WARNINGS: Because this is historical, every warning that applies to history basically applies here. So: war, blood, gore, death, character deaths here and there, war and war and war, nuclear weapons, sensitive topics (this is historical, so there will be mentions of slavery, the holocaust, of the USSR and its own prison camps, and because I have read and heard multiple things, also mentions of American military actions), pairings (some people like to be warned about that), dark characters (believe you me, it will get darker - as my stories usually do).

Summary: Alfred and Ivan, America and Russia. Personal, diplomatic, political, secret, private, public. Hate and love. From their beginning to their end. Both so similar, so different, the flip-sides of a coin. Maybe that's why they complement each other so well. Historical RusAme, 1776 to present day (and further).


Prologue

He could remember sitting atop a hill, gazing at the ocean. He could remember how it glimmered under the sunlight, a million diamonds embedded in its waves. The foam of the sea washed onto the white beach, the golden sand just visible before it disappeared under the treeline. The air, crisp with the late arrival of autumn, filled with the scent of red and orange leaves, of late, snowy white summer flowers around him. The salt of the sea reaching even him, as if twirling aimlessly about in the air. The hum of nature, soft and gentle.

He could remember seeing the thick forest, the trees reaching high upwards, towards him, but he was even taller than the trees, taller than the world on that hill. There was a bee, flying around, landing from one flower to another - those white specks that dotted the lilting grass. The breeze, gentle and swift and soft and sweet, caressing the blades of grass and making the hill an ocean of green whose waves spread in every direction, a movement even more random than the regular roll of the sea.

He could see in his mind the clearing where the tribe was, people seeming so small compared to the expanse of landscape he saw. Their voices drifted up, reaching him as a delicate murmur only - one that mingled harmoniously with the other sounds of nature, the chirp of a bird, the rustle of leaves, the purr of the ocean.

And yet, he remembered that, staring at the landscape as he did every morning, there was something different. His mother had taught him all the noises of nature, but he heard a foreign one. He had learnt to differentiate each smell of nature, and there was a stranger one. He knew the landscape by heart, and there was an addition. He couldn't find it, not yet, he couldn't see anything, anything new or wrong or-

It had been a moment after that he spotted the dark shadows against the horizon, but he didn't know what they were. They were alien, and they didn't belong there. There was bitter scent to it, there was a buzz surrounding them. Though he knew that at the distance he was, he shouldn't hear them or smell them, he could sense them, and it was clear that they were approaching. There were more than one, he saw three, maybe more.

He had stood on shaky, uncertain, frightened legs, scuttering down the hill, hurried steps becoming more hasty as he drew closer to the village. He had to warn them, tell the Chief, or his mother.

After that, everything became a blur in his mind. He wasn't quite sure what happened and what didn't, but he felt loss and confusion and fear and something else. He wasn't sure what was memory, what was imagination. Most of the memory itself bordered on a feeling of surreal, far away, long gone. He wasn't sure what it was that he remembered, because the next thing he was sure of was a completely other setting, another time, another place, another scene.

He remembered now the tall shadow standing in front of him, the sun beaming from behind the man, the strange voice that spoke sounds he couldn't understand. The extended hand, the soothing tone, the warm and welcoming feeling from his words. Was there a voice? He seemed to remember a voice, telling him to pick, make a choice, and he had. He had taken the shadow's hand, and then the sun had shone on the man's face - such a strange face, with a pale skin and pale hair, green eyes that reminded Alfred of the hill. The voice had said nothing since, and he wasn't sure if he'd just imagined it.

And after that memory, everything became clear as day - he remembered it all, from the way Arthur told him not to run in the newly built house to how he met with this representative of this company or that adviser to that important investor. He remembered that manners and the ways and the life he had to learn, but forgot the life he had to lose. He remembered watching with confused eyes how his complexion soon changed, his skin became paler and his hair lighter - only his eyes remained the same blue they had always been.

He remembered how Arthur had begun leaving more and more often for longer periods of time, but how every time he visited he was more irritable, he was more sour, he was more distant and cold. He remembered how he would meet so many different messengers who would tell him about this and that new policy.

He remembered how he would see men being sent off to a place whose name he didn't remember, and couldn't pronounce even if he did.

He remembered feeling more odd, how the grumblings of his people were soon heard at every corner of the street, and he remembered how he finally met with those people who were decided to put an end to it.

He remembered Arthur's last visit, the violence, the pain and the hurt that had accompanied it - he remembered how he had then stormed out of their house, and into Washington's. He remembered the first shots of war, he remembered the shaking of his hands, and he remembered the weight of the weapon in his hands.

And now, he feels the pride within him as he looked at the fifty-six signatures, all scribbled in different scripts underneath the text that made him a nation.

And he hears the voice, that which he thought he had imagined so long ago.

It's your turn, now.

It was July the Fourth, 1776, in Philadelphia, U.S.A.


A/N: Hello, hello, hello, it's me once again with a new, multi-chaptered story that is a 100% RusAme treat! (Well, mainly.) I figured that because I often get writer's block for M.A.D., I should start writing something else completely to clear my ideas. And when it began forming in my head, I realised that I was planning to write the entirety of Russo-American relations throughout history. So, it became really long. But it can't hurt, I mean now I can switch between both stories when I have a writer's block for one. I regard this as a good idea, though some might say that no, multiple stories at a time is not, in fact, a good idea.

This was only a very short prologue that establishes Alfred up until the point where I start Chapter I, next chapter will be longer - and it will be published very soon seeing as it is nearly ready.

Anyhow, let's get this show on the road! Oh, and if you like this so far, I would very much appreciate anything like a review, or favourites, or follows, they all make me reaaaaally happy.

Until next time!