Epilogue is written, I just have to type it, I promise. Don't kill me just yet.

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 3: End

The field was empty and peaceful. You would never suspect it had been the site of a recent battle. The bodies were long gone, claimed by their respective sides, and most of the major scars had been washed away by the morning's rain.

Alfred picked his way through the long grass, searching for metal trinkets, shells and musket balls that might have been uncovered by the rain. Any spare bit of metal could be used for weapons repair and lead would help restore their dwindling ammunition supply. Normally, this duty would go to one of a dozen low-ranking privates who weren't on active duty that moment – but Alfred had asked for the chore, and Francis acquiesced.

It wasn't easy, but it was less of a trial than battle – and Alfred knew he couldn't handle battle. Every crackling gunshot and powder flash made his heart seize and his breath catch. He hated the helpless feeling that came while he hid in his tent and his heart ached when he thought of the all the men who died. This small chore was the least he could do for them.

He knelt among the grass and combed the moist earth with his fingers. He came up with three musket balls and three that were split in half. They rolled across his palm like pearls and Alfred beamed. It was a good start. Francis would be pleased and Mattie would too, when he came back.

As he slipped the pieces into his pocket, a voice called his name. "Alfred?"

Alfred froze.

"It is you. Thank god."

Arthur jogged his way from the British side of the field, panting and grinning from ear to ear. They were alone. Alfred couldn't move.

"I knew I'd find you someday," Arthur gasped, sliding on the mud as he came to a stop. His boots bent the long grass in his wake, and he smiled nostalgically. "It would be this sort of place, wouldn't it? So appropriate."

He stepped forward. Alfred jumped back. Arthur stopped, hesitated and smiled with a bit more force. "It's all right, Alfred. It's just me. I'm here to take you home."

Alfred shook his head. He backed up another step and clutched his hand against his chest. "No…"

"Alfred."

"He said non, Angleterre."

Francis approached from the field's edge, a scabbard in hand. Far behind, Gilbert stood on the edge of the Colombian camp, brandishing his bayonet in the setting sun.

Arthur's face turned red, then purple. "No one asked you, blasted frog!"

"I do not need to be asked," Francis retorted. His gaze was more kind when it fell to Alfred. "Are you all right?"

"Fine…"

"Stop tormenting him," Arthur snapped. "It's obvious that he's terrified!"

Francis true himself up. "That is not because of me."

"Well, who else would it be?"

The question hung in the silence like an albatross about a doomed sailor's throat. A cold wind blew in from the mountains, billowing through the long glass with an icy touch. A horrid realization dawned across Arthur's face. "You think…it's me? That he's scared of me?"

Francis said nothing. Arthur looked to Alfred. Alfred swallowed and took another step back.

The red rushed back into Arthur's face. "Ridiculous!" he snapped, reaching for his former colony's arm. "Come Alfred, away from this nonsense. Let me take you home…"

"Over my dead body."

The voice traveled faster than its owner, but soon enough Matthew appeared over the crest of the nearest hill. He was accompanied by a harsh, cold wind that froze the bones and chilled even Arthur in all his layers of coats.

Arthur's hand withdrew of its own volition. As Matthew came down the hill, he glared at his former empire with a ferocity none had seen in him before. "You have thirty seconds to get back to your camp before I signal Gilbert and send half the militia after you."

"You're not serious," Arthur implored, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. "For god's sake, boy, it's only me."

"I know who you are. Twenty seconds."

Arthur went rigid. He neither spoke nor moved. Matthew reached for the musket slung across his back. "Ten seconds. Nine…Eight…"

Arthur fled.

As though a spell were broken, the tension in the field evaporated. Francis's shoulders relaxed, Matthew lowered his hands and Alfred tackled his brother to the ground.

"Mattie!" he cheered as they rolled down the hill together. "You're back!"

Matthew winced – he'd landed on his musket, which was thankfully not loaded – but smiled nonetheless. "Hey Al. You sound like you're doing better."

Alfred pouted, resting his head against his brother's shoulder. "I guess. I missed you."

"I missed you, too. Let me up, okay?"

Alfred squeezed Matthew's waist one more time before he rolled to the side. Francis crossed to them with a chuckle, offering Matthew his hand. "So good to see you again, mon cher. You've had quite the long journey."

"How long has it been?"

"Almost a month."

Matthew winced. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize how much time…"

"There is no reason to apologize," Francis clicked his tongue and picked Alfred up as well, dusting some dried mud from the tail of his blue coat. "Mm, we must wash this later…but for now, tell us, where have you been and for what purpose were you called?"

"It's hard to explain," Matthew sighed, handing Francis his gun as they crossed into the Colombian camp. "But I need to speak to the General. I've got a new strategy for him."

"Strategy?" Francis echoed. He glanced to Alfred, who shook his head – even Matthew's own twin didn't know what he meant. "What sort of strategy?"

The icy wind seemed to have followed Matthew home blew through the camp, ratting tents and cooking pots throughout. Alfred shivered. Matthew looked to Francis and grinned.

"A strategy I learned from a neighbor," he said with a wild sort of smile. "For now, let's just say, we have some very powerful friends on our side…"

( - )

The Russian Strategy, as it was called, was simple but brilliant. As fall took hold and winter loomed, the Colombian army fell into retreat. Emboldened by their apparent weakness, the British followed close behind, and that became their downfall.

The American continent was a hundred times fierce, wilder and harsher than the British isle. Snow fell across the land in huge drifts, stirred by ferocious winds that roared like monsters and masked the natural world's wild beasts until it was too late. Canada's rugged fur trappers and mountain men were hardened and empowered by their homeland's ferocity – the trained British soldiers were simply no match.

Down the length of British America, orders were carried to put the land to work. On the border of Louisiana, an entire platoon of British footmen vanished into a murky swampy; the Georgian brigade they'd followed there merged without losing a single man. Woods became a place of fear for any redcoat, every snow drift a grave and every valley an ambush ready to happen.

By mid-winter, the British army was all but ravaged, and the Colombian general ordered a final strike. The militia closed in from all sides, surrounded the British leadership in the north. Trapped on the edge of the mountains, with Prussian guns at their backs and the French armada blocking escape by sea even if they reached the coast, it was only a matter of time.

Arthur fled the final struggle's chaos, dashing into an empty valley that lay under a thick blanket of snow. Matthew followed after, with his invisible ally at his side. General Winter roared in triumph as Arthur finally stumbled and fell.

Matthew paused while he still had the high ground and placed Arthur firmly in his sights. "It's over."

Arthurs snarled at him with undisguised hatred. His once-proud red coat now hung about him in tatters, soaked by snow and stained with gunpowder burns.

"It's over," Matthew repeated, taking a single step closer. "These people have rejected you, Arthur. This land has rejected you. And I've rejected you, too."

"Fine," Arthur snapped, like a bear trap closing on a curious rabbit. "Take your blasted independence, if you want it so much. See if you can actually stand this awful continent on your own. Just please…"

Here, Arthur's voice broke, dissolving into weak half-sobs. He lowered his head and clutched his gun with both trembling hands.

"Please give him back to me," he begged. "I can't lose him. I've tried so hard. Give him back, please, give him back…my boy…"

A flame of anger sparked in Matthew's heart. He growled, like Kumajiro. "You still don't get it."

Arthur glanced up, his hatred now tainted with confusion.

"Alfred's is not a child. He's not a prize to be won or a pet you can lock up to wait until for you to come home. He's his own person, his own nation." Matthew's hands and weapon trembled as he spoke, but unlike England, it was in fury, not fear. "Now he's free, the way he was always meant to be. And so am I."

Behind them, on the battle field, a canon fired into the air. It was accompanied by the cheers of a victorious army – his victorious army, Matthew knew.

He lowered his weapon. Arthur sneered at him from the snow. "Not going to shoot me?"

"There's no point. You've already lost."

Matthew turned his back on the fallen empire and ascended the snowy incline once more. Alfred appeared at the top of the ridge, his blue standing out against Winter's grey and white. He seemed jittery, but joyous. He ran to meet his twin half-way.

From his place in the snow, Arthur's hatred boiled over.

"No," he whispered, though the boys could not hear. "This isn't the end. I won't let this be the end. I'm the goddamn British empire, and I. Never. Lose!"

He snatched up his gun in a fury and fired at Matthew's retreating back.

Matthew's world spun and time stood still.

He'd run to meet his brother, tossing his weapon to the side. He'd seen the excitement in Alfred's eyes, the fire, the joy. He'd heard the gunshot shatter the air.

Now he looked back the way he'd come. He saw England with his gun, a smear of powder and smoke staining the snow between them. Something heavy clung to his chest. He lowered his gaze.

Alfred's grip – the one he'd used to spin them and exchange their places – shuddered against Matthew's shoulders. His back was contorted with the shock and pain of the buckshot sprayed across it. His mouth was open, but made no sound. His eyes were wide. They rolled back until the blue was hidden. He fell.

Time returned with a vengeance. Matthew screamed, "Alfred!"

He grabbed for his twin, but he had no footing on the slick earth and was thus dragged down himself. Alfred sagged against him like so much de– no, no, he wouldn't think that! – like so much unnatural weight, and lay horribly still.

"Alfred, please, just hold on," Matthew begged. He shouted, "Francis! Gilbert, anyone!" and clutched his wounded brother closer. "Hold on, Al, we'll get you a doctor. Everything's going to be okay, just hold on."

Alfred shuddered, groping the air. Matthew took the grasping hand and tried to ignore the blood that poured over his other arm. He shouted again for his allies, but no one appeared. Alfred clutched his brother's hand, drew in a sharp gasp and forced his eyes half-open. "Wanted… he wanted to go back to the farm."

Matthew, startled, leaned closer to hear. "What?"

"The General…Father…he wanted to go back to his farm." Alfred sobbed and a pair of tears streaked down his cheeks. "That's all he wanted. When the war was over, he wanted to go back to his farm in Virginia. He always said he'd do that, once we were free…"

He wheezed, turned his head and gave Matthew a small smile. "Are we free now Mattie?"

Matthew sniffled. With his free hand, he wiped the tears from his brother's face before they could freeze. "Yeah, Al. We're free."

Alfred's smile widened. His eyes glinted like the summer sky. "Thanks, Mattie," he said. "You're the best."

Then his head fell back and his hand slipped from Matthew's grip. His body existed for a few more precious seconds before it too was claimed by the ravages of time and the nation known as America ceased to be. Matthew was left holding the tattered, bloodstained blue coat – the last remnants of his brother's existence.

Arthur's gun tumbled to the ground and was hidden by the falling snow. His face stretched wide in horror as he gazed upon his handiwork. "No…No, it can't be. Alfred?"

Matthew closed his eyes and silent clutched the jacket to his chest.

"No, Alfred…I didn't mean to…" Arthur moaned in horror, raked his fingertips down his face and began to tremble. "Oh god. What have I done? What have I done? Alfred!"

He fell to his hands and knees, moaning and sobbing. Beyond their ridge, on the battlefield, the Colombian victors were singing as the British leaders filed out of their tents with their hands above their heads in surrender.

Mathew wiped his eyes. He folded the tatted coat and held it against his chest. Slowly, he ascended the ridge to join his people.

"Wait," Arthur called. "Please wait. Matthew. Canada."

"Don't call me that."

Matthew's tone was as cold as the glare he sent over his shoulder, as frigid as the northern sky. "That's not my name," he hissed. "Not anymore."

He turned his back and returned to his army, leaving the broken empire to his sorrow and the snow.

To be concluded…