I See Fire

August 1814, Washington

Notes: The warnings are the same as the previous chapter. This is most likely NOT accurate from a historical point of view, I apologize again.

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 picture at the top of this chapter go to forbiddenist [https://www.deviantart.com/forbiddenist]

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August 1814, Washington

America stood at the outskirts of Washington, pale and wide-eyed.

He couldn't believe it, his mind refused to grasp the truth of the last hours, it had to be only a dream, an illusion... but it wasn't. As far as he could see, the streets crawled with men clad in crimson, not a single blue coat was in sight.

British soldiers commanded the streets of Washington.

America had lost.

In spite of all his efforts, the bravery of his men... he had lost.

His mind still couldn't fully grasp the concept, everything felt oddly empty and disconnected, he couldn't comprehend how such a thing could have happened, but somehow, it had.

There was nothing more to do, he had lost.

In the wake of England's last victory, everybody had fled, and his generals had tried to convince him to follow them, but America had vehemently refused. There was no way he would abandon his capital like that, he could still fight, he could still protect what was left...

Now he was starting to realize how pointless his choice had been. Was there anything at all he could do, after all? He was alone, a teenager boy standing in front of an army. Even if he could somehow beat England – which wasn't likely at the moment, he was still worn out from the last fight – he had no way to reverse history. No way to stop what was going to happen.

With sudden clarity, America understood that the only thing he could do was watch as the enemy soldiers carried out what they had been waiting for since the previous year – exacting their revenge.

America could feel the bile rise to the back of his throat, his head was spinning mercilessly.

He knew what was going to happen, and was powerless to stop it.

His muscles frozen and his throat dry, America could do nothing but stand in front of the city.

"Alfred."

The tired voice jerked him back to reality. America whirled back, startled, his hands closing automatically around the rifle.

"You won't need that," said England.

Like America, he was still wearing a dirty, tattered uniform, a bandage around his left arm marked the presence of a fresh injury and his hair looked even messier than usual. England's face was devoid of any emotion, but the pallor of his skin and purple bags under his eyes betrayed the heavy toll the last battle had taken from him and his men. In spite of that, the British Empire stood tall and proud, his shoulders squared, managing to look impressive despite his slight frame.

At his left side, slightly behind him, stood Canada.

America's heart missed a beat at the sight of his younger brother, his mind flashing back to the last time he had seen him, more than a year before – a limp, bloodied body in England's arms. In the present moment, the child's face was milky white and his lilac eyes unnaturally wide, he almost looked like he was about to faint, but he was standing straight, with his jaw clenched, trying to appear as strong and confident as his older brothers. His uniform, noticed America, was pristine, and there wasn't a single smudge of dirt or blood on his whole body. America mentally sighed in relief at that: as he had suspected a few hours before, when he hadn't glimpsed his little brother on the battlefield, England hadn't allowed him to join the fray. In spite of the resentment, he couldn't help but feel grateful to their older brother for that decision.