Strands in the Wind

Fem! America's hair used to be long and wavy but some events happen to change that. My head canon as to why fem! America's hair is short. Broken! England x fem! America

Disclaimer: This isn't gonna change no matter how many times I upload my fics. I don't own Hetalia, okay?

1895

America stood at the edge of the cliff, looking across the horizon. The storm clouds had started gathering in the sky, covering the bright sun, much to her sadness and dismay, reminding her of that fateful day several decades ago. The cold bit into her exposed skin, and the wind whistled around her, whipping her long, blonde, wavy hair into her face. She sighed. When would the past escape her memories?

It was he who first took her in.

She was a young girl playing around in the grassy fields, blond hair shoulder-length and wavy. America had been living by herself and was lonely.

England, France, and Finland had discovered her in a grassy plain as a child. France and England had argued about who was to be the one to take care of her, and they both decided to have her choose. England had at first frightened her with his ghostly voice, and France's food had almost driven her to his side.

Almost.

England had accepted defeat, accepted that he would never win over France's cooking, and he looked so despondent, so sad.

She glanced over at him, and what she saw moved her.

England was hunched over, crying into his arms.

Before she could stop herself, she was toddling over to him. Tapping him on the shoulder gently to comfort him, she asked, "Are you okay?"

Years passed, and he came to visit her often. He gave her toys as a child, once even breaking his own arm. She was touched by the gesture and always appreciated his efforts, even his horrible cooking. America adored her older "brother" and always anticipated when he came over, and the house always felt lonely to her whenever he left.

She grew up into a young lady of about 15 after some time, and her hair grew out as well, reaching her waist. England was shocked at how quickly she had shot up in height, although she didn't quite reach his. (A/N: Fem! America is shorter than England)

He had been more busy this visit, rarely having time for her. She, on the other hand, had found herself growing more attached to him. America felt something stir, inexplicable feelings that had lain dormant had suddenly risen to the surface, and only after he left did she realize what it was, with a sad little smile.

America, Amelia F. Jones, had fallen deeply in love with England, Arthur Kirkland.

She loved him, as more than an elder brother or a guardian. However, she believed that he did not see her the same way, only viewing her as a beloved younger sister.

His next few visits were brief and she spent what time she could with him, even though it crushed her every day to experience those emotions that she knew were not returned.

The pain stabbed her in the heart like knives every time she looked at him, but she hid it all behind a strained smile.

His happiness is what matters, she reminded herself. It's all worth it to see his green eyes light up like emeralds.

She sacrificed her love for him, just so she could see his smile and feel his joy, even though she had to lose her own.

The last time he visited, however, he was cold and maybe even a little distant, unlike their usual times together, alarming the nation. She wondered what she had done wrong to make him so detached.

What if he already knew of her feelings? Was that why he was acting cold to her? America thought she hid any traces of passion.

Then England sprung taxes on her people. He claimed that he had no choice, and that the Parliament had forced him to do this to his little colony. She believed him, but she had to protect her people.

The pain tore her apart. She had no wish to go to war with her cherished caretaker, the one she loved, but America also had a duty to her people. And right then, her people were calling for freedom. They were calling for independence. They were calling for blood.

America had to obey her citizens' wishes, even if it meant destroying the already fragile relationship between England and her.

They met on muddy ground, America backed up with an army of Patriots, and England alone. His army of Loyalists and British soldiers was left behind.

Her arm shaking, she brought up the rifle and pointed it right at him.

"I don't want to be your little sister anymore!"

She whispered in her mind, I can't be your little sister anymore.

He was stunned. She clicked the gun.

Suddenly, he swung out with his own rifle, hitting hers with his bayonet. Now she was on the defensive. England knocked the gun out of her hand, his rifle now pointing at her.

She closed her eyes and waited for the sound of the bullet, the sound of her soldiers clicking their guns and taking aim behind her echoed in the silence.

To her surprise, he had lowered the gun, dropping to his knees and burying his face in his hands.

"There's no way I could shoot you." He looked up and gave her a watery smile, filled with misery. The storm had built up with the tension, and it finally erupted in a torrent of rain.

As she helplessly watched him cry, America recalled a vision of a happier time.

When she was still young, England had stood proud in the grass, sunlight brightly illuminating his outline, holding his hand out to her.

"Let's go home."

She had joyfully taken it.

Now, all she saw was a broken nation in front of her, beaten down by the downpour and her rebellion.

"You used to be so big." The words hung in the air. She regretted what she had said immediately, but the words had already left her mouth, and she couldn't take them back.

He looked up at this and they locked gazes. In his eyes, only anguish and pain met her. She longed to bend down in front of him, reach out a hand and lift his head up, make him smile again with a gentle kiss on his forehead, but she knew it was too late now.

Unable to take the suffering look in his eyes, she turned and walked away, her waist-length blonde hair stained with blood, her heart shattered, as the rain continued to mercilessly pound on the battered England, who continued to weep.

"I'm sorry…England, my love," she whispered, as a tear slipped down her own cheek, but the words disappeared, unheard by the other nation.

They had never been the same ever since. England had gotten into another war with America in 1812, and the two had tried to avoid each other as much as possible, instead having their troops fight each other. They had met once during that war and the tension between them was uneasy.

A familiar form greeted Amelia F. Jones. The unkempt blond hair she had grown to love, the emerald green eyes and bushy eyebrows she knew she would see when he turned. It was England for sure.

She clapped her hands to her mouth and turned away. The wounds were still too fresh for either of them to see each other so soon, but it had taken all of her willpower not to rush up to him and hug him from behind.

Instead, she left quietly, knowing that it was all for the best that they not meet.

However, England had turned around and because of her long, blond, wavy hair, had recognized her on the spot.

"America?"

Startled, she had spun around to face him, refusing to meet his eyes, choosing instead to stare at the ground.

He was looking at her warily, but also not making eye contact.

The tension was so thick that both nations felt it tighten its noose around their throats, threatening to make them choke. Unspoken apologies lingered in the air between them, but both knew that nothing significant could come from this unexpected encounter. They were on opposing sides, after all.

Both glanced up at the same time, catching glimpses of the what-ifs, all the possibilities and different futures that could have happened. But it was too late to change the past and what had happened, and America only felt regret at not having realized it sooner. England's gaze mirrored hers, emerald green on sky blue.

So all the two nations could do was walk away in opposite directions, back towards their comrades, people who understood them.

After the War of 1812, America remained mostly isolationist, supposedly to take care of her own country's affairs. In truth, she couldn't face England, knowing that she had fought two wars with him, broke his spirit, but still loved him unconditionally. America felt responsible for everything that had happened and feared that she would complicate their relations with her feelings, and pulled away from the world and also the possibility of a chance confrontation with England. She didn't want to hurt any more than she did already.

She closed her eyes at the rush of memories that flooded her, shaking from silent sobs, dress fluttering in the wind and the strands of her long wavy hair scattering. America knew she could never break free of the burdens of her past, but some things served to remind her, bind her to those painful recollections.

Her long blond hair, which she never had the heart to cut all these years, brought back memories of him every time she looked in the mirror. The hair that he had told her was lovely, the hair stained with his blood, the hair that he had recognized in their second war…it only brought back agonizing emotions and a throbbing in her heart.

Tears flooding her eyes, she pulled out a knife and gripped all of her long hair in a fist. In one stroke, she sliced it off until her hair was only shoulder-length. Resolving to sever ties with her past with England, she smiled bitterly and released the long blonde strands to the wind, which scattered, taking the reminiscent emotions with them.

Goodbye, my love.

A/N: Tada! I hope you liked my idea! To anyone who didn't catch it, she had shorter hair before she met England, and she cut it to the same length (the hair length of fem! America in pictures, go google it if you want to see) to try to separate herself from the painful memories of England, because her hair was long the whole time she was a colony of England's. I made the date about 1895, because the turn of the century marked a change in fashion and stuff, so short hair was really popular during the 1920s. It makes sense that her hair would be long in the 1800s, but short in the 1900s because of the various trends and styles of each period. Review, and more one-shots will be uploaded sooner!