October, 1781

Virginia winters were mild, compared to those of his lands, and the fall weather that was leading up to them seemed to be as wet as the creeks that cut their path through the muddy banks to the south of the camp.

Mud that seemed to have soaked so much blood from their men already, that it was permanantly stained the rusty colour of men dying, men bleeding, men moaning in pain as they were seen to by the few surgeons that had been with the company. Physicians, who themselves were exhausted beyond measure.

That was why Matthew was there- he hadn't taken any injury of late, and with his own soldiers among the wounded, he felt it necessary to aid the doctors in their rounds. Helping to bandage, to clean- to close the eyes of those who had passed on.

And bring tea and whiskey to those who continued to toil in their thankless task.

Matthew didn't want to fight his brother. Canada just wanted this war to be over, one way or another- but he didn't want to see any more pain. But he had to side with England- he wasn't ready-

The arguments had been repeated in his head for the past six years and more, and yet he was still here, at his colonizer's side- figuratively speaking, of course- doing what he could to hinder his twin's efforts for Nationhood.

Canada sighed, as the man he'd been aiding all day paused in front of the supply tent, and began getting bandages ready for the next batch of wounded that would be brought to them from the front lines of the battle.

England was at that battle, Matthew couldn't help but glance towards where the smoke had managed to choke through the rain in the next valley. Was America there? Was Alfred fighting?

The distant thunder of a cannon died, and was replaced by the patter of rain- it had been a storm coming after all. But rain again- Matthew was so tired of-

The landscape before his eyes turned black, as a sudden sharp pain stabbed through his eyes, into his skull. Tendrils of agony echoed down his spine, rendering his legs useless, and Matthew felt himself falling before he could figure out what had just-

You used to be so big-

The words echoed through his mind, as he came back to himself, a hand on his shoulder shaking- the very real voice in his ear, frantically calling the name that he'd been given to blend in with England's and his own soldiers-

"Williams. Williams-"

The tired and kindly face of the surgeon he'd been assisting was watching him with grave concern.

"Sir." Matthew croaked, suddenly feeling his throat go dry, the faint throb and stab of the sudden headache still vibrating within his skull.

"Lad, you should go rest while you have the chance. Can't have you fainting from exhaustion while tending to the boys-" There was a faint smile, "I can handle this task by myself. We'll need you later-"

"A-aye." Matthew managed, trying not to let the words make the pain worse. Where had this come from? And why now, when he was actually being of some use to England, without fighting. "I- I'm sorry, sir."

"Don't worry about it, Williams." The physician said softly. "I don't need to see one as young as you dropping from overwork. You've been on your feet an' marching for far too long. You've earned a rest. G'wan with you."

"Aye, sir." Matthew stammered, and staggered back towards the tents that his men had raised this morning- or had it been yesterday morning? He'd truly been on his feet for far longer than a human should have been- but he wasn't exactly human. But now...

The first riders galloped into camp, just before Matthew opened his tent flap, looking harried, worried and most of all defeated.

Defeated.

"We've surrendered." The taller of the two on horseback told the sentry. "Formalities are forthcoming, and the colonists will be standing guard to make certain we don't do anything more, damn their eyes."

"Americans," Corrected his partner, "They're not England's colonists anymore. We have to accept that-"

So. Alfred had won- Matthew felt a little tiny bit of happiness warming his gut. Whether it was because his brother was free, like he'd wanted to be, or because this damned war was finally over- even if he'd argued with Alfred the last time he'd seen him, now they could maybe try to get along, once England calmed down enough to open diplomatic relations with-

"- bent on finding who it was in the back ranks that fired that shot though. When he fell, I thought for sure we had a chance of winning." The taller was still talking, "Rabble was angry though. Kirkland had already called for a ceasefire- but. Well. He'll be along soon enough. They want to clear the field to find their own wounded, and are letting us take our own men."

Someone important had been shot. Matthew idly wondered if it had been Washington- Alfred had always liked the man. Rambled on about him at their few meetings before things got too heated.

His headache subsided to a dull throb, making him wonder if it was the strain of being so involved in this war that had made his head hurt so- and now that it was over, departing.

The sound of more horses approached, and Matthew could see a familiar blond head bobbing above the dappled mare that he instantly recognized as England's favorite.

Arthur was back, and unharm-

The thought froze as the Nation grew closer, the dark stains on the whites of his uniform showing just as vividly as the smear that marred his pale face. Green eyes were staring ahead, unfocused.

England had been wounded- was Matthew's first thought, as a soldier helped the normally stubborn Nation off of his horse and led him- led him- towards the commander's tent. But if England had been wounded, they would have immediately taken him to the surgeons. (Being a Nation, he would be given a certain priority, even if he would heal faster and better than his men.)

No. England hadn't been wounded.

Matthew abandoned his tent, and the idea of rest in favor of finding out exactly what was going on. What was with the look on England's face? It as as though-

The soldiers that had escorted Arthur to the tent walked away to take care of whatever orders their commander had given them. The commander himself was most likely with his men, dealing with whatever formalities that a surrender would entail, and had sent England back- but why? The Nation Matthew knew would have insisted upon being a part of negotiations. He wouldn't have been led back to his tent-

The soldiers passed by him without comment. Just like always, he was invisible to them because he wasn't important- Matthew buried the anger.

Pausing just outside the closed flap, Matthew reconsidered for a moment. Maybe he should just go back to helping the medics. Or to his tent to rest as he had been ordered- but curiosity won over caution, and he reached for the canvas, only to stop again, as he heard an unfamiliar noise from within.

It sounded... it sounded as though England was weeping.

Fabric parted at his touch, and Matthew saw the older man sitting on the edge of the cot, face buried in his hands, and absolutely sobbing.

Canada stopped in shock and discomfort, uncertain of what to do.

England. Crying. The surrender and loss of a colony wasn't that shocking, was it?

Matthew would have expected anger- a cold rage and bitter twist to the lips as Arthur broke things and swore at the loss. Not- this.

"God... no." he heard the softly mumbled words, "Alfred-"

Matthew felt his heart beating in his chest.

"I didn't mean for that-" a hitch in the voice, "If only you hadn't— You'd be-"

When he fell, I thought for sure we had a chance of winning

It hadn't been one of America's generals who had fallen after Arthur's ceding the field.

It had been Alfred.

Body going cold, Canada let the knowledge seep into his mind, realising now- oh god only now- that the headache didn't belong to him, as the little ills and joys that he and his twin had shared over the years echoed back and forth between a pair of linked colonies who shared a continent so intimately-

"Fuck." The first word that popped into Matthew's head was spoken aloud as he let the canvas flap fall.

He ran for the horses, no plan in mind, taking nothing- no one bothered him or tried to stop him as he left the British encampment without comment.

Let England think he was a deserter. All he knew is that if his brother were to die, the last harsh words that had come between them would haunt him for the rest of his existence.

And Canada- no. Matthew, would not let that happen.