To the liar, the honest, this is war [PRP]

[England]

He charged, the boy had no clue. Had he been serious he would have fired then and there, the metal bearing lodging into what was left of his torn heart. They said that America would be his brother, he'd adopted him, taken him in, cared for him. This was what it come to though? War? He could see the anger in his eyes, feel a cold bitterness he'd never seen before in his beloved brother... Was he so beloved now? Was he really? Yes, he was. That was the heart breaking thing, the thing that made him choke back a silent sob, he loved this wanker, this bloody twat who stood so defiant. He loved him because they were brothers, not by blood, but by bonds... America wished to break that. Why? Why... It hurt so much, it made him want to curl up and scream every obscenity under the sun until he was nothing but a shivering wreck, until there was nothing left of him. Yet he was angry, furiously so. They all rose up, every one of them was standing tall choosing now to have a voice... Yet he knew why... This was his fault. Oh gods... They were all so right to hate him. He was a monster in his own right.

He drew closer, the shock clear on the younger boy's face. Gritting his teeth his brow furrowed, it was truly all he could do to stop the tears coming, he hated himself, he hated this, he hated all of this... He wanted that smiling boy back, he wanted to come back and see that damn stupid grin when he was told about the rabbit he'd saved from a fox.... He just wanted to be home... None of this having ever started. Yet how could he? He didn't want to fight, the fire of fury had long since been smothered by the pounding rain, now there were simply ashes. Alas there was no phoenix that would rise from this dust, there would be no shinning beacon as he swung his bayonet. Only the grey harbinger of loss... What was a country with a broken heart? How could anything like that ever be a great empire... the greatest there had ever been, and no doubt that ever would be. The bayonet met with wood, yet before anything else could happen the startled boy vanished, the world feel away and suddenly something deep within him burned terribly.

It was agony.

Coming back to the world the burning continued, the various pains and torments causing his body to give out in shock, falling back damp back resting against a wall. Something was wrong... And not just the sudden scene change, not just the weather change, no, something within he himself had changed. Moaning his head lolled back, slow blinks coming every now and then. The thing with his kind was that there cases where the individual would survive without their country or kingdom, Prussia was a fine example. Yet saying this to start with it couldn't have been pleasant, being torn away from something they'd been so linked to was hardly easy. Yet there was more to this, he could still feel the country in his heart in his being... And yet something was different, something was not right... Rubbing his head he shifted, once bright green eyes dulled from everything, he was exhausted. No physically, but mentally, he was so tiered and yet no amount of rest would resolve it... Now he felt... Strange though... All be it grateful that the pain had subsided.

Standing a churning feeling ripped through his gut, causing him to bow, right side leaning heavily against the wall. Dammit what the fuck was wrong?! Wasn't his agonized suffering for the family he was losing enough?! No... No! Then what would be enough, what would!Opening his mouth to utter something he suddenly wretched, little but bile coming forth. No... something was wrong... Perhaps stress? Or more... He could feel it in his bones, his country was suffering, and he didn't know where he was! In a back alley that he knew, some dark corner of whatever place this was. Cleaning his mouth he spat, trying to rid himself of the vile taste, only to utter a hoarse moan once he realise it wasn't going to leave. Huffing he pushed himself up, grime covering his damp hair and face. He looked like a broken soldier, not a proud king... Yet that was what he was. Battered and broken, a useless piece. All he could do was escape this place, leaving it's boarders not even trying to pay attention to it. Once free he'd find a tree, flopping under it to lean on it his musket laying by his side, eyes closing, the flushed look and furrowed brows being the only indicators to something wrong with the red clad man... Yet it was so much more... He was hurt and sick with some unknown ailment that that afflicted his country.

Depression was a vile thing, and he physically didn't even have it... Someone hated him... And it was only sad that it was the person he cared for most.

Note/;; The reason he's randomly ill is due to the depression of economy in England, issues like that within the country he represents directly effect him. The burning feeling was due to rapidly having the effects of he depression hitting him.
TITLE LYRICS from this which alas fits this post to well BC

[America]

     Vile man. No, not brother, man. The nation was nothing to him now, just something to rebel against. Something to take his anger out on. Something to break apart from. He was not a man either. Just some... some vile thing that had horrid things to his people. They had grown so far apart. What was going on? This was like chaos. The people knew why they thought, of course they knew they were the fuel of this driving force that now wanted to shoot a bullet within the Red Coat's head! Damn Brits. Damn them all! If they didn't want revolution then why the hell did they do what they did? It was all so wrong, and they needed to see what happens when you mistreat your people. This was war, no fin in games. Yet... they were a makeshift army. No experience of war behind them at all. They were just shooting and hoped they hit someone they wanted to kill. They were all desperate. Each and every one of them. Desperate for one thing, a thing they all shared. The one thing that was within all their hearts, including the blond young man who led the army... freedom.

     He stood defiantly, utter rage and loathing in his sharp blue eyes. Make no mistake, he was not going to show any compassion. Just utter resentment. He couldn't even spit in the other nation's direction. Ugh he was just despicable! How could someone he trust just... just turn his back on him like this? How could a brother do that? Just who in the right mind? No... England was no longer his brother. He was just another Red Coat, here to whip everyone back in place like damned dogs that didn't have a voice, that had no say. They were fighting for just that! To have a voice! "No Taxation without Representation!", the people would shout in the years prior to this war. But did Britain listen? Nooooo, of course not. Goddamn stuck up snobs! England was just another pawn for the King, here only to make sure that when they died, they'd stay dead so that they wouldn't squirm.So that they'd loose their voice completely. Break them. Break them until they couldn't do anything stupid again. They'd kill for the Crown, keep them in line for the Crown, break them for the Crown. The Great British Crown. Fuck them. What good were they doing now? Where was your invincibility? Where was it!? Damn it England... what good was he doing now?! Oh, whoops, they were no longer brothers, nevermind. How foolish.

     The musket was flicked out of his hands, a shocked look upon his face, more of nervousness that the blond, older man was going to just kill him right then and there. His heart raced. If he died, this was it. It was all over. "Join or Die", propaganda said. If the colonies did not join together, then the Brits would surely keep them in a choke hold forever. No, that was not allowed to happen, and the people knew that. They joined, oh, hell yeah they joined. That is how they got so far into this god-forsaken war. Because they joined together to say what they wanted to say. Their freedom of speech. Under the Crown they were not allowed to have that, but too bad, they found it, and now they were using it until their throats ran dry and shriveled up. Hey England, remember when you was just a little boy you found on a whim? The little boy who chose you to be his big brother instead of France? Remember? They'd say you'd treat him well. So well, that he'd start a fucking revolution against you. Hey King, your Red Coats won't win this! Get them the fuck out while you still can! They will get their freedom!

     Though under all that anger, all that rage, the young man still felt a tinge of emotional pain. What was he doing? Was he doing this for himself... or for the people? This was for everyone, for himself and for his people. But, did he... personally really want this? To part from someone who had raised him and cared for him like family? Like a brother? Yes, of course he did, he was a damned limey, just like the rest of them! But even now, at the pinnacle, he questioned his heart. He was so strong, so confident, so damn stubborn. Damn it, did he really honestly want this? To have a musket pointed at him, awaiting for the bullet to be lodged in his head? Fuck no, no one wanted that, but, this could have prevented, right? Right? Dear god what was wrong?! Why were you letting him question himself now out of all times. He had come so far, so far to get to this point. He could not turn back. He had a whole civilization behind him, supporting him, urging him on. He could not look back on this. He waited for the enemy nation to just fire, his face stern, though underneath it all, he was frightened, frightened that he would die, die for what he should have had already-the freedom...

     He blinked, but before he could open his eyes to see what England was going to to, everything was more... black than it usually was. He did not hear the pounding of rain against himself and the world around him. He felt as if he was just in this void. A black void. The fleeting feeling only lasted for less than a second, but felt like forever. Then he felt cold, hard pavement against the side of his face, followed by a throbbing headache. Wait... what the fuck just happened? Blue eyes opened as the patriot tried to really awakened from a pseudo-coma. His hands dragged against the hard pavement slowly to his sides and he slowly lifted himself up from the laying position. He swung his head back to look at the sky, his pose looking almost defeated as his blond hair fell back and blue eyes stared at the sky, trying to take in what the hell just happened. Seriously. The sky was as clear as anything, not a gray cloud covering the great blue sky. What's more... this place was completely cluttered with buildings. Buildings built in an alien style unbeknown to him. What... where was this? He felt so dizzy by all this. Wait.. was this whole situation causing this dizzy feeling...--

     He yelled out, bordering on screaming. What the fuck. Something hit him harder than a boat. It stung more than any bullet would or any bayonet to carve into his body. Oh my god what was this new found pain? It was utterly horrid. He felt like utter shit, maybe even worse. His hands covers his dirtied face and his fingers curled up against it, even grabbing his hair out of the immense stress he was feeling. A headache crept up ever so quickly. Fuck no this was a fucking migraine! A horrible one to boot! He tried standing, using his musket (which somehow came along with him) as a crutch to lift himself up as he drowsily leaned against the brick wall of a building. His eyes flickered and he all of a sudden utterly nauseous. Dear god what was this illness?! Was it from all the war and stress? No that didn't seem right, something else was up... just... something and he could not place a finger on it. Then another horrid feeling came up. Actually more than that came up. He quickly spun around and heaved before he fell easily to his knees, panting and spitting out the rest of the bile. He felt like just falling back against the pavement and just falling asleep. It just... horrid...

     Ignoring the weakness he was now feeling, he forced himself back up using the wall and musket for balance and tried to find a proper place to just... sit and rest. He was lazily walking along the path. Looking at everything was making him feel worse. This was all too strange. Amusingly his surroundings wasn't a concern at all. He couldn't give a shit. At all. The important thing was to make his way back to the battlefield. Oh my god that was right! Without him there... what the fuck was going to happen?! A panicked feeling arose and he began to run in the oddly quiet streets despite the shitty feeling he felt, gun in hand. His stride was sloppy and it was extremely hard to keep his balance, but if you could look into those blue eyes of his, you could see the utter determination to keep on going in his eyes, those passionate eyes that held to many different emotions in them. England, whatever you do, don't hurt his people. Not when America's not around! Don't! Black shoes clicked against the pavement as his eyes fought to stay open. Then an itch in his throat. He dead stopped and began coughing hard. What the hell... how did he get sick so fast, so quickly... what...? His throat felt like it was on fire. A raging inferno. Was this is punishment for revolting? For revolting an unjust Crown? If that was so, then he would deal with it. Punish him, then, but he will not break under this.

     He began running again. He was just running... Running to where? To find the battlefield. But did he know where it was from here? What kind of question was that? He didn't even know where "here" was! Oh he was utterly doomed. At this rate he was going to go nowhere. He was just running and hoped he ended up somewhere. He was helpless, weak, exhausted, ill... if only he knew what was the matter. The King was probably laughing ass off right now. Eugh vile man. Damn limeys. Speaking of limeys... he staggered to a stop trying to catch his breath between the harsh coughs that followed. He bent forward, trying to cool down after running around his his damn uniform. The water weight wasn't helping much at all. The cotton uniform was perhaps going to worsen his condition considering cotton and water did not mix very well. Though when he slowly stood back up... there he was... that... that.... the words couldn't come out he was so enraged. He just felt like lifting his gun at him right then and there, but after looking at his own dirtied face... he couldn't. All this war and he couldn't even force a bullet into his damned skull. There was still care within his hurt soul. There was still concern, still the desire to have some sort of affiliation, yet at the same time, he could not. No, he did not need to be feeling this way now. No, after all that's been said and done, no. Oh fuck life! Why was this so difficult?! He looked more closely, vision slightly blurred. England seemed to be in some pretty bad shape as well... good. They were both here, but, bad thing, they weren't where they should be. Damn. Looking at the green eyed man he staggered forward, not even lifting up his gun. He couldn't, not now. He may have tried to get closer, but no more would he walk. The distance America put between them was a sign that this was as close as they were ever going to be.

"England..." He drawled, his voice cracked from the illness he now felt.

     Why he chose to speak to this man... he was not quite sure himself. Maybe it was so England did not forget that America was here to, and that he had no right to be relaxing just yet. he chose this as his reason, it made the most sense to him at this point. Any other reason was not acceptable. Though deep down... the reason he spoke, was because he still, despite it all, cared. Cared that England was in this bad condition. But he was telling himself not to do a single thing. Why? Because he was just another Red Coat. Just another solider from the Crown to put him back in his place. Brotherly relations meant nothing at this point. It meant nothing it war. He was torn. He didn't know what else to do. Was fighting now even right? Eugh he was just a mess. He began coughing again as he used his musket to balance himself upright. He wanted to be taken away by sleep but, no. Not now. No telling what that limey England would do... eugh.

[ ooc: TL;DR ]

[England]

He was sick, so sick... There was no cure for his ailments though, there was no cure for a broken heart, a shattered will, no cure for the depression. Time would heal it, time healed all they said. Yet for him it had made it worse. He'd been following orders, as a country he followed his king, he had to. The man had said conquer and he had, he'd been the terror of the seas. Rule Britannia they yelled! Screaming it, cheers ringing out for him as he dominated yet another country. Oh he'd been so strong, so very strong. He was proud, a proud man with a strength all would envy. Yet look at him now. Do you see? Do you see him now? A crumbled mess, just broken pieces. Do you see what you have done!? Someone so proud, wars he'd fought, wars he'd won, all had been easy with the orders. And yet then his leaders had fucked up, dragging him with them. He didn't blame them, he'd follow them always. Yet they should have known, they should have known the problems! How could they not... He'd tried to help, so hard. And yet in the end he became nothing but a cracked voice, someone tired of yelling, of trying to fix it. He wasn't vile... He hadn't been cruel... He was simply inept... He was week, pathetic... Nothing but a foolish nation who'd taken more than could be held, he had the world in his hands but he was so very exhausted from it's weight.

So when they'd said he had to fight, that he must quell the uprising he had taken it as all good gentlemen should and bowed, saying it was his honour to serve his people. Yet with it all... It wasn't... They were breaking his heart, making him fight against his own fucking family... They didn't see his pain! No one saw his, they were all to occupied with their own pains, of trying to quell the fighting. They didn't see his heart wasn't in this fight, he didn't want to fucking win! He wanted nothing of this, he wanted none of this crap. They were fighting such a pointless war, he knew why, he could even sympathise if he tried. Yet he couldn't, he was not allowed. He was ordered to fight, to protect, to dominate. Yet how could he!? Did they not know that a broken country was no country at all? That if they pushed any more England would crumble, not just the man, but the very ground. Oh gods his people, if he died they'd be destroyed! They'd be punished for his mistakes... He should have guided them, he should have known better, he should... Yet he didn't.

He was such a fool! He tried so hard, oh he wanted them all happy. He had a terrible temper at times, utterly terrifying if it went to far, yet in the end he had a heart. He didn't want them to suffer, he hadn't meant to punish them, it was all just to much... And the terrible thing? He was just a dog to his country in this. He'd never felt that before, he'd never felt so pinned down. Yet... he too had lost his voice in all this. Freedom they yelled! What was he to do?! What.... Oh if only things had been different, he didn't have it in him to fight, not against America... America... He and his troops would be demolishing the Brits. Without him, without their country they stood no chance. True his heart was not in it, but he was there, and he was pushing on regardless. Yet now he wasn't there at all... They'd be punished for his mistakes, his mistakes! Gods above his people... They'd be scorned and tormented for the mistakes of there great nation. Yes, Rule Britannia indeed, the land where tyrants never did rise... He... He was the biggest tyrant of them all. He hadn't taken the power for granted, and he'd been fair... Oh but had he not cut them all? He... Yes... There was no denial. The bastard he was, he couldn't do this.

Though his fevered mind a headache pushed on, the front of his head feeling as if someone was trying to drive a knife through his head, perhaps they were, perhaps they were trying to end all that was vile. Destroy the nation that they thought was trying to pain them deliberatly. Let them come, let them do as they pleased with him. He was usless, he people needed him and he wasn't there, they would be destroyed and... The agony that would bring his already poor form was something close to unimaginable, it would kill him anyway. In the end he was lost, a husk of someone that had once been great. The terror of the seas, the ruler of the world, long live England! Long live England... Look at him... Look at him for the love of god! See what your wars bring, see what the domination brings... See what happiness can become. For the love of your gods and kings look and learn! Learn... oh gods please, please.... No one should have to bare this, this feeling, this agony. His people would die, his own brother would likely be the one to end him. All the happiness, that smiling little face that had looked up at him with such joy, please...

To his clouded mind though such thoughts became feverish images, voices of such a small child... And a rabbit... Perched on his head with a look of utter adoration. How could he have destroyed that, this boy, how had he done this?! Brows wrinkling he made something close to a hacking sob, tears pricking at his face as those... So very dear memories chose now of all times to come. The joy in his face as he grinned, reaching up for the older man to lift him. What was once so warm now stung, the warmth rejecting every part of him, giving him that damn sickening feeling once more, gods above he hadn't even eaten anything, he had nothing left to give, and yet his body was fighting him so. Punishing him for everything he'd done, perhaps even it wished to vanquish something so terrible. The revolution would mean nothing, his own body would end him. Was this not better though? Who knew, he'd escape the pain at least, he'd end the suffering... Perhaps America would be happy... Happy enough then to leave his people be... Leave them... The innocent people who'd done nothing, the soldiers that were following the crown as he himself was. Leave them and take your freedom.

"England..."

Eyes would have shot open on any other occasion, yet now he had to force them to do such, lifting his head to meet a face just as dirty as his own. The bitter look... His head dropped again, America had won this before it had started. England had never wanted this. Yet he could tell so well from the boy's voice that he was sick... So both their nations were suffering? Ironic. "Do it..." voice cracking, strained, beaten by the illness that plagued him and his land. He was such a proud man, and yet now he was nothing. With a huffing grunt he forced himself up, the rifle staying upon the ground, he had no need, he'd known from the start he'd never be able to kill this boy, his own fucking brother. He couldn't kill him, it would hurt so much more than it already did. America had broken him in a way no other ever had, or even could. Great Britain, the most powerful empire of them all, no other could do this to it. Yet one boy could, with one revolution he'd done what no other would have had any hope to do... If only he'd seen this before... He was to proud to have simply given in at that start, it was his fault so many soldiers had died, his fault. He didn't blame America, he was angry at him, but he couldn't blame him.

His head burned, his eyes stung with the effort to hold back his tears, at least he knew... that for now his people would be safe... For now. He couldn't win, not now, perhaps... They would be spared, if he stopped what he never could do to start with perhaps lenience would be given. "America..." Oh the agony in that one word, that one name. Every part of him hurt, his heart wrenched. He was surprised to see the boy here, and yet there was nothing left he could do about it, he was doomed, he had been from the start. "End it then..." He wouldn't fight back, not now... He was to weak, pathetic. His throat was rough, face heavily blushed with a fever that the water was no helping. He was cold, he was wet, he was nothing any more, perhaps he never really had been, from the start... It was to much, he couldn't do this. The tears came, so heavily. He cried so rarely, he showed so little open weakness to anyone, he was to proud to ever do so. And yet now the tears came heavier than ever before, cutting through the dirt on his face as head bowed, a hand covering his face, fingers curling to grip. End it... Take your freedom.

Take it all.

[America]

"Do it..."

     They were both covered him grime. Mud, dirt. You name it, they were covered in it. War was a dirty thing indeed. But if there was one thing that a soldier should never be covered in. Tears. Tears only came after the war, and they would be tears of joy. Though, war was also a heart breaker. Your friends would die in the face of war, your loved ones; everything could be easily snatched away. Anything. Even your feelings. Then you'd steal new ones in order to fill the empty void you were now. The hollow shell that had nothing left behind except for an iota of compassion, of care. But how could you care for someone who was your enemy? You can't. Even if said enemy was your own damned brother. There he was again, thinking this limey was his brother again. He had to stop thinking that. They were not so. Not any longer. England could say all the shit in the world, and America would not have any of it. Damn it... why was this so difficult! He knew it would be hard but... fuck it! Damn it all! He couldn't shoot this man!

"America... End it then..."

     There was a long, quiet pause, as if the world stood still. He slowly shook his head. He was not going to shoot this man. This man who... who had just broke down into tears in front of him. Look at what he did. How could a man like him, so proud, be so weak on the inside. The enemy showing compassion... what was this? What was the world coming to. While his hand remained on his gun, but his grip lessened on it, any looser and it would fall to the ground. He couldn't... he couldn't point the gun to this man now. He couldn't shoot his brother. His brother... he saw it now. But... it was too far into the fight. He couldn't fix what he had severed so... so bad. His own eyes wanted to pour out, but he refused to show the pain that he was now feeling by seeing the strong man in front of him break down into just a broken soul. Who knew... he'd be so easy to snap. He shook his head again, slowly. He had no strength... no desire to kill this man... not anymore. All he fought for.... nothing? Why was this so damn hard? Just shoot the fucking Red Coat! What have the Brits ever done for the colonists?! What?! He wanted to scream, he was so confused. Just shoot him dead and watch their damn empire crumble. Gain the freedom that was so rightfully his! That was the price they got for being such tyrants! Such bloody... But... fuck....

He was holding back feelings himself. "I..." He whispered. He was not sorry. "... You were so such proud man..." What happened to that same man? There he was. Just broken. He couldn't kill the rest of him. He had shot his heart, that was more than anyone could ever do. That was enough... "England..."

     There was little he could say. Not because the ill feeling he was feeling was still there, having his ability to speak shot, but because... He had lost his ability to say much more. He couldn't... didn't know what to say at all to the other man. He could not comfort him. That was not his goal. He could not do much without. Fuck. Why didn't you just shoot him? You wouldn't have any of this pain or thoughts! You wouldn't be so confused! Stop holding back! But it was so hard to. If only... if only he could let out his feelings. But no, not now. He had hardened himself for just this moment. This moment to see England have his will broken. But, who knew it'd be this bad? The limey... could he even insult him now? Why were you so confused?! Move! Move! Your brother or you freedom? What would you pick? What was better? The choices... the answer should be obvious... but it really wasn't. he couldn't see this man this way. He couldn't fight a man who was crying... of pain. He closed his eyes and sighed. The war was not over, and it would not be over if he killed England. It wouldn't.... America would not declare it over... not until...

"I... I won't..." He said, his voice cracked, not because of illness, but now because of this pain he was beginning to feel. "If... you think killing you is going to win this war... it's not... you...--" He paused, spitting something to the side from his throat. He couldn't insult him now. "All I want... is my freedom..." His freedom. Get that... and he'd stop. He promised.

     "Wow! For me England!? Really?" He closed his eyes and sighed. "Yeah, it's specially made~" He rubbed the side of his head. "Wow! Thanks England!". Was this the price of freedom? To have such good times be forgotten just so you can have something so finical? So small compared to the love of family? He was such a happy child... what was he reduced to now... some heartless person who had every intention of hurting the one who he loved the most, like family. "Nonsense! If you don't dress properly, it'll be a problem for me." Had this been another time, he would laughed at how simple he was. "Awww, fine. I'll wear it only for special occasions~" He would never wear that damn nice suit anymore. What did family mean now? He needed this. He needed his freedom. The one he so rightfully deserved. To be split from the person that also hurt him the most. But to kill? He would never. Before, perhaps, because he was so into the battles. But now, away from the battle field, he was open to just let it all out. He could not in front of the limey. He couldn't, no matter how much he wanted to.

     The colony tried to straighten himself, despite the weakness he felt from this mysterious illness he was afflicted with. He remember the day England adopted him so very clearly. He was such a small child, alone, with no one. After that day, he had someone. He had someone he could call family. His brother. His so very kind brother. What happened to his kindness? What happened to this bond that they shared? It broke. America stabbed it until it would just shatter and fall apart, just so he could get what he wanted. That was his goal. To sever any relations they had with each other. To become independent. To become his own nation. That was what he wanted. He knew it would hurt him inside, but, this much? And look at England, looking like a broken toy soldier left out in the dirt to be forgotten. Like the ones England himself gave him as a small boy. He remembered that thing. It was back at home... gathering dust. He didn't want to remember all this, not now. He swallowed hard. Hey god, if your watching, give him the strength to overcome this confusion and let him make up his mind. Did he really want to split? His heart yearned to go up to the man, but at the same time, after everything, he couldn't. Why was this so hard?! He felt his head throb. And then there was this fucking illness. Dear god, this was hard enough, stop making it worse! The blond was at a loss, so very lost. Not by thoughts or decisions, and not by where they where, but he didn't know what to feel. A saddened expression was all that was shown, and even then, it was not all of it. Amongst that was a tinge of bitterness and aggression, but, it was all fading away now. Without the sound of rain or the sounds of guns, he couldn't hide what he felt so easily.

Okay brother~!
Ehhhhhhh, just call me England~
... Okay~

What brother?

[England]

All he could do was stand, stand waiting for it to end. His shoulders shook, his chest heaved, he wept. Every part of him had been destroyed... Was this enough? America? Was this what you wanted... After everything he had done for him, raised him, cared for him... Of gods had he cared for him... After all that this was what you wanted?! Is this enough for you now oh child of my heart?! Please say yes, oh please just say it was... He was giving his life, it... Was his last gift. He'd given the boy so much, love, a home, family, everything, everything bar for what he gave now. Was he not a good brother? How many others would give so much to someone who took to scorning them so? He... was... He was something else. England had made mistakes, but oh for the love of god could he not be forgiven?! Tell me now why he could not! He'd been following orders, not his heart. Did they not see his emotions were as real as any human? He hurt so much yet who cared now? Who gave a fuck about the broken empire? Who was there for him... no one? Indeed, he was king.... He was the king standing alone with nothing but his own heaving sobs for comfort.

"I... ... You were such a proud man... England..."

Perhaps once he'd have laughed at that, yet now all he could do was fall heavily to his knees, bowed forward like a beggar bowed to their king, begging them to make it stop, to end all the suffering, everything. He just wanted to end all of this, he hurt so much and not one soul cared! He was alone, such a great empire was alone with not another to aid him... Yet who would aid a beast? He'd fallen so low, so low as he wrapped his other arm around himself, fingers digging hard into his side as his forehead touched the ground, he was gone. You'll be great! You'll control all and be the one to hold all! That's what they'd said, yet look now, what did he have? For the love of god what did he have now?! Anything? Can you see anything worth while? No... He had nothing, not emotions, not a heart, not a brother... Nothing. He was a wounded soldier and there was nothing that could heal him. All he could do was wait for the boy to end it. His life was America's, was he proud?! He had everything, he'd stolen everything England had cared for. Like a thief in the night with such innocence in his eyes he'd stolen England's heart to leave him in the dirt. He was long forgotten, the selfish temptation of freedom had swayed the boy... Had family ever meant anything to him...?

"I... I won't..."

Why?! He'd killed his heart, he'd killed him mentally... He'd taken everything from him and now he was choosing to show mercy? What kind of world was this?! Was there no god? Oh please... Please.... He'd begged so long and hard for his dear brother to stop, to end the suffering he perhaps didn't know he was causing, yet no, he'd become an unwavering wall, an enemy... Yet... England had never seen him as such, never, even now he still saw that smiling child, and then... All that could have been. All the joy, America was pulling it away to try and leave nothing but cold hate. He didn't want that! He'd hurt the boy, but now he was agonized, tears dripping to the ground that so mercilessly drank them up. He was nothing, nothing to the boy who'd adored him so, who he'd doted on. Oh he'd give anything to keep him, even now, even after all the pain he was causing England just wanted him back. He truly did, he wasn't sure how much more of this his heart could t-- No... His heart was gone, a shadow, he'd given it to America and the boy had thrust a blade into it, ripping and slashing until the man broke. He must have known... How could he not have? He'd meant to do this... And so a question was asked... Who was the real monster?

"If... you think killing you is going to win this war... it's not... you...-- All I want... is my freedom..."

It was to much... Far to much. He was sick, he should be resting, not this.. Oh dear god, not this. Sick to his stomach he wretched heavily, moving the hand from his face, gripping the grass. Unlike prior there was nothing to come, he'd given everything for this boy, no one could take anything from him now. That which was so dear was gone... Freedom?... Had they not been happy? Eyes screwed shut, all he could see was the boy holding onto his clothes, begging him to stay, the fear of been alone to great for the child... And yet he'd left... Oh how he regretted that now, why had he not stayed?! Perhaps... He should have been there, he'd tried so hard with the boy. The child so young who'd chosen him over France, that boy he'd treasured more than anything. He loved him so, his heart was broken, emotions shattered, soul splintered, and the boy asked for freedom? What could he do, he was weak, pathetic, a tyrant of the people... Yet was he really? Or was that just what he was been made to believe? He didn't know, all he knew was hurt, all he could feel was coldness as he panted for breath against the heaving sobs and the fever that claimed him as its own. He was worthless.

Leaving the grass free, body trembling, he griped the back of his head, pulling so hard against his hair. It hurt... Oh god it hurt... To fight... Or give up the person he loved so much. Why couldn't the boy take both? Family and freedom... England would have fucking well been fine with that. He'd have been happy to take that, yet the boy only wanted one thing, he wanted to reject family, cut England away from him. He'd butchered the man, beaten him until nothing of the great country remained, he was a ghost. "Take it, take everything!" He cried out, voice choking as he coughed violently after. He was going to kill himself, his body just could no deal, it couldn't cope with the strain he was forcing on it. Yet still the tears came, harder than before with what he was offering. He didn't want this, dear god he didn't wan this. Yet he knew the boy would snap up the offer, not even considering another way. "Take your damn freedom if that's all that matters!" Did he not matter now? Did what they had not matter... The boy was cutting him from his life and all England could do was let him. To weak to fight back. The sick feeling pounding against him as the migraine pushed on despising him, he felt terrible as once more he heaved, and once more there was nothing, saliva simply at the corners of his mouth. The boy was to short sited, he could have had both, he could have fucking well had both... Yet he only wanted one thing... And that was not a brother... It was not family... England wanted that... So much...

Where was his brother now...?

Where?

[America]

     Seeing this man, break down in front of him, just like that, without having to do a thing. It hurt. And here the rebel was, standing there, not even showing a twinge of sympathy. How could he? The unwavering emotion was all he needed to feel. That was all he needed to give to England. Just at least that. He could not feel hurt. If he did, this whole war would have been pointless. The point was, that he no longer cared. That he was putting his own problems and his people's sufferings first. What England had done... as a person was enough to sway him away. To chase him away. To run away and not look back. Only to come back with the full force of revenge? No, this revolution, was not revenge, it was a calling. A sign that the colonies, and he, were ready to move on. That they did not need their home country any longer. The people to the Crown as America was to England. Dependent on each other. But independent they will become. All he needed was England's surrender, or giving, of freedom. Can't believe you needed permission for something that should have been there all along! The Crown really had brainwashed people... despicable.

"Take it, take everything! Take your damn freedom if that's all that matters!"

     Damned limey stop making this so difficult. He saw the man cough and hack so sickly. Had this been any other time, perhaps, back at the battlefield, this would have been so much easier to contend with. It was if he was asking for sympathy. As if he had thrown up this "illness" just so America could feel bad and totally forget about the war, forget about his freedom, and come running back. No. That's not what this was about. It wasn't for pride or dignity, but what was best. It was best they parted, becoming totally two different entities that should never even had any history with each other, no affiliation with each other. Though... was it for the best? Look at all the pain he was causing the Redcoat. So much, and, he couldn't stop it. It was out of his control. He would technically do something, yes, but, they were enemies. Enemies never helped each other. Who was the hero of this, though? They hurt each other in ways no other could, and in the end, both were suffering. Who was the hero? Was there even such a thing? The thing he wanted so much to be, a hero of the people, the proudest damn nation there ever was. That's what he wanted to be. But this... this wasn't... He wasn't changing his mind, no. What he had done has been done and there was no changing that. The only thing he could do, was just end it, and stop the pain. He knew he was hurting himself, but too much for him to bear.

     Though he did and said not a thing to England's offer. It wasn't that he did not want it... nor that he didn't want to accept it, but, he didn't know what to do with it anymore. Watching this horrid scene, was making him rethink things he promised never to let pass his mind for the whole war, as long as it too. Yet here they were again. This was going to end. With simple words, he would end it all. The American Revolutionary war, the colonies' ties with the Crown, his own ties with England, their brotherhood. Their oh so short lived brotherhood... meant... nothing now. The throbbing migraine pressed on, not helping matters in the least. This pain felt like it was his own personal issues with the world rested upon his shoulders. Make it go away... make it go away. He did not want this. he did not need this. Not now. Where was the hard soldier he had become? The unwavering soldier that would not be swayed by emotion. He had put a barrier over himself in order to ignore the pain of this, yet, was it destroyed so easily? There was nothing melancholic in the air, the place around them, besides them. Two broken, beaten down troops, out of place, our of sight, out of options. Covered in grime as if their souls were defiled with the sins of their actions that they had committed. This illness was their punishment, and this emotional turmoil was their own penance, wrought upon themselves. The condemned criminals they were. Condemned for doing what they thought was right. To benefit only themselves. Where was the justice in that? The young man thought he was doing this for justice... why did he not see justice. In those dulled blue eyes, he could not see justice, only the wrongs of his actions. He did not want this. But, he had to claim victory. Just to fucking end this shit.

     He stood tall, despite the great way and dizziness. He felt so bad doing this, so vile. Now he felt like the enemy. He coughed vigorously before and eerie silence fell upon him, lost for words. He wasn't sure what to say. How was he to say this? He could not hurt England anymore than he had. This war took it's toll on him, and this illness they both now shared was just overkill. He wheezed as he felt another onslaught of coughs wanting to arise, but he tried holding them back, even for just a second. He went to open his mouth to speak, but alas, something interrupted him. Now what? What else would some god send to inflict torture? This was enough torture! Were those in the heavens sadists, that they enjoyed to see this emotional carnage and physically suffering? What kind of god was that? Defiantly not his. His would not allow this... would it? Though he flicked his eyes to his corners, only to see some beast arise from what seemed like nowhere, ugly structure and the face of a demon. Claws nicely curved like deadly hooks and shaggy hair of sheepdog. What was this monstrosity? There was nothing like this back in the colonies...

     He adjusted himself to face the beast, who's jaws opened and a long, disgusting tongue hang out like an extra appendage. Wherever "this" was, they had some pretty damn ugly creatures. And large too boot. This one was rather large, perhaps a bit larger than a bear. It slowly stalked towards their position, strange glowing red eyes intent on burning into their very soul. The young man could not help but stumble back a few steps, kind of frightened by the damned thing. What was this monstrosity that was now before them? Without further hesitation, it began to charge towards America, jaw swaying open as it got closer. Almost instinctively, the blond rebel swung the musket that was supporting him up in front of him, aiming it at the beast. As he pulled the trigger without even a pause, the sound of the shot ripped through the air and echoed out, the bullet smashing into the beast's head. Though a shocked expression appeared on his face. Why was it not dead? Right square in the head, but, what? It's face cracked like glass, nothing under it was damaged at all. That was some strong face then, but, this was odd.

     He examined the creature as it reared back and howled something terrible, a hole right through it's chest. Odd... why was that there? What kind of monster was this? Not only did it lack natural appearance, but, it also had a hole right through it smack dab in it's chest. It was weird, but as a thought hit him she shook his head hard. He shouldn't compare himself to this creature-- he covered his mouth as he dropped the old musket to the ground and fell to his hands and knees, heaving up. Damn nausea.. he felt weak again. He couldn't get up. He wiped his mouth off before looking up, seeing the creature right there in front of him, almost touching him. He flinced and threw himself back, pushing away on his back, feeling for his musket. But god he felt like just sleeping. His eyes were dimmed and couldn't even keep them open for long. the monster was larger to crawl over him, pinning America. What was going to happen, was this the end? As if it was burned into him, he flicked his head to England. Did he not see this thing? It was huge and monstrous. He dug his fingers into the ground, actually frightened of the thing. The creature had knocked aside his trust musket, and he figured struggling wouldn't have much affect. He was stuck. Though he looked at England, as if, as if the man was gong to come and save him, like he did when he was younger. It was burned into him to look to the older man for help. A brother always helped a brother, but, were they still that now? America didn't claim it yet. England had offered, but did not claim it, so, what were they, besides enemies? What? He could only look at him. Speak to him... he could do that to but, he was too worried he'd break out in a coughing fit or cause the creature pinning him to eat his face off. He wanted so much to ask the nation for help, but... he couldn't. That would be so wrong. Now it was wrong. He had made it wrong.

     His eyes flicked back to the beat over him by the corner of his eyes. It seemed like it was waiting for something. What was it waiting for? For him to struggle? To yell out? No, he was not about to do that. If this damned thing wanted that then it should have found another victim. Yet he remained still. If there was one thing he learned about big things, startling or giving them the incentive to attack wasn't the brightest of ideas.

[England]

It was like waiting for death, waiting for the hammer to come down and judge you to vile for life. Was this what he had been reduced to? Nothing but a criminal who was forced to his knees, arms free and yet bound so tight that it pained everything. Where he had once been the judge, the defender, the executioner... Now he was the convicted. He was worse than any on the gallows, and yet still he was alive. In retrospect he had to wonder how he'd survived so long. After all he'd done, all the wars, two thousand years give or take... How had he done that? He was old... And yet at the same time young. Gods he was so naive, he was meant to be a world superpower... No, screw that, he was the world super power. Yet this? What was this madness? How could he have been so foolish? He'd trusted someone so deeply, so infinitely... And look what they'd done to him... Look what they'd made him into, a broken mess with nothing. Oh he'd been such a fool... If only he'd seen then what he knew now... If only he fucking knew what compassion got him.

Would he change it though... Back then... Had he known this pain would he have just let the boy go to France? No... There wasn't even a thought to it, he'd have still taken that little boy in, still cared for him as he so deeply had... Did... He still did... Even after all this gods above he still cared. He wanted to stop, so badly, he wanted to pull away from this pain that was forcing him to just... Break... To snap... he hated this, he hated being so weak, the tears rolling, flowing, not stopping. If only he could cut it off. All he could do through it though was try and grasp into the last vestiges of what they had, he couldn't let go so easily. After everything it had been forced into him to hold onto the boy, to protect him from anything that was of threat. The illness, the world... But how could he protect him from himself? He didn't know how... He truly didn't. He wanted this resolved, and yet he didn't want to let go, he couldn't bare to. The thing he knew was... Even when the boy.. His brother... Even when he accepted... England would not let go. That affection could never just die, as much as America may burn it.

Yet why was he not severing it? He'd gotten the words he'd wanted so badly, he had England, that so very great nation, bowed at his feet... Yet he did nothing to claim his prize. England... Didn't want him to, yet it was inevitable. At this moment though, waiting for him to simply laugh in his face, mutilating everything they had, it felt like someone was trying to pull his teeth out. Gods, why wouldn't he take it already? Or reject it... Please, one or the other, his fragile mind... How could it take much more of this? He couldn't... Yet the tears slowed... He still hurt... So badly, his core was cracking with each passing second... Yet you could only show the pain for so long, only for so long could you physically deal with so much turmoil before you went numb, before you silenced into nothing but a blank mess that someone had long since discarded as unwanted. There was nothing else to do, though... Though the boys coughing made him flinch. So instinctively he wanted to just reach out, to comfort him, to tell him he'd be okay... Yet how could he? The boy would only scorn him for it... America... Would never allow for him to do so. Not again...

He heard the boy move though... What now? Was this just a game....? Could he not see what he was doing? No, he had to, and yet he'd said nothing, done nothing, just stand there. This... Why? He was beyond confusion, the headache impairing his judgement, the turmoil of emotions just... Just... He didn't know, all he could do was flick bloodshot eyes up, the tears that had nigh on stopped threatening to return as he saw him, yet eyes following his gaze his breath caught, something causing him to cough hard. What the fuck?! He'd seen a lot, as someone who seemed to be innately in touch with the mystical side of the world this... Wasn't right. It was hard enough to accept that he'd been pulled from war, painful to accept he was now sick, agonizing to see that America was here too, demanding his heart on a platter, yet this was... Messed up. That thing, what was that? A creature of this world? He'd seen nothing before that was like this. Unicorns and fairies were one thing, but this was in a league of it's own!

Hand blindly reaching for the musket he knew was still near his hand straddled the grass looking for it, looking for what was taking its own sweet time to find. Instead though the blue eyed man fired, the heavy scent of gunpowder once more filling his senses, he'd come to loath it. Yet at least it seemed to finish before anything even began. The shot slammed into that strange porcelain like mask with a 'thwunk' of a sound, causing a split to run down the grizzly feature of the shaggy mutt. What astounded him though... Those red eyes didn't dim as all eyes did when led was planted into their skull... It didn't die, it flinched, screeching as it reared back, yet after it calmed... As if nothing had happened. His eyes widened as it slunk forward, hand searching ever more desperately for the muske-- America...! He stumbled and the damn thing took its chance to pounce, covering the weakened soldier... Fuck... Fuck!

He couldn't... He didn't... What was he to do?! Heart or duty... Heart... Or duty? It took not even a second to decide, he couldn't kill the boy, and so he couldn't see him killed. It stung though, it stung so much when those dull eyes were cast to him, the fear showing. He was still that same boy, and for now they were still bound, still brothers in a sense that America... Couldn't deny even if he wanted to. He could lie all he wanted, yet he couldn't deceive his heart. That look was all the damned for help the nation needed... He was tired, he was hurt, he was broken and destroyed.. Yet by thunder he still had breath. If anyone expected him to roll over and let his own family die... They were fucked up in the head. Even after everything he'd done, despite all the pain they'd caused to each other, despite this England still grasped his musket, fingers locking around the cold metal. There was no god damn bastard alive in any country he'd give the right this thing seemed intent to be taking to, none had the damn right to do this to America... The boy that was for now still his brother... Any fool that tried was damn well getting the full rage of a falling empire thrust at them in the form of the one... Who hurt.. Of the one... Who seemed so weak... The one who'd not let this happen.

Pushing himself up he staggered, muffling a cough before closing the relatively short distance sooner than one could have prior expected from such a defeated man. "Bloody wanker," his voice little more than a rasping cough. It was unclear who he was talking to, perhaps both... Neither.. perhaps himself. Who knew? Right now it hardly mattered, not to him, not to anyone, not to the green horn he positioned himself over, this... beast's face coming all to close to his own. As its jaws snapped open, a hissing noise issuing out that chilled him to the bone he pulled his musket up, promptly thrusting the thing into the things jaws until the satisfying feeling of resistance came as the bayonet struck the back of the things throat. It reared back, and he followed, pushing further as eyes narrowed slightly, chest heaving as he did. Of course it was hardly a good idea to have gun and arms inside its mouth, yet alas his biggest problem ended up being the beasts claws as it reached up, grabbing his left side apparently trying to either pry the angry humanoid country off, or hold him in place.

Whatever the reason hooked claws dug in, easily ripping the thick cotton and all under, flesh included. Dammit! shifting to the side it dug in more, causing him to give a rough growl the dragged at his raw throat. "Move....!" He snapped out, turning slightly to see the boy from the corners of his eyes. It was... Wrong of him to protect this boy, this person who thought him a monster, who burned him, who was supposed to be his enemy... Well you know what... Fuck conformity! He didn't hate this moron, he cared, that hadn't bloody changed. He'd help, even if the idiot scorned him for it. Turning back he winced as the thing tried to pull him closer, only to hiss as the bayonet cut deeper. He was lucky in a way, deeper and the claws would damage organs, and then he really would be fucked. But no, it simply cleaved his back, pulling open gashes as blood deepening the red of his crimson jacket. Pulling the stock to his shoulder, finger brushing the trigger, eyes narrowed. There was a reason he'd conquered so many, was feared by so many... He was strong, even broken he was strong, strong enough to protect what... he cared for.

He fired.

The loud shot struck his pounding head causing him to blink rapidly in surprise, stepping back, disorientated for a brief moment. Yet not as much so as the thug of a creature that fell onto it's back, rolling slightly and screeching, being stabbed in the mouth was one thing, but being shot too? It was salt into the wound. He was thankful though that the thing freaking let go, instead of using him like some ragdoll. Stepping back he'd stop by the boy if he'd stood, if not he'd position himself before him. Either way it would work, heaving breaths and fevered mind wouldn't stop him. "Don't... Show fear... Or back away... Move forward... Don't... Don't hesitate. Got that...?" It... wasn't an order. Ragged breaths were nothing more than advice. Advice from one soldier to another. From comrade to comrade... Brother to brother.. England was experienced and he knew the boy would not run, he'd fought for so long, he more than made up for the boy's naivety. Reloading the musket he gritted his teeth, experience he had, but right now he was exhausted, ill, hurt... And now bleeding. He wasn't in this for the long haul, this had to be finished quickly... Quicker as the beast clambered to its feet, hissing before it's jaw snapped open, only for some strange unknown energy to gather... What the hell was it doing?!

[America]

     Was this it? The creature prepared to take apart the man beneath him. This must have been it. If only he had noticed the thing sooner. damned sneaky thing. First war and now this. Just wonderful. If course he could kick out, fight back, but looking over at the creature there were just too many things he had to pay attention to, and plus, since he had never seen this creature before, he did not know of what it would do when threatened. Eugh why did this have to be so damn hard? Face it, it was life. It was going to be complicated, going to be filled with all sorts of shit you didn't want to deal with but you did anyway. Though he did not close his eyes. He simply stared at the beast, as if he was going to watch how it was going to rip him apart. Oh how fun that sounded. Though the most unexpected thing happened. His eyes shot wide open, more easily than they have ever done while they were here. What?! What?! Where his eyes deceiving him, or was the Redcoat actually helping him, the enemy. How fucked up was this world anyway?

     It took a while for him to really honestly take it in. What? It was hard for him to compute. After all the damned shit America had put him through, you'd think England wouldn't give a damn about America anymore. You'd thought he was just a simple enemy and if the enemy died then it was less work for you. This was his mindset, and it was causing him to think that a person such as England would be this way. the enemy, letting his opponent die. America thought it was pretty clear cut. Though it seems now that it wasn't just black and white, but more of a gray. Murky, it was not very clear. You never knew he was really on your side or not. It was very hard to distinguish right from wrong, ally or opponent. But why though? It should be simple. If they waged war against each other, then they should be on opposing sides, right? Was not that not correct? Or was it the adrenaline that was going through their minds, fighting to keep themselves awake and alive that led them to do things they did not realize? No matter. Before long he saw that it was clear that this was an act of kindness. Not pity or disorientation, but kindness.

     He wanted to say something but his voice was almost shot. Had he spoken he would have gone on a coughing fit similar to that of tuberculosis. He refrained and quickly shifted back and stood to his feet, quickly grabbing his musket and watching, not exactly sure as to what to do. Damn it! What was he to do? The gun didn't work so, what? Apparently stabbing it worked. England was doing enough damage to the thing that it shrieked and reared off. Though he still felt that this was far from over. The war had taught him that much. And it was apparent. He gasped as the beast decided it wanted to attack England now. Without further hesitation the young man lifted his gun and prepared to fire, but something was up. Shit! He needed to reload the damn musket. He didn't have time for that! Fuck fuck fuck. That was all he could do though. And so he did, rushing and becoming shaky. He was already putting so much strain on his weakened body by acting and reacting so quickly in a fashion like this. But he was going to do anything to try and stop the beast from ripping apart what should have been been his prey. No, England... was... not his opponent anymore. For these moments, he was no longer that. They were comrades, whether England accepted it or not. In America's mind, they were, and America was going to protect said ally. His brother, who was only going to be such for only so much longer...

     He heard a loud gunshot that even caused him to flinch, due to his throbbing migraine. Though he ignored it all and focused on raising his gun, aiming at the thing that now sprawled on the ground out of pain, its shrieks and all echoing through the air. it was a horrid sound. He was trying to make his mind up about where he was going to shoot the thing. Shooting it's face didn't work so... perhaps.. somewhere on it's body and not it's head? Though England approached him. the rebel quickly threw up a cold mask as his eyes met the older man's green. The facade was there, but transparent and poor. It was oh so obvious that shock, fear, and concern were still very much present in his eyes along with that callous look he was giving. He didn't want England to warm up to him so easily, despite the fact the freaking limey just saved his ass. He did not want England to lower his guard around the boy, ever. They were still very much at war. Until America accepted his surrender, they were still enemies. Too much had happened for the blond colony to be so forgiving. Though his look softened ever so slightly as the empire spoke.

"Don't... Show fear... Or back away... Move forward... Don't... Don't hesitate. Got that...?"

     The Patriot nodded ever so slightly as he looked at England, slightly perplexed. Why was he helping damnit! Shit, he was showing dependency. That was not the message he wanted to get across. He wanted to slap himself for such stupid actions damn him! His blue eyes flicked to the creature that rose once more. America figured out what he wanted to do. He had more than enough time to think about it. He wheezily exhaled before deeply inhaling again and charging forward to the beast, gun and all. The creature roared and swiped his claws hand at him. Stopping abruptly America quickly placed his gun in front of him and shot at the creature's hand, blood bursting from it and dripping on the ground forming large puddles. The sight of blood... no longer bothered him. It was a common sight of war. It was only natural that any previous dislike or fear of it had long since numbed. He had become a hardened soldier, to feel nothing but aggression and disdain towards the enemy, and for the desire to fulfill the goal. But now he was feeling things. Things a soldier should never feel, which was care for the enemy.

     Once his shot hit its target. America charged forward as quickly as he could in his weakened state, which was still pretty fast. The creature was too preoccupied with it's wounded hand to notice the young man who was charging towards it. It's head lowered as it shook its head. America charged up to it was swung his musket down it so hard that the mask simply cracked like a bat to glass into an pattern similar to spiderwebs. America was just an immortal man, but an immortal man with incredible strength. When he was only but a small child, he was able to swing an ox around as if it were absolutely nothing. Cracking a porcelain-like face was child's play. Though even if this strength came naturally to him, his weakened body had a hard time exerting it. His body was now aching, but yet again, he stupidly ignored it as if it wasn't there. He stumbled back and watched the creature throw it's head way back and release a shriek like bloody murder. America dropped his musket and covered his ears, the high pitched sound hurting his head. The creature's mask fell apart, pieces shattering on the ground on contact, and it's body began to disintegrate from the head down. America watched and couldn't help but feel somewhat bewildered. That was just... too... weird. He quickly glanced at England. Shit..

     Damn him. Oh hell yes he knew he was betraying his own people by doing this, but, he didn't want him to die, neither of them. England was wounded and bleeding, which caused him great frustration. What was he to do? He had nothing to help stop the bleeding, and he was still debating on whether he should really stay with England, especially after this. He could not just simply leave him bloodied here to die of illness and blood loss. That was just... too much. Overkill almost. He wasn't about to do that. Sure, he wanted to distance himself from England so much but, in this strange place, what were they to do? They were hopeless on their own. They would most certainly die. He could not allow that to happen. The previous feelings of aggression towards England were null for now. For now. When all this was done with and they found their way back, they were enemies once more. This much America promised. But killing England was not on his agenda. Letting England be killed was not either. Oh the joys of being indecisive. Perhaps it was the bit of Loyalist within him amongst all the Patriot (the people did influence his behavior)... or maybe this was he truly felt... he wasn't sure anymore.

"It would be... dishonorable for me to just leave you here to die... after saving me..." He worded it that carefully, using honor as an excuse for wanting to stick with him for the time being. His voice was stoic to try and hide the concern for his enemy, though, it could easily be heard. "Both of us... shall die if we split our paths..." He said no more. He did not want to say more. England was a smart man, he would pick up what the colony was trying to say.

     Though with that, he coughed hard as a fit popped up and he covered his mouth with his arm and tried to cover it up. He fell to his knees before wheezing, throwing himself to his back. He was so tired, so weak, so sick, and he didn't want to move anymore. All that extra effort into defending himself and the Redcoat was just too much. He was breathing deeply, trying to regain his breath. His face was dirtied but pale, almost like a ghost. He felt so ill, so limp, and there was no remedy. Nothing to make it better or ease the pain. Nothing. he closed his eyes, at least resting them for now. No telling when another one of those godforsaken things were going to show it's ugly heads. This was all just too much.

[England]

Now in honesty when he'd given his advice to the boy he'd far from expected him to be so... Well.... Literal... He really hadn't expected the fool to just run at the thing, all guns blazing. Literally as it so happened. No, he'd not expected that at all. In the end it was his freaking job to do that, to run in blindly to deal with whatever the hell was trying to fuck with his colonies. Yet... Was that right of him? Right of him to think of them below him? He was an empire, not a country or nation, he was the strongest of forces to be reckoned with. Was it right of him to find them below him? Perhaps before he may have said so, yet now.... Now he was unsure. They were all so young, yet perhaps they'd always needed a guiding hand more than an iron fist... Had he really been that though? Unlike Austria, hell even his very dear friend Spain, unlike them... Had he tried to force the boy into servitude? No, the closest he'd ever really gotten was demanding America at least wear a suit on formal occasions, and even that... Well was it so bad? Perhaps freedom had always been there, simply ignored until it was a shadow. Had that been England's true mistake?

It was to late to decide that now, what was done was done, there was no changing it. Perhaps there wasn't even any fixing it. "Stupid bugger... Not what I m--" He tried to snap out, to to lecture the boy on his damn blatant error, yet as he tried something in his throat caught causing him to make a strange wheezing huff. Bowing forward, hands on his knees, gun and all, his chest heaved as he winced at the damned flexing of his back. He knew.... That the boy's error wasn't so much wrong, it was more he was just damn well didn't care for seeing the kid put himself into something that was so damn deadly. War was one thing, in the heat of battle you had allies, you had people to support you, to back you up, to catch you when you fell. Yet here what did he have? All he had was the person he thought so cruel, would he ever really let England help him? Probably not... Why did he even want to? He was meant to be a terror, a great empire. He'd been told to crush this boys hopes of freedom... Yet here he was making them all the more possible... Damn bleeding heart. He'd become soft, he'd given himself one blatant weakness, one that was being used against him... One that had broken his heart, yet also forced him to damn well push all that pain down for now... What was that weakness? Stupid question, it was damn well America. The one who was cutting him away and acting so rashly had become his biggest flaw. So ironic

Hearing a shot he shook his head, looking up to pull the gun snugly into his shoulder. Whilst it would be stupid to fire right now, he could at least cover the fool in case anything went particularly wrong. Did he expect it too? Had America been at full health, had he not seen the hardship of war, not been sick... Then he'd have dubbed this thing as good as dead. Right now though he wasn't sure, it could go either way, actually... No, it couldn't. With a sombre sigh he sighted down the barrel, catching the thing's mask in the centre of his sight, eyes squinting as he damn tried to slow his breathing. Panting and heavy breathing would only throw the shot off, you couldn't fire a gun with a heaving chest, not if you actually wanted to hit your darn mark anyway... America, well he hit his though. It was a heavy blow, even like his he was still frighteningly strong. This though was not what confused him, the most, besides the fact they were both practically betraying their people as the mask spiderwebed with cracks the thing released an ear piercing screech. All he could do was clap his hands over his head, and watch in disbelief... as the thing... Vanished? What the fuck?!

"It would be... dishonorable for me to just leave you here to die... after saving me..."

Eyes still locked where the thing had been it took him a moment to process what was actually been said to him. Wait... Furrowing his brows he looked to the boy. The concern was plain, and the words... What? America started a revolution, and ended up feeling sympathy for his so called enemy. He didn't yet know if he should be elated, or ashamed. Perhaps both. Closing his eyes he shook his head, he was so naive. "Dishonourable to help someone who--" He stopped himself, being snippy... Where would that get him? Nowhere. He understood the boy better than America perhaps thought, he'd known him a majority of his short life, and whilst it was a mere drop in the water to England, it was still a considerable time to America. The question though... Why was he concerned? He shouldn't be, not really. He'd risen against England, he should be trying to take that freedom he wanted so badly, and yet now what? Things were so confusing, words were simply made harder for him.

"Both of us... shall die if we split our paths..."

He was so... Naive... Did he think England would have let the boy die, even if they had split? Did he really think that little of him? Probably, and who could blame him for it. "It's... not about unity, nor freedom... Split, or together..." It never had been. "An empire... is only a country when alone... A country... Is nothing without people. People, they're nothing without their country, their..." How to word this. What was a country to its people? Without a country they would be nothing, it was burned into them, not in spirit, not in soul, but in body. He sighed. "Heart." Was that not what a country was to their people? Lose the country and you lose the people, lose the heart and you lose the people. A broken country was a broken heart. It was nothing. Tsk, how sentimental of him, damn fever addling his mind. Rubbing the side of his head he opened his eyes. Lose the heart and you... lost everything. With a slight cough he rubbed at his eyes slightly, dirt smudging as he removed the last traces of his prior weakness, the one still disturbing his soul. "You idiot," he murmured. "Are you blind....?" The boy was still to damn young to grasp something it had taken he himself long enough to learn. Yet in the end, perhaps only England was the one to see this... He knew so badly that an empire to stand alone was nothing. He'd long since needed the assistance of his controlled nations... Yet who stood by him? All they did was rise against him.

Watching the boy fall to his knees before flopping back, so very ill, he massaged his fore head with the ball of his hand, trying to relieve the pressure. There was no cure for this, their lands were sick, and so they were too. Here they could not fix it, wherever here was. Scowling he gingerly reached around his back, fingers brushing the damp cotton before he winced slightly, suppressing the string of curses that pushed at him. Pulling his hand back around he looked at the blood stained fingers, thinking. The bleeding had to stop, he was bad enough without that kind of shit. But h-- He grimaced, that really was the only way, wasn't it? Eugh, he needed fire. Disarming the musket he let it fall to the floor, detaching the bayonet before hand. Looking briefly eyes narrowed, he needed something that would bur-- A dead bush, how quaint. Slowly, his pace clumsy and slugish, he worked his way toward it, quickly using the bayonet to remove the thing from its base. Grunting as he straightened himself up, eyes narrowed slightly before he muttered some obscenity under his breath as he turned back.

In the end this was an old method to seal wounds, but by fuck it was painful. He'd never had to use it on himself personally, but once at sea after a conflict with Spain he'd had to do so on a member of his ship. Those were the days. Wincing slightly as he sat he set about detaching the various thinner branches, puling them up to put the the thicker ones beside him. In war there were a few things any good soldier should have, and that he was. Shuffling slightly he pulled a small tinderbox from his pocket, flicking it open only to remove some of the contents and drop them to the edge of the twigs, promptly using the two provided flints in a swift knick to shower the charcoal with sparks, promptly lighting it blacked wood before he shuffled the wood over it, watching as they too lit. Despite seeming in a world of his own, especially with his fairy friends etc one would perhaps be surprised to see such self proficiency. Yet at the end of the day there was a reason he'd become the greatest empire the world had seen, he could deal with a lot of the shit people could throw, a trait all good brits should have.

Tending the thing as it grew, adding the larger branches sporadically he shoved in a flat rock, placing the bayonet upon it to leave nothing but a quickly carved makeshift handle that was attached sticking out. Blinking slowly shed the heavy red coat, leaving the usually white, but now heavily red, thin cotton undershirt. Fucking thing, whatever the hell it was. Grumbling to himself as only England could he cast his eyes to the boy for a moment... Damn... Damn it all. There was just so much, so much he wanted to damn well say... It hurt him so god damn much to know that after this... once they got back... The boy would take his offer... If only he could talk to him, just.... Get it off his chest... perhaps... Perhaps what? Where would it get him? Nowhere, America wanted one thing, no words would alter that. With a hurt sigh a frown took his face as he closed his eyes, waiting for the damn Bayonet to heat suitably. He wanted to fix this, gods above he truly did... Yet... He couldn't find the words in his throat.

However long passed, silence holding a deathly grip, fire crackling away. Done? He hoped. Eyes flickered heavily open, fuck he just wanted to sleep. He couldn't, not yet. No, first he had to utterly slaughter his pride... This day.... He hated it. Yet what could he do? :eave it to himself and things would get worse, not like he knew where any doctors were around here. "Do you.... Know how to close a wound... With heat?" He wouldn't, he'd certainly never told him such a thing. Grimacing he shed the white shirt, slight scares heavily outdone by what that fucking thing had done. "Sear the flesh with something hot... Very hot..." He gave a heavy sigh. "Force it onto it and hold it there shortly..." The guilt of asking this... It was heavy, he didn't want the moron to have to do this, but he couldn't reach his back. All he could do was ask... Even though there were many reasons why he didn't wish to, even more reasons my the boy would refuse. Damn. "Be quick... Else the metal will cool..." Looking at the kid... His for now brother... Heavy eyes slanted to the side. What else was he to say? Things were bad enough already as was.

[America]

"Stupid bugger... Not what I m--"

     Then there the man coughed out and all America could do was just watch. Slowly but surely he was beginning to really distance himself, not physically by moving his body or position, but the actual bond that they had was beginning to be torn. America had created a tear, and over time, the tear would become bigger, and bigger and larger until it was at it's last thread. From there, it would snap and any sort of connection between them would be severed. That was America's goal. That was what he believed freedom was. To be completely free and far away from someone. Though he planned it to be a quick (well, that it wouldn't take as long), painless procedure to separate from England so that he would have no qualms, the opposite had occurred, as this was taking him much longer and harder than originally projected. Why did this all had to happen? Everything would have been easier if this damn phenomena had not occurred. Something hated him, he knew that much.

"Dishonourable to help someone who--"

"What we're doing is just traitorous anyway." He retorted, trying to keep his calm, his anger beginning to show again. "Might as well break every law in the book while we're at it, after all you saved me, a 'dirty little Yankee', the number one felony." He rolled his eyes in irritation before he sighed heavily. "My morale was never about killing you. Had it been I would have shot your head off when I had the chance." Harsh words, but, it was truth. "Like shooting the Indians but not the chief. You need the chief in some way." America needed England in the sense to just use him so that the Crown would surrender and back off. "You help them and they help you. The case isn't different here..." He paused, wanting to make a point clear. "This is the last time, England. I can't take anymore of this..." his voice was reduced to almost a whisper. Anymore of his betrayal by helping him, his confusion, everything. "I know you can't either..." He rubbed his face, his feelings mixed.

     This was just tearing him apart. England was already turned into a mess, so what would become of him? Perhaps not an emotional wreck but, maybe just emotionally jumbled. He didn't know what to do, what to think, how to deal with this. His thoughts were in a daze and he wanted it gone, yet he didn't know how to clear it. There was nothing that could, not now. He just needed a break. Sleep perhaps. But even then how would that fix emotional trouble? Right now he didn't know what to feel; angry, sad, hatred, regretful, spiteful. What what what? Which one of those? He was using them all at once and it wasn't coming out right. Was this what war did to you? Made you confused about yourself, that you didn't know how to think of someone? Prior he thought of England was just a simple Redcoat, an enemy that he had to make bend to surrender. Now what was he to the Patriot? A brother? An enemy? Someone of use? How do you choose? In a situation like this, how do you choose?

"It's... not about unity, nor freedom... Split, or together... An empire... is only a country when alone... A country... Is nothing without people. People, they're nothing without their country, their... Heart."

     He remained silent as he just looked at the man with a tired look. Was that right? Well where was his 'heart', hm? That all left him when he retaliated with his own army, now did it? But here it was showing. What was he playing at? His blue eyes narrowed slightly before the man continued on. He frowned slightly.

"You idiot, are you blind....?"

     Perhaps he was, but, he was just so intent on loosing the one thing that he once held so dear that he did not realize it. Or maybe he knew, but just ignored it. He just wanted to separate so bad, and yet, here he was, reluctant to let it go. It was as simple as letting go of someone's hand. He was hesitating to let go, as if he was going to fall. But he wanted to, so much. He was not this man's younger brother anymore. He had suffered enough oppression for one century. This was it. He was at his wit's end with this. He couldn't... not anymore. He laid there, catching his breath, turning his head to the side as he watched the Redcoat break apart some twigs and lighting them on fire. He raised a blond brow. What the hell was he doing? He coughed hard as he took his hand and rubbed his face. Eugh this was so fucked up on so many goddamn levels. You thought war was enough torture. Apparently not. They had to go through even more shit. Maybe this was their punishment for being so incompetent and stubborn. England began speaking to him. What did he want now? He sat up, bangs hanging over his face, just as sluggishly as he was hunched.

"Do you.... Know how to close a wound... With heat? Sear the flesh with something hot... Very hot... Force it onto it and hold it there shortly..."

     Already England was asking too much. America would have wanted to, but this was heavy. He didn't think he'd want to. He wanted to keep England alive but, this, this was asking much. He didn't know what to do, he felt so confused. Just what in the world was he supposed to do? Help or let him bleed? What was the better option? Good lord help his choose! It was so simple, but at the same time, so complicated. Just what was he to do...

Be quick... Else the metal will cool..."

     He wanted to shake his head head in a no, but, for some reason he couldn't. He went to open his mouth to speak before he heard something in the distance. It was the clanking of heavy equipment. He snapped his head to where the noise was coming from before slowly standing as to not cause himself to feel dizzy. He could see the town they were just in from the distance, but, they weren't really near anything else either. His eyes scanned the scenery. This was strange. He was slowly moving to his musket, as if instinctively. He heard a voice now. What? he looked around, trying to find out quickly. Why he was in a rush, he didn't know. Maybe it was to make it seem as if he was going to help England after all. In reality he really wanted to but, this was a perfect excuse to get away from it. England wasn't helping his thoughts about him either. They were too mixed to figure out, and this, this was a perfect way to take a break from it all. To focus on something else. Now what was that voice...

"You guys look like you took a beating~" The accent was so strange compared to his own or England's. Strange compared to the French or to the Indians. Strange compared to the Dutch and the Swedes. This was different.

     Who the fuck was that? His head flipped to see who it was. A young man, dressed so oddly with a huge pack behind him, a dog by his side, barking loudly at the pair of beat-down soldiers. His skin was fair and his hair was short and brown. He seemed to be enjoying himself along his trail. The colony's eyes narrowed.

"No need to give me the evil eye~" the young man smiled before looking them over and frowning. "What the hell happened? Did a bear attack you or something?" Ooooh farrrr from it.

     America took it upon himself to answer.

"That bloody thing was a bear?!" He almost exclaimed. "What the hell do you have here?" Some fucked up bear that was. He looked at England and frowned, still debating on what to do with him.

"I don't know I wasn't here!" the man argued. The strange man settled his large bag on the ground and sighed. "Good thing I gotta first-aid~" This man was godsent. He began to take this box that was completely white with a red cross on the cover out and opened it, shuffling through its contents. He looked at England. "I'm not a doctor or do I have hospital-worthy equipment sooooo I'll just patch you up and take you there, if you don't mind, kay?" This man seemed to know what he was doing. "This miiiight hurt."

     The man took out this bottle, the wording small and America's eyes could not make out what it said, his eyes feeling watery and blurry, though he watched on. The man unscrewed the cap and took out some cottonballs from some package and poured the contents of the bottle unto it. He then rubbed the pieces of cotton along the long gashes, soaking up blood and leaving behind a clear liquid in its place. What was that... water? The man continued it, trying to be as quick as possible, discarding cottonballs and taking more, until he felt the wounds were clean enough. He then put all the bloodstained and used ones back in the clear bag to probably discard later. He then took a cream and smearked it along the area of injury, trying to be as gentle as possible. He then took out a roll of bandages and unraveled it, taking as much as he felt he needed before taking a pair of scissors and and cutting it. He then proceeded to wrap the bandages around the Brit's torso. Once he had finished, he closed the kit and slipped it back in his bag. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. The dog was sat by England, as if watching over the man. America was sat, standing being too tiring.

"Sooooo, would you guys mind me escorting you two to the hospital? It's just in town. They'll have you fixed up in no time~"

     What the hell was that? America looked on and waited for England's response. They both were. But what the hell was a hospital? And his accent? Where was he from? It seemed weird. It was not an accent America recognized. Maybe England could pinpoint where this man was from. Though the man spoke again.

"Sooo are you guys from around here?" Most certainly not. "By the way you guys talk, you sound like you're from the UK or something."

     America almost snapped out, almost stood and smacked the guy. He was not British, not anymore... no... he was going to be his own country. That was what the whole Revolution was about. To become independent and be his own country, away from oppression or interference from the Crown. To be on his own. It would be a hard journey, but he was confident he would make it. He sighed. He wasn't going to answer to that. He wasn't sure what to say besides asking where he was from. So he did.

"Well where are you from? And most importantly what is this place?" His tones where tired yet a bit commanding. This man rubbed him the wrong way after what he had just said.

"Got head trauma or something?" He rolled his eyes America narrowed his in irritation. "If you haven't noticed, you're in Japan." America blinked. Jawhat? "I'm just a tourist here from the States~. Damn this place is full of weird shit."

     ... Wait... what? Japan? What the hell was that? The States? What states.. His eyes widened for a second.

"What 'States'?" Inquired the blond soldier.

The other man couldn't help but sigh. "What other 'States'? The United States!" He thought he lived under a rock.

Blue eyes widened as he scrambled to his feet and stood. He didn't know what to feel. The colonies had called themselves that as soon as they charged for war. What was this man talking about?! "You're not serious, are you?" He said, sounding very confused.

The tourist facepalmed. "Are you an idiot, or do you just live back in the 18th century? This is 2010 and you don't know what that is? hell you even dress like you're some patriot or something." He then looked to England, who's clothes were near him. "And you dress like a British soldier. What are you guys, actors?"

     America slumped to his knees. He would have asked more but he was too shocked, too confused. Everything else cleared from his mind. Nothing else was important. What...

[England]

"What we're doing is just traitorous anyway. Might as well break every law in the book while we're at it, after all you saved me, a 'dirty little Yankee', the number one felony. My morale was never about killing you. Had it been I would have shot your head off when I had the chance. Like shooting the Indians but not the chief. You need the chief in some way. You help them and they help you. The case isn't different here... This is the last time, England. I can't take anymore of this... I know you can't either..."

Wait... what? That... what the fuck was the stupid bugger even thinking? How could he only see things so black and white? The world was grey, the hate and joy were never separated as simply as colors, they came together, damn well together. How would the prat be so bloody well blind?! Did he really believe all of this? Truly? This revolution, this damn revolution was teaching him so much about his charge. He'd known the boy was strong enough to stand alone, that he didn't just want to flay... He truly wanted to soar. Yet with that... How could he believe those words? "You really believe all of this.... Don't you...?" How could he believe England wouldn't break every damn law he had to help this 'dirty little yank'? His people would forgive him, he'd get a damn good lecturing, but they.... were never serious. Crown and country. They were one, the country would not fight, and so the crown had to follow. All he could do was close his eyes, he really had destroyed this boy, hadn't he? parts of him didn't know what to say, more than anything they wanted to accept, simply curling up to nurse his shattered soul. Yet the other part... It wanted to yell the sense into the boy. To just snap, his emotions were fickle at best, never mind when they'd been shot so many times. "Perhaps not..." Perhaps he couldn't take more, perhaps one more push would be his end, one more word would be to much for his sorry heart to bare. Yet... So what? Did this not mean more the the empire than his own heart? His people meant the world to him, but America was his brother. How often did a nation, let alone one as Tsundere as him, ever really bond? Perhaps this was why... "But your logic is invalid..." England would not.... Could not.... He couldn't just step away. Even if it hurt him so much, agonized him... Not helping the lad... That would hurt him so much more. He realised this now, now when he was a husk of who he was. Now he saw it.

He saw it and he just... Gods he was pissed. He hurt and he was pissed. This boy, did he even know? He was trying to pull away, making England hold on all the tighter. Damn... You know what... Damn.... "If something's worth fighting for, do you ever think about the damn consequences, or do you just fight?" He snapped, eyes narrowing slightly. To much... All of it... The boy led a revolution because he thought it was right, but did he even know what right and wrong was anymore? "If it's worth starting, it's bloody worth finishing..." He'd given everything to the boy, even if it was rejected. He wouldn't just... Stop... Just stop caring because it hurt. Human or not his emotions were there, and... He was going to damn listen to them. If only this once, for this one war that he loathed.

Yet through everything, despite everything, some stranger and mutt approached... Surprising.

"You guys look like you took a beating~" Of course America was the first to get any action in. "No need to give me the evil eye~ What the hell happened? Did a bear attack you or something?"
"That bloody thing was a bear?! What the hell do you have here?"
"I don't know I wasn't here! Good thing I gotta first-aid~"

That accent... He'd been across the world and never really heard it before, he'd heard many, so many voices, yet this was new. Not even a hint of recognition, brows furrowing in confusion he looked the gent over. He certainly seemed to be of perhaps british heritage, the rather pale skin showed heavy similarities, and his accent certainly wasn't german or something along those lines. No... Just what the fuck. "A bear...?" He drawled... A bear? That was not a fucking bear! America damn needed to calm though... gods above, what was going on? Yet it seemed to fellow was offering help, right now he really wasn't going to turn it down, doing so would be... what? Idiotic. Hmph.

"I'm not a doctor or do I have hospital-worthy equipment sooooo I'll just patch you up and take you there, if you don't mind, kay? This miiiight hurt."

What the fuck was he doing to his language?! 'kay'? What the fuck was bloody well 'kay'? Rubbing his face though he simply shook his head. "Very well," voice dull eyes narrowed. Hospital eh? That place would do him no good. Not for this. He'd been to them a couple of times since their instatement in the 16th century, really though. With the state of them you were more likely to get sick from them than the wound itself. It was hardly worth the risk unless you had no other choice.

Interupted though as the man pushed something against the wound, his body stiffened suddenly. Okay, when he'd said 'might hurt' he'd expected it to sting, but no, it felt like someone was jamming a fucking knife in there just for shit and giggles. Saying nothing all he could do was damn sit there as this... Whoever he was, did what he did. Frankly his way was better, this was only cleaning the wounds, and then covering them, they'd bleed through quickly enough at some point, then it was kinda back to square one with it all. Still, obviously there was a hospital close by, when it came to that he'd just get the help needed there. Giving something close to a sigh of relief when the stranger finished he looked the small whelp over that sat by him. It was a fine animal by any means, though his attention was soon taken when the man spoke again.

"Sooooo, would you guys mind me escorting you two to the hospital? It's just in town. They'll have you fixed up in no time~"

A hospital wouldn't help. The only thing it would be able to help with was his back, and now there was hardly any immediate threat from it, or perhaps he was simply being to stubborn with things. "No need..." Their sickness couldn't be treated, that he already knew very well. Their countries were in upheaval, the only way it would be resolved was when their nations settled down again. No medicine could help that. "Just... Point it out." Before the young fellow could answer though he damn well gone on a tangent. The bastard...

"Sooo are you guys from around here? By the way you guys talk, you sound like you're from the UK or something."

From the UK? Good guess. "Around that way..." Around that way? Feh, he was the UK. He was England, Britannia, the United Kindoms, the British Empire. He was the embodiment of all that was English. America though... What was he now? What....? Brother? Or just.... He didn't know.

"Well where are you from? And most importantly what is this place?"
"Got head trauma or something? If you haven't noticed, you're in Japan."

Japan? Ah! Now that he knew, the he was familiar with. This was all to advanced for Japan though.... Seriously... How? Regardless though an end was in sight. "Do you happen to know of a gent called..." God dammit what was his name again? Bloody hell... Wa- Yes. "Honda Kiku?" Japan. The nation of Japan, Kiku. The man just gave him a curious glance.

"Nah, mate. Sorry~"

Damn.... So much for that idea. If he could have gotten to Japan this would have been so much easier... In the name of the king this was a pain.

"I'm just a tourist here from the States~. Damn this place is full of weird shit."
"What 'States'?
"What other 'States'? The United States!"

United states? He... Oh... Giving a somber sigh he rubbed behind the pup's ear, only for it to just flop down on his lap. "American, hmm?" All he could do was try and keep some semblance of calm, something, anything. To his words the strange man just laughed and nodded. It was all he needed. England had lost, as he suspected, the boy had gained independence, and this was the result. A part of him wanted to push the gent for answers, but at the same time... the possible answers pushed fear into him. He wanted to know, yet he just couldn't bare to. He couldn't bare to be told that after everything, that after all of it, his broken heart had been burned. He'd heard enough... Dammit... Why?

"Are you an idiot, or do you just live back in the 18th century? This is 2010 and you don't know what that is? hell you even dress like you're some patriot or something. And you dress like a British soldier. What are you guys, actors?"

Two thousand and what?! Despite everything, despite it all, he was utterly lost. How the hell could they be so far ahead of things?! That... What? He.... what? Brows furrowing he looked up at the fellow. Act-- Like bollocks they were! Obviously saying they actually were from the war this fellow was speaking of would be.... stupid. "Something like that..." How insulting... Acting out such a thing that was tearing them up? No... That was just... Wrong. Pulling the shirt and heavy jacket on he sighed, rubbing his face. This was all to much for one day... And why the hell was some random American helping him? They'd obviously separated, so why...? He didn't understand. His helping America was one thing, the boy was family, but this just confused him to no end.

"Oh don't look so gloomy about it~! It wasn't an insult~" With a chuckle the strange fellow shook his head. "Anyways, about the hospital~" Blinking England looked up him, still patting the animal on his lap that had taken to thomping its back leg on the ground. "See that big ol' building there?" He pointed. "That's it, kinda hard to miss, yeah~?"

God dammit this person was grating on his nearvs, he was nice enough, but the way he butchered his words. Still, perhaps the way someone spoke should be the least of his worries, there were so many more issues at hand... Yet perhaps the distraction was nice, to be able to try and set back up his strong walls... Perhaps... "I see.... Good..." He had no intention of going, there was no damn need. Rubbing his neck slightly he looked up. He wanted to sleep, but now he wanted to damn well know what had happened between the war and now... He wanted to see his country, his people... He needed to see how they'd faired. Gods his head hurt...

"Are you suuuuuure you don't want me to just take you both~? Yah look kinda whacked~" Giving a chuckle he shook his head. All England could do was grunt, he was sick of damn well repeating himself. All the more so due to the confusion of having some random American, an American that was supposed to fucking hate every redcoat he saw, helping... Why? He just didn't understand. What the hell had happened with things?

Then something struck him, through everything a thought crossed his mind. "Where... Would be the closest library...?" A strange question? Yes, but for the fairy seeing Brit it made total sense. A library was a storage of books, of history, go there and they could damn find out what had happened, why this American was just... Being pleasant... He really didn't understand. Only hours ago he was pretty sure every American in existence wanted a bullet in his head... Now... Now what?

"Ohhhh~?" The man grinned, it was one of those damn grins you never wanted to be on the end of. "I'll show you on the way to the hospital~" .... Fucking wanker. "Onwards and upwards then~!" What the fuck did that mean? Really? What? Before he could question though the man marched of, pooch following "Name's Mike by the way~!" He hollered back, looking over his shoulder with some stupid grin.

Grunting, before coughing, he shook his head. Blackmailed by a fucking American, really, what were the damn well chances of that happening? Well obviously pretty good considering the current predicament. Briefly looking over America he wondered if the boy would follow... He didn't know any more, he truly did not. In the short span of this war he'd become utterly unpredictable... And it was his own fault... He was so sorry... With all he had left of his heart, ever part of him felt... terrible for what he'd done. If he could go back... Go back and change what he'd done... Gods if he could he would, truly. If he'd known this would be the outcome... If only he'd known. With a sigh he stood, holding back the wince as his back pulled. Pain the arse bloke. Shaking his head he followed after, slow.... but still going... Mike? Hmph. "Arthur Kirkland," he offered. Not his name... Yet it was at the same time who he was. England, and Arthur, one and the same.

[America]

"You really believe all of this.... Don't you..? Perhaps not... But your logic is invalid... If something's worth fighting for, do you ever think about the damn consequences, or do you just fight? If it's worth starting, it's bloody worth finishing..."

     He said nothing as he listened reluctantly. Eugh he was just tired of this. He was going to end this when his heart settled once more. Before he arrived his conscious was free of confusion and he knew exactly what hew as to do. Now, now what? He became muddled in thoughts that had not ever crossed his mind before. Why though. What triggered this? So many complications, it was going to drive him mad. He honestly didn't know what to say. He knew damn well his words were true but he wasn't going to argue. he was steadfast in what he believed in and goddamn he was going to stick with what he thought, no Redcoat was going to sway him otherwise, not even the one that stood before him and claimed he was his brother. Feh. Whatever. His expression was placid, but all the more hardened. He just... did not know what to do now. Perhaps England did not see that, and hopefully it would stay like that.

     He merely sat and watched as the two men spoke about things he didn't quite understand, like, who the bloody hell was Honda Kiku? Eh, wasn't important to him. Eugh what was he going to do from here on out? This was complicated in it's own right. He watched the dog, thinking. Dogs were loyal little things, weren't they? Loyal to their masters and did everything that was told of them if they were well trained. They would never go against their masters for whatever reason, even if you beat them. they'd be weary, but they'd still be there. And people? People had a nasty habit of being nit picky. Even if you were their superior they could turn around and retaliate in the blink of an eye. The reason could be for anything really. if you rubbed a person the wrong way, then they wouldn't like you. A country was supposed to be loyal to their bosses. They had to sit and follow through with everything that was told. And what now? He had no real leader. Just a bunch of old men who had lead the rebellion against the Crown. What was the nation of England to him? Nothing now, he was a rebel. But what of England, the person? He wasn't sure anymore. He had to think through that a bit better now that he had the time as he half listened to their conversation. He was in a world of his own at the moment. So... he had won... he... actually won. He had finally became independent from the limey. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to rejoice or just feel crushed. Perhaps before the idea of celebrating would have been nice but now... now what. he wasn't sure what to feel about anything anymore. He looked England over once with a countenance of neutrality. So this was the price of being free... interesting. The future seemed strange... wonder how his "country" was doing... Though his head picked up as the man spoke of something useful.

"Oh don't look so gloomy about it~! It wasn't an insult~ See that big ol' building there?" The stranger pointed and the young colony looked. "That's it, kinda hard to miss, yeah~?" Interesting. He made a mental note.

     He wasn't quite... sure as to what a hospital specifically was. He knew it had something to do with having a lot of sick people in the same building, right? If that was so they didn't have much of them in the colonies. Maybe a... few of them here and there during the war but, other than that he didn't recall seeing them. Perhaps it was more of a European thing. Well, obviously not if they were in the middle of Japan, some weird country he had never in hell heard of. Wasn't that much a big deal, he supposed. He stood once more and brushed off the navy coat slightly. there was dirt that wouldn't be taken off easily and probably some other forms of debris you could pick out. Eugh, war was a dirty job. He thought of what to do. Might as well part from England then, considering he was going to be independent anyway. Made sense. That and it would finally end all this... shit. He looked at the two men as England brought up a valid point.

"Are you suuuuuure you don't want me to just take you both~? Yah look kinda whacked~"

"Where... Would be the closest library...?"

"Ohhhh~? I'll show you on the way to the hospital~ Onwards and upwards then~! Name's Mike by the way~!"

     Interesting... well then, hopefully he could look at some books or whatever. Hopefully that would clear up a lot of very vague things that were deemed vague now that this mysterious "American" had shown up. It was weird how his accent differed from America's. Meaning, America was the country and all of it's glory, so he should have the accent most Americans use. This was weird though. Then again, America had a British tinge to his voice, and technically he wasn't independent yet. This "Mike" was from the future who was an American of the future. So perhaps the separation really changed a lot of things, causing the people to develop their own way of speaking. Interesting. He began to think. Should he follow? Well of course, they were going to the library, were they not? Well, on the way to the hospital but he was not concerned with the latter. He thought for a few moments as he lagged behind slightly before he began to follow, picking up his musket and sling it over his shoulder. God he felt so weak. This illness had seemed to recede ever so slightly, but that was enough. It was strange that... he even contracted said illness in the first place, along with England. He sighed. Might as well not be rude...

"Alfred..." He said, tired, sick, and a whole bunch of other feelings. "Alfred Jones..." A name he rarely used, only using it when around those who wouldn't know he was the land.

"Ahhhh, interesting names you got there~" chimed the American. "Doooon't worrrry you make it sound like the hospitals aren't sterile or sanitary~" He was more addressing England's undesired to not go to one. "I'm pretty sureeeee they're improved since the seventeen hundreds, jeeze get your head out of your act already~" he really did honestly think they were acting out something. America sighed. Eugh.

     They were approaching the city at a steady rate. He gazed upon the buildings with blue, tired eyes. Things sure have changed... if this was really the future, it was very strange. So very strange. He looked at the two men in front of them and compared the two. The way they were dressed, their attitudes, the way they spoke, everything, was so different. Has time really gone ahead of them? If so, did they have future selves? Thought seemed childish but he really did want to know. Despite this strange, colder demeanor he developed, he was still really his normal self. it was now just a personality he was not presenting at the moment. Maybe once more it would emerge when everything settled and he was able to easily and naturally. He knew it would take some time to heal from the war but, he could manage. He would be emotionally sore but, it would settle. Like everything else, it would calm. A thought struck him. Once they've been through the hospital and once they've gone to the library, he would take his freedom and just be on his way. Or maybe that wasn't wise, regardless, he had to do something about that. Until he said something about it the war was still going on. An interesting notion was how he was going to fair in a place he had no idea existed until now. Perhaps splitting wasn't wise. Oh selfish thoughts of only staying so that it helped only him. Was this what he was reduced to? He had to rethink things. A thought struck him.

"Do you know what the date is...?" He inquired.

"Theeee.... second of July~" he said and laughed a bit. "I have a flight to catch to get back to the states. I don't wanna miss the fourth of July~" He continued on and the blond couldn't help but blink.

"What is so special about the fourth...?" Yes, what was so important? "If you don't mind me asking..."

"The day America became independant from England, thought you British folks would know that, no offense~"

     A heavy sigh was released that could easily be passed as a sigh of his extreme exhaustion, but more or less it was more of a sigh to the sad notion the man brought up. Who knew... it was less interesting and more of just adding more stress to the youth's mind. He wanted to yell at the man for calling him British but.. eugh he couldn't bother. he rubbed his face hard as a tsk was sounded. Damn... Though they trekked on, becoming closer to the city. Just... this was too much. He thought of whether to either press on for more questions or to leave it at that, because, knowing all this, not only did it make it slightly easier to pass things as "okay to do", but, it was just laying out a pre-made path, which was adding more stress to him. It was conflicting with his need to make his own decisions, as well as his heart which endured enough of everything today, This whole event, not the war, but being brought to fucking Japan was just... he couldn't even describe. He began coughing again, not as hard, but for just as long as he had before. Fucking hell.

[England]

"Alfred... Alfred Jones..."
"Ahhhh, interesting names you got there~ Doooon't worrrry you make it sound like the hospitals aren't sterile or sanitary~ I'm pretty sureeeee they're improved since the seventeen hundreds, jeeze get your head out of your act already~"

Interesting? Hardly. Arthur was a common name in his land, or at least it had been. Perhaps now it was more uncommon, he really couldn't say, yet nor did he care. The name was his, for the longest time it had been a part of him, and no damn name trends were going to change that. Alfred though... Yes, that one was more uncommon, even in his day and age it was not every day you would meet someone with such a name. Yet to England it meant something, something deep, something important. No doubt now the boy would shun and mock its meaning to him, perhaps even being repulsed by it... He expected such. Yet he doubted the boy knew what it was to him, why it was something more than just a name. He never would know either unless he asked, and it was clear he wouldn't, that was at least one problem avoided in things, one less battle to fight, one less crack to add to his soul... How was he ever going to damn recover from this? He wasn't, he knew that. The was no doubt in his mind this would haunt him for centuries to come, he'd made the grave mistake of caring for a colony, he should have known better, but no, none the less he'd done it. Now he had to pay the price for the brief happiness, such a short joy to end in a long standing misery. It was tragic.

To the other fellow's jabbering though he shrugged slightly, wincing before looking away/ He didn't care, he didn't want to go, not at all. They couldn't aid him, bar for stitches they'd do him no good, they'd probably give him drugs and dub his illness a cold, or fever. Yet it was neither, this was all such a bother. More so for the fact America probably had no idea what was ailing him. All it would take was a simple question to find out such, he probably wouldn't ask, England saw well enough the fact he was trying to snap the last remaining link between them... England... He couldn't let him, he couldn't. No matter what he'd be there, unwanted and unneeded, just cast away, but still he'd be there, just as loyal as the dog near him trotting by its master. Was this what such a great empire had been reduced to? Yes, but then he'd never really been great in the first place, had he? He was just someone stood at the top, all that looked on hating him. That had been bearable, he'd been able to deal with it so simply until America had become one of the people trying to cut him down. That hadn't been the last straw, it had had been the whole god damn bail. He was just to week, it was clear now he always had been... If only he could just say sorry... It wouldn't help, he knew, but if only.

"Do you know what the date is...?"
"Theeee.... second of July~ I have a flight to catch to get back to the states. I don't wanna miss the fourth of July~
"What is so special about the fourth...? If you don't mind me asking..."
"The day America became independant from England, thought you British folks would know that, no offense~"

Stopping dead he flinched, face twisting into something... One could never really begin to find a fitting word for. There were so many emotions there, so much pain that he just didn't want to deal with. It hurt... Gods it hurt to know that in just two days seemingly many people would be celebrating his pain, his agony. Yet he supposed none cared, he was just the empire that followed it's king. It was what his kind did, the followed the leader, or leaders, doing as was told, Always just following it through. It wasn't so much a matter of choice, choice be given... Well there'd have been no problem if he'd had total control from the start, but he didn't, and on a matter of principle he never would. He was fine with that really, he'd lived his life that way and it was all just a part of things. As such though it was very easy to see a country as just... a tool? No, ah, what would be the term for such? Perhaps there was none, but regardless the point stood, It was very easy to forget a country was not just a living representative, it was also a person... And did that person not matter just as much as any other? Did Arthur Kirkland not matter just as much as Britannia?

He knew he couldn't just stand around though, the damn weird American was liable to freaking well try and blackmail him again, he'd been humiliated enough already. He'd been reduced to nothing. Pride? What pride? He was the crown jewel to his people, and now look at him. Not a diamond, not a ruby, just... a stone. His human name for once was so very fitting. He was little more than a common stone, worth nothing, meaning nothing, yet there he was, people cutting him up from every which way. A revolution started by the American's had turned into all against him supporting the little colony. It had all just been revenge directed at him, everyone trying to settle old scores for anything he'd ever done. Was it fair? No, but he'd long since learned that life was anything but fair. All he could ever really do was walk on, tailing the others, dull eyes transfixed on floor, a hand coming up to rub the side of his face. How could he even do this anymore? The things he'd cared for most had been torn from him, and now it turned out people were to celebrate this day. The day England had been broken, the day his heart had been reduced to dust by just one person. Really, the American's had never needed an army to win this. Just Alfred himself had been enough, he'd always been enough though. Now he was gone though. Oh he was there, just ahead, his back so proud... But England couldn't reach for him, couldn't speak... He had become less than his shadow, not even a loyal dog. Just a pestilence the other wanted to leave behind. Perhaps... it would be kinder just to let him go... He just... He didn't want to. Call him selfish, but he truly did not want to.

Eventually making it back into the city they'd priorly left, eyes stayed to the ground, he didn't want to look up, he didn't want to accept that this was reality. Not because he was scared of such a futuristic place, not at all, it was simply... That he couldn't bare the fact that after everything he'd lost... He'd known in his heart that he'd never be able to win, he'd always known that as soon as this had started. Yet to be told it from a total stranger who just didn't understand that such simple words hurt him so much was just... To much. It would have been bad enough coming from someone he trusted... But his... eugh... Saying that though... who did he trust? Who was there by him? His brothers? Oh hell no, they loathed him, all three of them detested him. In the end he really had no one, well he had, he'd had that small laughing boy. That small child that had been so happy to see him, always happy. The child had been his light in the darkness, it had been his hope... Now it was crushed. He was left in the darkness, cast out once more alone, yet this time wanting for what he'd once had. He knew... he knew it wouldn't come back, he knew that, and that just made it worse. All the happiness, now all it did was wave tantalizingly in his face, just out of reach, always out of reach. Perhaps he'd finally come to the conclusion happiness was not his to take, he'd taken so much already, that simply seemed to be the one thing off the list. He'd felt it though, if only briefly. Right now he wished he hadn't , it simply made it worse... Yet all at once it comforted him, at least once in all of this someone had cared. If only for a moment he'd actually had someone who'd been family, someone who'd acted like it. Revolution or not...

Lost in such dark times he barely noticed the fellow point something out, eyes flickered up only for a moment to catch the Kanji that he just barely recognized. Whilst he knew many a languages, as an empire it had obviously been just about a necessity for him to know such, this was however one he was less familiar with. Ohhh he had some of the basics, but it was so foreign to him, especially their damn written works, they weren't even freaking letters, they were just strange little pictures. The romanized version... he could just about contend with on a good day. Alas today was not actually a good day. More or less it was the worst day of his life thus far, humph. He'd ask how it could get any worse, but that would be tempting fate, he was a superstitious man, and it was clear someone up there really hated him he'd give them no more reason to scorn him than he already had. More than likely he'd be struck by a falling star or something else to a similar effect. At last though, at very long last they arrived at the large building the yankee had gestured to previously, him having... Taken no notice at all of the strange surrounding's he was in. He'd dealt with two much already to care anymore. Huffing he stopped as the leading fellow did, an utterly sour look to him. To those who understood the situation though, who could really blame him for such?

“Right then~!” That grin firmly secured itself on his face as he jestured to the building just behind him. “As I promised, eh~?” Promised? Who the fuck cared, it wasn't like England actually wanted to be here at all, he had better things to say. “Off you go then~ And try to chill, seriously, you're far to into this acting thing~” He laughed, shaking his head. “I mean it all worked out in the ennnnd, so why get all worked up, eh?” A smiled, shaking his head. ”See the pair of you around then~” And with that the oddly jovial man was off, dog at heel, trotting along happily after its master.

Really that was a rather large mistake on the part of this Mike person or whatever, as soon as he was lost in the crowd England turned on his heels, forsaking the hospital entirely to backtrack towards the building he'd had pointed out for him. He hadn't wanted to go in the first place. Now that he obviously didn't need to it was just... Well there was not a cat in hell's chance that he was going to go until he absolutely needed to. No, rather the library seemed like the place he needed to be, whilst he perhaps didn't want to know... Details... not on the past... his future... He could perhaps find out what was causing their current illness, perhaps even where Honda was. Either way, there, with America still there or not he knew not, he pushed in, eyes adjusting to the light promptly before he scanned about. Now, every damn one of these would be written in utter gibberish, he needed English. And so he approached a young woman sat by a des-- What the fuck was that strange lit up box thing she was sat in front of? Whatever, not important. Focus dammit.

Coughing he cleared his throat, a mistake as the cough ended up far more raspy and painful than he'd intended. What was the phraaaaaa-- Oh yes. “Kon'nichiwa⁽¹⁾,” he mumbled, offering a slight bow as the woman looked up.

“Anata o tasukeru koto ga dekiru watashi wa?⁽²⁾” Holy shit, blinking brows furrowed, something about help... Oh shit, no, he really wasn't sure what the fuck that meant. Was she offering help? Asking what he needed? Go with the latter.

“Sekai-shi⁽³⁾,” he started, thick accent butchering the words, just as badly as his uncertainty. Rubbing his face he frowned, trying to work out how to piece together something useful with what little he knew. “Subete.... eigo de?⁽⁴⁾” Something like that.... That or he'd made some obscene gesture likely to earn him a slap.

Apparently pretty freaking shocked at the brit before her speaking her native language, all be it badly, she cocked a brow, apparently amused. “Down the hall to your right, good sir~” Wai-- She... What? After her initial response in the native tongue here he'd presumed that was all she spoke, wrongly so. Despite everything his face was an absolute picture, a blush would have no doubt been upon his face were it not for the already rosy complexion. Eye twitching he wheeled around, muttering a thanks before stalking off to said place, you know what... He wasn't even going to fucking try next time. It was either English or the damn well highway in future. Eugh, whatever, reaching the branch stocked with books in a language he could actually read, a language a majority of the world used, brows furrowed. All that was left was to find the right damn books.

(1) Hello
(2) Can I help you?
(3) World history
(4) In English?

[America]

     Today wasn't the best of days, wasn't it? Fuck no of course not! Damn it everything was falling out of his favor, bar from the surrender of England, but that was about it. It could get worse, he knew, but he hoped to dear god that it would not. He simply walked passed the Redcoat, not paying enough mind to look back to see as to why he had just suddenly stopped. It was an odd notion but he could not really care anymore. Actually, he did care, but he was forcing himself not to. This whole damn war was to prove that he was very deserving of the freedom he was now offered. Acting like that did not happen wasn't the best of ideas, and it would just be contradicting, as if he wasn't already. He simply walked on, stance a big sloppy and a series of hard coughs following. This was such... he couldn't even describe. He heavily sighed. And just what was he to do now? Take his independence? Of course... it would be better to take it on the day he was supposed to... the fourth of July. That day, that day would change his life, the history of the colonies, everything to come. Was he prepared? No, but he was going to take it all and will be fully responsible. He didn't care, he fought for his freedom and he was going to take it. None of this would be done in vain.

     As they walked deeper into the city, more and more things began to bewilder him. What was all this...? He looked around, eyes narrowing at the bright lights and strange... wait where the fuck where the letters? Oh, they were just lines and dots... how the bloody hell did people read that? America looked like the average tourist at this point, but without the excitied and lit up look in his face. No, of course not. He was dealing with too much shit at the moment to really be excited about anything. Had this been any other time then perhaps he would be so amused and amazed at all these strange and bizarre sites. But not today. Not now. There was little personal space, the crowded city causing him to have to avoid people and watch out. Eugh, he had never seen so many people in his life, not all in one place like this. A battlefield was different. This was ridiculous. He grunted slightly, greatly annoyed by the crowd of people. The fuck was wrong with this place? Eugh, then the leader, the American, stopped in front of a huge building. Was this it? The "hospital"? Interesting.

“Right then~! As I promised, eh~? Off you go then~ And try to chill, seriously, you're far to into this acting thing~ I mean it all worked out in the ennnnd, so why get all worked up, eh? See the pair of you around then~”

     He quirked a brow at both buildings. Hm, interesting. Might as ell make a mental note of where they were placed. he looked around quickly and his eyes landed back on the strange Mike. And there he was off, lost in the crowd. They were unlikely to see him again, weren't they? Such a pity. England went off straight to the library and America just watched the crowd move on, continue on, the strange man lost forever. He sighed. Shame he didn't properly thank him. He turned and followed the Redcoat towards the library. Jesus christ this place was fucking strange. It was actually bothering him, considering his current mood and the current situation. He walked in, the place much cooler than it was outside. How could that be? What was causing this shift in temperature? Odd. Keeping distance from England, he watched him and some woman behind a desk converse, and he wouldn't help but tilt his head like a child at what they were saying... which... he didn't know what...

“Kon'nichiwa..."
“Anata o tasukeru koto ga dekiru watashi wa?"
“Sekai-shi, subete.... eigo de?"
“Down the hall to your right, good sir~”

     Wait what. They were speaking some language he had nooo idea on and then the woman starts speaking English. Wait what the hell? People couldn't make up their mind, could they? The hell this was worse than France or Spain speaking. At least he had a small idea on what those languages were. This? He didn't even know this language existed, let alone what it was called or... anything. At least she spoke English? He watched the Redcoat go in the direction he was directed to before the patriot decided it was his turn to ask. He cleared his throat, something actually bothering him.

"Excuse me, miss?" He said, trying to use the best of manners that he was taught. "Pardon me if I am asking the same question as that gentleman did, but I was wondering where the history books would be."

The woman smiled and shook her head. "It's not a bother. And they're right in the same wing."

He sighed and smiled. "Thank you" And with that, he went off into the same wing as the Redcoat. Interesting.

     The patriot found himself within the long aisles of the library, scanning book spines in order to find an atlas of some sort. He needed to find exactly where he was in the world. He wasn't sure if he was far away from the colonies or close. His finger glided long the spines, stopping on a thin atlas. He plucked it out and looked at the cover. Eugh, everything in this future was... strange... even the pictures on the book cover and whatnot were... odd and not typical. Sure the printing press made lives easier but, he was verrrry sure they couldn't do this. Ignoring that notion now, he opened the book and went to the first page, where the author's name would be. Eugh there was a bunch of text here he didn't care for-- publishing date: 2009. Okay so this book was published a year before? At least that proved the statement of it being... a two hundred and fifty years a head of things. He then flicked to the table of contents and looked for something he could care about. North America? There. Paaaaage... three. He flicked through the pages as he walked out of the isle and sat at a small table, placing the book down and blinked hard at what he saw, brows furrowed, very shocked.

     What the hell where all those countries?! Wasn't all that part of Spain? And what of Canada, wasn't that French? And look at the United States, how large it was. He wanted to smile. Oh by god did he want to show joy at how far the country has come... but for some reason he refrained. He wasn't sure why, but he did so, only allowing his face to light up, his eyes, showing contentment but his countenance unchanging. So he defeated the Spanish and gained all that land? Oh, how interesting. But by god, the country looked so proud. Any other person could not tell by just looking at it, but Alfred was indeed America, he was connected to this piece of land. It beat through his heart. Finding this all very interesting, he looked through the rest of the continents, very intrigued by all the different countries of different shapes, sizes, and names. And as... cruel as it was, he was also slightly amused by the fact that most of the land that was either owned by Spain, England, or France was all independent, their own thing. It was also an intriguing notion that there was so much land that he didn't even know existed. Ah, for some reason looking at all this eased him. Though his eyes flicked to that little island nation in the north of Europe. The United Kingdom. Oh, look how small it was now. Before it was such a huge empire... now look at it... what was it now? Just... a small piece of land. They were arrogant and brought it upon themselves, didn't they?

     Sighing, he closed it and left it on the table in case Britain wanted to look at it. He ventured back into the isles, now looking for the history of his country. What's to happen? It was a curious notion. What happened after the revolution. What problems, advances, and whatnot had occurred? Finding something States related, he randomly plucked it out and looked at the cover. It was a rather thin book. "The War of 1812"? Hm, wonder what that was about.. He opened it and flicked through some pages, skimming over it slightly. His eyes widened a bit. "... and after the British invaded the nation's capital, they burned the city to the ground. The flames could be seen as far as fifty miles away, President John Adams watching from horseback." Oh so the Revolution wasn't enough war for them, wasn't it? Damn limeys. His face turned into a more stern expression that it was before, having an angry tinge to it. It was... enraging... saddening to know that the Revolution wasn't the last the last war between them. Fucking hell. He flicked ti the last pages, skimming through for at least good news. "... in 1815, with the Treaty of Ghent, the war ended through the peace treaty." Oh so now they were on good terms? The shit? Sighing, he placed the book back on the shelf and rubbed his face hard. This wasn't... easy to take in.

     Looking through more, he took out another book. "The American Civil War". Huh. It might as well sit down and read through it. Perhaps if he knew what was wrong, he could somehow fix it and prevent it from coming up. He opened the book and looked through it while walking to a vacant chair and sitting, crossing his legs and slowly skimming through the book. This was all so strange, wasn't it? Interesting, strange, enraging. Almost all emotions. He couldn't quite place his finger on it but he had a feeling that he wasn't going to get back to the colonies soon, wasn't he? Judging from the atlas, they were at the other side of the Pacific, very far from any North American land. Eugh, only god knows how long it would take to get there by ship. He flipped to the next page. This really wasn't the best of days, wasn't it?

[England]

Sighing he lay the musket on a table, leafing through book after book of history, his history. The history of his proud nation... A fallen empire. Fingers brushing lightly over the page, the small island he'd always been. Wasn't that just him though? Such a small person playing in the big league. He'd always been a wolf in sheep's clothing, now was a time where proof was simply given. Everything he'd worked so hard to earn was gone... No... Actually... He still apparently had territories here and there. That... That was some small satisfaction he supposed, a slight softener to the blow of having everything stripped from him. It was a bitter world, honestly it was. He'd lost the person he care for most, and also everything else... Amusing... Leafing further through though it amused him to find his country was still in such high standing, so he was still up there, huh? He found it somewhat amusing that after everything fellow nations let him stand by them on even footing, perhaps all was not so dark as it se--- He turned again... World war 2? The shit?! What the hell kind of crap was this...!?

Snapped from the book, that damn book, green eyes cast up at the sound of a soft whimpering... What? With a brief snapping sound he closed the dusty thing, slotting it back onto the shelf, turning and furrowing his brows. Moving forward between shelves, looking for the source of the sounds... Only to see a child. Blinking a frowned and crouched. "... Hey...?" The small mass looked up, bright fucking blue eyes blinking back tears, seemingly failing miserably. Sighing he offered a hand, those eyes... Damn... "Come on now.... it's okay..." It had been so long... So long since he'd had to deal with a child... Look where it had got him last time... Still, he wasn't heartless enough to turn away. And so when the raven haired boy flung himself into his arms he silently accepted, the barest hint of remorse on his face. Regret... So much regret... His life had become one big regret, he regretted hurting America, regretted driving him to present actions, he regretted that this was his fault and that he couldn't fix it. He'd destroyed everything and he couldn't fix it, he'd never be able to. He was indeed still the king... Simply the king of loss.

Lifting the child, the little fellow hooked his arms around his neck, simpering slightly. "Hush," he soothed out, despite being sick, despite his pain... Well it was soft. He'd used the voice so many times prior, so many times to try and calm Alfred on stormy nights, or when the silly thing had scared himself with a horror story. He'd have smiled at such thoughts had this been any other time, a year or two prior and he'd have smiled about it... A few years prior and he'd not have been war stricken. Exhausted from busying about with his colonies, but there was one that would always make him smile. The one that was, and always would be, his soft spot. He didn't settle though, instead something totally unexpected happened. Had he been looking he'd have seen those blue eyes no longer teared, instead some utterly out of place smirk on the little fellow face, looking totally out of place. And then something even stranger happened, blue eyes flashed, something close to confusion. In response the man carrying the child stiffened, pupils dilating, a blank expression taking his face.

Grip on the child loosening, it dropped to the floor, all to nimbly for a child... It hardly was, slinking behind the seemingly out of it empire, form shifted into a garishly hulking quadrupedal fox like thing, great red claws curling into the ground as it reared up. With an almost humanoid stance the thing placed something almost like a hand on the empire's back, hissing before giving a light shove. Sending the man back the way he'd come, steps more... robotic than normal. Automatic as if he was just walking without any real thought, though he turned, back toward the table where his musket laid, the very musket he grabbed, before turning to cast blank eyes back to the creature, which shifted back to the child, giggling insistently, waving for him to follow. Of course he did, just like a dog following its master he followed on after the strange shape shifter gone little child. Something was fucked up here, something was pretty damn fucked up, more so when the thing lifted a hand over its shaggy brown hair, a dark sphere of energy forming as Britannia loaded the musket... Wasn't this just fun and games~?

Far from it...

The thing hurled the sphere, burning through shelves, exploding against the wall as it struck. Some twisted, sadistically sick, grin on his small face. Whatever it was it obviously wasn't human, and whilst one any usual occasion England would have been throwing a shitfit to try and stop the demon thing, instead he stood there, pulling the stock to his shoulder, musket shaking heavily before he tried to force the thing back down, unsuccessfully. Something was screwing with his head, fucking up the usually perceptive mind. Sure people could deem him a monster, a tyrant, but he had his limits. He'd been a pirate yes, but that didn't mean he'd ever deliberately try and hurt innocent people, fucking demon child thing. Apparently the strange child thing was pissed though, wheeling it made a low whirring noise, head cocking curiously at the one seemingly rejecting what he should be doing, attention shifted though, falling on the stranger in similar garb to the one it was apparently controlling. Snorted yet more of that strange energy was gathered, flung past the red garbed man, and right at the one in blue, the one with eyes equally as blue as its own. Dull green eyes of the brit tracked the strange sphere, no real thought in those usually aggravated eyes... Yet somewhere there was worry... Worry the boy wouldn't dodge... The fuck was wrong with him?!