What England Saw
What England saw as he raised that damn rifle was enough to shatter his heart into microscopic fragments. He saw not the rebel who had defied him time and time again, not the teenager who was fighting tooth and nail to get away from the only one who had cared for him (Liar! He thought, France loved him too; you just wouldn't let him near. He would have only left you sooner!), but his baby boy, the tiny child he had raised and had sworn to protect. He felt himself a monster to be aiming such a weapon at him.
And worse, the moment he had looked in those big azure orbs (the very same ones that had filled with tears as their owner begged him not to leave the last time they parted, only to be so much more mature and filled with strength when he returned)he knew he had already lost. Those eyes that once shone with childish innocence now glared down at him with ice and something akin to pity as well. He was kneeling before this boy, this man, hands shaking as he covered his face with one and tried to aim his rifle with the other, forgetting his perfected combat form. Those eyes that had always shown love and admiration held anger and hatred now. It burned him to the core, his heart withering away under such a gaze. He tried once more to aim at the boy—man— with his finger on the trigger, ready to fire and end all of the trouble the little rebel had caused (But that would only cause more heartache for you in the end…), but he failed as the quaking in his muscles caused the weapon to fall from his fingers and sobs wracked his body. His eyes to the ground, he was disgraced by his own son and reduced to a blubbering mess in the mud.
He couldn't do it.
He could never allow himself to hurt the blue-eyed being before him. Even though he looked all grown up, every time the Englishman looked at him, it was always the same. He saw his little boy, his America. Baby Alfred, to whom he would sing lullabies and read stories every night; the only one that never complained and even enjoyed his cooking. The only person in the world the Brit cared for.
He could never hurt the little toddler standing in front of him; at least, it was a toddler that he saw in the reflective water as more drops permeated its surface, disrupting the stillness it had obtained in the brief reprieve they had been granted from the near freezing water. The little toddler reflected was holding a bunny just like he had the day England had discovered him there in the untamed wilderness, that big, innocent smile on his face. The tears cascaded down England's cheeks as he wondered just why, why and how, it had come to this.
"You used to be so great. You stood high above everyone else, didn't you, England?" The Briton flinched and the cold tone his charge—no, former charge, he's already lost!—used. It was condescending and snide, and acid and venom dripped from every syllable that fell from that vulgar tongue. "All you wanted me for was to further yourself in the world and use me to pay off all of your stupid wars, wars that you should have never tried to fight. All this time, you just wanted to get to France, and yet you didn't pay attention to what you had already stolen from him: My brother and I. I was nothing to you!"
The little boy was cradled in his arms, lovingly and carefully. He'd been fussy and couldn't sleep.
"Artie! Can you sing about the aminal fair? Please?" He mispronounced "animal" and the Brit chuckled lightly at the cute boy.
"Of course.
I went to the animal fair,
The birds and the beasts were there,
And the old baboon, by the light of the moon,
Was combing his auburn hair.
The monkey, he got drunk,
Sat on the elephant's trunk.
The elephant sneezed
And fell to his knees!
But what became of the monk, the monk, the monk?"
He looked down at the child in his arms, not at all surprised to see he was sleeping soundly.
"Goodnight Alfie. I love you more than you could ever know." The boy was his son and he would gladly give his life for Alfred's, no matter the circumstance. He kissed the top of the dirty blonde head and smiled again, walking from the den to the toddler's room to tuck him in.
Not true! Not true! He loved Alfred! He'd always been the most important thing in the world to him. Apparently, in his near hysteria, the Englishman voiced this. Alfred's glare became colder.
"That's exactly my point. I was nothing but a "thing" to you. If you really loved me so much, you would have asked me what I wanted, you would have given me a say in what happened to me! It's my life, and I'll live it without being oppressed by you and your damn taxes!" He faltered slightly though, his glare slipping from his face briefly before quickly plastering itself back on so quickly one might not have known it had ever vanished. "You know, I might have been able to forgive you if you had asked me what I thought before you took my men and sent them to war, before you made me pay for all the damage you caused in your home with no say in the rates. If you had asked, I would have helped you. But it hurts more that you didn't even ask. You treated me as if I was only your property and not family. I can't forgive you for that. I will never forgive you for that. I'm declaring my independence from you, England, and I hope this day haunts you. I hope for your sake you learn to treat your colonies better. And so help me God, if you hurt my brother, I will wage war with you again. I swear it. Goodbye England. I'm done being your property, your bank, your cannon fodder, and I'm done with you. Withdraw your troops, get off my land, and go back home. I don't want to see you here again." With those words spoken, Alfred turned his back to the Brit and walked away.
This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening, this couldn't be happening, this couldn't be happening, this couldn't be happening!
"NO! Alfred! Please! I'm sorry! I love you! Please!" The col—nation didn't look back as he trudged through the mud and off of the field. The world power watched him until it was no longer physically possible. His heart broke with each step the other took. "Alfred!" He stayed there, sitting in the muck and grime as he sobbed. His men look on with pity and anger (How could he be so ungrateful?) but, though he was upset his charge had left him, he wasn't quite so mad at his baby boy as he was at himself (that's because it's all your fault he left! You drove him away! You deserve this!), His baby was leaving him because of stupid mistakes.
"I went to the animal fair,
The birds and the beasts were there,
And the old baboon, by the light of the moon,
Was combing his auburn hair.
The monkey, he got drunk,
Sat on the elephant's trunk.
The elephant sneezed
And fell to his knees!
But what became of the monk, the monk, the monk?"
America got his wish. That day still haunts him. July fourth, what a wretched day. But what hurt the most now was seeing him smile like he couldn't be happier on his birthday, as if it gave him joy to make the Brit miserable. And he would see the baby boy Alfred used to be, just as he had on that horrible day. That lullaby swam in circles through his mind, tormenting him. The Englishman sat alone in his house, all the lights off and his curtains drawn, as tears cascaded down his face. He mumbled under his breath, clutching a blanket Alfred had been so fond of as a toddler.
"I went to the animal fair,
The birds and the beasts were there,
And the old baboon, by the light of the moon,
Was combing his auburn hair.
The monkey, he got drunk,
Sat on the elephant's trunk.
The elephant sneezed
And fell to his knees!
But what became of the monk, the monk, the monk?
"Goodnight Alfie. I love you more than you could ever know."