December 26, 1776

Delaware River and Trenton, New Jersey

America hated the cold. His bare fingers were numb as he methodically helped row. They were ordered to silence and the only sound was the soft swish of muffled oars dipping into the water as they rowed across the Delaware.

The silence made him think of far pleasanter Christmas holidays in the past. His mind flashed over many and each unsettled him more than the last. He was alone, or with Canada, or worse, with England in these memories. He couldn't help but wonder if they were together, somewhere warm. He smiled at that, England was going to have one hell of a surprise come the dawn. Better yet, so was Hesse.

Glancing in the direction of the Commander in Chief he could see Washington in the prow of his boat. He was an inspiring figure, determined to keep America's army together. America had been clinging to the little spark of independence, afraid that it would be snuffed out.

Hesse was confident America didn't have the spirit to attack him. Too bad that he didn't count on a spy in his midst. America and his men had been attacking British dispatch riders and pickets for days to gather as much information as they could. Tonight was the night.

"Victory or death." America whispered under his breath, the words carried away in a fog. They were the keywords to the battle, it would end one way or another. The sky and its stars were obscured by the clouds dropping fat, white snowflakes on all of them. "Victory or death." he repeated, teeth chattering.

They had landed and began to march in the dark of the night. The cold was bitter and America could feel the determination of the men who marched through the snow, some with nothing but rags on their feet. In some places, the snow was dyed red.

The sun rose slowly, turning the world briefly into a dazzling winter scene. It was not one to be admired for long as they came upon an outpost.

A Hessian came out the door of the little shop and America raised his musket to fire. His cold fingers caused him to miss.

"See fiend!" the man shouted. The enemy! More Hessian soldiers moved out and returned a volley. America could see understanding cross their lieutenant's face, this was not a mere raid. Slowly, the Hessians began to retreat back to Trenton and their compatriots.

The plan was working! America's heart soared. The American forces were keeping the Hessian Harrison in the city, not way to escape to the nearest British garrison at Princeton. For a brief moment, America looked down the road towards Princeton. Perhaps in just this moment England was rising, calling for tea, and having absolutely no idea that America was taking Trenton right from under his nose.

America turned back to Trenton. He could see Hesse in the distance. He was standing outside one of the houses, a mug of beer still in his hand. He dropped it onto the ground and picked up his musket, barking orders to the other men. America could hear Washington shouting over the noise, ordering the infantry towards the road to Princeton. If the Hessians couldn't get word out there would be no lobster backs marching from their barracks.

A musket ball grazed America's coat sleeve and it brought his attention back to the men immediately in front of him. A group of Jägers came out of one of the houses, the red collars of their coats reminiscent of blood. Before America even got his musket to his shoulder they were retreating from the American line.

With a ground shaking boom the cannons began to fire, balls and scatter shot tearing through the remaining Hessian positions. America could hear Hesse's voice shouting at his men to get back into formation. They couldn't. America was taking the ground and hope of victory was beginning to sing in his veins.

Time seemed to speed up and America could feel the battle infuse him. He had the advantage. Hesse was going to lose.

And he did. The surrender came not long after the American troops had gained all of the heavy gun positions. The Hessians had no choice but to give up.

America took a deep breath as he went into the town towards where they held the prisoners. He remembered the twinge of his bruised ribs after Fort Washington and the pain of escaping Fort Lee only a few days later. Anger boiled under his skin, not only due to the loss, but at England. He had dared to be kind and touched America with caring hands. In the days after the incident America wished that Hesse had just beaten him unconscious or that England would have picked up where Hesse had left off. It would have been so easy to have let England just hold him, to apologize. That was what England wanted to hear, and America was not sorry. Doing the right thing is never easy, and America knew going back to England wouldn't be right for his people, and it wouldn't be right for him. America was certain of that.

"Come to gloat, colony?" Hesse's sarcastic tone drew America right out of his thoughts. "Going to avenge yourself upon me?" Hesse leaned back in his seated position. America took in his appearance. Hesse had taken a blow recently, a hit from another nation. England had struck Hesse? America frowned, yet another side of the Englishman he'd never seen.

"Is that what you would do?" America asked.

Hesse grimaced at him. "If I had come hunting you in winter quarters it would have been my pleasure to knock you senseless. You have no idea how soft he is on you, even now. Even after you slipped right out from under his nose. You should offer him everything you have before he changes his mind."

"I'm not going to do any of that."

"That's funny. I can take it, kid. C'mon, let some of that rage out."

"I'm not joking." America said. Blue eyes met blue. America could tell Hesse didn't believe him. "I don't want to do what you would do. I am doing this because I am going to be different."

"Your idealism makes me want to hit you even harder."

"Maybe next time you'll get to."

Hesse shook his head. "No, I don't know if I will. In the spring I have plans to return home. Don't look so hopeful, my soldiers will remain. I just don't want to look at your face any longer and England makes me sick. If only Hanover would get out of his bed..."

America stared at him. "What?" America choked out.

Hesse snorted in amusement. "Poor innocent little colony, you don't know how the world works at all."

"Don't say anymore."

"You are too obvious, America. I'm going to tell you something I've told my own little brother, guard your heart. It doesn't do to pine after another nation, not unless you are planning on conquering them. A lovesick nation gets himself into trouble and, honestly, I don't know if that bastard is capable of love."

America looked down at the ground, the thought of England's face when America had told him he'd never heard the word 'love' from his lips. England had been truly stunned. Canada had said something to him like that before. It's not our place to love them...

"You don't deny it. That's brave."

"You're laughing at me."

"No. It's just pitiful."

America's mouth thinned, "You'll be going with your men to Philadelphia, you can go home from there." He turned on his heel and left. He walked into the house some of the soldiers were preparing for Washington and the other generals. He walked into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him. He sank to the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest.

For the first time in days his body began to thaw. "It is about more than that." America said to his knees. They would all see. He would show them.

January 1, 1777

Princeton, New Jersey

British Garrison

England paced back and forth across the wooden floor. He could sense some of the younger officers' eyes on him. Not all of them knew who he was but they knew he was important. He held a porcelain saucer in one hand and brought the team cup to his lips methodically in the other. America was a few miles away, less than a day's march. By now his army was comfortably settled in Trenton, Hesse carted off with his captured men to Pennsylvania. England cursed the German nation. America had slipped through his fingers once again!

The tea had gone cold in the January air. The new year had brought with it little celebration. The only consolation was this would be the year he would end this mess.

"We waited to see if Washington's army would disperse come the new year and he's pulled some kind of trick with the illegal Congress to keep them. We should use our combined forces to attack them now and take back Trenton!" England paused in his pacing, turning to look at General James Grant. General Charles Cornwallis sat beside him, a bored expression on his face. The man was no doubt still irritated that his leave had been cancelled. He was supposed to be on a ship back home, instead, he had been ordered to join forces with Grant.

"The Americans have been building earthworks along Assunpink Creek. They've left themselves open if we cross in certain areas." piped up one of the junior officers.

"And what makes you think the Americans won't just run when they realize their error?" Cornwallis asked.

"Do we have the numbers?" England interrupted. Both generals looked at him. Grant nodded.

"We shouldn't hesitate, it just gives them more time to dig in." Grant replied. England nodded at Grant's words and resumed his pacing. The generals began to argue again. He turned his back on them and reached for the still warm tea pot, refilling his cup. He itched to climb on the back of his horse and ride down the road, demand that America speak to him. He knew that it would be better to show the boy instead, America learned better that way.

"We will march out tomorrow and engage them. Are you with us m'Lord?"

England sat down the now lukewarm cup. He turned to the waiting eyes. "I am with you."

January 2, 1777

Between Trenton and Princeton

America leaned against the trunk of the tree, using it to steady his hands. He could hear them out there on the road, see the crimson coats in the distance. They were coming closer. They had been firing on them every time the British soldiers tried to get into battle lines. They just needed to slow them down until everything was in position.

He had been hurrying with the rest of the militia as they slowly retreated, firing on the British from positions in the forest, ravines, and even from the bend in the road. They kept coming, but America could tell they were unsettled. For just a moment he thought he'd seen England, but surely he was back in New York? During the last war England had always set up winter quarters with the rest of the high command, leaving the field men to fight until the realities of winter made it unwise, if not impossible, to carry on. His hands tightened on his rifle. Could he do it? Could he shoot him if it came to it?

America let that thought slide from his head as he heard the signal. The British were approaching the first bridge near the woods. The volley was deafening and he could only imagine what it looked like to those men who fell into the creek, torn from the shot that had pierced their flesh. He tried not to think about it too much as he fell into the rhythm of reloading and firing again. It became obvious that they couldn't see them. The trees were so thick it was difficult to maneuver, all the more important to keep the British out in the open, not knowing how many men were in here. It wasn't nearly as many as they thought after all.

The drums ordering formations made his heart pound. He knew them. He could see other men who had been in the British army recognizing the message as well. They were getting into the lines from where they would fire as one with a volley that, in theory, would bring the enemy to his knees. Not me. America thought. His ears were ringing from the gunfire and his senses grew numb to the noise from the British lines. Drums and flutes and shouted orders. He stayed quiet. Better to let them think there were hundreds, even thousands of his people in here.

They're stalling now. America realized, the sound of rifle and musket fire continuing to blast in his ears. Men were standing there to draw their fire as orders were shifted further back in the lines. Cannons. He wasn't the only one to realize it. One by one, men began falling back, following the other men to the next position. They were starting to advance. The first blast of the cannon ripped a tree in two, but no men for there was no one in that position. America began to move deeper into the woods, firing towards the red clad figures that had broached the forest now. They could look all they liked. They weren't going to find anyone.

England's patience was running thin, which had to be the understatement of the day. They might as well have been running in bloody fucking circles for the Queen's sake! Grinding his teeth, England kept bitter words and shouts of anger deep within his chest. It wasn't the soldiers' fault that they were running around like children lost in the town square. His generals on the other hand, he could shout at them with great relish. How could they have underestimated the American position so incompetently? Worse yet, how were America's generals continuously outmaneuvering his own?! He sighed, lowering his musket and running a hand through his untameable hair.

Ignoring the confused looks from the soldiers around him, he opted for scanning the forest. America was somewhere out there, that he was certain of amidst the uncertainty of the day. Somewhere in that dark wood, the boy was there. Swallowing thickly, he opted for shaking out his hands rather than breaking rank and darting into the forest. One that would be foolish, since he would certainly get shot and secondly there was no certainty that he would be able to find America in such a landscape. For now, he would have to stay. The Americans couldn't run forever. They would have to turn and face his men.

Looking at the sky, America guessed it was coming on dinner time, possibly four o'clock or so. They had retreated into a small ravine just outside of the wood. They needed to keep the British from overtaking them. Night was going to be his ally once again. They had been engaged for over an hour, where did all these men come from? America remembered those days so long ago when he had turned the new globe on its stand and England showed him where his home was. America could cover it with his hand when he was small. Were there really this many people?

"Jones, go back and tell Washington to prepare. We're going to have to make a stand in Trenton and across the creek. We're outnumbered here." America nodded at the order and turned his back on the noise. Battle was so loud! He wondered if he would ever get used to it.

He wasn't the only man beginning to go back. The British were breaking the lines and the firefight carried into the streets of Trenton. Musket balls stuck into the sides of houses and blasted through fence posts, but the town was empty of everyone but the soldiers. When he found himself on the other side of Assunpink Creek facing what was left of the British force he felt his heart leap into his throat.

They were out of range at the moment, their red coats visible even in the coming dark. It wouldn't be long until the cover of darkness was theirs and the plan could be initiated. He stood beside Washington who watched the whole scene calmly. America was almost afraid to speak to him, worried he would scare away the luck the man carried like a mantle. The luck that the men trusted him to have in situations like these. Washington reached over and squeezed America's shoulder, the small, tight smile he offered to the men he was proud of on his lips. America gave him a nervous smile in return and took up a position. Just keep them on that side of the water. he repeated, over and over in his mind.

The first attempt to cross the bridge and the entire American line fired in one volley. Then a second line of red coats was met with cannon fire. The third attempt on the position was torn apart by scatter shot. It was nothing like what he'd seen at Bunker Hill, but again the number of dead and dying men on the field before him unsettled him.

"Bridge is red as blood with their killed and wounded and red coats." America couldn't tell who said it, but the sentiment went through him. He was grateful when it was too dark to see anymore. If sending wave after wave of men was England's resolve to defeat him, it was America's resolve to stand against it.

"They are not going to be going anywhere, we can make another approach in the morning." Grant said. "The men need rest in order to make a proper charge."

"It might be in our best interest to attack them during the night. I don't think we should wait." Cornwallis argued.

"We have Washington cornered. We've retaken Trenton, he has nowhere to go." A cannon boomed in the darkness. England could feel it rattle through the troops outside. He stood near the open flap of the tent. The momentum of the day had been lost, soldiers were feeling their weariness now. They would be asleep on their feet if left in the lines. He could see the campfires of the Continental Army and the clink of cooking pots on the other shore. America was over there somewhere, settling down himself.

He could see him in his mind's eye, that serious expression still on his face that seemed fixed since the Seven Years' War. How had he not foreseen this possibility then? You never listened. America's accusation had ruffled him. In fact, America was the one not listening and look what it was leading to! Leaving the generals to argue over their next action he stepped outside, the ice in the winter air brushing its frozen fingers across his skin. He wanted nothing more than to march across that tributary and grab America right up from his cookfire. The words he had not said in that brief meeting simmered under the surface, threatening to boil up. He coughed, yanking his handkerchief from his pocket. It was red when he pulled it back, damnation. He balled the cloth into his coat pocket and marched off towards the infirmary.

There was always a cost to war and he would have to pay it along with his men. You will stop this, America, I will make you understand your mistake.

Dawn rose and England went with the exploratory column across the bridge. Each move was cautious, slow, hoping to sneak up on the unprepared Americans. Smoke rose along the shoreline, indicative of fires cooling in the early morning. No pop of a musket or boom of a cannon came as they got closer. England pushed his way through to the front to stand by a bewildered looking captain.

"Where the bloody hell are they?!" England demanded. The man turned to look at him wide-eyed. His expression matched England's there had once been thousands of troops and several cannons there was nothing but smoking fires and few worn out cooking pots. England stomped away down the beach before he took out his anger on the hapless soldier. He kicked a still smoldering log sending up a flurry of sparks into the remains of the American camp. Pain caught him in his stomach and he stumbled, falling to his knees in the sand.

"M'Lord are you all right?" someone asked. He waved off all attempts to help him to his feet. Someone was going to pay for this. He forced himself up through sheer force of will and propelled through the confused soldiers and field commanders back to where Grant and Cornwallis were plotting their military schemes.

"The entire American army has slipped through our fingers, gentlemen. Any idea where they have gone?" England ground out the words through gritted teeth. He wanted to strike the pompous bastards who had been arguing since this entire endeavor began.

"Excuse me, generals." It was a young man's voice.

"What?" England said, whirring on the ensign who paled considerably.

"There is a courier from Princeton. He states that the message is of utmost importance." England resisted the urge to curse as Cornwallis waved the courier in. The rider was covered in dust as he presented a sealed envelope to the commanders. They tore through the red ribbon and read the words.

"For God's sake what does it say?" England demanded.

Cornwallis cleared his throat and lifted his chin before answering. "The rebel army has captured Princeton." England was snatching the paper out of the general's hand before he could say another word. The Americans had taken the garrison in the night and it had been forced to surrender. At this very moment America was sitting somewhere in Princeton. He'd circled around and gotten right behind his lines! England caught himself on the table as a cough wracked his body with a convulsion. Stomach turning, England shoved his way out of the tent and into the camp. Gossip was already rampant amongst the men, many of whom were wondering how long they were expected to stay in the field this winter.

The January air bit at England's cheeks as he started to walk. His feet chose the direction of the path. Pulling his magic about himself he became invisible, no one would be able to disturb him from his thoughts. His anger cooled the longer he walked. He should be proud, really. America had paid more attention to his lessons in military maneuvers more than England had ever thought. He was doing exactly what England had taught him to do, except for the part where he was fighting him.

His feet began to ache from his self-imposed march, but he couldn't make himself stop. He didn't realize how far he'd come until he almost walked right into a human. The soldier looked startled, but couldn't see what had disturbed him so. He was wearing a brown coat, not one of England's. England looked about him, he had walked all the way to back to Princeton.

He stepped carefully around the picket line and made his way into the town.

America didn't know what compelled him to get out of his bed and go for a walk. It was just too quiet he considered, or too strange. Washington's ploy had worked, they had Princeton and England's generals were left looking like fools in the woods. He pulled his uniform back on and borrowed one of the officer's cloaks as he stepped outside. The heavy fabric held the warmth of the house, but his feet soon felt cold.

It was quiet, no later than three or so in the morning. Most of the soldiers had gone to sleep, only a few men still in the streets on guard duty. He nodded to them as he walked towards the outskirts of town, wanting a little bit of the quiet and openness. He loved towns and cities, but there were so many times when he felt he just needed to stare into the wilderness to get a sense of himself.

He walked up to a split rail fence, leaning onto the top rail. The wood was rough hewn and it still smelled fresh, probably cut that fall. The winter night was nearly silent, only soft whispers of a breeze and the sleepy noises of an army at rest. He pulled the cloak tighter around himself and looked up into the starry night sky.

The sound of a boot in the snow drew his attention to the space around him, but he couldn't see anyone. Another step and another. "Who's there?" America said, reaching for the pistol he'd taken under the cloak. Another step and his fingers tightened. "Hello?"

No answer. He strained his ears, hoping to pick up something amiss, but nothing revealed itself. He shrugged and turned back to the night sky, probably just his imagination. In a whisper he began naming the constellations to himself.

Cold fingers on his cheek made him jump. When he whirled around to see who it was there was no one there, but the night. A ghost? He stepped away quickly and hurried back into town, heart pounding.

He didn't stop until he was back in his bedroom, buried under the blankets wondering what sort of monster tried to get him in the night.

England tried to feel guilty about startling America so badly. He'd tried to have some fun with him on the past with ghost stories and surprises, but America never took it well. The boy was usually too grounded in reality and what he could see or thought he knew. At the same time, he wondered what had possessed him to touch him. Did he think America would have welcomed him in? Had a nice chat? Hardly. The boy probably would have shot him himself.

That thought chilled England as he started on the long walk back to camp. When he arrived he was informed that General Howe had sent instructions to pull back the army closer to New York for winter quarters. This would not be settled before winter set in, and that thought froze England to the bone.

March 1777

New Jersey Frontier Country

America wanted nothing more than for it to be spring. He was tired of skulking through the woods looking for any supplies the British may want. Ever since Washington had put out the order in January they had been claiming crops and livestock all across New Jersey. There was hardly anything left from the months of raiding from Morristown winter quarters. The upside was that England and his troops could gain nothing from the immediate area, but that also meant his people couldn't either.

Everything felt hungry and cold. America had given up his shoes to another soldier and his coat had grown more and more threadbare. He told himself he didn't mind, after all, he couldn't die from something like this, but he hated it. At least if spring came the cold part would change, even though he had a feeling the hunger wouldn't. England had supply ships and control of the ocean, America had none of that.

That was going to be a problem and he needed to find a way to change it.