Rain poured down in heavy cascades from the deep, ash gray heavens above. Cold wind swirled in the air. The now muddy ground was slick and sucked at his boots as he trudged through it.

But there was no time for worrying about that. This was war.

And if was war he wanted, it was war he would get.

The Englishman, head bowed, marched forward still, bright red coat soaked, musket tucked under an arm. Armies upon armies had offered to assist him, but he refused. This was a battle he'd have to fight alone.

A fearsome pattern of sticks hitting drum heads rang out rhythmically somewhere in the distance. Louder and louder it sounded, growing nearer and nearer, filling the Brit with as much dread and terror with every step as it did anger and absolute fury.

This was unacceptable. Completely, utterly intolerable. And if those blasted idiots weren't going to realize it for themselves, he'd have to show it. Show them. Prove it to them. They were a ragtag bunch of rebels against the greatest militia in the world. They didn't stand a chance.

The rain fell harder, dripping down the base of his neck, plastering his blonde hair to his forehead. His fists clenched. For all he had done for the little moron, this was how he was repaid? This was his reward? Getting it all shoved right back in his face? No. No. It won't matter because it won't happen, he repeatedly told himself. It couldn't have. But he had seen the look in his sapphire eyes- a cold that had never been there before. There was ice in his gaze where warmth had previously lay, hidden in the pools of cerulean. He was absolutely dead serious, and the green-eyed man knew that his enemy would fight to the death if that was what it would take.

So be it.

The drums, the drums, closer and closer still. The pounding of feet against hard packed earth. Splashes erupting from puddles trudged through, lapping at their boots.

And so the Brit stood still- perfectly still- and waited.

Shapes appeared dimly on the horizon, blurry smudges. Flashes of navy blue with dashes of crimson, white crisscross patterns dancing on their coats. Twenty marched in perfect unison, guns gripped tightly in their clutches. He didn't have to look closely to tell who the leader was. The one quietly uttering out orders under his breath. The one who he had treated as his own. The one who he would kill first.

Their outlines sharpened, showing more- button up jackets with red collars, snow white gloved hands wrapping around the muskets, tannish pants tucked into boots crawling up to the knee. The one in front's expression was of pure hatred, his face otherwise a mask. His dirty blonde tousled hair fell in front of his steely eyes. Turn back now, you idiot! Don't you have a clue who you're fighting? Stop it! Just stop it now! But he wouldn't. Forward still they walked, until the two opposing sides were only feet apart. The Brit could see every detail of the young man's face. Every drop of rain spilling down his cheek, every wayward lock of sandy hair, the clenching of his teeth, every bead of sweat mixing with the rainwater streaming down his face. He could count the rises and falls of his chest, panting heavily from the long march. But the expression on his face scared him the most. This was not the little boy he had found and cared for all those years ago. He had grown into something else.

His breath hitched when the man in front of him raised his guns- the barrel pointed directly at him.

"Hey, Britain," called the commander in front. "All I want in my freedom!"

The man, in reply, shakily raised his own gun. His enemy continued talking. "I'm no longer a child, nor your little brother.

"From now on, consider me...independent!"

The words stung bitterly. Perhaps they hurt more than a shot from the weapon he was holding would. They rang inside of him, over and over. No...

Before he even knew what he was doing, the blonde charged, his feet slamming the battleground. He would pay.

With a deafening yell in a blind rush, he raised the musket and thrust the point forward, hoping to hit his target.

Instead, he felt a shock ripple through him, the energy of the charge bouncing back to him. When he recovered, he quickly glanced up to see what he had hit- his gun- spiraling out of his enemy's grip, tumbling and tossing over and over in the air, slamming into the mud yards away.

He was completely defenseless.

The Englishman positioned the gun so that it was aimed right at him.

"I won't allow it. You idiot! Why can't you follow anything through to the end?" he yelled, blood pulsing red hot in his veins.

He had him now. Just a simple pull of a trigger, and this whole uprising would end, right there...

"I guess I'll just call you Big Brother!" laughed the child.

Big...brother?

A blush painted the man's cheeks. He was a what now? "Oh, don't be so formal now...just call me Britain."

His finger hovered over the trigger. He squeezed his eyes shut. Just pull it, you idiot...

The boy had come to trust the man more than anyone else in the world, as he was so often told. The newborn country brought him a sense of joy, and he couldn't help but smile whenever he saw the giggling child- something he hadn't done in centuries. His heart felt lighter, and he was ready for any responsibility he'd have to take on in caring for him. The last rays of the setting sun gleamed over the meadow, tinting everything with a beautiful, soft golden glow that would take your breath away. He gently extended his hand, and the child looked up.

"Let's go home."

There was a brief moment of silence before he broke into laughter, slipping his hand through his own...

Time slowed down. Seconds dragged into what seemed like eternity. Just one shot- just one shot would be all it took. To stop everything. Everything that was and what it would be. But the eyes he was looking into- those eyes, a shade even the sky envied- were the same eyes of the boy he loved.

Gradually, the tip of his gun lowered, it's aim resting to the ground. He hated himself for being so weak. He knew it would be his downfall. "There's no way I can shoot you," he choked out. "I can't."

Violently, he threw his musket off to the side, crumpling to his knees, his face buried in one hand to hide the sobbing. "Why? Dammit, why?" he cried, demanding an answer from an unseen force. "It's not fair!"

"You know why."

His voice rang out, louder than any gunshot ever could. The Brit, kneeling in the mud and grime, only wept harder.

"I remember when you were great..."

A/N: Hope you enjoyed. Sadness. T^T WHY AMERICA WHY. *cough cough* Anywho. I had America's Storage Room Cleaning open in another window and quoting this whole thing directly from that, I just thought it'd be fun to write it in England's (or in this case, Britain's) point of view. So Hetalia is WAY too awesome to belong to me, everyone knows it belongs to Hidekaz Himayara. I love that guy. Enjoy! Review, da? ^J^