Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, and I'm pretty sure it's impossible to own any history but your own personal records. I'm just having fun. Sort've.

Every Generation

Part 2: Middle

"Give. Him. Back."

Matthew blinked. It had been eight long months since last he'd seen his guardian – former guardian – face-to-face, most of the intervening time taken up with battle. Arthur looked surprisingly small in his military finery, a far cry from his intimidating pirate heyday. He trembled with red-face rage on the opposite side of the negotiation table and barely allowed the tent flap to close in his wake before he started into his demands. The royal general who accompanied him placed a hand on his empire's shoulder, trying in vain to reign in the fiery temper.

On Matthew's side, his own general – a proud, old warrior hardened by the long was and America's suppression – sat straight-backed in his chair. He proudly wore an officer's uniform from the same cut as his young nation, bearing his medals and rank designations like a shield against oppression. On Matthew's other side sat the representative of their reformed Parliament – that is, the Parliament of the New Colombian Alliance – and it was this relatively young man who spoke next. "If you would please take a seat, Mister Kirkland…"

"I will not take a goddamn seat!" Arthur snapped, and kicked the offered chair. "We're not here for a bloody tea party. Where the hell is Alfred?"

"In his tent," Matthew said in a soft tone. Arthur headed for the door, but Matthew continued before he could leave. "It looks exactly like the other 200 standard-issue tents in our camp, and if you set foot beyond this one, your diplomatic immunity here will be revoked."

Arthur stopped, turned and snarled. "How dare you?"

"You a guest are in our territory, Mister Kirkland," reminded the Parliamentarian.

"Your territory?" Arthur demanded, his voice rising into a near-shriek. "This is my land!"

"Wrong," said Matthew, looking up. "It's my land."

Arthur hissed. His shoulders sank as he came back to the table, his anger slipping away for a moment to reveal the weakness below. "Oh, Matthew," he murmured. "What have they done to you?"

"They haven't done anything." Matthew drew himself up, proud in his uniform and disgusted by the too-familiar tone of denial in the elder nation's voice. "I'm here because I want to be. Alfred is the same."

The rage returned and Arthur slammed his palms against the table. "Bullshit! I know you're holding him here! You kidnapped him!"

"Arthur –"

"I did no such thing!" Matthew snapped, standing in a moment of anger and cutting off the British general. His violet eyes blazed like the fiery aurora that burned in the skies of his most northern regions. "I brought him out of that house – the house you locked him in, like some kind of animal! – and told him he could go wherever he liked. He chose to stay with me."

Arthur snarled. "I never pinned you for a liar, boy."

"And I never pinned you for a despot."

"Enough," Canada's general intoned, and his rich voice instantly brought the argument of nations to an end. Matthew sank into his chair, blushing all the way up to his hairline, but the old man's eyes twinkled with pride when their gazes met. When the general looked to England, however, his expression became stern. "We have no prisoners here, nor are we currently holding captives in any of our camps. It is useless to continue such pointless discussions, so I suggest we return to the actual topic at hand."

Arthur's scowl deepened but, at his leader's request, he sat in silence. The Colombian delegate cleared his throat, steering the conversation back on-track. "Thank you, General. Now, might we be able to reach an agreement?"

"What are your demands?" snapped the impatient British leader.

"I believe you've already received our terms," said the representative, pushing a copy of the New Colombian Alliance Declaration of Independence across the table. "If you've forgotten, they are stated very clearly here."

"And you think you can get away with this?" the Brit laughed. "Where the last so-called Americans failed?"

Matthew tuned them out as the debate began to rage. There would no compromise, he knew. The British and their leaders did not understand, because Arthur, England, did not understand. This was not a Canadian rebellion, it was a unification – and a liberation.

( - )

When the negotiations finally dissolved, as they were destined to, Matthew left without acknowledging Arthur's attempts to get his attention. The older nation tried to follow after, but was held at bay by militia guards. His curses followed the former colony into the heart of the camp. Matthew did not even glance back.

He weaved between the rows of mismatched tents until he reached the one he shared with his brother. He knelt and peered inside. Alfred stared back at him from the shadows, as jittery as a rabbit.

"Hey Al," Matthew called with a soft smile. "They're gone now. Do you want to come out?"

"No."

"Okay."

Matthew slipped inside and let the flap fall shut behind him. The tent was a bit stuffy in these early spring months, but the twins paid it little mind as Matthew settled in. Alfred curled into his brother's side. "Is he gone?"

"Arthur? Yeah, he's gone."

Alfred pouted over Flopsy's head. "He'll be back."

"Probably," Matthew agreed. Kumajiro lumped from the corner and plopped into his owner's lap, grumbling for food. Matthew rubbed his ear. "When he does, do you want to see hi?"

"No."

"All right then."

They sat quietly for a while, listening to the bustling noise of the camp beyond their trap barrier. Matthew scratched Kumajiro's ear with one hand and held Alfred's fingers with the other. He nuzzled his brother's hair and gave a soft sigh. "You should have seen the Commander, Al. He was really something. Even Arthur couldn't talk back to him."

Alfred smiled at that. "He's a good guy."

"He is." Matthew closed his eyes and rested his head against his brother's. "Hey, Al…Tell me about your General?"

Alfred's breath hitched in his throat.

"You don't have to," Matthew assured hurriedly. Alfred relaxed and nuzzled his brother's shoulder.

Matthew sighed. Of all America's heroes and martyrs, only his General – his Father – remained a mystery to his curious brother, though not for lack of trying. The only time they'd pushed the issue had left Alfred an inconsolable mess of tears who refused to move from his bunk or eat for three days. Matthew burned with curiosity, especially as the battles and days grew longer, but he could not, would not force things and risk undoing all of their hard work. Alfred was so much better now that he was out of his prison and among the people. He was not himself, but he was better, running and laughing nad playing sports with the man during downtime. Matthew could see his happy, shining brother there, beneath the tattered blue coat and meager form that trembled at every gunshot. He was so near…

"Hey, Mattie?"

Matthew shook himself and turned back to his brother. "Yeah, Al?"

Alfred squirmed, averted his eyes and rubbed Flopsy's ear between his fingers. "Y-You're gonna fight again, aren't you?"

"Well, yes."

Alfred clung to Matthew's arm, and Matthew winced, suddenly reminded of how very strong his brother could be. Alfred gazed up at him pleadingly. "Don't. Please, Mattie, don't go out there."

"We've been through this, Al," Matthew soothed, wincing as tried to pry his arm free. "I don't have a choice, Arthur will ruin us if I don't fight. You don't have to go out there, though, I know it scares you…"

"That's not it!"

Alfred's voice cracked, and Matthew suddenly realized that there were tears pooling in those blue eyes. He held onto Matthew stubbornly, licked his lips and managed to force out the hesitant words. "What if…what if you get caught, Mattie? What if you…"

What if you loose?

The unspoken words hung about them as heavily as morning fog. Matthew stopped trying to wriggle away. "That's not going to happen."

"But what if it does?" Alfred fell silent, but his frightened eyes said volumes more – 'He'll do to you what he did to me, I know he will, please don't make me watch that happen brother, please, please don't go…'

"It won't happen," Matthew reassured again. "You can't think that way, you know you can't. If we don't believe, our people won't believe. You know that, right?"

Alfred gnawed his lip. "Y-Yeah."

"Wewill make it through this," Matthew continued, caressing his brother's cheek. "So just hang in there, okay? You're so strong Al, I know you are. You'll make it through to the end of this. That's how strong you are."

Alfred sniffed. "I'm not strong."

"You are." Matthew's throbbing arm was testament to that much. "You're more powerful than you think, Alfred. You're a hero."

Despite his tears, despite his fear, Alfred smiled.

( - )

The war was not an easy one.

Not that anyone expected it to be. After all, even with the combined force of all British America under one command, it was unheard of for any colony to resist its empire and expect to win. The sad state of the southern lands, whose spirit struggled on despite being half-smothered from decades of suppression, only reiterated this point.

As spring became summer, the Colombian militia lost in two crucial ports and was forced to retreat into the interior of the land. They continued to win small skirmishes along the length of the length of the continent, but the struggles continued well through the warm months, pushing the militia back until they could see the mountains with their bare eyes.

Summer began to bleed into fall. With each passing day, the anxious beast that gnawed on Matthew's gut grew larger. The green leaves had only begun to turn when France finally appeared, with Prussia of all people in tow.

"You do understand," Francis said, once the three nations were safely within the Commander's meeting tent, alone, "that my King has sent me here only to distract England from our quarrels elsewhere."

Matthew nodded in acknowledgement, frowning. "But that's not the only reason you're here, right?"

Francis beamed. "Of course not. I did promise you."

Matthew smiled. From behind Francis, Gilbert yawned like a lion and the sound echoed around the tent. "Blah, blah, blah. Fuck, Francis, ou act like splitting ol' Arthur's attention is a bad thing. All it's gonna do is make life easier for us."

"That is true," Francis said with a chuckle, sipping the bitter coffee his former colony had presented him. "The sun ma never set on the British Empire, but even he cannot hope to fight two wars at the same time."

Matthew chewed on the inside of his cheek. "So you really think we have a chance?"

"Oui. Though we shall have to see if history deals the cards in our favor." Francis peered at Matthew through the steam of his drink, bringing to mind that night at the portside pub and all the years the two had spent together. "There is something bothering you. Something besides the war."

Matthew stiffened. "I…"

"Frustrated, kiddo?" Prussia asked, leaning across the table with a lecherous smirk. "Bet'cha the old eyebrow pervert's got you pretty repressed. We've still got half an hour before my training drills start up, so Francis and I ought to be able to help you with that…"

Francis, in a move that would have seemed out-of-character were Matthew not the one involved, struck his white-haired friend across the back of his head. "Mon dieu, Gilbert, that is quite enough. If that's the kind of mood you are in, we will attend to such things at a better time. But now – " he turned back to Matthew with a serious, concerned expression " – is about you, my dear. Something is causing you great concern, so what is it?"

Matthew sighed, stood and rubbed the back of his neck. "It's…It's nothing."

"Do not try to hide. There is something bothering you." Francis's eyes widened. "Don't tell me that Alfred is –"

"Alfred's fine," Matthew assured. He began to pace. "He's getting better – you should see him, while you're here, you'll be amazed how much better he is. I'm not worried about him. I'm not worried about anything but the fighting, and yet…I can't shake this feeling."

Francis and Gilbert exchanged a look. Gilbert finally sat down. "What kind of 'feeilng'?"

"Just a feeling." Matthew bit the flesh of his thumb, staring into the far corner as he tried to align his thoughts. "I need to be here. I know I do. This is my fight, but I want to…I want to…"

Silence. Francis motioned for him to continued. Matthew paced to the back entrance, opened the tent and gazed upon the distant mountains.

"I want to go there," he admitted, voice, prickly with nerves. "I can't explain it, but this feel…It's like they're calling me. And I just don't –"

Gilbert burst out laughing. Matthew turned pink and let the tent flap fall. "What?"

"Oh, man. The newbie's first time is always the most hilarious thing."

The shade of Matthew's face darkened. His voice came as barely a squeak. "J-Just what do you mean by that?"

Francis chuckled, setting his coffee on the table and crossing to Matthew. He put his arm around his former colony's shoulders and steered him until their backs were turned to their ally.

"My dear Mattieu," he said with a shake of his graceful head. "Did I ever tell you of the way I met my dear Jeanne?"

Matthew blinked. Tales of the brave and beautiful Jeanne d'Arc were always among Francis's favorite bedtime stories, but he had never heard this one. He shook his head.

"It was a time of great turmoil for me, as you well know." Francis smiled wistfully down at his drink. "At that time too, Angleterre was the source of our troubles. There was little that my people or I could do to stand against him, and I admit that I had almost lost the spirit myself. Then, I heard the Call."

Gilbert saddled up to Matthew and swung his arm around the younger nation's shoulders. "Y'see, kiddo, when big change is going down in our lands, there's sometimes a couple of things that we gotta oversee ourselves. When we ain't where we need to be for that, we start getting that tingling feeling. My gramps and old Rome named it the Call, and the term stuck."

"It does not steer us wrong," Francis said with an agreeable nod. "I followed its summons to Chinon, where I was witness to my dear Jeanne's first true prediction, when her gift was first brought to the light. From that meeting came many struggles and many blessings, but my history would not have been the same had I not borne witness to that moment with my own eyes."

Matthew shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "What you're saying is, you think I need to go there – into the mountains. That something there's calling me?"

"Damn straight!" Gilbert laughed.

"But what about Alfred? He can't handle those mountains in his state, he hates the cold!"

Francis patted his former charge's hand. "You needn't worry. We shall watch over him while you are away."

"You're sure?"

"Oui." Francis's gaze grew soft. "With any luck, the care I offer him now will make up for what I did not do before."

Matthew's heart ached over their regretful expression. "That wasn't your fault. Your king –"

"The faults of my people and my ruler are mine to bear as well," Francis said with resolution, then he smiled. "You will come to understand that for yourself, in time. Now come, you must bid him farewell. It would not due for you to disappear without assuring him of your return."

Matthew nodded, settling Kumajiro into his rucksack and making sure he was comfortable before tying the bag closed. Abandoning their table and cups, the three nations stepped from their tent and into the camp. Gilbert broke away soon enough to berate a passing regimen for their atrocious marching order. Matthew winced in sympathy for his men – Prussians were hard taskmasters, it was known, but they would get the job done better than most.

They found Alfred sitting with a small knot of Georgians, far from their sunny home, chewing on a leg of chick fresh from the boiling oil that rested over their fire. When he spotted his brother, Alfred grinned. "Hey, Mattie! You want some chicken?"

Matthew was bemused. "That food is literally covered in grease, Al."

Alfred pouted. "But it's so good!"

"If you say so."

Francis chuckled, kneeling across from the young man to stir the oil thoughtfully. "This method of cooking can produce some tasty meals. I've found that potatoes, sliced into long strips, work especially well."

"Really?" Alfred studied his chicken leg intently. "Then maybe we should try that next…"

Matthew smiled. His brother was so earnest, contemplating his food with all the intensity of a surgeon. He slipped his arms around Alfred's shoulder and gave them a loving squeeze.

Alfred stopped eating and craned his head back. "Something wrong, Mattie?"

"No," Matthew assured. "It's just…I'm going to be away for a while."

"Away?" Alfred's voice jumped an octave as too-familiar fear took hold. "Where away? Why? How long?"

"I don't know," Matthew admitted. "But I'll be back as soon as I can, I promise."

Alfred's eyes were wide and clear, like summer skies. He held onto Matthew's arm with one hand, which left grease stains on the tan sleeve. "Do you have to?"

"Yeah. I think I do."

"…Okay."

He let go. Matthew pulled back, but made no move to wipe the grease away, not even as he pulled the rucksack on over his shoulders. Alfred's understanding was both a relief and unnerving.

Matthew ruffled his brother's hair, then nodded Francis a final farewell before heading for the edge of the camp. He was almost out of earshot when Alfred called after him again, "Mattie!"

Matthew stopped and called back. "Yeah, Al?"

"Be…Be safe!"

Matthew smiled and saluted his twin like a true solider. "You too. I'll be back soon."

Then he turned and headed into the mountains to answer their Call.

( - )

At the top of the mountain, Matthew met a man. In retrospect, he would realize how woefully inadequate a description that was, but the moment he first saw the stranger, it was all he could register. It took him almost five minutes to realize that no normal man could have existed in such a hostile, airless place.

He was familiar somehow, this stranger. He sat tall and pale, wrapped in clothes that were mostly colorless, right up to the white scarf around his neck. When Matthew arrived, he was sitting on a rock, staring at the miles of snow-covered peaks that stretched out below them. Eventually, he glanced back with soft violent eyes.

"A lovely view, da?"

"Da. Um, I mean…yeah."

Matthew paused a few feet away. The stranger clicked his tongue. "You should not hover in such a way, neighbor. If you wish the world to take you more seriously, you must be much more assertive. Come here and sit with me."

He cleared the snow from a place beside him. A moment later, Matthew sat. A loud part of his rational mind, the part long warned against invading nations and thieving native tribes, urged him to run. His instinct made him stay.

The stranger reached into his long coat and drew out a metal flask. He took a long swig and offered it to Matthew. It smelled horrid. Matthew waved it away. "No, thank you."

"Suit yourself."

He took another swig and turned his violent eyes to the mountains once more. For a long time after, the only sound between them was the wind howling through the rocks.

The stranger spoke again. "Are you not cold?"

Matthew shrugged. "No."

"That coat of yours is not particularly thick."

"It's fine." Matthew shifted in his furs, running his finger along the thread of his star-and-maple patch. "Besides, I'm used to the cold."

"Must be more than used, to come up here," the stranger noted, sipping his drink again. He swirled the burning liquid in its metal canister and smiled his own strange sort of appreciation. "I've been curious, you know, about your war."

Matthew nearly choked on his own air. His companion only chuckled. "It has not been easy on you, I hear. Your opponent, Britannia, wields much power."

Matthew bit his lip. "That is true."

"Are you to wave then, now that you find your goal a difficult one to reach?"

"No."

The word burst from Matthew's lips before he could think about it, but only because his mind was filled with the image of Alfred's broken face as the citizens he cared for, the revolutionaries he loved, were destroyed, and with them, his spirit. That could not happen again. Matthew would not allow it.

His odd visitor seemed amused by this. "You are most confident. You have never considered abandoning your cause?"

"Never." For that would mean abandoning the one part of his family that was still familiar, even if it lay broken and buried beneath tarnished dreams…

"And you will continue the fight until the very end, even if that means destruction before surrender?"

No hesitation. "Yes."

The wind howled once more, sweeping snow into the air and against their backs like a wave from the sea. The stranger laughed and spoke, it seemed, to the very wind itself. "Yes, I agree. His dedication is impressive. This is a conflict most befitting your great talents."

Matthew ducked his head, struggling to hear against the wind. His heart pounded against his ribs. "What the hell are you talking about? What does that mean?"

"It means that we choose to assist you, Canada."

The wind died as suddenly as it had come, dropping a dollop of snow down Matthew's collar. The stranger stood, dusted off his coat and turned to the younger nation with a smile.

"For this war, I shall give you my greatest General," he said, though his high voice and baby face did not match the serious words. "He can and will be your most valuable ally, if you know how to properly use his skills."

Matthew gulped. Behind the stranger, by the bare sunlight that struggled to this high and shrouded place, he almost imagined he could see an intangible figure who sparkled like the snow beneath their feet, as terrible as a blizzard and as treacherous as a frozen lake.

"Come," said the solid stranger, offering his hand. "I shall teach you."

Matthew hesitated. He thought of his general and militia, of Gilbert and Francis, of Alfred.

Without another thought, he took the offered hand.

TBC…