Author's Note: I wasn't sure whether or not to change the rating to T for this story because of the short references to blood, but I'll leave it as is for now unless future chapters become more intense. K+ should still be enough for now. Regardless, please enjoy the chapter and feel free to leave a review! I always appreciate all of the feedback that I receive and it motivates me to speed up with the updates when I get a little discouraged and/or lazy. :D
"At long last, I believe it's time for you to take up more responsibility around here."
Biting the inside of her cheek to keep silent, America claimed a rickety chair at the kitchen table, sitting directly across from England. Nowadays, he need not utter a word for her to comprehend his unspoken instructions; a simple wary glance of displeasure was more than enough. Clearly, he had prepared a lecture, and she would have to brace herself for a series of critical statements and complaints.
And she would not speak unless told to do so, because in her heart, she vowed that she would be the civil one, refusing to stoop down to his level. As far as she was concerned, she did not have to explain herself. Why should she always be the one on the defensive? No, the time to protect her dignity had gone and expired the day she had allowed herself to be tied to this man's reins of control.
"It has come to my attention that you have neglected a number of duties that every young woman is expected to carry out," England announced, tending to a cup of tea absently in the process. "From now on, you are to see to the importance of maintaining this household."
No amount of pain from gnawing on the insides of her mouth could have suppressed her dark smile at that remark. With a feigned air of sweet pleasure, she folded her hands in her lap and nodded, taking a moment to tie her hair back and away from her face. When she noticed England's inquisitive expression, she took it as her cue to speak.
"Let's be blunt, England," she whispered slyly, straightening her posture. "You want me to cook and clean, yes?"
"Precisely."
America smirked, though she could feel creases beginning to work their way into her forehead from frustration. "As I suspected… God forbid you were to approach me about managing the affairs of the colonies. No, I'm being assigned mindless tasks to keep me busy and out of trouble's way."
England flourished his usual frown and disapproving glare. They still hadn't completely mended the tears in their relationship after the fiasco in the man's office that had occurred a few short weeks ago, but America supposed that some things were better left unrepaired.
"Thank you for bringing me to our next issue; your atrocious behavior as of late. I suppose I must carry some of the blame, considering that I have seemingly failed to discipline you into a proper lady. Rest assured that this will change as well. In fact, I have planned to—"
A knock at the door interrupted them, and England immediately rose from his seat to address the visitor, only to be stopped by America upon arriving at the threshold.
Again, she flashed him a sickly sweet grin. "Allow me."
Leaving the flustered empire behind, America swung open the heavy mahogany door, charming as ever until her eyes fell upon the strange man dressed in an elaborate red uniform. Judging by the number of badges upon his crimson coat, he was a soldier of high-ranking authority. Nonetheless, he appeared anxious and breathless, clutching his side from a sudden cramp.
America's cheeky grin barely faltered, a faint blush cloaking its shadow over her face. "Good evening, sir. How may I be of service to you tonight?"
"I'm here to speak to Sir Kirkland."
"And you shan't speak to me first?"
A hand with an iron grip wrapped itself around her wrist, and she was roughly cast aside by England, who now blocked the doorway and kept her securely behind his back. "Good evening, Lieutenant Governor Thomas Hutchinson. What seems to be the matter?"
"A riot, sir! Just outside of the State House," he replied in a rush, hands quivering. "A sentry had been stationed to—"
England held up a hand, shushing the man's raspy outcries. "Say no more. I shall accompany you to the site in a moment."
Swiveling around to face America, he sent her a sharp and stern look, squeezing her shoulder to imply that she was to stay put and listen to his every order. "Amelia, take care of Matthew, and make certain that he doesn't stay up late again. I may not return until dawn, so there's no sense in waiting for my reappearance. Heed my previous warnings, yes? We shall finish our little chat another time."
Not being a given a chance to reply due to England already being out the door, America only huffed in response as a sense of lingering doom and fear swelled in her stomach. Staying perfectly still, she tried to focus on her emotions, nearly doubling over in shock as a flare of anger tore through her mind.
She could feel the discontent of the colonists boiling through her veins if she concentrated on it for long enough, and it was this physical burden that brought up the burning questions that she had been hoarding within the confines of her heart.
Would her future continue to be this bleak? Would she spend the rest of her days with England, cooking and cleaning for him to keep what ounce of sanity she retained? She had long outgrown this house and its ways, and she couldn't help but feel that she had the potential to be something greater than a housewife.
There were times, however, when insecurity would plague her. After all, she was just a woman, and though literate, she was far from knowledgeable about the affairs of the world and what the game of politics really entailed. She feared the failure and embarrassment of making a fool out of herself by blinding tossing herself into a world that she didn't belong.
Yet, this fear was not nearly as great as her trepidation over staying in this house with England for the perpetual future. As much as she was terrified of leaving, she was even more horrified by the prospect of staying and letting her soul decay in the house that had become the bane of her existence.
Therefore, she was left with a vital choice—should she stay and simply accept that this was the life she had been given? Or should she refuse to remain blissfully unaware of the concerns of her people and finally free herself and them from this tyranny?
America would quickly learn—or so it would seem—to never settle for the lesser and more fruitless way of life. Either she would spend centuries striving for all of life's splendors and possibilities, or she would crumble from her pedestal to sit among the ashes of nothingness.
Making her decision, she stormed up the steps and made sure that Matthew was already asleep, feeling a little solemn at the sight of him nestled against the pillows. She felt sorry for him, knowing that the boy had an almost subconscious need to please others. He never ventured out of line, faithful and honest despite the conniving tendencies of others. He was England's silent pride and joy, soft-spoken and mild in every sense of the word. Did he hold any anger toward the empire for stripping him away from France? Surely, it crossed his mind occasionally. Then again, America wasn't sure he'd ever seen the boy become angry in the first place. Instead, her twin merely carried a look of disappointment whenever things did not go his way.
Realizing that there would be plenty of time to consider these thoughts in more depth later, America swiftly made her way out the front door, shutting the warmth of the house behind her before heading for the State House. Whatever was causing this riot, it had deeply ingrained a seed of fury in a scattering of the colonists. She often felt their rage since the introduction of the Townshend Acts, but never had she experienced the radicalism that was now nipping at her nerves. However, there was and would remain to be only a minority of people who wished to oust British control in the land.
She probably should have changed into more appropriate attire for the chilly March air, but it couldn't be helped now, and she didn't plan on retreating. This was her obligation—to stand by the side of her people. And yes, they were her people, contrary to what England tried to convince her to believe.
"Slimy lobster-backs!" someone shrieked as she grew closer to her destination, acutely becoming aware of a cluster of angry shouts and curses.
Hesitantly, she rounded the corner and found the source of the trouble, breath catching in her throat. In a ruthless face-off, nine British soldiers stood in an impressive line in front of the State House, bayonets at the ready to fend off the growing mob of colonists before them. They were properly armed and in good physical condition, making it blatantly apparent that they would easily be able to fend for themselves.
Sickening horror overcoming her, America jostled her way through the crowd, watching as a few of the more hardy colonists began tossing rocks at the soldiers, screaming vulgarities and threats at them in the process. Snowballs and twigs flew over her head and toward the line of soldiers as more reinforcements appeared to scare off their belligerents. They were no more than fifty people in the crowd, but they seemed adamant about standing their ground against an enemy that was far stronger.
And in essence, America wanted to scream as well—wanted to beg the crowd to stop angering the soldiers, seeing as no good could possibly come out of this fight, but could not find the voice to do so. She was just an adolescent girl, helpless and unable to make a sound of protest lest she get hurt and threatened in the process. It made her even more furious to know that she could do nothing to stop this madness—nothing to persuade these people to listen to reason and to battle for justice through different means.
Such violence would accomplish absolutely nothing, but a single spark could potentially set off a blazing fire of destruction.
Fortunately, the man that England had spoken to previously came out upon the balcony of the State House, terse and limbs tense. "Return to your homes!" Thomas Hutchinson demanded, nostrils flaring as he beseeched the Bostonians to disperse.
Hoping that this warning would be enough to sway the colonists, America let her eyes wander upon the faces of the blacksmiths, sailors, bakers, and tailors, only to discover that no one had made a move to retreat.
And then, in a paralytic affliction, America held the urge to screech as the bloodcurdling sound of gunfire vibrated against her eardrums. Her knees grew weak and almost buckled beneath her as she stepped forward to take hold of the colonist who had been shot. Gingerly, she took his hand as a number of men began dragging him away to safety.
Life flickered in that delirious gaze, and America inwardly pleaded for the man to keep his grasp on consciousness, despite it being no use. She ran her fingers across the sticky blood leaking from the hole in his chest, unable to keep the surreal fog in her mind from taking over. This couldn't be happening.
Letting out a little stutter for breath, the man suddenly grew completely still, mouth gaping open and eyes dull as his head lolled to the side to meet the cobblestone ground.
"M-My god," America found herself gasping. She had just witnessed a man die at the hands of the redcoats… An innocent, unarmed man—aside from the occasional stone or twig. Struggling to steady her breathing, she noted that another man now stood dangerously close to meeting the wrath of another guard, and said guard did not seem reluctant to fire.
It all happened so quickly that she hardly had a chance to blink before mass hysteria overtook the crowd, leaving her struggling to reach the front of the mob.
"MURDERERS!" the colonist who stood directly in front of the redcoat shrilled mercilessly. "FILTHY MURDERERS AND THIEVES!"
Seeing that the bayonet was aimed at the man's heart, America quickly swept over to the colonist's side, shielding him from injury.
"That's enough!" she declared, arms outstretched as she stunned herself with her own bravery. She imagined what the man behind her must've been thinking, seeing a woman come to his rescue. For a moment, she worried that he would mock her and shove her aside for being reckless, but the colonist seemed to be stuck in a petrified state.
Nonetheless, the redcoat sneered in response, eyes glinting savagely. "Get out of the way, stupid girl."
"You'll have to make me."
Not expecting the man to strike a child, America felt her eyes widen in awe as the bayonet pierced her abdomen, sending her to the ground in a trembling flurry of burning pain. She felt herself scream but could not register her own voice in her ears, too terrified to hear her cries of pain as she laid prostrate, gazing up into the eyes of the man she had defended. She felt liquid graze her skin, but made no movement to swipe it away, finding herself much too tired to attempt lifting her arm.
"Why—Why would you do such a thing?" the colonist finally asked her, not awaiting a response as he made sure that the shuffling crowd did not trample her body.
Feeling her own consciousness slip this time, America released a shaky sigh, taking slight comfort in the fact that she would not die from this injury. She looked past the man's head and at the starlit sky, at last feeling as though she had done something right in her meager existence. "Had to."
"Thank you," the voice rang from above, now barely audible.
Subsequently, time seemed to stop and distort around her figure as she heard her name being called frantically in the distance. Blurry images moved in a sluggish, film-like quality before her eyes. She tried to cry out to the person searching for her, recognizing the sound from somewhere, though she could not quite place its origins.
"Amelia!"
She groaned loudly and pronouncedly, feeling her stomach do a somersault as her vision cleared just enough to locate those concerned green eyes gleaming back at her. He was on his knees and cradling her head as she pictured herself resembling a flopping fish that had found its way out of water.
"Can you hear me, love?"
She tried to say "yes", but only managed a half-hearted garbled noise that tore its way out of her throat. Then, she was being held in someone's arms and lifted softly from the ground, moaning once more as the movement only further irritated her triangular shaped wound. A feverish state came upon her, holding her in what felt like a perpetual state of delirium and incoherence. Every once in a while, she would blink and catch a few flashing images, such as the disappearing mob and the twinkling stars above her. And she wondered, vaguely, what it felt like to be dying. Perhaps, it felt a little something like this, where one moment she was awake and aware of her surroundings, and in another, she was in a peaceful sleep of pure abyss and cathartic serenity.
Somewhere above her head, cooed words drenched in gentleness were directed at her, keeping her in her dreamy state, and, when she opened her eyes again, she found herself in a bedroom, lying on a plush mattress mutely. She recognized the bed, but it wasn't the one that she was accustomed to sleeping in.
Trickling water in a bowl caught her attention, but she still found herself to be half-conscious of the actions being made around her prone figure. It wasn't until something cold and wet was placed against her stomach that she was finally roused out of her dozing.
And one thing was for certain, the liquid against her skin wasn't water!
A brutal stinging sensation sent her reeling forward, bending her at the waist as she fretted over the pain. Yes, she was as alive as ever, much to her chagrin.
"Damn it!" she cried, nails digging into the palms of her hands as the dripping compress was applied once more and left at the site of the wound. "Get it off!"
England sat on the edge of the bed, hushing her futilely as he pressed the rag even more firmly against her abdomen. "Stay still. The vinegar will help the healing process. This is the price you must pay for being an idiot. I won't even ask what possessed you to disobey my orders yet again."
"You don't have to ask," America assured in response, wincing as she attempted to swat away the hand that was prodding her abdomen. "I'll simply tell you… I—I would rather die for the cause of my people than die at your hands."
At first, England's face flared with fury again, but once the words had sunken in, and America could no longer find the energy to speak, his expression became incredibly mournful and—for lack of a better word to describe such a raw emotion—sad. In fact, he looked as though he might shed a tear for a moment, but righted himself immediately.
He opened his mouth to speak, straining his throat to say what was troubling him. "I'm sorry, America. This was exactly what I was trying to prevent. Our political states have—you wouldn't understand. We're both guilty of the crime; placing our nations ahead of ourselves…"
It was difficult to understand what he was getting at, but America supposed that she didn't want to hear any of his explanations anyway, and thus, turned her head to the side resolutely.
"They had strict orders not to shoot, America. There will be a trial to hold those who are guilty accountable for their crimes. I would never—never stand for the killing of unarmed civilians. However, I cannot control what humans do. You know that full well," he muttered, removing the compress and shuffling about to locate the bandages he'd collected.
America scoffed—so that was his defense? A simple misinterpretation of orders? What about the rest of the offenses that the British Empire had committed against its colonies—the first being the shameless occupation of Boston, where tax collectors would harass workers for money, knocking down doors and destroying shops to have their fill of fun? Can't pay on time? Prepare to be used as an example to the others through mockery and verbal harassment before being arrested. Be warned, they might also take a few of your valuable possessions to even out the playing field. After all, dirty Yanks were meant to be treated as second-class citizens when compared to the English-born.
Don't like our policies? That's all right, we'll just try you for treason and have you hanged.
"Save your apologies."
"America, much of this is difficult for you to—"
Twisting out of bed and aggravating her injury, America felt her temple throb with the beginnings of a migraine. "Don't tell me that I don't understand! I fully understand what is happening to this land, even if you refuse to acknowledge it. Each day, more and more civilians are realizing that they have had enough of you! I don't blame them for starting a riot! You haven't given them the opportunity to represent themselves, and simply do what you think is best for them at the given moment."
Filled with alarm and worry, England gently took hold of America's shoulder and guided her back to a seated position on the bed. "I'm not the problem. It's—"
"Oh, just stop. I've heard enough of this."
England clicked his tongue but decided that they were due for another discussion in the future, and it could wait for now. "Very well. I'll bandage your wound and allow you to sleep. It's been a long day."
For some reason, it bothered America to hear England still continuing to fret over her like he truly cared.
"I'll be back before you know it. Take care of your brother and show that you can be trusted to keep things in order. Make me proud, hmm?"
America quenched her urge to laugh and smiled charismatically instead. Her smooth gestures and false pleasantness were so routine and rehearsed that one might mistake them for sincerity at times. "I'll do my best."
England nodded, and hesitated in place for a moment with an internal battle before he bent down to embrace America in a stiff hug, surprising them both. "I expect you to respond to my letters."
It was a strange feeling, but America berated herself for actually finding comfort in the hug. For the slightest moment, it didn't feel like England was an empire who couldn't be bothered to spare a second glance at her. No, he felt like actual family—a travel-weary father who regretted leaving his children behind.
And, she'd be a liar if she'd claimed that she didn't wish she'd had a family of her own sometimes. What would it be like to have a husband and children or even a mother and a father? Family was mostly a human concept, but she still felt her inherent human senses kick in sometimes, begging her nation-self to answer said questions. Cousins, grandparents, in-laws, aunts, and uncles—all concepts that eluded her.
Then, England shared an embrace with Canada as well, though he had to bend down considerably more, since the boy was still so small. Actually, America wasn't sure that she could say that he had even grown an inch since he had moved in with them. Perhaps he was twelve in physical stature now, but certainly no more than that. America, however, noted that she was quickly approaching seventeen at an unbelievably rapid rate.
Obviously, though he would never admit it, England was probably frightened by this as well.
"Well, I suppose I'll be on my way then."
"Goodbye, England," America said with prowess, one hand on Canada's shoulder. The smaller boy waved his hand at the man, still timid around the other's presence even after all of the years that they had spent together.
With one last sorrowful glance, England disappeared behind the door and into the carriage that would transport him to the docks, leaving behind the house that he had grown accustomed to since America's founding.
And then, he was completely out of sight, but certainly not out of mind.
"Time to get going," America said with a little smile at Canada, releasing his shoulder and rushing up the steps with a premeditated goal. She entered the washroom, rummaging through a few drawers frantically before finally finding what she was looking for—a pair of silver scissors. "I thought he'd never leave."
Trailing behind and shrinking back slightly at his sister's actions, Canada warily watched America grin at her reflection in the mirror. She took hold of the long braid that she had shaped her hair into earlier that same day, slicing the scissor's blades through the top.
Canada felt his eyes widen, and he dared to take a few steps forward. "What are you doing?"
Holding the strands of hair in her hand as though they were some kind of trophy, America felt the long suppressed laughter escape her upon meeting Canada's terrified gaze. "Just giving myself a haircut," she replied innocently, waving the detached braid in her hand victoriously.
Staring at his sister as though she had gone mad, Canada frowned at the short bob of hair that America had left herself with. "B-But it's improper for ladies to have short hair!"
"Don't worry, I'm going to make it even shorter."
"Why?"
"Because there's something I need to do, and I can't do it with long hair," America explained very calmly before throwing her cut hair into the garbage bin and setting down the scissors. She moved to stand in front of Canada and crouched down slightly to be at eye-level with him. Tenderly, she took his hands in hers and smiled warmly. "You don't have to worry about being proper and whatnot now. We've got the house to ourselves. Don't you see? We're free to do as we please."
"England said he's going to send the nanny to check—"
America rolled her eyes. "Yeah, she'll come here once a month to make sure we haven't found a way to magically kill ourselves. I don't know about you, Canada, but I've had enough of England. I want to live and start my own life. I want to understand my people and take my nation back."
"Your nation?"
"Yeah, and you should do the same. Look, you're a big bookworm, right?" she teased lightly. "Read some of Thomas Paine's work when you get the chance, then you might see what I'm getting at. I've been teaching myself to read better, since England only taught me the basics, and it's been working out really well! Plus, you know those teachers down at the old schoolhouse? I'm hoping they can help me to learn everything I've missed out on."
Her twin glowered. "But they don't teach girls."
"Yes, but they don't have to know that I'm a girl."
"I don't think this is a good idea. Maybe, if you told England that you want—"
America clapped a hand to Canada's mouth, stopping his protests. "No matter the circumstance, England can't know about this, okay? This will be our secret. Besides, I've already talked to him about finding a teacher, and he said no. Canada, you can't always wait for people to grant you permission to do things. Sometimes, if you really want something, and you know it's the right thing for you, then you have to just go out and get it yourself. You can't rely on anyone but yourself."
Trying to comprehend why America was so worked up about doing things on her own, Canada nodded to please her. Everybody had their place in life, and his place was to be a colony, and that was that. Why should he try to change what had already been decided for him?
"And then, when I've gone to the schoolhouse long enough, I'm going to talk to the Sons of Liberty. Have you heard of them?"
"No."
"Well, I think they'll be able to help me with what I want to achieve. I guess you're not supposed to know about them anyway because they're an underground organization."
Canada knitted his brows that time. "Don't you think that's kind of dangerous?"
"It'll be fine. It's not like I can get killed." America reassured, trimming her remaining hair to fit the frame of her face. Even Canada could tell that she already looked quite a bit more boyish.
"But still, it would be painful if you got injured."
"I don't care," America deadpanned, snipping away another pesky strand of a dark blonde lock. "This isn't about my safety anymore. I'm after something so much greater than that. I refuse to wait for England to grace me with a little more responsibility and freedom. I've realized that I have to take matters into my own hands. You should do the same."
Canada shook his head, perturbed as he began to leave the washroom, pausing momentarily in the hallway. "I won't."
"And why is that?" America called to him absently, not really paying too much attention to her brother's complaints.
"Because you'll never succeed. England's just too strong. He'll find out that you're personally rebelling against him before you even leave the house."
Startled by the words, America raised her eyebrows and dropped the scissors on the counter. Steeling herself, she squashed the fear in her gut, running a hand over the scar that she had received from that day outside of the State House.
"We'll see about that!"
Canada shrugged his shoulders, already back in his and America's bedroom, debating on whether or not he should draft a letter to England expressing his concerns. If the man was left unaware, then Canada would gladly enlighten him, if only for America's protection and nothing else.