EDIT: Thanks to Sunmoe who helpfully pointed out my historical errors. *headdesks* (We never got around to studying the war of 1812 in school yet!)
The War of 1812
He sat there under the tree, watching the bloodstained field.
An eagle fluttered down. It bowed its head and jabbed at his heart.
He rose.
The capitol stood in ruins, burning, spitting ashes and soot into the air. He stood at the edge of the wreck, and looked up at the man who stood exultantly before him, gold fringed cape billowing in the stale, ash laden breeze.
"Why…?" He murmured pitifully.
He laughed. "Nice of Canada to do this for me, hmm?"
"England…"
His face contorted for a moment. "I am not England. I am the British Empire. England is dead, because he knew his love for his colonies was useless. So the night you left, he let me take over. Your precious England is gone."
America's eyes widened. "England…is dead? I…killed…England?"
Nodding triumphantly, he grinned as the boy at his feet clutched the dirt before him. His eyes glazed over and stared at him, mouth forming a silent O, as if he was screaming. Gasping suddenly, and spluttering as if he was choking, a trickle of blood dripped out of the corner of his lips.
Falling flat onto the ground, America twitched feebly once, then stilled.
The British Empire walked forward and kicked him over so he lay on his back. He wasn't breathing. A large dark stain spread from his heart across his uniform, drenching the stiff white fabric with red.
His breath hitched. Should he do something?
Straightening, he turned on his heel and walked away, trying not to cry.
America woke up not long after.
He felt terrible. The blood continued to ooze…
…as he remembered what England had been like.
"England!" The taller man turned around, and looked at the stumbling child before him. He held a tiny blue flower in his pudgy hands.
"I want you to have this." He beamed and thrust it at him. "It's the first flower this spring. I looked all over for it. I want you to have it."
He took his little brother in a hug. "Thank you." A beatific smile plastered itself on America's face.
He sighed, coughing up more blood. It trickled over his chin, dripping onto his hands.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
It dribbled over his open hands, and onto the razed ground. And on the fine ashes lay a wrinkled, burnt flower.
The petals soaked up his blood greedily, and swelled with droplets of ruby liquid. He stood the flower gingerly, as if it might burst into ashes at any moment.
"England…" He murmured at the sky. "Where have you gone?"
He stomped into the room, dust sifting off his boots and clothes. He brushed some off his cloak and sat heavily in his chair.
"I can't do this…" He whispered at nothing in particular.
A tiny flower had managed to wind its way up around the windowsill. It stood out against the dark wood, a tiny splash of blue cutting through the shadows in the dimly lit room.
"America…" he whispered, "What have I done?"
Ooh, scary! Poor America, though. I don't know if the War of 1812 was that bad for him. Off to do some research~! (authoress facepalms when she realizes that she should have researched before she actually wrote the story)
Hmm…the Wikipedia article didn't say much…ah, well. I got the important parts right…right? *facepalms again*