- A/N -
i have a legit love-hate relationship with this story now lol. starting to lean more toward 'hate' with every passing chapter, though.
Anyway, here we are finally at the War to End All Wars. It took a while, but now there's only two more chapters left to do. And speaking of that—it's completely-unnecessary-and-snobbish-historical-exposition o'clock!
*clears throat importantly*
When Yugoslav nationalist Gavrilo Princip assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, it prompted the escalation of a series of complicated international tensions. He had been commanded by a member of the Black Hand, a secret society intent on the unification of all Southern Slavic regions. Soon after, most of the major powers became involved in the conflict, forming the Allied Powers and the Central Powers.
Also, part of the chapter is just about the Zimmermann Telegram. If you don't know what that is, it'll be explained (poorly) very shortly.
10. World War I
We shall endeavor in spite of this to keep the United States of America neutral. In the event of this not succeeding, we make Mexico a proposal of alliance on the following basis: make war together, make peace together, generous financial support and an understanding on our part that Mexico is to reconquer the lost territory in Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona.
- Arthur Zimmermann to Heinrich von Eckardt, German ambassador of Mexico
Chapter Nine
February 6, 1917
"You need to do what?"
Interjections of a similar sentiment had been expressed not one, not two, but three times over the last several minutes. England sighed in exasperation, then tried again. "We can't let the Americans know how we found the message," he explained. "It might be... impractical."
"Because you won't be able to spy on their diplomatic communication anymore?"
"It's nothing like that. I just don't want this to harm our relationship with the United States."
France laughed bitterly, leaning back in his chair. The unfurnished office room was tiny, and yet it still felt empty with the two Nations inside. "When have you cared about maintaining a good relationship with Alfred? You've been avoiding him ever since the Revolutionary Wars."
"We're not talking about him, you fool, and you know it," the other Nation scowled. "This is about a possible military alliance with a growing international power."
France pursed his lips. "Ah, so you give him the cold shoulder and then ask him for help when it suits you."
"This issue hasn't ever been about me. It's about all of us Allied Powers."
"You are avoiding the subject."
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" England shouted, standing up from his chair and slamming his hands on the desk. The sole hanging lightbulb above him flickered weakly, and he winced. "We obtained the Zimmermann note, we encoded it, and we'll have the final say in what happens, not you."
"You were the one asking me for advice," France pointed out. "You need a cover story to tell the Americans, yes?"
Arthur opened his mouth, then paused. His eyes were still narrowed, suspicion alight in their shadowed depths. And yet, in the hollow glare of the lightbulb, a solitary guardian against the encroaching darkness, his expression suddenly seemed vulnerable.
Tentatively, he nodded.
"Then I will help if you insist. After all, we are allies in this war, and I would do anything for my old friend. Isn't that right?"
England snorted, but didn't respond.
As the island Nation hesitantly settled back in his seat, France pushed a cup of tea over to the other side of the table. Behind them, the raw wind battered at the hastily-closed shutters, slamming the rickety frame against the bare walls as the night wore on. After three years into the war, this was hardly an uncommon scene. Nor a particularly memorable one.
Yet England would remember it. He would remember every last moment of silent desperation they shared in the cell-like room, right before the lightbulb spark finally lost its battle against the darkness and sputtered out of existence.
The Great War had been hell, in every sense of the word. There was no other possible way to describe what England had seen and experienced, either in a trench several feet under or somewhere out on the churning seas. When the conflict finally ended and the sound of rapid gunfire stopped haunting his dreams, he could no longer count the casualties by millions—even on both hands.
Of course, England couldn't keep track of every detail. Memory was fallible, and a double-edged sword. Especially as there were things he wouldn't mind forgetting. But as he knew, a thousand years' worth of internal recordkeeping was bound for failure somewhere along the line. And so, hidden away from the judgmental gaze of his fellow comrades, he'd opened up his leather-bound journal to the first blank page.
1 July 1916
He scratched his head.
First day on the Somme. From Maricourt, we mostly managed to defeat the German army. But then things began to go downhill. I blame all those reckless attacks we made on the Thiepval—that's another several thousand lives that shouldn't have been taken.
England grimaced.
The Sixth Army, on the other hand, actually did considerably better than us. Bloody French. Much fewer casualties for them—I suppose all that heavy artillery came in handy.
Well, that's all for today. I'll try to write in this whenever I have time. I need to go get some sleep now.
And then he'd slammed the journal shut, placing it back in the dark crevice where it belonged.
Yet the next time England came back to the journal was a month later.
He'd picked up his pen wearily, unsure where to begin. The day's events flooded through his mind like a tidal wave, even as he struggled to find the right words. How was he supposed to describe the war at all, let alone fit it into a few unsuspecting paragraphs?
England pondered for a moment over all the things he'd seen and heard, the growling tanks and the ricocheting bullets and the muttered last-minute prayers. And somehow, he knew that he wouldn't be able to do any of it justice.
Instead, he'd quickly scribbled down two simple words.
I'm tired.
August 12, 1917
They'd been promised an end to the war many times over. A way out of the fighting, once and for all. But like most assurances, it was empty.
England, veteran of centuries of battle, saw it for what it was—a promise devoid of any sincerity. Even if the Allied Hundred Days Offensive went exactly according to plan, which was doubtful at this point.
What a naive idea. I can't believe anyone genuinely believes that militarism will be eradicated anytime soon.
Well... they are mortals, after all.
In front of him, France was sitting at the folding steel table, pencil in hand and hair tied back in a messy ponytail. From his vantage point, England couldn't tell what he was scribbling on the tiny piece of paper, but assumed it was some sort of sketch.
"War is one of humanity's only constants after all," the island Nation muttered, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.
France hardly even paused before answering. "So is kindness," he responded, tilting his head as he began pressing the pencil down harder. "However small the form it comes in."
"That's interesting," England said, raising an eyebrow. "You're bloody older than me. I would have thought you to be the cynical type."
"Then you thought wrong."
Before he could respond, the door suddenly slammed open behind them. Quickly stepping away, England winced as a jovial American burst through the entryway, arms waving in the air.
"Hey!"
"Oh, there you are, America," he sighed. "I was wondering where you went."
Curiously, France looked up from his paper and glanced between the two Nations. Arthur ignored him—no doubt trying to gauge his relationship with the boy instead. Instead, he furrowed his brows and continued, "What do you need, anyway?"
"Nothing!" America said cheerfully. Despite his lighthearted demeanor, however, England noted that he still shied away from making eye contact from him. At this, he gritted his teeth. "The hero just wanted to check in!"
England stifled a laugh just in time. "Ah, I see."
"Yeah." He peered further into the room, seemingly curious. "So what are you two doing?"
"Nothing much," England responded, crossing his arms. "So... what heroic feats has the Associated Power undertaken, if I may ask?"
"Well, I mean, there was Cantigny, Château-Thierry, and Belleau Wood," America began. Somewhere behind him, France was visibly cringing at the butchered pronunciations. "Plus I totally rocked the Spring Offensive and made those Germans—"
"You were not the only—"
"And—"
From outside, a shout calling for the attention of 'Mr. Jones' echoed down the hallway. America abruptly stopped his sentence midway, then awkwardly stepped back out through the doorway.
"Sorry, gotta go," he said, giving a brief wave.
The sound of the door as it slammed behind him still rung in England's ear for several minutes after Alfred left.
As the American's loud voice continued to reach them through the paper-thin walls, France finally turned around in his chair. He gave England an amused glance, then shrugged. "You ever thought he'd turn out like this?"
"Dear lord, no," Arthur shuddered, stepping forward and peering over France's shoulder. "I don't understand where I went wrong with him. Anyway, what are you drawing?"
It didn't look like much. Francis had simply been doodling on a children's coloring worksheet with a stubby pencil. England didn't know where he'd gotten it, but it didn't matter.
Outline each continent on the map clearly with a different color, the print on the top stated cheerfully. Remember to label each one.
France had completely ignored the instructions. Instead, he'd outlined the entire map itself in vibrant color and drawn roses around the edges. Crumbling up the worksheet with one hand, he sighed and tossed it into the trash can at his feet.
"Nothing."
.
.
.
- A/N -
Reference(s):
[1] Although they helped fight against the Central Powers, the United States classified themselves as an "Associated Power" instead of formally joining the Allies.
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