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O'er the Land of the Free	By : Rhov Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 1223 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Hetalia: Axis Powers is owned by Hidekaz Himaruya. I make no money writing this.

Chapter List
- 1-And the Home of the Brave
- 1
O'er the Land of the Free

a Hetalia: Axis Powers fanfic

by Rhov
America was enjoying his summer playtime by dirt biking through the Sonoran Desert. With his helmet on, the motor roaring, and a rain of sand and pebbles all around him, he was blind and deaf to all but the arid path directly in front of him. Some would say that described the young country on a normal day as well, but he was having fun, laughing manically as he soared over sand dunes and skidded around cacti.
That was when he saw something that troubled him. The bike came to a screeching halt, backlashing sand all over his brown jacket. Hardly thinking, America leaped off the dirt bike, threw aside the helmet, and ran over sand dunes in a mad scramble. Panic was on his face, and worry darkened his sky blue eyes.
"Oy!" he shouted. "Hey you!"
Down the dune, lying on his face, was an old man. His long black and silver hair was already partly buried in sand. His weather-beaten face was down on the scorching grains. His clothes, too dirty and worn to be discernible, were drenched in sweat and brown with dust. America rolled the old man over. His wrinkled eyes were closed and his lips had cracked and bled from dehydration.
"Hey, old dude," America called out softly, horrified to see an elderly person discarded so brutally. "What are you doing out here? How did you end up in a godforsaken place like this?"
The ancient man coughed the sand away from his parched lips. "No place...left...to go." He began to go limp again.
"Hey, stay with me," America urged, shaking the man slightly.
Finally the old man opened his eyes. A look of familiarity flashed through those ebony orbs. "Sky Eyes?" He laughed weakly and leaned his head back onto the sand. "The Great Spirit has a sick sense of irony."
America pulled off his backpack and yanked out a water bottle. "Drink up, dude." He poured the lukewarm liquid into the old man's mouth. "I'll get you help. There's gotta be family or some friends to care for you."
"Family?" he laughed bitterly. "My children...all dead or captive."
"What! That's...my God, that's horrible!" America shivered in disbelief that something like that could happen in his country. "What bastard did this to you?"
Those eyes like onyx knives opened again, and their gaze alone felt like a stab to the young country's heart.
"You did, America!"

It was a cheap motel room with stained carpet. Navajo-inspired paintings hung on the otherwise drab off-white walls, something typical of the American desert. It smelled of lingering cigarette smoke from some previous tenant and overwhelming deodorant spray from the motel staff in an attempt to mask the odor. The television was running just to have some noise besides the hum of an air conditioner. The commercial about a local burger joint might have made America start to drool, but he was too focused on the old, weathered man lying on the small, squeaking bed.
"I...did this?" he asked in shock. "This country...we take care of our elderly."
"Keep telling yourself that, Sky Eyes," the old man scoffed.
"Sky Eyes...why do you keep calling me that? My name is Alfred F. Jones. I'm America. I'm the hero!" he insisted with a grimace, shaking his head in disbelief. "I would never mistreat an old man. America isn't that sort of place. We're the land of the free and the home of the brave, the land of opportunity..."
"Freedom is never free," the old man said in a hoarse voice. "Nor does opportunity come without a price. You are a young country. That blond hair, those blue eyes, so like the ones who raised you until you could stand on your own. Did you ever wonder, what was here before your birth?"
"Before...my birth?" America cringed a little as he thought back to a time many centuries ago. It seemed like an eternity to him, yet he knew he was a young country compared to England, France, Japan, and the others. Even that twit Italy was older than him. "I...I was alone. Netherlands was the one who found me first, but he was scared and fled. France and England then came. They fought over me for a while, but in the end England raised me. Before that...before England..."
Something shivered through his arms until it felt like the air conditioner had blasted out snow.
Yes, there had been snow. And ice. A brutal winter.
He was just a child, an infant. During that horrible winter, just as he thought he would freeze to death...
"You," he whispered in shock. "You were that man back then. Who...who exactly are you?" he asked suspiciously. "You weren't a country, and I don't get that sense from you even now."
"A country?" the old man mused. "No, I was never that. My children sometimes formed nations, but I was never troubled by borders and regulations. Not until the Europeans arrived. That was when I became...this," he said, and gave a harsh cough that rattled his lungs.
America quickly handed him a glass of water. "Hey, you shouldn't talk. You're still dehydrated." He helped the old man to swallow, then used a wet cloth to dab his scorched skin.
"I helped you in the winter snow, now you help me in the summer desert. The Great Spirit indeed must be laughing at us, Sky Eyes." He chuckled softly and shifted himself into a sitting position on the bed. "Turn off that TV trash and get me my pipe."
America grabbed the remote to turn off the commercials, then searched through the few items that had been on the old man when he rescued him. "Ya know, you shouldn't smoke."
"It reeks enough in here. At least my pipe isn't for tobacco."
"That worries me even more," America muttered.
He handed over a long pipe and a small pouch of some dried herbs. The old man shoved the leaves into the bowl and lit it up. Unlike the pungent smell of tobacco, what came out of that pipe smelled gentle, and it made America smile with a faded familiarity.
"You smoked that back then," he realized. "I remember the smell. And you would tell me stories, legends, myths. What's your name?"
"Name?" he hummed, thinking it over as he puffed away. "I had no name, and now I have many. Your brother Canada calls me First Nation. You sometimes refer to me as Native America."
"Wait, what?" the young country cried out, his eyes wide in shock. "You...you're Native America? I've been searching for you all these years, but my bosses didn't want me to meet with you. They kept pushing you away from me, said you were dead. I wanted..." His enthusiasm waned a little as he choked up with emotions. "I wanted to...to thank you. Without you..."
"You would have died that winter. You were not the first, young America. Nor were you the last. Perhaps helping you countries was my undoing, but it was in my nature."
He took a long puff and exhaled the silvery smoke. As America watched, it took shape, and in the smoke he saw pictures. Wide plains dotted with tepees, rainy forests with totem poles, smoke lodges in the mountains, igloos on the snowy tundra, grand palaces with golden pyramid temples, and many other dwellings, some humble, some extravagant.
"I was once boundless. I was huge, greater than Ancient Rome, a land of many tribes, from the igloos of the Eskimos..."
In the smoke, America saw the snowy landscape with houses of ice.
"...to the vast cities of the Incas."
He saw a picture of Machu Picchu and South American indigenous groups.
"Sometimes my children fought to form nations."
America saw the battles of the Aztecs and their bloody rites.
"Most lived mendicant lives, traveling with the seasons, following the herds."
The smoke swirled, and America saw a vast group journeying over the prairies, hunting the buffalo, moving with the flow of nature.
"I watched over all of them, from tundra to rain forest, from Atlantic to Pacific. Many thousands of years passed. It was not all in peace. Only a fool would say that. There were battles, tribe versus tribe. We had many natural disasters, from the epic floods at the end of the Ice Age, which trapped my children in this New World, cut off from Asia, to fires, earthquakes, volcanoes...yes, we had many problems, but it's the same for any nation."
"I get those still," America said softly. "I've had a lot more problems lately."
"I bet you have," Native America chuckled softly, nodding knowingly. "I had seen others come and go: the Vikings who set up but abandoned Vinland, the man Columbus and his ships, Cortez, Balboa, the settlement of Roanoke, many other attempts by the European countries."
In the pipe's smoke, America saw scenes he had only heard about from his older siblings.
"That's Spain!" he cried out, seeing the dark-haired man walking beside Conquistadors. "And Portugal. And France. The Netherlands. Wait, Poland too? He was here? Germany? Even Italy? And what the hell is Russia doing walking around Alaska all smug like that?"
The old man nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, many came to seek the virgin land of America."
The blond blushed and looked away. "I'd rather we not talk about my virginity."
Native America chuckled and puffed out more smoke. "It wasn't just you, Sky Eyes. Many countries were born out of the raping of Europe. Some fell to their own greed, some flourished. Brazil, Argentina, Peru, Panama, Mexico, Canada, many others, and yes, you too, my little Sky Eyes."
The smoke shifted, and America saw a baby crying in the snow. The young country leaned forward to see the vision in the haze. He began to reach his hand out to the infant, but he pulled back as he saw the curl of blond hair and blue eyes.
"Is that...me?"
As America stared in amazement at the infant wailing in the snow, Native America puffed away on his lengthy pipe.
"Late in the year 1607, five hundred men of England came to these shores to make a colony. Three years later, only sixty-one had survived. On the coast of what is now Virginia, in a fort they called Jamestown, I saw a nation trying to be born, barely formed and already dying. That was when I came."
In the smoke, the vision of the old man lifted the crying child out of the snow, wrapped him in a warm blanket, and took him home. He fed baby America creamed corn and mashed sweet potatoes. He gave him clothes of deer hide and a headband with an eagle's feather. Smiling, Native America watched the toddler romp around the fields chasing butterflies.
"Then in 1620, the Pilgrims arrived, and I again helped them, hoping I'd never see such death like what happened in Jamestown."
"Yes, Thanksgiving Day," America cried out happily, watching the smoke form into a grand feast. He was there, tiny and hidden by such a huge table, yet smiling broadly, wearing the clothes Native America had given him, yet donning the black and white hat of a Pilgrim. "Hah! Look at me! That was one awesome party."
Native America chuckled at his enthusiasm. "It was indeed. You were a tiny child, but you had strength. I admired that. You were full of dreams rather than greed. That was why I rescued you that winter. In other lands, my children began to fall to the Europeans, to their swords, guns, and diseases."
America witnessed the tragedies in the smoke, those grand temples overflowing with blood, the tepees burning, brutal massacres that made his stomach turn, cruel men on horses laughing as they shot indigenous families trying desperately to flee their huts.
"Some gave up their old ways and accepted the new countries, yet most of those were stabbed in the back. Other tribes were slaughtered down to the last man, woman, and child. Whole cultures vanished like snowflakes in spring. To the invaders, we were nothing but savages, not even considered fully human. Still, I felt pain at each culture that became extinct. Languages were lost, religions suppressed, art smashed, fashion stripped naked and forced into cotton trousers. One by one, those many tribes died or forgot their past. They were carved into reservations, and with that I lost my incorporeal form."
The smoke showed a spirit struggling, fighting, thrashing violently as borders were set around him. In agony, he began to change, the spirit took on a human form, and the weathered man was left screaming in his new physical body.
The man sighed wearily. "Thus I was born, Native America as you call me, old before I even took my first breath, half-dead before I was recognized as being alive."
"But...not here," America began to protest. "You helped me. I remember that! We...we worked together, right?"
"Together?" the old man asked bitterly. "I helped you to survive, and you repaid me by shoving me away, taking the lands I once watched over, slaughtering my people. When the government realized you couldn't kill me, they tried to eradicate the buffalo, those helpless animals driven nearly to extinction, all so that my children could starve to death. You had dreams, pride, a belief in Manifest Destiny that meant you were granted by your god the right to kill all who stood in your way of expansion. It wasn't just me that you hurt. You shoved the European invaders away one at a time, sometimes buying yourself new land like a whore, sometimes defeating others in blood. Even other New World nations! Mexico lost half of its land to you in a bloody war that was nothing more than an excuse for conquest. I was forced from my valleys, my forests, my fertile hills, shoved further and further away, until I was tossed into the desert, like garbage people hoped would burn away and be forgotten."
"No!" America yelled. He grabbed at his hair, crying as he heard the bitter words that rang in truth. "Other countries maybe, but not here...not in my land..."
"Yes, America. You were as guilty as the rest. I came to you in the winter and helped you to survive, and you repaid me with a full-scale massacre. Wounded Knee, the Trail of Tears, the Bear River Massacre, the Battle of Little Robe Creek, the Long Walk, Potawatomi Trail of Death..."
Visions of massacres, forced marches, people vomiting in illness that ate at their flesh, children shot in the head, women bludgeoned into crumpled lumps of bloody flesh, all swirled in the furious smoke that now choked the room. Skeletons were left behind, rotting corpses that filled vast trenches, miles upon miles of slain people.
"No! Stop!" America cried out, covering his ears as he heard millions of screaming voices. "I didn't want that. Not me! My bosses, other people, they did horrible things. But I never wanted that to happen. I wanted to see you again. I wanted to...to thank you...for saving me that day. I wanted..."
To his surprise, the old man embraced him. America jolted, shocked at the hug. The smoke was suddenly gone, the motel room was clear. The pipe sat on the nightstand letting off a lazy wisp from the burning herbs. The old man held him so tightly, America could smell the sage and sand on him.
"What are you...?"
Native America leaned back and wiped the tears from the young country's peachy soft face. "I know not all of it was your fault. When I rescued you that winter, I saw your eyes shine like the endless expanse of the sky. That was why I named you Sky Eyes. I was no fool, little one. I had over a hundred years of seeing what destruction the European nations could wrought. Still, I saw hope in you. In most nations, my children are still suppressed or have been entirely wiped out and forgotten. Here, America gave my surviving children places to live. They are a pittance in comparison to what I used to be, but it was still thoughtful of you. My tribes may be scattered, but you protect them now. I know you mean well, despite everything that happened in the past." His wrinkled and roughened hands took the gentle, youthful fingers in a firm clasp. "We both learned a hard lesson. Now we live together. I am part of you, America. I am your past, and I can continue to exist in your future."
As America watched, the old man began to shimmer and become transparent. "Hey...hey wait. What are you doing?" he cried out in desperation. "Don't go. There's so much I want to ask you, so much I always wanted to tell you."
"I already know," the old man assured gently. "Native America is part of who you are, young America. I am originally a spirit of the land. Therefore, I am a spirit of you." He continued to fade, and a tear dropped from America's eye as the old man smiled like an elderly grandfather. "The past is gone. You lead us all into the future. Prove to this old man that you are truly a hero. Show me that I did not make a mistake that winter day. Grow, young America. Seek the sky with those fearless eyes. Reach beyond and to the stars! Perhaps there you will meet the Great Spirit and we can speak again."
Then the old man faded away and vanished. America wiped his face, and for a moment he wondered if the whole thing was a hallucination, too much sun frying his brain. Then he saw the pipe still sitting on the nightstand. He picked it up, turned it around in his hands, and held it like a cherished treasure.
"You're always a part of me," he whispered.

It was another G8 conference, but for once America was not taking charge. He had his laptop out, studiously reading an article in Wikipedia on the Trail of Tears. England and France were already bickering. China and Russia were fighting over something mundane. Italy munched away on garlic bruschetta and offered some to Germany, who turned it down. Only Japan saw the mood in his ally's face, but he wisely refrained from pointing it out.
"America?" came a meek voice.
The young country jolted out of his reading. "Ah, Canada. I didn't see you there."
"I know," he sighed, used to hearing that all the time. "You look troubled."
"No, just...just reading." America looked back down at the article. "There's so much about my own history that I've forgotten."
"Hah!" England scoffed. "You're too young to have a bad memory."
France snickered softly too. "He's barely old enough to have a history, yet he's forgetting it."
"History is vital to a country," China said sagely. "We must remember the mistakes of the past lest we repeat them."
Russia chuckled with a fake smile. "Says the country who only allows himself to read his own version of history."
"Like you're any better!" China lashed back.
America frowned at the renewed bickering around him. "Remember the mistakes of the past, huh? I've made a lot. Some I hardly knew were mistakes at the time. I always dismissed them as growing pains, but still...people were affected. Many died. My country did some really...really...atrocious things," he sneered, looking at the black and white photos on the internet of mass graves of twisted corpses and mountains of dead buffalo stripped of their skin and left to rot. "I can't just shrug them off as being young and ignorant. I owe that much to the old man."
"Old man?" Canada asked. "Do you mean First Nation?"
America looked up in shock. "You know him?"
"Of course I do. We're on good terms."
"You...he...you mean..." America's mouth hung open in shock. "Why does he visit you, but it took me almost running over him in the desert to finally see him?"
Canada hummed pondering over the question, then finally shrugged nonchalantly and smiled in a good-natured way. "Maybe he was always there, and you just never wanted to admit it was him."
"Didn't want to admit it, huh?" America hummed. "Maybe so. Like I wanted to forget that whole Manifest Destiny crap. Maybe I wanted to keep remembering him for the savior who rescued me in the snow and shared the first Thanksgiving feast with me, not the discarded old man he became."
"Mnn...maybe," Canada smiled. "He visits on my birthday every year. Maybe we can celebrate it together this year and you can see him."
"Ah, that'd be totally awesome!" America cheered. "But I gotta get back home soon, you know, because my birthday is right after yours, and I've got a huge party planned this year. You should come celebrate it, too. After all," he laughed, throwing an arm around Canada, "we're brothers, right?"
"Ah...y-yeah," Canada chuckled nervously.
"You hear that, everyone?" America shouted out. "Canada and I are sharing birthdays this year, and you're all invited. Four days of non-stop paaaar-tay!"
"Yay!" Italy cheered. "I'll bring the pasta."
"I'll bring the wine," France said with a wink.
"Beer, burgers and bratwurst," Germany decided with a firm nod.
"Is vodka okay?" asked Russia.
"I shall bring fireworks!" China said in excitement.
"I can bring the newest electronic games from my country," Japan offered.
"I'll bring appetizers," England said.
"NO!" everyone shouted in unison.
France laughed at England and his notorious bad cooking. "How about you make ice tea? Even an idiot like you can't screw up something as simple as that."
"Are you saying I can't make even simple appetizers, you...you blond male harlot!" England yelled indignantly.
As they began to fight again, America hummed to himself. "I wonder if old man Native America shows up to other countries. I should ask Mexico if he ever visits her."
"I can ask Cuba," Canada offered.
"Ah, good. He still hates me. I'll ask Brazil too. I love visiting her. Her parties are the best!"
"No fair," Canada pouted. "I wanna visit South America, too."
"You can go check up on Columbia and Ecuador."
"Um...I'd rather not be taken hostage by drug smugglers again," Canada sighed.
"Go see Peru, then. I bet he'd love to take you to see Machu Picchu."
"Ah, First Nation told me about that place. Hey America, are you feeling better now?"
He looked down at the laptop and gave a soft sigh. "I still think it's a shame so much of my past is being forgotten, but I'm gonna try to be better. After all," he grinned broadly, "I'm the hero! I just gotta prove it to the old man. All right, dudes!" he shouted to the members of the conference. "I call this meeting of the G8 into session. Our topic today is indigenous cultures and what we, as countries, are doing to preserve them."

The End

A/N: I used to hate the 4th of July. Being part Cherokee, Choctaw, and Blackfoot (those are Native American tribes) I hated this country for what it did in the past. I really was a bitter little kid, LOL! Eventually I was shown by my mentor, a Cherokee professor of Native American Anthropology, how to have pride in this nation despite the atrocities of the past. She worked on soothing that bitter, blaming, spiteful side of me, suctioning it out like the poison from a snake wound, and I'm thankful for it. She was a trained shaman and showed me amazing things. Sadly, she passed away a few years ago, so this is dedicated to her spirit.
Hopefully I did well to show how, although some Native Americans can be bitter about the past genocidal attempts by the American government, those were just a few men in office and racist bastards with guns, not AMERICA. Just as in Hetalia, the countries are the personification of the culture, the land, the people, the nation as a whole, and not "the boss" who occasionally takes control and screws things up, so all people should realize it is not America who is to blame for the racial purging of the Native Americans. Blame the individuals, not the entire culture. This country has grown since those days. Yes, there are still racists out there, and yes, average Americans have a horribly skewed view of life on the reservations (really, we don't live in tepees and wigwams anymore!) However, most Americans see the indigenous tribes and sacred heirlooms that should be honored and allowed full freedom in the expression of their cultures. THAT is the America I love.
Thanks for reading. Happy 4th of July, everyone!
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O'er the Land of the Free