[Summer Camp; Theme: Military] "TURNING TIDES"
Title: Turning Tides
Author: theladyjazz
Genre: Drama
Word Count: 1604
Rating: PG-15
Character(s)/Pairing(s): America; England
Warnings: Character Death (sort of)
Summary: America overpowers England on the battlefield.
England fired at him first.
His right shoulder still burned from having received the musket ball back in Boston. Contrary to that bastard’s delusions, he had not forgiven him for his country men’s murders. He doubted he ever will.
That was what America kept telling himself as he plunged his bayonet deep into his former mentor’s left breast. England choked back a gasp.
This had not been the first time he had struck England. And he was not so naïve anymore to believe that it would be the last. England for his part, never so much as blinked whenever he pulled the trigger on him (never mind the furrowed brows and the grim expression). Both knew that no matter how many times they were hit, torn, cut up, punctured, they will still mend…eventually. America had learned that the first time he was allowed to participate in a war. But back then, he had been fighting alongside England. But now…
Now he was fighting England, the ‘brother’ who took away his voice and denied his people the right to self-representation, who had even scoffed at the idea, claiming that it was unnecessary. It hurt to know that the one he had looked up since his birth had all but used him for his own personal gain. That hurt transformed into anger when he realized that England was nothing but a greedy, greedy man who thought that it was alright to claim the lands he set foot on for himself because he was entitled to them.
Punish him! Punish! Punish! Punish!
Prompted by raw rage he felt and the sudden rush of adrenaline, he twisted and turned the weapon, until, satisfied, he forcibly wretched it free from England’s body, pushing the man away for good measure.
The Englishman’s face had gone white from shock, before contorting into discomfort and then pain as he spat out the blood that had been collecting in his mouth. He dropped his own musket to the ground, pressing a hand at the new hole in his chest, trying to stop as much of the blood flow as possible before his knees finally buckled and he collapsed onto the ground, body quivering in silent agony.
“S-shit!” England gasped through gritted teeth; squeezing his eyes shut as multiple waves of pain hit him and made rock violently.
The fighting was still raging behind them, but America’s focus was solely on England. The Englishman was now lying on his side, face digging into the dirt, clutching desperately at his chest wound and body heaving as he struggled to breathe evenly. Despite the dire situation, America could have sworn the man had given him a rather biting glare just then.
“You-“England sputtered before coughing up more blood, effectively staining his jaws red. The thick red liquid colored the grass red as it pooled beneath England’s lithe frame. America blinked. Wait. Had England always been this thin? He couldn’t remember.
“B-bastard…you… bastard…” England panted, looking up at America. His face looked ashen. Green eyes were beginning to dull, getting less focused as the seconds passed, and breathing becoming harsher, quicker and more labored. America realized he wouldn’t last much longer. America swallowed the big lump in his throat and tried to quash down his guilty conscience. He looked away from the dying man.
He’d experienced ‘death’ like this before (though he was aware ‘death’ to their kind more like passing out than anything else) and knew from experience just how painful and uncomfortable it could get.
England had sent him into a comatose state on more than one occasion for him not to know since his revolution started. Now, he was merely returning the favor. After all, this was war and war had no room for men who pitied their enemies. He was fighting for the right cause! He was fighting in the name of freedom, for his people’s independence! It wasn’t as if the British were giving any of them a choice in the matter. If revolution was what it would take to break loose from the crown’s tyrannical control then he would fight them until the very end. And yet…for all the conviction he possessed, all this fighting still left a bitter taste in his mouth. He still felt very miserable after the end of every battle.
He wondered if England felt the same.
For life, liberty, and the pursuit of happin---
A soft gasp startled America from his reverie. He looked at England again. England still had his eyes trained on him, only this time he had faraway look in them-as if, he was focusing on something unseen, something else beyond America.
He supposed it was the lingering traces of affection left for a former caretaker that prompted him to do what he did next. Or maybe it was only the cold of the January morning that was affecting his good senses. Gently, he turned England on his back and turned his head to his right side, allowing the Brit to breathe a little bit better in his new position. He pretended not to see the way those hooded green eyes flickered up at him once, dimmed but calculating.
Apart from his heavy breathing, England was silent. Every now and again, he would let out a disgruntled sigh or a grunt of pain. Lying there, staring up at the open sky, England looked so very much alone that it made America’s heart clench involuntary. He contemplated leaving him to join the fighting below but figured he might as well stay since the man didn’t have much time left anyway. Unlike England, his heart wasn’t made of stone. He had yet to learn to be as cold and as disconnected as the man before him. It was only when England had gone completely still that America walked over to where he lay and carefully closed the man’s eyes. He sighed when he felt the skin cooling beneath his touch.
“Rest for now. " Turning his back on England, he added: "See you another time.”
Loud cheers erupted from behind him. Hitchcock had just ordered his men to charge. The remaining redcoats were fleeing but Washington and the othewere charging not far behind them.
“It’s a fine fox chase my boys!” he heard his general shout. America licked his lips. Casting England one last look, he stood up and jogged towards his unit.
The next time they would meet would be in 1781.
Note: The setting here is the Battle of Princeton which took place in January 3, 1777. The Americans were being overrun by the British Army when General Washington came with reinforcements and rallied the soldiers. They drove back British forces and continued to chase fleeing militia even after an order of retreat was given. George Washington claimed as many as 100 British soldiers had been killed and 300 wounded in that battle.
Author’s Note: My first fic ever! First of all, English is not my mother language so forgive me for any grammatical errors and the like. I promise that I’ll try my best to improve. Secondly…oh god, that was so intense! I’m not sure how I feel about the death scene or if I got America’s characterization right. I was trying to go for confusion on his part, mainly, because I think that America being America would never admit feeling any pity or guilt for hurting a person he used to care about. For England’s part, his pride would never allow him to look so undignified while bleeding to his death in the dirt. Even in death he is too proud! >.< So anyway, I hope you enjoyed my little attempt at angst. Comments and reviews would be appreciated! :D