Chapter Text
28 May, 1754 anno domini. 15 miles from Fort Necessity.
The darkness swallowed up all, and the silence was deafening.
They marched one foot in front of the other, one man in front of the other, for miles and miles and miles until the damp humidity sank into their bones and the rhythm sank into their feet. The first rays of golden sunlight began to peek through the canopy above, adding cloying warmth to an already-humid day, and the air buzzed with something. With what, though, the boy wasn't sure. It was obvious the Lieutenant Colonel, inching forwards with his men, didn’t know either, although America could only hope the expression on his face was simply nerves and not an increasingly solid sense of dread. The reports were off, he found, peeking through gaps in the surrounding greenery, by nearly twenty men, the odds now in his favor.
All the better.
The first shot seemed to ring out across the glen, closely followed by two, three, five, ten more. Cerulean eyes swept over the scene before resting upon the commander of it all, who looked almost bewildered by the turn of events. This wasn't supposed to happen, a voice inside his mind piped up. The unease was gone from most of his men's eyes by the time it was clear that half a dozen soldiers were grasping at sides or knees or chests stained crimson, if they were moving at all. This wasn't supposed to happen.
America shut his eyes, fingers moving to the bridge of his nose in an attempt to soothe his growing headache. The air is laced with the metallic scent of blood, and the taste grows hot and heavy on his tongue. Those not injured are now aiming their weapons at the few still breathing French intruders, murmuring threats much too quietly for the blonde to be able to hear. In a way, he was almost glad he couldn't. The struggle didn't last even half as long as many had expected, be it due to the overwhelming amount of colonial soldiers or what the boy thought must've been an element of surprise. A surprise not conducted during war, the voice piped up once more, as he watched the surrender only a few moments later. Murder, or so France would argue.
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17 July, 1754 anno domini. Eastern Virginia.
Few dared to mention it, but his eyes screamed to be painted in reds and golds like all other lionhearted men of the age; to be declared as strong as thunder in the midst of a storm. A blaze as bright as the boy's passion swept across the fort he once tried to defend, and as the troops marched towards Virginia, the beginnings of burns made their appearance across his chest, still obscured by the uniform he was wearing over them.
The smell of soot began to fill America's nostrils, although he knew there was nothing there burning among the rolling hills of Virginia. Here he was safe, here his people were safe, the threat of attack nowhere near imminent. Here, however, it's glaringly obvious how young he is, how inexperienced he is in the art of war. And so America sat, on the edge of the world's stage, feet unable to reach the ground, reddish blisters creeping up his shoulder from his chest.