Once again England had been called to attend a meeting. Grumbling he made his way to the tent, throwing open the flap and entering with a flourish. The people inside appeared to be surprised at his sudden change in spirits, but bloody hell. They could all go get wanked for all Arthur cared, his little America was alive! Sitting down in a chair he sat pompously, crossing his legs. It was about time he acted like the ruler of this little joint. After all, he was second only to the king himself, ranking far higher than some measly colonel or lieutenant. Not soon after everyone had assembled, the table, which was entirely covered with maps of America and decorated with pins and ink, was completely surrounded and the meeting started in a rush of voices, one overlapping the other until it was a cacophony of noise.
"But if we attack from the right flank-"
"What about the ships?"
"Surely if we go during the night-"
"If we attack there it'll definitely work!"
"-and then we would break through-"
"Wait a second, you are planning to attack Alfred's camp?" England was brought back into the conversation by the realization that this wasn't just any camp that they were ambush; it was the main headquarters, Alfred's current residence.
"Yes, and why would we not? It is where all the major generals are at. If we win this than the war's over!" England adamantly argued against the attack, but they were steadfast in their opinion. The troops were to ready themselves in the early morning light, the attack would commence before lunch, and Arthur was to fight in the thick of it. He insisted on at least fighting in the front (in the hope that he would be able to sneak Alfred out of the camp in the chaos) and reluctantly the officers put him in the forward line. Through his years of experience, it wasn't likely that he would die but all the same, they insisted on him being surrounded by a plethora of 'bodyguards' who were to always surround the Briton. Arthur agreed, if that was what he would have to do then so be it. Plus all those years accumulating knowledge also gave him plenty of ways to sneak away.
The sun had begun to rise by the time they started marching, a grim silence settling over the British troops. If they were to loose this then the war would be over, they would have lost. If they won though… the outcomes were endless. A warning shout cut through the silence, they had been spotted by the scout. Swarms of blue clad soldiers came out to join them in battle. Within minutes they were in range, and bullets cut through the air, slamming into their targets, causing men to fall like puppets whose strings were cut. Grimly they marched on, firing their guns when they had the chance, and making sure to step over, not on, the bodies of their fallen comrades. They, however, didn't exercise such care with the bodies of their enemies. Soon they were close enough to fight with bayonets and swords, England brutally sliced through flesh, flinching at the feel of cutting through skin and bones. No matter how many wars he fought in, he could never get used to the sensation. The battle raged around him, soldiers falling, cut down by their opponents, around him. His guards scattered around him. At first it was a stalemate then, slowly, ever so slowly, the British began pushing them back. Shouts of elation mixed with cries of despair; the British were winning.
Fighting increased in desperation as the American lines retreated to their last line of defense, a fortification of sandbags, pointed sticks, and barbed wire. Scratches were everywhere on Arthur's body when he finally fought through the defense, killing left and right in an attempt to reach Alfred's tent before his own soldiers made it into the camp. Abandoning his musket and bayonet, he darted with cheetah like speed through the sea of blue, a trick that he had picked up during his pirate days. He would have to be quick; his troops had already picked their way through the defenses. Remembering the formation of the camp, he sprinted to Alfred's tent, loosing patience and cutting through the flap after fumbling with the ties. Alfred was there, lying limply on his bed, neatly tucked in with care. A sharp pang cut through England's chest.
"Wait! Would you tuck me in?" Baby blue eyes peered into emerald orbs, pleading. England froze, hand on the door, as he glanced over his shoulder. It was the first time his charge had asked for something not related to food, heroes, or England's country.
"What is the magic word, love?" England's eyes softened to a moss green as he gazed at the toddler, who frowned at the question.
"Pwease?"
The shots of bullets, much closer than he had expected, shocked him out of his reverie, startling him into movement.
"It's time to go Alfred." Kneeling next to the bed he managed to drag the American to a sitting position, preparing to carry him bridal style, when what remained of the tent flap burst open in a flurry of movement. It was the last, remaining member of his guard. The truth hit England faster than the speed of light, his so called guard, was actually meant to keep him from rescuing Al.
"Stop!" He panted, pointing his gun at the motionless Briton. "The Commander thought that you might attempt something like this. I can't believe that you actually made it past me but," he shrugged, shifting his gun into a more comfortable grip "I suppose you aren't England for nothing." He smirked. "Now set the boy down and step away." Reluctantly England set him down, turning to shield him with his body, and narrowing his eyes, causing the man to retreat a few steps and whistle for back up. His cocky demeanor slipped for a fraction of a second, the pure fear radiating though. The backup arrived just as England realized this, in the form of the General and Lieutenant General, defended tightly by a collection of Warrant Officers. Now that he was flanked by superior officers, he let his mask go and stepped back behind them, but seemed to hesitate before darting out of the tent.
"Step away from the boy," the General commanded, authority oozing from his every pore. This was a man who was used to his commands being obeyed at once. Unlucky for him, England had no intention of stepping aside.
"No." He growled protectively. "You can't order me to do anything. Besides the fact that I'm at least five ranks above you, I don't answer to anyone but myself and the king," Arthur smirked. "And since he's all the way back in good old England, there's nothing that you can order me to do. I can do whatever the bloody hell I want."
"Ahhh, but here's the thing," if anything his seemed to become more smug, even more so than usual. "I thought that something like this might happen so…I took the liberty of inviting the King over to see our victory." England's face paled as King George the Third stepped into the tent, bending slightly to make it through the flap without disrupting his perfectly combed hair. There he stood, surrounded by his trusty officers, in the entrance. It took him only a few seconds to understand what had occurred.
"Arthur." He nodded stiffly, not enthused at what he would have to do, even if it was for the sake of his people. Arthur grudgingly bowed, as was expected. He started to feel the first worms of doubt eating his apple, but he stood firm.
"I'm sorry about this, Arthur. I know what he means to you, but think about our people. We can't let this war continue any longer." He frowned at England's impassive face, expertly picking up the little signs of his distress: an eyebrow twitch, an unconscious little clenching of his fists, his defensive stance, and how his eyes swam with emotions. To others they would be dull, but long ago he had developed the rare skill of reading his emotions. The emotions England could hide with his body and eyes were, for the king, almost as easy as reading those ridiculous scrolls, a mess of ink but still, barely, legible.
"Step aside." He could feel the weight on his shoulders increasing as he watched England try his hardest to resist the command. A command was a command, however, and the nation was forced to move out of the way, giving them a clear shot of Alfred. Just the thought of what was to come next, and England's reaction could, and probably would have, made a lesser man cry, but for the sake of his country, he must always be strong, for he was a king. And so, no tears were shed, but regret was clear in the king's eyes. Wearily he raised his hand, and let it fall. Quickly he exited the tent before he could witness what was to happen. The thin fabric did nothing, however, to muffle the sound.
"N-no!" Three shots rang out, brining about the end of the Revolution. Numbly Arthur collapsed to his knees, tear streaming out of his emerald eyes. He shuffled to Alfred's side, clutching Alfred's arm. "A-Al-Alfred!"
"Hmph. Grow up Kirkland, there's work to be done." With a contemptuous snort, the General left the tent, the rest of the soldiers following him.
"Oh gods…" Ignoring the blood that was seeping out of the bullet holes in Alfred's head and staining the sheets, Arthur caressed America's face. "Alfred?" That face…such a calm face, not purple and blue or sickly white. There was still color trapped in those cheeks, such a healthy pink. The more rational part of his brain screamed out facts and demanded for him, the great England, to get to his feet. However, for the first time in centuries, the emotional side of Arthur won.
"Come on, wake up. I'll make your favorite hamburgers for dinner, I-I'll even let you drink as much of that disgusting stuff as you want. Alfred, love?" He caressed the bullet torn head, using his hands to try to piece back the shattered side, not caring that blood was staining his gloves a dark red. "Please?" Arthur tugged on his uniform, then let his hand drift back up to the wound, fingertips tracing the edge. "What skills you have, when did you develop this new stage paint? It's better than the ones I have." Desperately his mind, scrambled by his raging emotions, struggled to think up of an excuse. "It looks so real…" He lowered his forehead, pressing it against Alfred's. Tears dripped, partly cleaning Alfred's face from the blood splatter, as Arthur gave in to the truth. Alfred -his child, his Alfred, his love- was gone. Forever and irreplaceably gone. He embraced what was once a man, now only an empty husk, and wept, rocking back and forth with grief, uncaring of the blood smearing on his face, dying his hair and cloths red.
"No!" The anguished cry rang through out the camp as the blood, like the rain, continued to fall, dripping to the ground.
I don't have any knowledge of the military rankings, so I, of course, looked it up online. I must hope that it's accurate dating back to the older days, but I'm sure that it doesn't truly matter, eh? Plus, I know that their guns weren't that precise way back then, but just ignore that, please? XD
Well, I have to admit that I'm not satisfied with the ending. The ending itself is like what I wanted, but the part before that… I was having a minor writer's block during that, and I could definitely do better. Also, I just realized this, but they would probably be speaking in Old English. Oh well. Sorry for being even more historically inaccurate.
Disclaimer: No, I do not own this. Hidekaz Himaruya does though… perhaps he will let me borrow it, eh?