I See Fire

April 1813, York

Notes: This isn't meant to be a historical fic. Really, it isn't, I cannot stress this fact enough. I simply took inspiration from some historical events to write a story centred around America, Canada, England and their bond, but I've been pretty busy lately, so I didn't have time to do extensive research. There are probably a lot of inaccuracies, I apologize for this, but this story wouldn't stop bugging me, so I ended up writing it anyway. I hope some of you may enjoy it.

The rating is because of depictions of injuries, I don't know if it qualifies as graphic or not, but there is a seriously injured character, so keep this in mind if this may bother you.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except for my laptop, nor do I get any profit from writing this. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, credits for the fanart at the top go to ルゥコ＠ (pixiv member ID=55970)

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April 1813, York

Fire was all he could see. There was fire, fire everywhere, engulfing the houses, tinging the black of the night with its ominous glow, filling the air with pillars of dark, thick smoke. Above the crackle of wood and flames, a cacophony of screams resounded from all around him – he could hear the shrill voices of mothers crying for their children, their husbands, their pleas mixing with the agonizing screams of the wounded – and, above all, the exalted cheers and raucous laughter of the soldiers. His soldiers. His people. Animals.

America felt sick to his stomach. His fists and jaw were clenched so tightly that they almost hurt, but he could barely realize it. He wanted to scream – to cry, to plead, he had never wanted any of that! – but he knew none of his actions would be effective.

So many times – too many times – he had tried to stop some of his soldiers from going on with that exultant atrocity, and each of them the ones who had stopped were replaced by countless others. There was no way to stop them, no way to curb that madness, that rage that burned in their veins, polluted their minds, commanded their hands.

America wanted to fall to his knees and burst into tears, to curl up on himself and let his mind be swallowed by the cold, dark embrace of sleep, to wake up and find himself still in his tent, covered in cold sweat but finally able to let out the breath he was holding as he realized that it had only been a horrible nightmare.

Yet, he couldn't. For it wasn't a nightmare, but reality – a reality he had never even imagined he would have to face.

He could feel the heat of the fire caressing his skin, drying the beads of sweat that ran down his temples and back, curbing away the edges of what would have been a cold night, the acrid smell of smoke filled his nostrils, wormed its way into his raw throat, almost choking him – America was wheezing and coughing, and he stumbled to avoid some falling debris, but he never stopped.

A cacophony of voices was dancing all around him, the young nation could distinctly hear somebody call out for him – a cheering, raucous shout, some soldiers of his – but he barely registered it, and didn't answer back, his mind and body pushing against the exhaustion, every inch of his resources focused on the action of running.

He wouldn't – couldn't – stop until he found him.

America's first instinct had been to call out for him, but nothing had answered his screams, and it had been stupid anyway, what if one soldier of his noticed?

Normally, America would have been confident that nobody would question his commands, but that had been before. Before he had seen them laugh and sneer as he angrily screamed at them to stop, before they had completely ignored his orders, before he had seen their eyes shining with a glint of madness and their features deformed by manic grins.