Hello! Before I let you read this story, I have to say two things: first of all, because I know how annoying it is to have to read a story that's mostly italicized because of memories, the break separating two memories will be three periods, and the last memory separated from real life will use an actual line break. Second of all, my OC, Mirabel Morgan, is the only part of the story that's mine, besides the plot. She's part of one of my Revolutionary War stories, and I thought that she'd be perfect in this story. Anyway, here it is! Remember the different breaks!
America ran down the street, laughing with the children who were chasing him. Of course, they had no idea of who he really was. All he told them was that his name was Alfred F. Jones, and his guardian was Arthur Kirkland, and they both lived in the biggest house in Williamsburg. They had no idea that he was the personification of the New World. He was America, England's colony. His guardian was England. They were brothers.
They weren't related by blood, of course. America wasn't sure if any nation was. All America knew was that he wasn't quite a nation, but what would happen when he did become one? Would England be there to support him? Would they still be brothers?
He wasn't sure. As England said, the future was always uncertain, but no matter what, the people who love you will be there. America would hold onto that.
"Alfred! Over here! Ten seconds left before she starts looking for us!" one of the boys whispered from behind a stack of empty crates.
America ran over and hid, laughing silently, hoping that he could forever stay a child so he could live and play like this everyday.
.
.
.
America was walking down the street in the evening, alone. He desperately missed England, who went back to the mother country for a few months. America felt completely alone without the Brit, even though it has only been a week. He wanted his big brother. Badly.
He was now ten years old, well, in human terms. In reality, he was over a hundred years old, due to his time spent with the Native Americans (who the colonists called 'Indians') as a baby. They had taken care of him, but unfortunately, the colonists were driving them away from their home. He wanted to help them, but he couldn't. He made a promise to England to stay away from his former caretakers. They had been the ones to teach him what he knew now besides the lessons and manners and language that England taught him. He would be forever thankful to both. But maybe England was right when he said that the time of the Native Americans was over, and it was time for the Englishmen to settle and civilize the New World. It still hurt a bit, but he knew from the last time he had seen that Native American chief that no matter what, he was America, and he had to be open to what was happening. So he would.
He kept walking and walking until he made it to the river where he had met England. Even though England had been in the New World before he met America, he was busy setting up Jamestown. America had been with the Native Americans at that time, but not in that area.
The river calmed his thoughts a little bit, taking away the pain of missing England. He sat down in the grass, watching the river flow past him to the sea. It was like time, he thought, smiling to himself. Time will keep flowing until it reaches the place where time comes together to form something completely timeless. Eternal. Infinity.
America sat there for a few moments before he realized that he wasn't alone. He turned to see a small girl, about his age, standing near the water, letting the river wash away the dirt on her hands. After her hands were clean, she sat down beside him. Neither of them talked for the first few moments, but then America finally got the courage to say something.
"Hello. My name's Alfred F. Jones. What's your name?" he asked hesitantly.
At first, the girl seemed surprised, but then she smiled slightly at him. "My name's Mirabel Morgan."
"Nice to meet ya, Mirabel Morgan," said America, grinning, beginning to feel comfortable with the situation.
"You too, Alfred F. Jones," she said, her smile getting bigger. "May I ask what the 'F' stands for?"
America frowned suddenly. "I don't know. My brother never told me."
"You live with your brother?" she asked curiously, and he nodded.
"Well, not my real brother, but I call him my big brother. His name is Eng- Arthur. Arthur Kirkland," he said, his cheeks reddening. He was glad that he was able to catch himself and not finish saying 'England'. The girl, Mirabel, probably would've thought he was crazy.
"Oh," she said. "I live with my grandfather. He calls me 'Morgan', my last name, but never my first name. I don't know why. I guess we're both kind of confused about our names." She looked up and smiled at him.
America laughed. "I guess if I know Arthur, my middle name is probably the name of some stuffy British man."
"Well, we can remedy that," said Mirabel, sitting up and looking at him excitedly. "Maybe your middle name is Franklin. Or Frederick. Or Filbert. Or Freedom."
"What?" America asked, looking at her with wide eyes. "What was the last one you said?"
"Freedom. Maybe your middle name is Freedom. Alfred Freedom Jones. I think it sounds good," said Mirabel, beaming at him. "There. Now you have a middle name."
"Yeah," said America, and they fell into a comfortable silence, watching the sun set over the trees as they listened to the river flow past them. "Looks like I do."
.
.
.
"England! I missed you so much!" America said, burying his head into England's neck. "Promise you won't ever leave for that long ever again!"
"I promise, America," said England, smiling affectionately at him before ruffling the young boy's hair. "Now, what have you been up to these past few months? I wasn't sure whether I should've been relieved or not when I stopped getting so many letters from you."
"I was with a friend! I met her a week after you left! Her name's Mirabel! She's really nice!" said America, smiling at the thought of his friend.
"That's great," said England happily. "I'm glad you've found a friend. Will I ever get to meet her?"
"Sure! We meet at the river every evening! You can come with me today! She even helped me come up with my middle name!"
"And what's your middle name?" England asked, amused.
"Freedom. Alfred Freedom Jones. I think it has a certain ring to it that sounds awesome and heroic. Don't you?" America asked, blinking huge, innocent blue eyes at England.
"Yes, it does," England agreed, and America grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the front door, excited for his big brother to meet his best friend.
.
.
.
America, though really Alfred, and Mirabel, were both twelve when she told him devastating news by the river where they have met every evening for the past two years.
"Grandfather and I are moving back to Boston," she said, looking at America sadly. "I told him that I wanted to stay, but he said that his work here was done, and that we'd be leaving in a week. I'm going to miss you so much, Alfred!" She threw her arms around his neck, and they hugged tightly for a moment before America pulled away from her, grabbing her hands.
"I promise that we'll still be friends. Maybe I can convince Arthur to let us move to Boston with you!" said America, fighting back tears. His best friend couldn't just leave him! He had to do something. He had to convince England.
"Ask him!" said Mirabel, standing up and pulling him up with her. "Please!"
"I will, Mirabel. I'll tell you what happens tomorrow. I won't let him say no!" Alfred said, determined not to disappoint Mirabel. "I'll tell you what he says tomorrow. Usual time! I promise."
"Thank you," said Mirabel, her green eyes grateful, and in that moment, America was reminded of England's eyes. He nodded at her before he ran back to the house to find England.
.
.
.
"England, we have to move to Boston!" America cried as soon as he entered the kitchen, where England was trying to make dinner.
England turned and laughed amusedly at him. "Why do we have to move to Boston? I thought you were happy here."
"I am!" America insisted. "But Mirabel's moving back to Boston, and we need to go with her!"
"I'm sure she'll be just fine without-" England started before America let out a loud wail.
"Please! Pwease, Engwand?" America gave the older nation his best puppy dog eyes.
"America," England sighed, shaking his head. "Do you realize how much work will be involved with moving?"
America took that as a yes. He always knew that England couldn't resist his puppy dog eyes.
.
.
.
Five years later, tensions between the thirteen colonies and Britain were getting high. America felt it everywhere he went, but for England's sake, he ignored it, pretending to be oblivious. After all, he wanted to keep England. He loved him.
And not in a brotherly way.
He was only about a month away from turning seventeen, and he felt that he was truly an adult, so he would no longer be England's little brother. He wanted England to see him as an adult. As a lover.
But even he knew that it would never happen.
So he indulged himself in romance novels (and yes, it was a manly pastime), along with Mirabel, both wishing for their happily ever afters during a time of rising tensions. They both just wanted to escape reality for a bit.
"I wonder what it feels like to really be in love," Mirabel sighed wistfully on the front step of her home in Boston. It was a normal Thursday evening, and the temperature was warm. Then again, it was May.
"Trust me, it's not that great," America muttered. Sometimes he wished that he never met England so he wouldn't fall in love with him. But most of the time, he wished that England would love him.
"How do you know?" Mirabel asked curiously, and she turned to him, her eyes bright with excitement. "Are you in love, Alfred?"
America decided that he could tell her. "Yes."
"With who?" she asked, sitting up and grinning excitedly. "Is it that girl down the street? Isn't her name Rosalyn or something?"
"Her name's Rosanna, but no, it's not her." America hoped Mirabel wouldn't be grossed out by the fact that he loved his 'older brother', and the fact that he loved another man. "It's Arthur."
"Arthur Kirkland, as in your brother?" Mirabel asked, her eyes widening in shock. "Alfred-"
"I know, you probably hate me and think I'm disgusting, but-" America was cut off by Mirabel, who hugged him tightly and looked at him fiercely.
"I could never hate you, Alfred. You're my best friend. You know that I'm with you, whatever you do. And I think it's sweet. I mean, how could it be gross? You two aren't actually related."
"I know, but we're both male-"
"So what? Love is love. If you love Arthur, then you love Arthur, and there's nothing more to it. I support you the whole way," said Mirabel, and she smiled at him. "But tell me why you don't think being in love's great. I mean, I can guess why, but why else?"
America knew that he would have to tell Mirabel about who he and England really were. He couldn't keep lying and telling her that he and England were normal humans, because they really weren't. They were nations, and when Mirabel was gone, Alfred would still be alive. He'd be alive for centuries more.
"I am Alfred F. Jones, but I'm America. Arthur Kirkland is England," America said, watching as she looked at him in suspicion. "He's the personification of England, and I'm the personification of the thirteen colonies."
"I'm afraid I don't understand," Mirabel said slowly, and she backed away from Alfred to look at him better. "Are you making this up? Because if you are, I don't find it very funny. It's creative, sure, but not funny."
"It's the truth," said America, hoping she would believe him. She had to. "Believe me when I say that I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. I'd never lie to you. You're my best friend."
Mirabel took one of America's hands and held it tightly. "Say that you really were America. Say that Arthur really was England. Would Arthur have been involved in a war with France, and would Arthur have been through the Elizabethan Era, and probably would've known Queen Elizabeth? Also, Arthur, as England, would've defeated the Spanish Armada."
"He did! He really did! Please, Mirabel, you have to believe me! I've been alive for over a hundred years, and Arthur's been alive for centuries!" America was starting to get desperate. Mirabel had to believe him, or their friendship might be over, all because she believed him to be lying. "Please believe me. I can't lie to you."
Mirabel studied him for a moment to see if he was really truthful. After the moment was up, she smiled.
"So, if you're America, aren't you feeling a bit tense and all with all the taxes England's putting on you? Well, us."
That was the only reply America needed to know that Mirabel believed him.
.
.
.
"Alfred! Alfred!" Mirabel ran up to America and started crying.
"What's wrong? Mirabel, talk to me, please!" America hated seeing Mirabel this upset. The last time it happened was years ago when she had to move back to Boston.
"Two soldiers are staying in my house. Grayson Wellington and Thomas Rogers. Dammit!" Mirabel must've been really upset, because America knew she didn't swear often, and she didn't like to. "I hate this! I hate England! You know I'm a Patriot! How am I supposed to hide the fact that my brother's in the Sons of Liberty with two soldiers living in my house?"
"I'm a Patriot too," America whispered. "I'll help you."
"How?" she asked tearfully. "In your heart and mind, you may be a Patriot, but you're also in love with England. Imagine how he'll feel when he finds out that you're against him."
"Well, he'll just have to deal with it," said America, standing to his full height. "I have to do what the people want, even if it means going against England."
"You don't mean that," said Mirabel, smiling sadly at him. "That's not the only reason you want to fight against England."
America shook his head. "I'm a selfish person, having wanted England for myself. But I'm fighting for the colonies to be free for two reasons: one, the people want freedom, and two, if I don't break free, he'll never see me as an equal. Never. I'm selfish, Mirabel, and don't you forget it."
Mirabel laughed slightly. "You may be selfish, but I can't really blame you. When your head wants one thing and your heart wants another, that's war. But I'll be your ally, and don't you forget that."
.
.
.
"Those bloody rebels," England muttered, and America's eyes widened when he realized that he knew what the older nation was talking about. "Damn them! How dare they commit such an obnoxious crime! Throwing tea into the harbor! Pathetic!"
America turned away, his cheeks reddening in guilt. He hadn't been there, no, but he knew that it had happened. He helped plan it. And he knew that Mirabel and her brother had been there. And he should've been there to help his fellow colonists carry through with the plan.
No matter how much he loved England.
.
.
.
"I know you can keep a secret, so I need you to keep this with your life," Mirabel whispered desperately as they hid in the dark alley.
"What is it?" America asked, worried that his friend was in danger.
"I'm in love with Grayson," she said as if a great weight had been lifted off her chest.
America stared at her for a moment. "Grayson, as in Grayson Wellington, as in the soldier who lives in your house, as in the soldier who you hate?"
"The soldier I love," said Mirabel, and she grinned dreamily at America. "I know what love feels like now, and even though he's a soldier…"
"It's not possible," said America, starting to get angry. "Does he even know you're a Patriot? Or are you a loyalist now?"
Mirabel looked like she had been slapped across the face. "I'll never be a loyalist! I am a Patriot till the end, and you know that! I'd die for our freedom." She looked at him with a hard, determined look on her face. "But I'd die for him. I love him, Alfred, like how you love Arthur."
"I know," America sighed. "I'm sorry. That was hypocritical of me."
"It's all right," said Mirabel, looking at him with sad eyes. "It's great right now, but I've just realized what you mean. We're both on the opposite side as the ones we love. Aren't we lucky?"
"So, so lucky…" America trailed off, and he pulled her into a hug, stroking her hair. "I think that if luck had an antonym, our names would be written."
.
.
.
"The war has started, England, and there's no stopping it," said America, facing England with no fear. "The shot heard 'round the world has been fired."
"By one of your men," England snarled. "Why the hell are you doing this? You're my little brother, and I say you stop this insolence right now!"
"It could've been one of your men, ya know, old man? Who says it was one of mine? The only man who knows who fired is the man who fired himself!" America shouted, and England looked absolutely livid.
"How dare you! You used to be such a good boy, and now you're turning out to be a rebel just like your damned friend Mirabel Morgan!"
"How dare me? How dare you! How dare you say Mirabel's name in vain! She's my best friend!" America felt his heart breaking for him, her and England, but he had to keep fighting. Fighting was all he and England could ever do. Mirabel was right. They were allies, and England was the enemy. It would always be that way, it seemed.
.
.
.
"No, Mirabel, you can't do this! You have to stay!" America tried pulling Mirabel away from the hill, but she was stronger than ever, especially with love fueling and powering her.
"I can't, Alfred! I can't! I have to make sure he's all right! I have to make sure he's alive!" Mirabel cried, desperately trying to pry America's fingers off her arms.
"I won't let you kill yourself! I won't let you die out there for him!" he yelled at her, and she struggled in his arms.
"But you'd let yourself die for everyone else!" she screamed, and he let go of her in shock. Mirabel looked at him, tears forming in her eyes. "Alfred F. Jones, please. I have to do this. I can't stay here, not knowing whether Grayson's dead or alive. I need to know."
"But-" America started, but she cut him off by placing a finger on his lips.
"Wouldn't you do the same thing for Arthur?" she asked, and he nodded slowly. "Exactly."
"Mirabel-"
"America." She smiled at the use of his true name. "Alfred. No matter what you do or say, you can't stop me from going out there. I don't know if I'll be alive at the end of this battle. I'm hoping for the best, but I don't know. Only fate knows what's in store for me. But if I don't make it, I want you to tell England that you love him. I know you'll live for centuries, and you might forget, but I hope that one day, you two can live together and love with the love that I've always wanted for Grayson and I. So promise me one thing: you'll tell England someday, no matter how far off in the future it is."
"I promise," America said truthfully, and her smile got more radiant.
"Thank you," she said, and she started to walk off before he grabbed her arm again.
"Wait!" He looked at her, scared, for a moment before summing everything he's wanted to say to her into a few words. "I'll always remember you, no matter how much time passes. You're the greatest friend I could have ever asked for, and you're the bravest girl I've ever known." They both stood there for a moment, smiling at each other, knowing that they'd never see each other again. "I won't forget you, Mirabel Morgan."
She patted his shoulder and smiled like she had no cares in the world. "You'll go far, America, and you'll be the greatest nation in the history of the world. Just remember our promise."
And with that, she walked down the hill towards the hill of the battle, her shoulders squared and her back straight, and that was the last time America ever saw her, brave and proud as she walked into the battle where she would be killed with a shot to the head, laying in the arms of a British soldier named Grayson Wellington, in a battle later called the Battle of Bunker Hill.
America shot out of his bed, feeling terrified. He was sweaty and yet cold. He looked at the time. It was midnight. It was now July fifth.
It's been years since he had last dreamed about Mirabel Morgan. He still missed her. She was his first best friend, and still his only friend who wasn't a nation. She was killed before she ever saw the United States as an actual country, but she died with the one she loved. She died a hero's death, he thought. She was the real hero.
But maybe he could be a hero to her too. Maybe, after two hundred and thirty seven years, he could fulfill his promise to Mirabel in the last moments of her life. She didn't die for nothing. She made him promise to tell England. Now was the time.
So he got the fastest airplane he could and flew it to London. It's been a long time since he'd flown, and the last time was during World War II out over the Pacific. It felt amazing to be able to fly again. He always felt so free in the air. Maybe after this, he could feel free on the ground too.
Details. Everything was just details as he landed the plane and ran through the airport in a mad dash outside to catch a cab. Everything was a blur, and the only two faces he could see clearly in his mind were England's and Mirabel's.
"Sir, you have to pay-" the taxi driver started when America quickly threw a one hundred dollar bill at him.
"Convert it and keep the change!" he shouted, running up to England's house without caring to see the thankful smile on the driver's face. His mind was shouting, "England, England, England, England, England! Arthur!"
It was incredible, really, how fast the time had gone by that America didn't fulfill his promise to Mirabel. And it was incredible how fast the time had gone by when he was on the way to England's house to fulfill his promise. And lastly, it was amazing how slowly the time went by as he banged on England's door, desperately wishing the older nation was there.
"America?" England stood in the doorway, looking immensely annoyed. "What the bloody hell are you doing here? And it's raining! Come inside and dry yourself off, or you'll catch cold!"
America shook his head and smiled. Even if England didn't love him back, he still would've fulfilled his promise. It would hurt, without a doubt it would if England didn't feel the same, but at least he could go to sleep at night knowing that Mirabel would've been happy to see him finally tell England after over two hundred years.
"England, I have to tell you something. You might not like it, but I can't go another day without telling you. I made a promise to her that I'd tell you someday. Remember Mirabel Morgan? My best friend that we moved to Boston for? She was the bravest girl I ever knew…"
Hmmm… I think that turned out okay. Sorry for any mistakes in the story, but I do not feel like proofreading this a second time! And I know, I know, you're probably all like, "Oh my God! What kind of ending was that?" Well, I was planning on ending it like that. I might post a sequel, but don't expect it to be out until at least next weekend, because I have stories I have to update this week. I hope America wasn't too OOC, and I hope you all liked Mirabel Morgan as an OC! Please review!