Road to Revolution [1a/12?]
anonymous
July 1 2010, 20:30:43 UTC
Shoddy title is shoddy. This is the same Anon as above. I hope you don't mind the long lead up into the war.
*
I - The Seven Years War: Or that fight America started because he wanted Ohio Valley
France always knew of America's existence, even before that Bastard-England made the child his colony. However, just because France knew of the little monster's existence did not mean that he wanted anything to do with the boy. The child was not profitable to him in any way because it was all... land, and neither France nor his people really cared to leave their homes and become settlers. The notion of living anywhere but in his own home in France was one he never liked to entertain. Instead of venturing south, France stayed in the north and minded his profitable fur trade with Canada's very attractive mother. It never even occurred to France to waste his time meeting with England's little colony, because any ward of England's had to be a distasteful little demon.
France's supposition of the boy being an impossible little monster was proven correct when the prepubescent brat came storming up to France's Fort Duquesne, decorated in a soldier's uniform as if he were preparing for battle on a beautiful spring day in 1754.
The little colony stopped a few miles away and watched the fort for a half the day before he retreated into the wild.
"Sir, there's a group of British militia in the swamps. Your orders?"
France looked over the fence of his fort and over to the swamp. He was fairly certain that he could see the tiny colony hidden behind a shrub in a misguided attempt at stealth. France almost wanted to laugh because America was not very good at hide-and-seek games. "We're not attacking unless provoked, Captain. Please send Jumonville with a small group to tell them to go home."
"Understood, Sir."
Except Jumonville and his company never returned to the fort. France heard a volley of gunshots and knew with a sinking certainty that his men had been killed. From his perch in the fort, France coolly watched the colony build a decrepit encampment in the swamp. The fortress looked as if it were going to collapse at the slightest hint of a breeze. France wondered whether that insufferable England knew his colony was trying to play the big boys' game in shoddily built forts.
France knew how to play the game all too well
"You are trespassing on land belonging to the great British Empire," America told him, all bright-eyed and demanding, as if he were a little nation in the making instead of a colony. "Get off my father's land or prepare to be vanquished."
France stared at the pernicious creature who barely reached the height of his shoulders. He bowed his head slightly, just until he was eye level with the boy. America crossed his eyes and glared at France from the point of his nose. Without further warning, France flicked the child on the forehead.
"Ow!" America yelped in pain, covering his forehead as he stumbled away from France. "What'dya do that for?!"
"You are America, that uncultured England's colony, aren't you?" France asked, grinning at the child who pouted petulantly at him.
"Yeah, and what of it?" America huffed, crossing his arms over his vested chest while he scrutinized the wavy haired blond with growing defensiveness.
"You look exactly like my little Canada," France said. "So I don't want you getting hurt. Will you please return home?"
America scowled and hurried back down the hill, glancing back only once to shout at France. "You haven't seen the last of me, you French Fiend!"
"Au revoir!" France called after the running child, waving genially until America was out of sight. When finally alone, France's amused facade dropped. His hand curled into a fist as his lips thinned into a thoughtful line. Although America had been tactically weak because of his youth and inexperience, something about the entire incident left a vile taste on France's tongue. Colonies did not start fights with other nations--who did that self-righteous brat think he was to claim New France belonged to that distasteful England?
Road to Revolution [1b/12?]
anonymous
July 1 2010, 20:33:21 UTC
At the sound, France turned and his eyes landed on Canada peeking from behind a tree. Canada had not aged as America did, and still looked very much like a five year old human. His charge seemed concerned as he glanced from France to the road where America had sped away.
"Canada," France exclaimed, brotherly smile back in place. He gestured for his colony to come into the open, a motion which the child obeyed with little hesitation. "Pourquoi es-tu par ici, mon petit chou?"
Instead of answering, Canada asked, "Est-il parti?"
"Oui. Tu n'as pas répondu à ma question."
"Je pensais qu'il voulait m'emmener loin de toi."
France smiled as he took Canada into his arms and kissed the crown of soft, wavy hair so much like his own. "Oh Canada, je fais la promesse de te protéger. Je t'adore."
*
America was true to his word and came back, the little brat. Even worse, he not only returned, but he brought with him the most vile being that France ever had the displeasure of seeing: England. Fortunately, France saw them before they saw him. Donning his war regalia, France mounted his decorated stallion and ambushed the lot of marching Britons. Shots were fired, men went down, and France felt a deep sense of satisfaction when he saw England fail to regain order in his ranks. England’s colony seemed at a loss for what to do as the British soldiers fell. Instead, France rode his steed straight up to the colony whose brilliant azure eyes reflected only terror at seeing France charge him with a sword brandished and eyes that promised no mercy.
But a colonist soldier crossed France’s path and swept the child up onto his saddle.
“Colonel Washington,” America exclaimed before the young soldier rode out of sight. France had no time to dwell on the soldier saving the colony because someone shouted that General Braddock’s been shot, and certain victory belonged to France. How would the other side press on without their General?
By pure chance, France spotted the familiar blond head that he’s detested for centuries locked in a battle of the blades with one of France’s men. The Frenchman was no match for the pure strategy and skill that came with hundreds of years of experience with the sword, and he fell not a moment later to England’s quick thrust. Turning his horse towards the other nation, France charged with his sword drawn and pointed as if he were jousting. England did not see him come and fell onto his back when France caught him in the chest, slicing through his red uniform and flesh.
When England looked up, he saw France and his surprise at having been caught off guard morphed into fury.
"What is this offending my eyes? Oh, Angleterre, it's you," France drawled, his eyes spitting with hate as he pointed his pistol at England on the ground. "I couldn't tell with those large hedges on your face."
Supported by his arms, England sat up and abhorrently glared up at France. His face scrunched into a sneer as he spat, “Were it up to me, you would be tethered and tossed into the bottom of the Atlantic to feed the sharks; at least then you’d be useful to society.”
“But who else would knock you off your figurative high horse and self-delusions if not me?” France asked, lips curled in a smarmy smirk. “Believe me, Angleterre, when I tell you that I am doing the world a favor.”
“Just as you would do the world a favor if you left this worldly plane,” England hissed, eyes aglow with from the light of the sun and blood of the dead.
France tightened his grip on his pistol and smiled graciously. “I beg to differ.” And then he pulled the trigger, lodging the bullet right into England’s heart. The bullet would not kill England, but France liked to believe that it was the thought that counted.
Road to Revolution [1c/12?]
anonymous
July 1 2010, 20:34:49 UTC
They were at war, France and England. That in itself was not a novelty because this was the fourth time they had crossed swords in the last century; however this was the first time they engaged in battle all over the world. From the West Indies to South Asia to West Africa and even their home front in Europe; any and every colony they possessed was a stage for their fight. They dragged others into it, but that was of little to no surprise because a war in Europe was everyone’s business--everyone who mattered at least. Europe was the main stage because that was where their home was; so, France concentrated his forces protecting his home from the British brutes across the channel as that was how they fought their wars for centuries.
France did not realize that England would target North America as the main theatre--he had not even considered that England’s goal was Canada. So when the Royal Navy sailed into the horizon outside Quebec like mistakes on a beautiful painting, France felt his heart sink with his ships. England cut his supply lines, and just like that, Quebec was under a siege.
France saw Canada flit about the house, peeking outside windows to see if the Navy let up; but England never left his ships. The number of England’s soldiers increased by the day and France knew with certainty that he was outnumbered; his army was made up of volunteers and militia who had little to no training. It would take a divine intervention for France to win this battle; even his own officers knew that. Despite heavy hearts, three months into the siege, the Marquis de Montcalm told France to put on his uniform because the British were positioning themselves.
The moment arrived, and as France dressed himself as a soldier, Canada came in and watched France in the mirror. France saw the boy bite his lips as he hovered at the door, his eyes trained on the floor.
“Matthieu,” France said, and Canada looked up because they never called each other by their human names. “Reste.”
Canada looked like he wanted to say something. Instead, he dropped his eyes to the floor and nodded once before he left the room. France buttoned his collar and looked at himself in the mirror once more: he was an infantry today. He murmured a brief prayer and crossed himself before he met General Montcalm at the door.
They marched outside of Quebec, and were positioned at the top of the plain. Montcalm tried to lead his army in the European style, but France knew his men did not have the training for it. France laid in position with his musket at ready. The vantage point gave him full view of the British lines and for a moment, France thought that perhaps, by some miracle, they could win. They held steady, and Montcalm gave the signal to fire. The shots rang in the air, but it was disorganized and messy, and the British fired back almost immediately before they advanced. France tried to reload his musket as quickly as he could, but he wasn’t Prussia and could only shoot three rounds a minute at best. The other men beside him were less familiar with this front line warfare, and the firing ranks fell apart when the English army fired a second round. His men retreated and France watched, horrified yet unable to tear his eyes away as England’s Royal Navy flanked the plateau; the Plains of Abraham, Canada once told him.
Men in redcoats surrounded the field and France was shot in the shoulder, blood staining his blue coat into an indigo-purple. He quickly transformed his musket into a bayonet and proceeded to engage as many British soldiers as he could while he retreated with his men. When the British soldiers around him laid dead or dying, France took the opportunity escape. He ran towards the shores with all his might; but a turned back meant an open target and not a second later, France felt iron pellets pierce the flesh of his legs. Searing pain tore through France’s person as he fell onto his hands and knees, his bayonet clattering uselessly to his side. A moment later, the sharp tip of a bayonet pierced through his back and France let out a strangled cry as his arms slacken and his body hit the ground.
Road to Revolution [1d/12?]
anonymous
July 1 2010, 20:48:38 UTC
Any normal man would have left France for dead after a killing blow, but a boot lodged to his side and harshly kicked him over. France gasped for air and for life as England looked down at him with his musket pointed at France’s heart.
“Oh how you run,” England sneered as if they were the only two on the battlefield. “Last words?”
It was then that France saw the head of hair like his own come from behind England with a small branch raised in the air. France’s eyes widened in terror as the small Canada brought the stick down on England’s back.
“Bloody hell!” Furious, England swivelled around and saw the colony quiver as he watched England with large violet eyes. The vengeful expression on England’s face slowly disappeared as he stared at the little colony.
“Don’t hurt him,” France managed, from his prone form on the floor and England’s eyes glanced at him before it went back to the colony. “Please.”
A slow smile spread across England’s face as he looked between France and his colony as if he thought of something exceptionally clever.
“No,” France choked as England manhandled Canada, tucking the child-sized colony under his arms like a sack of potatoes. England shot a triumphant smile at France before he turned around and boarded the waiting ship. “No, NO, NO!”
“France!” Canada cried, tears streaming down his cherub cheeks like snow melted from the mountaintops.
“You can’t do this,” France screamed at England’s retreating back. “He’s not yours to take! He’s only a child!”
“FRANCIS!”
“STOP!” France shouted both angry and desperate despite the iron pellets lodged in his legs and the bleeding slashes on his arms. “BRING HIM BACK! ENGLAND!”
As the ship left port, England finally turned around and watched France crawl to the edge of the dock. Unable to stand, hardly able to move. The smile refused to leave England’s face, even if he tried.
“Au revoir, French-bastard,” England called back, one arm secured around Canada’s waist, the other waving at the stranded France.
“ENGLAND!”
***
Notes: The Seven Years war started in 1754 in North America, but didn’t officially start in Europe until two years later in 1756, lasting until 1763. The beginning of the war went pretty well for the French because the British did not know how to fight in North America--Fort Necessity and Braddock’s Defeat were absolute disasters for the British. In 1759, The Plains of Abraham, or the Battle of Quebec was one of decisive battles of the war because the British took Canada and held onto it for the rest of the war (and after). In my former professor’s words regarding this battle, “The British won with sheer numbers. The French were completely overwhelmed.” Side note: The French Navy was pretty much destroyed during this war thanks to the British Royal Navy.
TL;DR - French were winning at the beginning of the war, and then the British turned it around and won. The biggest winner were the colonists, but I'll get into that later.
I promise this is related to the American Revolution! Please bear with me while I go through the long setup of why and how the AmRev happened. I hope I've included/alluded to enough history for this to be deemed somewhat historical.
Re: Road to Revolution [1d/12?]
anonymous
July 2 2010, 02:04:53 UTC
I like long exposition and slow plot development. You have a happy hooked reader here ^^ (I also like to see, from time to time, the truly malevolent relationship between England and France throughout history, FrUK shipper or not. France's condescendension at the beginning, and England's latter cruelty taking Canada away, broke my heart)
Re: Road to Revolution [1d/12?]
anonymous
July 2 2010, 05:11:49 UTC
You've got a great start, anon! I love hearing France and England arguing so cleverly, and I felt sad when England dragged Canada away (even though I knew that was going to happen). Awww...
Road to Revolution [2a/12?]
anonymous
July 4 2010, 06:54:45 UTC
II - The Aftermath of War: Where England is in debt and America does not want to pay his share.
England sat hunched over his desk as piles upon piles of parchment littered his work area. His hand was curled in his sandy hair as he redid the calculations only to come up with the exact same figures: £137 million sterling. No matter how many times England redid the calculations, the number did not change. £137,000,000; that was nearly twice as much as his debt before the war, and he gained little to nothing. The only upside of the entire incident was his crushing France. At first, America was delighted that he had a new playmate; however, upon discovering that Canada was a Catholic francophone, America immediately wandered off to play alone in the Ohio Valley.
Canada’s mother lived in Ohio Valley and upon seeing America prance about her fields without her permission, the woman threw a massive fit and destroyed England’s forts around the Great Lakes. America did not like this one bit and he went to her with muskets loaded and a company of angry soldiers which only further enraged her. England did not know how to deal with it because he did not want another war so soon after the last one--he could not possibly pay for it when he already had so much leverage over his head. Instead, he sailed to the New World and called on the proud and beautiful woman.
She sat and glared at England with dark mistrustful eyes that wrinkled at the edges. She was old, England realized, possibly older than himself. But she had been alone for hundreds of years, and not civilized; not English. England was not afraid of her, knew he could probably force her into submission if necessary; however, she would fight back because animals attacked when desperate. It would be too costly and England could not afford it.
“Will you cease this rebellion, good Lady?” England asked.
She did not even need to think when she snapped, “I will when your parasites respect my land, my people, and my customs. I never encounter such problems with France nor his people; however, you and that uncontrollable child of yours treat me no better than a mere slave! I will not allow this to continue any longer; if I must take up arms, so be it!”
“I do not want to fight with you,” England calmly told her, as if he were placating a child. “So I offer you a compromise. I will keep my Colony east of the Appellation Mountains. I will station soldiers there to make sure the lad does not go onto your lands again. However, you must cease attacking my forts, and you leave the lad in peace. Is this acceptable?”
She stood, and England realized just how tall the woman was. “I have left your demon child in peace; it is he who disturbs my peace. See that you keep your word, Britain, or I promise no mercy upon your people or your child.”
And then she swept out in her fur skin clothing leaving England to sigh and draft a proclamation of his promise.
*
“I have to what?” America asked incredulously as he blinked at England, unable to believe his ears.
“Stay on your side of the mountains,” England repeated as patiently as he could. He pressed a finger to his temple as he prepared for the long and probably loud argument ahead, as typical with his growing colony.
He was not disappointed when America threw his hands into the air and snapped, “I bloody will not! I did not fight that war to stay on the east! I fought your war so I can expand to the west!”
“My war?” England sputtered, unable to believe the accusations America threw at him. “You honestly believe that was only my war? That was the British Empire’s war! A war which began at your request, or did you forget your disaster at Fort Necessity?”
“I did it for you,” America retorted glaring to the side before those bright eyes pinned onto his parent nation. America was upset, and throwing a tantrum as if he were a child whose plaything had been taken away. “What use is winning the war of we cannot claim the spoils? And from those savages who murdered our people; you’re not the one who hears the bloodshed of Indian raiders on my towns! If you knew how my people suffered, you--”
Road to Revolution [2b/12?]
anonymous
July 4 2010, 07:00:36 UTC
“Your people?” England repeated testily. “They are subjects of the crown and under my jurisdiction! You hardly understand how to care for yourself and you dare to say your people; how preposterous.”
“If we are subjects of the crown, we are entitled to inherent rights and liberties guaranteed by the British Constitution! The Ohio Valley was won during the French and Indian war and I have as much right to it as--”
“Enough!” England roared, standing from his chair and leaning towards the boy. “I will not have you speak to me as if you fully understood the interpretations of the British Constitution! Get out of my office!”
America glared angrily at England before he stomped out of England’s office and slammed the door shut with more force than necessary. When England lowered himself back on his chair, he clenched his hand and released a shaky sigh. On his desk, the proclamation sitting right next to his growing pile of debt. The most recent addition to his debt sat on top of the pile: pay for the British navy’s services in patrolling and protecting the American colonies. Little America did not understand the responsibilities of being a nation; perhaps it was high time that America grew up.
*
America stormed into England’s office like a herd of wild bison. England shot bisons when he saw them in North America. Before England could even ask why America had the manners of an untamed savage, the young man lashed out and slammed the hands on the other side of England’s desk. England’s back stiffened as he watched America with disapproving eyes before he dismissed the child and returned to his work.
“You’re taxing me?” America asked outrageously. “What gives you the right to do that?!”
“The fact that you are my colony gives me the right to tax you,” England answered calmly as he dipped the nib of his quill in his inkwell and continued writing his letter to Parliament. “You receive the benefits of being a subject of my empire, so it is only fair that you share the cost.”
“You have never taxed me before and you have no right to do it now. The only ones allowed to impose taxes are the people in my legislature; and since my people are not represented in the House of Commons, you cannot constitutionally impose duties upon me,” America argued.
England’s pen froze and he slowly laid his eyes on America. When did the boy learn such language? He surveyed the young colony who seemed to have grown a little taller since England last saw the boy. Defiant eyes that raged like the oceans watched England while pale lips scowled in displeasure.
“You are implying that you should be given my protection free of charge?” England carefully asked his charge.
America tensed and said, “My prosperity and happiness depends on the full and free enjoyment of my rights and liberties, and an intercourse with Great Britain mutually affectionate and advantageous.”
“Free enjoyment of your rights and liberties? Even though the war primarily benefited you, and the soldiers stationed on your borders for your own protection, you believe that you should reap these rewards paid for by all British subjects except for your own,” England slowly clarified as he watched America with a raised brow. “Despite the fact it is a minuet duty compared to what the people in my home pay.”
America made a face, but stood firm in his position. “I will not pay these taxes, and you cannot coerce me into paying them. I will resist these taxes with all my power.”
Suddenly, England cackled, “I would like to see you try.”
Red-faced, America turned around and left with England’s boisterous laughter leading him out the door.
*
Sulking and fuming, America paced like a caged beast on King’s Street in Boston, Massachusetts. He could feel his sweat drenching his waistcoat through his linen shirt. It would have made sense to seek shelter from the scorching summer sun, but logic escaped him when fury and frustration clouded his judgment.
Road to Revolution [2c/12?]
anonymous
July 4 2010, 07:08:01 UTC
It was in this state of mind that America heard the shouts of anger echo in the city. America blinked and followed the sound until he reached a large crowd gathered around the famed elm tree. A rowdy crowd of men hurrahed as they tied a noose to a protruding branch on the tree. America watched as the men hoisted a straw doll of a person and place the noose around the neck of the doll--an effigy. The crowd cheered and jeered and clapped in delight as they defaced the effigy.
Curiously, America asked a man who stood near him, “Who is that?”
“That traitor of liberty is Andrew Oliver,” the man answered as the men hung another doll by the neck. “And all the other supporters of that unconstitutional act impressed upon us by Parliament.”
“The stamp distributors,” America murmured, watching as the Bostonians degraded the effigies.
America could feel adrenaline humming through his blood as evening descended and the protesting crowd grew in noise and vengeance. America chanted and shouted and cursed with his people as they marched to Oliver’s office. No light emitted from within and America joined the mob as they took an axe to door, and stones to the glass windows. Storming inside, America picked up a stool and smashed it against the bookcase, splintering the shelves while the men next to him cut the the tables and desks into large pieces.
“Where is that coward?” Someone shouted.
“He has gone home!” Another person cried.
America found himself taken by the enthusiasm of the mob and marched with them to Oliver’s home, arms laden with wood from their deconstruction of the man’s office. An innumerable number of people dropped their piles of wood when the mob reached Oliver’s home. The mob parted for the man who held a torch and a fire erupted in front of Oliver’s house. The crowd cursed Oliver and did not even demand for the man to come out before they tore down the door and ransacked the stamp distributor’s property.
The screams were deafening and America joined in the destruction of Oliver’s beautifully furnished home and skillfully crafted carriage. Porcelain plates and bowls were broken, and silverware greedily pocketed by mob members. The wrathful mob took the bread and cheeses, stole the silk gowns that belonged to Oliver’s wife, and drank the expensive wines they found in the cellar. Everything of little to no value was fed to the fire in front of Oliver’s house.
*
“I didn’t want to do it,” America muttered, kicking at the handwoven Indian rug recently furnished in England’s office.
“Speak up, you insolent child,” England commanded from behind his desk.
Glaring at the glass lamp on England’s desk, America heaved a sigh as he repeated, “I said I didn’t want to do it. I was swept up by the passion of the people.”
“Of the locals you mean! You terrorized and destroyed the property of several officials,” England reprimanded. “They submitted their complaints not to Parliament, but to His Majesty! Do you have any notion of how lucky you are that I have intercepted these letters?”
America’s brows furrowed in confusion before he glanced up at England, “What do you mean you intercept these letters? They are grievances for his Majesty to address. There is a reason we have stopped addressing parliament, and that is because they do not answer! You have no right to conceal their letters, my letters from the king.”
“You are the reason that those letters were written to begin with. If you would just accept things as they are, we would not have to quarrel; yet, you run around your home and throw tantrums and riots to frighten the colonists! There is no need for his Majesty to address to concern himself with such petty actions from a child colony such as you,” England said snidely. “I am enough.”
America crossed his arms defensively and lifted his chin in defiance. “Then I will not stop my protests until you and parliament amend this wrong you’ve committed against me.”
England wanted to shake the child for being at that age he saw humans go through. However, England held his temper because it would further push the colony away; they needed a compromise. “What will make you cease your rioting?”
Road to Revolution [2d/12?]
anonymous
July 4 2010, 07:20:42 UTC
“Repeal the Stamp Act,” America answered simply.
England’s lips thinned as he glowered at America. The lad looked neither cowed nor intimidated, and met England’s eyes with furious stubbornness. Closing his eyes, England took a deep breath and slowly released it before his gaze landed on America. “Fine; I am repealing the Stamp Act.”
Just like that, the resentment from America was extinguished like earth smothering fire, and young colony beamed happily at England. “Thank you, England; I will go tell my people!”
America dashed out of England’s office, his victorious cheers echoing through the halls before they silenced with the Colony’s exit of the building. Standing from his stiff chair, England moved to the side window where a bottle of scotch sat waiting for him on the side table. He uncorked the top and poured the amber liquid into a glass produced by the finest craftsmen in Britain. Picking up the glass, England held it to the window. Through the clear amber liquid, England saw a distortion of America bathed in sepia as he ran down the path and towards the docks.
Hidden under stacks of invoices on his desk was a letter from Charles Townshend regarding alternate methods of taxation. Downing the glass of scotch, England felt the warmth of the drink diffuse in his chest to the tips of his fingers. Perhaps import duties would work better on America.
***
Notes: The Seven Years War left Britain with heavy debts, and because their empire got bigger (Canada), it was more costly to maintain. Pontiac’s Rebellion of 1763 was an uprising by natives in the Great Lakes area who were angry that the British won the Seven Years War because the Colonists were trying to expand into their land. Great Britain did not want to fight another war so they issued the Proclamation of 1763 that pretty much said that settlers would not move west of the Appalachian Mountains; however, this move made the colonists angry since moving west into the fertile land of the Ohio Valley was their objective for fighting in the war.
The Stamp Act 1765 was drafted to get the colonists to help pay the war debts since the Colonists were pretty well off compared to the large poor population in Britain and they kind of don’t have to pay taxes for protection and trade from the empire. The Colonists were not happy and started all kinds of mobs and riots against the act and against the people trying to enforce it (mobs in Boston, riots in New York). To their defense for taking such an antagonistic role, the people who tried to enforce the stamp act thought their fellow colonists would get over themselves and pay the duties--they didn’t.
TL;DR - GBR was in debt so they tried to get the American Colonies to help pay (since they benefited the most from the war with added protection and more land). Additionally, the Colonies never paid any taxes for the trade benefits from the British Empire. The Colonies were NOT COOL with it.
Source: There's a line where America spoke that's quoted from the Declarations of the Stamp Act Congress (1765), XII.
A Wild OP Has Appeared!
anonymous
July 4 2010, 23:03:36 UTC
So much history included in this -- thank you!
Wow, no one is a fan of America in this one, are they? Though, Canada's mother calling him a demon child... Doesn't Hetalia rather imply that she would be America's mother as well, considering that America and Canada are brothers? Though, America does come off a bit bratty so far, his words aside. I hope we`ll get to see him begin to mature as this goes on! And France become fond of him in the process too, historical relations of the two being what they were. *grins*
*
I - The Seven Years War: Or that fight America started because he wanted Ohio Valley
France always knew of America's existence, even before that Bastard-England made the child his colony. However, just because France knew of the little monster's existence did not mean that he wanted anything to do with the boy. The child was not profitable to him in any way because it was all... land, and neither France nor his people really cared to leave their homes and become settlers. The notion of living anywhere but in his own home in France was one he never liked to entertain. Instead of venturing south, France stayed in the north and minded his profitable fur trade with Canada's very attractive mother. It never even occurred to France to waste his time meeting with England's little colony, because any ward of England's had to be a distasteful little demon.
France's supposition of the boy being an impossible little monster was proven correct when the prepubescent brat came storming up to France's Fort Duquesne, decorated in a soldier's uniform as if he were preparing for battle on a beautiful spring day in 1754.
The little colony stopped a few miles away and watched the fort for a half the day before he retreated into the wild.
"Sir, there's a group of British militia in the swamps. Your orders?"
France looked over the fence of his fort and over to the swamp. He was fairly certain that he could see the tiny colony hidden behind a shrub in a misguided attempt at stealth. France almost wanted to laugh because America was not very good at hide-and-seek games. "We're not attacking unless provoked, Captain. Please send Jumonville with a small group to tell them to go home."
"Understood, Sir."
Except Jumonville and his company never returned to the fort. France heard a volley of gunshots and knew with a sinking certainty that his men had been killed. From his perch in the fort, France coolly watched the colony build a decrepit encampment in the swamp. The fortress looked as if it were going to collapse at the slightest hint of a breeze. France wondered whether that insufferable England knew his colony was trying to play the big boys' game in shoddily built forts.
France knew how to play the game all too well
"You are trespassing on land belonging to the great British Empire," America told him, all bright-eyed and demanding, as if he were a little nation in the making instead of a colony. "Get off my father's land or prepare to be vanquished."
France stared at the pernicious creature who barely reached the height of his shoulders. He bowed his head slightly, just until he was eye level with the boy. America crossed his eyes and glared at France from the point of his nose. Without further warning, France flicked the child on the forehead.
"Ow!" America yelped in pain, covering his forehead as he stumbled away from France. "What'dya do that for?!"
"You are America, that uncultured England's colony, aren't you?" France asked, grinning at the child who pouted petulantly at him.
"Yeah, and what of it?" America huffed, crossing his arms over his vested chest while he scrutinized the wavy haired blond with growing defensiveness.
"You look exactly like my little Canada," France said. "So I don't want you getting hurt. Will you please return home?"
America scowled and hurried back down the hill, glancing back only once to shout at France. "You haven't seen the last of me, you French Fiend!"
"Au revoir!" France called after the running child, waving genially until America was out of sight. When finally alone, France's amused facade dropped. His hand curled into a fist as his lips thinned into a thoughtful line. Although America had been tactically weak because of his youth and inexperience, something about the entire incident left a vile taste on France's tongue. Colonies did not start fights with other nations--who did that self-righteous brat think he was to claim New France belonged to that distasteful England?
"France?"
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"Canada," France exclaimed, brotherly smile back in place. He gestured for his colony to come into the open, a motion which the child obeyed with little hesitation. "Pourquoi es-tu par ici, mon petit chou?"
Instead of answering, Canada asked, "Est-il parti?"
"Oui. Tu n'as pas répondu à ma question."
"Je pensais qu'il voulait m'emmener loin de toi."
France smiled as he took Canada into his arms and kissed the crown of soft, wavy hair so much like his own. "Oh Canada, je fais la promesse de te protéger. Je t'adore."
*
America was true to his word and came back, the little brat. Even worse, he not only returned, but he brought with him the most vile being that France ever had the displeasure of seeing: England. Fortunately, France saw them before they saw him. Donning his war regalia, France mounted his decorated stallion and ambushed the lot of marching Britons. Shots were fired, men went down, and France felt a deep sense of satisfaction when he saw England fail to regain order in his ranks. England’s colony seemed at a loss for what to do as the British soldiers fell. Instead, France rode his steed straight up to the colony whose brilliant azure eyes reflected only terror at seeing France charge him with a sword brandished and eyes that promised no mercy.
But a colonist soldier crossed France’s path and swept the child up onto his saddle.
“Colonel Washington,” America exclaimed before the young soldier rode out of sight. France had no time to dwell on the soldier saving the colony because someone shouted that General Braddock’s been shot, and certain victory belonged to France. How would the other side press on without their General?
By pure chance, France spotted the familiar blond head that he’s detested for centuries locked in a battle of the blades with one of France’s men. The Frenchman was no match for the pure strategy and skill that came with hundreds of years of experience with the sword, and he fell not a moment later to England’s quick thrust. Turning his horse towards the other nation, France charged with his sword drawn and pointed as if he were jousting. England did not see him come and fell onto his back when France caught him in the chest, slicing through his red uniform and flesh.
When England looked up, he saw France and his surprise at having been caught off guard morphed into fury.
"What is this offending my eyes? Oh, Angleterre, it's you," France drawled, his eyes spitting with hate as he pointed his pistol at England on the ground. "I couldn't tell with those large hedges on your face."
Supported by his arms, England sat up and abhorrently glared up at France. His face scrunched into a sneer as he spat, “Were it up to me, you would be tethered and tossed into the bottom of the Atlantic to feed the sharks; at least then you’d be useful to society.”
“But who else would knock you off your figurative high horse and self-delusions if not me?” France asked, lips curled in a smarmy smirk. “Believe me, Angleterre, when I tell you that I am doing the world a favor.”
“Just as you would do the world a favor if you left this worldly plane,” England hissed, eyes aglow with from the light of the sun and blood of the dead.
France tightened his grip on his pistol and smiled graciously. “I beg to differ.” And then he pulled the trigger, lodging the bullet right into England’s heart. The bullet would not kill England, but France liked to believe that it was the thought that counted.
*
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France did not realize that England would target North America as the main theatre--he had not even considered that England’s goal was Canada. So when the Royal Navy sailed into the horizon outside Quebec like mistakes on a beautiful painting, France felt his heart sink with his ships. England cut his supply lines, and just like that, Quebec was under a siege.
France saw Canada flit about the house, peeking outside windows to see if the Navy let up; but England never left his ships. The number of England’s soldiers increased by the day and France knew with certainty that he was outnumbered; his army was made up of volunteers and militia who had little to no training. It would take a divine intervention for France to win this battle; even his own officers knew that. Despite heavy hearts, three months into the siege, the Marquis de Montcalm told France to put on his uniform because the British were positioning themselves.
The moment arrived, and as France dressed himself as a soldier, Canada came in and watched France in the mirror. France saw the boy bite his lips as he hovered at the door, his eyes trained on the floor.
“Matthieu,” France said, and Canada looked up because they never called each other by their human names. “Reste.”
Canada looked like he wanted to say something. Instead, he dropped his eyes to the floor and nodded once before he left the room. France buttoned his collar and looked at himself in the mirror once more: he was an infantry today. He murmured a brief prayer and crossed himself before he met General Montcalm at the door.
They marched outside of Quebec, and were positioned at the top of the plain. Montcalm tried to lead his army in the European style, but France knew his men did not have the training for it. France laid in position with his musket at ready. The vantage point gave him full view of the British lines and for a moment, France thought that perhaps, by some miracle, they could win. They held steady, and Montcalm gave the signal to fire. The shots rang in the air, but it was disorganized and messy, and the British fired back almost immediately before they advanced. France tried to reload his musket as quickly as he could, but he wasn’t Prussia and could only shoot three rounds a minute at best. The other men beside him were less familiar with this front line warfare, and the firing ranks fell apart when the English army fired a second round. His men retreated and France watched, horrified yet unable to tear his eyes away as England’s Royal Navy flanked the plateau; the Plains of Abraham, Canada once told him.
Men in redcoats surrounded the field and France was shot in the shoulder, blood staining his blue coat into an indigo-purple. He quickly transformed his musket into a bayonet and proceeded to engage as many British soldiers as he could while he retreated with his men. When the British soldiers around him laid dead or dying, France took the opportunity escape. He ran towards the shores with all his might; but a turned back meant an open target and not a second later, France felt iron pellets pierce the flesh of his legs. Searing pain tore through France’s person as he fell onto his hands and knees, his bayonet clattering uselessly to his side. A moment later, the sharp tip of a bayonet pierced through his back and France let out a strangled cry as his arms slacken and his body hit the ground.
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“Oh how you run,” England sneered as if they were the only two on the battlefield. “Last words?”
It was then that France saw the head of hair like his own come from behind England with a small branch raised in the air. France’s eyes widened in terror as the small Canada brought the stick down on England’s back.
“Bloody hell!” Furious, England swivelled around and saw the colony quiver as he watched England with large violet eyes. The vengeful expression on England’s face slowly disappeared as he stared at the little colony.
“Don’t hurt him,” France managed, from his prone form on the floor and England’s eyes glanced at him before it went back to the colony. “Please.”
A slow smile spread across England’s face as he looked between France and his colony as if he thought of something exceptionally clever.
“No,” France choked as England manhandled Canada, tucking the child-sized colony under his arms like a sack of potatoes. England shot a triumphant smile at France before he turned around and boarded the waiting ship. “No, NO, NO!”
“France!” Canada cried, tears streaming down his cherub cheeks like snow melted from the mountaintops.
“You can’t do this,” France screamed at England’s retreating back. “He’s not yours to take! He’s only a child!”
“FRANCIS!”
“STOP!” France shouted both angry and desperate despite the iron pellets lodged in his legs and the bleeding slashes on his arms. “BRING HIM BACK! ENGLAND!”
As the ship left port, England finally turned around and watched France crawl to the edge of the dock. Unable to stand, hardly able to move. The smile refused to leave England’s face, even if he tried.
“Au revoir, French-bastard,” England called back, one arm secured around Canada’s waist, the other waving at the stranded France.
“ENGLAND!”
***
Notes:
The Seven Years war started in 1754 in North America, but didn’t officially start in Europe until two years later in 1756, lasting until 1763. The beginning of the war went pretty well for the French because the British did not know how to fight in North America--Fort Necessity and Braddock’s Defeat were absolute disasters for the British. In 1759, The Plains of Abraham, or the Battle of Quebec was one of decisive battles of the war because the British took Canada and held onto it for the rest of the war (and after). In my former professor’s words regarding this battle, “The British won with sheer numbers. The French were completely overwhelmed.” Side note: The French Navy was pretty much destroyed during this war thanks to the British Royal Navy.
TL;DR - French were winning at the beginning of the war, and then the British turned it around and won. The biggest winner were the colonists, but I'll get into that later.
I promise this is related to the American Revolution! Please bear with me while I go through the long setup of why and how the AmRev happened. I hope I've included/alluded to enough history for this to be deemed somewhat historical.
Also, Happy Canada Day, Anons!
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(I also like to see, from time to time, the truly malevolent relationship between England and France throughout history, FrUK shipper or not. France's condescendension at the beginning, and England's latter cruelty taking Canada away, broke my heart)
holy shit, recaptcha! 'world heirs' Ô.o
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Looking forward to more!
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England sat hunched over his desk as piles upon piles of parchment littered his work area. His hand was curled in his sandy hair as he redid the calculations only to come up with the exact same figures: £137 million sterling. No matter how many times England redid the calculations, the number did not change. £137,000,000; that was nearly twice as much as his debt before the war, and he gained little to nothing. The only upside of the entire incident was his crushing France. At first, America was delighted that he had a new playmate; however, upon discovering that Canada was a Catholic francophone, America immediately wandered off to play alone in the Ohio Valley.
Canada’s mother lived in Ohio Valley and upon seeing America prance about her fields without her permission, the woman threw a massive fit and destroyed England’s forts around the Great Lakes. America did not like this one bit and he went to her with muskets loaded and a company of angry soldiers which only further enraged her. England did not know how to deal with it because he did not want another war so soon after the last one--he could not possibly pay for it when he already had so much leverage over his head. Instead, he sailed to the New World and called on the proud and beautiful woman.
She sat and glared at England with dark mistrustful eyes that wrinkled at the edges. She was old, England realized, possibly older than himself. But she had been alone for hundreds of years, and not civilized; not English. England was not afraid of her, knew he could probably force her into submission if necessary; however, she would fight back because animals attacked when desperate. It would be too costly and England could not afford it.
“Will you cease this rebellion, good Lady?” England asked.
She did not even need to think when she snapped, “I will when your parasites respect my land, my people, and my customs. I never encounter such problems with France nor his people; however, you and that uncontrollable child of yours treat me no better than a mere slave! I will not allow this to continue any longer; if I must take up arms, so be it!”
“I do not want to fight with you,” England calmly told her, as if he were placating a child. “So I offer you a compromise. I will keep my Colony east of the Appellation Mountains. I will station soldiers there to make sure the lad does not go onto your lands again. However, you must cease attacking my forts, and you leave the lad in peace. Is this acceptable?”
She stood, and England realized just how tall the woman was. “I have left your demon child in peace; it is he who disturbs my peace. See that you keep your word, Britain, or I promise no mercy upon your people or your child.”
And then she swept out in her fur skin clothing leaving England to sigh and draft a proclamation of his promise.
*
“I have to what?” America asked incredulously as he blinked at England, unable to believe his ears.
“Stay on your side of the mountains,” England repeated as patiently as he could. He pressed a finger to his temple as he prepared for the long and probably loud argument ahead, as typical with his growing colony.
He was not disappointed when America threw his hands into the air and snapped, “I bloody will not! I did not fight that war to stay on the east! I fought your war so I can expand to the west!”
“My war?” England sputtered, unable to believe the accusations America threw at him. “You honestly believe that was only my war? That was the British Empire’s war! A war which began at your request, or did you forget your disaster at Fort Necessity?”
“I did it for you,” America retorted glaring to the side before those bright eyes pinned onto his parent nation. America was upset, and throwing a tantrum as if he were a child whose plaything had been taken away. “What use is winning the war of we cannot claim the spoils? And from those savages who murdered our people; you’re not the one who hears the bloodshed of Indian raiders on my towns! If you knew how my people suffered, you--”
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“If we are subjects of the crown, we are entitled to inherent rights and liberties guaranteed by the British Constitution! The Ohio Valley was won during the French and Indian war and I have as much right to it as--”
“Enough!” England roared, standing from his chair and leaning towards the boy. “I will not have you speak to me as if you fully understood the interpretations of the British Constitution! Get out of my office!”
America glared angrily at England before he stomped out of England’s office and slammed the door shut with more force than necessary. When England lowered himself back on his chair, he clenched his hand and released a shaky sigh. On his desk, the proclamation sitting right next to his growing pile of debt. The most recent addition to his debt sat on top of the pile: pay for the British navy’s services in patrolling and protecting the American colonies. Little America did not understand the responsibilities of being a nation; perhaps it was high time that America grew up.
*
America stormed into England’s office like a herd of wild bison. England shot bisons when he saw them in North America. Before England could even ask why America had the manners of an untamed savage, the young man lashed out and slammed the hands on the other side of England’s desk. England’s back stiffened as he watched America with disapproving eyes before he dismissed the child and returned to his work.
“You’re taxing me?” America asked outrageously. “What gives you the right to do that?!”
“The fact that you are my colony gives me the right to tax you,” England answered calmly as he dipped the nib of his quill in his inkwell and continued writing his letter to Parliament. “You receive the benefits of being a subject of my empire, so it is only fair that you share the cost.”
“You have never taxed me before and you have no right to do it now. The only ones allowed to impose taxes are the people in my legislature; and since my people are not represented in the House of Commons, you cannot constitutionally impose duties upon me,” America argued.
England’s pen froze and he slowly laid his eyes on America. When did the boy learn such language? He surveyed the young colony who seemed to have grown a little taller since England last saw the boy. Defiant eyes that raged like the oceans watched England while pale lips scowled in displeasure.
“You are implying that you should be given my protection free of charge?” England carefully asked his charge.
America tensed and said, “My prosperity and happiness depends on the full and free enjoyment of my rights and liberties, and an intercourse with Great Britain mutually affectionate and advantageous.”
“Free enjoyment of your rights and liberties? Even though the war primarily benefited you, and the soldiers stationed on your borders for your own protection, you believe that you should reap these rewards paid for by all British subjects except for your own,” England slowly clarified as he watched America with a raised brow. “Despite the fact it is a minuet duty compared to what the people in my home pay.”
America made a face, but stood firm in his position. “I will not pay these taxes, and you cannot coerce me into paying them. I will resist these taxes with all my power.”
Suddenly, England cackled, “I would like to see you try.”
Red-faced, America turned around and left with England’s boisterous laughter leading him out the door.
*
Sulking and fuming, America paced like a caged beast on King’s Street in Boston, Massachusetts. He could feel his sweat drenching his waistcoat through his linen shirt. It would have made sense to seek shelter from the scorching summer sun, but logic escaped him when fury and frustration clouded his judgment.
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Curiously, America asked a man who stood near him, “Who is that?”
“That traitor of liberty is Andrew Oliver,” the man answered as the men hung another doll by the neck. “And all the other supporters of that unconstitutional act impressed upon us by Parliament.”
“The stamp distributors,” America murmured, watching as the Bostonians degraded the effigies.
America could feel adrenaline humming through his blood as evening descended and the protesting crowd grew in noise and vengeance. America chanted and shouted and cursed with his people as they marched to Oliver’s office. No light emitted from within and America joined the mob as they took an axe to door, and stones to the glass windows. Storming inside, America picked up a stool and smashed it against the bookcase, splintering the shelves while the men next to him cut the the tables and desks into large pieces.
“Where is that coward?” Someone shouted.
“He has gone home!” Another person cried.
America found himself taken by the enthusiasm of the mob and marched with them to Oliver’s home, arms laden with wood from their deconstruction of the man’s office. An innumerable number of people dropped their piles of wood when the mob reached Oliver’s home. The mob parted for the man who held a torch and a fire erupted in front of Oliver’s house. The crowd cursed Oliver and did not even demand for the man to come out before they tore down the door and ransacked the stamp distributor’s property.
The screams were deafening and America joined in the destruction of Oliver’s beautifully furnished home and skillfully crafted carriage. Porcelain plates and bowls were broken, and silverware greedily pocketed by mob members. The wrathful mob took the bread and cheeses, stole the silk gowns that belonged to Oliver’s wife, and drank the expensive wines they found in the cellar. Everything of little to no value was fed to the fire in front of Oliver’s house.
*
“I didn’t want to do it,” America muttered, kicking at the handwoven Indian rug recently furnished in England’s office.
“Speak up, you insolent child,” England commanded from behind his desk.
Glaring at the glass lamp on England’s desk, America heaved a sigh as he repeated, “I said I didn’t want to do it. I was swept up by the passion of the people.”
“Of the locals you mean! You terrorized and destroyed the property of several officials,” England reprimanded. “They submitted their complaints not to Parliament, but to His Majesty! Do you have any notion of how lucky you are that I have intercepted these letters?”
America’s brows furrowed in confusion before he glanced up at England, “What do you mean you intercept these letters? They are grievances for his Majesty to address. There is a reason we have stopped addressing parliament, and that is because they do not answer! You have no right to conceal their letters, my letters from the king.”
“You are the reason that those letters were written to begin with. If you would just accept things as they are, we would not have to quarrel; yet, you run around your home and throw tantrums and riots to frighten the colonists! There is no need for his Majesty to address to concern himself with such petty actions from a child colony such as you,” England said snidely. “I am enough.”
America crossed his arms defensively and lifted his chin in defiance. “Then I will not stop my protests until you and parliament amend this wrong you’ve committed against me.”
England wanted to shake the child for being at that age he saw humans go through. However, England held his temper because it would further push the colony away; they needed a compromise. “What will make you cease your rioting?”
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England’s lips thinned as he glowered at America. The lad looked neither cowed nor intimidated, and met England’s eyes with furious stubbornness. Closing his eyes, England took a deep breath and slowly released it before his gaze landed on America. “Fine; I am repealing the Stamp Act.”
Just like that, the resentment from America was extinguished like earth smothering fire, and young colony beamed happily at England. “Thank you, England; I will go tell my people!”
America dashed out of England’s office, his victorious cheers echoing through the halls before they silenced with the Colony’s exit of the building. Standing from his stiff chair, England moved to the side window where a bottle of scotch sat waiting for him on the side table. He uncorked the top and poured the amber liquid into a glass produced by the finest craftsmen in Britain. Picking up the glass, England held it to the window. Through the clear amber liquid, England saw a distortion of America bathed in sepia as he ran down the path and towards the docks.
Hidden under stacks of invoices on his desk was a letter from Charles Townshend regarding alternate methods of taxation. Downing the glass of scotch, England felt the warmth of the drink diffuse in his chest to the tips of his fingers. Perhaps import duties would work better on America.
***
Notes:
The Seven Years War left Britain with heavy debts, and because their empire got bigger (Canada), it was more costly to maintain. Pontiac’s Rebellion of 1763 was an uprising by natives in the Great Lakes area who were angry that the British won the Seven Years War because the Colonists were trying to expand into their land. Great Britain did not want to fight another war so they issued the Proclamation of 1763 that pretty much said that settlers would not move west of the Appalachian Mountains; however, this move made the colonists angry since moving west into the fertile land of the Ohio Valley was their objective for fighting in the war.
The Stamp Act 1765 was drafted to get the colonists to help pay the war debts since the Colonists were pretty well off compared to the large poor population in Britain and they kind of don’t have to pay taxes for protection and trade from the empire. The Colonists were not happy and started all kinds of mobs and riots against the act and against the people trying to enforce it (mobs in Boston, riots in New York). To their defense for taking such an antagonistic role, the people who tried to enforce the stamp act thought their fellow colonists would get over themselves and pay the duties--they didn’t.
TL;DR - GBR was in debt so they tried to get the American Colonies to help pay (since they benefited the most from the war with added protection and more land). Additionally, the Colonies never paid any taxes for the trade benefits from the British Empire. The Colonies were NOT COOL with it.
Source: There's a line where America spoke that's quoted from the Declarations of the Stamp Act Congress (1765), XII.
Happy (American) Independence Day, Anons!
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Wow, no one is a fan of America in this one, are they? Though, Canada's mother calling him a demon child... Doesn't Hetalia rather imply that she would be America's mother as well, considering that America and Canada are brothers? Though, America does come off a bit bratty so far, his words aside. I hope we`ll get to see him begin to mature as this goes on! And France become fond of him in the process too, historical relations of the two being what they were. *grins*
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My fave character is England and yet I hate him everything he takes Canada away... *cries*
LOVE IT LOVE IT LOVE IT!
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