Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Gore and Violence

Story Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

-France/ Francis Bonnefoy

Time Frame: American Revolution

-You Were So Small-

"You were so great, once"

Late December in port city of Yorktown, Virginia was damp and cold. Light patches of frost littered the ground as evidence of a blessedly mild winter, and the desolate streets were thankfully traversable in this less than impressive snow. Buildings and windows were dusted with white flakes that fell lazily in the breezeless eve, and only a few candle burning street lamps illuminated the way down the midnight path.

Everything was so quiet and deserted...it hadn't been that way just a few months ago.

The soft tapping of boots against the cobblestones echoed the sedate-tempo of the sleeping town's heartbeat. A man dressed in high black boots and a heavy wool overcoat walked silently and alone through Yorktown's main artery. He kept his hands hidden in his pockets and the stiff collar of his coat up to protect his face and neck, but there was no obscuring the unruly blond hair collecting flakes of snow. His sky blue eyes were dulled with a heaviness willingly born to bring peace to his surroundings, as such was the natural burden of his kind.

After so long at war, his people deserved this moment of calm regardless of the fact that he had had none since telling his childhood mentor and protector that he was declaring his independence. The first shot had been fired over five years ago in Concord, Massachusetts...the last had been on a battlefield just outside this very city. That final bullet had almost come from a British musket, and Alfred was here as his last opportunity to find out why it hadn't.

He reached the end of the road and looked out at the destruction of the harbor, as the only remnant left to be seen of the conflict. After the success of the Philadelphia Campaign, proving victorious for the Colonial and French alliance, the British and Hessen forces were left over stressed for resources and moral. The last great hurdle had been concentrated in the Southern Front with the British occupation here in Virginia. French ships had sailed into this very harbor and crippled the British vessels set on rescuing the last great battalion of troops fighting the ground war on American soil.

His mentor had been one of them and a key reason why it had taken so long to reclaim the south. The memory brought the echoes of blaring pain to his chest, forcing him to wince and look away from the still mangled harbor before him. He swallowed thickly and pressed on, slowly removing a gloved hand from his coat as he rubbed another old ache. When the British had taken down Savannah, Alfred had crumbled to his knees, doubling over in pain, as the inferno of agony consumed his body from the inside out. Much to Alfred's dismay, the British had found an incredible amount of supporters in the south; loyalist who, to Alfred, represented his own inner conflict that begged him to throw down his arms and plea for his sovereign's forgiveness. Disobedience was not something tolerated under British rule, the crown was the indisputable governor of all and his mentor had raised him to believe as such. But that other side of him, the side that demanded equality, freedom, and some goddamn respect roared louder than the gentleman's demands for silence. He still remembered the day he had begun to rebel; first, with little things like neglecting house hold duties, ignoring dress code, and even reading forbidden material written by men who soon sided with in this revolution. He knew his mentor, Arthur, had seen what was brewing, as British America hadn't been the first colonial enterprise to misbehave. But alongside the denial and the anger, Alfred also saw the hurt. That hurt had been what took him so long to finally raise a gun to his master's face and tell him he was done taking orders - it was his turn to give them.

First being: take your crown and go home.

Alfred hadn't seen a smile, nor heard a kind word from his mentor since that day. The backlash hadn't been hard and fast as he had been expecting; in fact, the older nation seemed to have been in too much shock to do anything for a time...but when he did act, he acted with a wrath the likes of which Alfred had never seen. He began tearing British America apart one town, one city, one colony at a time with an expression Alfred could only describe as pure stone...

Cold, detached...dead.

"Breathe Amérique, you have to control your breathing."

'Can't...can't breathe...GOD! There's so much pain! Why is there so much pain?'

Hands grabbed him as he writhed, thrashing and trying so hard not to scream. His fingers clawed the ground with dirt and blood caking under his nails, as the earth gave way to his torment. His spine arched of its own will, contorting his body into an unnatural shape, as he struggled to seize the scream in his throat. Capillaries in his lungs collapsed after so much oxygen depravation, and the only thing keeping his limbs from flailing were the strong hands pinning him down.

"Amérique! Amérique-! ALFRED! Cher Dieu, you're too strong for me to keep this up!"

A million stabbing pains were attacking his midsection and white hot spears were plunging into his guts, scrambling his innards about before wrenching them out like discardable meat. His skin was on fire and his back felt like it was going to snap in two. His pelvis was cracking - he swore it was caving in under some incredible weight. There was magnetism in the center of the pain, sucking everything into the vortex of pure agony that made him feel like someone had opened a black hole in his intestines. Someone was reaching in and trying to rip his organs out through a metaphysical tear in his body!

'Oh God, make it STOP!'

"Surrender it, my friend," his French ally pleaded as gently as he could, while still trying to maintain arresting the young nation's incredible strength. "Surrender it and the pain will end. Let him take it, Amérique, and live to reclaim it another day."

So hot, so much pain. He could feel blood spilling out from a rupture within himself and see in his mind the blood staining him beneath the skin, spreading out like a black and purple sea, while crimson flooded his insides. The British had broken through. Oh God, he broke through!

Muscles locking, body shaking, straining to keep himself together while being attacked from hundreds of miles away, Alfred gripped the cold earth of New Jersey's soil tighter as New York hemorrhaged within him. "N-no...No!" he sobbed, still choking on his lack of proper oxygen, as he was fighting too hard elsewhere to care about the needs here. "He...he can't-"

His French companion's hat was gone, his forehead placed against his unofficial ally's, as he made his own pained pleas to counter Alfred's stubborn resistance that would lead to his own demise. "Surrender it, Alfred. Please do not die tonight because you could not accept one sacrifice."

Suddenly, the sound of a gunshot filled his brain, drowning out the sounds of his ally trying to reason above him, the fires and war raging around him, and the ear splitting scream erupting out of him.

The descent into the fort's prison reminded Alfred of just how cold that night had been. Arthur had landed in Manhattan with the intention of standing before a lone and trembling colony ready to give up his 'nonsense' and beg the forgiveness of his superiors. Redcoats had swept into New York and swiftly dismantled what resistance stood before them. Unprepared for such a devastating attack, the colonial defenders had been torn between fleeing or putting up what stand they could...and those who planted their feet in and met British arms with American were brought down hard or captured. Those who fled were driven out of the heart of the city. General Washington, the patriot commander, had nearly been taken during that battle but managed to elude enemy hands.

One of the colony's most important vital regions, however, had not been so fortunate.

The northern campaigns were the longest and the hardest fought; New England had been taken by storm and reclaimed slowly by bloody tooth and nail. It had taken years to recover his northern colonies, New York being the last, but once he had it gave him the strength to turn southward where his main adversary had gone...though why his mentor had suddenly left the north in his subordinates' hands to take up the fight in the south was beyond him.

He would have to ask him that too.

The makeshift prison's slick stone walls ended at an intersection branching off in a 'T' shape, and Alfred turned down the right hall. All of the cells, safe for one, on this level were empty because of the soul inmate housed here. While Redcoat soldiers filled the upper floors, making them rather stifling and unpleasant in every way, this level felt more like a crypt. The silence was deafening, the temperature was freezing, and the only light came from torches placed in holders spaced along the walls. There were no windows down here, as the only ventilation were at the north and south ends of the halls, and no natural light or sound penetrated the thick garrison stones. It might have been free from the madness above...but Alfred found himself preferring the soldier's level to this.

It hadn't been his decision to put his old mentor down here, but his advisor's, Francis Bonnefoy, who had made a solid point that mortal men would have to guard the immortal avatar of the British Empire. The fear and anxiety of the task was already high enough without having to worry about Arthur rioting and escaping the much more accommodating officer's holding quarters. Though the man had not offered even a hint of resistance since being here, Alfred's people still sided with Francis and insisted upon keeping their high profile prisoner some place more secure...and much further from the world above.

Alfred had begrudgingly agreed to it under the conditions that no one else was to be on the same block, the prisoner would not have to be chained in his cell, and more than just bread and water be brought to him. To those terms, it had been the men's turn to begrudgingly agree.

Though, much to Alfred's dismay, those terms had not been fully obeyed until almost a month after Arthur's imprisonment began. It hadn't been until Alfred returned from his conference in the north and unleashed his outrage about the older nation's maltreatment and taken over wardenship of the prisoner himself.

The blond stopped at the last cell on the right, the only one with a thick steel barrier and a closed window portal. He withdrew a large skeleton key from his pocket and unlocked the heavy door before pushing the creaking mass open.

Inside the stone walled cell, the floor dipped down a bit to accommodate more headroom than allowed outside in the hall. This was one of the largest cells in the prison and meant for keeping the most dangerous groups of prisoners, who usually killed each other when left without supervision for to long. Five or six people would be thrown in here at one time and by noon, the guards would be cleaning out half or all of the prisoners' bodies. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but the room had been selected to accommodate just one person for now.

Someone far more dangerous than a dozen or more mortal sociopaths combined.

Silence hung thick, as Alfred took a step away from the door and let light spill into the room a little more to better look at its sole occupant. While there was a small shelf that protruded from the wall, supposedly a bed fitted with a pillow and blanket, the man dressed in a long red coat sat far from the only accommodations and against the wall opposite the door. The man's head was hung, one leg extended before him, and the other bent with an arm resting upon it. There was no reaction upon Alfred's entrance and the silence held between them for a long time.

Alfred kept his sigh to himself, as it was clear Arthur Kirkland had no desire to see him...just like last time.

"Word came from your king that there will be no more military offensives against us, so he's ordering a withdraw of British troops from...my land," he began, trying to break the silence but finding the words difficult to say. His people were celebrating victory and he could feel the intense longing for freedom abating inside of him - the dream really in his grasp for the first time in his life. Thirteen united colonies had just defeated the greatest empire in the world...they had made the impossible, possible.

Yet, the heaviness inside of him was mirrored only by the taciturnity of his current companion, as Arthur gave no response.

The American held his tongue for a moment waiting, praying Arthur would say something but nothing happened. "A ship is scheduled to come into port tomorrow from Britain. We're allowing it in to release you and your men, as we have no reason to detain you any longer."

The man's shoulders tensed a bit and Alfred's eyes latched onto him, as he watched Arthur's breaths cease for a moment. The young...nation, yes, once his leaders finalized the last of the treaties, he would be a nation just...like England...Like Arthur, who he so desperately wanted to speak but his mentor hadn't said a word nor so much as looked at him since the day they met on the fields of Yorktown and Arthur failed to shoot him. In the close to two-hundred years Alfred had known Arthur, he had never once seen his guardian falter or cry. That day, the greatest empire had had the chance to end everything and bring the war to an end with a British victory...all it would have taken was a single shot...and he didn't.

Alfred so desperately wanted to know why.

He had asked him before, hell he had been so frustrated after being turned away for the umpteenth time he had practically screamed in the Englishman's face and shoved him against the wall demanding answers. But Arthur had stubbornly maintained his silence, not even giving Alfred an answer with his eyes, as he kept the stone mask upon his face. Alfred had been so furious he had stormed out and not returned...until now, over a month later.

Even though the slight shoulder movement had been more than he had gotten since his men had shackled and brought Arthur here from the battlefield, the avatar still held his silence and never once looked up...his tongue not even being loosened by the thought of going home. Alfred had hoped that would finally do it, that the promise of home would somehow break through the shell his former protector had put around himself, but it seemed his hopes were in vain.

Arthur said nothing.

"Matthew, asked about you. He wanted to make sure you were okay and being treated well," Alfred opened up on the subject of his twin brother, who had sided with Britain instead of him. While he had been furious with Canada and Matthew at the time, Alfred could hardly blame his twin for making the obviously wiser choice. At the time, Canada had been just as much a colony as America, but without the intense drive for independence his southern neighbor harbored. America was going to war with the most powerful navy and army on the planet with little to no money, men, or supplies - to top it off, it also lacked a defined military and leadership of its own. France, Spain, and the Netherlands had taken a chance on the American underdog because of their intense hatred for England, but Matthew had remained with his surrogate father out of devotion, obedience, and plain common sense.

Alfred could hardly fault him for that, now could he.

"I'm not taking any kind of action against Canada, and in the message I sent to Matthew I wrote that you were...as well as could be expected and will be returned to England now that the war is over. I..." Alfred paused, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "I wanted to come and tell you when I found out last week, but I was called away to handle a few things north of here...I'm sorry..."

"You're sorry..."

Alfred blinked and his entire body froze, as his mind registered that Arthur actually spoke.

"That's the first time you've said that since you declared war on me."

Slowly and lacking fluidity, Arthur lifted his head and his dulled, blond hair slid away from his near lifeless green eyes to reveal a resentful expression Alfred had never seen before. The avatar of the Great British Empire glared back at the American for the first time since letting his musket fall that day, because he'd been unable...to shoot an idiot.

"Arthur -"

"When this fantasy is over, you'll wish I had pulled the trigger."

Arthur's words were nothing compared to the tone behind them and Alfred found himself rooted to the spot with pain radiating from his chest.

As a child, Alfred could only remember his master's voice being gentle, soothing, and every now and then playfully chiding. As he grew up, Arthur laughed more, he smiled and, while a little stricter, he was prouder of his charge too. Alfred could think of nothing in the world better than Arthur Kirkland looking down at him, a smile across his face, and an approving nod, while giving him praise. He had only seen him get angry when France was mentioned or a poor critique was given of his culinary skills. Arthur had never raised a hand to him or hurt him in any way, but as Alfred continued to grow into adulthood, he began to impose harsher rules and restrictions. His words changed from endearing and light to criticizing and always addressing Alfred's every flaw instead of what he did right. Nothing Alfred did could please him; nothing he said, wore, or tried was enough to satisfy Arthur and prove that he was indeed a well rounded, astute, and polished young man. He worked tirelessly to do all he could to meet his mentor's expectations, but at some point Alfred got tired of bending to the will of another and meeting someone else's standards instead of his own.

That's when he heard that tone for the first time. It was the voice of God condemning him for choosing to break free of his ignorance with poison fruit, rather than live in blind obedience and paradise.

Blood poured down from the gash at Alfred's hairline in a crimson streak that nearly blinded him in his left eye. Droplets of it fell upon his blue coat, splattering the navy wool with red and turning it black. While he thought Arthur probably thought it fitting just how red the rest of his attire was after the fighting, no pleasure showed on the Brit's face, as he stared the American down with unwavering green eyes. The man didn't so much as acknowledge the 'frog prince' of France, his most hated nemesis, standing next to his rebellious colony; all of his attention was on Alfred.

Francis would later admit that that had truly shocked him.

"Those are your choices, Alfred; you either surrender now or you'll lose another colony," the British commander and avatar stated, calling Alfred by his human name rather than his nation name. Truly, it was a slap to the face and proved that Arthur refused to recognize his colony as anything but a subordinate. "Judging by the state of things after the loss of New York and New Jersey...losing Pennsylvania will be the end of you."

Alfred winced and felt his heart quiver in response. The loss of New York had ruptured his spleen and all but destroyed everything below the stomach. He had finally surrendered his colony to the empire and was barely recovering when the merciless assault continued after the failed negotiations at the Staten Island Peace Conference. The crown had wanted an American surrender, but all it received were the charred remains of a British flag and the words 'freedom or death' thrown in its face. The British had wasted no time in invading and taking over New Jersey, sending Alfred into respiratory failure, before a hasty retreat by Colonial forces to Pennsylvania yielded the loss of yet another colony...but spared Alfred's life by cutting off another invaded part of himself.

Now, barely able to stand on his own and internal organs still repairing, as the colonies tried to recollect themselves Alfred stood bloody, ragged, and with labored breathing before his father country. This was his mentor's last attempt to reason with him after having given him a taste of just what war was really like and what he was really up against.

These were the consequences of what he had done.

Arthur betrayed nothing, as he watched emotionlessly while the young avatar strained to remain on his feet beneath the grime and weight of war. But Francis knew his old nemesis was in just as much, if not more pain, than his dear ward at that moment.

The tightness at the corners of those green eyes, his locked jaw, tightened fists - the way his shoulders shook slightly every time the boy's lungs spasmed and blood freckled his hand with each cough...Oh yes, Arthur was suffering far more than any sword or bullet wound could do. France had yet to officially enter the war but its leaders had sent their avatar to gather information before America's Benjamin Franklin traveled there to try and rally support in the fight against England.

Francis was beginning to see that the best way to make Arthur Kirkland hurt was to rip him apart with his son's suffering.

"You had your answer on...S-Staten Island," Alfred replied in between labored breaths. He tried to stand a little straighter, meeting Arthur's silent glare of frustration with his own glare of determination.

Francis couldn't help but think that Arthur had never made a more perfect replication of himself.

"So be it."

That night, as the British had prepared to cross into Pennsylvania and take the northern front of the Colonial forces once and for all, George Washington made a daring crossing of the Delaware and surprised the British troops from behind. New Jersey had been reclaimed upon driving the British back to New York and the move helped Alfred to breathe easier. However, Alfred was far from out of danger with New York still firmly in British hands...

"Is that what you've been waiting for all this time? An apology?" Alfred finally replied, his own tone becoming low and listless.

Arthur said nothing for a time and his expression never changed, as he looked back at his former charge. "That, Alfred, is not how the game is played. Victors never apologize for anything...but like most things about war, I don't expect you to be an expert or even a rudimentary novice."

There was bite to his words but Alfred didn't let it hurt him, as he was finally getting somewhere with his former mentor. Yes, the man was still about as amiable in conversation as an aged and very pissed off mountain lion, but he was talking...which was more than Alfred had gotten out of him in months.

"You didn't teach me much about it. What I learned I had to pick up from France, Spain, the Netherlands, and what came naturally...so if you're sore about me not conducting a proper British war then you've only yourself to blame for not teaching me how," Alfred replied, crossing his arms and leaning back against the side wall a respectable distance from the Englishman.

"Yet another reason your mess of united colonies won't last - frogs, Spaniards, and the Dutch have trained you. Perhaps it was my failing for not teaching you, for if I had you would have known to surrender long before-" Arthur's voice, once low and thick with its arrogance and chastisement, slowly trailed off and faded along with his gaze.

Everything fell silent for a moment before Alfred could stand it no longer. "Before what? Before I drove you out of Boston or reclaimed New Jersey? Held Philadelphia, retook New York, and even stopped you from getting the naval advantage again here in Virginia?" he returned with an expression tightened with anger at not knowing what Arthur had been trying to say. The fact that the man wasn't even acknowledging that despite everything he had actually done a good job for once, that he had succeeded in the impossible, and finished what he had set out to do was reigniting feelings of resentment.

Arthur didn't reply, as he had lapsed into silence again while something played out in his mind. Alfred was left frustrated and in the dark; what was going through Arthur's head?

"What time will the ship be arriving?"

Alfred blinked, a bit taken aback by the change in subject, but the former colony sighed and decided to comply. "Sometime in the morning. We've promised provisions to restock the ship with what we can and will be sending an official request for a formal treaty signing with your king to finalize Britain's surrender over rights to the colonies. I will also be including an official acknowledgement that this new nation is the United States of America."

He was a nation now, just like his predecessor, and he was damn well going to be recognized as one.

A short scuffing sound came from the Englishman and the empire almost cracked a smile, "Is that what you're calling yourself now, Alfred?"

The avatar's eyes narrowed slightly, "Yes. My colonies will be recognized as individual states and united, we are a country. While some areas were promised to my allies for their help in the war, I'm maintaining the thirteen original colonies and they'll be more than enough to sustain me for now."

Arthur finally looked back at his former colony with absolute indignation in his eyes. "Sustain you? I took just two of your colonies and you nearly died. Had I taken a third, I would be having this one-sided conversation over your grave," he snapped, as he slowly pushed himself to his feet and stood erect and defiant against the man who had ordered his confinement here. Eyes that had been all but dead since his surrender were now fiery and burning with intense anger, as he continued. "You think you have what it takes to sustain yourself with only your thirteen states? Do you have any idea what you have been spared because my influence, my name, and my power up until this point? Your ships haven't been guarding the seas or your ports from pirates and invaders, no one trembles at the name 'America' and certainly not this United States bullocks. Your borders haven't been manned by your motley crew of farmers, blacksmiths, and page boys, and certainly not your army of frogs, Spaniards, and Dutchmen!"

The rage boiling off the Englishman was more intense than anything Alfred had ever witnessed. His mouth hung slightly open, ready to protest but finding no chance or words with which to speak.

As a child, the thought of England protecting him had always brought comfort and, though he would never tell him, Alfred knew some of the injuries Arthur sometimes returned to the colonies with were gotten in defense of him. Arthur had sacrificed greatly with time, resources, money, and manpower for him...his mentor had spared little expense when it came to raising him. It wasn't until he had gotten older and became more self sustaining that Arthur coddled him less and less to the point the young man nearly broke his back just to get an utterance of praise from him. Alfred had been expected by then to return on the crown's 'investment', and the thought had hurt him deeply thinking that Arthur had only taken care of him for so long simply to reap the benefits of having raised an obedient servant.

Yet...regardless of everything; the arguments, the rebellion, his leader's opinions, his people's opinions and even the opinions of his allies...Alfred could never honestly make himself believe that Arthur never cared. There was a selflessness in Arthur's rearing of him that could not be denied, as when the nightmares came and his mentor let him crawl under the blankets next to him at night it was never clearer that the older avatar had felt something other than the need to care for an investment. There was no interest to be had in abating a child's fears by letting him sleep soundly in the comfort of protecting arms, keeping all the nightmares away.

But as time passed those arms had become smothering and the nightmares began to star the man behind them as a monster. Everyone had to grow up; Alfred had just started his greatest growth spurt in the bloodiest way possible. He had to learn to protect himself now, and he would do just that to keep the freedom he had fought so hard to obtain.

Alfred's expression sobered, as he looked back at Arthur's rage. Beneath the anger, Alfred saw the hurt for the first time since the Englishman had originally tried to talk him out of revolution in Boston. It had been the first time in his life he had raised a gun to Arthur's face and returned with his own ultimatum of 'release me or draw your arms'. He'd never forget his mentor's expression.

"Alfred! Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

"I know exactly what I'm doing," He growled back, the pistol not wavering, as the barrel remained level with his master's head. "I'm taking my freedom since you won't give it to me."

"AND WHAT WILL YOU DO WITH IT?" Arthur suddenly demanded, the scream uncontrollable as his demeanor cracked in his furious desperation to get Alfred to see reason. "Do you have any idea what you're asking for? A dream? The high that satisfies a feeling you have? Its a delusional need that requires more responsibility than you have maturity to handle. Now stop this nonsense OR ELSE!"

The American had heard these arguments before; he heard them in his sleep from the voices of the Loyalists and the child within him that was as frightened by the thought of freedom as he was by the thought of being this master's enemy. It was a struggle to keep himself from not shaking as he held the weapon, to keep his grip strong when invisible hands were fighting to pry his fingers from the trigger. Sweat dripped down from his brow as his expression tightened, desperation from the stronger rebellious side holding his arm firmly and his resolve indomitable.

He could do this. He was meant to do this. He was America, and he WOULD have his freedom!

"...I'm not afraid of you, Arthur. I've never been afraid of you," He said in a low voice, slowly pulling the hammer back on the pistol. "But before this is done...you will learn to be afraid of me."

The sound of the firing mechanism clicking into place made Arthur's eyebrows go up; even more shocking than the boy's actions was Alfred's use of his human name...a name Arthur had not even shared with several older and far more powerful countries in this world. It was a name he shared with America, his Alfred, because he truly loved him, trusted him, and felt that he would never say it in scorn as all others had. When Alfred had said his name before this moment he had spoken it with pride, happiness, pure innocence and joy. There was a tenderness to it that made the Englishman love his name for the first time since it had been given to him. He would never have believed the boy he had raised could ever twist his name to sound so...vile, so hated as it did now. Never, not his America, not his Alfred...

He had been wrong...so terribly wrong...and only the second time in his life had he felt the bite of a dagger sinking into his heart. America...had made England bleed for the first time.

"..." Arthur was silent for a while as slowly his expression recomposed itself to what it would look like for the rest of the war. For five long years his face was a stone mask of cold indifference as he sealed his bleeding heart in the tomb of his body. He had never given Alfred a reason to fear him, in fact he had once boasted that Alfred did not have the capacity for fear beyond his own imagination...Now he was going to give Alfred something real, something truly awful and terrible to fear...

Him.

"As you wish...Consider the shield of the British Empire removed," He said, his deathly calm tone making Alfred's arm shake slightly. "Welcome to the real world, Alfred. There is no one standing between you and the monsters out here."

"So, will you turn on me now out of spite? Attack me as I am rebuilding and learning how to protect myself and filling in the gaps you leave behind?"

Arthur's expression changed only to allow a slight up-tilt of the corner of his lips, forming a tight, cruel smile. "I won't need to do a thing to jeopardize the building of your precious kingdom. You'll accomplish self-destruction without aid from me," He added with a dark chuckle, "Assuming France and Spain decide they're not willing to fight for more than the bargained price of their aid, you'll have a few years of so called freedom at best."

Alfred's eyes narrowed and his muscles tensed a bit. He had never heard such bitterness from the Englishman before, but he supposed it made sense considering the circumstances. Still...it stung to hear his former mentor condemning him after such a hard fought victory. "Then why didn't you pull the trigger and spare me the inevitable fall you so predict? Wouldn't it be better to end by the hands that created me rather than France or Spain's? ...Or even my own?"

Arthur's expression became guarded again, but his eyes remained bitter...the hurt flashing for a moment before being stifled by his force of will. Silence stretched again but this time eye contact between the two never wavered. Arthur refrained from speech again, but now Alfred was so close to the answer he had been so desperately seeking that he picked back up the conversation without faltering.

"You could have ended me twice before then, to say the least. Yes, I survived the first time because we held Pennsylvania and reclaimed New Jersey, but when you took Georgia and South Carolina I was more than half dead until the Battle of Monmouth ousted your troops from New York," The American continued, pressing Arthur further and hoping for any kind of reaction from the older nation. Arthur said and did nothing, but Alfred noticed the tightening of his jaw - a tick Francis had told him meant the Englishman was holding back. "That day on the battlefield outside Yorktown, I had mostly recovered from the victory in the north, but I was still weakened. You could have easily over powered me even though you stood alone...So why didn't you pull the fucking trigger."

Though he knew Arthur had been fighting it, there was a twitch in the older man's right eye when Alfred used profanity. He knew how such language from him truly rubbed Arthur the wrong way, even though the well-known gentleman had slipped a curse in front of his young ward more than once. He could see his former mentor's natural instinct rising to immediately reprimand and correct the lad's vulgar use of language, but he held his tongue and a shudder of barely contained anger shook his body.

It was what Alfred had been hoping for. Arthur had a terrible temper, but was always at his most honest when the gentleman's demeanor was stripped away leaving the raw emotions of the real man beneath. He just needed...a little push.

Arthur remembered the evening he had rushed the field to meet his rebellious colony and his Colonial forces outside the port town in Virginia. Word had come of the North's fall back into Colonial hands, making Arthur double his efforts in the south and his fight to the north, where he hoped to take on the weary Colonial army with his quickly growing collection of Redcoats and Loyalists. He had taken Savannah with little to no trouble, he had crushed America's defenders at the Battle of Camden. He had taken Charleston like a storm and continued pressing north with impressive success. He knew it was hurting Alfred, he knew each British victory caused Alfred more and more pain...but as much larger as the southern colonies were compared to the north they weren't as vital as New England had been. Alfred would hurt with the loss of the south; he would be teetering on death's door if Arthur made it past Virginia and back to Maryland, but he could survive that.

It was why Arthur had left New Jersey the night before the failed siege of Pennsylvania. If Alfred died that day with a British victory...regardless of how hard he tried to remain, Arthur could not bring himself to stay and watch the child he had loved so much die in the blood and mud on Philadelphia's shores. The very thought of it had nearly doubled him over as his heart seized upon returning to the camp that night. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think of anything but Alfred's death and the pain it caused him was overwhelming. His eyes clouded with tears, his hands falling away from his desk as he fell to his knees and cried.

'Alfred was going to die tomorrow...he didn't want to be the one who stole the last breathe from his body'. Those had been his final thoughts before he ordered a horse and a straight path to the cost where a ship of supplies was heading for the southern ports. He would never withdraw from the war...his commanders here were seasoned and strong enough to lead the troops in the siege tomorrow...but he couldn't stay to watch.

"Angleterre, this is so unlike you; turning tail when victory is so close you could practically bathe in patriot blood, even now."

The voice behind him came as no surprise. France had not officially joined this war yet, though England knew it was only a matter of time, and while there was extreme tension and loathing between British and French peoples, there would be no mortal under his command who would have stood between the lone and confident Frenchman strolling into the commander's tent with an air of pleasant civility. It was not as if this was an uncommon occurrence on campaigns; leaders or neutral parties coming to an opposing force to negotiation a possible end to hostilities wasn't uncommon...though everyone knew that France never entertained such ideas.

"...Go away."

"Non," Was the simple, pointed, yet pleasant response. Francis seemed to be enjoying himself looking at the maps around Arthur's large tent whilst the Redcoat commander kept his back to him, bent over a large wooden table and his own paperwork...though he wasn't really focusing on any of it. "You should know that I would never bring myself into your less than desired presence without fulfilling my reasons, less I would have expended valuable time and energy for nothing. As you know, Angleterre, you are a chagriner dans le bout to deal with."

"I don't care," Arthur replied, head still low and hands planted on the table, bracing him as he hung over it. He was so tired. "Leave me in peace...can you not just do that for once, Francis?"

The Frenchman turned to look at the worn man in red, returning the trifle he had been fiddling with back to its perch he slowly made his way over to where the other empire stood. The taller nation looked over Arthur's shoulder at the papers below him...and was a bit surprised to find semi-dried tearstains on the maps depicting Pennsylvania - the place even he believed the young Amérique's grave would be dug and buried tomorrow.

"...It truly bothers you to kill him, doesn't it?" The Frenchman asked softly, finding his mind confused and unable to accept that Arthur actually cared about the boy. He was also surprised to find his naturally romantic heart starting to empathize with his far too withdrawn brother. To Francis, love was like breathing...to Arthur...it was a goddamn miracle turned nightmare.

The Englishman didn't answer for a while; eyes dried now, though the sides of his face still shown the evidence of long shed tears. "What do you care? He is nothing to you...nothing more than a tool with which to hurt me."

Francis neither confirmed nor denied the comment. It was true that Amérique's death would be sad, but mean nothing to him in the end. He liked the boy well enough - he was bright, energetic, passionate, eager to learn, and embodied the spirit of revolution that Francis had found most endearing, considering who he had the courage to rebel against. However, beyond what he could negotiate from Amérique's leaders for France's assistance in this war, there was no stake in this land for him...he had lost that to England long ago. Dealing a blow to the bane of his existence was indeed a great bonus for tossing his hat into the American Revolutionary ring, and they had been at this game for longer than this New World had even been considered more than just a fairy tale. So honestly...it was a pretty much win-win for France as far as he was concerned, whether England won this war or not...

Even if England won, it would forever destroy the man Francis had been fighting since the number of digits in a year had been not but three.

"...I arrived just before you took New York. I was there to catch him when you vanquished his forces in the north and nearly bled him to death with your invasion."

Arthur visibly tensed. His hands gripped the table harder, his body ridged and frozen in his hunched position as his mouth remained tightly shut in a hard line.

Still Francis continued...

"His will really is something to behold, Angleterre. In all my years I've never seen a nation so young fight that hard to hold on to land best surrendered to the greater enemy. Mon Dieu, Angleterre, and he is so strong! I could barely hold him down when he was screaming and thrashing about like that. I honestly think he would have tried to claw his way inside himself just to fight back at-"

"ENOUGH!" Arthur suddenly shrieked, slamming his fists down on to the table and shaking with rage before he abruptly whirled on the Frenchman, landing a right hook to the blond's jaw.

Francis took the hit, tasting blood and stumbling back, but managed to brace himself enough to remain standing. Listening to Arthur's harsh breaths as he, no doubt, tried to come to terms with the loss of his temper.

Francis could only smirk. This confirmed what he had already suspected. Arthur was doomed.

The Frenchman began to right himself, tisking as he smoothed out his coat and wiped a bit of blood away from the corner of his mouth. He contemplated the crimson droplet sliding down his thumb before offering it to the Englishman. "Would you like your victory taste, dear Angleterre? A toast to the more satisfying bloodlust sating tomorrow?"

Arthur continued to breathe fast and hard; his heart pounding in his ears as he stood back against the table, green eyes locked on Francis's thumb before his stomach rolled and he had to look away. He never showed such weakness around anyone, especially not Francis, yet the anger and pain that had overcome him had found its release before he had realized what happened. Thinking of Alfred in such a way, being touched...tended to by Francis while he had caused that suffering in laying siege to New York hundreds of miles away...

In war one could regret nothing. One fought mercilessly and without quarter. Crushing the enemy into submission in the fastest possible manner by whatever means was the best way to swiftly accomplish the goal of victory. He had done just that, he had followed the rules and conducted this war just like any other...he had even given Alfred and his colonies not one, but two chances to surrender before his ultimatum today...

God, Alfred, you fool! You horrible, wretched fool!

Arthur finally straightened himself. He turned towards the maps on the table and rolled them up before shoving them into a satchel laying off to the side. He never looked back at Francis as he issued the man a warning...this one just for his dear old friend, one of the same breed of blood thirsty European dogs as he.

"Keep your nose out of this, Francis. Go back to that country of yours and get the hell back to making wine and boiling frogs. Your presence is neither wanted nor needed in the New World." He meant that in more than one respect.

Francis only met the implied threat and slap in the face with a smile.

"Amérique's superiors have requested French assistance, and I am here to see if they are worthy of it. I will be returning to France in due time to make or break the case with Sa majesté...until then, I will remain with little Amérique if only to teach him what you obviously neglected to...dear Angleterre."

Arthur's eyes narrowed dangerously as he slowly and threateningly turned his body around to fully face the Frenchman. Arthur had intentionally not taught America many things he felt he was too young and too innocent to learn; things about the world, international politics, the dangers beyond the empire's protection, the particulars of war...

What happens to a nation when his country lost that war.

"And what would that be, frog?"

Francis smiled even wider and reached up to tip his hat, "How to survive suffering under a tyrant like you."

Arthur had left the camp just before the darkest of the night fell. He boarded the ship and left for the south to get as far away from New England and the countless graves of tomorrow as possible...as far from the one grave he mourned most of all.

He would never admit it, especially not to Alfred, but when news of General Washington's incredible move of routing the English via the Delaware, sparing Pennsylvania, reached him...he had nearly collapsed in relief. Yes, he felt the echoes of the pains of his men falling to Colonial muskets, cannons, and swords, but even the well known pains of war were nothing compared to the incredible exhausted happiness he felt in his heart.

Alfred hadn't fallen...he hadn't died...well done, boy.

Alfred was still staring at the silent Arthur as the older man's gaze had gone distant some time ago. The American uncrossed his arms and pushed off the wall as he stepped closer to...God, did he dare even think it? Was Arthur...broken?

A wash of concern swept over Alfred's face as Arthur's features seemed to soften, still distant and weary by whatever memory was playing inside his head. The strong urge to gently grasp his mentor's shoulder and ask if he was alright had his right hand rising of its own will. He took another step closer to Arthur before the sound of America's boot steps on the stone floor snapped the older nation back to the present, and wide green eyes locked on the hand extended towards him.

Without giving Alfred time to react, Arthur's hand shot out and grabbed the lad's wrist, thumb pressed hard into the junction between his carpals and wrist joint, and with a sharp twist he rotated Alfred's arm backwards, spinning the other around before shoving the appendage against the American's back. Alfred gasped and winced, still not sure just how the smaller and physically weaker male managed to put him in this position, but he couldn't hold back the yelp when Arthur slammed his arm higher up between his shoulder blades, kicked the back of his knees with the heel of his boot, and wrapped his free arm around his former colony's neck.

Pain shot through his body faster than a close range bullet; how had he done that!

Alfred, now on his knees, had Arthur and his own arm arrested and pressed firmly against his back. The red clad arm around his throat was cutting off dangerous amounts of oxygen as it constricted as Arthur's slowly calming breaths heated his right ear. The American could feel the tension in his former master's body - he was nearly shaking with it as he kept one leg bent across his captive's and upper body securing the other's to his own. He wasn't in a position to really make a wager, but he couldn't be sure if Arthur hadn't been as stunned by his seemingly reflex actions as the struggling young man was. Arthur's body was singing with anxiety and tightly wound stress, but his respirations were relaxing and he was getting himself back in control...problem was...

He wasn't letting go.

"...Still not afraid of me, Alfred? Even as your prisoner I can still hurt you...I can still kill you..." He spoke calmly in Alfred's ear, voice smooth and very in control at the moment. "I could just as easily make you my prisoner instead...so much for freedom."

Alfred's body tensed, which only made Arthur's hold tighter and more painful for the younger nation. Oxygen was all but inaccessible, making it impossible to even swallow. His vision began to darken around the edges. God, was Arthur trying to make him pass out...or really kill him?

When he felt no give in Arthur's hold, the American's consciousness began to slip, making his body sag against the other's. Suddenly, in one fluid motion, the Englishman released Alfred's neck and arm, pushed off his legs and took a step back from the young man as he collapsed forward onto the stone floor.

When Alfred was more coherent, he grabbed his bruised throat with one hand, coughing as his lungs sought purchase with the air while the other hand pushed him back up onto his knees. Arthur looked down at him and watched impassively, hands fisted at his sides as his body awaited any counter-attack from the man now slowly pushing himself to his feet. The larger part of him knew no attack would come...still too much of him saw Alfred as the boy he had raised and would never try to hurt him even though he had been a hard parental figure to deal with. But the small, yet ever growing part of him that had rebuked the denial and saw these past five years for what they were, saw the future America was carving out for himself...and though he hated it, he would obey the crown's decree that the war was over...that the empire lost...as was the love between them. Alfred wasn't a little boy with freakishly inhuman strength any more, he was the beginning of his own sovereign nation, and as such England's actions just now could have reignited hostilities and the war.

He had to remember that...his Alfred was no longer his...he couldn't...shouldn't, touch him now.

Alfred stood and turned to face Arthur without any intentions of harming him. His left hand still rubbed his sore neck as his injured right arm hung at his side. His expression was confused before it hardened and tried for something more guarded like Arthur's.

Alfred failed miserably and still looked so terribly young. It made Arthur's heart sink a little more knowing just how hard America was going to have it alone in this world.

The silence stretched before it was Arthur's turn to break the silence, "I could have easily broken your neck...taken the dagger you have sheathed in your boot and stabbed you through the heart...or taken the pistol in your holster and shot you in the head." Simple facts, no bragging, and no mocking tone. It was more like a lesson than anything.

Alfred continued to rub his neck, and eyed the Englishman warily. It was the first time he had shown anything mildly resembling fear since the Colonial fighters brought Arthur here the night he surrendered. "...So why didn't you?"

Arthur made a face that Alfred remembered well, one that said the answer was in the boldest print possible and Alfred was just too lazy to read it - preferring his teacher to spell it out for him to make him understand. "Because, Alfred, the war is over and I lost. If the crown truly has left this conflict for good, then attacking or even killing you would be another act of war. We all have leaders to answer to, whether we care for them or not, and someday you'll have your own form of government and some bloody git telling you what to do and you better damn well do it." He retorted, expression showing those hints of frustration again as the part that loved Alfred so much screamed that he try to reason again, try to make him see that it was going to be so hard, so scary and full of so much more blood if he insisted on doing this. There were so many things about being a nation that he had never taught him, vital things he hadn't shared because he had assumed that he would always be around to take care of things for Alfred and never burden him with the worry. He wasn't ready for this...God, he wasn't bloody ready for this! Why couldn't he see that?

But in the end he swallowed his words along with his love. Alfred had made it known that he was doing this and that Arthur was not a part of his future. Yes, if America survived as a nation long enough, ties between counties would inevitably mend, trade would resume, and negotiations on things might even be peaceful...but Arthur could never be farther from Alfred than he was right now...and it hurt...it hurt so much.

Alfred paused for a moment and locked his sky blue eyes with the Englishman's, "...Is that why you didn't fire? ...Because your king told you not to?"

They both knew he wasn't referring to the hypothetical gunshot here in the cell...he was referring to the battlefield.

When news of the North's defeat reached Arthur, detailing the fall of the British at Monmouth, he honestly couldn't believe that Alfred and his Colonial army had regained New York...the strongest hold left in New England the British claimed. The campaign in the south was a most stunning success; more successful than even he had previously thought it would be, and now that hundreds of Loyalists had joined his army he thought it was about time he returned to the north with his troops and reclaimed some territory.

The march north was becoming more difficult as October set in, but the cold and rain was something no true Englishman could say he hadn't suffered through almost every day of his life back home. They trudged on and were heading to Yorktown where the navy was set to port when the French arrived in full force. Arthur could not have been more stunned by France's brazen assault, and the ships that would have taken them northward or home were captured or destroyed with sickening ease. It was then that Washington's army surrounded them on the ground, forcing Arthur's troops to dig their heels in for a siege as the combined French and American army out numbered them by almost forty to one. Arthur couldn't believe it. France had not been officially involved before he had left New Jersey, in fact it had been almost two years after that that France even signed the Treaty of Alliance, and while he had anticipated the alliance all along he had never expected this level of commitment.

Apparently, his commanders hadn't either, and the man he had put in charge of the siege, Cornwallis, had declared the situation hopeless and begrudgingly surrendered.

Over the bodies of more than three hundred men lost in the siege, Arthur's pride and rage refused to agree to the thought of surrender. The north was lost and now he knew why; to loose the south was to loose the war and he was not ready to concede defeat when he knew exactly how to end this conflict with just one shot.

Pride, arrogance, blind rage...they could call it what they willed, but the intensity of what Arthur had felt that day drove him on as he rushed the battlefield to meet Alfred and his regiment, alone.

With nothing but his immortality, his intense desire to end this war and his musket, he stood up in the showdown with Alfred and confronted his rebellious colony once and for all. He would redeem himself for ever having been merciful to the traitorous sot, and he would make sure British blood had not been spilt in vain because sentimental feelings kept him from staying true to the victory promised by the crown.

The moment of truth had arrived, his hour of redemption. Arthur had rushed the rebellious brat and disarmed him, but the moment he had the musket leveled between those sky blue eyes and saw Alfred trying to hide the countless injuries beneath that blasted blue coat, seeing that expression of realization that his former mentor might really end him...

The musket had fallen from his hands. He couldn't hold himself up now any more than he could have in that tent in New Jersey. He was the only Englishman left on this God-forsaken continent still fighting this war, and even when he had the chance to end it with a British victory he just couldn't do it. He tried to cover his shame, but the tears flowed as freely down his face as the dirt and the rain. His chest felt so tight, his body shaking with sobs as he berated and damned himself for being unable to pull the bloody trigger...He cursed all feeling within him, making him weak and even worse for making him kind.

Alfred had seemed just as shocked as he was...even worse...there was just as much sympathy in his eyes.

Arthur missed the look of hatred more than ever.

He hadn't said a word, as he remained defeated at Alfred's feet, he hadn't given a single utterance of resistance when the men behind their nation argued about what to do with him. He barely heard a sound other than the unceasing rain and felt nothing but the chilly bite of late autumn before the cold manacles were placed around his wrists. He hadn't offered any protest, he hadn't responded to any comments made or to the hands hauling him to his feet. Alfred had been kind or guilty enough to snap at anyone who so much as breathed a word of mocking at him. It was a nice gesture, but Arthur couldn't have cared less what the cur said about him. The return to Yorktown had been deafening, his return to the fort even more so, and being locked in the cell had been like being sealed in a tomb.

He couldn't see the sun or even sense the changes in the world beyond his prison. Arthur had been in a strange kind of daze since being brought here...nothing seemed very real to him. Everything was rather befuddling and dream like. He was exhausted almost constantly, not eating since the start of his confinement, and still not eating for many weeks after (he was a nation, the powerful British Empire, he could survive without nourishment for unheard of periods)...but it hadn't seemed any more important than the concept of time.

When they brought him here they hadn't taken the chains off, so for an unknown period he remained in the dark unable to move. Alfred found out and outraged returned to see him on the second...or was it the third day? Time didn't mean very much any more. Alfred had come down, embarrassed and rambling like an idiot as he unlocked the manacles. When Alfred removed his chains and bonds, Arthur couldn't help but mentally reprimand the young man for his carelessness and stupidity. Were their positions reversed, Arthur knew better to keep the manacles on.

But Alfred was like that, child-like and far too kind for his own good. He was strong beyond reason but that heart of his was only going to get him into trouble. He would make a horrible nation, assuming he lived long enough to establish himself as one.

Alfred had come to check on him several times over the course of his imprisonment. Sometimes there would be days in between, other times it seemed like weeks. Setting up a country was busy work, but Arthur didn't seem to care one way or another if the man he surrendered to ever came to see him again. He was lost in the perpetual grey fog of his mind...the exhaustion and tension of five long years was finally at an end, and Arthur...just didn't know what to do with himself any more.

If he returned to England and got too frustrated with the whole of Europe, where was he to escape to when he needed peace? Who was he suppose to take care of and devote his time and energy to when he wasn't doing the bidding of his king? Had America...had Alfred truly meant that much to him? ...Was he really the only thing he had outside of the constant fighting, political backstabbing, and madness in Europe?

What was to become of him now that his refuge was gone? What was to become of Alfred without someone to hold him and reassure him that the ghosts and night terrors were all in his mind? Who would be kind enough to lie so sweetly to him if only to see him smile and sleep more soundly than any nation had the right to? God, if Alfred didn't sleep he got so cranky...he really was a needy child, so small in such a big world...

He was so tall now...but inside...he was still...so small.

Why hadn't he been able to shoot him? ...Why hadn't he been able to shoot him...why...why hadn't he...been able...

To truly and honestly spare him the terrors of his world?

"Let's go home."

"...Mn!"

"...Because...you were so small..."

Alfred blinked, his hand fell from his neck and he stared at Arthur with bewildered sky blue eyes. He heard Arthur's words, his voice so soft and low it was nearly a whisper. He didn't understand, what did he mean by...?

Arthur's gaze still seemed distant, but his head finally lowered and a bitter...yet sad smile graced his lips. It seemed so ridiculous, but it was true, he couldn't bring himself to fire upon something so small. Even though Alfred had the body of a tall, muscular, and lean young man, he was still nothing more than thirteen infant and disorganized colonies struggling to even form a cohesive system of government. Alfred was barely two hundred years old, at least by the Englishman's timeline of when he had first adopted him, and compared to the centuries upon centuries that made up the years England had counted of his existence...God, Alfred was as infantile as his colonies.

He had either been the most merciful man in the world for sparing Alfred's life...or the cruelest country for damning such a baby nation to a very hard and lonely fate.

"...Arthur-" Alfred interrupted, causing the Englishman's expression to sour and harden before he returned to the present once again. Alfred sounded so meek and unsure, he was no more equip to handle this world then the first day Arthur had found him.

The fool. The freedom loving fool.

"I'm tired," The Englishman said suddenly, cutting Alfred off as the man tried to ask what the other had meant. The older nation turned away and resigned himself not to looking at his captor for the rest of their time together. "If it's as late as you say and the ship will be here in the morning, then I want to sleep before then. At least grant me that."

Alfred felt the bite behind the last of Arthur's words and knew the conversation...however groundbreaking he felt it had been, was over. The young nation sighed and unconsciously put his hands in his pockets, coming to when he realized just how cold it was down here.

It was late December now, winter was in full swing and he hadn't thought to give Arthur beyond the blanket...that looked rather untouched, he'd brought down when Arthur was first brought here. The older nation never complained, in fact he never said anything before tonight, so Alfred had no idea if Arthur was truly bothered by the cold or just indifferent to it.

The blond bit his lower lip and began to unbutton and remove his overcoat. It was heavy and made of fine wool, something one of his people had given to him as a gift upon winning the war. While it was the only really nice article he owned...he didn't feel right leaving his former mentor in this place without something more than the red coat he refused to remove or the blanket he hadn't touched.

Without a word, Alfred stepped over to the shelf like bed made from the wall and placed the folded coat on top of it. He looked up to see that Arthur had never turned to look at the offering, but he didn't mind so long as he got some use out of it on this frigid December night.

The young nation remained only a moment longer; trying to give Arthur and himself any last chances to say what needed to be said...before turning and heading for the door in silence.

As the American fingered the skeleton key he had withdrawn from the pocket of the now left coat, he thought he heard Arthur mutter something, but when he turned to look the man in red still had his back to him.

"...Good night, Arthur..." There was no malice or anger this time when he said his name, but the unadulterated adoration and reverence wasn't present either.

The door closed, the key locked, and muffled boot steps faded as always down the hall. Arthur stood once again in the cold darkness of his forced...and chosen isolation. This was where they stood...he saw that now. Their relationship before was gone and as dead as the name British America. This was the start of the new...and Arthur had always despised change.

The older nation held his arms close and hugged himself as he turned back towards the makeshift bed where Alfre-...America had placed his coat. The man walked over to it and after a moment, placed a hand over the soft fabric of the thick wool gift. He hadn't noticed the cold in his daze, withdrawing completely inside himself to where nothing in the physical realm mattered...but now with home so close and a deep weariness settling within him from having settled at least one thing with his former colony...he felt every ache, every sore, healing wound, exhausted fiber, and frost-bitten part of his being.

His rest had been fitful at best since the start of the war...perhaps now he might get a decent night sleep if his heart ever decided to stop throbbing with such pain.

"You've ruined me, Alfred...I will truly miss you, my boy..."

~Fin~

Note from the Author:

**This is the edited version of the very first Hetalia story I ever did, and the prequel to the WWI story "Never Your Hero". Its taken a while for me to finally get back to polishing this story to where it is now, but I have to thank my Beta editor, the Cap'm (one of her many aliases), and reviewer Prince SuperSharky for taking the time to comb over and aid in my finishing this. :) I'm a lot happier with this as it is now, and hope you all are too. All my best~!**

[Original "Note from the Author"]-I am actually from New Jersey around the area where the epic battle that routed the British took place. I've been to many historical sites preserved as landmarks such as Camden, Bunker Hill, Concord, Lexington, areas of Charleston, and yes, the infamous Yorktown where much of this fanfic takes place (lovely city, highly recommend it for the history buffs). Now, its been a while since my last American History course. but I really am a huge fan of history and tried my best to keep it as accurate as possible...soooooo if I'm a little off on something like a date, location, or when France joined the war (they were secretly officially unofficial for the longest time before the Treaty of Alliance was signed two years after Saratoga), then please forgive me. I love feedback, comments, questions, and concerns. I try my best to return them all, but please forgive a busy schedule as it may keep me from being speedy. :) Hope you enjoyed the fic! Bis nächste Zeit!

Sincerely,

General Kitty Girl