Work Text:
Spring 1608
The newly founded colony of Quebec on the Canadian frontier
A flash of golden hair in the distance was the only sign he'd had of the little boy in decades. Turned out he was shier than France would have expected. England had sent a bragging note about making contact, but France was sure it was empty posturing. England was involved in too many schemes in an attempt to make himself a great nation. His ambition would be charming if the nation himself wasn't such a petulant ass.
Trade was going well with the assorted native people and this time France had returned with a charter for the settlement of Quebec. It was a good place for trade and it needed some semblance of permanent settlement. The town had finally gained a foothold thanks to the work of the jesuit monks and the fur trappers with their Christian Indian wives. France decided he would have to make more of an effort to send some French women, the land seemed barren without them.
He settled down on the river bank watching the clear water tumble over smooth stones. The water eddied here, creating a reflective surface. He pulled the furred cap from his head and let his hair tumbled over his shoulders. France frowned at his reflection, looking like this he would be a laughingstock in Paris. Not that appearance mattered much on the frontier. He dipped his hands into the cold water splashed it onto his face. Closing his eyes he pulled his fingers through the blond locks, trying to untangle the impossible knots. That should be better. he thought. He dropped his hands onto his deerskin clad legs and braced himself for another look at his reflection.
The second person reflected in the water drove all thoughts of vanity from his mind. The young boy was not looking into the water beside him, but was in profile. The child was examining him. Slowly, as if the child were a jumpy game animal he looked up from his reflection.
"Canada, it's all right. You can come closer." he said, keeping his voice soft. Canada's eyes widened and he stayed frozen to the spot. France smiled, the poor child looked as though he'd been caught stealing sweets. "I've been wanting to see you."
"What... what is Canada?" His voice was small as though he were afraid of the words that came out of his mouth. France's heart fluttered, the words were already French. Mine.
"Canada is you. I am France."
"You come from down the river."
France nodded. "And from across the sea." Canada wrinkled his brow at the word. "The big water." France added.
"Oh." Canada said, a look of awe spreading across his face. France reach a hand toward the boy. Canada's eyes went from his face to his hand. He gathered his own tiny fists to his chest. Canada's hair was long, with a particularly long curl dangling in front of his eyes. His clothes were dirty and his hair full of brambles. Half-wild, France thought of him.
"If you come with me I will take care of you."
"I am like you?"
"Yes, we will be brothers." Canada considered this new information with a slight furrow in his brow. His eyes fixed on France's face he took several steps forward. France stayed as still as possible, not wanting to startle him. Instead of taking his hand, Canada went past it and climbed into France's lap. He reached up and touched the damp curls around France's face. Then he hooked his small arms around the older nation's neck.
"Big brother."
France wrapped his arms around Canada's small frame. Joy stirred in his chest. Simple happiness had not been his in a long time.
***
1614
New England
France was going to have England's hide. How dare he take Canada! His feet pounded on the packed soil. It had not been an easy journey and the English settlers were suspicious of his presence. His fist met the wood of the door so hard he felt the prick of splinters in the soft flesh of his hand.
After a few of the heavy knocks, England's face appeared and France was half tempted to let his fist connect with the Englishman's face. "Damn it all to hell! What do you want at this hour!" England had the gall to say. His overlarge eyebrows pulled low over his suspicious eyes. France shoved him aside.
"I know you have him! I turn my back for an instant and you...!" He shoved his way through the house to the bedroom. England caught up to him and dragged him back into the hallway. France had to get a hand on the door frame to keep from being flung off his feet.
"France!" England shoved his way between the boys and France. Looking over his shoulder, France could see that America had nearly stuffed Canada beneath a pillow. France considered hitting England again but settled for thrusting a finger in his face.
"He does not belong to you!"
"He will."
You'll have to pry him from my lifeless hands. "I could say the same about your little Amerique." A scuffle ensued and France was sure he'd gotten the upper hand when a sound cut straight to his heart. It was Canada, his tears being joined by America's. "Angleterre you idiot! You've made them cry." He disentangled himself from England, missing the grumbled retort.
He had Canada in his arms in an instant, the boy burying his face into his coat. He felt a sudden relief. "Come along, I'll take you home." He began to pull him away but a sudden jerk had Canada halfway out of his arms again. In surprise, he looked down at America, his small fist balled in Canada's clothes.
"No! He's my brother and I want to play with him!" France looked up at England in surprise. England merely shrugged. You bastard. France thought. England looked far too pleased with himself.
"Are you really going to take the boy tonight, it's obvious they bonded." Annoyance flooded through France but he relinquished Canada to America's grip. Maybe with America, Canada would not be so lonely when he returned home. Then England decided to add insult to injury, "You are welcome to the hayloft France."
He turned to England, blue eyes locking with green. "In hell I will."
"Where do you expect to sleep then?"
France couldn't help the grin that slid across his face, "With you, of course."
The red flush that spread across England's face was particularly gratifying. "In hell you will!" Indeed, we will probably always be side by side.
"Come now England, the night breeze will give me a chill." The glare England gave him would have been convincing to an outsider, but France recognized a hollow protest when he saw one. France held his gaze. The two colonies were burying themselves under the blankets, settling back into sleep. England let out a sigh. France had won.
"Just keep your hands to yourself." England muttered as he tossed France a spare dressing gown. France made no promises.
Canada and America woke him just before dawn. Their attempts at shushing each other as they climbed over him to whatever unsupervised freedom was hardly filled with stealth. France listened for a few minutes, but the boys did not return. The morning was cold and France intended to take advantage of the familiar, warm body still in the bed. He scooted closer and wrapped an arm around England. In sleep England allowed it. France decided to enjoy it while he could before the waking protest. It came with far less struggle than he'd anticipated.
"What do you think you are doing?" said England, not pulling away.
"Sharing body heat."
"That's all?"
"If you want to start something, I am certainly game. It's been a while." He kissed the back of England's head which resulted in a jerk away.
"Not when the boys could be back any minute." France had to hold back a chuckle. Scotland may plug his ears any time France brought up the topic of his baby brother in bed, but England could be fun from time to time.
"Speaking of les petits cheris. We need to come to a gentleman's agreement."
“About what?” England said, shifting slightly. His body pressed closer to France’s.
“About your attempt to circumvent and encroach upon my claim to parts of this continent. Canada is mine, he is New France. You have your New England.”
“Maybe I didn’t want America to be lonely.”
“I would applaud that effort as I worry about my own boy, but I have also known you longer than you’ve known yourself.” England was quiet and still in his arms. France would let him have his machinations, he could be patient in negotiations like these. Especially when they took place in such pleasant circumstances. He managed to get another arm around England.
“I won’t stop.” England finally said.
“Then I will have to fight you.” France said into the back of England’s neck.
“I know. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“They can be friends for now, but they won’t be able to stay that way forever.”
“No. There will come a day when they’ll have to make a choice. But that day is not here yet.”
***
1617
New England
“America, wait for me!” Canada called out, but it quickly became apparent that his brother hadn’t heard him as he barrelled towards the house. America had been acting strange ever since England had noticed Canada could see magical creatures. He still wasn’t sure if the cold shoulder was because he thought Canada was unnatural or was jealous that he was getting more attention. Maybe it was both. Canada wasn’t even sure he liked the way England looked at him now. The island nation was a little scary and Canada didn’t know why America liked him so much.
Tired, he slowed his run to a walk. He considered on turning around and making his way back home. It may be colder and wilder there, but he knew France would find him when he returned. He’d gone away some time ago now after his funny exchange with England.
He stepped off the path to the house and disappeared between two rows of corn. It was still early but their green stalks and broad leaves gave him a semblance of privacy from the house. The soil was soft as he lay down on his back. Canada closed his eyes. He could easily hear his name from here if he were called.
“You do look more like France.” The voice startled him. He looked into the face of a human looking fairy with red hair. “My master will get a laugh out of that, although some of the other brothers may not.” The accent wasn’t one that Canada recognized, but he knew the creature was speaking English.
“Who are you?” Canada asked.
“My name is Fergus. My master is England’s big brother, Ulster. He sent me to find out what his brother has been up to. I can travel much faster than humans or nations.”
“Ulster?”
“Another nation.”
“But Mr. England’s brother?”
“That’s right. I tried talking to the lad that likes to trail after England, but he looked right through me.”
“America can’t see you.”
“Interesting.” The fairy seemed to contemplate Canada for a moment. Then his head darted up and he looked towards the house. “I can’t let England see me.” With that he winked out into the magical realm, at least that’s where England had told Canada that fairies went when they disappeared.
“Canada! Come inside before America eats up everything!” Canada smiled when he heard his brother protested England’s words. He crawled up from his hiding spot and went inside.
The fairy had not made a whole lot of sense, but he’d said Canada looked like France. That brought a smile to his young face.
***
1665
London, England
Henrietta, former Princess of France and now Queen Mother of England, left the scent of her perfume as she brushed out of the room. It gave France little comfort as he argued with England. He’d never been personally pleased with the match and the fact that she’d been married by proxy had never warmed him to England’s recently deceased king. The years had passed with trails with children and a husband who had doted on his lover more than his wife. Now she was finally coming home. She’d had enough of the English climate.
France had to admit he’d grown tired of it too. England was in the midst of a scuffle with the Netherlands over America and it had put him in a foul mood. France had been dealing with other projects and had thought he’d get a chance to speak with him civilly for once.
Instead, they’d argued the entire time he was there waiting to escort Henrietta to France for her health.
“You two fight like an old married couple once the love has burned itself out.” Henrietta said, the smile on her lips belaying the tease as France helped her settle into her quarters on board ship.
“We have known each other a long time. I’ve known him since he was smaller than my little Canada and Rome still ruled Europe.”
He smile shifted into a frown. “Do you miss him?”
“England? I could not wait to be rid of him.”
“No, the little boy. When was the last time you saw him?”
France settled onto the edge of her bunk. “It was many years ago, Princess.”
“You aren’t worried about him? Won’t he be all grown when you return?”
France smiled, she was always so inquisitive. “Trade is growing and Montreal is now established which has given him two cities. He is well protected by the forts along the frontier. He is probably not as small as I remember, but not so big. It takes a long time for a nation to grow.”
“Does he make you happy?” France looked at her, a questioning expression on his face. “I see you with the others, like England. You may laugh with them, you may take your pleasure of them… oh, do not make that face, I’ve been married! What I’m trying to say is that you don’t smile for anything else the way you smile about that colony.”
France stayed quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the portrait he’d commissioned two human lifetimes ago. The paint had weathered and looked old, but Canada’s little face still looked back at him. Innocence and a New World were contained in that frame.
“You see? you smile when you think about him.” she said.
“I will admit he does bring me considerable joy. New France is wild and freeing. I don’t know if I was ever as innocent as dear Canada.” Henrietta slid her soft hand into France’s.
“I’m happy that you have some honest joy.”
“Honest joy? What do you mean?”
“Joy that does not involve scheming or leverage. Joy for the sake of joy. We all need more of that in our lives.”
France smiled at her and lifted her knuckles to his lips. “You’ve become quite wise, Princess.”
“Thank you, my country.”
***
1716
The North American Frontier
“Where did America go?” asked France when he returned to the cabin. Canada was busy stoking the fire. France was still astounded by how much he had grown. He’d gone from a small baby to almost adolescence in the time he had been away.
The work on the new settlement at Louisbourg had broadened Canada a bit in the shoulder. France was pleased to see it although he still looked skinny and small next to America. Canada stood up and brushed soot off his hands. “He said he had to go home. I think he is worried England will be angry with him.”
“He may very well be. England has been rather touchy lately.” The truth was that he’d disappeared, but the boys didn’t need to know that. Canada looked concerned so France added, “I don’t think England will be upset, but I am glad to have you all to myself.” He strode across the room and gathered Canada into a hug. France leaned down to kiss the top of his head. He smelled like forests and rivers, it was a comforting scent. A figurative knife seemed to twist in France’s gut over any pain Canada had received in the recent conflicts. A second kiss on the forehead and a suggestion of making dinner separated them. The work on the food didn’t allow France to dwell overlong on sad things, which he greatly appreciated.
An honest joy. An innocent joy.
“While we cook, why don’t we work on your pronunciation?”
***
1725
The Fortress at Louisbourg
Canada watched the proceedings with cautious curiosity. The soldiers and engineers were making progress on the stone structure. He sat perched near the river.
“There you are!” Canada turned at the sound of France’s voice. He’d arrived yesterday and Canada had happily spent most of the day in his shadow and tucked against his side all night. He’d woken up feeling restless and had gone out of the house as quietly as possible. France had still been asleep.
“I’m sorry.” Canada said.
“No need to apologize.” France settled down beside him and fondly ruffled his hair. “I just didn’t think to find you all the way out here.”
“What are they building?” Canada sked, blurting out the question. Louisbourg had started out as a settlement but was slowly becoming more and more. The walls were becoming taller and more intricate.
“This is going to be the greatest fortress in North America. You will be able to defend yourself from naval forces.”
“Why would I be attacked by a navy? All of the fights have been overland,” he paused, “And when America’s people fight with mine they only use boats to cross the rivers. He doesn’t have a navy.”
France looked away from him and watched the construction for several minutes. He seemed to be considering what to say.
“I’m not a baby anymore. You can tell me.” France’s face when he turned to look at him made fear creep into Canada. France looked sadder than he had ever seen him. Canada scooted closer, wrapping up the elder nation in a hug. “That is, if you want to tell me.”
France’s arm came around his shoulders and buried his face in Canada’s hair. “I should let you know about this. I have a feeling that England and I will be in open war sometime soon. He’ll run out of other nations’ wars to try and get a rise out of me.” He took a shaky breath and Canada held him tighter, “And I think when he does that he’ll use America to go after you. And beyond that, England has built the largest navy in the world.”
Canada pulled back and looked into France’s face. “Why would America go along with it?”
“Your brother is ambitious and too much like England. England never had a problem fighting his own brothers for power.”
“England is going to try and take me from you, like he said so long ago.”
“I thought you were too young to remember any of that.”
“Is that what you think he will do?”
France cupped Canada’s cheek so their eyes remained fixed on one another. “Yes. And we will do what we can to stop him.”
Canada nodded, reaching up to put his hand over France’s. He didn’t want to be parted from him, not ever. France smiled then and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. Canada blushed, moving closer to France’s side.
Keep me safe. I don’t want you to go away from me.
***
Summer 1754
Montreal
The report slipped out of Canada’s fingers and scattered on the floor. His hands shook. America’s militia had attacked French troops in the Ohio River Valley and the Americans had been captured at a place they’d named Fort Necessity. Could this be the moment France had warned him about?
Dropping to his knees he gathered up the papers. If this was the time, he needed to prepare. But first, he needed to let France know what had happened. He hurried to his writing desk, pulling parchment and ink bottle toward him. He took several deep breaths trying to steady himself further before inking his quill. The last letter from France sat unfolded beside his candlestick. France had been trying to teach him to write poetry and Canada’s many attempts were tucked below the letter. Those frivolities would need to be saved for a less desperate time.
Dear France,
I have dreadful news. Your men that were establishing claim in the Ohio have been attacked and defeated. The soldiers have retaliated and have destroyed one of America’s forts. Do you think the time has come? Please tell me what I should do. There aren’t enough troops should Mr. England come here.
Yours,
Canada
He looked at his words and tried to think if there was anything else he could write. There were dozens of thoughts that floated through his head, but none he could will himself to put into words on paper. His eyes drifted over the scraps of poetry and thought to include one to temper the bad news.
No, they were too amateurish and the sentiments expressed just would not do. Instead, he selected a sketch he had made over the winter when the days had been short and the nights so very dark. The sketch was of a memory of the last time France had visited, but instead of his younger self he’d drawn his appearance as it was now, looking closer to a human’s fifteen instead of twelve.
Folding the pieces of paper together he held the sealing wax to the flickering flame of the candle and pressed it to the folded edge of the letter. He grabbed the seal and lifted it as the wax began to cool. France had sent it to him several years ago and he touched the edge of the maple leaf imprinted on the wax. Still warm, his finger left a mark.
I hope we will see each other son. Will you still hold me as you did then?
Weeks later all he got in return was a sealed missive and direction to take it to America.
***
1756
Montreal
Canada had been watching the slow progress of the ship for what felt like hours. They had to be careful with the last of the spring ice. He squinted at the ship, hoping to catch a glimpse of France from afar. He couldn’t see him through the rush of soldiers and sailors all across the upper deck.
When the approach to the dock was nearly complete he hurried off Montreal’s wall and down to await his elder brother. France walked down the gangplank looking tidier than Canada had ever seen him. He’d dispatched with the furs and trinkets of a mountain man and was wearing a crisp military uniform. Canada stepped out of the crowd. “Mr. France!” he shouted, drawing the nation’s blue eyes to him. A smile broke across France’s face and he held his arms open for Canada’s embrace. Canada was nearly as tall as France now and rested his chin on the other’s shoulder.
“I’m so glad to see you, Canada. I was worried about the British advances.”
Canada pulled back so they could walk side by side. They were pushed along with the tide of incoming troops. “It seems Mr. England’s men aren’t sure how to handle the terrain. They keep getting delayed and they’ve been pushed back by existing troops and militia.”
France nodded, although Canada could tell he didn’t have his full attention. It was then he noticed the man walking on France’s other side. His military coat was resplendent with the epaulets for a general. The handle of his saber gleamed in the sunlight. The man didn’t even offer a glance in Canada’s direction.
Soon they were in the residence of the Marquis de Vaudreuil, Canada’s governor, for a luncheon. As the humans spoke together, Canada learned that the newcomer was the Marquis de Montcalm and was now the commander and chief of the army in New France. Canada sat to France’s right, but learned quickly he was there to listen and not to speak. The withering looked he’d received from General Montcalm when he’d tried to provide some details of the situation taught him that quickly enough.
General Montcalm seemed to be a decisive man who had spent the weeks before his arrival planning on advances on the British forts. Once he was deep in conversation with Vaudreuil, France leaned close to Canada, “Have you had any contact with America lately? Do you know if England is coming here?”
“No and I haven’t heard anything.” France frowned and leaned back. “But…” His attention fixed once again on Canada’s face, “I think America is at the frontier forts. I just, well, I have a feeling about it.” A predatory smirk pulled at France’s lips. Canada was taken aback, he’d never seen that expression before.
“America might be a good bit of leverage.” France said. Canada couldn’t help but think France was only talking to the air.
***
It was late in the evening and Canada splashed his face in the porcelain wash basin in his bedroom. He looked at his reflection as the water dripping off his curls sent ripples across the surface.
“I’m astounded by how fast you are growing up.” Canada looked up and saw France framed in the open door, a thick robe tied over his night shirt. A flush raced across Canada’s cheeks and he hurriedly dried his face on a towel. When he looked up again, France had dropped down onto the day couch. His slippered feet were stuck out in front of him. Canada always got the feeling that he was one of the few people who got to see this side of the nation. He did not want to risk to hope that he might be the only one. Canada crossed the room and settled onto the other cushion, pulling his feet up under the edge of his night gown. Years ago he would have crawled into France’s lap or tucked himself against his side. The impulse pulled at him, but he felt painfully aware of his new height and length of limb. He wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees. He waited for France to speak. He didn’t at first, but reached out and brushed his fingertips against Canada’s cheek.
Canada smiled, the touch setting something aflutter in his chest. He leaned a little into France’s palm. A strange expression crossed the older nation’s face. “Are you afraid, Canada? You seemed quite overwhelmed at dinner tonight.”
“Well, I’ve never been to war before… not really.”
“General Montcalm is a very capable commander, he will keep you safe when I go back abroad.” Canada caught France’s hand in his own as though his slight fingers could keep him on this side of the Atlantic.
“When will you leave?”
“Not for the season. This is going to be a war across the globe, I can feel it. England is strengthening his alliances with the Germans. You remember what I’ve told you about them?”
“A little.”
“It means that I won’t be able to spend significant time here.” France frowned, holding Canada’s hand loosely in his own. “My darling boy… I hate the thought of leaving you to weather England’s ambitions.”
Canada swallowed, he was afraid, but he didn’t want France to worry. “I can be strong. I can fight.”
“I know. I just didn’t want you to need to defend yourself.” France pulled Canada closer and kissed Canada’s forehead. Canada wished he could stay in the embrace forever. France smelled like some flower he didn’t know and was so warm. He hooked his fingers into the front of France’s robe and pressed his face against his neck. France didn’t move, it was if he had stopped breathing. “Canada, we have much to get done tomorrow. I will bid you goodnight.”
France extricated himself from Canada’s hold and made for the door. “You aren’t going to stay with me?”
He didn’t even look back, merely shook his head and pulled the door shut behind him.
***
August 1756
After the Battle of Fort Oswego
Riding back to Montreal was a more painful journey than France had anticipated after a resounding victory, in both terms of physical damage and the wound to his pride. America was more of a threat than he would have thought and he had the bruises to prove it.
England had turned stubbornness from a vice to a virtue and America had clearly learned from his example. Not to mention that England was unlikely to forget his soldiers had been denied the honors of war.
He wanted to avoid Canada for as long as possible as he reentered the hallways of the governor’s home. America throwing him down had caused his face to catch in a bramble and he didn’t want Canada to worry about him. His own stomach was twisted enough, the American provincials were going to cause no end of trouble.
The bedroom he’d been assigned was comforting in ti s rustic simplicity. The fashion in Paris was becoming more and more elaborate in decor and dress. He was enjoying the frivolity of it, but sometimes it grew exhausting. He rang for a servant to bring him warm water for the wash basin and considered laying down on the bed while he waited. He had a sense thought that he would not get up again for hours if he did such a thing. France settled for shrugging out of his uniform coat and removing his waist coat.
The servant returned after only a few minutes with a steaming pitcher in one hand and the neck of a bottle of wine clenched in the other. France thanked him profusely and got to the task of washing up. Pulling his shirt over his head he examined the damage in the vanity mirror. Bruises were dark on his back from where he’d hit the tree. On his stomach another bruise had blossomed where America had elbowed him. “England better watch himself with you.” he said to the lingering presence of America’s might. He examined his face in the mirror, at least the bramble hadn’t managed as much damage.
France sighed at his reflection and reached for the wine bottle. The servant had failed to bring a glass, but not matter. He tipped the neck of the bottle and flavors from home filled his mouth. He quickly took a second swig to follow the first. Settling the bottle down he poured some water into the wash basin, picking up a cloth to dab at the small cuts.
A soft knock came at the door. “Come in.” he said, hoping it was the servant with something to eat. The smell of food did waft into the room accompanied by Canada.
“You’re hurt!” The boy rushed into the room, settling the tray on the edge of the bed. He came to stand in front of France. Canada’s eyes raked over his torso, taking in the black and blue flesh. “What…?”
“Canada, sit down.” France tried to keep his voice firm and steady, cutting through the boy’s panic. He put his hands firmly on his shoulders and steered him into a chair. He knelt down, wincing slightly as Canada’s fingers reached up to examine the scratches. “It’s all right, mon petit cheri.”
“I don’t understand… how did this happen?”
“We can wound each other or sometimes if our people or lands are suffering very badly.”
“England did this?”
France saw no reason to lie. “No. This is America’s handiwork.” Canada’s eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. His eyes didn’t leave France’s as they filled with tears. “My dear boy…” He pulled Canada into his arms. He had grown rather big and it was awkward to try and fit them both on the chair, but he managed it by pulling Canada half into his lap. Canada’s silent tears fused his cheek to France’s bare chest.
Stroking Canada’s hair, France waited until the weeping subsided into a stupor. He brushed his thumb through the wet tracks down the colony’s cheeks. HIs heart felt heavy. Canada’s eyes drifted open and he looked up at France. They were nose to nose. The younger nation’s body was warm and solid, a feeling welled up in his body.
My innocent joy. You must remain so.
Standing up he settled Canada on his feet, pushing him back until he was at arm’s length. “I need to rest. I will be much better in the morning.”
“I can stay--”
“No.” It came out more abruptly than he meant it. “We will discuss it all in the morning over breakfast. Tell the servants to make my favorite will you?” He didn’t give Canada any room to argue, angling him out the door. Thankfully, Canada took the hint.
“Good night…”
“Good night.” France pressed the door shut, throwing the bolt against any intrusions. He leaned on the door, cursing his own impulses.
I must keep him safe, even if it is from me.
***
Canada walked into his room feeling cold. Confusion chilled him to the bone.He’d wanted to keep holding France, help him forget his hurts. He’d seen something in France’s eyes, a spark.
He’d wanted to chase it. He’d wanted France to hold him forever.
What is this feeling?
Canada fell asleep the strange idea haunting his thoughts. When he awoke, France was already on a ship bound for Europe.
***
Late Fall 1758
Quebec
Canada rubbed the corner of the letter. IT was sealed and ready to be added to the post parcel that would be the last to go out until the spring thaw. The war had taken a turn in British favor and no matter how much Canada wished to hide it, France had to know. He would be reading it in the various dispatches from General Montcalm anyway.
Maybe he would come. That thought filled Canada with joy and trepidation. He’d heard that France’s plans were not coming to fruition, leading to uncertainty in Europe. He probably could not spare the time. Perhaps, Canada wondered, it was wrong for him to wish it.
His feet carried him down the hallways of his Quebec house, towards the noise of the officers that had taken over dining room, parlor, and library. While Quebec would not be as comfortable as Montreal for the winter, General Montcalm had a feeling British forces would go for Quebec first now that the fortress at Louisbourg had fallen under British control.
Before entering, Canada paused to adjust his clothes. He’d become even skinnier due to the bad harvest the previous winter and the rather lean summer. He wondered if his clothes would fall off him after the privations he could see coming for this winter. A wave of resentment washed over him as he heard Montcalm giving orders. He rarely released the militias to tend to their crop and then cursed Canada when there wasn’t enough food.
Certain that he was presentable, Canada squared his shoulders. Fortification was necessary before dealing with the French nobleman.
“Terrible. The land may be valuable but the men themselves…” Montcalm was leaning over a pile of reports and addressing a straight-backed colonel. Canada couldn’t tell if the man had noticed his presence or not. “I need more proper soldiers, you can whip some of these provincials into shape but the rest don’t mind. And as far as the boy goes…” He trailed off as a servant entered, nearly knocking into Canada with the lunch tray. Taking note of Canada’s presence, the colonel had the courtesy to look mollified to being witness to Montcalm’s disdain for Canadians and their personification. Montcalm shared none of it, instead he merely offered Canada a cool stare.
“General Montcalm, my lord--”
“Get to it, boy. I am in the midst of making plans for your defense and I don’t like to be distracted.”
Or speaking to me at all. Canada added in his head. “I wanted to add this to the post, I didn’t mean to disturb you in particular.” He held up the sealed letter.
Montcalm looked suspicious, “What is it?”
“A letter.”
“To?”
“My brother, France.” Canada lifted his chin a little higher, daring Montcalm to make a remark about the filial relationship. Only a slight twitch at the corner of Montcalm’s eye betrayed his bemusement at Canada’s invocation.
“I see. Give it here.” He held out an elegant hand. Canada felt a wave of possessiveness over his words. Montcalm would no doubt read the letter before sending it on.
“I can put it in the post myself.” Canada replied, sideling alongside the room towards the sacks that contained the correspondence of the army and colony. Perhaps if he could just thrust it deep enough…
Montcalm was quick and precise in his movements. He had Canada roughly by the arm in a moment. “When I tell you do something I expect to be obeyed. Your brother told you to mind me. You won’t be happy if you continue to try my patience.” He punctuated the words “brother” and “patience” with a hard squeeze of Canada’s arm. He winced as it felt like the man’s fingers ground on bone.
As if I am happy now. Canada thought bitterly. He passed the letter into the aristocratic palm.
“Good boy.” the general said, voice low and menacing. He released him. Canada didn’t wait for a formal dismissal before fleeing back to his room.
***
Early September 1759
Quebec
The blankets made Canada feel too warm. Fall was coming on, but his room felt oppressive. He kicked the offending cloth aside but it didn’t help, his shirt clung to his sweat soaked skin. It wasn’t just the heat keeping him awake, he could sense America somewhere nearby. If he was here England must be as well. They had been besieging the city for months. France had spent scant days with him, traveling amongst the lands that were still out of British hands, only staying long enough to order him to stay inside the walls.
Canada knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt he wouldn’t be able to stay here much longer. Beyond that, he wouldn’t be able to hold the city much longer. He lay on his back staring up into the darkness. Sounds were creeping through the hallways. The soldiers seemed just as restless, waiting to find out if any changes would occur in the night.
Canada rolled out of bed, reaching for his clothes. He may as well try to help even if the Marquis de Montcalm would rather he keep to his bedroom. He was pulling on his waist coat when a soft rapping sounded on the door. If he had been asleep it would not have been loud enough to wake him.
Crossing the room, he pulled open the door. “Mr. France! You’ve come back!”
France gave a small smile, pushing back at some hair that had escaped his ribbon. He was mud-splattered but seemed in good health. “Yes, but I did not mean to wake you.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“No, I expect you could not. In that case, may I come inside? I cannot stay long but I wanted to see you.” Canada opened the door wider and ushered France inside. The elder looked him up and down, eyes narrowing. “Were you going somewhere?”
“No… I was only going downstairs.” Canada replied, noticing how France’s eye lingered on his face. Did France not believe him? Could he possibly know that he had snuck out several days before to speak to America? To usher several American prisoners of war out of the city? He tried to keep his face as blank as possible as he dropped onto the edge of his bed, waiting for France to explain his late night visit.
“Canada…” France seemed unsure how to phrase his next words. “I want you to prepare to move to Montreal.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Montcalm spoke of it a week ago. Has something changed?” France seemed a little flustered by Canada’s knowledge of what he intended for him.
“No, nothing has changed. I do not know what form it will take, but England has gotten tired of waiting, he will do something soon. Destroying the outlying settlements won’t appeal to him anymore. And I don’t want there to be any chance that England should capture you if the city falls.”
“I don’t want to abandon my people. How will he take me if you are here, anyhow?” France was silent and Canada realized there was something secondary to the move to Montreal. “You are leaving me?”
“The situation in Europe--”
“There is a situation here! You’re… you’re…!” Rage filled his chest. He wasn’t even sure what he was trying to say but he felt something needed to come off his tongue. “Do you even care that I’m going to lose this battle? This war?”
***
France stared at him, completely taken aback by the outburst. It was so uncharacteristic of the boy he thought he knew. Despair and anger mixed at Canada’s accusation. He’d never raised his voice at him. Now to accuse him of…
Any hint of insulted fervor fell out of him. Canada knew. France was going to lose him, and if he could not turn things around elsewhere, he may not be able to get him back. He held up his hands, a silent beseechment for Canada to come closer. He didn’t.
“I care more than I think even I know.” Canada’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “You have been my dearest boy for so long… I hate the idea of leaving you in the hands of that limey cur.”
Something he’d said softened the line of Canada’s body. He shifted and moved closer, wrapping his arms over France’s shoulders. France almost wanted to laugh. Canada should be the one who needed comfort, not him. Everything would change. The shock of how much he would miss him shook him to the core. No doubt, England would do everything he could to make sure he couldn’t see Canada.
The boy tucked his head under France’s chin, “You’ll try to get me back?”
“I don’t want to lose you.” My innocent joy.
“I don’t think they will hurt me. America wouldn’t let England…”
“Regardless of whether they mean to hurt you or not, the fall of a city is always painful.” Canada nodded, resigning himself to the fact. Dearest innocent.
“I’ll always have a part of me that’s with you no matter what happens…” Canada’s words seemed to reach into his chest and wrap an invisible fist around France’s heart. He leaned back, putting his hand under Canada’s chin so that their eyes could meet. The violet eyes were wary, but expectant.
“Know that I forgive you for whatever it is you have done to lessen the hurt for yourself.” Canada’s eyes widened slightly, but he made no attempt to deny that he had done something. It had been a spark of a maturing nation, to look after oneself. “You grew up when I wasn’t looking.”
France could sense what happened next as soon as Canada brushed his frontier worn fingertips against France’s cheeks. He knew he should have stopped it.
Canada’s mouth was soft as he pressed his lips to France’s. It was inexpert, but the sweetest kiss he could remember in a long time. The younger nation pressed closer and, with great psychic effort, France turned his face away. He pulled away from Canada’s embrace.
“I’m sorry…” The words were quiet, barely more than a whisper, but they struck France like a bullet.
“No. Never be sorry for loving someone.” France said, turning. His heart fluttered in his chest at Canada’s flushed face. “But you must also guard your heart.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I should have told you long ago. We can be very selfish, we nations. We can rise and fall. Grow over centuries and be snuffed out in a single night. We must guard our hearts.” The memory floated up in his mind of himself very small, receiving the advice from Francia before she disappeared forever. He knelt down and took Canada’s cool hands in his own. “I have to go now. I will do my best.”
Canada didn’t say anything even as France planted a chaste kiss on his forehead. Guard your heart. France thought, not sure for whom he meant it. He nearly had the door shut behind him when he heard the soft words.
“Je t’aime.”
He had not guarded his own heart well enough, that boy was keeping a piece of it in his hands.
***
September 7, 1760
The fall of Montreal
Canada let Governor Vaudreuil steer him out of the room. He felt hollow. He could feel the outrage of the French blood in him boiling, burning away at him.
“You look very pale. It is to be expected.” Vaudreuil said. Canada nodded, what else was there to do? He was being surrendered to the British, to England. It was all over. England was determined to keep him no matter what happened on distant battlefields or in grand halls of negotiation.
And he didn’t even get a proper goodbye.
Canada could vaguely recall Vaudreuil leading him to his room. He had laid down on his bed once he was alone. His mind wandered. How long would it take France to know? What would he feel? What would he do? Would he regret leaving Canada all alone?
That thought pulled him upright and out of his room. He made for the small writing table in the study. It was eerily quiet and empty, the French military out making preparations for formal surrender. A stack of papers covered the desk. With a quick swipe of his hand he sent all of the papers scattering to the floor.
They carried notes and troop movement. Plans for engagements. All worthless now.
He settled blank sheets before him and began the work of sharpening a quill. Ink ready he dipped the new nib into the dark liquid. Canada paused. This was foolishness. To put what he was feeling to paper flew in the face of the last piece of advice France had given him.
Guard your heart.
But he had also said, never be sorry for loving someone.
Canada pulled the paper closer and began to write. He wrote to France all that he was not supposed to feel but did. Everything that he was not supposed to think but filled his head. It all spilled onto the page.
Canada didn’t know how long he wrote, only that the letter was longer and longer and the candle smaller and smaller. At the end he knew he had nothing else left to say. The red sealing wax dripped onto the white paper like his own heart’s blood.
If France never came for him, he would send it across the sea and into France’s hands.
***
1763
The Treaty of Paris
He wanted nothing more than to be alone, but there were courtesies to be observed. They had to drink wine and celebrate the end of the conflict. To pretend like the balance of power had not just shifted firmly into England’s hands, crippling him and depriving him of his colonies. The evening passed in a blur and even his attempted flirtations with England didn’t amuse him. France could sense it. Deep underneath england’s distraction over the negotiations and his painfully polite gestures -- he was reveling in the triumph.
And it was a triumph that he didn’t even have to share with anyone as Prussia was making his own deals. The whole thing set France’s teeth on edge wondering about where to go from here.
When the last of the wine drunk and the candles burning low he made his way back to his room. Behind the doors he yanked at his cravat and tore loose a few buttons in his haste to get out of his confining waistcoat. He loosened the laces on his breeches and yanked off his shoes and stockings. A quick tug at the ribbon in his hair left him in rakish disarray. He examined his appearance in the mirror. He wanted more wine… or something else even more heady to make him forget the day.
England’s silence about Canada had been disconcerting. He spoke of him as if he were only borders and tracts of land. It could have been an attempt to spare France’s feelings, but if so he had failed. He’d wanted to ask after him, to hear word, but he hadn't been able to bear it. England had even slipped him a note written in Canada’s neat script. He feared to open it. When he’d received word that Canada was surrendered, he had played their parting over and over in his mind. Especially the kiss and the warmth he’d felt. The mind could be a cruel instrument allowing his imagination to create a situation where he had not been noble.
The idea didn’t have much time to torture him as a knock came from the secret passage behind the tapestry near his bed. He got up and pressed the panel open admitting Spain. He’d expected this, wanted it even. They hadn’t been sure over dinner if they should. Apparently, Spain had changed his mind.
They didn’t even have to speak, hands reaching silently for clothing. No question at all about how best to take their pleasure of one another. France lost himself in the warmth of the Spaniard, drinking him in like the finest of wines.
After, they lay together in a tangle of limbs. France felt warm and comfortable, threading his fingers through Spain’s brown curls. Spain lazily drew a finger across France’s chest as if he could write some truth on his skin.
“Who were you thinking about?” Spain asked. France’s fingers stilled. “No one, mon ami.”
“Mi amigo, I have known you a long time. We have been doing this for a long time. I know when your mind is somewhere else.” He seemed to consider something before speaking again, “But if you were thinking of England I might have to hit you.”
“That might be worth it.” France caught the hand Spain had playfully raised and kissed his palm. “But no, I have not plowed that field for a long time.”
Spain snorted. France figured he must have found some amusement in the imagery. “Then who?”
France considered the price of honesty. Spain had little stock in the matter. He had gambled and lost, but nothing of great consequence. “My colony in North America.”
“I am surprised at you, aren’t they still very young?”
“Hypocrite. They are big enough, and apparently old enough to make advances. These young nations grow very quickly, one moment they are babes in your arms and then…”
“Si, I know.”
“Oh? Then are the rumors about a certain young Italian true?”
“Depends on what you’ve heard.” They both shared a laugh.
“When I come for him will you fight me?”
“Like all the dogs of war. Do you really need to ask?” They lay in silence for a moment. “Are you fearing then that England will take advantage.”
“You know him, he denies himself until the fire burns him up. And that fire is not directed at my boy.”
“Remind me to never try and sleep with him.” Spain said, tone dry. France laughed. “So you are distant from regret?”
“Regret? I don’t know as nothing happened. I stopped him.”
Spain leaned up on his elbow, looking down at him. His face was incredulous. “You mean to tell me you didn’t accept what he offered?” France shook his head. “Do you not think that cruel?”
“I was selfish wasn’t I?” France turned away, afraid that his mask of careless flirtation had slipped. Spain settled himself down, pressing his body along France’s back.
“I don’t know. Do we covet them for themselves or do we want their innocence to sully for ourselves?” Spain said.
“Has your land started breeding philosophers when I wasn’t looking?” The slap on his thigh was expected and lust stirred in him again. He rolled over catching Spain’s mouth with his own. “I do not want to talk about this any more, oui?”
Spain was more than willing to oblige him.
***
To be continued in another installment...