"This black and white photo don't capture the skin
From the shock of a shell or the memory of smell
If red is for Hell
The war was in color."
-'War Was In Color' by Carbon Leaf
England came to his senses early the next morning, functioning only on a few, scarce hours of sleep. His hand had been ensnared in America's for the entire night, leaving the appendage stiff and clammy when he had finally retracted it. The young nation had stirred for a spell of time, mewling wearily at the loss of contact, but otherwise succumbed to the invitation of sleep.
And it was for the best really—for America to remain asleep. Wakefulness would only bring about more twisting pain to the nation, and England wasn't sure whether or not he'd be able to endure another round of helpless cries of despair calling his name for consolation.
He left the tent as soundlessly as possible, casting one more sorrowful look in America's direction before entering the outside world. The sun greeted him immediately, shining warmly over his face as he admired the little campsite that they had established.
And to his surprise, Canada was up and about well before him, already having produced a lovely breakfast (considering the circumstances) along with another blazing campfire to combat the chilly mountain air.
"Good morning," the North American nation welcomed mildly, doing his best to look optimistic and bright. "I gathered the small rations of bread, biscuits, meat and vegetables that we had stored in our backpacks and tried to put together something with a little substance. It isn't much, but it's better than nothing. I don't know how much longer we'll be stuck here before we can move America to the medical base, but I think it'd be wise to go hunting for some food today just in case we run out."
England shook his head placidly. "We'll start our hike back to base today. We cannot stay here much longer; it isn't safe, and America needs real medical attention."
Canada straightened up, tossing a few broken twigs to feed the fire. He turned to look at England seriously. "Do you really think he'll be able to make the journey? I doubt he can walk that far."
"We have no choice. We'll carry him if we must."
England walked to the edge of the riverbank, watching the water slosh and foam across the rocks. He knew America wouldn't be able to walk five yards let alone five miles, but he couldn't watch the nation suffer any longer. They had to at least try to cover some ground during the course of the day.
He retrieved some cool water from the stream, filling up a canteen as Canada rummaged around his temporary kitchen just before an earsplitting outcry startled them both. The Canadian was the first to drop what he was doing and run to his twin brother's aid, trying to shush him to no avail.
Arthur stepped nonchalantly onto the scene a moment later, standing at the entrance of the tent with a carefully neutral expression while Canada slapped a hand to America's open mouth, muffling his screeches.
"Shh, shh," he pleaded delicately, lavender eyes watering. "It's okay, Alfred. Just please try to relax."
But America was mainly oblivious of Canada's presence, head spinning from the excruciating pain prickling all over his body. Each intake of breath seared his organs, sending him racking in agony and thrashing under the blankets like a rabid beast.
America screamed again, eyes wide and pupils dilating as he dared to take another trembling breath. He continued to writhe on the ground, kicking at Canada to back away and to leave him be.
It was only when England knelt down on the other side of America's convulsing figure that the Canadian decided it was alright to back away and allow the eldest nation to take control of the situation. He hovered over America a few inches away, wishing he could do more to help ease his brother's pain.
England held up the canteen of water he had just filled up to the sickly figure, pressing it firmly against his lips to get him to drink. "Small sips," he ordered thinly, holding up America's head to keep him from choking. While the nation followed the instructions, England gave Canada a pointed look and said, "We're leaving today, and that's final. Find some food that America will be able to stomach and start packing up our possessions. I'll stay here and make sure this git doesn't do anything else idiotic that could result in him being killed. Preferably, we can complete over half of the journey before nightfall."
Canada loomed over America's form uncertainly, eyes flickering between both of his brothers. He wasn't going to stand idly by while England tortured America by making him hike up the mountainside. It was about time he gave his opinion on the matter, and he was sure America would thank him for it in the long run. "We'll have to stop in between. There's no way that—"
Yet, England seemed determined to stand by his plan to the end. "Just do as I say!" he barked, ill-tempered due to the lack of sleep and stress of the situation.
Canada couldn't recall a time when he had ever directed a glare at anyone besides America, let alone England, but he managed to get his displeasure across without too much thought. England seemed surprised at the gesture, but returned the steely-eyed look a moment later, challenging Canada to speak.
Resolve shattering, Canada skittishly left the tent once more, deciding not to question the man's judgment for now. After all, this was not the time or place to argue, and the battle could be fought later when America was not a primary witness.
Later, he'd berate himself for backing down.
Perhaps, he would never be as courageous as America.
Treaty of Versailles
Article 159. The German military forces shall be demobilized [disbanded] and reduces as prescribed hereafter.
Article 160. By a date which must not be later than March 31, 1920, the German Army must not contain more than seven divisions of infantry and three divisions of cavalry.
Article 232. The Allied and Associate Governments affirm and Germany accepts the responsibility of Germany and her allies for causing all the loss and damage to which the Allied and Associated Governments and their nationals have been subjected as a consequence of the war.
America narrowed his eyes, scanning through each article with more and more dread in the pit of his stomach. He had been required to attend the world meeting and had been required to read through the treaty, so why wasn't he given the ability to offer any input or criticism?
He always remembered what England had constantly reminded him as a child; he was not a government official—merely a personification of the landmass and its people. He couldn't write up legislation whenever he felt like it or veto the ideas of his people, but he did have a right to read through each document.
And he knew that if the Central Powers and their administrations signed this treaty, they would be setting themselves up for another war.
"Something wrong?" Canada raised an eyebrow at him from across the table, trying to figure out what was going on behind those pensive eyes.
America cleared his throat, still not completely recovered from that little fiasco on the battlefield all those months ago. Mustard gas sure was vicious.
"Yes," he finally sighed, voice still a bit husky and strained. "Something is very wrong."
He let his eyes flit over to where Germany was sitting, his eyes icy and grim as he reread each article with growing fury.
Personally, America wasn't surprised. It seemed as though all the blame had just been thrown onto Germany and his allies—as though they were the only ones who had been fighting the war. Why did the Central Powers have to pay for all the damages and rebuild Western Europe? What about the damage that had been done to them?
After all, it took two sides to start a war.
With growing anxiety, America also noted a very crucial point that had been left out in this treaty. What were they going to do with the land that they had promised Japan and Italy? There wasn't a single article addressing that matter—only countless statement after statement that placed heavy punishment on Germany and all of his supporters.
America pursed his lips nervously. It was no small news that Japan had become well-industrialized in a very short period of time (the only Asian nation to do so), and was transforming into a global power to be reckoned with. He wondered if England and France shared the same thoughts on the issue, but somehow doubted it. Those two were still fiercely consumed by the emotions of the aftermath of the war, completely negligent to the problems that remained unresolved.
He watched as Woodrow Wilson stood up to present his "Fourteen Points" with little, actual interest. A League of Nations was a nice idea, but America didn't have time for nice ideas at the moment; he had big fish to fry.
He swore to himself that this was the last time that he would allow himself to get entangled in a European war if he could help it. Next time, the Europeans could deal with these things on their own. Those elder nations could handle themselves without his intervention. He supposed it wasn't his place to police the world.
With a wary look in the direction of Japan, Italy and Germany again, America excused himself from the room, surprising both Canada and England as he stormed away, disconcerted with the turnout of recent events.
No more European wars.
December 7, 1941
They'd called him a coward. Oh, how wrong they were to toy with a beast.
America had felt it first in the form of terror. He awoke early in the morning, ramrod straight in bed as he clutched his chest, eyes wide as he all but hyperventilated. He'd crawled out of bed, convulsing and coughing on the floor as a shudder ran down his spine, sending him curling up on his side with a groan of pain.
Doubled over and sweating, he stood up only to fall once more, confusion clear on his face as he desperately tried to make it to his dresser.
He knew he'd been attacked. Sudden onslaughts of pain were always linked to warfare and the damage it caused to infrastructure. So, his first priority had been to get up and get dressed so that he could get outside and figure out what was happening and how he could help. He managed to turn his tiny television on as he pulled on a fresh shirt, wincing at a throbbing pain on the lower left side of his chest.
At least the pain was centralized, which was always a good sign. Fleeting pain that coursed throughout the body usually signaled more extensive damage.
He hadn't expected there to be anything on the news, knowing that the information of an attack would not be able to be transmitted so quickly. After all, he felt the pain instantly upon impact, but by the time anyone else was informed of any trouble, it was usually quite a bit of time later.
What he did not expect was the wet feeling collecting underneath his clean shirt. Rolling up the cotton material, he placed a careful hand to the newly opened wound, hissing as it stung and continued to bleed profusely.
Bloodshed… If he was bleeding, that meant his people were dying.
He gasped softly at the prickling pain, staggering into the bathroom and trying to rinse the blood away as best as he could even though he knew it would be futile. The bleeding would not stop until the attack was over.
He slumped down to the floor and held his head in one hand while the other stayed stapled to his wound, trying to staunch the blood flow.
He had a pretty good feeling as to what was going on, and he'd be a fool to say that he hadn't suspected it months ago. Both the Allies and the Axis had been trying to get him involved in the war just as they had during World War I. They were playing with beasts that were better left alone again, testing his patience. He knew that he had promised to stay out of European wars, but if they were all so dead-set on calling him a coward and provoking him, he'd give them the show they all wanted and more.
Because once his people were threatened, that was when all jokes and teasing were tossed aside.
And by God, whoever did this was going to pay—no matter what his past promises had been.
No one and he meant no one, messed with his civilians.
Later he'd get countless condolences from the Allies—sugarcoated with fragile words and soft euphemisms.
But he wasn't falling for any of them. He knew what they all wanted, and in a way, he was displeased with having given them the satisfaction of gaining what they most desired, but he had to bring justice home for the innocent Americans who had perished at Pearl Harbor that morning.
The following day, December 8, 1941, he got together with all the representatives in government and aided in declaring war on Japan.
If they wanted to play games, then America was ready to win.
The way he saw it, all was fair in war.
The world sure had a funny way of making you feel guilty to the very core.
He could still hear the echoed remains of the air-raid signal thrumming in his ears as he picked through the rubble of the battered streets of Poland, searching and praying for any sign of life. A few houses were still burning in the distance as he and Canada fumbled through the dust and ash, neither daring to speak in the solemn stillness of the air.
When a young, childish voice reached their ears, both of them jumped at the unexpected sound. They both spun on their heels, scanning the gray, winding blocks—both sick with hope.
"Hello? Is anybody there?" America roared through the dust clouds, trying to make out a figure in the distance. He suddenly saw a shadow shrink away from him, sidestepping behind the demolished wall of a building to hide.
Canada squinted his eyes, wiping some dust off of his glasses as he did so. "It's a little girl," he whispered in awe to his brother. "And she probably thinks that we want to kill her."
America suddenly appeared much older and mature as he stood in the stifling sunlight of that spring afternoon, wrinkles appearing in his forehead as he furrowed his eyebrows. "Who would think to hurt a child?" he remarked, kneeling down. "Hello? Are you there? We won't hurt you."
He tried to use his most tender tone of voice, knowing that the girl probably didn't speak English, and thus, didn't have a clue as to what he was saying. Therefore, he hoped a soothing lilt would make it seem universal that he wasn't out to harm anybody.
With strong, childish curiosity, the girl peeked out from behind the wall, hitching a sob as she shuffled away from her hiding spot and worked her way through the veil of dust in front of her. Soon, America's face came into a full, clear view, sending her trembling at the sight of his military uniform.
"Mama! Tata!" (Mom! Dad!) She shrieked, clutching the hem of her shirt for some form of consolation. She sobbed heartbreakingly once more, searching for her parents to no avail as she tried to disregard the two soldiers in front of her.
America got off of his knees and took in the child before him. She had long, dirty blonde hair and light green eyes that were nearly transparent. Her cheeks were littered with small cuts and her nose and eyes were swollen and red from crying, tears still dripping off of her chin as she messed with the end of her shirt uncertainly.
"It's okay," Canada called from behind, beckoning the girl forward. "We'll try to help you find your parents or at least bring you to safety."
The girl blinked at the pair with her tearful eyes and bunny-like nose, taking a few, cautious steps back.
The Canadian wracked his mind for any word of Polish he knew. He had heard a few men speaking it before on his way there, but he couldn't remember any applicable phrases, nor was his pronunciation up to par. Then, he recalled a burnt sign he had seen somewhere previously.
He pointed to himself and America before telling the girl, "Bezpieczne. Bezpieczne." (Safe. Safe)
America tilted his head in surprise at his brother, clearly impressed, before nodding and holding his hand out for the girl to come forward and take.
The girl swiped a hand across her face and took a couple of hesitant steps forward, noticing the nearly identical belts with little satchels attached to them on each man's uniform, except one had the abbreviation "US" and the other "CAN".
The girl whimpered and took America's hand, finally understanding that he was on her side and not with the German military. Her family had told her about the strange people being called in from the West to fight in the war. "Pomóż mi," (Help me) she begged, still gazing in every direction for any clue as to where her parents might be.
"Oh, sweetheart," America crooned, placing his other warm, calloused hand on the girl's head before stroking her hair. "What have they done to you?"
She cried heavily, shaking with the backbreaking sobs as America and Canada guided her away from the wreckage.
"We have to take her to the hospital to make sure she hasn't sustained any serious injuries. They can find a safe place for her to stay there," Canada assured America, noticing the deep frown lines outlining the other nation's face. The man had always held a soft spot for children.
"You hear that?" America asked the girl affectionately. "We're going to bring you someplace safe, little angel."
She gave each of them a befuddled look, running another small hand over her eyes in distress; she must've been no older than seven years old.
With that, America lifted the girl into his arms and let her sit on his shoulders as they walked, causing a tiny smile to flutter and grace over her quivering lips. "Tatuś zawsze niesie mnie." (Daddy always carries me.)
America turned his head to look at the child as he walked, offering her a confident and toothy smile. "By the way, I'm Alfred," he said, directing a thumb at himself. "And you?"
It took a moment for the girl to register what was being asked of her before she wrapped her skinny arms around America's neck and mumbled, "Magda...Magdalena." She held on tightly as America walked, letting her head rest on his shoulder in fatigue.
"A precious name for a beautiful gem like you," America replied affectionately.
"We won't let anything happen to you, Magdalena," Canada murmured, taking out a handkerchief out of his pocket and offering it to the little figure for her to dry her eyes. She gratefully took it from him with a bashful expression, breathing evening out as she relaxed in the presence of her two saviors. She'd been walking around for a good hour or so before she'd spotted the soldiers. Now that she was under the protection of two seemingly trustworthy adults, she allowed exhaustion to catch up with her. With a soft sniffle, she laid her head on America's shoulder, comforted by the warmth of his skin and the muscular arms that were holding her up.
"It really isn't fair," Canada muttered as they walked, eyes morose. "Innocent children are being denied care-free lives left and right. The horrors that they have to endure are unbelievable."
America released a long sigh, petting Magdalena's head once more. "This war will be over soon enough. I'll make sure of it."
"Don't do anything too drastic, Alfred," Canada warned, casting America a suspicious look. "I've heard about the new weapons that you've been testing at home."
America smirked. "You shouldn't concern yourself with such things, Mattie. Your old bro here has got it all under control."
Canada huffed. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of."
"I'll end this war for you, little darling," America mouthed gingerly, smiling at the sleeping child fondly. "They'll be sorry they ever laid a hand on your people."
Canada frowned grievously.