Rain soaked the ground, turning the dry dirt into sticky, gray-colored mud. They stared at one another across the battlefield. England: the world's largest empire, the world's strongest military, and America: just a large group of farmers and various other common men carrying guns and dressed in tattered, scuffed uniforms. A literal over-night army. America stood out in front of his troops, musket pointed at the one who had taken him in, who had raised him, who had cared for him. His eyes were no longer the soft care-free eyes of a child. They had hardened into the bright, angry eyes of a young adult. Angry at being denied, angry at being locked away, kept in a cage like a rare and exotic pet. He wanted out of that cage. He wanted to be free.
As England stared at America he wondered how and when things had gone so wrong. Was it making him wear the suit? Was it because of his long absence or the amount of money America had had to pay out to cover the expenses of a war that he had asked England to fight because he could not do so himself? Was it forcing his colonists to quarter Britain's soldiers? Was it the Proclamation of 1763, firmly stating that America and the colonists were not to venture out past the Appalachian Mountains? It was all these things, and none of them. Yes, America was angry at the taxes, the restrictions, the countless orders, but he was also angry at England himself. England, the big brother, the protector, was now nothing more than a monster consumed by greed.
America glared at his former guardian. At the brother, he had so cherished.
"Hey England! All I want is my freedom!"
Yes, that was all he wanted. Just the chance to be free; the opportunity to spread his wings, and fly like the great nation England had told him over and over he was going to be. But when America had tried to tentatively bring up the subject of them separating, England had planted a firm foot down and refused to hear any of it. Why? Why couldn't he see? It was a simple request, so why did England treat it like it was the end of the world?
"I am no longer a child, nor your little brother!"
Yes, that was correct. America had grown. He knew that, and he knew England knew that. Hell, the bastard had even acknowledged it himself when he'd pointed out that America had gotten taller than him! So why was England still treating him like a child? Why was he gripping the reigns tighter, rather than starting to let go? He had matured, become more intelligent. America was well aware of the 'dangerous world filled with hungry vultures waiting for him' as England had so loved to put it, but he could handle it, he knew he could! He was strong, his people were strong. Surely England wasn't blind as well as stubborn? Alas, no such luck. Now here they were, facing each other on opposite ends of the battle field, clad in uniforms with muskets drawn. Deep in his heart, America knew that there had been no way around this. England had never been one to give into the reasons of others, especially not from a colony. America knew he would have to bring things into perspective and show England.
"Consider me independent!"
Emotions danced across England's face: shock, confusion, and hurt. Shock that his dear little brother had gone so far as to throw himself into a war just for England to acknowledge that fact that America no longer needed him. Confusion, because he still couldn't pinpoint the exact reason America wanted to do this. Hurt because his beloved brother no longer wanted him, because America was so willing to throw everything away. All the times they had played hide-and-seek in the woods, all the times England had let America curl up beside him in bed because there was another thunderstorm and he was frightened. All those happy, wonderful moments that America was now willing to crumple up and throw away like they were nothing more than common trash. England wanted to keep those moments; he wanted to keep his brother.
"I won't allow it!"
He charged across the battlefield, bayonet on the musket thrust forward; he wouldn't shoot him, just wound him enough to make him learn his lesson.
America reacted quicker than anticipated: he used his musket as a shield. The weapon sailed out of America's hands, struck away by the force of the impact. The most useful thing that the musket, given to him by England, had done was protect him from an injury that England had tried to give him. The irony was noted by the both of them.
Staring down the barrel of the musket, America could only tense and wait for the bullet. Behind him, he heard his soldiers readying their weapons. He raised his eyes to the empire standing in front of him, irises burning blue fire. If he was going to die, he would do it like the man he was trying to prove himself to be.
England glared back at America. America had rejected him, had betrayed him. It was evident by the look in his eyes that even now, at the end of England's weapon, he would not be brought to submission. If that was the case, then why did he even need this little twerp? Why should he keep America as a little brother? Go be independent in hell. He thought, grip tightening on the gun. But even as he stared at the young man America had become, he couldn't help but see the boy he had once been. The face had changed, but those eyes, those sky blue eyes, never would. No matter how frosted over with anger and resentment they became, no matter how much they narrowed with hatred, his little brother would always be somewhere inside those eyes.
His hands began to shake, subsequently causing him to lower the musket. America's eyed widened, surprise replacing the look of cold anger.
"There's no way I can shoot you. I can't."
The musket fell from his hands, landing in the mud with a sticky plop. England followed suit, dropping to his knees in the mud. Endless tears of pain poured down his face. He brought up his hand to hide them, but he knew America could see the sobs racking his body. They were all looking at him; America, and his plethora of soldiers. England, the large and terrible empire, the impenetrable fortress of Europe, had broken and was now crying like a child.
"Why?" he asked, more to himself, determined that if he just looked in his heart he could find the answer. "It's not fair."
No, it wasn't fair. This was not how it was supposed to be. America was supposed to stay his loving, adoring, loyal little brother. But that boy was gone now, replaced with a stony faced young man who could only stare back at his former guardian with a mix of remorse, shock, and pity.
As America looked down at the once great nation, he was struck by how much their positions had changed. He remembered being in a field similar to this one, covered in the rich green grass of mid-spring, smiling up at England, and taking his large hand, which at that time, had wrapped snugly around America's tiny paw. England had towered over him then, seeming to shine with the sun framing his majestic figure. His jade eyes glowed with love and power, the power he used to protect his precious colony.
"What happened to you?" America asked, voice laden with sorrow. Yes, he did feel sorrow. For now he realized that England was not so big and powerful as he had once believed. That England did have weaknesses. That nothing would ever be the same for the two of them ever again. His soldiers lowered heir weapons, all equally shocked at the display of emotion coming from the red coat before them. Try as he might, America couldn't stop staring at the kneeling man, crying in the rain. Crying because he lost the war-no, crying because he had lost him. He was crying because he now understood that America truly wanted to no longer be with him. America felt his heart wrench, but he could not comfort the man. He was his own nation now, and the proof of it knelt in front of him, battered, muddy, and crying like the world had come to an end. In a way, America supposed it had. The memory struck him again, and he was once again overwhelmed at how much things had changed.
"I remember when you were great."
Overhead, the rain continued, unrelenting. As America stared at his former brother, broken and defeated, he couldn't help but wonder one thing: he'd won, but at what cost?
I know there are a lot of these, but I couldn't resist. Anyway, how do you think I did for my first Hetalia fic? Drop me a line please!