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1808	By : Darbracken Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 1228 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own America, Canada or Enlgand or Hetalia. I have not and will not make any profit from this fic.

Chapter List
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Warnings for angst, depression, psychologically troubled England, self-harm, Canada fluff and talk of post American Revolution fall out. As ever thank you to everyone who reads and likes my stories. This one wasn’t betaed and probably needs a mass edit but my other half couldn’t edit for me this time. I apologise. I love reviews, I am the cookie monster of reviews and generally it gives me warm fuzzies so thanks to anyone who leaves me comments and reviews. If you want to follow the trials and tribulations of England I roleplay him at theenglisharecoming [dot] tumblr [dot] com. Also if you just want to harass me via asks to write stuff.

~*~

1808

The room was dark, the only light that of the fire reflected upon the still water.

Hours had passed.

Still he had not stirred, he was frozen.

Emerald eyes might as well have been fashioned from glass for all their vision and life.

Then fingers moved through frigid water, digging mindlessly into the wound.

The bayonet had not cut deep enough, not by far and as though by habitual action he began to pluck the stitches away. One at a time he tugged them away, crimson starting to seep into the clear water, staining it. Nails dug into flesh, tearing it slowly asunder, any attempt to heal soon rendered useless.

How long had it been now? At least a couple of decades.

“Arthur!” Matthew’s voice was strained, cracking with emotion as hurried to the bath, seizing his wrists. For a moment he seemed to look up before the listless gaze returned.

“You’re freezing, let’s get you out of here, eh?”

It was a scene they repeated often. Dear, sweet Canada, he’d been almost terrified to let him out of his sight. After all though as a country England was still as tenacious as ever as a man, well... Arthur was broken wasn’t he?

Time after time Matthew had written to Alfred, imploring, begging him to return. To consider what he was doing to their family. America however remained unmoved. The siren call of freedom had too sweet a song for him to listen to reason. At length the letters had become more personal.

Dear Alfred,

I’m terrified, he won’t eat, he won’t talk, he never sleeps and when he does he screams. Please, please visit him. Even if you won’t come back at least see what you can do for him.

Your brother,

Matthew.

No matter how many time Canada wrote there was never a reply. Teeth found the Canadian’s lip, biting it as he half lifted; half helped him from the cooper tub.

“Your brother, Hugh, visited yesterday.” Tones were light as Canada started to dry him off, rubbing cloth into his chilled and bloodied frame. Later he would sew the wound as he had many times before. Yet no matter what Matthew did he couldn’t seem to close it. If he had been paying attention he might have noticed the longing in the Canadian’s eyes, that wish that he could become his brother and just heal him. Yet he saw none of it.

“He brought good news; it seems your forces were triumphant over Père.” A wistful expression darted across Matthew’s face as he began to rub blonde strands dry. “Of course I told him you still weren’t taking visitors; he took a good chunk out of your mantelpiece.” Hands paused in their ministrations to gauge a reaction but he provided none and so the drying resumed, patient and gentle.

Rarely mentioning France garnered some reaction, a little recognition in emerald eyes but this time there was naught but the threads of blood winding down his abdomen. Canada had given up telling him not to tear at it. A kiss was pressed to his damp brow as cloth brushed away the crimson fluid and then pressed to the scar to staunch the flow.

“I miss you… one day you’ll come back to me I know.”

Yorktown had been the location of his last words. As hot blood had soaked into the jacket he’d ended up on his knees. France had sneered at him across the battlefield. Alfred had yanked his flag from its barer and planted it firmly between his thighs. Slowly the armies had dwindled away until all that remained within the gun smoke were himself and Canada.

The generals had dined together, his own and Alfred’s but he could not stomach the thought of it. Instead he had limped away from the site of his undoing and torn his heart out with sobs that were raw, like some wounded animal. Eventually Canada hadn’t been able to bear listening to it any longer and had embraced him, pulling him into his chest until the sound had subsided. ”You are still Great Britain to me.”

“By all rights I should be dead.” And no further words had crossed his lips.

“There we go all dry.” Carefully clothes were pulled around him before he was lead out of the darkness to the sitting room. Candles flickered as Matthew lit more, needing as much light as he could get. Pulling the rudimentary medical kit from the drawer he threaded the needle. “This’ll hurt a little, I apologise.” Words, any words filled the quietness that was oppressive. Sometimes it was a wonder that the Canadian hadn’t cracked and torn away from him as well.

Concentration focussed his vision and very carefully he began to stitch the wound together. No flinch would disturb nimble hands and eventually it was done. “I think it gets better every time.” A gentle sigh before short blonde strands nestled to his shoulder, the Canadian gathering him tight in his arms. After the first few nightmares Matthew had cut his hair shorter so he would not be mistaken for Francis. Perhaps he’d felt guilty for pressing a blade to the young nation’s throat, it was difficult to tell.

Whatever would help seemed to be the young man’s motto. Though he no doubt would have dearly liked to remove the knife from under his pillow it had remained.

At length Alfred’s reply had arrived. Hastily scrawled, messy, only a few worlds.

“Let the bell of freedom ring out mother fuckers!”

Anger, sheer anger had radiated from Canada. How could his brother be so callous towards the man who had tried his best to tenderly raise them both? Arthur had been far from perfect but his heart had usually been in the right place. For the first time Canada felt a little hatred in his chest towards his brother.

“Papa, when someone hurts you what do you do?” Only silence answered, vacant eyes staring out into the sunlit garden. In the past he would have gone all guns blazing against any who had sought to hurt him or his beloved colonies, now he watched the unruly heather starting to overtake the patch where daffodils were once abundant.

1812

As the news from his home became more frantic Canada spoke less, though his tending remained gentle, steadfast. Then one day a letter came and trembling and tearful he had entered the sitting room.

“I’m going to have to leave Papa, I’m sorry, so sorry but it seems Alfred is trying to force the issue of my independence.”

Teardrops rained down upon his chest. Strong arms clinging to him as the young nation wept at the thought of war with his brother. Then as though the steel that had once run down his spine emerged in the Canadian he gently took his face in his hands. “Don’t worry Papa, I’m going to make it all better, I’m going to burn down his White House and make it so he can’t destroy this family anymore. Just you see, I’ll make you proud.”

Then for the first time in over 20 years a little heat flickered into deadened emerald orbs. A shuddering breath stirred in his chest. The sluggish workings of a dormant mind beginning to rekindle as hand lifted to wrap around Canada’s wrist.

“Let me fight at your side.”

The voice was a whisper, cracked and hoarse from disuse.

Yet the light that had been a flicker became a fire, the need to protect the dear sweet boy who had tended him for so long dragging his consciousness forwards.

They spent the night wrapped in each other’s arms and this time it was Canada who cried like a wounded animal and England who held him.

Let the flames of hell consume all that threatened the British Empire.

Let punishment fall upon those who betrayed him.

No one would be permitted to damage Canada, not even Alfred.

Especially not Alfred.
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