Here's where things get a little squicky, m'dears. Red!England is not a man of tea and crumpets, after all, and empires don't go around conquering themselves.
The North American Theater of the Seven Year's War: The French and Indian War, 1754
England's green eyes gleam with savage glee as he urges his Redcoats forward against France and the native Nations, roaring for America and his men to "Charge already, you bleeding bastards!" The long scarlet cloak is thrown back over his red-uniformed shoulders as he laughs merrily, blood sliding slickly off his bayonet before it is thrust into yet another poor soldier. England glides gracefully over the broken bodies beneath his feet, darting smoothly to delicately cut throats, disembowel, and dismember enemy after enemy.
It's revolting. It's beautiful. And it's absolutely terrifying.
This is the first fight England's allowed America himself to join, even a little bit. England didn't much like the idea, but America bothered him until he agreed. It's America's first real war, his opportunity to show the world what kind of mighty nation he will become. And yet America, despite his desperate need to prove himself, finds himself instead hanging back to stare, hands cold and sweaty on his own musket. He has never before seen England in action and now cannot look away.
England's breeches had been purest white, once. Just this morning America had brought them back from the laundresses, starched and bleached to the cleanest white in accordance with England's persnickety particularities. But now with every roar of a musket and flash of steel the white is splashed with thick red gore. It would match his coat and cloak nicely, America thinks through a touch of nausea, if they weren't now so soaked with blood themselves that the red had turned black.
England's peal of laughter echoes over the battlefield again—how does he even do that over the sound of war?—and America wonders, in a clinical sort of way, if this is his general I'm-killing-people-and-enjoying-it laugh, or if this is a special one just for killing Frenchmen.
As England wades through another ten men with a few quick movements and a congratulatory bow to himself, America speculates on how much Viking berserker blood England has in him from the raids and settlements from the Nordics centuries back.
England suddenly seems to see something he wants and alters his path of carnage sharply. America squints to see an enormous hat with so many feathers it looks like a goose had to be shaved to get the requisite amount. America adds this point to the owner's flowing golden hair and flair for feeling up confused Englishmen before killing them with a dramatic flair. This…would have to be France, then. Huh. Frankly, he doesn't seem worth all the ranting England spends on him. England's getting closer, almost absentmindedly slaughtering Frenchmen as he walks, his mantle draping soddenly behind him.
America figures if there's going to be some sort of confrontation he, as an official participant, needs to be present, and runs into the fray, dodging stray knives and men locked in combat. Here on the battlefield, the stink of blood and death and voided bowels is overwhelming in the midday sun, and it takes a lot to not shame himself by vomiting.
He had done that earlier when the battle began, and England, who hadn't yet sallied forth, had held him and rocked him back and forth like he used to when he hid in England's bed for fear of ghosts, whispering soothing nonsense and singing old lullabies. America hated himself afterward for the moment of un-nationly weakness. He is a grown man now, dammit, and he can't let England or anyone else think him anything but strong. After America had calmed down, England had smiled fondly at him and ruffled his hair in the way England knows he hates. England had then put on his battle-ready reds, picked up his musket, and swept out of the tent without a backwards glance.
Panting yet simultaneously refusing to breathe the foul air, he reaches England just as the older nation begins the opening volley of insults against his age-old enemy, swishing his weapon in preparation.
"Now, frog, why are you still here getting your oh-so-elegant uniform dirty in the mud? Usually you retreat long before now. Don't you have better things and/or people to do?" He smirks at the implications.
"Because as much as I loathe getting your filthy English blood on my new hat, you have something I wouldn't mind adding to my jeweled crown. Or bed. Ah, there he is now." France's smile is predatory, his eyes appraising. "My, my, how you have grown, little America. So tall and…robust."
Affecting an unconcerned air, England carefully picks what looks like someone's ear off of his shoulder and throws it away with an elegant flick of the wrist. America resists the urge to retch at the actions of both men. His eyes meet another's. When had Canada gotten here? And why is he rolling his eyes?
England's voice comes out a low, growling purr. "Although it truly pains me to deny you anything, my darling France, I'm afraid that America is mine and will continue to be so for a long, long time. My deepest regrets and humblest apologies."
France sighs melodramatically, a hand to his forehead. "Désolé! He may be yours now, but who can say about the future? Let's find out, shall we?"
Growing a bit irritated, America cuts in. "Hey, freaky European guys? I'm kind of right here. Standing in front of you."
England keeps talking as though he can't hear him. "Well, Francey-pants, you can certainly try. But we both know how it's going to turn out. And in case your pathetic, wine-addled little mind has problems figuring that out, let me tell you. It'll end up with you on the ground, my sword in your back, and your colonies—including your beloved Canada here—living under the just rule of the British Empire." He smiles, shining eyes wide and blank and crazed, and it sends ice running down America's back.
What a fool he is, to think England is at his most terrifying when he's killing people.
~o0O0o~
After the war, America's thoughts turned far too often to what he saw that day and in the fighting-filled years after. Who was the real England? Could that monster on the battlefield be trusted for anything?
America began to see what he thought were glimmers of that man in everyday dealings with England, a hard line of the jaw, the flash of an eye. When England stood close in that weird way Europeans had, America had to resist the instinct to back away.
America could not think of England's words to France about keeping America with him without an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach, which was wrong, America should be glad his big brother wants to stay with him. When he was younger he would have loved to hear that every day. But the way England said the words had been…not right. The way he had said "mine" was as though America was property, not a brother, like he didn't have a say in the matter, like he wasn't even there right in front of him.
It didn't help that in the last few years he'd begun to feel a sort of burning itch growing in him, a roiling irritation that only seemed to be appeased when he did something England didn't want.
Ah, France. You know I love you! N-no, not in that way! Get away from me! STOP LAUGHING LIKE THAT!
honhonhonhonhon
I don't know about you guys, but I wish I had a killing-Frenchmen laugh.
And I'm sorry about the France/Frankly pun-I couldn't help it! It's in my name, I warned you-stop throwing those!
I love battlecrazedandsnarky!England, innuendo-ing!France, and worldweary!Canada. America's grossing out and thinking it's all serious and Canada's just there rolling his eyes
A few historical notes:
We hear a lot (well I do) about the Viking raids on the British Isles, but not so much about how Norsemen would also settle the land. In fact, they had lots of influence on English-and therefore American-culture, especially linguistic influence. For a very simple example, several of the days of the week are named after Norse gods: Woden's-day (Odin), Thor's-day, and Frey's-day. Add the Viking settlers to the earlier waves of Celts, Angles, Saxons, the Norman Invasion, the Romans, and all sorts of crazy people, and you end up with a big mess on two small islands. No wonder England and his brothers fight all the time! Culturally the peoples of the British Isles were very diverse. If you want to learn more about this, I'd advise reading the very excellent My Country Still by Aisukuri-Mu Studio.
During the French and Indian War (what we Americans call the North American theater of the Seven Years War-I was rather ashamed when I only found out they were part of the same war during research), some American militia were allowed to fight alongside British regiments. Frankly, they sucked. They sucked pretty bad in the Revolutionary War too, but fortunately not quite bad enough to lose. Since this was the first really big conflict the colonials were allowed to help in (actually the fact they often weren't added to resentment against the Empire-it was their home and they wanted to help protect it, even if they admittedly did suck), I thought it would do well as the first fighting America sees. England certainly didn't want to let him, let his innocent little boy see the horrors of war and the horrors of Red England in action, but Teen!America was adamant.