Notes/Details: I love the history of the American Revolution entirely too much. No, seriously. I've read 1776 about twelve times. Hetalia only very recently took over my brain, but man, I needed to write this story like I need to breathe. Hopefully my characterisation isn't too horrific.
Freeze:
Ivan doesn't have a monopoly on weather that can destroy armies.
He had collapsed at some point during the march, the cold settling far enough into his bones to rob him of the ability to tell how long it had been since then, how long he had spent under the oppressive branches of this alarming cedar. His feet were on fire, which was a good thing, because it meant they were still alive.
How long had it been since he had proper shoes to wear?
He did not want to think about that, or the death and disease that spread, vine-like, through his army. He did not want to lift his head to see the bloody path tracing its way over the snow.
He did not want to think about the storm that was surely coming that night.
It seemed a lifetime since he was flushed with anger and alcohol, tipsy on the vivacity of his beliefs, when this revolution was the best damn thing he could do to ensure his voice was heard, to make himself better.
He had been unduly shocked at Lexington and Concord.
He knew it was foolish. He had seen blood and warfare, and dealt and been dealt many injuries, but the knowledge that he was the cause of the blood the soaked Arthur's uniform had made him giddy.
Being driven from his city of Boston, and in turn trapping Arthur's precious soldiers within it's walls had brought home the reality of revolution. This was no longer whispered words and idle threats, he was watching his army amass, and his generals named, his soldiers conscripted.
He declared his Independence.
He watched himself as though he were another as he changed. He was taller, wiser, and he was clothed in tattered blue to oppose Arthur's fiery red.
Now he was the one fleeing and trapping himself. He had seen victories, suffered defeats, but, he laughed in bitterness, all of that paled in comparison to what his own environment could unleash.
His army needed more money, more time, and more soldiers.
He was beginning to hate Francis as much as Arthur did, because no matter how he presented himself to the man, the answer was always the same.
"Oh, but I'll need time to consider."
Which, Alfred wanted to scream, was impossible, because he had no time left. But he always said, mechanically, "Yes, of course. It's a difficult decision."
He would hold himself high until he was out of sight, where he would collapse as he was collapsed now, in a slump of despair, but no matter what he didn't allow himself to lose hope.
Hope was what brought him here, and somehow he knew that hope would be what brought him back out.
Arthur was a bastard that took, took, took from him, and Alfred never got anything back.
Until now.
He would win this war, and after that Arthur would be forced to deal with him as an equal. He would be a legitimate country, cut from a better cloth than the stuff that made up Arthur's bastard monarchy, and his high ideals would stretch not just from colony to colony, but to the farthest reaches of the world.
It was this hope, this great ambition, which meant Alfred would again struggle to his feet, and continue to march.
For freedom.
End.
End Notes: Please review! Please! Only takes a moment.