would say yes, although he knew the truth. He was afraid that if she did, she would leave him because he already knew the truth. The very thought scared him. He didn't want to live alone in a tribe where some people shunned him. He didn't want to know that his mother would leave him. He certainly didn't want to know that his whole existence was a lie.
However, that was not the answer his mother gave him. "It does not matter if I did not bring to this world," she explained to him, "You are my son and I am your mother. That does not change." He took comfort in those words. He took comfort in the fact at even if people shunned him, he still had his mother by his side.
"Is that from the village?" he heard his Uncle bark, breaking his thoughts. He turned to look at his Uncle's gaze, to north where a trail of smoke was seem to originate from the outline of the trees. Swiftly his Uncle ran to the others, pointing at the smoke trail. Almost immediately a murmur of voices broke as they stared at the sky.
"Do you think..." he heard his older cousin trail off, "It can't be the Village right? Why would it be set on fire?" A number of possibilities ran through their heads, each unpleasant to the ear.
Finally Uncle Sparrow shouted, "Back to the village! Quickly! We may loose time but we can not ignore this!" And so they ran, quickly to the north. America couldn't fully comprehend the situation, but he knew one thing. There was a chance that his mother was in danger.
Unfortunately, he was never a swift runner. Suddenly, he found himself in the back of the pack trying his hardest to catch up with the rest. Normally, Black Bear would spare him some pity and wait but this was far too important to look back.
By the time he reached the outskirts of the village he caught bits of information. There was an attack from a neighboring tribe. They came an three hours after the hunters left. They came in vast numbers. America forced his legs to run faster. He could feel the adrenaline pump into his body as he ran for the village. "Mother!" he heard himself yell out, "Mother!"
He had almost reached the last bend to the village when he felt an arm snake it's way to his waist. He let out a yelp of surprise and formed a fist, ready to attack his pursuer. He found with mild surprise that it was Black Bear. He glared down at him questionably and hissed, "Are you crazy! You cannot run in there without a weapon! You're just a boy!"
He was about to protest but stopped short upon seeing Black Bear's face. "Stay here," his older cousin frantically whispered as his eyes darted in all directions, "Stay here and do not be seen! I am warning you! Listen to me!" America's eyes began to water in frustration, but he managed a stiff nod.
Black Bear only gave him a grim nod and said after a moment of thinking, "If I do not come back, run to the east of here. There is a cave there where you may hide. Do you remember that cave? I use to take you there to play." America managed another nod as he looked to the ground, "Good. The others will probably meet you there as well. Go now! I will follow!" He gave a hard push and ushered America off.
Before he could go he felt Black Bear suddenly pull him back once more. "Let no one see you," he warned, "If they see you , they will take you. Do you promise to hide?" America let out a sniffle and nodded. He hid his tears from his older cousin. He bit his lips bitterly. He was pathetic. Black Bear only nodded and gave him a fond smack on the back. With a small wink and a grim smile he said, "I'll see you later." With that he ran off, taking his bow and arrows with him.
Despite his promise to quickly run off, America stayed there for what felt like another hour. His mind was a pool of confusion. Should he disobey Black Bear and still run to the village and help? Should he obey him and run to the safety of the cave? His eyes began to fill with helpless tears once more. He wanted to run to that village and be the hero. He wanted to find his mother and make sure she was safe. He desperately wanted to fight alongside Black Bear and prove his worth. But what can he do? He was a very frail, pudgy little boy who could barely shoot an arrow. What can he do? He hang his head in shame once more. He was worthless.
When he resolved to head to the cave he was stopped short as nimble fingers grabbed a hold of his shoulders. He dared to look at his captor, only to have his heart skip a beat. It was his mother. "Mother!" he let out a joyous squeak. He immediately launched himself to her, clinging hard at the material of her arrow torn dress.
"Son," his mother panted with exertion, "I am glad you are fine."
America nodded his head vigorously, "Black Bear! Black Bear told to stay here and be safe! I- I'm sorry mother! I couldn't help! I'm sorry!"
His mother only shook her head and ran her shaking hands through his blonde hair. "He was wise," she said, "Now we must go. We must get away from here."
"There's a cave!" America squeaked pointing the east, "Black Bear told that there is a cave that safe to go to! Mother, we should go there! He said that -" He stopped short his mother's pained expression, "Mother?"
His mother only looked at him with sadness and said, "We can not go to that cave my son." She turned swiftly to the direction of the village before scooping him up in her arms, "We will head south instead."
America squirmed in her arms, grasping a hold of her shoulders to steady himself. "But mother!" he protested, "Black Bear said that everyone will meet there! We have to go there!" He was silenced by his mother placing her chin on top of his head. He watched as her lips silently trembled as she tried to catch her breath. It was then he realized that his mother was shaken, "Mother?"
"They did go there," he heard her whisper, "and they didn't come out." The news was a hard slap on the face for America, who fully expected almost everyone to make it through this ordeal. He buried his head on the crook of his mother's neck and began to sob. He was sick of this feeling. He hated the feeling of complete hopelessness. He felt worthless, disgusting, shameful. It was a horrid feeling.
He didn't notice that his mother was running, gripping him hard against her as she dove through the forest like deer. His forehead bumped into her neck slightly and he hoarsely whispered, "What about Black Bear...and Uncle Sparrow...and..." His question was left unanswered as his mother ran for the hills. He sniffled and closed his eyes. Somehow, the exhaustion had caught up to him.
"Alfred you damn arsehole! Open the door!" America jumped, efficiently finding himself planted face first on the floor. He groaned in response, heaving himself up. In his throbbing pain, he vaguely heard the banging of his front door. England was screaming once more, "Alfred! Alfred! You bloody wanker! Open this door immediately! It's bleeding freezing out here! Alfred!"
As he stood up, he felt himself shiver slightly. As he fought off the sleepiness in his eyes, he pushed the vivid dream to the back of his head. "America you prick! Open his damn door before I kick it down!" He ran for the door as fast as he could, shooting England an apologetic grin. The nation showered him with a barge of insults, a kick or two, before entering the threshold. "What took you so long answering the door?" The Englishman snapped shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the coat rack.
"I fell asleep," he answered sheepishly.
England only sighed, giving him a final soft punch on the arm muttering, "You sod." Instead of getting an air headed response he was met with Alfred looking crestfallen expression. He only sighed, leading the American into the couch and pushing him down, "What happened?"
America shook his head, glancing up at him uncertainly. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I...I think I'm going crazy."
England raised a skeptical eyebrow. He knew America was a lot of things. An idiot. A wanker. A bloody bipolar child. An impulsive brat. An irrational sod. Just to name a few, however, he never once considered America crazy. Alfred was irrational at times, but quite sane. "I don't think so," he answered bluntly.
America pushed back, leaning on the leather sofa and sighed, "It's just that...I've been getting these dreams...you know?"
"No," was his reply. Silently, he hoped it wasn't what he thought it was, "What kind of dreams?"
"Just...I...stuff?"
"Alfred..."
"Okay okay," Alfred sighed giving in, "It's just that, I keep seeing this woman okay?" England felt himself raise another eyebrow. A woman? Oh god, was he going to have one of those talks with this lad again. He remembered talking about it, ages ago, but he thought that he would have remembered it. Upon seeing his old caretaker's face America recounted, "No no, not that kind of woman! Just...a woman. Like...like...I don't know. This American Indian Woman. And she..she..she always..." he trailed off looking at the floor. He didn't know why, but it was hard to say who she was despite knowing deep in his gut that she was truly what he dreamt he called her.
"Alfred?"
He took a deep breath, "She was my mother Iggy." He felt England squeeze his shoulder and he leaned into his touch as he recalled his dream. They stayed silent for a while, with America faintly noticing that England had shifted their position so that he could wrap his arms around his bigger frame, holding him like the child that he was.
"I keep dreaming all these things that...never happened to me. At least, I don't think it did. But, they're so vivid Iggy. It's like a movie." America explained, "I remember all these things I shouldn't."
"Oh? What are your first memories then America?" England prodded silently, smoothing the hair out of his forehead.
America looked away and said, "I remember walking around the plains...and then Finland and some people spotted me. They waved and...I waved back." He stayed silent for a moment before looking him, "Do you think that these are my memories before I was found?"
"It's possible," England answered, "When you were a child, you said you could scarcely remember what happened to you before. I thought it wasn't odd, but seeing as you age differently I was suspicious. Now this woman Alfred, your mother, what is she like?"
"I can't remember her so well Iggy," he whimpered silently, "Everything is so vivid, but every time I look at her face, it's like she so foggy. I can't focus on her face right, even if she's right in front of me." He contemplated for a moment, straining himself to remember. She had black hair...tan skin...a slim and powerful build...dressed in moccasins...and? He bit his lip hard. Her face, what doe she face look like? She had black eyes..and..and?
"Don't bite your lip so hard lad," he heard England reply reaching over to brush at the abused bottom lip, "It's already bleeding."
As he sucked at the blood, he surrendered himself to England's embrace. Normally, he would have blanched at the fact that England was cradling him like a child, but he couldn't bring himself to care tonight. "Do you think..." he began looking at England, "that I can't remember her because, she doesn't want me to?"
England only pushed his hair away and smoothed it out gently. He leaned back trying to find a comfortable position. He was strong for sure, but he had an easier time cradling America when he was smaller. "That hardly makes sense doesn't it?" he said.
America nodded numbly too tired to talk now. For some reason, despite falling asleep too many times for his liking, he was deadly tired today. It was like these dreams were sucking him dry. Dimly, he thought to himself, "Maybe, I didn't want to remember her."
"Go to sleep Alfred," he heard England whisper into his ear. He ran his hands through the lad's golden hair and gently pulled his glasses away, placing them on the surprisingly clean coffee table. As he did he hummed a lullaby, the same one that lulled America to sleep as a child. "...When the blazing sun is gone, When he nothing shines upon,Then you show your little light,Twinkle, twinkle, all the night*..."
As America drifted to sleep he couldn't help but crack a bitter smile. She did that didn't she?
The following weeks was a blur to the child. He could scarcely remember what happened to them during first few weeks out of the village. However, his mother seem to have found her way to a neighboring faction and informed them of their harrowing journey.
It was only then did he start absorbing his surroundings. They were further down, where the weather seemed far hotter than he was accustomed to. As he looked around he realized that this tribe was not related to their own tribe. Yet, his mother seem have some sort of direct authority over them as she had before.
He watched as she consulted with the elders, occasionally looking around awkwardly. The attention he's gotten from the others was overbearing. Repeatedly the other members of the tribe would turn to stare at him, as if he would attack them like a ravaged beast. When he would look their way they would turn to each other and rapidly whisper in hushed voices. Even if he tried to overhear their conversation it was futile. They were speaking in a language he was not familiar with. One such man glared at him with cold gray eyes, examining him like a piece of rotten meat. America shivered. He didn't like it here.
He awaited his mother for another hour, but it became clear she was not heading his way any time soon. Feeling dejected and weary, he stood come closer. However when the elders spotted him, one venomously spit in his way screaming, "Begone you vile thing! Do not come back! Have you done enough!"
America tensed and stood still, watching the old man with shock. He couldn't understand the man's words but they certainly were not nice. He watched as his mother pursed her lips distastefully and stated, "He is my son. He will do no harm." She motioned him to step closer. As he did, he watched the elders take a small step back. What did he do now? Was it because of how he looked? He sniffled, close to tears. However, this time he stopped them appearing as he edged closer to his mother's welcoming hands. He took hold of her open palm and watched as the elders analyzed both of them frantically.
"Your son," whispered one man, "is part of that menacing race."
He felt his mother squeeze his hand hard and barked, "Race? We are part of the same race! There is no difference." America felt himself draw closer to his mother as the old man's nostril flared in response. He scowled down at him before stiffly looking up.
"There is a difference," he uttered back, "one that is costing us our lives! Look if you must to what his men have done!" He pointed at the medicine man's tepee* with a quivering finger, "Even he cannot heal the sick! Many nights he has tried and failed! We are doomed! All because of his kind!" He pointed back at America who squeaked with fright. He felt his little body shake and quiver despite his mother's soothing hands on his back.
"What do you mean?" his mother asked in a low tone. The elder said nothing and motioned for her to go to the medicine man's tepee instead. With a small sigh, she scooped America up in her arms and headed for the tepee.
"Mother?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, son?"
He snuggled close to her and looked ahead, "Why do they hate me?"
"They do not understand your uniqueness."
"Really?"
She gave him a small peck on the forehead, "Really." When the reached their destination, she set him down gently and said, "You stay here yes? I will be back shortly." He wanted to say no, but held back. Somehow, his gut feeling was telling him not to go inside there. He would rather face people's stares anyway. "Okay."
So he sat there, close to the tepee, idly scratching at the ground. Suddenly, the tepee flap was thrown open and his mother emerged looking weary. She motioned for him to stand, but before he could she scooped him in her arms. "M-Mother?" he mumbled trying to find a comfortable position.
His mother kept silent as she trudged back to the elders. She uttered something he couldn't understand and the elders began to nod. He scrunched his eyebrows, trying to decipher their words. Finally his mother put him down as she went to retrieve their packed bags. He didn't understand. Where they leaving already? He watched as the elders supplied his mother with a bows and an a new arrow. She slipped a bag of food into her rucksack and turned to him slowly. "Son," she whispered, "We will be going now."
Normally, he would gladly take her hand away from this village but it was nearing darkness. Soon, they won't be able to maneuver in the woods easily. Sensing his small distress his mother only smiled and assured him, "We will be fine."
With that they left the hateful village and ran into the woods quickly. America found his tense shoulders ease slightly, thankful that he was away from that antagonistic aura. However, he found it odd how quickly they left. "Mother?" he called as he struggled to catch up with her, "Where will we go?"
"There is a creek twelve miles from here," his mother answered, "We will rest there for the night."
As luck would have it, they arrived at the creek within the hour. Surprisingly they met a couple of people along the way. "Mother!" America said tugging her dress, "Mother it's Uncle Little Foot!" Sure enough, the proud tribal runner was standing near the water bend humming to himself as he cleaned the fish he was about to cook.
He looked up with a mischievous grin and slight surprise and called out, "I thought you two were a couple of game running this way." He welcomed them to join him and continued, "Why are you two here? Where are the others?"
As they sat around the fire munching on cooked fish, he let his mother recount the story. However, even he was aware of that fact that his mother had purposely left details out for his sake. He turned away, fearing that she would somehow tell him bad news about Black Bear. He has not seen the young lad since their separation, which left him desperately trying to calm his nerves. Black Bear is strong, he would tell himself. He survived. Just wait. He'll be back with Uncle Sparrow and the others and then we can go hunting like we planned!
His thoughts were broken by his mother who suddenly pointed at an item on Little Foot's being. "What is that?" she asked indicating an azure bead he had along with his necklace. America turned his attention to it. "I've never seen that before," his mother said cocking her head in wonder, "Where did you get it?"
Little Foot fondled the bead for a moment and took his necklace off. He passed it to his mother with a crooked smile as he glanced at America. "I traded with bizarre looking men in a journey many moons ago."
"Bizarre? Are they a tribe from the west?" his mother continued as she gazed upon the azure bead curiously. She passed the necklace to America who began to examine it with equal curiosity.
"No," Little Foot whispered prodding the fire embers with a stick, "They are from the east. They told me far east, across the great oceans." America picked up his head curiously. He felt his mother lean forward as well. Little Foot watched him respond and reached over to run his hands through his golden blonde hair. "You know," he said after a moment, "They look like him."
America felt his eyes widen. They look like...me? He felt his mother tense and clear her throat. She asked hoarsely, "Wh-what do they look like?"
Little Foot gave them a little smile. "Like him," he said pointing at America. His mother's face soften and she gave him a small hit on the knee. Little Foot chuckled and said, "Alright, alright. Some of them looked like him. They were bizarre. Taller. Bigger. They had a white complexion like him. Their hair was different. Some had color like the sun" -he pointed to America- "and some had color like the earth. Like...like...mud." he said after a moment.
America made a face. Mud? That didn't sound very nice. Little Foot looked up at the stars in thought, "Their eyes were like his too. Some were like the day time sky. Like the ocean. Then there were some that had eyes like the grass or like tree moss. Then there were some like ours." America crinkled his nose. Does that mean one eyes was like the sky and the other was like tree moss?
"And their clothing," Little Foot concluded, "was like a field of flowers. All different colors. They had these...things." He tried to indicate them with animated gestures, "They were like narrow sticks made of hardened silver. And they make a booming sound! Boom like the thunder! They hunted game faster than our best hunter! Can you believe that?"
"How much faster?" he found himself asking.
"Faster than ever. Just one boom and the game is down," Little Foot recounted, "They gave us one of those thunder sticks in exchange for beaver fur and meat. They traded these beads too." He indicated to the azure turquoise beads in his hands.
America found himself amazed. Does that mean that he came from this new tribe from the far east? Was he part of these new people with such interesting new things? He almost felt giddy. He always thought that he was a freak of nature, but now he knew that there were people just like him. He wanted to whoop with joy. He wasn't alone!
His mother's solemn face deflated his happiness. His mother sat there tense, her mouth drawn in a thin line, as she gazed at the stars. Her black eyes almost clouded over in thought. "I..."she began, "Has there been anything strange...happenings after they left?"
"Strange happenings?" Little Foot thought for a while, "No, none that I can think of."
"Has anyone become sick from the food? Fatigued? Feverish?"
"No, not at all."
"Are you sure?" his mother pressed.
Little Foot held up his hands, "I'm positive. If you want to know so badly, we can head over earlier before day break. The main tribe is about a day of travel on foot." His mother relaxed her stature and turned to him.
"Son, you need to sleep. We have a lot of traveling to do tomorrow."
"Awe, but mother! May I stay up a little more? Can I?" He pouted cutely. He was hardly tired, having sat all day. However, his mother refused to relent to his cute face. Rather she returned a stern face back with a raised eyebrow. He sighed giving in, "Fine." So he stood, making a comfortable place for him to sleep.
Before he could give in the slumber's clutches he caught snippets of the adults' conversation. "Little Foot, my son...he is...does he really resemble them?" Her voice quivered slightly as she leaned forward in attempt to whisper, "Do you think that-"
"I do," the runner answered before she could finish, "He is from those people. There is one man...the resemblance is uncanny. He could even be his father." America felt his breath hitch along with this Mother's. His father?
"He does not have a father," his mother said silently, "He...I found him...years ago. We have not seen these people before have we? Is it possible that...It can not be possible at all if..." His mother trailed off with a sigh, "Those people. I have a bad feeling Little Foot."
Little Foot stayed silent, critically absorbing her words. "Should we stay away?" he voiced after a moment, "If we hurry we can reach the tribe before they can. We can -"
His mother raised a hand to stop him. She shook her head as she stared at the stars, "There is no need for that. They tell me it is dangerous, but they will find us no matter where we go. We will not hide from them."
Little Foot chuckled, "Not if we find them first. They are not stealthy people." He turned away to observe the river before adding, "You have not changed. You are the same as our last meeting."
His mother shifted slightly before nodding, "How old were you then?"
Little Foot cocked his head with a shrug, "I was but five years of age. You met my grandmother that time. She told me you look the same from her memories of her youth."
"I'm afraid I am getting older," his mother murmured under her breath, "I feel weaker. Brittle. Aged. I feel even more tired than I have before. Is that not peculiar?"
"You had the strength to hold the child with you for lengths of time," Little Foot pointed out, "I am surprised he can bear a journey such as yours for long."
"He is like me," his mother fondly surveying her son, "he may not know it yet, but he is like me." Little Foot frowned curiously. He watched has she edged closer to see if the child was indeed asleep. He was surprised by her face, a look of nostalgic melancholy. A look of utter despair.
"Is he?" Little Foot asked in surprise, "But how? If you are -"
"I do not know," his mother muttered silently. Her voice seemed to quiver even more as she placed her chin on her knees, "I am not sure of his existence but...I fear the worst." She ran her hands through his golden hair carefully as he slept, "I fear that he may...someday..." She trailed off into silence, gazing deeply at the boy with uncertainty.
He wasn't sure what the look on her face meant. It was a mixture of emotions too complex for his to examine. It was as if she was apprehensive, sullen, and weary. However, her eyes glinted of stark determination. He almost flinched when her face suddenly turned irritated, angered almost. "What do you mean?" he pressed on.
"Oh my son," she voiced sadly ignoring the man before her, "My little boy..." Little Foot shivered where he sat and stayed quiet. Fearing to say anything else, he turned away intent on sleeping. He shook his head and let himself sleep. Silently he was serenaded by her soothing voice, "Flying eagle, Flying eagle, why don't you spread your wings?" she crooned, "...Why do you spread your wings?"
"*Hush, little baby, don't say a word. Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird won't sing, Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring. If that diamond ring turns brass, Papa's gonna buy you a looking glass..." America could barely hear England's soft crooning as he slowly slipped into the boundary of consciousness and sleep. Under normal conditions, he would have sat right up and joke at England singing such a baby lullaby. He would have even tried to joke about his voice, thought in all honesty England had a fantastic voice. Perhaps sometime soon, if he ever remembers.
As he surrenders himself to sleep once more, he takes note of the trepidation he's feeling in his gut. By now, he knows somehow that he'll come face to face with another 'memory.' So far, all of them are painful and he can slowly understand why they were suppressed to begin with. That is, if they were suppressed at all.
Even so, he gives into this selfish indulgence. It was a way to justify uncertainties. A way to quench this torment hunger. It was away to see her, even if he couldn't truly see her. At least, in his dreams he gets to meet her. His 'mother.' At least, in this twisted fate, he could bring himself to indulge as long as he could to see her. Even if winds up hurt in the end. He didn't really care, knowing that this will cause him grief. He couldn't clearly remember the first few weeks he spent with England, but remembered waking up feeling absolutely terrified of this nightmare. He wasn't sure what it was, but he was certain that if these dreams continued he'd come face to face with them. And he didn't care. Because right now, he didn't seem to find himself caring about that. Right now, all he wanted to see was her.
Note: Ahem...well honestly, I have no idea how this turned out. It went in a completely new direction I wasn't expecting at all, but I kept on writing anyway. If it's confusing...then ask me questions. I'm pretty sure it was seeing as I hopped in so many scenarios.
Aside from that, I'd like to acknowledge a few things. First, you may have noticed that didn't really get into describing what kind of tribes were present despite saying that he was around American Indians. That is purposely done because I couldn't and didn't want to focus on one tribe in particular. There are so many tribes out there sharing the same characteristics as well as contrasting in culture. There was no real way for me to pick, but I made it as general as possible.
Second, did I mention his mother's name? Uhm, no I didn't. I sincerely wished that I would have christened her a name, but thought against it. I'll leave that for the reader to decide because honestly I had no way of naming someone of such great importance. Let's see, normally I do not make OC characters and prefer to go with characters already created. However, in this case I had no real choice. So all the characters in here that are not from Hetalia originally are just made up and in now way shape or form based on anyone else.
Footnotes:
~Liev Schreiber: Don't know him? I bet you do. He plays a lot of notable roles actually. One being Sabertooth (Victor Creed) in the Xmen Orgins: Wolverine, Ted Winter in Salt alongside Angelina Jolie, and Cotton in the Scream movies.
~Pocahontas: Okay, most people know Pocahontas from the Disney franchise. Let's see, in real life she was not in love with John Smith, she was a a little girl back then while he was a full grown man. She married John Rolfe...blah blah blah. You know, something like the second movie (even though it was a lie).
~Flying Eagle Lullaby: I made this lullaby up. It is not real. Honestly, I just thought it would fit America. Does he have an Native American name? None that I actually thought of, but it ended up that I referred to him as Flying Eagle by the end of this chapter. But who knows?
~G8: A forum of eight (originaly six) major goverments consisting of the United States, France, England (UK), Germany, Italy, Japan, Russia, and Canada.
~O5: Also known as the Outreach 5 or Plus 5, which is like the G8. It consists of Brazil, China, India, Mexico, and South Africa.
~Phil Collins: Well, I'm pretty sure you all heard Phil Collins, even if you have no idea who he is. He's quite popular to begin with and he did the soundtrack for Tarzan, so if you heard the songs, you heard Phil Collins.
~England's First Lullaby: This is actually a part of the original poem by Jane Taylor called the Star. Anyway, it really is Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, I just didn't want England singing that part.
~Teepee: Also called Tepee or tipi. It's a tent, to say the least traditionally made of animal canvass and wooden poles.
~England's Second Lullaby: Hush Little Baby lullaby. Not so sure who originally wrote it, but it is classic lullaby we tend to hear. Though, It seems to be an American lullaby since mockingbirds are found in the continent and not in England.