Glorious

The autumn air outside was crisp and fresh, bringing with it a deep sense of calm and peace in America. The scene was a tranquil one when looking out of doors, the weather was fair, the birds were singing gaily in the tree tops without a care in the world, and the soothing sound of leaves rustling together in the tree tops was a welcomed change to the calamity of city life. It was beautiful here, quiet, a paradise in many ways from the happenings elsewhere around the world.

Sitting stiffly in his chair, face tightly pinched in a masking scowl, Great Britain waited. The sun shined through the windows, warming the chilly room. England sweated in his uniform as he once again pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. It was nearly eleven o'clock.

The little sitting room was quite familiar to the personification. It had been for quite some time now. He had helped with the building many years ago when he had made a decision to take on the responsibility of a life time. But that seemed so long ago now, longer than it was in actuality.

The little room was cozy, still, a perfect reflection of the serenity outside. It was far from the nearest town, this little house, far away from the harshness and tragedies that could be found in larger settlements. Here, in the woods, the little cottage, with the cozy little sitting room, was away from all that, away from reality. Here, everything was nice. Everything was perfect. Or that's how it had once always seemed.

Green eyes scanned over the room, looking from the precious few books that adorned the shelves to the desk beside the window. There were pieces of parchment sitting out with some sort of scribbles on them, peaking the curiosity, yet inspiring too much fear to act upon any prying. There was a small inkwell too, almost completely dry. Ink was expensive nowadays, especially here in the west. The brown quill was leaning in the well, fluttering about in small breeze from the open window. It might have been a turkey feather, but it was hard to tell.

The room was sparsely furnished now, though comfortable. There was a Crucifix hanging on the wall above the desk and a painting of King George III across the room. The painting was crooked. Looking at his pocket watch again, Britain realized it was eleven as he straightened the collar of his jacket.

The fireplace was clean and tidy as it always had been. Firewood sat piled in the corner, ready for use, looking to have been cut several days ago. Noticeably lacking, however, was the china vase that had once stood proudly atop the mantle, as well as the good lace from Bedfordshire. They were no longer in sight, gone like the cheer the room had once inspired.

Everything seemed plain now, empty, devoid of the joyfulness the empire had once associated with the little cottage. The table was no longer covered, but stood out with bare wood, no flowers sitting atop it, and the chairs looked too empty. There was no birdcage now with happy finches jumping about, no rugs for the floor, no more paintings hanging that had once brightened the room. The little sitting room was now cold, somber.

Britain jumped slightly when the sound of the door opening resounded through the still cottage. He sat up straighter if it was possible and squared his shoulders out painfully broad. His features were set in severity as he waited for the other occupant to find him.

True to instinct, not a minute later, America opened the door to the sitting room, and froze upon seeing his guardian. The sight of the young man, blonde hair sticking out askew, clothes dirty, blue eyes wide, was almost to enough to send the carefully crafted mask of the Englishman crashing down. Almost.

Adored blue eyes narrowed into menacing slits, wounding like a dagger to the heart. "What are you doing here?" The boy's voice was hard, though there was a hint, a slight undertone, of worry.

Remaining seated, crossing his leg superiorly, Britain folded his hands together neatly, raising one thick brow disapprovingly at his charge. "You ought to mind your tone with me, boy." The rebuke came out sharp, as though wanting to physically wound. "Brash young men do not live long in the world."

America scowled right back, his hands balling into fists, his whole body ridged. It reminded the elder nation of when the boy had been a small child, about ready to throw a temper tantrum. But that had been many years ago. "They might not live long," the colony snapped, "but at least they do not live fearfully in the world. At least they'll go down with glory!"

Britain snorted contemptuously as he looked away, out the window, dismissively. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could tell he had offended the colony by his apparent ease, just as he had hoped it would get a rise from the boy. "And what then, Achilles?" the elder asked, his tone bored, mocking. "You have no Trojans to fight."

"But I have you."

The room grew suddenly thick as those four simple words hung dreadfully in the air. A terrible shudder threatened to overcome the Brit, but he fought it down as though it were something living. With his face away from the boy, Britain closed his eyes, working to keep his breathing even and his heart quiet. It seemed far too loud as it pounded against his ribs. Irrationally, he wondered if the other could hear it.

Turning back around slowly, his face almost blank, the elder man stared at his colony. "Me." His voice was flat.

"Yes you!" the boy cried ardently. "Didn't I make myself clear already? Didn't you even read my declaration stating tha—"

"That trash?" Britain hissed, clasping onto the arms of the chair tightly, his eyes burning so furiously that, he hoped for a split second, they could catch the other on fire.

It took nearly a full minute for him to reign in his temper as America stood in the doorway of the sitting room, looking conflicted with how he should proceed. Relinquishing his grasp on the arms of the chair, the Englishman folded them together again before adopting his detached manner once more. "I received that laughable little declaration of yours," he nodded. "You declared your independence from me."

"That's right," America nodded back, shifting from foot to foot.

"You'll understand that I cannot allow that to happen," Britain said, standing up from his chair, hoping to intimidate the other. "You are my colony, and I'll be damned if I let you go like this."

"Well, you don't have much say in the matter," the boy crossed his arms arrogantly. "I've declared my independence and I'm never going to let you or anyone else rule over me again! I'm a free country now."

Britain tossed his head back and gave a barking laugh, so thick with scorn it actually caused the younger personification to take a step back. "You think it is that simple, don't you, boy?" he smiled acrimoniously. "That you can just say that you are independent and that everyone will leave you in peace? Come, come, America, I thought you were smarter than that."

"I'm serious!" the boy cried furiously.

"You've just proven to me that you are incapable of being independent," the European sneered. "I came here to give you a chance. Stop all of this foolish rebellion now, and the crown is willing to forgive you." He caught sight of the Crucifix. "Repent and be saved," he implored quietly, aggrieved.

The boy fell silent for a moment, giving Britain hope that he might actually be considering his offer. But all too quickly, a hateful scowl appeared on the young lips once more, and blazing blue eyes snapped up to burn painfully into the empire's heart. "No." The boy's voice was strong, full of conviction. "No, I will not! I want to be free. Only cowards and the weak minded make deals with the devil!"

"And what gives you to right to do this?" Britain cried, losing his temper at last. "Tell me, America, in all of your heavenly wisdom, what makes you think you can do this?"

The boy's eyes were hard, yet his countenance seemed remarkably calm in the face of the furious empire. It set the Englishman on edge. "I have three reasons." America's voice was chillingly composed. "First, a defined, legitimate government with the right exercise of political authority is for the protection of individual rights."

The elder nation frowned. In the back of his mind, he believed he had heard those words before, sometime not too long ago.

"Second," America went on, taking confident steps towards the other nation, "governments are set up by ancient agreements between free men who grant authority to some for the protection of the rest."

Those words were so familiar. They had been important once, but he could not quite recall why. It was at the tip of his tongue, yet it all escaped him.

"Third, and final, a government is a contract and as such, consequence flow when either the governed or the governing break it," the younger personification finished strongly, his tone full of conviction. "If the government fails in these, I have the right, the duty, to rebel against tyranny."

Realization came to Britain, settling over him coldly as he gazed at his colony. Anger bubbled inside of the Englishman, resentment. Without thinking, he raised his hand and slapped the boy across the face, a hard, loud smack that seemed to echo about the room. For just a moment, there was nothing but rage, rage flooded through his veins, made him forget himself in that precious moment. He saw not the cherished colony of his, but an enemy.

But when surprised blue eyes turned back to him, that vehemence dissipated immediately in the British man's heart and was replaced with utter shame and sorrow. America's shock did not last long, however, as his eyes hardened and a terrible scowl overcame his face, the likes of which the Englishman had never seen. It was completely void of any warmth and compassion, emotions that had seemed forever constant in his eyes before. Another shiver tried to pass over the Brit, but he refused it too.

Covering his grief, Britain stood tall in the face of the boy he had raised, tall and proud. "A tyrant, am I?" he hissed, forcing his voice to convey his anger, choking out any sadness that might have lingered there otherwise. "You stupid, stupid boy. Do you realize what you're doing?"

America took a step back, out of the other's arm length. "I'm doing what needs to be done… to free myself. Of you." The red handprint stood out starkly against his pale cheek. Indeed, the boy's face had gone quite pale.

It was as though the great weight of the world had been passed from Atlas onto Britain's shoulders at the declaration. His heart felt heavy, as though led had been tied to it, to forever bind it to this moment and into eternity, because he knew that in this moment, he would regret whatever decision he made, would never be able to escape it. But woe is the life of a nation, never to be their own, always to serve others before themselves.

"So be it," he said gently, looking away from the young face before him. Squaring his shoulders once more, mustering up all the superiority and contempt that he could find within himself, he pushed past the boy, hitting the other's shoulder as he did so. "If it is war that you want, it is war that you'll get."

"At least mine really will be a truly Glorious Revolution," America growled.

Britain paused, closing his eyes against the sharp pain that had returned to his chest. Glorious. Is that truly what the boy believed this would be? Glorious. All of the blood and tears, the sorrow and hate that would be had? That had already been dealt by just their words? Glorious.

"Then the next time you see me," the empire warned quietly, darkly, not looking back, "you had better not hesitate to pull your trigger. Because I won't."

He never would learn the other's reaction to this, as the moment he had finished speaking, the Englishman hurried out of the little cottage that he had helped build for his colony, and made his way down the lane, never glance to the left nor right, only straight ahead. His shoulders remained painfully square, his head too high, his steps even, militaristic.

America would never learn of the many tears that his caregiver shed that night, nor how hard it had been for the Brit to speak and act as he had, or how that slap across the face had been a much more striking blow against the green-eyed nation. No, America would not realize Britain's sorrow, his agony; the empire made sure of that. America could not know of how hard this was on the other.

That day, Britain walked away from the little cottage, never looking back. He had a war to prepare, a fight that would, no matter what, hurt him deeply. It would have been easier for him to have severed his own hand than to bring harm to the child he had raised, the child he thought of as his own, the child he loved. But it was with bitter resignation that Britain knew he didn't have much say in the matter.

Later that night, when the world was silent, and the stars were twinkling above in the heavens silently, relieving the total darkness of the world that would occur without the sun, Britain returned. In a perverted act of charity, he decided to aid the stars in their mission to light the world by setting fire to the little cottage, destroying the serenity, destroying the peace, destroying the memories. And as he walked away from the little cottage for the last time, his heart locked away, he decided that there was nothing glorious about any revolution.

Author's Note: Guess who talked about John Locke in her European history class yesterday? *facepalm* I don't know why I wrote something like this, and after such a wonderfully beautiful day!

History: America's key points about how a government was created/how it should act comes from John Locke's Two Treaties of Government written in 1689. It was basically written to explain why the British "Glorious Revolution" and the overthrow of James II had occurred. Almost a hundred years later, the Americans would use Locke's reasoning to justify their want for revolution, so it would be extremely ironic and certainly a slap in the face for the British knowing that the Americans used their own person against them.

The mention of Achilles, is of course, reference to The Iliad by Homer. In the story, Achilles uses rage and fights only for glory. Not because he believes in the cause or anything noble like that, Achilles just wants glory, which in a way, reminds me of America.

'Nother Note: Take this as you will. BIG thanks to my friend DA4TheFunOfIt for reading this through first to make sure it wasn't total crap. ^^" Thank you DA! *hugs*

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