Okay, guys. Things are about to get real. I'm taking on the (in)famous, arduous 100 Fics Challenge for the FACE Family! What does this involve, you ask?

Oh, nothing, just writing 100 fics focusing on France, America, Canada, and/or England, each with its own designated theme.

...Yeah, I don't know what I'm doing, either.

Anyway, here's the first fic, which is Canada-centric with some France and England. The prompt is beginnings.

"The choice he made he could not comprehend, / His blood a grim secret they had to command. / He's torn between his honor and the true love of his life: / He prayed for both but was denied."

("Hand of Sorrow," Within Temptation)

Nations: entities with their lives ever in flux, constantly changing—endings divorced from beginnings, with everything in between scattered in a chaotic harmony. Nothing ever lasted.

Even as a child, Canada could recognize this confusing, disillusioning reality. Although he could not grasp the idea itself, he certainly felt its effects that chilly February morning in 1763. At only six o' clock in the morning, so early the sun had not yet shown signs of rising and the moon still shone brightly in the sky, the young nation was wide awake (had he even slept at all last night?). Clutching his pillow so hard that he thought his arms might go numb, he pressed his ear to the door of his bedroom and winced at the sound of loud, strained voices.

"You said you didn't care about him! This is part of the agreement. I'll be taking care of him now, and doing a better job than you ever could."

"I never said I didn't care. Only that since you forced this choice on me…"

"France. Give him up."

An indignant snort came in reply.

Canada waited, dreading whatever might come next. He knew the words would hurt, no matter what they were. A tear slipped from his eye—but he brushed it away with shaking, clumsy fingers. He had gotten too old for crying. Still, although he could hide his tears, he could never hope to conceal his fear and sorrow.

"Fine, then, take him," France finally said, with a bitterness that made Canada back away from the door slightly. "But remember this. You'll understand soon, when your time comes to lose someone. It's going to happen."

A long pause. Canada crept closer to the door; then, upon hearing footsteps, his heart thudded and constricted within his chest. Dropping the pillow, he ran back to his bed, jumped in, and pulled all the blankets over his head. And not a second too soon, as the door opened only a moment after Canada had hid himself.

"Good morning, Canada," he heard—not the usual "Bonjour, mon p'tit," that always roused Canada from his dreams every morning (at least, every morning that France wasn't away fighting England or tending to matters at home).

The footsteps came closer. Canada felt England's hand on his shoulder as he sat down on the bed.

"Get up," he said, though without malice or force. Canada knew to resist all the same. He'd heard those same words spoken to the Acadians when England's men entered their villages and brutally expelled them from their homeland. Had he come to do the same to his brand new possession?

The hand's pressure never increased, even as England kept asking Canada to leave his refuge, his home.

"Let me sleep," Canada finally said, his words muffled. He didn't feel tired, but more than anything, he just wanted to be left alone. His heart felt as if it had been crushed beneath a large, heavy boot—beneath the heel of a conqueror.

"You'll have plenty of time to sleep soon. Come now, Canada. I'll put you to bed once we leave here."

It was true that Canada had grown up with both England and France. He loved both dearly; the thought of having to choose between caretakers made him curl into a ball beneath the blankets. Both had hurt him—but that was what brothers did best. No, on second thought, that wasn't quite right. Brothers took care of each other best.

Yet neither England nor France had been doing a particularly good job of looking after him lately. When France wasn't off skirmishing with England, he was lavishing his attention—and his affection—on Guadeloupe. And then there was England, driving his people out of their homes in his furious attempt to 1. demolish the French (and French Canada) and 2. win Canada over. A good strategy for his first aim, but quite the mess for the second.

Those two had made their choices, and probably rather easily. Canada, too, could make his choice easily: he didn't have one to make in the first place. It had been made for him long ago, without his input, without his knowledge. No matter how much he resisted it, he couldn't undo their agreement that forced him to be a sacrifice for peace.

And so, as he crawled out of bed, followed England out the door, and looked at France as he slowly crossed the threshold, Canada knew that it was the end of the beginning of his new life.

But for some reason, he felt that it was also the beginning of the end.

Historical notes:

This fic focuses on the transfer of Canada to the English following the Treaty of Paris 1763, which put an end to the Seven Years War. France gave up Canada in return for Guadeloupe because while Canada was expensive to care for, Guadeloupe bolstered the French economy with its sugar exports. Le Grand Dérangement is also mentioned. During the Seven Years War, the English expelled the Acadians from their homes in the Canadian Maritime Provinces. Not exactly a popular move on their part.

I've already started writing the next fic, which will feature America and England! It'll be a funny, cute lil' story, based on the theme "middles". (: You can expect an update of either this fic or my other work By Their Influence this weekend.