Countryhumans Oneshots

The Silence That Falls When The War Ends

Britain was worried. It wasn't an emotion he liked feeling, nor was it one he liked to even think about. It felt like a sickness, creeping into his chest and strangling him in its vice-like grip. It wormed its way into every fiber of his being and made Britain feel weak.

What made it worse was who he was worried about.

Britain's relationship with England was complicated; there was no doubt about that. Britain's father had disowned him, tried to kill him, and did everything he could to deny Britain his place and nature, and despite it all, fate still forced them to work together.

Britain didn't think he hated his father. Older than he was then, Britain understands why his father took the actions they did. Forgiveness began, and although neither of them talked about it anymore, there was an unspoken understanding between them.

I am not your father.

I am not your son.

So Britain was worried. After the news of the siege at Boston, the battles at Lexington and Concord, England's refusal to leave, and insistence to stay and finish things with Thirteen and the rebels...Britain worried. Busy with Parliament, parenting, and all the other duties of being an empire, he could only stop by and see England once.

England was okay then. His pride hurt, his anger (oh god, his rage, his anger, it burned, it hurt, why won't his dad love him) had grown, but England was okay,

But although England was not connected to Britain the same way his colonies were, even though England was barely even a countryhuman at this point, Britain had a terrible feeling that something bad had happened to him.

The ship in the harbor only confirmed it.

The ship had come from Boston, carrying wounded soldiers from the battle five weeks ago. Not just wounded soldiers but a wounded England.

The report Britain received from some poor, terrified soldier said that England was unconscious when he was finally taken off the battlefield, that some people worried that he was dead, for it was Britain's son that hurt him.

Britain didn't believe Thirteen could do something like this, but looking at England lying in his bed, jaw bandaged shut, Britain couldn't deny it. England looked at Britain with sad eyes, an attempt to say everything he couldn't.

The doctors had said England would be able to speak when his jaw healed, but England shook his head harshly every time they said that, like he disagreed.

Later, scribbled on a piece of parchment, England told Britain he was sure his voice was gone.

Britain told him it wasn't funny. England shook his head.

"No," he wrote, "It isn't."

Britain felt useless. England was so quiet now. He used to be loud and opinionated, talking over kings and countries to ensure his thoughts were known.

Now, he sat and looked out the window. He didn't speak his mind because he couldn't speak. The change unnerved everyone.

Even England.

England wrote that he felt trapped and unheard and started to write something else before pouring ink all over the parchment and letting it dye his fingers black. There was something else in his face when he did that. Regret? Understanding?

Britain didn't know.

England eventually wrote about what Thirteen did and what happened in the Colonies

The green eyes, his anger, the injury, all of it. Britain felt an all-consuming rage and was prepared to get involved and put his son in his place.

England shook his head and made the same face when he wanted to say something, but his mouth never opened.

England wrote about pain. About how the pain of his injury never seemed to go away, no matter how many doctors said the wound was as healed as it was going to be. England shrugged, nodded, and moved on.

England wrote, England read, England stared at the window, and he wrote, and he wrote, and he wrote.

Britain hated seeing his father like this. It felt wrong, unnatural.

But no one else seemed to think so.

The colonies all agreed with him, but they were liars. He could see it in their eyes, so Britain didn't believe them and punished them for lying.

Wales told Britain that England knew how to move forward and that he was changing constantly. Britain made Wales move out, something the chimera accepted with a blank look and a cold indifference.

It was the only way Wales ever interacted with him. Sometimes, Britain wondered if Wales even remembered that they were blood.

Scotland was where he got his answers.

Scotland told him that England hated how he was acting just as much as Britain did, that England was mad, upset, hurting, and unwilling to accept his prison of silence. Scotland told him that England was acting weird because he disliked showing weakness.

Scotland told Britain that England was always better at being a country rather than a human. Scotland told Britain of Normandy, of the Vikings, of the Glyndŵr rebellion, of all the times he had watched England get hurt.

Scotland talked of pain in the same way England wrote of pain, and Britain finally thought he understood.

Britain went to England's room that night, where the former country was writing and writing and writing, the same way he always was nowadays.

"I'm going to give you another way to speak." Britain announced. England leaped forward and pulled Britain into a crushing hug, the first time his father had ever hugged him.

They exchanged no words, but they both knew what the hug meant.

Thank you, son.