Hello all!~
I had this little plot bunny running around inside my head for weeks and finally decided to write it. Historical notes will be down at the bottom.
~Enjoy!
DISCLAIMER
~I don't own Hetalia.~
Pioneer children sang as they walked.
England heaved a sigh and stared out the window longingly. It was a beautiful, crisp, late-October day and the British nation wanted nothing more than to be outside, enjoying the autumn colors instead of being holed up in some stuffy meeting room. The sooner the meeting was over, the better. England glanced up at the clock and heaved another heavy sigh—the meeting should've started five minutes ago.
"Where is America?" England hissed to Japan, who was sitting to his left.
Japan merely shook his head. "I am afraid do not know, Engrand-san,"
England grunted in response and turned to scowl at the clock again. Almost as if on cue, the door swung open to reveal a grinning America. "The Hero has arrived!" he announced.
"You're late," Germany growled.
"Yeah. Sorry, dude. There was this huge blizzard over at my place the other day…" he faltered for a moment. England didn't miss the pained look that crossed the American's features for a fraction of a second. "I've been super busy with stuff, y'know? Kinda just lost track of time,"
Germany pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly irritated with the younger nation's lackadaisical attitude. "Yes, vell, now zat you are here, please go unt take a seat so that ve may begin,"
America grinned. "On it, dude," he said and went to take the open seat next to England.
The older nation glared at his former charged, opening his mouth to lecture him on the importance of being on time. The words, however, died on his tongue as he watched the American walk. His gait was stiff and delicate, almost to the point of being comical. His teeth were clenched, his fists stuffed into his pockets—he was making a great deal of effort trying to look relaxed, but it was clear he was in pain.
"Are you alright?" England asked as America took his seat. (He'd all but collapsed into it, England noted with some dismay.)
America almost seemed to flinch at the question. "What? Yeah, dude, I'm fine!" he answered a bit too quickly with a grin that was a bit too forced. "I'm the Hero, Iggy. I'm always the picture of perfect health!"
"Don't call me that," England snapped, irritated by the use of his stupid pet-name.
"Why?" America asked, innocently. "It's cute,"
"I am not cute. I am a gentleman," England said indignantly.
"Whatever dude," America shrugged, and turned his attention back to Germany in the front of the room.
England scowled at the American, trying to mask the worry that was building up in the pit of his stomach. Something was most definitely not right. The younger nation was very clearly in a great deal of pain. Not only was he limping, but his eyes were fever-glazed and his hands hadn't left his pockets once. Although he was worried, England was well aware of how stubborn America could be and decided not to press the issue further until lunch.
* ~Hetalia!~ *
America glanced up at the clock. Forty-five minutes until lunch. The last three hours had been torture. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep this "picture-of-perfect-health act" up for. He was exhausted and in pain.
They were still walking.
He just wanted to curl up somewhere warm and safe, and close his eyes. He hadn't slept properly since June 9, 1856 and he was so tired. He just wanted to rest.
100 miles until they reach the Valley.
France was at the front of the room going on and on about something that, frankly, America couldn't possibly care less about. He laid his head down on the table, grateful for the cool touch of the wood surface against his fever-flushed cheeks. He exhaled softly and let his eyes flutter closed.
Images of wolves and wagon wheels flashed before his eyes. He saw men and women and children in tattered clothes and worn out shoes. He saw dust and snow and icy rivers and rations that kept getting cut.
I watched men dig graves for their brothers and, before the day was done, lie themselves in the very graves they had dug.
America swallowed thickly and bit his cheek, trying to overcome the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. They were dying. His people were dying. What kind of Hero was he if he couldn't even protect his own people.
In the back of his mind, America heard a chorus of voices crying out:
All is well! All is well!
The children were singing. The children always sang as they walked. America wondered how they could bear it.
* ~Hetalia!~ *
When Germany finally announced the lunch break, America had resumed his façade.
"America, where are you off to?" England asked, hoping to talk to the man for a moment.
"Gonna go get me a burger," America said, grinning. Without allowing the British nation any time to respond he added: "See ya around, dude," and disappeared into the crowd of nations. England shook his head and took off after him. "America, wait!" he called, but his former charge was gone.
It took England nearly twenty minutes before he found the younger nation sitting all alone, staring at a single, uneaten hamburger. His hands were still stuffed forcefully into his pockets. (Seriously, America? What on earth are you trying to hide?) England took a moment to take in the other man's appearance; he looked terrible! His skin was pale and slick with sweat, his cheeks tinged pink, and in the artificial light, the dark circles under his eyes had become much more pronounced. He was getting worse.
"America, are you alright?" England asked, unable to mask his concern.
"I already told you, England, I'm fine," America grunted.
England narrowed his eyes and gingerly placed his palm on the other man's forehead, recoiling almost instantly at the hot touch.
"You've got a fever," England said, his voice laced with worry.
"I'm fine," America stated.
"No, clearly you're not. You've been limping all day, you haven't say a single word in the conference yet, you're running a fever, and you haven't even touched your burger. Now, are you going to tell me what's going on?"
At the mention of the burger, America's gaze fell. He stared at the burger for a long, long time without responding. His stomach churned violently. "…You don't want this, do you?" he said at last, gesturing to the burger. "I'm probably not gonna eat it, so if you want it, you can have it,"
He's been giving us his rations. He's starving to death.
"Don't change the subject," England snapped.
America turned away. "I can take care of myself,"
"America—Alfred, please," England pleaded.
America looked up, startled by the use of his human name. He shook his head sadly. "I'm fine,"
"America-"
"Listen, I've got to go and take care of some things, okay? I'll see you around," And with that, he was gone.
* ~Hetalia!~ *
The meeting was going to start up again any second now and America was nowhere to be seen. England, who had been growing more and more anxious by the minute, gave Germany permission to start without them and excused himself from the meeting to search for his former charge.
He finally found America huddled up on the floor of the bathroom, staring at the palms of his hands.
"America?" England asked tentatively.
America lifted his gaze and gave the Englishman a tired, weak smile. His normally bright blue eyes looked dull and far off; his fever was skyrocketing. "Hey dude," he said quietly, his voice hoarse.
"What are you doing in here, lad?" England asked.
America's eyes fell and he hung his head. "Got sick," he whispered, ashamed. He sounded more like a little colony than the huge, powerful nation that he was.
England crouched down next to the ailing nation. "Come on, lad. Everybody throws up now and again. There's nothing to be ashamed of," he comforted. "Now what are you staring at?" he asked, gingerly taking hold of one of the American's hands. His stomach lurched at the sight of them.
The palms of America's hands were almost completely raw, covered in blisters and sores. In many places, the skin was almost completely peeled away, leaving behind a bloody, mangled mess.
"What happened?" England gasped.
"Handcarts," was all America said.
"What?"
"Handcarts, Arthur. They're pulling handcarts across the plains," Tears pricked at the backs of his eyes. Just thinking about it made him want to cry.
"Who are?" England asked. America just shook his head. England swallowed thickly, unsure of how to proceed.
"If you think that's bad," America said at last. "you should see my feet,"
England quirked an eyebrow and began to unlace one of America's boots. He slowly eased the shoe off (trying to ignore America's whimpering) and peeled back the sock.
He was not prepared for the sight in front of him. The state of America's feet made him want to vomit. They were cracked and swollen, weeping blood and pus, and they were black.
England struggled to speak. "Alfred…" was all he managed to say.
"Frostbite," America clarified.
"I don't understand,"
"My people are walking across the plains. They're going west—they haven't got anywhere else to go. There was a blizzard and… most of their shoes had worn out hundreds of miles back," America said softly.
England shook his head. "Listen, I'm going to get some gauze and hydrogen-peroxide. Just wait here a minute, alright? I'll be right back,"
True to his word, England returned in a matter of minutes. He guided America to a standing position over the sink. "I'm afraid this is going to sting a bit," England warned.
"It's okay, I'm tough. I'm the Hero, remember?" What kind of Hero lets his people die?
England poured the foaming liquid all over America's hands. After drying them off, he sat America down on the counter and began the process of wrapping his hands and feet.
All is well! All is well!
The children were singing again. America smiled in spite of himself. He really did love that song. He couldn't help but sing quietly along with them.
"What are you singing?" England asked.
America shrugged. "Dunno. The kids like to sing it while they walk,"
"Well, it's a very nice song," England said. America fell silent. "Alright then, Hero. You're all patched up,"
America hung his head. "I'm not a Hero, Iggy," he whispered.
"What?" England asked.
"I'm not a Hero. I can't be a Hero," America said, his eyes filled with tears.
"What on earth makes you say that?"
"My people are dying, Iggy!" America cried, unable to hold back his tears any longer. "A Hero doesn't let his people die!"
England sighed. "Oh America…" he wrapped his arms around the other nation's shoulders and pulled him into a hug. "It's not your fault. Sometimes there's just nothing you can do. It doesn't make you any less of a Hero,"
"It hurts!" America cried, gripping the back of England's shirt as though it were the only solid thing left in his crumbling world.
"I know," England said, running a hand through America's messy blonde hair. "But you have to be strong,"
"Being a strong country is hard…" America whimpered.
England sighed. "I know, love. I know," He'd been around for nearly a thousand years. He knew just how hard it was to be strong sometimes. "But it's going to be alright. I promise," he paused. "Tell me, how does that song go again?"
America buried his face in the crook of England's neck.
All is well! All is well!
Historical Notes:
Between 1856 and 1860, nearly 3,000 pioneers from England, Wales, Scotland, Scandinavia, and other European countries, made the 1,300 mile trek from Iowa and Nebraska to Utah. Because they lacked the money to purchase wagons and oxen, they used handcarts to carry their belongings across the plains.
The first company, which consisted of 274 individuals, departed from Iowa on June 9, 1856. They arrived in the Salt Lake Valley on September 26, 1856. Only 13 people died en route.
For two companies, the trek was disastrous. The Martian and Willie Handcart Companies began their journeys late in the season, leaving Iowa in late August. In early October, the two companies reached Wyoming where they were expecting to restock supplies. However, there were no supplies waiting for them. As a result, food rations were cut drastically. The companies began to starve. On October 19, 1856, still 110 miles from the valley, the two companies were caught in a blizzard. Many of the pioneers were frostbitten and hypothermic. On October 23, the Willie Company was forced to ascend Rocky Ridge in knee-deep snow. 13 members of the company died that night from the sever cold. Completely out of food and unable to go any farther, the companies took refuge in Devil's Gate until scouts arrived on October 28. The scouts urged the companies to press forward. The Martian Handcart Company arrived in the Salt Lake Valley on November 9, 1856. The Willie Handcart Company arrived in the Valley 11 days later. 210 of the 980 pioneers died on the trail and were buried in shallow, unmarked graves.
The song "Come, Come Ye Saints" (originally "All Is Well") was written by William Clayton in 1846. It is considered the anthem of the Pioneers, who sang it frequently on the trail to keep their spirits high.
Other Notes:
The story technically takes place in 1856. I don't know what England and America's relationship would've been like back then, but for the sake of the story I've presented their relationship like it is today.
Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!
~Zàijiàn!~