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The first world war initiated the start of Canada's awareness. His troops were feared and his army was named the most resilient. Or, they were when the Axis could identify them through the Brits they were forced to work together with. It had only been a few months since his victory at Vimy Ridge, where the four divisions of the Canadian Corps fought together for the first time. Where France and England failed their offensive, Canada succeeded. He proved himself yet again at the Battle of Passchendaele, where slipping off the tracks meant a high-risk of drowning in muddy craters. Although, while he was proud of his accomplishments, he couldn't see much meaning behind either.
To be honest, he struggled to understand the meaning of the war in general. He was proud of the Canadians that continued to push forward and used urine-soaked cloths and handkerchiefs to ward off the illegal gas the Germans had released during the Second Battle of Ypres. And he was overjoyed with the fact that the first ever Canadian planned attack had resulted in an unqualified success during the Battle of Mount Sorrel. But... he still found the war to be... pointless. People were drunk on nationalism and militarism. Europe went crazy with alliances and imperialism. Lives were lost and tortured because nations and leaders simply couldn't settle for the greater good. It was a bloody and horrific stain on history, but it did enlighten him on a couple of things. Perhaps America had been right to pursue his independence. After all, since England controlled Canada's foreign affairs, the second he decided to declare war in 1914, he automatically brought Canada into World War I. Matthew sighed, staring at the ceiling of his home in Ottawa. He just wanted it to end.
The thought of war brought a wave of nausea. He stayed in place, hoping to allow the sudden sickness to wear off, but it persisted. Matt sighed and rolled off of his bed, brushing off his clothes with the one hand that wasn't occupying a sling. He wanding down the steps of his home to his kitchen, kneading some of the muscles that ached in his shoulder. Sweat had gathered at his brow, and he could feel a sense of dread looming over him. He frowned and went about preparing a cup of tea. Arthur always insisted that tea remedied everything. Twenty minutes ticked by.
At 9:04:35 a.m., he screamed.
He collapsed to the wooden flooring, writhing as his nails tore into his torso. Pain exploded under his skin, tearing muscle and constricting his stomach. He could hear the shattering of glass as the cup meet the ground. He cried out, grabbing his head as the sound was amplified. His mind remained occupied with the agony rippling through him, but he registered that his sense of dread wasn't for nothing. It felt as though his body had simultaneously exploded, been dragged, and tossed hundreds of miles into the sky only to come crashing down on the debris-covered ground. His ears throbbed as the echoes of broken glass and the collapse of buildings slammed through his skull. He was suffocated under roofs, ceilings, timber, beams and furniture. His eyes burned, displaying scenes of shattered glass that sliced through curtains, wallpaper and walls, and of people that were beheaded where they stood or were saved by a falling bed or bookshelf.
The minutes ticked by as he sobbed. Depression and anguish ruled his body. He could hear the ring of his telephone go off over and over and over again, but none of the muscles in his body cooperated with him. After an hour of non-stop tears, he slipped into a fitful sleep.
Canada woke up to the sound of feverish muffles. Beneath him, the soft material of his bed supported his weight, but he could feel a dip in the mattress to his side. He groaned, fidgeting in place. The noise stopped.
"Mattie?"
Matthew cracked an eye open, taking in the dark room. To his right, his Papa sat beside him, proudly presenting his wavy blond hair with a concerned face. Further, into the room, he spotted two other people. He closed his eyes, annoyed by the sunlight that managed to slip past the curtains, exhaling another grunt. A flurry of steps followed afterwards. When he looked again, he caught sight of Arthur tugging on the curtains behind Alfred, who was very much in his face.
"Mattie!" He exclaimed once again. "Shit. You've been out for eight days."
Matthew cringed at his brother's loud voice. He watched as Arthur slapped Alfred behind the head, scolding him for being so brash. Alfred whined and rubbed the spot, sending him a glare. Matt would have thought the display endearing, if not for the confusing information. "I- what? I've been out for eight days?"
"Yeah, it took the Limey and Frenchy seven days to get here. Shit, I came the second I was told. There were government officials crowded around your house, fawning over your body. Your internal organs had been crushed and both your lungs and eardrums had exploded during your seizure. They wouldn't leave you alone with me. I don't blame them. I had thought some fucking German saboteurs were behind it. They all thought similarly. I brought medics and relief with me to, uh, help with the explosion."
"I had a... wait, an e-explosion?" He questioned shakily.
France and England shared a glance. Even America seemed to lose some of his cheer.
Arthur cleared his throat and explained, "From what we've gathered so far... two ships collided and one exploded by Pier 6 on the Halifax shore. It caused a tsunami. Around 2.5 square kilometres of Richmond were levelled."
Matthew stared at him, unseeing. Halifax, the hub of Canada's war effort, had suffered an explosion. Slowly, his eyes glided down to his bedsheets. He pressed a hand to his temple. His body ached.
"But... no. Pier 6 was full of residential homes! How... how did..." His speech cut off as sobs exited through his mouth. He raised his hand to cover his face, curling in on himself.
He felt the familiar touch of Papa's hand on his shoulder, but that was the extent of comfort he received. None of the other nations stepped up to cheer him up. There would be no point behind it. His country had suffered a tragedy, and no amount of jokes would help ease his pain.