Author's Note and Disclaimer: This is the sequel to a fic I just recently finished, 'The Blood of Freedom'. Make sure you've read that one FIRST, as this story will contain lots of references to that one (and very spoileriffic references at that), so some parts may be confusing.

Another thing to keep in mind is that I've got a full schedule this semester, and I'm drafting ideas for a fourth story (unrelated to anything else I've published so far). Said fourth story may or not be published concurrently with this one, so expect updates to be a little sporadic.

And, lastly, as I'm certain you are already aware: I do not own Hetalia.

Late November, 1780.

Two months after British troops had put an end to the American rebellion.

Inside the study of a mansion in the Virginian countryside, the personification of the British colonies of North America sat at a desk, with dozens of pages of notes scattered all over the desk's surface. Underneath all those notes was a spellbook, and, though the book sat open, the page it was opened to could barely be seen under all the other papers.

The colony that sat at the desk picked up each page of notes in turn, carefully studying them, and occasionally muttering things to himself. This was an exercise which he'd been carrying out since earlier that morning. He spent hours going over notes which he had taken days to compile, and he deliberately went slowly, so as not to miss any crucial details. Finally, when he was satisfied, he stuffed the notes inside the spellbook, and carried the spellbook with him into the cellar.

Setting the spellbook aside, Canada – or, British North America – spent the next several minutes lighting candles and placing them around the center of the floor in order to see what he was doing. Then, referring to the spellbook and all his notes, Canada drew an incantation circle on the cellar floor. When he finished, he stood in the center of the circle, holding the spellbook in one hand, and reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve a knife with the other.

Canada made a small cut on his arm, allowing the blood to drip onto the floor. He then put the knife back, and began to chant the incantation for the spell he had prepared.

He was so certain he had done everything right. All of the sigils had been drawn exactly as they had been shown in the book, and he'd practiced the incantation before, hoping his inflection and pronunciation were correct.

Canada's heart raced when he saw the circle begin to glow, just like the book had said.

It's working! He thought.

He continued chanting, and his hopes soared even higher when he saw a transparent image begin forming inside the circle, that looked like the time and place that the magic was supposed to take him to. Turning a few pages in the spellbook, Canada began chanting the next spell in the complicated weave of magic he would need in order to pull this off.

Little did he know that he had already botched the first one. He had not found the time and place he was looking for.

Canada finished casting his next spell, the image around him came into sharper focus. Only now did he realize there was a mistake.

"This… isn't West Point," he said.

Fighting back a sense of panic, he turned more pages, hoping he could correct his mistake. He spent a minute frantically searching his notes as well. Thinking he had found a solution, Canada tried another spell. He began chanting.

In his brief moment of panic, his pronunciation faltered, and the image vanished without warning.

No! It's not supposed to do that! What did I just do?!

Canada went back to the original spell, trying to bring the image back. He tried to force himself to remain calm, but was only having marginal success.

His mistakes kept mounting. He fumbled another phrase, and another image began to form, but it was not the image from before, nor was it the one Canada was looking for. This one was extremely bizarre, with things Canada had never seen before.

On either side of him were building walls, but even just the walls looked strange, like these were types of buildings Canada had never seen. The ground looked like black rock, and there were papers and cylindrical objects made out of brightly colored metal littering the ground. There were giant sacks made out of some strange black material next to the walls. When Canada looked ahead, at what little was visible of the street outside, he saw what he could only have described as weird carriages, made out of metal. None of them had horses pulling them, yet they raced past each other, as if driven by some invisible force.

Panic was surging through Canada's mind at the moment. He desperately tried again to fix his mistake. He began chanting yet again.

The image from earlier appeared, but this second image did not disappear yet. The armies that clashed in the first image ran right through the walls of the second image, and neither image appeared to be affected by the other.

How do I make this stop?!

Canada slammed the book shut and stepped out of the circle. Both images vanished.

Confused, angry and frustrated, Canada threw the book aside, and dropped to his knees. For several minutes, he stared blankly at the incantation circle, then gave up. He buried his face in his hands and wept.

I can't do it, Alfred, he thought.

(-)

July, 1783. Nearly two years later…

Canada sat alone in the study of America's Virginia home once again, this time poring over a letter that he had written. Also scattered on the desk were letters he had recently received, and most of these sat on top of the spellbook. Two years later, and Canada had still managed to keep it hidden from England.

Just days after Canada's failed attempt at the time travel spell, England had showed up unannounced, and demanded the spellbook be given back.

For the first time in his life, Canada blatantly disobeyed his superior. Not only did he not give it back, but he denied having stolen it. England had smacked his colony hard across the cheek, with a warning that disobedience would be severely punished, and proceeded to search the mansion.

He never found it.

After failing at casting the spell, Canada had gone to great lengths to hide his attempt, in anticipation of the very thing England was now doing. Canada erased the circle, and hid the book in a hidden compartment in the cellar, which he remembered America had shown to him when Canada had come to visit at the end of the Seven Years' War. America had assured his brother that England had no idea that compartment was there.

Incensed that he couldn't find it, England tried interrogating Canada, demanding he tell him where it was hidden. Again, Canada insisted he hadn't stolen it; had never seen or touched it.

England was left with little choice but to leave and search elsewhere. But, as he left, he promised Canada that he would find it, and he warned a second time that disobedience would be punished.

But there had been tears in his eyes when he said it.

Now, two years later, England had probably calmed down, and Canada was wondering if he shouldn't just leave the spellbook somewhere that England could conveniently stumble upon it. The spellbook was useless to Canada now. Canada had already proven to himself that he didn't have enough command of magic to do what he had stolen it for – to travel back in time, to prevent America's death.

It had been two years. There was no bringing America back. It was time to move on.

Canada stood up, folded the letter and placed it in an envelope. He sealed it and pocketed it, then turned around, headed for the door. He left the mansion, and went to the gate, where there was a courier waiting for him.

"Deliver this letter to Samuel Adams, in Boston," Canada said, handing the letter over. "He'll be using the pseudonym 'Samson Travis'. Godspeed."

The courier left, and Canada went back inside. He returned to the study and picked all the letters off the desk. He nearly dropped the letters in his shock.

The spellbook was gone.