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May 9, 1717 — Jamestown, Virginia, Thirteen British Colonies of North America
The sound of steel meeting steel reverberates across the courtyard. Ragged breaths torn form lungs, feet pointing the wrong way, and he finds himself on the ground, British sword tip at his neck.
“If this were a real duel,” the United Kingdom of Great Britain says, “you’d be dead. Never do this again.”
The Thirteen British Colonies of North America groans on the ground. Ten long years under Britain, and Thirteen has still been losing every duel he had with his mentor in the past week. It left him bitter and frustrated, and this time isn’t any different.
His knuckles buzz and the steel sword’s stung his palms. Britain has barely broken a sweat; he never does. Even when he moves fast enough for the air to whistle around his coat, his breathing stays smooth, steady, almost bored. Thirteen’s sound like he ran halfway across the colonies.
“Why couldn’t we stick with guns? I am way better at them,” Thirteen whines, sitting up. His knees hurt.
“Exactly,” Britain agrees, “You are naturally gifted with good skill at gunmanship, but the same cannot be said about swordsmanship.” He brandishes his sword with perfect manouver, catching the light, before resheathing it. “It is precisely why you must learn to correct it. You will not get to cherry-pick your weapon of choice when you are facing down an enemy.”
The words land just like they always do; it feels as though Britain is speaking of lessons years ahead of where Thirteen actually is.
Britain huffs. “But that is enough for today. I will not nag you, do not worry.”
“That’s nice” Thirteen sighs. “Could you help me up?” It’s a simple request, he thinks.
Britain glances at him amused. “Help yourself up. It is a part of adaptability.”
“I know, I know,” Thirteen grumbles, getting up and dusting off his clothes. “But must this lesson apply even to the simply act of extending a hand?” He reaches down to grab his own sword, resheathing it with far more difficulty and less grace than Britain did.
Britain’s gaze is calm but piercing. “Training never ends. There is always something to learn.” A light breeze passes through the courtyard, ruffling Britain’s coat, the sunlight gives an almost greyish tone to his otherwise warm brown curls, and Thirteen thinks he looks way older than he truly is in this moment.
And lonelier.
“Come,” Britain turns, walking past him and towards the gate, “I will treat you to a short break.”
Thirteen rushes after his mentor. They quickly leave the sparring yard, gate crackling open and shut behind them. Thirteen keeps just half a step behind Britain, always the proper distance. He corrected him on that on his very first week.
Outside, the hard earth beneath their feet turn into even harder cobblestone. They are in Jamestown; his first permanent settlement. This is where everything started, and Thirteen is proud of it. Walking through here always feels like home.
Civilians pass them, women carrying basket of fruits, men barrels of wine. Their eyes draw to them naturally; some sheepish, others reverent, and some quietly scrutinizing. But not one gaze holds an ounce of surprise; Britain’s presence has been a constant for the last decade, it has long earned a seat at the table of familiarity, like a heavy rock sunk into deep sand.
A group of local children make merry all over the place, jumping over ropes and chasing one another about in a game of tag, but halt the moment they notice Thirteen and his mentor. All of them either avert their eyes, shamefaced, or let their eyes follow them closely in awe. Britain gives them a tiny nod as he passes. Thirteen swears the kids light up like someone knighted them.
Just around the corner, there is a small shop on the left side. The shopfront appears well-kept but closed. Notwithstanding that, Britain pushes the door open, a lone ding following the action as a small bell announces their presence.
“We’ve yet to open,” comes a faint female voice from the adjacent room.
Inside, the bakery looks humble and cozy. Stoves spill the warmth of bread and biscuits, flames casting soft shadows across the floorboards. There are tarts and cakes, the air swimming with the sweet scent of freshly baked pastries and pies, cobs and manchets.
For a few seconds of waiting about, the clanging of pots and pans can be heard before a woman steps out, who, upon seeing them, quickly scurries to the wooden counter.
“Y-You’re Grace,” she stutters and bows deeply, seeming too apologetic for robbing a few simply seconds of his and his mentor’s time in Thirteen’s opinion. “Forgive my manners, I did not expect such company today. How may I serve you?”
Britain gives her a nod to rise. “No forgiveness needed. I only seek a few pastries for the morning. Are there any vanilla-scented ones in the ovens perchance?”
The baker shakes her head. “I’m afraid not, sir.”
Britain hums in acknowledgement. “In that case, could you accommodate me with a recommendation?”
“It would be my honour, sir,” she smiles, less uneasy now. She briefly looks down at the paper to her right. “We’ve rosewater biscuits and honey cakes just cooled enough, sir. If it pleases you, I can pack a selection.”
Britain nods again. “That will do nicely. I shall take both then, I’ll trust your judgment.” He glances at Thirteen beside him and continues, “Pack two lemon-zest sweet rolls as well.”
The baker says a quick at once, sir, before she’s off. Thirteen is not surprised to find that his mentor knows of his favorite dessert—Britain knows everything. Still, the attention to this small detail fills Thirteen’s chest with faint warmth.
Thirteen’s eyes are drawn to the side. A small window looks out on the harbor nearby. It is full of ships of every kind, some leaving, others resting. In particular, a boat entering has caught Thirteen’s attention, a man stepping off, speaking, while others rush for the ropes. Britain follows his gaze from behind but says nothing.
“Here it is, sir.” The baker comes up to the counter again, handing them the sweet baked goods. “Have the most pleasant day, You’re Grace,” she bows again.
“You as well.”
The chime of the bell echoes yet again as they leave the bakery. Thirteen misses the sweet-scented air as it is replaced by the morning cold outside. Britain walks down a narrower, slightly upwards path, turning off the main road.
It is not long before they arrive at their destination. It is a smaller clearing on a cliff nearby; far enough from the crowded town center, and its neverending daylight sounds, but not stripping the place of the lively atmosphere. There are two British guards in red coats a bit further away. Britain leads Thirteen pass them to a small but infinitely elegant tea table overlooking the ocean and the ships sailing on silent waters.
It is clean, very British, and too fancy for Thirteen’s taste. But it isn’t enough to put him off to the point of refusing the break Britain is giving him. Nevermind that it would be rude to do so.
A compact, immaculate tea set has been spread out already. Britain sits down, calm and controlled, motioning for Thirteen to follow.
And Thirteen does. Or at least tires to sit courtly and properly like his mentor. It only halfway works.
Britain pours some tea, handing his pupil a cup, then adds the plate of biscuits between them. For a minute, they just drink in silence while the sea crashes against the rocks below.
Then, without even glancing at Thirteen, Britain asks, “What did you make of the envoy who rode through the harbor earlier?” No context. No lead-in. That is how he always does it.
Thirteen blinks into his cup. The envoy? He can recall the man he saw through the window of the bakery—tired-looking, dusty, seemed like he barely spoke two sentences.
“I… thought he seemed polite?” He offers.
“Is that all?” Britain takes a sip of his tea. “ What did you think of its cargo?”
“I didn’t see the cargo.”
“Exactly,” he says. “But you saw the sailors scrambling to secure the lashings. A well-run ship only does that when carrying something fragile or expensive. Both tell you more about your coast’s importance than any map.”
He says it softly, like it’s just a friendly note. But everything with him is a lesson.
Sometimes Thirteen wonders if Britain even can stop teaching.
The wind shifts, carrying the smell of salt up to them. Britain takes a measured bite of his rosewater biscuit, then speaks again. “And the townsfolk,” he says, eyes still on the ocean. “What are your thoughts on the them as we’ve passed?”
Thirteen thinks back. The way people stepped aside, how they watched his mentor, how some watched him. Adult men and women certainly have their own thoughts on the British, however conflicting they may be.
“They’re proud you’re here,” he admits slowly. “Or scared,” he corrects myself. “Maybe both. The children seemed in awe at your presence.”
That makes Britain smile faintly—the rare kind that isn’t sharp or mocking, just thoughtful. “A good observation. But remember: pride is noisy. Fear is quiet. And you will need to know which room you are walking into, long before you open the door.”
Yet again, Thirteen thinks Britain’s lessons are oft times not for the present him. His mentor teaches of conflict and peace; things Thirteen has yet to participate in.
Preparing in advance is wise, and Thirteen thinks no ill of it. But he notices how Britain’s questions have a silent but definitive direction to them. He isn’t speaking of war in general, not always; he is arranging Thirteen, piece by piece, for a single one in particular.
But which one? He wants to know.
A gull cries overhead. Britain refills Thirteen’s cup without asking. “What is it that you truly want power for?”
Thirteen's expected another question but not that, and certainly not put so simply.
He hesitates. His first instinct is something childish—to be strong like a proper nation. To protect his people. To matter across the seven seas. To not be under anyone’s shadow, even Britain’s.
But Thirteen doesn’t know how to say any of that in a way that sounds like he understands the world the way his mentor does.
“I’m not sure yet,” he admits.
Britain nods once, accepting the answer. “Good. You shouldn’t be sure. Power is most dangerous when held by someone who thinks they already deserve it.”
He turns towards Thirteen. “In just a few simple moments, you can learn so much of what surrounds you just by observing. You need to keep your eyes open at all times, lad. It is for your own survival.”
His eyes drift back to the horizon, trailing a sailing ship, and he takes another bite of his rosewater biscuit. The silence that stretches between them now feels final.
But Thriteen is not done yet.
Knowledge is power, Britain told him on his first day of training. His teachings are beyond the physical; Thirteen doesn’t know whether he should consider it a blessing—for he’ll learn a lot more—or a curse—they’re damn annoying.
But there is one topic Britain never touches upon; people.
Thriteen decides to try something new. “Britain,” he addresses. “How do you keep your people happy?”
Britain doesn’t seem caught off guard, but he is surprised, if only a little. That’s a good sign.
“Happy?” He grimaces a little. The word rolls around his mouth like something unfamiliar. “I ensure stability. I maintain trade. I keep threats away from their shores. I do not…” He taps his porcelain teacup thoughtfully. “…pamper them.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Thirteen picks up his own biscuit, a lemon-zest sweet roll. “I mean morale, giving them things to feel proud of. You cannot rule people who only tolerate you. They should want to follow you, not just accept that you’re in charge.”
His mentor stares at him like he’s sprouted a second head.
Then he laughs—it’s barely more than a simple huff of breath. But it is a delighted sound, like he’s been caught off guard in the best way possible.
“Are you challenging me?” he inquires, not offended in the slightest, just amused and curious.
Thirteen shrugs one shoulder, trying not to grin too much. “Maybe I am.”
His eyes narrow like he is evaluating his pupil all over again, like he’s miscalculated him.
“Good,” he exhales, pleased with what he’s found. “A student who never questions the lesson becomes nothing more than a reflection of his teacher. That would be a waste of your potential.”
He raises his tea in a mock toast. “It shan’t be that easy to influence you, America.”
The nickname makes Thirteen feel a bit too prideful. “Don’t worry,” he taps his cup to his mentor’s. “It won’t be.”
October 19, 1781 — Yorktown, Virginia, United States of America
The sun is high on the noon of the surrender.
The field is quiet in a way battlefields rarely are. Smoke still hangs in the air, clinging to everything—the scorched grass, the broken cannons, the uniforms of men who’s fought too long and too hard.
The United States of America stands in the center of it all, breath steady now with shoulders squared rigid like ice. His new flag whips behind him, finally having permission to do so. His face no longer bears the Union Jack he once felt so proud of.
There are dozens of men, both in blue and red, scattered all across the field. The US doesn’t look at any of them, only at the approaching figure climbing upwards—navy blue skin, face full of crimson red and snow white stripes; Britain.
His boots crunch against debris and withered grass as he steps closer to the US. His walk is followed by absolute silence, every man holding their breath.
He halts ahead of the US. It is the first time they’ve truly been this close face-to-face with each other since their guns fired the shot heard around the world. His former mentor’s posture can be described as exhausted, but a regal disciple and the oh so familiar dignity rests beneath it like a skeleton, even in defeat.
The US’s mismatched blue and white eyes meet Britain’s star-shaped pupils of the Union Flag. In his chest, fury and pride and grief and uncertainty crash, corrupting each other. It’s a disgusting mixture that he cannot name nor should it ever be.
There is a thousand and more things he wants to say. He used to speak so casually to Britain, but now his tongue is frozen solid like a lake in winter.
Britain’s eyes lower first.
He reaches for his weapons, the soldiers behind the US slightly tensing. But Britain only drops them to the ground at his former pupil’s feet. Every British soldier on the battlefield follows asuit; metal strikes the earth like dull bells. The moment means so much and too little at the same time.
Before any words can slip out unwanted, Britain turns around, coat trailing behind him, torn at the edges, as he begins making his descent down the hill.
His silence hurts more than any blade ever could. And the US doesn’t even know what he is expecting him to say—an acknowledgement? An apology? A warning? Just about anything?
But Britain doesn’t look back. And the US doesn’t call after him.
At the retreating Brits, the US can almost feel his own soldiers smiling, knowing they’ll never set foot on American soil ever again. He cannot share their glee.
In the distance, Britain boards his ship, army at his heels, and sails for a home that has never felt further away. A home that no longer belongs nor will it ever welcome the US again.
And the US thinks:
Was this the war you have prepared me for all this time?