Chapter Text
January 1774
London, England
Something ominous hung in the air, it tickled the back of England's mind. It was as if a shade was always at the corner of his vision, but when he tried to look at it straight on it would disappear. Whatever it was, the fairies seemed not to notice it, they appeared completely unconcerned. Perhaps the chill of poor revenues and collecting taxes was getting to him.
The papers and maps across his broad desk could not hold his attention. Perhaps he would retire early, let the feeling burn away in the dawn light.
The hallways of Westminster castle were dim in the growing evening, servants hopping about to light the lamps. He stopped one of them to make use of their taper to light a candlestick and continued into his rooms. He had just begun untying his neck cloth when a rap sounded on the door.
"Come in." he said, not turning from his chest of drawers.
"I was told to bring you this message immediately, m'lord." came the quiet voice of a servant boy. England turned toward him now, curious. On a tray a letter sat, appearing innocent. He picked it up and the boy disappeared without another word.
He held the cream-colored envelope in the light cast by his candle. "America?" he said aloud.
Breaking the seal he folded open the letter and a page of newsprint fell onto the floor. He picked it up and stared at the illustration. Men dressed as Indians stood on a ship throwing box after box on a ship anchored in a harbor.. He squinted at the words scrawled across the side of the box bobbing in the etched depiction of the waves.
'Tea' it read. He unfolded the paper further to see the headline, the Boston Tea Party, the incident was being called.
His brow furrowed, "What?" The article was from a Massachusetts newspaper, although England wondered if the story had spread throughout the colonies by the time it arrived in his hands. The printer had been enthusiastic about the event and vocal about his issues with the taxes. He turned to the letter that had wrapped up the offending news. While America's letters had been long in the past, they had grown shorter and shorter and far more direct about passionate issues. Short, clipped phrases about how his rights as a British colony had been violated. This note, however, was only one line.
Give me liberty or give me death.
The short phrase made England feel as though he had swallowed ice. The letter was not even signed and he felt foolish even as he turned it over to see if there was anything on the other side. There was only his name scrawled in America's rough script.
He snatched up the newspaper once again. The ice in his chest thawed quickly in fiery anger. He thrust the newspaper into the flame of the candle. America was starting, no, had been behaving like a petulant child and England’s patience had worn thin.
No longer feeling a desire for sleep at all he went to his writing desk. Lighting a few more candle and lamps he pulled a piece of paper towards himself and flipped open the ink well. Thrusting his quill into the ink with a force that splattered it across his fingertips he set nib to paper to scrawl a more stern reply then America will have ever seen before.