EDIT:Major Revisions~ Just clarifications, grammar fixing, and editing the entire thing until I was somewhat satisfied with it..
Author's Note: I really, really was not expecting so many reviews! I feel so loved, and you guys are awesome...you actually make it sound like I write well ((ha ha what a funny thought~ XD)).
In any case, I'm not in the least bit satisfied with this chapter...so there may/will be revisions made on it, and any edits I make will be noted at the top of the chapter.
Warnings: Yaoi,
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~.::*::.~Turning Point: Gettysburg~.::*::.~
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Part III: July 1st1863: The First Shot
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England woke the next morning to a desperate hand pulling on his shirt and a sharp cry.
"The first shot went out! It started!"
Immediately England threw the blankets off of himself and America only to see America's other hand grasping at his right side. Under his palm a red smear appeared as the blood started to seep through America's shirt. Firmly, but gently, England pried America's hand off of his shirt and scrambled out of the bed.
"We need to get you back to your room. All of the medical supplies are there." England said as he turned around. America started to sit up, but he was much too slow; England had already slipped his arms around America's shoulders and under his knees.
"Let go! I can walk on my own!" America protested fiercely.
"Not with that limp, No." England said as he eyed the red stain that was spreading and added, "Besides, there's no time. I need to wrap up that wound immediately."
Despite the fairly logical argument England had put up, America still felt the need to protect at least some of his pride; he was the hero after all. What kind of hero needed to be carried around like this?
"But this is embarrassing England!"
"There is no one around right now but you and me Alfred! Now stop squirming, or so help me, I will drop you."
It was an empty threat but it briefly froze America's incessant wriggling; Arthur was glad that Alfred still had that involuntary reaction to his strictest tone of voice. He had stopped moving long enough for England to transport him back to his own room, where all the medical supplies were easily within reach.
Once he finally placed America back into his bed, England called out for nurses or maids to bring fresh water and while he waited for them he rushed over to the bandages.
"Take off your shirt and let me see how bad it is." England said as he quickly picked up an armful of bandages, not even looking over at America. Dumping the bandages on a large chair, he dragged it over to America with his back to America so he still didn't see the injured nation's predicament.
"Um England?..." A slightly muffled voice called out.
"Hn? What is i—oh for the love of—" England turned around to what he would normally call an amusing sight; Alfred had managed to get one arm halfway stuck through the shirt as well as half of his head, the other arm was still fully in its sleeve.
"Really Alfred, you are still such a child." Arthur chided as he went over and tugged on the shirt.
"I can't help it! It hurts to move my arms!" Alfred retorted and Arthur's expression instantly softened as he helped Alfred remove the bloodstained shirt in silence.
It was right after the offending piece of clothing was thrown accross the room that the nurses arrive with large bowls of fresh water. They hurriedly came over and placed the bowls on the bed's side table where Arthur could easily reach them.
Turning towards England they asked, "Sir, if we can be of assistance...?"
As he dipped one bandage in the water England briefly looked at them, "Ah, yes. I will look after America's wounds. If you would be so kind as to bring more clean bandages, I suspect this battle will be a bad one."
They curtsied before scampering out of the room with half-grins on their faces and stifled giggles at their lips.
"What are they laughing at?" Arthur asked Alfred as he bend down by the bed and started to wipe up the blood that had spilled onto Alfred's skin.
He looked up just as Alfred grinned slightly ('How in the world can he still smile like that, with a wound like this?' Arthur thought), "Now even you're laughing. What's so funny Alfred?"
Alfred shook his head, "I think it's your accent Arthur."
"What's wrong with my accent?"
"Nothing. I think it's because they haven't really heard a pure British accent…so they just think it's, um, different but…nice…and so do I."
"You do?" The words has slipped out of Arthur's mouth before he could stop them and so all he did was look at Alfred with mild surprise, while Alfred had turned pink slightly and looked away.
"Um...It's a good idea to wrap this up for now right?" He changed the subject and motioned to his side. England allowed the topic to drop even though he felt that he had missed a vital opportunity to tease the younger country.
Instead he glanced sadly at the half-healed patches of skin on America's arms as well as the various bandages that probably covered worse-looking wounds. America sat quietly for once as England wrapped one long bandage around his torso to keep the wound blocked.
Although America acted as if the cut didn't bother him in the least, England could easily see his jaw muscles tensed as he ground his teeth together.
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Throughout the morning, Alfred and Arthur had tried to keep a conversation going to avoid the obvious fact that not all of America's upcoming wounds for the rest of the day, or even the next few days would be as easily tended to as the battle played out. In an attempt to ease both of their nerves, America had asked England to tell a story about the time when England was still a chid and his country was in the hands of one of the most famous British kings in history.
With that prompt, England enthusiastically delved into a tale of the legendary King Arthur, the sword in the stone and the knights of the round table, but he was only enthusiastic at first.
Every so often, his narration was interrupted by a small noise made by America every time the wound spontaneously reopened and lengthened. As the morning wore on, England was starting to force himself to continue the story in hopes of distracting both himself and Alfred as he continued to replace soiled bandages with new ones.
Just an hour before noon, the cut had widened to a gash that drew a thick line from the middle of America's right side to the very middle of his chest.
Although America had to experience the pain of his dying soldiers in a time of war, he was also gifted with abilities far beyond a normal human's and one of these was his body's rapid ability to heal. So thanks to the fact the Alfred was the personification of his country, the wound had stopped bleeding and had closed temporarily.
America informed England that the fighting on the field had become quiet…for the moment at least. The momentary peace allowed England to finish the story and as he did so nothing but a strained silence followed. During which, England couldn't help but feel a bit proud of how America managed to handle the pain of the wound; he must have gotten used to it given how long the Civil War had lasted so far…but it was such a terrible thing to get used to…
"Well...this is a good time to tell me 'I told you so'." America spoke up and gave England a tired smile.
"What?"
"You said once that I would never be able to hold my Union together without you...so if this battle goes badly...then you can tell me 'I told you so'." America explained and for some reason this irritated England; to him, with both America's words and his tired voice, it seemed that America was ready to give up at any moment.
"And you actually think that I will be so egotistical to say something like that when you are in so much pain right now Alfred?" England's calm façade that he had kept up while telling the story was quickly crumbling, "How can you even suggest the battle will go badly? Don't you have even the littlest bit of hope that you will pull through and everything will be fine in the end?"
"England..." America started in a more serious voice than before, "No...Arthur. What I me—Agh!" His voice was cut off by his own involuntary groan that was quickly followed by England's own grimace as the wound reopened with the continuation of the battle.
And so the grueling process resumed; what Alfred wanted to say was pushed down and stoically blocked as he gritted his teeth and barely made a noise throughout the rest of the ordeal of the first day. At that point, he was starting to believe that this battle could possibly not be as bad as he previously thought, given that the first day was just as tolerable as many of the other battles that America had survived though.
By the time evening set in and the battle paused for the night, the cuts on America had spread. They traced fine crimson lines all over the middle of his torso, making a gruesome spider web of incisions into his skin. It stung even though the bleeding had slowed to a stop, but America wasn't focused on the pain, he was instead irritated as he felt his Union's army retreat for the night...the traitors had won that day's battle. He was obviously frustrated at how his Union seemed to be struggling to defend their own soil throughout that day but he still had the strength to look up at England from where he was lying down and to force a smile.
"We may have had to retreat today, but there's always tomorrow," America said, "It's not like my army's lost just yet right?"
England returned the fake smile with a slightly forced one of his own, yet it was slightly refreshing to see how America clung to even the tiniest scraps of optimism.
At England's lack of a response, Alfred spoke up again, "England...Will you stay here 'till I go to sleep?"
Arthur only nodded tiredly and then leaned forward from where he was sitting, the chair that he had filled with bandages was now empty and it would become his bed for the night. He reached out one hand to lightly pat the top of Alfred's head.
"Yes, now sleep." He ordered.
"And will you be there when I wake?" Alfred's smile slowly became less forced as he started to feel drowsy from the familiar motion of Arthur's hand.
"Yes Alfred." Arthur continued to pat Alfred's hair until Alfred's eyes drooped down and he fell asleep from exhaustion. Before leaning back on the chair , Arthur checked the final dressing for the wounds for the last time that night. Satisfied that the bandages would last until sunrise the next day, Arthur brought up the blanket until it reached Alfred's chin. Just as soon as he finished tucking Alfred in he leaned back on the seat and just stared at the American for a moment.
Then, at his mind's persistent urging, and possibly an old habit, he forced himself to go forward once more and plant a gentle kiss on Alfred's forehead. Lightly fixing Alfred's bangs, Arthur sat back for the final time with the smallest of smiles, and waited for sleep to drape over him.
His mind started to drift around again, but this time it floated toward England's own countless wars and knew that he could relate to the America's pain only too easily. He faded deep into his thoughts that spanned centuries more than America's and closed his eyes.
Subconsciously, England's hand came to rest just above his heart. Under the fabric and on his skin was one long thin scar that ran vertically down from his left shoulder to just below his waist.
In less than a century every injury that he sustained from the Revolutionary war had faded away and healed; each and every scar...except this one.
This was the final reminder of his most traumatic loss. It refused to fade away because England had succumbed to his own feelings of rejection and depression, hurt and anguish. If he could only find a way to let go of these emotions and move forward, he knew that even this long scar would heal with time.
In that moment Arthur reopened his eyes and gazed down at Alfred as he began to talk aloud to clear his thoughts, "Alfred…Why didn't you realize just how much I cared about you? If you were still part of the British Empire…you would not be going through all this pain."
Why was it so easy to tell Alfred all of this when Arthur knew that Alfred couldn't hear him? But he continued to pour out his thoughts nonetheless, "I would have been able to protect you. To intervene in matters like this. Do you have any idea how helpless I feel right now?"
Arthur swallowed painfully as his throat began to choke up, "Why did I even listen to your letter and come back here?"
He let that question hang in the air, knowing that he had the answer within him.
He just didn't want to accept it.
But there were two things Arthur would have to surely accept when this battle ended. It was the fact that this battle would be a turning point not only for the American nation, but it would also be the pivotal moment that would force both Arthur and Alfred to move forward and no longer dwell in the past.
Arthur only hoped that he would be ready when that moment arrived.
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Author's Note: Yes, this is like a transitioning chapter~ there wasn't much that happened, I'm sorry~ I understand if you didn't like this chapter...I kinda don't... But... but, the next chapter will be better! At least...I like the next chapter more than this one~ :3