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Faux Paw	By : Florville Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 3287 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The Monkey's Paw is property of WW Jacobs, and I only reference it in passing. Hetalia does not belong to me, and I do not make any money off the writing of this fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
This chapter goes out to TemeBaka.

10

Mud…he could feel it soaking into his uniform trousers as he knelt there—

Ah, bollocks, this dream again. Hadn’t he had this dream enough? Kneeling in the mud alone as the traitors to the Crown, once members of his own militia, held their muskets trained on him. They were America’s now…

Arthur didn’t bother lifting his head this time, because he knew this dream too well. Every nuance of this incident, from the smell of the wet ground to the feel of the rain seeping into his clothing and the horrible tightness in his chest, all of it was burned into his memory.

England’s bushy brows furrowed as he heard the splashing noises of someone running up behind him. Now he couldn’t help looking up, because in the hundreds of other times he’d had this dream, usually around the last week of June, he’d always been completely alone.

The thin, coltish figure ran just past him, skidding to a halt about halfway between where England was kneeling and where Alfred had just turned to walk away along with his army.

Ah, that’s right…Matthew had shown up that day, hadn’t he? Arthur had been so shattered by the defeat that he’d forgotten…and of course, he’d crawled into a bottle for a good several days after that, which probably hadn’t done much for his memory either.

Small chest heaving, Matthew, who looked about twelve years of age at this point, called out America’s name in what was as close to a shout as the quiet boy seemed able to muster. Infuriated when America didn’t even glance back at him, the boy picked up a handful of mud and flung it, hitting Al square in the shoulder. That, of course, made him turn; however, the irritation faded from his expression when he saw the culprit.

“Matthew…I’m sorry, but I have to go. Maybe when you’re a bit bigger and you can fight on your own, we can talk things over again, but until then, you’re stuck with him,” America seemed to explain, patting Canada on the head.

Much to England’s surprise, Matthew smacked the hand away and shoved him, his small voice still carrying a thick French accent. “Do I mean so little to you, that you would leave like this? Because…because of money…England’s taxes…and him giving land to my Native tribes when you hate them so much…is that all it takes to justify you ripping our family apart?!”

Alfred seemed startled at this as well, and he frowned, confused by Matthew’s anger. “Canada, you don’t understand why I’m doing this. And that’s all right, I don’t expect you to.”

“I understand far more than you know, brother,” Canada growled, glaring angrily at America. “Arthur’s gift of land to my people has limited your westward expansion, and you’re angry about it. He’s making you pay back the money for all the tea you ruined in Boston and you don’t think you should have to. You think that his taxes are unfair, even though he’s helped you grow up and he protected you all this time. I have to pay those taxes too! You’re taking the easy way, Alfred…” Canada tugged on Alfred’s coat, his expression softening as he pleaded with his brother. “You can’t leave…you can’t, it’s not fair! I…I know you think it’s better to do this…I know how hard it is to make England listen…but…but you can’t do this…you can’t leave like this! You think you are doing this for noble reasons, to help yourself become a good nation, one that’s independent from what you see as tyranny, but you’re wrong!”

“I already am a good nation, Canada,” Alfred replied. “And I’m already a lot stronger because of what I’m doing today. It needs to be done. Arthur is taking advantage—”

“England needs us, Alfred,” Canada insisted. “He needs our help.”

“England cares about nothing but himself and his own prosperity,” America snapped, shaking loose of Canada’s grip on his jacket. “Believe me, he knows how to survive just fine on his own.”

Arthur flinched, rising to his feet. As much as he hated to admit it, Alfred did have a point there…even in the days when America forcefully separated from him, England was already long accustomed to fending for himself.

Canada’s eyes darkened and he stepped back, clenching his small fists tightly. “Selfish…you…you’re selfish!”

America sighed, bending down and hugging Canada tightly. “Matthew…it’s not selfish to want what’s best for your people. When you’re a little older, you’ll understand that.”

“I want what is best for all of my people,” Canada said softly, not returning the embrace. “But as you are much stronger than me, I must watch now as you absorb a large portion of them into yourself.” He looked up as Alfred released him, for his brother still stood about eight inches taller than him at this point in history. “Now, I fear for them…you have free license to slaughter our Shawnees…our Cherokees…our Ottawa, Chippewa, Mohawk—”

“Goodbye, Canada,” Alfred cut him off, releasing him and turning to leave.

“No good nation is born of betrayal, Alfred!!” Canada cried, his youthful expression pleading as he latched onto Alfred’s coat again. “Please…please, don’t do this! You are still young, and without England to guide you and protect you, you will be corrupted by the very wealth you are trying to hold on to!”

England watched as Alfred turned and shoved Matthew hard, sending the Canadian onto his back in the mud.

“You’re wrong,” America said, his voice low and fierce with conviction. “That won’t happen. I will be pure and strong, and other nations will look up to me. A few more decades under Arthur’s thumb will change your mind about what I’ve done here today, Matthew,” Alfred said sombrely, “and then, when I come to save you, you’ll understand.”

Now, when America turned to leave, most of his soldiers did the same. A few, however, lingered.

It was obvious that the young Canada was trying to hide tears of embarrassment and frustration, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve as he sat up, smearing mud across his cheeks. He looked up at the soldiers who were lingering, puffing out his small chest as he struggled to his feet, brushing his rain-soaked blond tresses from his eyes and trying to look as grown-up as possible. “You…you don’t have to go with him. If…if you don’t believe in what he’s done, you can come to my house instead…I promise that I will share what I have, and I will do my best to protect you.”

Ah…the United Empire Loyalists…Arthur had forgotten about them, too. Funny, how the misery of that humiliating defeat had wiped his memory clean of things that, in retrospect, were so very important in making the faithful young nation of Canada who he was…then again, he hadn’t been thinking of Canada at that point, had he?

Matthew turned and trudged through the mud toward England, looking up at him with an expression that bespoke the pain of abandonment, even though the boy was trying hard to hide it. “Mister England…I know that you have not had me long, and don’t regard me very highly, but…if you will help me to support those who remain loyal to your British ideals, I believe that I can recover some of my population. You have more important things to worry about than my safety and well-being; as such, I must ask you to ensure that I have sufficient strength to look after myself.”

England gazed into those blue eyes, searching them in a way he knew he hadn’t on that day…he’d probably just grunted a “Fine, do whatever the bloody hell you want” and left to go drink himself stupid.

“Canada,” he spoke the name with a tenderness that startled the boy, reaching out and hugging him tightly (which probably startled him even more). After a few seconds, small hands came up to tangle in the back of his coat, and Canada clung to him.

“I know I will never be enough to make up for losing America, Sir,” Canada said softly, “but I promise that I will always try my best...”

“Canada…” England mumbled as he stirred into wakefulness, bushy brows furrowing as he sat up amid the scrolls and spellbooks that were piled high on and around his desk. It almost looked like he was sitting in a home-made fortress, or some sort of librarian’s nest…

Arthur made a face, batting away a yellowed page of a magical scroll that had stuck to his cheek when he’d dozed off on it, sighing and rubbing his eyes wearily. He’d gone through a mountain of scrolls and grimoires, and hadn’t found a damned bloody thing about wish reversing. Perhaps he should start looking under ‘curse remedies’ for a solution…

Um, England? I’m back, came a meek voice from behind a pile of books, and a familiar green head peered over the top of them.

“Ah, Mint Bunny!” Arthur sighed in relief, getting to his feet and stretching, wincing as his old bones protested his terrible choice of sleeping location. “Where is he? He’s not hurt, is he?”

No, not hurt at all. He got on a ship headed for Norway.

England quirked one fuzzy brow, then smiled a little in spite of himself. “Clever lad…starting with a nation that might actually be able to see him. I wouldn’t have thought of him, myself,” Arthur confessed, letting Mint Bunny settle in his arms, returning to his desk chair and petting the furry creature, scratching him lightly behind his wings.

Should I go back and try to find him again?

“It’s not necessary,” Arthur assured the rabbit gently. “Once I’ve had a good breakfast,” he glanced at the clock and corrected himself, “er, brunch, I’ll be able to do a quick spell to locate him.”

You don’t think he’s in Norway any more?

“I doubt he’ll be there for very long,” England confessed. “Scandinavian magic, while very powerful, isn’t usually very extensive unless one of their deities gets involved.”

Arthur sat there for a while, contenting himself with petting Mint Bunny, having been taken with an unusual need to cuddle something. Eventually rising to his feet, England let Mint Bunny jump out of his arms to flutter around him, making his way downstairs and shuffling into the kitchen to prepare something to eat.

So what do you think he’ll do next?

England felt that flutter of dread tug at his heart again, but he quickly forced it to the back of his mind. “I highly doubt he’d tell Matthew to go near Russia, and Finland’s magic, unfortunately, was purged right out of him. Odds are good that he’s told him to go to Greece, Egypt or China. I’ll find out once I’ve got a bit of energy to cast spells again.”

Will you…go after him?

Arthur quirked a brow, retrieving a pack of eggs from the fridge and trying to locate his frying pan. Seeing Kumajirou staring up at him forlornly, he reached down and patted the bear on the head. He’d best go upstairs and retrieve some more of the bear’s food from the mini-fridge… “If he’s determined to go and find an answer somewhere else, rather than driving me spare while I try to find an answer on this end, then who am I to try and stop him? Two heads are better than one, as they say.”

Oh.

England smiled reassuringly. “It’s all right, Mint Bunny. Of all my colonies, he’s the one who gets himself into the least amount of trouble, and aside from when his brother was trying to do a hostile takeover in 1812 to spite me, he never asks for help. Canada’s remarkably sensible.” Arthur hummed an old marching tune under his breath as he turned and cracked the egg into the frying pan, opening a small packet of sausages and tossing them in as well, nudging them with a fork.

So you aren’t worried about him?

The question made England pause for a moment, and he turned to regard the small green bunny carefully. “Should I be?”

I…I’m not sure, Mint Bunny confessed, fidgeting awkwardly. Isn’t it a habit to worry about loved ones?

“You’ve assured me that he’s safe for the time being,” Arthur replied, shrugging a shoulder. “Unless my locate spell points to Russia, I don’t really have much reason to be worried.”

It was at this moment Arthur realised he missed Percy, because the unicorn seemed to be the only one of his magical friends who was bold enough to cut in at this point and tell him what a poor liar he was.

*

Matthew woke with a start several hours later when the foghorn blew, and he tried to leap to his feet, scrabbling and falling onto his side. Oh…had he changed forms again?

He moved to lift his arms, startled to find that two feathery appendages rose to meet his eyes instead. Lifting his legs yielded an equally odd result, two long, spindly bird legs rising for the occasion.

Odd…if he didn’t know any better, he’d swear he was a Blue Heron or something. Righting himself, he tilted his head, craning his long neck in all directions to inspect his new body. Dark blue grey feathers with black accents adorned his back, while his underbelly seemed to be a pristine white that gleamed in the moonlight. On his head, two long feathers curved out behind him, on either side of his skull. Interesting…

He spotted the medallion Norway had given him on the edge of the crate, and carefully manoeuvred it so that it was around his neck. He wasn’t certain what time it was; however, he was pretty sure he hadn’t slept later than midnight. As he listened to the workers on the deck below, Canada was able to determine that the ship had docked either in Portugal or Spain. And, as Matthew knew there was a major shipping route that went right through the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, a boat ride to Egypt wouldn’t be too hard to secure.

Spreading his wings, Matthew gave them a few experimental flaps, then flapped them harder and faster, stunned to feel himself lifting off of the surface of the container he was standing on. Of course, distracted by this, he lost his concentration and fell right on his tail feathers, long legs flailing and scrabbling for a few seconds before he managed to get back onto his feet again.

With his typical determination and a running start, Matthew took flight, soaring high over the water and searching the surface below for his desired transport.
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Faux Paw