There is death in the air; it lingers on his clothes and in his hair, swirling into his nose like incense, heady and thick. It smells like gunpowder and sweat, salty and metallic.
His heavy breathing and his horse's clopping steps are the only sounds he hears. They bleed into a low monotony that wraps around his skull and squeezes like an enemy's hands.
At times like this, his motivation is the only thing keeping him from falling asleep. Oh, and the pain. Always the pain. Some loyalist with a broken musket and a lot of guts blew his own fucking hand off, the idiot, while he was trying to detach his bayonet and fire at once. America had gotten singed badly-his forearm shiny and his hair rough and blackened. Some small cuts and a long, thin gash on his hip that stung a lot but bled little.
But, hell, what's a little blood when so much is at stake?
A/N: Okay, so this is gonna be my first multichapter Hetalia fic. Yay. I have the next four chapters written already. Some are relativelylong, some short as hell. It's basically a just for kicks Revolutionary War fic, around Valley Forge. I warn you, I ruined history. but I actually did research, so...yeah. I'm trying my best.
Chapter 2 up soon.