Author's Notes: I started writing this story when I was about 15, and now, 3 years later, I'm trying to continue it again, lol. Also, there are some OCs in this story, but I used them to advance the plot, so they shouldn't be too bad. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy!
"I won't allow it. Why can't you follow anything through to the end?!" his voice boomed.
Not a sound could be heard except that of his heart beating so rapidly inside his chest and the rain hitting the puddles scattered across the ground. The glossy green of his once brother's eyes shone in front of him, angled right behind the pointy and deadly tip of a musket.
This is it, he thought. After all the fighting, the struggling, the sheer motivation and frustration of his people that led them to create a militia, wasted. He didn't want to think about that, though. It made him want to cringe, but his face held its unreadable expression. He just kept watching the blade of the musket, waiting for his enemy to strike. They both stayed completely still for what seemed like minutes, toppling on hours, lifetimes even.
Then, much to his surprise, the musket tip lowered. He looked into his opponent's eyes, unable to make out the cause of such an action.
"There's no way I can shoot you," England said. The sound of his words bounced off the insides of America's head and never seemed to leave. He couldn't put the syllabus together for them to make words, and the words, meaning.
"I can't," England whispered under his breath as his eyes almost instantly filled with tears. His words were barely audible, but America heard them, as well as his soldiers forming a wall behind him.
England's gun slowly slipped out of his fingers and hit the ground at an extremely slow pace, as if his moping was making everything around mope with him. He fell to his knees and buried his face in his hands. At first he didn't make a sound, too overwhelmed to be able to. And then almost all at once, the air was filled with nix but his painful sobs, as they echoed across the vast nothingness of the field.
America looked at England and it took a while for him to react to it all, still in the moment when the musket was pointed at his face. When his thoughts and emotions caught up with him, he was filled with utter rage. He felt like England had been taking advantage of him his whole life, and now that he's on the floor in tears, there was no way he was going to show him the slightest bit of sympathy. Finally England was getting a taste of his own medicine. America couldn't count the endless nights he stayed up crying from what England had done to him. He felt like yelling at England and telling him how he deserved every last bit of what he was getting. But his body did not change. There was no expression on his face.
"Why? Damn it, why?! It's not fair-," England's voice was cut off by his own chokes of pain. America was just about to say something, but something stopped him, as if the wind had been taken completely out of him.
England raised his head up at America, his eyes streaming with tears. His face was scrunched up and looked as if he was about to scream, but he held it in. America stared at his watery eyes, and he instantly realized something.
A whole world suddenly came flowing back to him, a whole lifetime. There were so many faces, so many voices, and yet too many emotions. The memories of his childhood hit him in the face all at once, and he took a step back. They were like portals to dreams, foggy and hazy. A life he had forgotten poured into his mind.