Notes: This isn't meant to be a historical fic. I cannot stress this fact enough. I simply took inspiration from some historical events to write a story centred around America, Canada, England and their bond, but I've been pretty busy lately, so I didn't have time to do extensive research. There are probably a lot of inaccuracies, I apologize for this, but this story wouldn't stop bugging me, so I ended up writing it anyway. I hope some of you may enjoy it.

The rating is because of depictions of injuries, I don't know if it qualifies as graphic or not, but there is a seriously injured character, so keep this in mind if this may bother you.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except for my laptop, nor do I get any profit from writing this. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, the cover picture is from フジッコ ( pixiv member id=284196)

April 1813, York

Fire was all he could see. There was fire, fire everywhere, engulfing the houses, tinging the black of the night with its ominous glow, filling the air with pillars of dark, thick smoke. Above the crackle of wood and flames, a cacophony of screams resounded from all around him – he could hear the shrill voices of mothers crying for their children, their husbands, their pleas mixing with the agonizing screams of the wounded – and, above all, the exalted cheers and raucous laughter of the soldiers. His soldiers. His people. Animals.

America felt sick to his stomach. His fists and jaw were clenched so tightly that they almost hurt, but he could barely realize it. He wanted to scream – to cry, to plead, he had never wanted any of that! – but he knew none of his actions would be effective.

So many times – too many times – he had tried to stop some of his soldiers from going on with that exultant atrocity, and each of them the ones who had stopped were replaced by countless others. There was no way to stop them, no way to curb that madness, that rage that burned in their veins, polluted their minds, commanded their hands.

America wanted to fall to his knees and burst into tears, to curl up on himself and let his mind be swallowed by the cold, dark embrace of sleep, to wake up and find himself still in his tent, covered in cold sweat but finally able to let out the breath he was holding as he realized that it had only been a horrible nightmare.

Yet, he couldn't. For it wasn't a nightmare, but reality – a reality he had never even imagined he would have to face.

He could feel the heat of the fire caressing his skin, drying the beads of sweat that ran down his temples and back, curbing away the edges of what would have been a cold night, the acrid smell of smoke filled his nostrils, wormed its way into his raw throat, almost choking him – America was wheezing and coughing, and he stumbled to avoid some falling debris, but he never stopped.

A cacophony of voices was dancing all around him, the young nation could distinctly hear somebody call out for him – a cheering, raucous shout, some soldiers of his – but he barely registered it, and didn't answer back, his mind and body pushing against the exhaustion, every inch of his resources focused on the action of running.

He wouldn't – couldn't – stop until he found him.

America's first instinct had been to call out for him, but nothing had answered his screams, and it had been stupid anyway, what if one soldier of his noticed?

Normally, America would have been confident that nobody would question his commands, but that had been before. Before he had seen them laugh and sneer as he angrily screamed at them to stop, before they had completely ignored his orders, before he had seen their eyes shining with a glint of madness and their features deformed by manic grins.

(And he couldn't call out. Until America didn't call out, he wouldn't answer, but that was logical. Because he hadn't heard America's voice. But what if America kept calling his name and the only answer was the crackle of fire? What if what if what if…)

Deep in his mind, America knew that he was still alive. He would have felt it if he weren't.

(Right? Right?! They weren't as connected as before but that didn't mean America wouldn't notice he was to disappear, did it? Did it?!)

He was still alive. It was going to be all right, as long as America could reach him and drag him away from that burning, infernal madness. Alfred still had a chance to make things right.

'I'm coming. Just hold on a little longer, I'm coming,' he pleaded desperately, forcing the tired, tight muscles of his legs to keep moving, to ignore the discomfort. 'Hold on. I'm almost there, just hold on until then.'

York burned, and Alfred F Jones, the personification of the United States of America, kept running, deaf to the many voices that called out his name.

It was almost dawn when America finally found what he had been looking for.

It was a dark, shadowed alley near the building of the Legislative Assembly, and some falling beams from a nearby house had almost completely blocked the entrance, which was probably why none of the soldiers had noticed him before. America himself, at that point swaying with exhaustion, with his breath coming out in rapid pants and every inch of his body burning, would have probably overlooked it, but something – he couldn't have told what, maybe the residual of a bond – had prompted him to stop for a moment, scanning with more attention the shapes hidden behind the still sizzling wood.

And that was when he saw it.

A small form lay curled up on himself on the ground, his knees drawn to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly against his abdomen, the slight body engulfed in a tattered and burned red coat.

America stopped dead, his eyes widening and his breath caught in his throat as he took in Canada's appearance.

"M—Mattie?" he whispered tentatively, his voice so faint that it didn't even carry out above the gentle crackle of the residual flames.

His little brother didn't give out any sign of having heard him – in fact, he didn't show any hint of movement at all. Canada's body stayed as still as death, the faint glow of dying embers casting an ominous light on his matted strawberry blond hair and candid skin.

America wanted to run to him, to reach him and shake him until his little brother's eyes finally opened, as lively as ever, his lips curling into a small grin as he laughed at how effective his joke had been, and Alfred would be so furious at him for worrying him like that, but he would finally laugh along, ruffling Canada's soft hair… – but his feet were frozen on the spot. For as much as America tried to convince himself otherwise, he knew that Canada wasn't faking it. He wasn't moving. America couldn't see his face, he wasn't even sure if he was breathing.

Suddenly, Canada's body gave a lurch, and the boy curled on himself even tighter.

The movement finally wrenched America out of his shock, spurring him into action.

"Mattie!" he called, louder this time, vaulting over the fallen beams to reach the small body.

He dropped to his knees next to his brother, his eyes immediately scanning for injuries. Canada's hair was stuck to his head, matted with blood and soot, and the colony's once pristine uniform was torn in places and burned in others. The white pants hid nothing of the damage, America could clearly see the many burns littering his little brother's thin legs. There was a deep cut on his left thigh that was still sluggishly oozing blood, tendrils of scarlet lazily blossoming over the light fabric. But that wasn't the worst injury – it couldn't be, the ground around Canada's body was splattered with splashes of red – bloodstains – and it was so much, too much to come from the injured leg… Canada's coat was torn on his lower back, revealing a large gash, but it didn't look that deep, it couldn't have bled out that much. Even though America's eyes kept frantically sweeping over his brother's body, he couldn't see where the blood was coming from, the red coat hid all too well its colour, and from the way Canada was curled up on himself his abdomen was hidden from America's view.

"Mattie! Mattie, come on, look at me, open your eyes…" America pleaded, his hands moving carefully around Canada's shoulders to turn him over.

The boy looked unconscious, his eyes were tightly shut, but his features were contorted in agony. The tracks carved by the tears showed the pale, almost translucent skin underneath all the smears of blood and dirt. There was a gash on the boy's right temple, blood had trickled from it to Canada's chin, pooling on the ground, and other thin rivulets of blood oozed from Canada's nose and from the corner of his lips.

(He must have bitten the inside of his cheek from the pain. Or his tongue. Oh Lord let it be that. Because if it wasn't…)
"Mattie, Mattie, please answer me, look at me…" America whispered weakly, his trembling fingers clumsily pressing against random spots on Canada's neck as they looked for a pulse.

He finally found it, but it was weak, far too weak, and so fast and irregular…

America had to choke back a sob.

"Mattie, please!"

His left hand went to tug at Canada's arms, trying to dislodge them from his abdomen to see the damage (was that blood coating his little brother's forearms? Oh God he couldn't see, there wasn't enough light, and so much red, far too much red…) as his other arm slid under Canada's upper body to lift it from the ground.

The action finally elicited an answer from his little brother.

The boy yelped in pain, the lines on his face tightening as he fought weakly against America's hands.

"Ça fait mal," (It hurts) he whimpered feebly, "Ça fait tellement mal…" (It hurts so much…)

America felt sick to his stomach. While he couldn't understand Canada's words, their meaning was far too clear. And he hadn't heard his little brother revert to French in such a long time… he had never done it, actually, unless he had been delirious or half-asleep.

"Mattie, it's me," America said, his voice shaking. "Come on, Mattie, look at me, it's all right…"

It was probably the biggest lie he had ever told.

At the same moment, America finally managed to wrench Canada's arm from his abdomen – not that it was that difficult, Canada was so weak… – and he gasped, his eyes widening.

There was a lot of blood, so much blood… the coat was so red, he was sure there was a cut, or maybe a bullet wound, but he couldn't tell where, there was too much blood and not enough light…

Canada's arms snapped back in their place as the boy curled again in a ball – but this time, facing America.

The teen realized that in his shocked stupor he had loosened his hold on his brother's arms.

"Mattie!" he pleaded again, almost sobbing as he gathered Canada's broken body against his chest. "Oh, Mattie, look at me, please!"

The boy's body was so tiny compared to his, so fragile… It made America think he could shatter it with a mere touch of his fingers. How old was Matthew? He had been thirteen when America had left… Had he grown up at all since then? From the way his body felt against America's chest, he didn't think so. Thirteen years old. Still so young… a child. The broken, battered body America was holding in his arms belonged to a child. A child who had to endure those horrible injuries, so much pain…

America's arms unconsciously tightened around his brother's frame as a sob bubbled up his throat. He felt sick, his head spinning mercilessly, and his eyes were glued to Canada's waxen face.

Finally, Canada's eyelids fluttered as the boy let out another whimper and tried to curl up on himself.

"M—Mattie?" America coaxed him, gently laying a hand against his brother's dirty and too hot cheek. "Come on, Mattie, wake up. Talk to me!"

He had tried to sound gentle and soothing, but ultimately failed to curb the panicked edge that could be heard in his voice.

Canada moaned again as his lids finally slid open, revealing the hazy lilac eyes underneath. America wanted to cry in relief, but he managed to restrain himself from doing so, his mind focused on what was most important at the moment – making his little brother comfortable.

"Yes, that's it, Mattie," he cooed, "Look at me."

His hand instinctively rose to sweep back the child's bangs, but he stopped himself mid-air – he still didn't know the full extent of Canada's injuries, he didn't want to hurt him with a misplaced touch.

Canada's pupils roamed around before his eyes managed to focus on America's face.

The older boy's lips curled into a relieved smile, his drawn face relaxing, and he opened his mouth to speak – when Canada let out a scream.

Actually, it was more like a raw whimper, it was as if the boy didn't even have enough strength left to scream, but it still startled America, almost leading him to drop the body in his arms as he started struggling weakly.

Immediately, America tightened his hold, effortlessly restricting the desperately flailing limbs – he couldn't help but notice how easy that was. Canada had never been as strong as America was, but at that moment, even a human would have been able to restrain him.

"Mattie, stop struggling, you're too badly hurt!" America cried, alarmed. "It's me, I won't hurt you!"

As soon as the words left his mouth he realized his mistake.

Canada's eyes widened. In spite of the pain, a sneer distorted his feature.

"You… you won't hurt me?" he spat out. His voice was raw and weak, it sounded like his throat was damaged, but it still managed to convey all his hostility. "Because… what you have been doing… kinda… tells… something different…"

He had stopped struggling, however. Maybe because he didn't have enough strength to do so.

For a moment, it was as if everything stood still – America's heart stopped beating, all the colour draining from his face as he stared into his little brother's accusatory eyes.

"M—Mattie," he stuttered, "Mattie, please, I didn't…"

He had never wanted any of that. He had invaded Canada, sure, but that had been to get back at England, he had never wanted to hurt his little brother… but the facts told a different story. No matter what his intentions had been, now it was Canada's body that lay injured in his arms as York was being burned to the ground.

"I didn't want this, Mattie!" America sobbed, his stomach churning with guilt.

He was going to throw up – he was sure he was going to throw up, his little brother was so badly injured that he could barely speak, and it was all his fault, all on him…

Canada's eyes widened a bit, America could see fury glimmering in his lilac irises.

"Then… why?" he spat out. Still angry, but there was an edge of despair in his too weak voice. "Why did you—"

He suddenly stopped talking as his body convulsed, another raw scream was torn from his lips.

"Matthew!" America called out, panicked, trying to hold his little brother still, to prevent him from hurting himself. "Mattie, what's wrong?!"

No matter what he did, however, Canada wouldn't answer. His face was scrunched in pain, he tried to curl into a ball as his breaths came out in shallow gasps before turning into coughs. They were deep, wet coughs, horribly raspy, and America cried out because he didn't think Canada was getting enough air, he wouldn't stop coughing…

Focus. Focus!

Feeling oddly detached, like he was watching the scene from the outside, America lifted Canada's upper body, a hand supporting his neck as he tilted his head back, trying to open his airways.

"Come on, Mattie, breathe…" he said, trying to force his breathing to a regular pattern so that his brother could follow him.

There was no way to slow down his thundering heart, however.

Something wet sprayed on his cheek.

Blinking, America raised a shaking hand to sweep it away, and found himself staring uncomprehendingly at a bright red liquid smeared over his fingers.

'Blood,' his mind supplied numbly.

Canada was coughing up blood.

America's eyes widened as the realization finally hit him.

"Mattie!" he cried in panic, immediately lowering his brother on his side so that he wouldn't choke.

Droplets of blood rained on the ground as Canada kept coughing, struggling for breath.

The coughs finally died down, leaving the child panting, his lips waxen where they weren't stained with crimson. There were tears shining at the corners of his tightly shut eyes, agony was etched in every feature of his contorted face.

"Mattie! Mattie!" America kept calling him, his hands hovering over Canada's wheezing body.

He wanted to help him, to hold him close and cry until everything magically went right, but the still rational part of his mind told him that none of that was going to happen. Not right then.

Swiftly, he gathered the small body against his chest, muttering an apology when the movement elicited a pained whimper. Canada's breaths sounded wet and raspy, the air grating against his throat.

"Why?" muttered the boy, his half-lidded eyes struggling to focus on America. "So many people… they're d-dying… Why, Alfred?"

America felt something shatter inside his chest.

"I—I don't know, Mattie…" he whispered shakily, his eyes never leaving his brother's drawn face. "Believe me, they weren't supposed to do that, they were only supposed to take the city, they shouldn't have…"

"They're burning houses!" his brother sobbed, his features contorted in a grimace. "They—"

He stopped as another wave of agony washed over him, eliciting a pained gasp from his throat.

America tightened his hold around him, burying his face against Canada's hair. The smell of smoke and iron filled his nostrils. It was so wrong. Matthew's soft hair had always smelled good, a light, flowery scent that was almost girlish, Alfred had teased him so many times about it….

"I never wanted any of this, Mattie. Please, believe me. I would have never fought you if I could have avoided it, I…"

'I'm fighting Canada, not you. You're still my little brother.' He wanted to say, but the words never left his mouth. Because they didn't mean anything, did they? He was America. And for how much Alfred could care for Matthew, there was nothing he could do if his people decided to attack Canada.

Alfred could feel the bile rise to the back of his throat. He had prided himself in being strong, a young nation that had managed to defy an Empire… but what good was his strength, if he couldn't even stop lowly soldiers from hurting his little brother?

Canada whimpered again, but America could feel his slight body finally release the tension, curling against America's chest instead of fighting against his hold.

A small hand closed over the fabric of his coat, its grip so weak that it was barely more than a feather's touch.

"Al, it hurts so much… Make it stop…" Canada moaned feebly, burying his head against America's collarbone.

The older nation could feel hot tears dampening his uniform.

It was hard to breathe, it felt like a heavy weight had settled on his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs, his vision was blurry. America blinked, something wet and hot trickled down his face. Only then the boy realized he was crying.

"Mattie, I'm sorry," he whimpered, his arms tightening their hold on the smaller form. "I can't stop them, Mattie. I'm so, so sorry…"

Canada was badly injured because of him, and he had no way to go back, to repair the damage. There was nothing Alfred could do except for holding his little brother, rocking his small body back and forth and whispering apologies mixed with useless words of comfort as the child writhed in agony, fading in and out of consciousness.

All around them, York was ablaze, a cacophony of screams of sorrow and exultance rose to the sky as the relentless flames ate everything on their path, but America barely realized any of it. The only thing he could focus on was the weight of the too hot body in his arms, the small fingers clutching the fabric of his uniform, blood and tears soaking through his coat as his own tears ran down his cheeks and dripped on his brother's hair.

America couldn't have told how much time had passed – it felt like a whole century, but maybe it wasn't more than a few minutes – when a deafening bang jerked him back to reality. He felt the bullet zip next to his left ear before hitting one of the beams at his shoulders.

"Step away from him!" a hoarse voice shouted at the same time.

America straightened, his muscles ready to jump, clutching Canada to his chest.

England was standing at the other end of the alley, the rising sun at his shoulders, as tall and fierce as America had ever seen him. The red coat was floating behind him, stirred by the wind, his face was bloodless and stony, the lips pressed into a thin line, his lime green eyes bright with rage under the knitted eyebrows. His gloved hands were steady as they clutched the rifle, pointing it at America.

"This was a warning shot. Next one goes through your head. Step. Away. From. Him."

America didn't doubt his words for a second. His voice was as cold as ice, the voice of the British Empire, America could feel the power behind those words, the same raw power that had had him tremble when he had first challenged England. There was no doubt that England could have killed him right then and there if he had chosen to. America wasn't even armed, his rifle had been dismissed hours before when it had hindered his run.

At the same time, Alfred couldn't help the wave of relief that washed over him, so intense that it made his head spin. Quickly, he detached Canada's fingers (so weak, far too weak) from his coat and placed the small body on the ground. The young boy immediately curled up on himself, his face contorted in agony.

"Help him," Alfred gasped as he scrambled back on his hands and heels, scraping his palms on the rough terrain. "Please, you have to help him!"

The tears prickling at the corner of his eyes and the despair lacing his voice made America look far younger than he was, but for once he didn't care about showing himself vulnerable to England. Arthur was their older brother. While they were at odd ends right then, he had always cared about him, and it was the same for Matthew. He wouldn't let him die.

England snorted, but after a quick glance at America he dismissed the threat posed by the boy and lowered his rifle. With a few, swift steps the man closed the distance between him and Canada.

"Should have thought about it sooner, shouldn't you?" he sneered as he knelt by Canada, taking out his gloves.

In spite of England's harsh words and stony expression, America couldn't miss the slight tremble of his hands as they carefully cupped his colony's face, feeling for a pulse.

America's stomach plummeted as the lines around England's eyes tightened.

"You can fix him, can't you?!" he pleaded, "He's your colony. Your responsibility. Do something!"

England raised his head, his blazing eyes focusing on America.

"So now you worry, don't you?" he said tartly, "What do you think, that I can magically rebuild this city, revive all the people who died? The mere fact that he's my colony doesn't mean I can do anything to heal him! If you—"

Canada stirred, whimpering something, his voice so feeble that America couldn't make out his words. Provided that he had even said something of sense.

England immediately dismissed America, all his attention shifting to his young colony. His hands gently petted the boy's hair as he whispered soothing words. America felt like he was watching a completely different person. Now England's – Arthur's – voice was soft, his expression tender as he tried to comfort Canada. He would have looked completely calm, in control of the situation, if it weren't for a tightness that wouldn't leave his eyes.

America felt his chest tighten, the lump in his throat so heavy that he could barely breathe.

He watched as England placed his right hand on his brother's forehead and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. His hand seemed to take a faint green glow as he murmured foreign words – and suddenly, Canada's body relaxed, going completely limp.

A keening, panicked wail erupted from America's throat as the boy tried to scramble to his feet, but England's sharp eyes snapped back to him, leaving him frozen in a half-crouch, his muscles tight and ready to jump.

"Stop with your ridiculous antics," snapped the older nation, "He's not dead. I've simply made him unconscious, he was in too much pain, but it won't last for long."

America nodded mutely, falling to his knees. His heart was hammering in his chest, the blood pounding in his ears.

"He's… he's going to be okay, isn't he?" he asked in a small voice, desperately searching a reassurance in England's eyes.

His older brother offered him none.

"I don't think he's going to die, if this is what you're worrying about," he said icily, his face contorted in a mask of contempt. "As for the rest, you can see with your own eyes. 'Okay'? You are burning his capital to the ground. How can you be that oblivious? Of course it's going to hurt him, you bloody git! And he's only a colony, not a full-grown nation, he's not as strong as we are! How could you have ever thought that it wouldn't affect him?!"

America flinched at England's harsh words.

"But I… They weren't supposed to do that!" the words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush. "We were only supposed to take the city… We did take the city, it was supposed to be easy, but then there was the explosion… a lot of people died, they were so angry… I never ordered to burn the houses! They weren't supposed to hurt people, really, they weren't! But… But… they won't stop! I don't know why they're doing that, I've tried to stop them, but they won't listen! Please, what I am supposed to do? I don't want Mattie to keep hurting! How can I stop them?!"

During America's desperate monologue, England's expression had shifted subtly from rage to something that America couldn't identify. He was still furious, but there was also a glint of something else in his eyes… something that looked oddly like regret.

"People won't always listen to you, America," he said gravely, looking straight at America's wide and tear-filled eyes. "You can give orders, but they aren't bound to them. You're their nation, so they will unconsciously respect you more than they would respect a normal man, no matter his rank, but ultimately, the decision is theirs. You can influence them, but you can't decide for them. And sometimes, it is you who has to bend to their will."

"But… my people are good people!" America retorted desperately, uncomprehendingly – refusing to comprehend the implication of England's words. "I know them, I've talked to them, they wouldn't hurt innocent people, why won't they listen when I tell them to stop?!"

England exhaled deeply, his eyes dropping to Canada's limp form. America suddenly noticed the deep bags that marked the skin under his eyes, the greyish pallor that wasn't only due to his natural fair complexion. He hadn't seen England look so tired and frail since the Revolutionary War.

"People do horrible things in war, Alfred. Even good people can turn into monsters, at the right opportunity."

America violently shook his head, desperately trying to deny England's assessment. Deep in his heart, however, he knew those words to be true.

"What am I supposed to do, then?" he whispered, his shoulders dropping in defeat. "I don't want to hurt Matthew. He's my little brother."

The words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

"Withdraw your men," England said sharply, "It's the only way you can prevent them from going on with this."

The man clearly considered the conversation concluded and rose to his feet, gently cradling Canada to his chest.

America didn't try to stop England as he turned his back to him and started to walk away, his steps slow and carefully measured to avoid hurting Canada. He wanted to call out his brother, to cry and apologize, but Canada desperately needed medical attention, and England was hopefully going to provide to that.

America could only stare at England's retreating back as tears ran freely down his face. He could see Canada's small, bloodied hand flapping uselessly against the man's coat, completely limp. Everything in that picture oozed wrongness.

At least, when he had finally defeated England, his former caretaker had been on his own two feet, tired and dejected but still alive. Still ready to fight.

America had just won the battle, but he didn't think he had ever felt that empty in his whole life.

Pain was everywhere – pain was everything he could feel, everything he had ever felt, it was all-consuming, swallowing him in his clutches, trapped in a feverish limbo of agony. Every breath he drew sent hot spires of agony through his ribcage, like a knife digging deeper and deeper into his lungs, the air felt like needles scraping against the walls of his throat, burning, searing, every single nerve in his body screamed in agony, he wished he would pass out, he could stop feeling, but each time the excruciating pain brought him back to the brink of consciousness.

He could feel a fire relentlessly burning, consuming everything in its path, wood, earth, grass, people – he could hear them scream in pain, beg for mercy as the unrelenting flames extinguished their lives like feeble candles to the wind. He wanted to reach out for them, to help them, but his body was burning as well, consumed by the flames, drowning in an endless pit of agonized cries.

Canada was screaming, begging for the pain to stop, he was sure he would die or go crazy, there was no way he could endure that much pain, his lungs couldn't get enough air, he knew he wasn't going to last another moment, and at the same time he begged for the cold embrace of death, to fade into the nothingness that would have stopped the pain.

But he never did. Little by little, the flames started dying out, leaving charred ruins in their wake. The pain in Canada's body never faded, there was still sorrow, still fire burning in his veins, but now he could also feel something else, gentle fingers threading through his hair, blissfully cold hands caressing his burning skin, a cool, damp cloth on his forehead, and, above the screams, a smooth, soothing voice was singing a lullaby. Canada realized that one of his small hands was tightly clasped in a bigger, rougher one. The touch hurt, but at the same time the boy found himself drawing strength from the contact, the hand anchored him to reality, tearing him away from the ghosts of the burning city. Finally, Canada sank into the cold, peaceful oblivion of sleep.

The next time Canada woke up, it was to a dull pain that enveloped his whole body, trapped under heavy, constricting blankets. Even breathing was a struggle, his mouth felt parched and papery, and his throat raw, tender, the passing of the air hurting it. He moaned, his head rolling to a side as he tried to make sense of where he was and why everything was aching so much.

A big, scarred hand gently squeezed his left hand. England?

Why is he here? Why is he holding my hand?

"I only wish you would wake up," said a tired, hollow voice. "Even for a single moment… just long enough to be sure that you're going to heal. But that's quite selfish of me, isn't it? You'd just be in pain if you were awake."

Yes, that was definitely England, Canada would recognize his smooth voice anywhere. His words didn't make any sense, however.

"Mr England?" Canada forced himself to ask.

Talking turned out to be surprisingly hard, his voice came out raspy and feeble, and the action brought an unexpected pang of pain to his throat.

England's hand, however, tightened over his.

"Matthew?! Can you understand me? Are you truly awake this time?"

His voice was oddly gentle, but at the same time laced with urgency. His free hand landed softly on Canada's cheek, then slid down to cup his face.

Canada reflexively squeezed back England's hand as he tried to pry his eyes open. Again, the action was far more difficult than it should have been, his lids were like lead, and he had to blink several times before his surrounding came into focus, outlining England's face leaning over him.

Canada gasped, unconsciously recoiling at the sight. England looked horrible. His wheat blond hair was a mess, sticking out in all directions, and deep lines were etched in his drawn face. The man's pallid skin had taken a greyish hue, and his eyes looked dull and tired under his knitted brow.

"Mr England, what are you doing here?" the boy fretted as his mind conjured the picture of England's sick body after losing the Revolutionary War. He didn't look that bad yet, but from his appearance, Canada could bet he wasn't far from collapsing. And the last thing he wanted was to repeat the experience.

"You should be resting! You'll get sick again, you—"

Canada shifted, trying to brace himself on his elbows to sit up, but an excruciating wave of pain seared through his midsection at the movement. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, instinctively trying to curl up on himself to get relief from the pain, but England clasped firmly his shoulders, holding him still.

"Matthew! Don't move. Just focus on breathing."

After some almost unbearably long moments of agony, the pain receded to a throbbing in Canada's abdomen. It didn't completely fade and was still too strong to be ignored, but Canada could breathe again, his body relaxing slightly in utter exhaustion. The boy forced himself to open his eyes, blinking away the tears that were prickling at the corners.

Above him, England exhaled in relief.

"You shouldn't strain yourself, you have been very ill," he explained in the same soft voice he had used before. "You slept for three days. But it's all right now."

"Oh…" was all Canada could mutter.

England's words made sense, he was still feeling awful, barely hanging onto consciousness. A pang of guilt blossomed through his stomach at the thought of upsetting England so much, yet… he couldn't help but feel that there was something more to it.

"What—"

England shushed him, a hand on his lips.

"It's all right now," he repeated, smoothing back his hair. "Don't worry about anything. You still need a lot of rest, but you're going to be all right."

His voice was soothing and his words gentle, but Canada didn't miss the slight tremble in his hands, a cold glint in his eyes. England was lying, there was something wrong.

He didn't have the chance to ask again, however. England detached his hand from his hold and slipped it under Canada's neck, lifting his head. A moment later, a glass was pressed against the boy's lips.

"Drink," said England.

Canada took a small sip. The water was cold, relieving his mouth from the papery feeling, but it seemed to scrape against the walls of his throat when he swallowed, and the boy finished the glass only because England kept urging him to do so. He felt dizzy and weak, every inch of his body screaming in pain, but he was also becoming gradually aware that England had lied to him. He wasn't sick, or better, not only. He had been injured, he could feel bandages wrapped tightly around most of his body – arms, legs, his forehead, they felt particularly tight and heavy around his abdomen.

"Get back to sleep now," said England, "You need to regain your strength. I'll be here when you wake up."

In any other circumstances, Canada would have been overwhelmed by gratitude and affection at England's words, warmed up by his display of concern – but this time was different. He was still grateful, whatever his motives were, England's attention was something to be treasured deeply, but… there was something wrong in the whole picture. Something England didn't want him to know, and Canada had a hunch that it was too important to ignore.

"Mr England, what happened? How did I get hurt?" he asked, and bit his lip to avoid apologizing for his boldness. He knew that whatever was going on was too important for him to be stopped by his politeness.

England stiffened. He immediately recovered, his hands going to smooth the blankets that covered Canada's body.

"Don't worry about it, Matthew. You just need to focus on recovering, all right? Be a good boy and go back to sleep."

"No," Canada said stubbornly, pouting. He was exhausted, weak and in severe pain, he didn't feel like arguing with England, but he needed to know, and he wasn't lucid enough to mind his words. "I need to know what happened. Please."

England's hands tightened over the sheets. He looked like he wanted to worry his lower lips with his teeth and was barely refraining himself from doing so.

"Please," Canada begged again, "Something bad happened, I know. I… I need to know it."

There had been fire in his feverish dreams, he recalled suddenly. Or had it been real?

"The fire…"

England's face became a mask of stone at his words, his whole body tensing.

"Matthew…"

"No!" Canada said again, tossing his head from side to side.

England's reaction seemed to confirm his worst fears, he wouldn't have tensed up like that if his words hadn't hit the mark. The fire had been real. The burning, all those people dying…

"Matthew, you need to calm down, you'll reopen your wounds!"

England's hands were clasping his shoulders too tightly, almost painfully, and there was a panicked edge in the man's voice.

Canada, however, couldn't listen to him, his mind focused on a desperate attempt to remember.

They had been at war against America, he recalled suddenly. He hadn't been happy about it, he could recall the weight sinking in his stomach when a stony-faced England had given him the announcement, but he had tried to hide his feelings from his caretaker. America had been winning, with most of England's forces occupied in Europe, Canada and his troops had to retreat further and further, and then…

The last memories hit Canada like a punch in the gut. A strangled cry bubbled up his throat as he frantically rolled to lean over the edge of the bed, violently retching.

England cried out in surprise and jumped up from his chair, his hands immediately going to support the boy, but Canada barely noticed it. His slight frame was shaken by the coughs, each one of his many injuries was screaming in agony, but the boy didn't realize it, his mind trapped in the infernal memories of the flames that had slowly engulfed the entire York. He could still feel their heat on his skin, the smell of the smoke impregnating his hair and clothes, a chorus of screams filling his ears, there was no escape from that, all he could do was watch, powerless, as his capital, his people, were burned to the ground, and he couldn't take a single breath, he was coughing and retching as smoke filled his lungs…

"Matthew! Listen to me, Matthew!"

England's voice suddenly breached through Canada's memories, bringing him back to the present. The boy suddenly became aware of England's hands, one clutching his shoulder, the other intertwined in his hair. There were tears running down his face and dropping to the ground, mixing with small scarlet beads. The coppery taste of blood was strong in Canada's mouth, and his lungs were tight, begging for air.

"Matthew, you have to breathe!" England's voice was urgent, panicked.

Canada felt sick, his stomach churning, but there was nothing else to throw up. He brought a shaky hand on top of England's, clutching at his fingers as hard as he could as he gasped for air, trying to breathe through the agony that engulfed his whole body.

"Why?" he sobbed as soon as he could speak again, weakly turning his head as he searched for England's eyes. "S—so many people… He—he burned down York…"

England sighed, briefly closing his eyes. Canada could see the grief written in the tight features of his face.

"I'm sorry, love…" he murmured, gently gathering Canada to his chest. One of his hands went to stroke Canada's hair as he started rocking gently back and forth. "I'm so sorry."

Canada clutched at his older brother's shirt, his body shaking as he tried to drown out his people cries, but he couldn't. Now that he remembered, there was no way to stop feeling their agony.

"How could he do this?" he moaned feebly.

England didn't answer, but his arms tightened around the smaller frame.

Canada wanted to hate America for what he had done to him, his people were screaming for revenge, wanting to see him suffer the same fate… and at the same time, Matthew realized that he couldn't hate Alfred. Fragmented echoes of memories were worming their way into his brain, a panicked voice calling out his name, arms holding him against a strong chest, tears dropping on his hair as his brother's voice apologized over and over among the crackle of the flames.

"He didn't have any choice," England said somberly, but his voice was heavy and laced with sorrow.

As I won't have, when the time comes.

Canada buried his head against his brother's chest, closing his eyes tightly, still trembling with pain and exhaustion. He wished he could go back to when he was still a little colony, playing with an overexcited America in the yard as England's eyes carefully watched each of their moves, a small smile curling at the corners of his mouth at their antics. But those times were gone forever, and America's once smiling face was smeared with soot and blood and his eyes cold and dull.

In spite of England's arms wrapped around him, Canada felt cold.

(word count: 7,089)

Notes:

The first part is done. I'm not really sure of what I've written, and it's far longer than I had intended. Seriously, somebody should teach me how to be synthetic. There will be a second part, focusing on the burning of Washington.

The title is taken from Ed Sheeran's song for The Desolation of Smaug. While it doesn't exactly relate to this situation, the idea for this story hit me while I was listening to it.
Another inspiration was These Gates, a fancomic from TheLostHype. You can find it on Deviantart, it's not finished yet but I really recommend it, it's something amazing, both in the art and the storyline.

Lastly, English isn't my first language, so I apologize for any mistake you may find. Please tell me if you notice something, I'm trying to improve!

And please review and let me know what you think about this story in general! :)

EDIT! I received a review complaining that Canada is the older between him and America. Now, my dear anonymous reviewer, I have a couple of things to say. First of all: while Canada's age in modern times isn't established, during the war of 1812 he's younger than America in canon. I'd recommend you to have a look again at chapter 180, that explicitly portrays how America grew up faster than Canada due to his stronger economy and bigger political strength. After that, Canada was drawn significantly smaller than America until he obtained some independence, but the war of 1812 is previous to that, so he was still younger than America.

As for what England tells Canada, once again, I'd advise you to have another look at the chapter: England is visibly sweating and stuttering, he clearly didn't have any idea of what to say and blurted out the first thing he came up with. I wouldn't consider him reliable. What I would consider reliable, instead, is the omniscient narrator that in the first panel of chapter 193 identifies America as Canada's older brother.

I also think that Canada should be younger than America in modern times because his economic and political strength never reached America's, and this could be debatable since Canada's age wasn't established in canon, but the point here is different.

I think I have sufficiently explained why I have written Canada as younger than Americain this story – just like in canon during this period – but for a more detailed and general explanation, you can have a look at my tumblr (feynavaley), I have a couple of posts about it (I also touched the early colonization aspect there). Either way, I'm going to keep writing Canada as the younger brother.