Round two! As it turns out, I strayed a bit from the War of 1812 proper in order to show the context in which this war occurred. In the US and Canada, it's remembered more as a war in its own right, while in Europe, it's considered a theatre of the Napoleonic Wars. So I went ahead and included a bit of that. Plus, since this is a FACE fic, I couldn't really just leave France off by himself. :P Speaking of France, he's a bit OOC here. French Revolution and Napoleon and all that.

Since these five are somewhat less clear cut than the last five (I was experimenting a lot here - just for fun), I figured I should say at the beginning which events each theme covers. In order, the historical events portrayed are the transition between the First and Second British Empires (along with American isolationism and the Napoleonic Wars), the Battle of Trafalgar, the Battle of Bladensburg/the Burning of Washington, the Battle of Leipzig (aka the Battle of the Nations), and the Treaty of Ghent.

"Love drove me to rebel. / Love drives me back to grope with them through hell." ~Siegfried Sassoon

Music

War had a rhythm to it, if you listened closely enough.

Of course, there were drums and bugles and trumpets and the like. Real instruments of war. Officers' calls, soldiers' screams, mothers' tears—there were those, too, vocal accompaniments to a horrible symphony.

But there was a level still more terrifying yet, one that only nations could hear.

It didn't take any kind of special gift, no divine je ne sais quoi to hear the song—in fact, to be deaf to it was far more special and desirable. In days they could not yet see, America would cover his ears with tight fists to drown out the song, and, for the most part, would find success. To a point, at least.

It was that point that no nation could ever truly avoid, except Switzerland, and most of them had been doubting his nationhood for a long time, anyway.

France had never particularly liked the sound, even though he too would have to listen to it for bloodstained years to come. Sometimes, England liked to play the tune for himself, for his monarchs, for his people. They joined in, dancing to something they could neither hear nor understand. He found it funny in the same way he found too many things funny: only in a sick way, the kind of funny that wasn't really humorous at all, just preferable to sadness.

He could laugh at the music of war, or he could cry whenever he heard it. For the most part, he did the former, until America decided to turn the song inside-out on him. Until he made it personal, real, painful. Then the chant of war lost its melody, its glory, and fell apart into discord and cacophony.

The day that hearing his opponents surrender before him made England sad was the day he forgot the allure in that song altogether. No, not quite. Not all of it. He couldn't have forgotten that breathtaking beauty, because it had never been there to begin with. He'd only made up a visage, a cute little mask, to put a face on something faceless and to beautify something he knew in his heart was ugly beyond description, beyond measure.

England wondered sometimes how he'd grown from a little boy hiding behind the cloak of King Alfred the Great to a man capable of empire. The question haunted him more than he'd have liked to admit. France, however, didn't find the question as bothersome and disturbing as the answer. He knew very well what had happened to his archrival as he'd grown up. And he didn't like that he'd probably had a hand in his destruction that everyone else considered an evolution.

The Briton had grown deaf to the pain of war, the sorrow of conflict. And he'd turned it into a song. That was what he'd called it, yes, a symphony much like the ones that played in his capital. It was the music of conquerors, of destiny. What better way to gloss over just what battles and conquests entailed? How else could he have sugarcoated the consequences of domination and power and colonies?

Music justified his actions. And he wasn't entirely wrong. The sounds of bodies hitting the ground and bullets ringing out did indeed create a kind of music, a sort of proto-rhythm that all humans and nations recognized. They all knew that pain, that horror. But as long as they were the ones holding the instruments, their skill in playing and their unchallenged mastery over their pieces, great and small, made everything okay.

At least, so England thought until America yanked those instruments, those violas of victory and trumpets of triumph, out of his hands and played them in concert with his leaders and troops more beautifully and skillfully than England could. And then—insult of insults—he'd smashed them. Broken them. Trod them to pieces with treaties and promises to stay out of war.

He didn't want a legacy of bloodshed. He didn't want to be part of continental fighting that England and France both knew so well. He'd let his bosses brainwash him, England thought. They'd destroyed his little boy and proved they could raise him better than the Briton could. So France said, anyway. He hadn't been able to talk for a few days after that, England had punched him in the mouth so hard.

Music had been his solace, and now he'd lost that, too. Everything cascaded into broken cacophony afterwards. The orchestra crashed and fell apart. England only heard discord anymore; no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get a hold of even a note to bring him back to his former greatness. No one sang in his honor anymore: he heard no chants of monarchs bowing before him, no lays of ships sinking under his greatness, no ballads of nations falling under his rule.

He'd been stripped of what he'd done best. Or what he thought he'd done best, at least. England didn't know anymore. When he tried to build new instruments and play for others, forcing them to join his orchestra and play with him, they only sat back and laughed. They had no interest in his symphony.

So he played and played and played, furious to regain his previous talent, until he found himself exhausted—and, worse, all alone.

Martyrs

He was just a little mad, that was all. He'd just let the power go to his head, no big deal. He'd only wanted the pain to stop, and who could fault him for that?

Another nearby cannonball rocked his ship. France nodded. That's right. England could saddle him with all kinds of unwarranted blame.

Asshole.

He didn't even know what it felt like to hurt, to burn, to come within seconds of getting his head lopped off by a guillotine manned by his own people in his own heart. Every little pain England bitched about—oh it's terrible they exiled the king they took America away don't you see they're hurting me—amounted to nothing in the face of the blood that ran in France's streets so deep that he sometimes felt it seeping, warm and thick, through his shoes. The "Glorious Revolution"? What a joke. No one had even died in that so-called triumph, while in France's own revolution, tens of thousands had died in just a year. Still, even during those dark times, he couldn't help but love Robespierre. A republic of virtue. That's what he'd promised France he'd become as he'd held his hand through dark nights in makeshift back-alley beds. Just give him a chance, and he'd make the pain go away.

Crushed beneath the blow of an English assault, a mast on a nearby ship toppled like a snapped twig. Salty foam flew into the air all around the ocean battlefield, but France smiled—he knew England could never sink the great Bucentaure. Not with Vice-Admiral Villeneuve, one of Napoleon's favorite officers, at its head. He was a lucky man. Luck may have been superfluous when it came to fighting the British, but even unnecessary reassurances were still reassurances. Villeneuve outmatched Nelson as much as France himself outmatched England, he thought with a grin.

France hadn't yet found Napoleon's letter condemning the admiral's lack of fortitude.

"That's another vessel ripe for capture," the man himself said, tugging at the lace sleeves of his jacket as he stared at the enormous fleet spread across the horizon. So few British ships, and yet so much damage done. "That'll be our tenth now."

"What?" France snatched the spyglass from his leader and peered through the thin instrument, past the yellow and red flags of their Spanish allies toward the cross-bearing flags in the distance. More to himself than to Villeneuve, he said, "Bastard still hasn't had enough, has he?"

France could hear the shouts of the Bucentaure's crew as they struggled to steer the ship through the dark waters of Cape Trafalgar. One of them, a young man who had probably lied about his age to get into Napoleon's legendary army—even just some tiny detachment, as long as he could serve his Emperor—ran to the starboard edge of the ship and called that one of the largest frigates had just taken enormous damage near the aft. France watched the vessel sway back and forth like an unsteady top, its crew no doubt running back and forth in the distance trying to prevent the inevitable.

Then, the moaning wind tore his flag from the strong ropes securing it to the mast, and Villeneuve shook his head as the ship sank deeper and the British fleet crept closer.

"It's done."

"That's it?" France turned to the vice-admiral and scoffed. "You're giving up, just like that?"

"What other choice do we—"

"Plenty more." The nation closed his eyes. He hated people, nations, like this. Those who surrendered too quickly when they still had so many possibilities left. Those who weren't willing to bleed in battle. Those who weren't willing to suffer until they had no strength left, all in the name of something they treasured.

France loved his people. He cared deeply for them. The slightest unrest in Paris, in Lyons, in Bordeaux, sent his heart pounding both with fear and with concern, but not for himself. The tiniest uprising sent him running into the midst of his people, to the sides of mothers and children, fathers and disenchanted young students. When his heart ached, he tended not to his own wounds but to those of his citizens. He held them close in his trembling arms, held their shaking hands in his.

Because they were him, too. They were as much France as he was.

And so he'd given them everything they'd wanted. The National Assembly. The Constitution. Égalité, liberté, fraternité. Equality, liberty, brotherhood. A brotherhood that bound his heart to theirs and subjected his will to their every whim.

He wouldn't have wanted it any other way. Even when they decided they wanted an autocrat like Robespierre, like Napoleon, after all. Even when they chose to remake him into someone he didn't recognize—subjected him to strange feelings that he was no longer in his own body or in his own mind, forced him to spend his days and nights alone in dirty alleys with only the quivering in his bones for company, cloistered him away from everything he knew—he loved them.

And France would fight for them.

He would kill for them.

"This battle hasn't ended yet." France shoved the spyglass back into Villeneuve's shaking hands. "Nelson'll never win."

England couldn't defeat him. He didn't understand. He had never experienced this level of devotion that bore pain for love, France knew. His arch-enemy didn't know what it was like to fall asleep at night fully aware he could awaken the next morning an entirely different being, if he awoke at all. England could never have loved someone enough to die for him or her in shit-clogged and blood-splattered streets. The Briton would never have let himself become a love-martyr for his people's will. The hell did he know about compassion and sacrifice, anyway?

He'd never win. He couldn't defeat Napoleon or France. None of them could.

France would destroy them first before they so much as spat at his people.

Antebellum

"Ten, nine, eight…"

America ran. Through the fields past a few clumps of trees—perfect hiding places, he thought, but just not good enough—he raced. He had to go deeper into the woods, farther away from safety. Canada'd never find him here, he thought with a laugh.

He'd be fine as long as he kept running. His brother would never catch up. He would win this strange little game of theirs that England had practically forced them to play.

Yes, hide-and-seek, that was a good name for it. The perfect thing to keep restless children occupied for an afternoon. It was quick and easy and neat, and no one got hurt.

Until someone took the game too far.

"Seven, six, five…"

America hurried along the path through the thickening clusters of trees as he looked up at the sky. At some point (he hadn't been paying close enough attention to know when), dark clouds had closed in on the sun, casting a shadow over the Maryland countryside. If he didn't keep going, he'd get caught in the rain.

Would Canada still come after him in the rain? Would the downpour somehow buy him more much-needed time?

"Four, three…"

America couldn't think of stopping to rest. The pain in his legs and side couldn't subdue the anxious pounding of his heart, nor could the panging in his air-starved lungs drown out the rushing thoughts in his mind.

He needed to hurry. Rain or no rain, he'd decided, Canada would be running after him in hot pursuit soon, like a dog chasing its prey.

But America was faster—and smarter, he thought—than his attacker. He had always been able to beat his brother at any old game (so he told himself; in fact, America just had a very selective memory). Why not this one?

"Two, one…"

The nation wondered what England was up to. He never really knew these days. It didn't bother America too much. At least, he didn't let it disturb him to the point of gnawing at his heart like a constant question, like an incessant buzzing in his mind. He was growing up. He had proven that he could handle himself.

So why did he still want to spend time with his big brother, as if nothing had ever happened? as if he hadn't suddenly aged three years for every day that went by?

America still loved England. He hated himself for it.

Almost as much as he hated himself—and his brothers—for getting dragged into this stupid game.

"Ready or not, here I come."

Was America anywhere close to ready? He couldn't possibly have run far or fast enough. No, he had to keep going. He could still escape Canada—and England, who would surely come after him, too, if he thought the game had gone on too long. If it had gone too far.

The whole thing was silly. America wasn't sure why he'd let himself get involved again. The whole thing was child's play, and he was hardly a kid. Not anymore. He had finally grown into his nationhood.

He had better things to do than to play a dumb game with his brother.

But America loved Canada. And so he had agreed to join.

He'd wanted to put a smile on his brother's face again. He'd wanted to grab his hand—hey let's go play by ourselves yeah just us together we don't need anyone else telling us what to do or bossing us around—and pull him away from England. England who'd stolen him, England who'd hurt him, England who'd made him cry and suffer and nearly lose himself in a chasm of confusion and fear.

America could take his brother away from that hellish existence, crushed beneath the Englishman's heavy, manipulative hands.

And if all it took was one little game, he'd play it. In a heartbeat.

He hadn't expected Canada to join in with such gusto. It was just supposed to be a "matter of marching," a matter of running too fast to be caught and hiding too well to be found.

Unfortunately, Canada had proven to be frighteningly good at hiding and running on his own terms. The little boy had turned into one hell of a tenacious nation. He had to be. So once more America was hunted instead of hunter, defender instead of attacker.

The laughter burbling up from his chest onto his lips faded as the grove of evergreens began to thin and the humid summer air grew thicker, hotter, heavier. Something crackled in the distance—his brother come to find him?

America ran faster, shaking, trembling. Then, he was on the ground in a bed of pine needles and mud, his leg burning. With a grimace, he looked back at the worn path.

A small sinkhole. Just the perfect size for him to step in without noticing until he wrenched his ankle.

America forced himself to his feet, but, he realized with twisting heart and hitching gasp, he could not go more than a few feet before falling headlong back into the mud.

He opened his mouth to release an artillery of profanities, but someone else's voice interrupted his.

"Found you."

This same thing had happened one hundred years ago. He'd been playing with his brother in these woods, by these fields, running through the dirt and grass, around thick, ancient tree trunks. America had flown from their nearby house, laughing because Canada would never find him. Not out here.

Then, he'd tripped and fallen, spraining his ankle. He'd tried to get up and keep running, but he'd fallen over and over, harder with each shaking step.

He'd stayed there motionless on his stomach, eyes closed as the sun sank beneath the horizon, a fireball descending out of sight. Until his brother had come.

"Found you."

So he'd said then and so he said now, not a triumphant yell like back then but instead a sad whisper.

This time, Canada didn't bend down with wide, frightened eyes to help his brother, to carry him home to England with his bandages and blankets and fussy words. He simply pointed straight ahead, over the top of the hill.

When he looked, America couldn't breathe, as if his brother had snapped his ribs and punctured his lungs with one movement of his fingers.

Canada had found him. Chased him all the way from Bladensburg, miles and miles away, only to get there first.

He'd found him, all right.

And, even more so, England had found his revenge.

For just over the hilltop, all across the stormy horizon, Washington burned.

Glory

One of these days, England was going to get tired of fighting all these damned wars.

As always, America was only proving himself a child in his attempts to assert himself as an adult. The hell had he wanted to fight a war over, anyway? Honor? What rubbish. This whole mess had turned into the chaotic storm drowning the four of them—all for glory. All in a mad fury of pride, a lust for acclaim.

England sighed and relaxed his vice-grip on his sword for a second. The three-day battle was finally dragging toward its conclusion, giving him time to breathe—and to think. They'd gone from an era of lights and reason to a time of madness. Just like that. Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe the ultimate end of thinking, of reasoning, was bloodshed and chaos.

The nation shook his head, a small, painfully rare smile on his face. That might be how he'd gotten to be such an enormous, mad empire, both the first time and the second. But no—regardless of how he looked at it, of how many different ways he tried to examine his conscience, everything collapsed to one quiet voice in his heart.

A small cry for glory.

But when he dug deeper into that voice and brushed the dirt and mud and muck away from it, he found something else. When he let his thoughts run in the back of his mind during this last skirmish beside Prussia and Austria and Sweden and Russia against two wounded Frenchmen—one an emperor, the other his empire—England realized there was something even smaller beneath that plea for honor.

Deep down, another voice called out.

Cried for love.

And nothing else, neither acclaim nor praise nor global hegemony, could fill that void. No, England thought as he raised his sword in his now-tight grip and shouted to the other nations behind him to make one final charge, not even victory in war could make him whole. Fighting just bought him time to bury that crying child inside before it could break free.

Or maybe he was just a sap. That could be the case, too.

But he had someone like him at his side who wasn't a sap or a crybaby. He had an ally who wouldn't even give himself time to grieve or suffer or even feel pain. In his heart, Canada held no desire for honor or power to shield his lonely inner child but just a wish not to hurt anybody. Just a hope not to offend, not to fight.

England had seen those neglected, unfulfilled pulses of emotion more often than the younger nation knew. Canada had never felt England put another blanket on top of him during cold nights on the waters of Lake Erie. He had never seen his guardian follow him into forests in Ontario late at night when he couldn't sleep. He had never known England was there beside him, waiting for him—waiting for him to say he needed something, anything.

Because the moment the words left Canada's lips, the older nation would have been right there with whatever the younger needed.

But Canada wouldn't—didn't—say anything. Not as long as England needed him, too.

It was that interdependence, that circle of need, that America had seen and sought to break. He didn't like needing anyone. Independence had been perfect for him. And England was just burdening his brother, weighing him down and hurting him with his heavy yoke of unmet emotional needs.

So why wouldn't Canada join the United States?

America didn't know. England had a guess or two, both of which at least peripherally involved the nation he was now fighting on the fields of Leipzig.

Canada had come to love England in his own right, of course. That kept him at the Briton's side, even during the darkest and fiercest battles of America's Revolution or otherwise. But more than just his love for England had fostered his loyalty and devotion.

It had been France who had told him to stay with England, after all.

The Briton stood back beside Sweden as France lashed out at Austria and struck at Prussia—Prussia, his old friend, his companion, his confidante. But his fury wasn't enough to protect him from Russia's sneak attack that sent him crumpling to the ground in a heap beside his fallen leader.

England swallowed.

He needed to end these battles.

And fast.

To stop all of them from hiding their faces and weeping inside, not for lack of honor but for a deeper loss.

Fall

Hell was wanting to apologize but not knowing how to do so.

Canada thought for a moment, then shook his head. No. That was Limbo. Getting trapped in the midst of two people who were stuck in Limbo was Hell.

He looked at his hands, carefully folded in his lap beneath the gleaming table in the middle of the room Belgium and the Netherlands had given them to use during their peace negotiations. Then, he looked out the window at the quaint city of Ghent. He hadn't been to Europe in a long time, since England handled most of his—their—international affairs. Perhaps he would have to come back more often. It was so close to France. He had come so near his Papa. But England wouldn't let father and son meet. Not yet. Both were in such turmoil already. He knew for certain what would happen to France neither one minute nor the next. Napoleon had come back from exile, after all. How could he possibly let the two francophones meet until he knew the New and Old Worlds both were safe?

Finally, his heart heaving, Canada turned toward the two nations sitting on opposite sides of the table. England—tired, thin, worn-down. America—tall, defiant, but still exhausted. Both men nominally finished with their war, and maybe even (he dared to hope) with all wars against each other. One had been too many already. Two was just cruel. Long. Unfair.

But, for all their exhaustion, the two nations had plenty of words to fire at each other from across the table. As they counted their arsenals and took aim, Canada let his gaze fall into his lap again.

One last face-to-face battle had to be fought.

"So you thought you had to declare independence again?" England fired first. Probably better that way, Canada thought.

"The hell were you expecting me to do? You took my people and forced them into your navy." Without a second's pause, America launched back.

"They were my people. British born."

"But they became mine. You were trying to take over them the way you tried to take over me."

"I was trying to protect you from France."

"Like I need protection from anyone."

"How about from yourself?"

All things told, this verbal skirmish was quite the gentleman's war, Canada decided. He let the two argue a while longer about the British blockade and interference with American trade—screw you we were just trying to keep you safe from that lunatic and his dictator oh why don't you just shut up you wanted to smother me again you can't get over losing back in 1783—before walking unnoticed out of the room for a drink of water. Even with the thick door between them, he could hear the other two nations continuing to argue about Napoleon and wars that were obviously far more important than some immature Americans whinging about liberty and territory. And wait, just what the hell did he mean by stupid, whiny, childish patriots?

Canada leaned against the cold white wall and listened. England and America may have been yelling and pointing fingers everywhere but at themselves, but at least they were talking to each other.

That was the first step.

And they were taking it with great fervor, if nothing else.

America had moved on to the Indian issue once Canada, ever invisible, tiptoed back into the room and shut the door before taking his place at England's side.

"Like you even care about those people. They're hardly people to you."

"That's not true." The younger of the belligerents slammed his fist onto the table.

"Then tell me." England grinned. "Why did I have tens of thousands of them on my side, not yours?"

He'd placed one of his several trumps down before America. More like thrown it, given the man's expression.

"Because you're a sick fuck who's good at manipulating innocent people. Just look at what you did to Canada."

"More like look at what you did to him. 'A matter of marching'? Would he really have been happy with people like you who walk all over him?"

"A lot happier than he would have been with you. You make him carry you all over because you're too pathetic to take care of yourself."

"Pathetic? I'm an empire, unlike you."

"An empire whose ass I kicked twice."

"Hey—"

Canada wondered if they'd listen to him if he stood up and said something. Probably not.

How had it come to this, again? At what moment had his brother grown up—or down—from a little boy into this young man with fierce blue eyes and clenched jaw, fighting for pride? And when had his guardian taken the bait and decided to strike back, letting himself lose sight of a bigger, grander war in Europe?

When had his Papa lost himself?

And when had he somehow gravitated to the center of everyone's anger?

"Stop it."

Neither America nor England would listen, but he figured he had to try all the same.

"Knock it off, both of you." Canada stood up, their inattention making him brave. While England complained about ambition and America said something about hypocrisy, the violet-eyed nation continued to talk beneath the weight of their louder voices. "None of us want this, you know. You ruined it, so you set it straight. Can't you at least do that much?"

"Bastard."

"Asshole."

"Fine, well, I guess you can do that, too." What could he say? "You're hurting me."

"You just want to beat me into submission again."

"Actually, I have far more important things to do than deal with petulant children."

"Don't you get it? You're hurting me." Even now, during peace negotiations, Canada could feel small skirmishes and planned attacks occurring along his border near Ontario. Stabbing each other in the back while they were supposed to be making up. Typical. "Protect me? Care about me? Only when I don't need you."

He wished he could walk out of the negotiations. He wasn't doing anything but getting upset, anyway. Maybe he could come back when their diplomats showed up. At least then he wouldn't have to play the silent, overrun referee.

One last move, and then he would give up.

"I hate you both."

Of course, they would pick that moment to take notice of him.

"Canada," England said, rising from his chair. Across the table, America did the same. "Canada, whatever are you doing?"

The Canadian looked at England, then over at America. Both had a hand outstretched toward him, England's hovering just beside Canada's arm and America's hanging awkwardly in front of him, too far to reach but too reluctant to move closer.

"I didn't mean it." He thought he had wanted their attention, but now that he had it, his face was turning red and his stomach tying itself into knots. Time to backpedal. "I don't actually hate either of you, I mean. It's fine. Don't worry. Go back to what you were just doing. I—"

"Canada?" America swallowed and shifted back and forth from one foot to the other. "You—you crying?"

England examined the younger nation's face. Canada put a hand to his cheek. Sure enough, a tear had started to snake its way down his chin. It hung on his chin for a moment before dropping to the cold wooden floor.

"It's fine," said Canada. He stepped back when England reached for him. "Really, it is. Forget about it. I'll go get some water or something, so you two can get back to the negotiations."

Before either of the stunned nations could say anything, he hurried out of the room and softly shut the door behind him.

He would come back. He had no choice. He never really did.

And he knew the moment England decided the whole treaty-making business was worthless and began to prepare to fight again (as if he didn't know his forces were storming across the American South already), he would follow him into battle.

Canada didn't know what it would be like to make his own choices as his own country. He certainly hoped that, if he ever became independent like his brother, he would never become as reckless and proud. The last thing his family needed was another selfish, wayward child.

So England would say, anyway.

Canada loved his brother. But that didn't mean America didn't do stupid things. They all did. He spoke up in their peace negotiations and made an idiot of himself. And now he stood a few feet from the door, listening, waiting. Wondering.

For once, he got what he wanted.

An answer.

"Canada?"

England put a hand on his shoulder, but the younger nation slipped away again. He wasn't ready. No. Not yet.

"Yes?"

"Well." The Briton paused. When he spoke again, his voice was strained and rough."We're… going to take a break for a bit. Until the diplomats arrive."

"Okay."

"And then we're going to try again."

"Okay."

England scanned Canada's face, his impartial eyes, his wet cheek. The younger nation gave him a weak smile.

In an ideal world, he knew what would come next. England would apologize. America would join them and put his hands on both their shoulders and say he was sorry, too.

And then they would forgive each other. They would make peace. They would help France and rebuild their family.

Instead, England said nothing. America didn't leave the room until his officials took their seats beside him. Canada sat outside the building on a bench in silence, thinking.

Wishing for a day, if only in vain, when they all knew how to say three things.

I'm sorry.

I forgive you.

And I love you.

More notes:

I am obsessed with the Battle of Trafalgar, which is probably why it got included despite taking place in 1805 (the other events happen around 1813-1814).

The causes - and the outcomes - of the War of 1812 are still debated to an extent. Basically, the British wanted to cut off American trade with France 1. because of the Napoleonic Wars and 2. because the British were jealous of American naval power (so some historians say). They also started to impress British-born Americans into their navy, which didn't exactly go over well (in part because Americans who were not British sometimes got impressed, too). A minority view is American expansionism also led to the war, since quite a few Americans wanted to annex Canada and get rid of the British for good. Their invasions of Canada failed (again), and Canada remained under British control.

While historians disagree as to who really won the war (something that strikes me as strange: I was always taught that it was a resounding American victory, a "Second War of Independence," which it most definitely was not), they generally agree that the Native Americans, most of whom fought with the British, were the real losers. The British wanted the creation of an independent state for them in the Midwest, but this demand was eventually abandoned, as were the Native Americans.

Although I didn't end on this note, relations between Canada, the US, and Britain greatly improved after the war. Britain in particular took a policy of peace toward the US. Canada was a bit more reluctant, building fortifications in Quebec against another attack, but things eventually got better, as evinced by our strong border and current relationship.