Hey, guys! I'll keep this brief. This is a multi-chaptered shonen-ai Hetalia USUK fanfic with lots of blood and violence. I'm pretty sure half of you just closed the window in fear. For the brave few that remain, prepare for the awesomest fic ever to be written in one night, proofread after only one cup of Earl Grey tea, and uploaded for your enjoyment over lunch. I give you... whatever this is. Just go read it. Reviewers WILL receive virtual cookies! First chapter is Arthur's (England/Britain's) memory of the Battle of Yorktown, the deciding battle of the Revolutionary War.
Chapter One: Regrets
"Arthur!" I hear the voice, his voice, over the cannons, gunshots, and battle cries, but I don't
stop running. The wounded and dying reach for me, call to me, claw at my tattered, bloodstained coat, praying to whatever cruel God exists for a swift death. I clench my teeth and keep staring straight ahead. I am used to war. I know of its horrors. Yet I am unprepared for this, this complete lack of feeling as blood from a knife wound to my side and the blood of my victims- no, not victims, I'm not a murderer; the men I have killed are the enemy- seeps into the rain-soaked earth. I stumble through a smoky maze of the corpses of Englishmen and Americans alike, a nightmarish reality worse than any hell these men deserve. I am running out of ammunition. No time to reload, so I pick up a musket, hoping its previous owner died early enough to still be loaded and fire at anything threatening, probably killing as many of my men as the Americans.
I come to the muddy banks of a river swollen from the rain and kneel to clean the dried blood from my face. When I look into my agitated, broken reflection I can't help but button my collar and run my fingers through my hair, gentleman I am. It's quite comical, really- the bloodiest war of the century, and I'm more concerned with my appearance, which was worsened by the "grooming" with my dirt-encrusted fingers, than my own country! Uncontrollable laughter shakes my emaciated form- I've hardly eaten since the start of the war- and pain shoots through my right arm, but I can't stop. The tinny sound is unfamiliar and laced with the beginnings of hysteria. Tears stream down my face as I laugh harder than I ever have in my entire life.
I am absolutely terrified.
And that's when the vomiting starts. Me being dehydrated, it is mostly dry, but I am still lying prone, completely exposed, emptying my guts into some godforsaken river in a densely wooded area of… where am I again? Blood loss is affecting my thought process… Yorktown. Yes, that's right. French and German soldiers scream as a cannon fires somewhere to my right. I finish vomiting into the water- I've caused the fish enough trauma- and climb to my feet, breaking into a jog to assess the damage.
This is not good, I think, sidestepping burning holes in the ground as an English soldier limps away through the smoke, clutching a wound to his chest and moaning. Part of me wants to comfort him, to escort him to the barracks, but I have my own job to do, and my men are counting me. I steel my nerves and march right into the thick of the battle, knowing that one way or another, this will be the last.
"Kirkland!" I run. I can't afford any more distractions, especially from him. His steps, amplified by the ringing of my right ear, which has been impaired by a French cannon blast since the beginning of the battle, seem to swallow me whole as they get closer and closer. I forget my mission- I just need to get away from him, from the man who betrayed me, the man who was my dearest friend.
The man I still love.
I am surrounded by death- I can see it, hear it, smell it- but still they fight. Still he pursues. And still I run. It isn't long before I begin to slow- I can't run forever- and my legs fail me. I sink to the ground, relishing the cool mud on my flushed face, but hating the way it stings in the cuts on my cheek.
"I finally found you." Oh no… I can't give up now. Leaning heavily on my musket, I pull myself unsteadily to my feet and turn to face my former charge and current enemy. What he will be to me in the future, I realize, will be decided not only by this battle, but by this very moment. I take a shaking breath to calm my nerves as the rain picks up and the wind is nearly deafening in the maelstrom.
Alfred F. Jones is dying. That much is clear. His once royal blue coat is so soaked in blood, it is more of a purple. His shaky breaths come sporadically, as if inhalation causes him pain. It probably does. "Al," I croak, limping towards him, facing not only my fear of death at the hands of my only friend, but also having to defend myself against him, resulting in his death. I stop dead in my tracks when I see his musket trained on the small spot between my large eyebrows.
"One more step," he warns, usually deep voice cracking from the stress of the last few years, and the horrors he's experienced for the first time without me there to guide him. "One more step, and I blow your brains out." I lower my weapon and lean on it, not gullible enough to drop it altogether. Upon closer inspection, I see the panic in Alfred's eyes, his bloody, broken nose, the scar on his jaw, right below his right ear, and the alarming expression on his face, one I'd never expect from the little nation, whose best friend growing up, besides me, of course, was a butterfly; whose favorite pastime was helping his "big brother" garden; who refused to sleep in his own bed until early adolescence, when I forced him out, and even then, he had a bedtime story every night, and a night light: the look in his eyes is so disturbing, I can hardly believe it- bloodlust.
I always swore I would somehow shield him from the horrors of war, that I could somehow keep him blissfully ignorant forever, so that he would not be driven to madness like countless tragic civilizations before him. And yet, here I stand, face to face with a bloodthirsty monster created by my own negligence.
"Alfred," I call over the wind. My usually tame hair has fallen out of its ponytail and is whipping around my face, making it difficult to see the young nation. I feel my feet move involuntarily, as if in a trance. The right lens of his glasses is cracked, the left missing altogether.
"I said be still, Arthur!" Bang! A blast of gunpowder and a flash of light later, I'm on the ground writhing in agony as the pain spreads like fire through my left leg. "I've grown strong, brother," he hisses, spitting the last word like a curse. It digs into my heart with pain even worse than the gun wound to my knee. I feel him approach me until I'm staring at his boot, bloodied from what I can only assume is the faces of many of my men, kicked while they were down, probably still bleeding to death. The thought makes me nauseous. Who would have thought little Alfred would have the strength- and anger- to cause such destruction?
"Al… why?" Even before the words leave my mouth, I know the answer. I just need to hear it out loud before I can truly accept it. He uses the barrel of his gun to force my chin off the ground and I strain to meet his eyes, then freeze at the hatred smoldering within them.
"Independence." He says it softly, so I can barely hear it, but all other sound seems to die away. It's just Al and me- like old times. Maybe if I just close my eyes, I'll wake up back home, and I can run to Alfred's room to see him fast asleep, and everything will be fine. We can be a family again. "I hated you. Did you ever stop to consider that I may have my own dreams and ambitions?" Ouch. Maybe not.
"I was… protecting you," I croak, dry lips somehow managing to form words. His icy blue eyes bore into my own. He kneels in the mud, still pointing his gun at me.
"From what?" he whispers. "Freedom? Responsibility? The truth? I always wondered why you would never take me on your 'business trips'. Were they all like this? Bloody wars?" I don't know how to answer his questions, so I just return his gaze, hoping my tears are blending with the rain. "Why? Did you think I wasn't ready?" Still, I say nothing. As we spoke, he had leaned closer with each question, and his face was only inches from my own.
"You aren't ready!" I manage to choke out. "I can't let you experience this. Not this young. What if you're killed? Where would that leave me?" Rain-slicked bangs plastered to his forehead cover his eyes, so it's hard to read his expression, but I swear I see tears streaming down his face as he pulls away and stands.
"I don't know, Arthur," he spits angrily, "and I don't care. I don't care what you would think if I died. You are nothing to me." How can he say these things? He turns and begins to walk away. I scramble to my feet, leaning heavily on my gun. My entire left leg is numb as I hobble after him.
"Wait, Alfred!" I cry feebly, not caring that my voice has cracked. He walks on, completely ignoring me, with his musket slung over his back. He knows I don't have the physical or emotional capability of shooting him. We walk on through the rain and trees until we come to clearing. He stops in the middle and turns to face me.
"I thought I knew you better," he says, smirking. "The Arthur I know would have given up by now. He would have run home crying." I take a shaky breath, ignoring the pain in my right side.
"Surrender now, Alfred," I warn, more to convince myself than anything else. "I am stronger than you could ever imagine." I am really just stalling, waiting for reinforcements. Cruel laughter echoes in my ears. It's hard to believe it's his.
"Look at yourself, Kirkland, and honestly tell me you're in any position to tell me to surrender." He was right, of course- I was only talking big to distract him, possibly delay him. Suddenly, he snaps his fingers- surprisingly loudly though his gloves- and dozens of American soldiers burst into the clearing wielding weapons.
"You tricked me!" I screech as I am surrounded. It is at that moment that twenty of my troops emerge from the woods, half of them armed, at least four of them badly injured. They raise their guns, unsure of what to do. I slowly raise my own weapon, standing tall despite the searing pain in my knee, and do something I thought would never even be possible- I point a gun at Alfred's head. For a moment, here is just tense, painful silence and a consciousness of a terrible threat. Then, nervous muttering breaks out among all that is left of our armies, waiting for our commands. "Don't shoot," I call over my shoulder. I don't want them to get involved in this.
"So, this is it, huh?" For a moment, all I can see of Alfred is the little boy he once was, and I realize I can never return to that time. He is a grown man now. Independent. I straighten up, and from a mere five feet away, tighten my grip on the musket and rest my finger on the trigger. He does the same. We are outnumbered one to three, at least. If I back down now, I can save myself, and my soldiers. If I back down now, I won't have to shoot, and neither will he. If I back down now, maybe we could… no. I can't afford to think right now. Personal matters can wait until the war is over. I lower my gun with a sigh. My knee chooses that moment to give out and I crumple to the muddy ground.
"No!" cries Alfred, rushing forwards to catch me. But he stops, he holds himself back, remembering just why he came here. He towers above me. Now, feeling rushes back to every inch of my body- the damp earth between my fingers, the freezing rain covering my skin, the abrasive scents of blood and death and gunpowder- and I know I will remember this day, this battle, this moment, forever. I feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on me, and I know what I must do. I raise my head just enough to meet his eyes and prepare myself for what is to come.
"Arthur," I hear him breathe, loudly enough for me to hear, but not any of our soldiers. "You used to be so big…" The statement hangs in the still air, in the silence that cuts me like a knife. I lower my eyes, awaiting the final gunshot that would end this bloody conflict. But it never comes. Alfred's musket falls to the damp ground and he turns on his heel, much to the surprise of… well, everyone.
"We're moving out," he calls to his men, voice cracking once again from a sob. They march away through the clearing, and my men march in the other direction. I don't question them- I'm still too shocked. Why hadn't he shot me? He had made his intention clear- he wished to kill me. He wanted me dead at his feet. And yet, I am still alive. A wave of nausea and exhaustion hit me, and I know that we have officially surrendered. Alfred is gone. I couldn't stop him. He left me for his freedom. And he is never coming back.
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