Entry 6: Red Snow
Title: "Red Snow"
Entry Number: 6
Author: shuriken7
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: America, England
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Drama.
Word Count: 1084
General Warnings: Hetalia regards the personification of nation-states. Some stories will be examining history and some will be examining them as individuals.
Summary: Revolutionary War. England wanted to be anywhere but there... he couldn't believe it had come to this.
It was dark and cold inside the tent. The snow began unexpectedly and dampened the enthusiasm of the entire campe. He rolled over and tried to snuggle deeper into his blankets, hoping that they would ward of the New England cold that threatened to sink into his bones. This was the last place England wanted to be in that moment. He sighed, if had been even ten years ago, he would not be spending his night like this. He would be nestled snuggly in a plush chair by a roaring fire. The tea set would be sitting beside him, steaming cheerily. America would be sitting near the hearth on the rug, playing with the newest toy England had brought him, or after he had grown,
he sat by his knee and asked for stories of the world.
He opened his eyes and stared at the canvas ceiling. That's why he was here. America had decided that he was no longer satisfied with his place, he wanted equality with him. England had not even been able to consider that future. America was supposed to be by his side. Although he was hardly alone, but there was something about the boy... young man. America made him happy in a way that the other's could not. His people were here to protect their wealth and the glory of their nation, which he felt deep into his soul. He was here for the person he cared about. He could not just leave like this, he just couldn't allow it.
England tossed and turned a few more times, before deciding any attempt to sleep at this point would be futile. He gathered up his jacket and brought his pistol with him. He would need to be cautious. America knew his own lands far better than England ever could, and his people were the same. He had been caught off guard far too many times already. He made his way out into the night, making a short mention to the sentry so that he would not have to suffer the inconvenience of being shot on his way back into camp. The man seemed unsure about letting him go, but it only took one look into England's eyes that he realized he shouldn't argue. He headed off, not planning on going far, just hoping to clear his head.
His feet crunched through the snow, making his footsteps echo in the silent forest. If he was making so much noise it would be easy to hear someone approaching. He kept close to the trees, hoping that would make him an inconvenient target for a farmer with a hunting rifle. They probably weren't even out at this time of night anyway, not in this kind of cold. Few of them were able to afford the kind of gear that would make hunting men in the forest more comfortable. He froze when he heard a soft sound not far to his left. He ducked behind a tree as quietly as he could before slowly peering around it. He watched the shadows for a moment, the moonlight only making small windows of light on the white snow. He heard the sound again, although this time he caught the movement of the branch that was dropping its heavy burden onto the ground. He let out his breath and breathed the icy air deeply, feeling the burn in his lungs. He cursed himself for being so jumpy, he was far more powerful than America, the child really shouldn't be affecting him like this.
He continued on his walk through the snow. Could he really still call America a child? Yes, he decided, only a child would behave this way. A man wouldn't back stab the person who cared about him. Although... he was not exactly innocent of backstabbing was he? England shook his head to try and shake off the ghosts of his own past. This wasn't about just him. It was about America and the future they were supposed to share.
Memories swirled through his mind, his competition with France over who would get to keep the young nation for himself. The way America had reached out to him and asked him if he was alright. The way he would fall asleep in his arms. How upset he would get when England had to leave him. How uncomfortable he looked when England told him he needed to dress as a gentleman...
The sound of a rifle shot surprised him in the silence of the forest.
He pressed a hand to his chest and his fingertips came away as red as the wool of his soldier's coat. He caught the smoke rising from the gun out of the corner of his eye and he turned to face the man who had shot him. No... America couldn't have... He could feel his body falling, barely registering his wound as he collapsed...
England woke up with a start, hands reflexively going to his chest, searching for the wound that never was. He blinked in the darkness and tried to catch his breath. Where was he? He fumbled beside his cot and found a small lantern and switched it on. That's right, he was on a battlefield far away from that one, both in physical space and time. He plucked at his sweat soaked night shirt, trying to allow some of the cool air against his skin. He looked over to the cot not far from him. America was here. They were on the same side. He had come when he had asked. He had smiled and seemed more determined to tease him than to insult him. He reached for his canteen and took a sip of water before trying to settle back down.
He dimmed the light and glanced over at the American. Moonlight slid through the flap of the tent just as it had between the trees in his dream, falling across the younger man's face. The corner of his mouth twitched up in a small smile, although he was troublesome he somehow made being in this situation more tolerable. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.
It was only a dream, he told himself. You ended up with a future after all.
Entry Number: 6
Author: shuriken7
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: America, England
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Drama.
Word Count: 1084
General Warnings: Hetalia regards the personification of nation-states. Some stories will be examining history and some will be examining them as individuals.
Summary: Revolutionary War. England wanted to be anywhere but there... he couldn't believe it had come to this.
It was dark and cold inside the tent. The snow began unexpectedly and dampened the enthusiasm of the entire campe. He rolled over and tried to snuggle deeper into his blankets, hoping that they would ward of the New England cold that threatened to sink into his bones. This was the last place England wanted to be in that moment. He sighed, if had been even ten years ago, he would not be spending his night like this. He would be nestled snuggly in a plush chair by a roaring fire. The tea set would be sitting beside him, steaming cheerily. America would be sitting near the hearth on the rug, playing with the newest toy England had brought him, or after he had grown,
he sat by his knee and asked for stories of the world.
He opened his eyes and stared at the canvas ceiling. That's why he was here. America had decided that he was no longer satisfied with his place, he wanted equality with him. England had not even been able to consider that future. America was supposed to be by his side. Although he was hardly alone, but there was something about the boy... young man. America made him happy in a way that the other's could not. His people were here to protect their wealth and the glory of their nation, which he felt deep into his soul. He was here for the person he cared about. He could not just leave like this, he just couldn't allow it.
England tossed and turned a few more times, before deciding any attempt to sleep at this point would be futile. He gathered up his jacket and brought his pistol with him. He would need to be cautious. America knew his own lands far better than England ever could, and his people were the same. He had been caught off guard far too many times already. He made his way out into the night, making a short mention to the sentry so that he would not have to suffer the inconvenience of being shot on his way back into camp. The man seemed unsure about letting him go, but it only took one look into England's eyes that he realized he shouldn't argue. He headed off, not planning on going far, just hoping to clear his head.
His feet crunched through the snow, making his footsteps echo in the silent forest. If he was making so much noise it would be easy to hear someone approaching. He kept close to the trees, hoping that would make him an inconvenient target for a farmer with a hunting rifle. They probably weren't even out at this time of night anyway, not in this kind of cold. Few of them were able to afford the kind of gear that would make hunting men in the forest more comfortable. He froze when he heard a soft sound not far to his left. He ducked behind a tree as quietly as he could before slowly peering around it. He watched the shadows for a moment, the moonlight only making small windows of light on the white snow. He heard the sound again, although this time he caught the movement of the branch that was dropping its heavy burden onto the ground. He let out his breath and breathed the icy air deeply, feeling the burn in his lungs. He cursed himself for being so jumpy, he was far more powerful than America, the child really shouldn't be affecting him like this.
He continued on his walk through the snow. Could he really still call America a child? Yes, he decided, only a child would behave this way. A man wouldn't back stab the person who cared about him. Although... he was not exactly innocent of backstabbing was he? England shook his head to try and shake off the ghosts of his own past. This wasn't about just him. It was about America and the future they were supposed to share.
Memories swirled through his mind, his competition with France over who would get to keep the young nation for himself. The way America had reached out to him and asked him if he was alright. The way he would fall asleep in his arms. How upset he would get when England had to leave him. How uncomfortable he looked when England told him he needed to dress as a gentleman...
The sound of a rifle shot surprised him in the silence of the forest.
He pressed a hand to his chest and his fingertips came away as red as the wool of his soldier's coat. He caught the smoke rising from the gun out of the corner of his eye and he turned to face the man who had shot him. No... America couldn't have... He could feel his body falling, barely registering his wound as he collapsed...
England woke up with a start, hands reflexively going to his chest, searching for the wound that never was. He blinked in the darkness and tried to catch his breath. Where was he? He fumbled beside his cot and found a small lantern and switched it on. That's right, he was on a battlefield far away from that one, both in physical space and time. He plucked at his sweat soaked night shirt, trying to allow some of the cool air against his skin. He looked over to the cot not far from him. America was here. They were on the same side. He had come when he had asked. He had smiled and seemed more determined to tease him than to insult him. He reached for his canteen and took a sip of water before trying to settle back down.
He dimmed the light and glanced over at the American. Moonlight slid through the flap of the tent just as it had between the trees in his dream, falling across the younger man's face. The corner of his mouth twitched up in a small smile, although he was troublesome he somehow made being in this situation more tolerable. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.
It was only a dream, he told himself. You ended up with a future after all.