So, another series for you all. I hope you enjoy it, I'm excited for it.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia franchise or the majority of the real people mentioned in this fan fiction. So there.
George Washington
"Happiness depends more upon the internal frame of a person's own mind, than on the externals in the world."
―George Washington
When Alfred first met the man that was supposed to bring him out of the possessive arms of Arthur, he was not disappointed.
George Washington was tall, immensely so, and he had a defined face. Muscle read in each movement of his legs and arms, an ease with weapons that Alfred had not seen in any of the other generals that had been put before him. This General Washington was steady and seemed to be remarkably difficult to bother—a quality that is valuable in leaders. He had a deep, booming voice that commanded the attention of anyone and everyone in the room, his eyes hard as pebbles and just as emotionless. This was the man who was to lead America's youthful soldiers into battle, the Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army.
Alfred, America, felt an immediate and immense respect for this strong and silent type. Washington had a way about him that breathed trustworthiness and gentle guidance. Alfred could rely on this man to always look for the higher land and find the way out of a dangerous situation for everyone. He was courageous and willing to take risks, but would not sacrifice the lives of young men to a fruitless battle.
Alfred was one of the more expendable soldiers, sad though it may seem. The members of the Second Continental Congress knew that he would just come back to life if he were shot and killed. All nations did that, and so Alfred was treated by his government the same way as all other nations were treated by theirs. He was invincible and could be added to any line, generally the front, because he could never be truly eliminated. In war, nations aren't as sacred as they are in peacetime.
But George Washington regarded America as something more than just another body to throw into the front line. He knew that this young nation didn't know how to fight just yet. He knew that strategies were beyond Alfred's head, and how exactly to wield a gun and kill another man was perhaps too much for the young nation to stomach. And so he worked specially with Alfred, gaining his trust as he was gaining the trust of the American people.
The training was not entirely controlled by George Washington. Sometimes Prussia, who had come with Baron von Steuben, would step in and work with Alfred on things that only a country could do. And really, what that involved was getting America to cooperate with his lands, to coax what he wanted out of them.
France made an appearance too, entrancing the young America with his smooth words and European ways, proving lethal in how seductive he could be for a naïve, doe-eyed Alfred. It was France who gave the Continental Army their uniforms of starry sky blue, replacing the rather tattered brown rags that most of the infantry wore with the proper thing.
England was impressed with America's newest Commander-in-Chief as well, though it was grudging. The newspapers that ruffled in loyalist's hands spoke of the amazing personality traits and qualities that made George Washington the brilliant General that he was. He was a force to be reckoned with, and the patriots were both pleased and bothered at the approval that their newest leader had garnered from the British side.
However, just because England admired America's upstart little general didn't mean that he was going to let his colony leave. He would fight tooth and claw to keep Alfred by his side. He was the British Empire, and he refused to back down.
Alfred was not quite ready to fight against the British when the Continental Army and the redcoats clashed at the Battle of Long Island.
The men fled, as the second wing of the British troops swung around to enclose Washington's servicemen. The Americans were forced to begin moving left, desperate to avoid being trapped in a net of lobster backs. They were being driven towards Brooklyn Heights, where all took shelter behind the fortifications.
Alfred dropped down next to a youth that looked about his physical age of sixteen, perhaps a year or so younger. The boy's brown hair was pasted to his forehead, his gun sliding in his sweaty palms and his mouth parted slightly as he sucked air in, showing the browned and missing teeth that were within. He managed a faint, toothy smile at America, not knowing that the boy next to him was the country he was fighting for.
"Damn bloody backs," he huffed out, surprising Alfred with his use of such a vulgar term. No one ever said damn in front of other people.
Alfred laughed and pressed his head back against the tree trunk that he was resting against, the rough bark pushing a pattern on the skin of his skull. He knew that laughter was completely inappropriate in the situation they were in, but sometimes there in no better way to get rid of stress than to laugh it off.
"My name is Alfred," said Al, holding his right hand out for the other boy to shake.
"And I am Stewart," said the soldier before taking Alfred's right hand with his own and shaking it firmly, despite how slippery their equally sweaty palms were along one another.
Idle conversation was passed as the day bled into night. Washington was discussing furiously with his generals over what to do with the disastrous situation they were stuck in.
Alfred spoke of fishing and lovely summer days with bloated stomachs and sugary sweet strawberries. He could smell the clean, un-touched air of his lands in his nose as he closed his eyes and remembered how things were when he was little. Before the plague known as Europe had reached him and started to reach greedily for his lands; before England and France haggled over how valuable he was, inevitably driving him to the position of trying desperately to get back to square one.
"Alfred," spoke Washington, his voice deep and booming and flattening Stewart and Al's conversation, "could you come here a moment?"
Stewart gazed at the boy next to him, wide-eyed. To be so easily addressed by the Commander-in-Chief was a slightly frightening thing, meaning that you were either in a lot of trouble or were somehow special enough to be directly called out.
Washington was always mindful to not call Alfred America in public. It wouldn't do for the American public to know of their nation's existence as a person.
Alfred smiled halfheartedly at Stewart before scrambling to his feet and trotting over to his superior. "Yes sir?" he asked, his thumb hooked through the strap of his musket, which was looped over his shoulder. His blue eyes peered eagerly at George Washington, his muscles quivering with exhaustion and adrenaline, an interesting mix. He'd never tell, but every death that he endured in battle steadily grew more painful, though he was never quite sure why. When he asked Prussia bout it, the country had avoided the question, and France just waved it off and responded with the ever-so-odd phrase "Pain is beauty, non?"
"The British troops have put their efforts into digging trenches steadily closer, Alfred," said Washington, his emotionless eyes gazing at the sweep of land around them. "I am afraid that we will not be able to hold out the night should we stay here without reinforcements." Alfred was confused. Why would George Washington tell him this? It's hardly likely that he would know what to do.
"Er, sir?" Al asked, shuffling uncomfortably as that unmoving gaze fell squarely on him. "Should not we consider a fast and thorough retreat?" He didn't really know what he was talking about, but figured he might as well go with it. Maybe his instincts knew something he didn't.
Washington tilted his head, implying that Alfred should continue talking.
"With regards to your military expertise, sir, I would venture to say that we are unable to make a solid counterattack from our current position. We are already going up a ladder to bed, if you do not mind my saying so. It is imperative that we retreat to Manhattan. We cannot hold the line with our men," he flushed at the considering look in Washington's eyes. "Er, not to be bold, sir. It is all your decision, General Washington, sir." He was really too timid for a nation, especially because he was technically Washington's senior.
Washington turned to a general standing just to his left. "What say you, Thomas?" he asked of General Mifflin who had just returned from inspecting the outer defenses of their position.
"George," responded the man, proving that the two were comfortable enough with one another to use Christian names, "I will soundly back up the lad here. We cannot survive the night without a retreat. I advise that you order the men to pack their belongings and take preventative measures so as to ensure that no noise can break this quiet night."
Washington deliberated before turning to yet another general and discussing something in hushed, hissing whispers. They came to a conclusion. "Alfred, do accompany me for a moment," said Washington smiling fondly at the boy before walking off, expecting America to do as ordered.
Alfred didn't hesitate, jogging to catch up with his Commander-in-Chief, his musket slapping painfully against the backs of his thighs. He was still a boy, not quite as lean and muscular as he was sure he'd grow to be. Baby fat still clung, unbidden, to his cheeks and arms and legs and hands.
Washington was quickly scrawling out a note, the parchment balanced precariously on one of the stone blocks that made up a half-finished wall. The ink bottle was a block above, making Washington have to reach up and lean back to re-ink his quill.
He finished and folded it up, though it lacked an official seal.
"If he does not believe that it was I who authorized this letter, than return to us as fast as you are able and do make me aware of the situation." He murmured to Alfred, before nudging the boy off to take the letter to General Heath.
And Alfred performed, his footsteps light and unheard in the forest as he wound his way between the trees and towards King's Bridge, where General Heath was stationed with his men. He was jumpy as he made his way there, freezing and panting heavily with nerves and terror when he heard a sound off to his left or right. The British could be anywhere, England could be anywhere.
And England was there, all of a sudden, the sharp red of his coat muted and darkened in the rain and moonlight. A Sam Browne belt was glowing in the light, its white fabric reflecting the moon's shine right back at it. Epaulettes glimmered as well, winking in and out of shadow with each movement of their owner and drop of rain. The tail of the red coat that the British were so renowned for ducked down to the back of England's knees. Boots laced up his shins before cutting off sharply so that grey trousers could continue the path up his legs. A white shirt was beneath that, tucked into the waistline of the trousers.
Perhaps the most striking part of it all was that England, the posh and rather uptight England, or Great Britain, was not wearing a hat. The color of the facings on his coat determined him to be of a certain regiment, and generally the hat would help to define the rank of the individual. But England's hat was mysteriously missing.
America's mouth was dry, his eyes blinking for a moment before he quickly swung his musket around, the bayonet missing from the nose of it.
England sighed and raised his hands, his eyes calculating but not as upset as America had thought they would be. "Easy there, America. I intend you no harm," placated the European nation, making a show of raising his arms to his ears to prove the point that he was not currently in the possession of a gun.
But even that gesture kept America wary and he made a motion with the edge of his gun for England to step back until the other nation's back was pressed up against a tree. "What need have you of me?" spoke the younger, his wide blue eyes surprisingly determined.
England shrugged. "None at all, actually." There was an annoying laziness to his tone, as if he didn't really consider America to be a threat. And maybe he wasn't entirely incorrect with this belief, judging by how hesitant America was, how he held the gun perhaps a tad looser in the face of the nation who had raised him. But England wasn't in the mood to test how quick America's trigger finger could be, and so he abided by America's demands.
"What matter has you up and about so late in the evening?" he asked, curiosity and perhaps a hope that he could lure the information out of his colony, yes, his colony. America wasn't his own nation yet, and he never would be if England had anything to do with it. Why America couldn't be more like his brother Canada, England was at a loss to say, but he greatly wished that his beloved America, his adored Alfred, wouldn't take after England's rather rebellious Scottish cousin.
America opened his mouth, as if to give away the plans of his entire war, before he realized his stupidity and slammed it shut.
"None of the matter is of concern to you, England," he snapped, chucking up England's chin with the nose of the musket. "Pray tell, what has one of your value out at such late hours?"
England shrugged. "Oh, America, I should think that you are aware of how expendable we are as nations?" was his reply.
America didn't respond, just took a tiny step back, his musket lowering fractionally to his side.
"Why won't you just let me go?" he murmured out of the blue, his eyes wide and naïve and so, so similar to those baby blues of long ago. Those glimmering sapphires that peered out from the waving green fronds of grass and grinned happily down at England from the bows of apple trees, the sticky remnants of the fruit decorating his cheeks.
England caught himself there, shaking his head and pinching his nose. "Because you are not of an age capable enough to govern yourself," he snapped, his emerald eyes flashing up to clash on America's doe-eyed ones.
"You were younger than I when you first became a nation!" snapped the irate Alfred, his composure and maturity rapidly melting away.
"Had I a choice I would have bided my time, Alfred!" said England then, resorting to the familiar use of America's chosen name.
"Arthur," hissed out America, shaking his head and stepping further back. But there was nothing much else to say, and so the fledgling colony, the struggling nation, turned his back on his idol and resumed sprinting to King's Bridge. He had more important things to concern himself with than the remarkable and reputed stubbornness of the British Empire.
The message was delivered, assent was given, Alfred returned to camp. He wanted to shove off the annoying brown wool coat that he was clothed in, the fabric scratching rather painfully at the sweaty and sensitive skin of his neck.
George Washington took a glance at his runner and saw something amiss with the nation. His eyebrows furrowed, he made to speak to Al, but got a forced smile in response to his concern. Resigning himself to a conversation with the boy later, he returned his attention to the task at hand; getting the men to safety.
Under the cover of night, everyone began to steal out to the boats. Wagon wheels were muffled, soldiers ordered under pain of death to refrain from speaking, horses hooves covered with cloth. A few people of Mifflin's regiment were left to tend fires, making it seem as if the American troops were still stuck in their cage.
Alfred was one of these men, once more because he was expendable, though it had taken some quiet arguing with Washington to let him stay with some of his people.
Because George Washington looked at America, at Alfred, as his son. And he didn't want to leave someone that he held so dear behind.
But there was nothing to be done about it, and so Washington was one of the first pushed across to Manhattan, followed by the rest of the infantry. And slowly, men trickled away from the tended fires, boarding boats and floating across.
Alfred was one of the last to go. He was certainly one of the last to get in the boat.
That was not before England pulled him aside, sensing that something was asunder and proving that he was right. He snagged America's arm before the younger nation was aware of what was happening, pulled him into the woods and slammed him up against a tree, the quick silver of a knife flashing out before it pressed dangerously into the skin of America's throat.
America was too terrified to swallow.
"Shall we straighten one thing out, Alfred?" said Arthur pleasantly, proving that he perhaps didn't have enough respect for America as a nation to call its representative his proper name. "I have heard that you are not sure why dying gets more and more painful. I will be pleased to enlighten you before you die once more." He grinned, the slithery, slippery smirk of a snake.
"When you die, you experience the pain of your people who died in battle around you, and in skirmishes or wars since your last demise. This experience will build up as more and more of your men and boys fight for you, and die for it. It is only fair that the immortal suffer for the pains of the mortal, would not you agree?"
Before America could respond, the knife was dragged swiftly across his throat, splitting the taut skin open like a peach and letting red juice bubble eagerly out.
England stepped back as America writhed on the forest floor, having slid down the tree trunk with the blood flowing freely from his neck. England hadn't pressed the knife hard enough to pierce his windpipe, but the blood America was losing would be enough to kill him before he got to Manhattan, and before his precious Commander-in-Chief could save him.
England's lecherous eyes watched as his former colony bled out before him.
The Winter at Valley Forge was a horrible one, with conditions that Alfred hoped he would never ever have to endure ever again.
His fingers and toes were blue. Quite literally blue, almost the same color as his eyes. His nose probably wasn't even attached to his face anymore, though how could he be sure, he hadn't felt it in what felt like years. His ears were frozen solid, his lips a tinged shade of purple, his eyes red rimmed and his whole body shivering constantly, never-endingly.
He'd given up his warmer clothes to those who only had one life. He could live many, he could never be permanently extinguished. But they could, and so they were the ones that America wanted to see survive this specially crafted torture.
He had no shoes. He had no gloves. He had no coat. He had a flimsy shirt and his trousers. That was all, and he rarely ate the meager food offered him.
He'd hashed it out quite a bit with George over his miserable lack of clothing, getting into yelling matches that could rival his and England's squabbles in the early 1700s.
George didn't want to see him doing this to himself. America didn't care what George thought at the time, he just wanted to see others survive.
Alfred was exiled to one of the cabins. The men on watch were grateful for the warm supplies that their comrade could provide and would often rotate out the shoes and gloves and coat for whomever was on watch at night. Alfred didn't have a blanket either, but some of the other boys in the cabin would allow him to borrow theirs if they were on watch or sometimes just to share it with him. It didn't much matter, as they were all sleeping on ground that was solid with frost, with bitter wind blowing through the slats of the cabin door and walls, serving to ice their blankets over so that when they woke up, the humidity of their combined breaths had moistened the air enough for it all to just glaze the inside of the cabin with ice.
This, of course, would serve to drop the temperatures even lower inside, as the wind on the outside was relentless.
America died again, succumbing to the pains of hypothermia.
He woke up to the wrinkled, and very concerned face of George Washington. For once, those stoney eyes held a sprinkling of emotion; concern and adoration in this case.
"Alfred," he murmured, relieved, and surprising the nation by sweeping him into a hug. Al was stunned before hesitantly reciprocating, his arms a good deal less muscular than this impressive man's.
"I was afraid that you would never wake up, my boy," said George. Yes, perhaps using such a noun when referring to his country was disrespectful. But Alfred didn't feel as if he was deserving of his Commander-in-Chief's respect just yet.
"Why?" asked Alfred, a good deal less formal than he had been at the beginning of the war.
"Alfred," said George, pulling away from his adopted son to gaze worriedly at him. "It has been two weeks since your death. Getting you out of that tent before your companions knew that you'd died was no easy task, I will let you know of that," teased George, trying to bring a bit of light on what was an otherwise rather intimidating topic. The streaks of gray in his red hair were ignored in the candlelight. Al could only assume that it was late, for George was never one to waste such valuable commodities as candles in this hostile environment. Candles meant fire, and fire meant warmth.
"Well, there should not be anything else to concern yourself over, for I am very much alive now." Said Alfred, struggling to sit up. He hadn't eaten in a while.
"Take your time, Alfred. Your humors could very well be out of balance."
Alfred nodded his head, not looking around at the no-doubt bare insides of Washington's hut. He didn't belong in this cabin. "Well, I will be returning to my accommodations," said Alfred, not really asking permission, as he was supposed to. He made to stand from his uncomfortable place on the floor, but was pressed back down by one of George's bigger hands.
"I would prefer it if the doctor were to come and check you over before you return to your post," said George, not even willing to debate the idea with Alfred who was getting a little upset with George's mollycoddling.
Yet, Alfred grudgingly waited for the doctor to come in and measure his humors. Once he was declared balanced, he hopped as quickly as he could to his feet and glared irritatedly at George. "See?" he said petulantly, "I am fine."
George shrugged. "It was in my best interests to ensure that you really are as balanced as you claim. People are displeased with me as their commander, due to our situation. And Prussia is here." He said pushing Alfred out of the cabin.
The boy didn't realize that he had shoes on until ice crunched beneath his boots in a merry greeting after he was shoved out of the cabin. Unwilling to turn around and thank his annoying commander, he cast his eyes around in search for the white-haired, red-eyed Prussian who had come with Baron von Steuben to train America's Continental Army.
The war was over. England was gone, hopefully not to return anytime soon to America's lands.
America was more than pleased as the last of England's troops left in 1783. He hoped to not see another redcoat for a good, long while.
In 1787 the Constitutional Convention was called, and the Articles of Confederation were scrapped.
Washington, much to America's relief, was chosen for the first president of the United States. Though America would never openly admit it, he had entertained the idea of making George Washington his sovereign king. But the lack of an heir and George just not wanting to be a king altogether kept it from coming through. And so, a president he became.
And Mr. President he chose to be called. Alfred continued to call his first president, his beloved George Washington, George through the man's life. He was there, and George was there for him, as both of their bodies changed. Alfred, America rather, grew stronger. The baby fat began to slowly melt from his cheeks and arms. The leanness of muscles stood out in stark contrast to the rest of his body.
George grew old. The red of his hair was eventually bleached out by gray. His face grew steadily more wrinkled. And he never had any children of his own. But he was perfectly healthy, perfectly sound, perfectly balanced, until one night when he woke up completely unable to breathe.
A doctor and a servant both bloodletted him in an effort to bring his humors back into balance, but it didn't work.
When George passed away, he was no longer America's president. But America was one of the last to leave his father's funeral. George had changed him, Washington had made him who he was. Washington, George Washington, had helped his people figure out what they wanted out of a government. He had led the country with a steady hand, much as he'd lead his army before.
America broke down as he wallowed by George's tombstone. The dirt had been reverently packed down by the American people. Alfred collapsed at the foot of the long stretch of fresh earth. He gazed through bleary eyes at the chiseled words. He knew that he was crying, could feel the tears tracking hot trails down his cheeks and into his mouth.
He could remember George's patience with him as he rather clumsily wielded a wooden sword, could remember laughing with the man as they watched a rather haughty soldier slip in a particularly spectacular way and crash down a hill. He could remember snickering as George's horse refused to let him mount it. He could remember the man's quiet concern, his well-meaning advice. The arms that had cradled Alfred as he sobbed and broke at the loss of England. The hushed murmurings of things are better now. The polite kindness of Martha, who welcomed him eagerly into her household. How George was content with having America near him as he made decisions regarding the nation.
And most importantly, the necklace that Alfred was currently wearing. George had carved it at the siege of Boston, when the Continental Army was still high on confidence and numbers and patriotism. It was made of oak, not an easy wood to carve, and had the careful skill and detail of someone who was focused on that sort of thing.
America would always see the former president walking around with it, whether actively carving at the wood or just holding it between his fingers. It stuck with George all through the war, and America received it at the man's inaugural speech.
It was an eagle, one that would eventually turn out to be America's national bird. Its beak was parted in a screech of triumph, wings spread mightily around it. Both clawed feet were wrapped around the branch of a cherry tree. It was circular in shape, and there were rough patches on it, though those were steadily being smoothed out with the nervous rubbing of America's thumb along the wooden surface.
Eventually, the young nation stood to leave, pressing a kiss to his fingertips and brushing those digits along the curve of Washington's tombstone as a goodbye.
What were your thoughts?
Sorry guys for not being so peppy as I normally am. I'm tired.
As for the humors business, 'tis true. Many people back then, all people, believed that perfect health was a correct balance of four humors. If one of them was off, certain things would be done to make them balance again. These solutions can vary from bloodletting (leeching or literally squeezing blood out of a cut in a person's arm into a bowl) to just turning heat up and stuff.
I tried to use the ancient dialect of people int the 1700s but I failed miserable. So I'm sorry you history-writing snobs out there. I suck at it.
George Washington really didn't have kids. His wife, Martha, had been a widow before she met George, with four children of her own. In George's time, many believed that something was wrong with Martha, because George was just too masculine to be sterile otherwise. But studies have been showing that it was much more likely that George was sterile, and it was this that held him back from becoming king. He wouldn't have a proper heir.
Also, fun fact about him. Did y'all know that he always got super depressed when he was sick? Yep. This guy would get all down in the dumps and it was clinical depression and stuff. Any other time he was fine, but not at that point.
Oh, and you'll notice that I steadily start using America more at the end of the thing and whenever he is not around George Washington and other people. This is partially because he doesn't really consider himself a country yet, and because he doesn't think that he deserves the respect America would demand from George Washington. That guy was awesome, and I always consider him to be the sort of guiding hand/fatherly figure to America.
Have a nice day/night/whatever is going on in your life right now.