The streets of Yorktown were lit with a fervor that seemed to ignite the night sky. Alfred's heart threatened to burst from his chest. Each beat pounding in sync with the deafening chants and cheers that shook the crisp autumn air like a war cry.
Each snap of the flag and expression of vibrant hues from makeshift fireworks created a dizzying kaleidoscope of triumph. It was a celebration of their victory, Alfred's triumph over England's tyranny, that coloured the night sky with fiery defiance.
He moved through the crowd, a tall and proud figure with a grin that split his face, infecting those around him with contagious joy. The blue coat adorned his board frame was now more than just a uniform. It was a shining emblem of victory; the white stars on it twinkled almost as brightly as those in the night sky above him.
"America!"
His name echoed through the deafening chaos, a piercing knife slicing through the air, a familiar voice carrying the weight of history, battles fought, and deeply entwined emotions. A voice that he had been forced to hear from across the battlefield for seven long and bloody years, rather than beside him as he had for centuries past.
The jubilant atmosphere swirled around Alfred like a fierce tide, engulfing him in its vibrant energy. But at that singular call—one word layered with centuries of pain and kinship—time seemed to constrict. His steps halted abruptly, causing the sea of motion to part around him like a ship cutting through waves. He didn't dare turn to face England. The clamor of celebration dimmed and was replaced by silence in his mind.
"England," he finally spoke, the name escaping his lips like a whispered prayer, an exhale of acknowledgment rather than a greeting.
From behind, the voice came again, soft and hesitant, tinged with a vulnerability that was rarely seen in England's stoic demeanor. "Just tell me," he pleaded, "if... if you could do it all again, would you choose differently?" A gust of wind rustled through the trees, carrying with it the faint scent of home and memories long buried.
In the space of a heartbeat, the crowd's deafening roar engulfed him again. The weight of the question hung heavy on his mind, stirring up thoughts of their shared past. Of memories that tied him to his land and England. He stood motionless, the echo of England's plea still hanging in the air. In the thrall of victory, a single thought unfurled, twisting its way through the revelry like a whisper of smoke: what if he had chosen France?
He tried to envision the cobblestone streets lined with French cafes, the aroma of fresh bread mingling with the scent of blooming lavender, which could have been his reality. A tricolor flag would flutter in the breeze, carrying soft French cadences rather than the English's crisp enunciations.
He tried to imagine a world where he might have learned to savor silence as much as speech, to listen before he spoke, to savor the gentle lilt of a chanson rather than the brash fanfare of a marching band. Would he have grown into someone who pondered first, taking measured steps into the fray, as his brother Matthew did?
Alfred's reflection stirred a strange ache within him. With his quiet strength, Canada was always the calm water beneath Alfred's tempestuous waves. Would Alfred's voice have softened if he had been draped in blue, white, and red instead of a circle of stars and thirteen stripes? Would his laughter have been less boisterous, more restrained? Would Canada's shadow have eclipsed him instead?
He imagined himself a different Alfred whose footsteps echoed with a hushed reverence down the halls of Versailles, whose declarations were whispered conspiracies rather than bold proclamations, where the raucous thrill of liberty gave way to the understated elegance of fraternité.
It was strange to contemplate when he should have been celebrating his victory. Yet, the thought persisted, unbidden: France might have let go of him much sooner, or he might have been under France's rule, just as his brother had been, until the Treaty of Paris, another pawn in England and France's political games, one that would be too weak to fight for themselves, invisible on the world stage.
Alfred remembered the long years England stood steadfastly by his side, a constant, stubborn presence. Even when their relationship frayed and tensions rose to breaking, England remained until the bitter end.
In contrast, France's affinity for him had always been more conditional, tinged with the sly glint of self-interest. The memory of a stormy night resurfaced. During one of England's long stints in the United Kingdom, France came to visit him with Canada. It was during one of those stays that America had a nightmare that left him awake, shaking and drenched in sweat. France's voice had been soft, a soothing murmur against the crash of thunder, speaking words of peace.
"Mon petit frère," France had cooed, stroking Alfred's brow. "Do not fear the shadows; they are nothing but the absence of light." Yet even as young Alfred had clung to those words, seeking solace, part of him had sensed the duplicity in France's gentle words. For in the morning light, France's eyes had held a cold gleam, a calculated look that spoke of chess games played with living pieces, and Alfred had not been blind to the strategic placement of knights and pawns moving upon the board of nations and power.
That night had been one among many, a blend of genuine comfort laced with the undercurrent of manipulation—a quiet reminder that while England might have smothered him with control, France would have swathed him in silken chains just as confining, if not more so.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, leaving an acrid taste in his mouth as he processed the gravity of it all. Amidst the raucous celebrations swirling around him, he was struck with unexpected clarity. In the world of nations' complicated alliances and affections, England's flawed loyalty had given Alfred something irreplaceable: the strength to stand alone.
Alfred broke from his reverie and allowed himself to turn and his gaze to fall upon England, a crestfallen figure slumped in the tattered remains of a once-grand redcoat, an island of defeat with his shoulders bowed beneath the weight of loss.
A wave of conflicting emotions washed over Alfred, tightening his chest as he struggled to reconcile his triumph with the sight of England's despondency. Victory now tasted bittersweet on his tongue, tinged with a pang of empathy for the man who had once been family, then enemy, and now stood in a place between both, neither family nor foe nor friend.
The ground was a wasteland of destruction, crunching beneath his boots as the distance between them closed; the earth churned up and littered with debris from the fierce battle that had just taken place. The air was thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder and the lingering presence of death as he knelt by England's side.
"Hey," Alfred whispered, his voice barely audible over the ringing in his ears. With trembling hands, he reached out to gently touch England's arm. The skin beneath his fingers was cold and clammy, but he held tight as if trying to anchor England to this world. With a slow, careful movement, he wrapped his arms around England's neck, pulling him close in an embrace that spoke volumes more than any words could convey. It held forgiveness for the grievances the Revolution had caused and gratitude for the lessons England had hammered into him over the years.
England's body stiffened like a stone in response, his eyes darting back and forth as if weighing his next move. But then, as if all the fight had drained from him, he seemed to relax into the moment. Alfred felt the tremor of England's breath against his cheek as they remained locked in the embrace. He tightened his hold, anchoring him.
"I would always choose you, England." Alfred's voice thundered with gratitude, and the sincerity and steadiness in his tone almost overwhelming. "You taught me everything," he declared. "I would never have discovered my true strength if it weren't for you pushing me, challenging me to be better. For that... I am forever thankful."
England's breath hitched in his chest, and tears threatened to spill over as he fought to keep his emotions in check. "Alfred," he manages to choke out but is silenced by a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Shh," Alfred hushed him gently, "you don't have to say anything. I know what we've been through. I know what I've become because of it." His grip softened, but the sentiment held firm. "No matter where our paths take us, I will always remember. You were there for me when no one else was, and I will forever be grateful for your unwavering support and guidance."
A single, choked sob escaped England's lips, betraying the stoicism he was known for. His hands, usually reserved and restrained, had been hovering uncertainly at his sides. They reached out to grasp Alfred, his fingers digging into the back of Alfred's coat as if seeking an anchor.
"Thank you, Alfred," England managed to utter, his voice breaking on the name he had uttered countless times before.
Alfred released his embrace and rose to his feet, steadying himself against the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. England remained on the ground, a solitary figure framed by the devastation that surrounded him, his eyes never leaving Alfred.
Alfred cast a long look over Yorktown. The scars of conflict were etched into the earth, and the bodies littering the ground were a testament to the price of freedom and the cost of enmity.
"Take care of yourself," he said softly, his words floating down to England like leaves in an autumn breeze. The farewell held layers of meaning, a final acknowledgment of their intertwined paths and the resilience of their bond.
England nodded, the ghost of a smile touching his lips—a sign of acceptance, perhaps, or the recognition of Alfred's need to move forward.
Turning away, Alfred took his first step, each subsequent one growing more confident as he moved toward the future. His shoulders were squared, his heart a tumultuous sea calmed by the resolution of this moment. The chapter of war was closing behind him, making way for the unwritten pages of a new world.
As he walked through the crowds of people, the fading silhouette of England lingered in his peripheral vision. As he reached the edge of the block, he paused to glance back one last time. England had risen to his feet, standing amidst the ruins, watching Alfred depart. There was no need for further words; their understanding transcended language, forged in the crucible of change.
With a deep breath, Alfred stepped around the corner and out of sight, carrying with him the enduring connection to England—a bond not of blood but of spirit and growth. It was an invisible thread woven through their shared experiences, unbreakable and everlasting.
The cheers of Yorktown surrounded him, ready to embrace their victorious son, but Alfred knew that true victory lay in the strength to forgive, heal, and cherish the lessons learned from a mentor turned foe turned… something. As he merged with the crowd, Alfred carried England with him, in memory and the promise of tomorrow, leaving the battlefield behind but never the journey they had weathered together.
"We won!"
I hope you enjoyed this! It is not something to be taken seriously; it's just a fun little thing I wrote.
Let me know what you thought of it.
Have a great day!
There's Tea in the Sea