APH UkUs-A Winter's Tale
England disembarked from his ship, breathing in the cool crisp air of the New World. Of all times and seasons in this wild land to come, he had arrived here in the winter's heart. Snow covered the ground with sparkling sharp perfection, obscuring the settlement from view as if to reclaim its right to the land from its uninvited 'guests'. The trees were encased with sheathes of ice that made them seemed carved out of black diamonds and onyx, made harder by the season of bones.
The ship's course had been delayed by several months due to bad weather and even worse seamanship until England had had enough of it and taken command of the vessel after the ship's former captain had made the mistake of taking safe harbor in a Spanish port. As irksome as it was, he was a touch excited to be here at this point in the season. England would be able to spend Christmas with America and even see in the new year with him as well.
England was not surprised to see the governor of the prospering settlement waiting at the dock to greet him. It was the man's duty to do so after all and update the nation on everything that had happened here since his last visit. They would catch up on the ride over to England's chosen home, which lay an hour or so outside of the town. Nations liked their privacy for various reasons and England was no exception to this. The governor's solemn expression was not a welcome sign though to the contents of the their future conversation.
"What is it? What is wrong?", England asked directly, forgoing politeness in his concern for America who was noticeably absent. His colony should have been here by now trying to take out his kneecaps in a earth shattering hug. There was no one else there to greet him though, just the old man and the lung shattering cold. "Where is America?"
"Calm yourself, milord. God is in his heaven and all is right with the world.", the governor sighed, silently cursing the weather and the precarious nature of the sea. "We had hoped for your ship in the fall."
"We had hoped that as well, but there were some unavoidably delays and other idiocies along the way. The point seems rather moot now, don't you think?", England snapped, "Quit your stalling and answer my damn question." The pirate nation reflected this line of conversation would have never happened out on the sea. This doddering old fool would have never lasted on any one of his vessels, where when the captain asked a question people about fell over themselves to give an instant answer to it. A favorable plus was that if England didn't like the answer he was given, he had the option of ending life of its deliverer. Some of this fire must have crept into the tension of his restrained voice, the governor cringing from him as he took several steps back before recovering his dignity.
"Peace be with you, milord. Fear not, America is at your home asleep. I will take you to him now.", the old politician soothed the irate nation. England appeared to be a slender, young man, but his lithe form held a wiry, steely strength within it. An aura of barely restrained power seemed to emanated from off it in waves similar to the shimmering heat that rolled off of a desert. It was frightening to the old man, like trying to keep a bolt of lightening in a bottle especially when that force of nature stared him down with strange eyes the color of a quiescent forest's dream.
"Asleep? That is preposterous. It is the middle of the day.", England challenged as he glanced up at the watery winter sun for confirmation, "I can barely get the lad to sleep through the night much less take a bloody nap." America always seemed to have endless amounts of energy. For him to be sleeping in the middle of the day while the sun was at its highest peak seemed impossible to England.
Unless….
America was a new nation, merely a colony. Their kind suffered when the land and/or people did. If there had been a plague or a famine here in the colonies, America would suffer for it bodily in the form of fatigue and even sickness. "Is he of ill health?", England made himself ask as he prepared himself for the worst sort of news. The governor paused though, pursing his lips as if searching his mind for the proper sort of terminology. England suppressed the urge to beat it out of him as the moment held longer than he would have liked. The nation managed to stay his hands, but just barely. The old man seemed more reflective than troubled, as if he did not know how to word his answer properly.
"No, milord. He is just…asleep.", the old man said with a heavy thoughtful tone, waving the nation toward their ride. "I will explain everything on the way there." England bit his tongue in anger until he tasted copper but followed anyway. He could always kill the old fool later if he really felt like it. That particular thought made the old nation smile and the old man tremble.
The tale England was told was odd, enough even for one of his kind. He had never heard anything like it before and that was saying something. A thousand plus years will tend to jade even the most open of minds.
In the winter, America would go to sleep.
Like some the animals of his land, he would fall into a state of hibernation. Apparently, America would nod off sometime in late November and would only wake with the coming of Spring in early March or April if the winter had been harsh.
It had scared his first set of keepers greatly, thinking that he had died in his sleep while in their care, a prospect that did not bode well for their own continued survival. They had even gone so far as to bury him. Thankfully the local natives had had the good sense to dig him up. They looked after the slumbering child like they had before for generations until the world woke up him again. America had been actually quite amused to find out that he had a grave. His former keepers…..not so much.
Afterward America had made a point of hiding from the colonist during that time of the year until it was solemnly promised that such an occurrence would never happen again.
"And all of this is perfectly normal?", Arthur asked after a long moment of digesting all of this strange information.
"Yes, it seems perfectly so. The lad wakes up fresh as a daisy at the first breathe of spring. It has become a blessing of sorts you see. The farmers here know when it is safe to start planting because of it.", the governor shrugged. He didn't pretend to know what was going on. If the majority of his citizens survived through the harsh hospitalities of winter, he would be a happy and thankful man. A sleeping child was not really his major concern, though keeping his nation happy definitely was. Much to the old man's relief, England remained quiet for the rest of the journey, lost in his own thoughts.
The governor breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that England would ignore him for the remainder of their time together. Dealing with the hostile takeover of the chilly season was daunting enough. He certainly did not need an incensed nation to contend with as well. Demise was more definite with the latter.
After being updated further by the caretakers of his home and dismissing them for the rest of the day, England slowly made his way upstairs to his bedroom. According to the staff, America slept in his keeper's room all winter, not budging for anything or anyone.
Where does a toddler, who can swing around a bison light as a feather, sleep? The answer to that question is- Anywhere he damn well chooses. After the last servant who had tried to remove him from the bed had been ejected airborne from the room with extreme prejudice, it been agreed on by all to let the child be and just let sleeping dogs…and nations lie.
England entered the room to find it chilly as frost, the hearth let unlit though the wood for it was fully stocked. While England endeavored to start a blaze going, he studied the mess that was formally his bed. In the middle of his former sleeping place was a small mountain of material. It would appear every scrap of spare cloth in the house had been pulled up here. Every sheet, towel, doily, and even some of his unfinished embroidery projects was woven together into a roughly ball like shape. England studied it intently as he lit the fire, finally managing to cast the room in a warm soft glow as the air warmed up in slow waves of heat.
With great care, England started to remove parts of this strange nest, folding what he could and tossing aside what needed to be cleaned or simply thrown out. Evidently America wasn't too picky about what he covered himself with if the filthy horse blankets were any indication. Finally after sorting through a seemingly endless pile of laundry and random junk, England found his wayward colony at the bottom of it all, the small being wrapped bodily around an article of clothing that England recognized as one of his old shirts. The old nation stared down at his colony, his clover eyes going wide.
America looked dead.
The normally animated child's form was pale and wan, his tanned skin looking made out of wax and so thin that England could easily map out the blue roads of his veins. Even worse, there was a stillness about America that made even England doubt that a spark of life still remained within the small body. He understood now why the keepers had thought he was truly dead. If England had had been informed of American's condition, he would have thought the same himself, the old nation no stranger to any form, shape, or age of passing. He had walked the stinking killing grounds of war and pulled the cart, tolling the call during the plague. The jewel like gleam of new blood spilled and the rot of lost life unearthed were old cards to him, having had hunted, been hunted, had died, over and over again in a spiral of time longer than he would of liked to remember.
England reached down to pick America up with shaking hands, the little one rag doll limp in his grasp, his head lolling forward to hang awkwardly. He nearly cried out with relief to find America was warm to his touch but not overly so. England lifted his colony up so that he could press his ear to the small one's chest, listening. It was there. A very slow but very much there heartbeat.
"You silly little blighter. Do not scare me like that.", Arthur sighed out shakily, releasing a breathe he hadn't even realized he had been holding, "My poor old heart can not take it.". He cradled the unresponsive child in the crook of his arm, brushing back locks of honey hair out of a cherubic face. A quiet America was an eerie thing to behold though. The pallid child remained listless to his handling.
Staring down at him, England had no idea how to wake America or if he even should. This could all be perfectly normal for him after all. Every nation was different and uniquely strange. England was no exception to this himself, gifted with the Sight and friends that he could only see. What gave him the right to try and change that?
Because he was lonely…..
England startled at the treacherous little voice in his head, the nation looking around despite knowing that they were alone. Once started though the voices didn't stop. Another part(a small thing really, one that he kept hidden deep) whispered that he needed America more than he need England. Didn't that horrible old governor, the one England didn't even bother to learn the name of because really mortals were so temporary, say that America simply woke up in the spring/ Said the statement as easily as if he were telling England that is was going to snow today.
How many years had passed since he had seen America last? Five? Seven? An entire decade? How many years had he existed before he had been discovered and had chosen England as his keeper? The small child had lived out in the wilderness by himself and had been fine, but that was the way of their kind. England could still remember his own turbulent youth hiding from Denmark, Scotland, and everyone else who wanted to do him harm, a small child deep in the woods shivering in fear under a cloak of ivy and fairy charms. Always alone.
Dry swallowing a throat that was already too raw to do so with, England realized he needed. He needed this small nation, painfully so. He had not appreciated the extent of the gift he had been given until it was exiled to the ritual of the seasons. He missed the blind love that adored him, accepted him, ignored his faults of which there were so many. England longed to hear that cheerful voice that told him that he was loved, that someone wanted to be like him, that his cooking was good, that his voice was sweet, that he was perfect in at least one being's eyes.
Pressing America closer to him, England laid down on the bed, curling bodily around him in protective hunch of lean shoulders and drawn up knees. He wanted so badly for those small arms to hug him back, to pat at his arm whenever he looked sad. England touched their foreheads to one another, grimacing at the cold contact with America's chill skin.
This close, England could see every individual golden eyelash brushing against ashen cheeks to form perfect crescent moons upon them. He yearned to see those pale lids open to reveal eyes the color of summer's blessing, warm and endless. To look up at him, wide eyed with wonder and so much love is made England choke.
Wrapping his arms tighter about them until America was as close as he could physically be, England started to shake as he buried his head into the smaller nation's unresponsive neck. He bit his bottom lip savagely until blood welled up in the indentation, the pain an intended distraction. England would not let himself cry, though it felt as if something important had broken wetly inside of him. Nor could he will himself to sleep in reprieve of waiting out the rest of this season of standstill. His own land was held in the grip of winter but his people were certainly not. He would remain awake and active. He was too strong now to join America in his rest so England did the only thing he could think of.
He sang.
England sang every song he knew, watching the watery light that filtered through the window wane and disappear to be replaced with cold starlight. He continued until this had happened several times over and the fire had long ago died out. England was old and knew many, many songs, ballads, chants, and lullabies. He sang until his voice was nothing but a rasp, then a whisper, then nothing but motions of air passing hurtfully over raw cords that bled from overuse and exposure to bitter cold. He could not will himself to stop though or give a damn about the lack of warmth. England cradled America in the nook of his body and was content with what little life heat he found there. The growing cold only helped confirm that he felt it at all.
Finally spent and out of words, England lay there weary but still hatefully awake, staring at America as if he were to disappear at any given moment. A toll had to be paid though as England's eyelids grew heavy with drowsiness, weighting them down until he could feel himself slipping into comforting void of darkness.
The lightest of touches, like the breathe of a moth's wing toward an open flame, brushed against his cheek, making the island nation open his clover eyes. Sky blue met his own, opening slowly, their bright infinite color dulled with deep fatigue. They still sparkled though like melting snow, looking only at him.
"England…..You're back."