Thanks to FoenFyre, for the story alert and to Ckarrine, for the favorite~!

I do realize that France is nowhere to be seen. And that I use the word "foreigner" a lot. Sorry, I just have no other word for them xD And France will make an appearance next chapter; I promise.

I do not own Axis Powers: Hetalia. If I did, the USUK fans would be pissed.

America pushed the flaps covering the large tipi, sighing in contented happiness. He left the meeting area, humming an old campfire song and waving good-bye to his sons and daughters. It always brought him great joy to watch his many children interact with each other. Even though they didn't always get along and there was sometimes bloodshed, they still knew that they were siblings.

It had been a few days since Mr. Finland and Mr. Sweden had left the land. His interest in learning any more of the strange language was dashed and he couldn't interact with the weird foreigners. He had felt an odd sort of familiarity towards them, somehow.

America frowned and flipped his shoulder-length, blond hair out of his face. What was that feeling, anyway? He had never seen them before in his life; he didn't think so. Yet, he felt some sort of companionship with them. Did they feel the same way?

He shook the thought away and continued his way to his next destination: Massachusetts.

He was on his way to stay with his three sons living in that area. Wampanoag, Mohegan, and Mohican. He hadn't seen them since they had left the Initial Tribe to live on their own and he wanted to see how they were doing.

America traveled from Delaware to Massachusetts in about a day and a half by foot. That long, give or take a few hours. He wasn't really paying attention.

He had just reached the edge of Connecticut, when he heard the thunder crack. He froze, eyes wide, and raised his eyes to the sky, bewildered. The sky was clear, besides the stray cloud here or there.

He stayed where he was, mouth agape. What was that? That couldn't have been thunder; it wasn't even that cold or raining. He watched the sky for signs and heard the thunder again.

It wasn't coming from the sky. It was coming from nearby. On land.

America tore through the trees and underbrush. His heart skipped a beat in fright as another crack thundered through the area and he hit the floor with a quick duck. The bark of the tree exploded just behind him.

America was breathing heavily, panicking. He jumped up, quickly, dashing to the left, under the cover of the trees. He had absolutely no idea what was going on, but he could hear shouts of anger and confusion. From his people.

He crawled hurriedly through the bramble, scraping his elbows and bruising his left knee after he knocked it against a tree stump. He sprang up when he had noticed one of his own.

"Wampanoag?"

"Ah! Father!" his son called out softly, so that the unknown enemy couldn't hear the cry of relief in his native tongue. "You're alive!"

"Of course I am," America replied gruffly, sticking his lower lip out in a pout and narrowing his eyes. Wampanoag laughed darkly, his eyes giving off a dark glow.

"Father," America's son replied, his brusque language coming out in irritated huffs. "The white men have strange weapons!" America's eyes widened considerably.

"Wh-White men?"

"Yes, Father!" Wampanoag ushered the blond through the cover of the trees, bringing them closer to the unsuspecting enemy. He brandished his slingshot as another crack sounded. "They attacked us on sight!"

America refused to believe his sons words. This couldn't be the white men he had met. But, it they were, maybe he could reason with them. Maybe his sons had frightened them, somehow?

America broke his cover and dashed towards the sound of thunder. His body kept screaming at him that this action was a horrible idea; go back! Go back! You're going to get killed! But, his mind forced him to keep running. He heard his other son, Mohegan, who had apparently come as reinforcement, call out to him to come back.

Another loud crack; something sharp and moving at extremely fast speeds bit through his left arm and another grazed his right cheek. America braced himself as he ran for another shout before-

"Stop!" More foreign, unknown language he couldn't perceive. "He's no Indian! Look at his skin!"

The thunder stopped and he cracked his eye open, not stopping his rush. America saw many white men, holding large things that looked like they were made of metal and wood. What good what that do? Bludgeon someone to death? From that distance?

He slowed to a stop and entered into a stance, suspicious. The men lowered their weapons, America had perceived them as so, and looked anxiously at the man standing in front of the lot.

The white man was much taller than America, at least by a foot. The man had short, unruly blond hair and wore the oddest looking clothes. At least, compared to the other foreigners he had met. The man's green eyes met his for a brief second and the stranger smiled. He spoke to America, but America didn't understand.

America remained silent and nonmoving, still staring at the person he had deemed as the chief of the lot. The man grew impatient and spoke again, this time his voice had more of an edge. America blinked.

"I do not understand your language foreigner," America stated dryly, not letting this prestigious white man think that he was any better the he was, even though it was a futile attempt. "I trust that you don't understand mine, either?"

"Father!"

America turned to see his son, Mohegan, dashing towards him. Mohegan slowed as he reached his father and eyed the men around him suspiciously. America's heart wrenched when he noticed that he was bleeding from a wound in his right hand.

America and his son talked briefly before America directed his attention back towards the leading white man. He scowled.

The man smiled. His eyes shown with triumph and he called his men off. He wouldn't need them.

The man proceeded to march in the direction of America and Mohegan. The man's smile never left his face as he stopped not two feet away from them. America growled and covered Mohegan. The foreigner laughed and said something in his language.

The man kneeled down to America's height, placed a hand on his head, and said something else in his native tongue. America let a low growl from the back of his throat roll out before the blond foreigner did something unexpected.

He had leaned forward, kissed America's forehead, and, with his lips still hovering over America's forehead, whispered something in his language, and left.

Mohegan was left sputtering in anger at the rude foreigner's actions. What was the purpose in that?

America only stood in shock, confused.

What had just happened?