A/N: Yo! So I'm taking a teeny break from Prumano's Delivery Service, but worry not, dear readers, for I will return to it shortly (ch 4 is currently in the works). But in the meantime, have this short, multi-chapter fic about Britain and Australia.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia
a trophy father's trophy son
A Lily By Any Other Name
1784
Australia was miles upon miles of endless, parched land. It was isolated, dangerous, and an unideal place to colonize. Erecting settlements—settlements, not prisons—here would be tricky, expensive business; freshwater was scarce, the rivers seemed far and few, and the land was hardly arable for crops. Australia, it seemed, was suited only for those… Undesirables that made a disgusting, crowded, pigsty of the jailhouses back in Britain. Perhaps it would be here—in this thirsty, famished, dangerous, unmarked new land—that they could serve the rest of their sentences.
That was perhaps the only positive Arthur Kirkland could find to Australia. It wasn't promising like the Americas—like America—had been, but unlike his ex-colony, there seemed to be no distinct claim on the land. Spain, Netherlands, all those Nordics, and—most importantly—that damn frog hadn't yet pissed on the place to mark their territory. There seemed to be no trace of any permanent towns, cities, or settlements.
Nothing.
It was a blank slate, a tabula rasa.
Maybe it is worth my time, Arthur Kirkland contemplated as he wandered the shoreline. The ships were still docked in the azure-colored waters despite the fact that they were gearing to head back to London. Well, the Englishman mused as he gazed at the ivory sand covering his shoes, it is a rather pretty land; perhaps putting forth more time and money that we don't have into making it habitable would be well worth the effort.
A sudden rustle in the beach grasses caught his attention. The maritime wind had been lax since their arrival, and the waters relatively calm. This sudden bout of movement behind him was not the work of the wind; it sounded more like that of a person, a clumsy person at that, bumbling through the grasses. A normal, taller adult would not be quite so clumsy, and invisible from Arthur's angle. The Englishman tensed, and prepared for the worst.
A boy, a toddling boy, emerged from the quivering grasses. Arthur took an instinctual step back as the child approached him with uneven, yet energetic steps. His bare, chubby, toddler legs were covered in a light layer of white sand. Arthur kept retreating into the surf. He couldn't. This scene seemed all too familiar, and he couldn't afford another attachment to strange, wandering children he found in new lands. No. It was too soon—merely a year since that damned treaty had been signed—yet so long ago, and he couldn't.
But the boy thought differently.
As he neared, Arthur found he couldn't keep distancing himself. Upon further inspection, he could tell the boy had green eyes. Green. Not blue. This boy was the ruggedness of the land personified; his dark hair was mussed by the wind, his eyes were the green of the bushes further inland, and his skin a healthy tan.
And in his hands—oh, in his little hands—he carried a spider.
"Put that thing down, boy!" Arthur yelled as the child thrust the grotesque, eight-legged thing up towards him. The animal was almost as big as the boy's fist. "Get it away from me! Now!"
The toddler giggled, but set the arachnid down in the wet sand. Arthur watched in dismay as the thing struggled to escape the low, gentle tide. Where that boy had gotten such a massive spider from, Arthur did not want to know. This scene, too, was familiar. It reminded Arthur of a little blonde boy, grasslands, and a bison.
But the memory left a bitter taste in his mouth.
The boy was currently splashing in the water, attempting to jump the languid waves. He did not seem to care for getting sand and salt water in his hair. With a small hand, he reached into the surf, and splashed Arthur with a handful of seawater. The Englishman bristled, his pants now wet and stained with sand and salt, and practically dragged the child out of the water. The little imp was a savage one; he refused to be removed from his play place, and dug his heels into the shifting sand to avoid being carried away from the sea. Arthur scooped him up, threw him over his shoulder, and set the wriggling boy down on solid ground. Wet footprints—one pair big, and the other small—seemed to melt the dry sand.
"No." The Englishman chastised firmly when the boy held out his arms to be picked up again. The child tugged on his pants, and Arthur flinches. "No."
Arthur himself is surprised at how severe he sounds. His voice never had, till recently, to take on that tone with… With his former ward.
But neither him, nor this boy were family (anymore).
The boy felt it too, that causticness, and immediately began to tear up. His lower lip trembled dangerously, and his green eyes glistened with tears. Arthur bit his lower lip, but inhaled deeply through his nose.
"No." He decided firmly. The boy began crying. "I'm not your father, nor am I your brother. Go back to your bush."
He hated admitting the guilt that plagued him on his journey back to Europe.
For the image of the little boy, the one that had splashed him with water, sitting melancholically in the waves as he watched the ships leave was one to be added to a list of bitter-tasting memories.
Historical note: Australia was officially claimed as a British penal colony in 1788, when the first fleet of English ships arrived in what is now Sydney (then claimed as New South Wales). Other European explorers and scientists, however, had been there beforehand to look at the flora and fauna. From 1788 till the early 1800s, Australia was used as a dump site for British prisoners.
A/N: Chapter two coming soon. Thanks to everyone that has favorited, followed, and reviewed all my other stories! You guys are the true MVPs! Reviews and things of the like are totally welcome on this story, too, though. :)