Winter 1744
London, England

A sick feeling greeted England as soon as he set foot on his own shores. Something was wrong, and someone had been hiding it from him. He was soon walking the halls of Windsor castle and noticed that the presence of his brothers was conspicuously absent. It did not take him long to find out why.

It appeared the failed usurper James was having another try for George II's throne. His son, Charles, was working with France to undermine the whole of Britain. Scotland had betrayed him. France seemed to want to harass him across the globe from North America, the East, and straight at his heart.

He grabbed at a piece of parchment as soon as he returned to his rooms. His quill ready he scratched out the words, hoping that the recipient would hear some sense.

Scotland,

Please do not do this. We will both bleed for this conflict.

England

The response he received several days later was only three words in length. So be it. No greeting, no signature. Crumpling the letter, England held it to the candle on his desk. The parchment gave him a twisted pleasure as it crinkled and turned black in the flame. The fire licked at his fingertips, burning him. He dropped the paper to the table top slamming his open hand down upon it. The quick intake of breath reminded him of the presence of the messenger that had brought the letter. He turned to the man the markings on his uniform showing him to be a sergeant.

"Who is in charge of keeping Scotland in line?" he demanded.

"The Duke of Cumberland has been appointed as leader of the troops stationed in Scotland." England nodded and made note of the name.

"Tell him I insist on weekly dispatches to appraise me of the situation."

"Of course, my lord." The young man formed a hasty retreat. England turned to the other problem at hand, France and his ambitions on the Continent. He had joined with Prussia who apparently sought a slice of Habsburg power.

~*~

Vienna, Austria

It was not long before he was whisked across the sea to Austria's shores. England adjusted his new coat. It was cut in the latest style and it felt awkward after so long in the colonial fashions which tended to be simpler due to the cost of cloth. His discomfort was not just from the strange fit of the suit, it felt as though it had been far more than a few decades in which he'd directly dealt with European nations. The situation at hand reminded him why he had been avoiding it for so long. Austria sat across from him at the table, as prim and pristine as only he could achieve. England had expected a meeting in the field, but instead he had been sent to Vienna and to the fine palace. One could hardly believe Austria truly felt himself in any sort of danger. He seemed to address the war with disdain as though it were interrupting something far more important. England supposed that was how Austria saw the matter. He would get this over quickly and head back to his ships. The naval front had been going well. The state of his navy had been one of the only things he'd been pleased with since his return. They were the finest in the world after all, and he had learned with satisfaction that everyone on the Continent knew it.

"Austria, as you should recall, my interest in this conflict primarily concerns France." Austria looked at him from over the rim of a tea cup, light reflecting off his spectacles. It was times like this he realized that while they may respect his naval power, those on Continent thought him terribly plain and unrefined. True, a gentleman should not bring up battle over afternoon tea, but he had already been here two days and did not want to prolong the sojourn unnecessarily.

"France has proven himself to be an erstwhile ally time and again." Austria said, frowning. England barely suppressed a laugh, which he knew the other nation would not appreciate.

"Yes, I am well aware of the fickle nature of France's interest." Austria eyed him as though he would be able to discern a deeper meaning than the obvious, shrugged delicately, and turned back to the food. England himself was very interested in the newest course. Examination of the offerings sapped some of his concentration, which seemed to suit Austria just fine. The elder nation fell into a story about a new composition easily enough. England set about sampling each of the dishes that the litany of servants brought forth, trying to impart them all to memory.

It was some time later that they headed for the study and the map of Europe. Austria delayed them for a while longer with a discussion of port wine, but the two men were interrupted by the door opening. Hungary raised an eyebrow at Austria who had tried to look busy with the map as soon as she had entered in the room.

"England."

"Hungary, how are you?"

She shrugged, "Well enough, I owe Prussia a punch in the face."

"Don't we all." England replied. She chuckled and joined them at the map. While Austria had been slow to speak of military matters, Hungary had no such qualms. They discussed strategy well into the night.

"Yes, that will do." Austria said, yawning behind his hand. "I have one more request of you, England, before you return to your ships."

"What request?"

"I need to you to attend a meeting I am supposed to be having with Prussia in a week's time."

"Where will you be?" England asked.

"I told you I could go." said Hungary, at the same moment England had spoken.

"I am not feeling well enough for the ordeal, as for you, my dear," he said, taking Hungary's hand, "I need you by my side to protect me." He kissed her on the hand and she smiled. England looked away, not wanting to intrude upon them even if they would be so bold as to show their affection for one another before him.

England cleared his throat, "What exactly is the purpose of this meeting?"

"I'm sure it is Prussia making a veiled attempt to get me to surrender."

Hungary gave an unladylike snort, "I doubt he is being so clever."

"Regardless."

"Could you not merely refuse him by letter?" If he did not have to spend the time dealing with Prussia he would not. There were French outposts to harass after all.

"I fear he wants an in-person meeting."

In the end, England was unable to find any good reasons to disagree and soon found himself riding out to meet with one of his current enemies.

~*~

Brandenburg, Prussia

Winter 1744

"You look tougher since the last time I saw you, little England. Hanover sharing blood with you has done you good. German blood does that." Prussia grinned at England's skeptical face. True, George II had Hanoverian blood, but England had never really dwelled on it much and reference to his monarch left a twisted feeling from the contender that was hiding somewhere in Italy, his son somewhere in France.

The tent was tidy, maps spread across the table poking out from beneath a cloth that had been dashed over them so that England would not be able to see any battle plans that were no doubt being made in this very place. It was King Frederick II's tent and England could not help be impressed by the precision of the Prussian military. He made careful note of some elements he would like for his own army.

"Perhaps you should pass on your preference for a German-blooded ruler to France. Then he would stop pushing Bonnie Prince Charlie to treason."

Prussia shrugged, "You know that France doesn't give a damn for who your ruler is, he wants more land just like all of us." Prussia pulled a stopper from a glass decanter and poured wine into two glasses, handing one to England. "To more land!" England had to toast to that.

"How are your brothers?" England asked.

"Probably as good as yours. Saxony and Hanover are siding with Austria today. They'll see sense eventually."

"Brothers do often come to their senses when we make them see sense." Prussia raised his glass once again.

"From what I gather, England, is that even if your blood brothers are causing you trouble you are raising broods of little ones all around the world."

"You make me sound as if I'm aspiring to be a mother hen." Prussia laughed.

"I can see it now, your armful of little brats. Charming." Another bark of laughter.

England made a sound deep in his throat to disrupt Prussia's mirth. "Speaking of being a mother hen, I hear that part of your ambition here is to snatch up your own little brother."

"Austria isn't raising him right. He'll do better if he's with his German brothers. Gonna grow up soft otherwise." Prussia refilled his glass as England shrugged. He honestly did not have an opinion on that little bit of Prussia's business.

"I'm not getting in between you two on that matter. France is using this as an excuse, once he is out of the fight, I will go too."

"Does Austria know that?"

"I did allude to such." England said, settling the glass down on the cloth covering the maps. Prussia's smile turned predatory.

"It is a shame that you were in the New World for the last war and that you plan on staying a ship rat for this one. I want to see you fight."

England smiled, "France does not share the stories of when I have trounced him in the past."

"Ha! He carefully avoids those tales."

"I'm surprised he has any war stories to tell then." They shared a laugh. England enlightened him to many of the stories France would not tell them until he resigned to leave. Prussia stopped him with a letter to take back to Austria.

He could only imagine that Austria would not be amused.

~*~

May 11, 1745
Battle of Fontenoy
Austrian Netherlands

"You look unwell, England." Hanover said from his side of the table. The battle had been planned and now it was the time to wait. Time for gentleman and nations to settle into dinner. The officer's tent was spacious and well furnished, settled for a siege or ready to be packed up tomorrow. England had been staring into the candle flame, his hands poised over the tableware. His meal still sat untouched. He looked at the German now, he had not seen him since their royal houses became connected by marriage years ago.

"Sibling trouble." he said, not wishing to get into the details. No doubt the others knew all about it anyway, gossip tended to get around faster than official announcements.

"Well, we've all been there." Hanover replied and Netherlands made his own sound of acknowledgement. Netherlands had said few words to England, he could tell he was still slightly sore over the conquest of New Netherlands, now New York. They settled back into a companionable silence, only broken about casual remarks about this or that. The coming battle that even now the troops were preparing for would come after dinner. Final arrangements before the push in the early morning hours.

"Hanover." The three looked up. The voice belonged to a small, skinny adolescent boy standing in the tent flap. England had to do a double take, he could have almost been America the last time he had seen him. However, this boy's eyes were a cooler blue and his expression more severe than America's face had ever been.

"Germany, are you feeling better? You should sit." A servant was waved forward producing another chair. Germany looked apprehensive for a moment before settling into the chair beside his elder brother. A plate was produced and the boy picked up his utensils and began to eat with aristocratic decorum. England felt a twinge of jealousy, no matter what coercion he tried he could never get America to eat with that much composure. His boy was rough around the edges in a way this boy had never been.

He also had a strange feeling that he had seen him before, as a quiet boy almost haunting the halls of Austria's house. He looked at Hanover and asked, "Germany?"

"It is what we call him now."

"You have gotten big since the last time I saw you." Netherlands remarked, his expression as closed as ever. America had admitted he had been afraid of Netherlands when he was small, England wondered what he would think of this assembly.

"Thank you."

"He is growing up much finer now that he is not so confined. Although, some of our noisier brothers have been quite fond of monopolizing his time."

England remembered Prussia's enthusiasm and pride when he spoke about this boy. "Prussia told me all about you, he is very proud of your progress."

The boy's pale cheeks gained some color, although from pride or embarrassment England couldn't be sure. Hanover patted the boy on the shoulder. "News of Prussia's ramblings tends to travel far and wide."

Dinner ended and with plates cleared they joined their commanders for the battle. The sun had recently set, as soon as night fell they would move the artillery into position. Throughout the final discussions England found his eyes drifting to Germany tucked against Hanover's side listening to the designs of troop movements. Perhaps, America was also big enough now to take part in war. After all, many of them had been much smaller when they first tasted blood. England smiled, remembering the first time he'd stood over France in victory. Looking at the map he would be able to add another memory to his litany of battles with the other nation. This would be a fine battle, fifty thousand men on each side. The finest armies of the age about to clash. What happened tomorrow would no doubt be memorable and perhaps change the tide of the war. He had heard that France had even brought his King and crown prince to the battlefield, even more wonderful to rub his nose in failure.

Hanover brushed his sleeve on the way out of the tent, his fingers lingering for only a moment. England had the sudden remembrance of a drunken night of revelry decades ago. They lingered in the entrance. Netherlands ducked past them, clearing his throat loudly, embarrassing them both. Germany looked between them, a confused look on his face. "I have to get the little one into bed..." His trailing words held a question.

"Well, you know where to find me."

Dressing the next morning to the sound of cannon fire, England felt renewed. Things felt grand and the smile he received from Hanover at breakfast served to set his body even more excited for what was to come. This battle would end in glorious victory, he was sure of it.

England rode up towards the commanding officers. "Cumberland." he said, tilting his head. The duke tipped his head in return.

"We have focused our attack on the flanks, we will move forward soon." England nodded, watching as the British infantry gathered into their regimental lines. His troops made up the majority of the force. Disciplined and a force to be reckoned with. A corporal rode up.

"My Lord Cumberland, it appears our assault during the night was to little effect. The French troops were too far afield in the woods and the town. The advancement of the left flank is not proceeding as planned."

"We should make the drive at their center."

The anticipation grew with every step of his horse. He was half-tempted to dismount and join a regiment on foot, anything to be part of the action to come. But he resisted, not wanting to disrupt any of their regiments with an extra man.

The field lay out in front of them, French troops holed up around the town of Fontenoy and attacking the stronghold of Tournai even farther into the distance. The landscape was hilled, not the best for a clear advance, but it might not matter if the strategy was sound. Drums tapped orders through the lines and the soldiers marched forward.

At the crest of a hill, England felt his heart leap into his throat. The French troops were drawn out before the lines, no more than thirty paces. His eyes searched the lines and he found him almost immediately, drawn in the way they could be. France looked back at him, his face calm and unconcerned. He tilted his head at England in acknowledgement.

From down the British line a voice called out, "We are the English Guards and we hope you will stand 'till we come up to you and not swim the Scheldt as you did at the Main of Dettingen." England remembered reading the report of that battle and the way France stiffened in his saddle, he knew France remembered it too. The English officers took off their hats in salute to their French counterparts. The French returned the courtesy. England removed his own hat in a mocking salute to France, France returned the gesture. The canons continued to pound on the flanks of the French line. The soldiers stood awaiting the order that would signal them forward. "Gentleman of the French Guard, fire!" the same English voice called out again.

A French voice replied, "Gentleman, we never fire first, fire yourselves." The sentiment did not hold for long as the French lines tilted their guns at the British lines and fired with little effect. With a roar, British guns responded, a devastating volley. A step and the second line fell into fire. Volley after volley spilled French blood onto the soil.

The French line began to fall back and England lost sight of France in the smoke of musket fire. With well-trained precision the British troops began to advance rank upon rank, the fire unceasing as they loaded their muskets one behind the other. A gap formed and they progressed even farther into the French lines. England could taste the victory.

The boom of a cannon from the left tore through a rank nearby England, his horse rearing up and dropping him to the ground with a heavy thud. Men cried out around him gripping broken or missing legs. What had happened? England looked in the direction the fire had come. The Dutch troops on the left had fallen back, leaving the French artillery able to swing around and attack the advancing center. Taking a second to glance in the other direction, the right flank faltered as well.

"Damn." England said, pushing himself up from the ground and grabbing a musket from a dead soldier.

"Bayonet charge!" Someone shouted, warning him just in time as a French soldier came through the smoke right at him. He fired, the man fell dead at the point blank range. A blankness came over him.

Over the roar he heard Cumberland's voice, "Don't you know my countrymen? Will you leave me? I do not ask you to do anything without me, all i ask is that you share my danger!" A rally around the colors. There was no past and no future, just the thrust of a bayonet or the metallic sound of a ramrod down the barrel of a musket. Reload, fire, thrust bayonet. Repeat. A drum sounded, fall back. A push, French faltering, but then another surge came.

The drum beats changed. Sound retreat. England barely heard it, he caught sight of France now, still astride his horse, looking pleased with himself. Despite that it was the wrong direction he moved towards him stabbing. France's horse reared and dropped him to the ground, the beast running with other horses that had lost their riders. A cavalry saber flashed from France's hip as he rose and he belayed the bayonet thrust England had struck at his heart.

The blades flashed. "You should accept your loss, not your fight anyway." France said through gritted teeth.

England did not offer a reply as he thrust again. His anger surged. "Anything to take a shot at you after what you've been plotting behind my back."

"Oh please, that is just war."

"So is this." France's saber caught England's sleeve, biting through the fabric into his flesh. He caught France as well, the bayonet pushing through the skin of his hip. The human soldiers surged around them then and England was carried away by the tide, his eyes didn't leave France's until he was too far away to see him through the press of bodies.

Glorious victory, had turned into shameful retreat.

He left the war soon after, leaving the others to their mess and off to deal with his own.

April 20, 1746

Four days after the Battle of Culloden
Edinburgh, Scotland

The ink blotted in large drops over the parchment, smeared all the more from the rain drops that dripped from the canvas of the tent. England knew that he should write America, but felt at a loss of where to start. He did not want to burden him with this, but the boy needed to know as this particular flood of immigrants no doubt carried anger and bitterness towards England in their hearts.

Yet every time he put the quill to paper he saw Scotland's face from only a few days before. Despair crept into his heart at how much he had secretly wanted them to be Britain, together, to have the peace that they had never before had. Peace they never truly held.

England had not felt that cold in a long time as he had in the bloodied mud of Culloden. His red wool coat was soaked through with rain sitting astride Scotland who glared up at him from the ground.

"This is all your fault." Scotland spat, his face smeared with blood, his own and his peoples'.

"My fault?! I'm not the one who started a rebellion!"

"You are an overbearing bastard." He finished with a string of Gaelic curses that England could not altogether follow.

"I thought-"

"You thought you could just order obedience!" Scotland interrupted, "And when that did not work you decided to force it!" Scotland found a reserve of strength and shoved England so hard off him he was soon sprawling in the mud beside his elder brother. Scotland climbed out of the dirt, his kilt so caked with dirt and blood that the colors could no longer be seen. The will o' the wisps began rising from the field, stealing away the souls of the dead. "One of these days, little brother, you are not going to be able to keep one of us by force and you will be the sorrier for it."

England picked himself off the ground and pulled himself as tall as he could. "A prophecy for me?" he snapped.

Scotland tilted his head as though he were listening to something that England could not hear. "It is certain."

England could only stare after him as he limped away across the battlefield. He's just trying to hurt me. England told himself, but he could not help feeling like he had swallowed ice and it froze him from the inside out.

The wounded were still coming in from the bloody field. He could hear gunshots echoing in the distance, a sterile sound now even though it signalled the execution of defeated rebels. He swallowed and tried to put the nib to the parchment again. What part of this could he even say to a young nation who he'd been trying to protect from such barbarism.

I miss you. It seemed too sentimental, a strange thing to write to another nation, even a younger one. He considered crossing the words out or crumpling up the paper to start again, but he decided against it. He wrote only a few more words to him, just appraising him that he was well and a few other carefully chosen lies.

I hope to see you soon.

May 28, 1754

The Battle of Jumonville Glen

"Strange that they picked a man so young to lead."

"Only twenty-two years on him, and hardly a Virginia gentleman."

"Probably means that there won't be much trouble, just delivering messages is all. Boy should be able to handle it."

America poked his stick deeper into the cookfire, stirring the embers. He watched the sparks flare up in the afternoon light. The volunteer soldiers around him gossipped about skirmishes they'd fought with Indians or about how they would need to be home soon to make sure spring planting had gone as planned. America glanced over at George Washington, a young surveyor recently commissioned a lieutenant colonel by the Virginia governor. His mission had been simple when he was a major only a few weeks before. His troops had gone to deliver a message to the French that their presence on the Virginia claimed Ohio River Valley would not be tolerated. America had heard the French did not take the threat seriously at all, and now they were all here preparing to build a fort to hold off France.

Getting up from his seat, and conscious of the way some of the Virginians watched him, he made his way over to Washington. America knew they were curious about him, to their eyes he was a boy of fifteen being given special treatment to ride along on a mission for men.

"Can I sit with you?" he asked Washington.

"Of course, Mr. Jones."

America leaned close, "George, do you think we'll meet the French tomorrow?" Washington's jaw tightened at the overly familiar use of his first name.

"Lt. Colonel Washington." he said, in the tone of a schoolmaster teaching diction to young students. America was surprised at the sincerity in his voice, he's serious about this, huh? The cool stare Washington gave him said that he would not tolerate any semblance of tomfoolery on America's part, command was serious especially since it was his first.

America cleared his throat. "Okay, Lt. Colonel Washington, do you think we will meet the French tomorrow?"

"We are still awaiting word from the scouts and then choose the best plan of action. Our primary objective is the building of a fort."

"Do you Captain Hogg encountered the French after you sent him off yesterday?" Is that a smile? Washington's face soon drifted back into his general serious demeanor. America could sense the man was as anxious as he was.

"We will likely get a report soon. Patience." The commanding tone crept back into the last word. America's shoulders drooped. He was hoping for something to happen. There was a tension bubbling through him, the strain of a held breath. He'd felt it in his body before Queen Anne's War and King George's War. He had been too little to relive it then, and England had made sure he was nowhere near a battlefield back then. But this time, England was not here and he was big enough now.

He went back to his own fire, helping some of the older men make a meal. The sky was turning gray with a coming rainstorm and soon drops splattered their shoulders and tent flaps. They had been working here for four days already, and America began to suspect there would be a fifth.

Under the shelter of Washington's officer's tent he pulled out one of the books England had sent him. It was some philosophical treatise on mathematics. It acted as good as any sleep tonic. There was not much to be done in the rain after all. Washington settled himself with a travel desk, and a fresh piece of paper. Probably making a record of the events of the day for Governor Dinwiddie. He dozed and woke around sunset. He could hear voice and he turned toward the noise. He jumped up, startled. The Iroquois warrior looked amused at his reaction. He turned back to Washington. "The French are camped northwest about seven miles. We counted thirty-five men."

Washington remained quiet. America turned the news over in his own mind. If what the messenger said was true, then Washington had sent half the men in the wrong direction! Washington spoke, "It can be nothing but an attempt to uproot us before the fort can be built. We will have to attack. Inform your leader while I prepare my men." The warrior nodded and left.

America stood up and met Washington's thoughtful gaze. "I'm coming with you."

"I was ordered to keep you out of any danger."

America frowned, of course someone had said that. His mind raced for an excuse, "What if you leave me here and the French circle back? It's only thirty-five men, please Washington."

Washington appeared torn and turned back to his desk, tapping on the wood. He half-turned back. "You are to stay by my side. Can you promise that?"

"I promise."

"We will need to be prompt. Let us go and get the men ready."

The rain had pounded on them in the hours it took them to get into position. They had been waiting for the Indian scouts to give them the signal to approach. Creeping forward silently, America could see them now, the canvas of their tents and a few men sleepily readying morning cookfire. America's hands were cold on his musket as he crouched beside Washington. They seemed impossibly close to not have been noticed at all.

The thought seemed to float out to one French soldier, although, America could sense he was more Canada's than France's. It was not unlike how Washington was more his, for all he considered himself a British officer. He caught sight of something or someone because he shouted to his fellows.

Smoke. Musket fire. The next few minutes came to America in a blur of shouts and flashes. Then French voices broke through calling a surrender. His first taste of battle and he felt utterly bewildered. He was alone in the woods, Washing down below standing in front of a man who must have been the French commander. There appeared to be some sort of confusion over a document.

America jumped as a hand descended on his shoulder. "You should look away, young one." He looked up at the person who had spoken and immediately knew it was another nation. The tall man looked exhausted and his skin looked ashen. The Nation appraised him as America struggled for something to say, and wondering if there was anything he could or should say. A hollow thunk echoed through the clearing, breaking their focus on one another. Shouts and yells erupted and America tried to look through the chaos to see what had happened.

The captured French troops cowered behind the Virginia troops who know had their muskets trained on the warriors on the other side of the clearing. Several Frenchmen lay dead in the space between them. The man who had been speaking with Washington lay on the ground as well, his head cleaved in two. The leader of the group of Iroquois still held the bloodied hatchet in his hand. Shocked, America turned to where the other nation had stood only a moment before to find him gone. He was alone.

On shaky legs he made his way down the hill to join the soldiers and Washington as they retreated from the clearing with the captives. Washington's face was pale and America felt sick as the dead French soldiers were left behind.

Look away young one. America shook his head at the memory. I'll never be able to look away again.

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