[Axis Powers Hetalia] The Land of the Wild and Free (America)
Title: The Land of the Wild and Free
Author/Artist: halflight007/lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America
Rating: PG
Genre: General, Spiritual
Warnings: unbeta’d, might be OOC for some, perhaps some geographic inaccuracies
Summary: It’s out here, in his own element, that he remember not who he is, but what, and why he must defend it.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back.
Author’s Notes: Done for my request post. The prompt was Alfred interacting with his nature and the animals that live there. This might…also be the first genfic I’ve ever written, hence explaining some of the awkward. I think. I hope you enjoy this, miaoujones!
___
It’s the armadillo’s corpse that shocks Alfred and makes him stop in his tracks.
The poor thing is frozen in a moment, as though curling in on itself in self-defense. Alfred takes his earbuds out, turns off his iPhone’s music player, and bends down to touch it. No reaction. It’s as though Alfred can feel the warmth of that body fading as he feels.
He lifts his eyes to the road, his gaze chasing the stripe of asphalt and black into the horizon and around a bend. And Alfred feels that road in his bones, not as a natural part of the landscape, but as something alien and independent.
Alfred looks down the road, and then back over his shoulder. He could continue his walk. He could ignore the armadillo and try to hitchhike, or call a taxi to come pick him up.
Alfred bends down and waves the flies away. He unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off, leaving him in only the wifebeater underneath, and wraps the armadillo in a shroud.
He turns his back to the road and walks into the wilderness, eyes half-lidded and focused as he lets his body remember the way to his old cabin.
___
Texan summers can reach over 100 degrees Farenheit; on a good day, they’re lucky if it’s below 95.
Alfred is surprised that he’s not whining - to the sun, to the earth, to anything. He’s walking among cracked earth and spindly, clawing brush, his shoes sometimes flattening a stalk of yellow grass. The sun is beating down on him, and there’s nowhere to turn to for shelter.
It’s hot, yes. But somehow he feels warmth, and comfort, as though the land is saying don’t worry, we will take care of you.
And even above that he feels something feral and raw; a possessive, powerful love of home, of beauty.
Something croaks above him, a split-second of a witch’s cackle; Alfred looks up to see great, large wings circling, following him.
“Sorry, pal,” he calls up to the turkey vulture, “I’m not food.”
Another caw, crackling and trilling. Alfred stops as something vibrates across his skin, as something flickers in his mind.
One more.
Alfred feels a whisper of a word in his mind.
Food?
And then Alfred can’t help but laugh, because the vulture understands who and what he is, knew him before he even knew himself, in a way, and he’s asking Alfred for the carcass in his arms.
Food?
Maybe.
Alfred’s answer is an octave lower, but no less loud and undulating as he answers with no words, but something more.
___
In his mind’s eye, Alfred remembers paintings of the Texan wilderness, of the desert; large cacti like men with their arms raised, a longhorn skull with a rattlesnake inside, and all around, billows of sand and dust being blown about.
He tries to fit it onto this image of shrubbery and hills and steppes poking out in the distance, but it’s like trying to force a puzzle piece to fit where it’s not supposed to. He gives up and just keeps following the feeling of home, the whirpool drawing him towards the center in a steady swirl.
It’s when he’s passing a steppe that he sees a glint of green in a dark crack; he stops himself, watches, and thinks he’s imagining - no, he’s not, there it is again.
Alfred stays absolutely still, so still that he can feel the slight breeze over his skin.
When the glint comes back, it lingers for a moment. It’s joined by another pair of green flashes.
Alfred closes his eyes as he feels something weaving into his own consciousness. It’s primitive, young, but filled with energy and curiosity. Alfred thinks it’s a bit like a smile.
When he opens his eyes again, he finds two small coyote pups poking their head out to see him.
They watch one another watching each other, the curiosity and amazement thrumming through each other.
It’s a low, dangerous growl that makes his head whip around and break the spell.
This coyote is thin, but larger. It hunches its bristled shoulders and bears its teeth. Alfred feels the growl on his skin and feels something so powerful towards the cubs that it transcends what he knows as love.
“Hey there,” he croons, squatting down and looking at her. “Are you Mama?”
The coyote doesn’t back down, her growl increasing in volume. Alfred senses hunger and pain in that growl as well. He looks into her eyes, puts one hand on the ground so tat he’s level with her face. Let me understand, he thinks.
Something from those liquid-gold eyes flashes through his mind, images of bloody sheep and terrified bleeding, of garbled curses and the explosion of a gun. He winces and hisses as his thigh stings; and yes, if he opens his eyes to look, he can see where the bullet grazed her.
“Oh, Mama,” he sighs, feeling very tired and sad. “Why? Why did you do it?”
He doesn’t need an answer to that; he already knows.
Because cattle are taking your land and killing your prey, right?
Alfred colors and feels ashamed, but he’s not sure what else to do except duck his head. His eyes land right on the wrapped-up armadillo corpse.
He doesn’t know what else to do, so he puts the shirt down on the ground and opens it up to her. “It’s not much,” he murmurs, “but it’s better than letting your youngsters starve.”
He stands up as she continues growling, his hands tucked into his pockets, and walks away. He doesn’t look back to see if she’s taken the carcass.
___
The sky is darkening by the time he reaches the cabin, the horizon set on fire as the drop of sun touches it.
He’s sort of surprised that it’s in such good condition, untouched by humans, time, or dry rot. But he’s had hundreds of abodes, has built them with his own hands and his own essence; perhaps it is only natural that they age slower.
Alfred walks closer to the cabin, across the wide, flat land that might have housed flowers or vegetables, once upon a time, but now is empty. He knows his senses still aren’t that good, but they’re sharp enough that he feels the rattlesnake before he sees it, coiled up on the step. And inside the house he senses other lives, other creatures that have made their homes within those walls and his sheets and closets and cupboards, too indistinct to make out.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” he asks the snake as he sits on the steps leading to the porch. The snake doesn’t respond, but doesn’t rattle, either, and they sit in silence and watch the sky gentle into night.
And Alfred thinks as he feels this dust-yellow land, the animals it shelters. He thinks of his ribbons of asphalt, of the cars and skyscrapers, of the lands forced to accommodate to Wal-Marts. He thinks of starving pups and babies, their mothers killed by hunters and by wrathful ranchers.
He shuts his eyes and tries to remember a time where nature was perfectly balanced, where there were no weeds or pests or needs for population control. Where everything had its place and its role in this world.
He cannot help but feel that time, and that opportunity, is lost to him forever.
He thinks he might have deserved that growl, for turning this into dead, starving land.
A long, lone note sounds in the air, and Alfred jerks and opens his eyes. The snake rattles; Alfred doesn’t hear it, standing anyway and walking towards the howl.
It fades into silence, but Alfred still waits. It comes again just when he thinks he might have imagined it.
We will live, the mother coyote’s howl tells him. This land still lives. So do we.
Another pause, then more howls, distant, faded.
You are alive with this land, too, they say. This is you.
Alfred’s skin is buzzing as he lifts his head and croons a reply into the air with a smile, joining the volley of howls and song as his body shakes and vibrates with nothing but life.
___
Endnotes: Texas felt like my home for the longest time, even more so than where I live now. I have fond memories of the hill country, and I remembered loving Spain because it reminded me so much of that yellow country and those hills rolling in the distance. This takes place in the part of Texas that is described as the Basin and Range Province of Texas, which is dominated by prairies and steppes. I largely derived my knowledge of the land from where my grandparents lived, and I apologize for any inaccuracies.
I hope you enjoyed this. Comments/concrit welcome. Thank you for reading!
Author/Artist: halflight007/lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America
Rating: PG
Genre: General, Spiritual
Warnings: unbeta’d, might be OOC for some, perhaps some geographic inaccuracies
Summary: It’s out here, in his own element, that he remember not who he is, but what, and why he must defend it.
Disclaimer: Himayura-sensei lets me play with them as long as I clean ‘em off before I give them back.
Author’s Notes: Done for my request post. The prompt was Alfred interacting with his nature and the animals that live there. This might…also be the first genfic I’ve ever written, hence explaining some of the awkward. I think. I hope you enjoy this, miaoujones!
___
It’s the armadillo’s corpse that shocks Alfred and makes him stop in his tracks.
The poor thing is frozen in a moment, as though curling in on itself in self-defense. Alfred takes his earbuds out, turns off his iPhone’s music player, and bends down to touch it. No reaction. It’s as though Alfred can feel the warmth of that body fading as he feels.
He lifts his eyes to the road, his gaze chasing the stripe of asphalt and black into the horizon and around a bend. And Alfred feels that road in his bones, not as a natural part of the landscape, but as something alien and independent.
Alfred looks down the road, and then back over his shoulder. He could continue his walk. He could ignore the armadillo and try to hitchhike, or call a taxi to come pick him up.
Alfred bends down and waves the flies away. He unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off, leaving him in only the wifebeater underneath, and wraps the armadillo in a shroud.
He turns his back to the road and walks into the wilderness, eyes half-lidded and focused as he lets his body remember the way to his old cabin.
___
Texan summers can reach over 100 degrees Farenheit; on a good day, they’re lucky if it’s below 95.
Alfred is surprised that he’s not whining - to the sun, to the earth, to anything. He’s walking among cracked earth and spindly, clawing brush, his shoes sometimes flattening a stalk of yellow grass. The sun is beating down on him, and there’s nowhere to turn to for shelter.
It’s hot, yes. But somehow he feels warmth, and comfort, as though the land is saying don’t worry, we will take care of you.
And even above that he feels something feral and raw; a possessive, powerful love of home, of beauty.
Something croaks above him, a split-second of a witch’s cackle; Alfred looks up to see great, large wings circling, following him.
“Sorry, pal,” he calls up to the turkey vulture, “I’m not food.”
Another caw, crackling and trilling. Alfred stops as something vibrates across his skin, as something flickers in his mind.
One more.
Alfred feels a whisper of a word in his mind.
Food?
And then Alfred can’t help but laugh, because the vulture understands who and what he is, knew him before he even knew himself, in a way, and he’s asking Alfred for the carcass in his arms.
Food?
Maybe.
Alfred’s answer is an octave lower, but no less loud and undulating as he answers with no words, but something more.
___
In his mind’s eye, Alfred remembers paintings of the Texan wilderness, of the desert; large cacti like men with their arms raised, a longhorn skull with a rattlesnake inside, and all around, billows of sand and dust being blown about.
He tries to fit it onto this image of shrubbery and hills and steppes poking out in the distance, but it’s like trying to force a puzzle piece to fit where it’s not supposed to. He gives up and just keeps following the feeling of home, the whirpool drawing him towards the center in a steady swirl.
It’s when he’s passing a steppe that he sees a glint of green in a dark crack; he stops himself, watches, and thinks he’s imagining - no, he’s not, there it is again.
Alfred stays absolutely still, so still that he can feel the slight breeze over his skin.
When the glint comes back, it lingers for a moment. It’s joined by another pair of green flashes.
Alfred closes his eyes as he feels something weaving into his own consciousness. It’s primitive, young, but filled with energy and curiosity. Alfred thinks it’s a bit like a smile.
When he opens his eyes again, he finds two small coyote pups poking their head out to see him.
They watch one another watching each other, the curiosity and amazement thrumming through each other.
It’s a low, dangerous growl that makes his head whip around and break the spell.
This coyote is thin, but larger. It hunches its bristled shoulders and bears its teeth. Alfred feels the growl on his skin and feels something so powerful towards the cubs that it transcends what he knows as love.
“Hey there,” he croons, squatting down and looking at her. “Are you Mama?”
The coyote doesn’t back down, her growl increasing in volume. Alfred senses hunger and pain in that growl as well. He looks into her eyes, puts one hand on the ground so tat he’s level with her face. Let me understand, he thinks.
Something from those liquid-gold eyes flashes through his mind, images of bloody sheep and terrified bleeding, of garbled curses and the explosion of a gun. He winces and hisses as his thigh stings; and yes, if he opens his eyes to look, he can see where the bullet grazed her.
“Oh, Mama,” he sighs, feeling very tired and sad. “Why? Why did you do it?”
He doesn’t need an answer to that; he already knows.
Because cattle are taking your land and killing your prey, right?
Alfred colors and feels ashamed, but he’s not sure what else to do except duck his head. His eyes land right on the wrapped-up armadillo corpse.
He doesn’t know what else to do, so he puts the shirt down on the ground and opens it up to her. “It’s not much,” he murmurs, “but it’s better than letting your youngsters starve.”
He stands up as she continues growling, his hands tucked into his pockets, and walks away. He doesn’t look back to see if she’s taken the carcass.
___
The sky is darkening by the time he reaches the cabin, the horizon set on fire as the drop of sun touches it.
He’s sort of surprised that it’s in such good condition, untouched by humans, time, or dry rot. But he’s had hundreds of abodes, has built them with his own hands and his own essence; perhaps it is only natural that they age slower.
Alfred walks closer to the cabin, across the wide, flat land that might have housed flowers or vegetables, once upon a time, but now is empty. He knows his senses still aren’t that good, but they’re sharp enough that he feels the rattlesnake before he sees it, coiled up on the step. And inside the house he senses other lives, other creatures that have made their homes within those walls and his sheets and closets and cupboards, too indistinct to make out.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” he asks the snake as he sits on the steps leading to the porch. The snake doesn’t respond, but doesn’t rattle, either, and they sit in silence and watch the sky gentle into night.
And Alfred thinks as he feels this dust-yellow land, the animals it shelters. He thinks of his ribbons of asphalt, of the cars and skyscrapers, of the lands forced to accommodate to Wal-Marts. He thinks of starving pups and babies, their mothers killed by hunters and by wrathful ranchers.
He shuts his eyes and tries to remember a time where nature was perfectly balanced, where there were no weeds or pests or needs for population control. Where everything had its place and its role in this world.
He cannot help but feel that time, and that opportunity, is lost to him forever.
He thinks he might have deserved that growl, for turning this into dead, starving land.
A long, lone note sounds in the air, and Alfred jerks and opens his eyes. The snake rattles; Alfred doesn’t hear it, standing anyway and walking towards the howl.
It fades into silence, but Alfred still waits. It comes again just when he thinks he might have imagined it.
We will live, the mother coyote’s howl tells him. This land still lives. So do we.
Another pause, then more howls, distant, faded.
You are alive with this land, too, they say. This is you.
Alfred’s skin is buzzing as he lifts his head and croons a reply into the air with a smile, joining the volley of howls and song as his body shakes and vibrates with nothing but life.
___
Endnotes: Texas felt like my home for the longest time, even more so than where I live now. I have fond memories of the hill country, and I remembered loving Spain because it reminded me so much of that yellow country and those hills rolling in the distance. This takes place in the part of Texas that is described as the Basin and Range Province of Texas, which is dominated by prairies and steppes. I largely derived my knowledge of the land from where my grandparents lived, and I apologize for any inaccuracies.
I hope you enjoyed this. Comments/concrit welcome. Thank you for reading!