Nature

Summary: The longer Canada lived, the more he spited. He did not need to attend the meetings with the others to know they were simple proxies. To him, it was clear as day. Over the centuries, his convictions continued to solidify, and convinced he was. They were not nations, but something else entirely.

The longer Canada lived, the more he spited. From the time he had been a child, barely a colony, still so dependent on the hand that fed him, already the truth was clear. Clear like the waters of his land through innocent eyes as he waited for love, waited to be heard, mouth agape and ready like a chick needing to be fed.

Any other child would have been likely to miss it, but he had always been perceptive.

It was clear in the way they looked at him, not only those who fought over him less as if he were family and more like material, but the humans who sat bejewelled on their thrones, eating up their newest catch behind flutes of champagne and greedy, upturned lips. It did not take him long to discover he was not the voice of his nation, his land or people - he had been a fool to have ever truly believed it.

By the time his country was its own, his body on the cusp of adulthood, standing in the rain before the still untouched doors, waiting for him to fulfill his obligations, the small wonderings had evolved into something bigger, more complex and yet painfully simple than he had ever imagined in his youth. His growth had not only been physical, but his comprehension deepened. He did not need to attend the meetings with his fellow nations, could just stand and wait in the cold and wet forever, and still know they were simple proxies, toys to be kept entertained while the bearers of their leashes did the real work.

His hand tightened around the handle of his briefcase, knuckles white and shedding water that ran from his arms. How the others could not see their worthlessness, he would never know, never allow himself to ask. Perhaps they were aware, and simply chose to ignore it, accept and continue on as if there was truly meaning to their lives beyond the shape they took at the hands that molded them. Perhaps complacency was easier, less painful.

But he could not join them. The question of why they existed never quieted in his mind. For if they were not to be the voices of their people, then what were they? He did not yet have an answer, was getting tired of waiting for one, still unable to pinpoint it on the tangled web of red yarn hastily tacked to his bedroom wall. But his conviction had taken shape, continued to solidify each day, and convinced he was.

They were not nations, but something else entirely.

It had taken him a century of sovereignty, a century of fighting in mud and dust and over stone in another's name, a century of watching as the others played with fires and alternatives too big for them to handle, watched as regimes of all colours and creeds rose and dominated and eventually fell, before it clicked into painful clarity.

The moment had not been spectacular - the President's voice droned static over the small radio in his living room's corner, warning of imminent destruction and rising arms races, all sounding suspiciously like preaching for the hopelessness of the world in Canada's ears. The phone in his hand was replaced on its stand on the wall. His brother had called, sharing his desperation in a voice cracked by tears and stress, shame at his own powerlessness to change that which he could not.

Canada knew then, with a bitterness in his throat, that America felt it too: the uncertainty, the unasked questions the others seemed unwilling or uncaring to ask. As it turned out, Canada had known all along, the answer to what they were, but had simply been too naïve - too much a child - to see it. The revelation did not ease the weight dragging his shoulders into a permanent sag.

His bedroom door slammed shut behind him with a bang, that day sometime between constitutionalization and a sixteenth inauguration. Tumbling to his bed, he threw his arms over his face, the ball he curled into not nearly tight enough to suffocate him as he had hoped. He did not cry, felt too comfortable with the expected betrayal for tears and ashamed to admit he had known nothing would change.

Yet, there had been a moment - a few years, even - in which he had been given a chance, a voice of his people and own at last. It had bred vulnerability, blinded him to the truth, distracted from the reality he knew he could not escape. He would only recognize it later, too late. But briefly, he had allowed himself to believe it would be different. It had been peaceful, to think he could be loved, could be more than what he knew he was, that he could make a difference-

But no, it was the same as it always had been, was destined to be. After all, he was merely a thing to be owned, a tool to be passed around from one to another, unmoving and eternal like the gears of the State his sweat greased. That was its purpose, after all, to remain. A constant even as the mortals passed. Because they always would; humans never lasted, they sought power, rose to it, held it and did what they must to retain it. But in the end, all they were was mortal. Their precious power would be lost, discarded with institutionalized willingness, would watch them leave with uncaring eyes as the next took his reigns.

Because, after all, that was all he was. An embodiment of power, fought over, captured, silenced, and passed on.

He would not deceive himself into thinking differently again.

And so Canada stood silently, centuries later at his new master's side, an ever-neutral show of status as the empty speech of diversity and cooperation droned through general cries of unhappiness and resentment. Neutral, because such was the nature of power, because they told him he must be such. Those older nations, the ones who held millenia over him, knowledge of things they claimed he to still be a child far too young to understand, too green to comprehend. He felt he knew enough, but who was he to question them? He had no right. He was, after all, not even truly his own person, but a flesh sack of someone else's values and ideals.

Then again, so were they.

Yet in the end, did it matter what he thought? What he felt, desired? No. Not particularly, he'd come to realise.

He was power. He was neutral, fuel for the vessel those of authority could steer whichever direction they pleased. He would bow, would not fight them. He did not have the right, after all. Legitimacy was never his responsibility.

He held his tongue. Held his tongue and waited as another political battle ground his insides against each other, as he felt his body splitting through referendum and frailing from disobedience, trying to tear itself apart. Nothing lasted forever, not even the State; people demanded change. They would fight for it. Louder and louder they would cheer, bigger and bigger their stand would become. As the inner turmoil grew with the unrest, Canada fell more and more into silence.

Because what could he say? They were right, when they had called him a child. A stupid, ignorant child who knew nothing of the world, nothing but the churning of his stomach as the people - his people, the ones who birthed and bred him - demanded change, struggled for their place, their own piece of collective power. He knew he was like them, geared to terror and violence against those different from himself. All of his kind were, and he yearned for nothing more than to join the fight.

But knew he could not. So he would grit his teeth, bury his frustration, and remind himself that power is neutral and it simply folds to those who hold it. He must wait it out, await the victors with a bowed head and devoted complacency.

With his fists tangled in his sheets, teeth bared against the pain, breaths so heavy they curled his spine, all he could do was wait. Wait through the trembling of his limbs, the cold on his sweat-slicked flesh, the rawness of his throat as change tore him to shreds.

It will be over soon, he claimed on the nights the voices in his mind nearly drowned his own. They were too strong now, those mainstreaming movements. Balance was shifting, power changing, tilting the scales in favour of something new. Something potentially beautiful, potentially not, fueled by the intensity of ideas the normative old refused to reflect. Soon, society would have no choice but to follow, drag its values over the bodies of those who denied it, shape and legitimize a new State for Canada to fill. Perhaps they'd build something new, never before attempted by those who still had the audacity to claim him a child, create a land of perfect representation, of agreeance and happiness and acceptance and peace-

Or, were he truly lucky, they would simply come undone, finally fall to anarchy. Sweet, blissful anarchy, like the wider world above his borders without authority or contracts, without rules. Because then, at last, he would be free. Free to take the power he embodied as his own.

Until then, it was all a matter of waiting.

A/N: inspired by some (slightly) obscure political science stuff.

-The State exists in society for the purpose of being a constant, even when those who lead and occupy it change over time. I wanted to connect this idea to the immortal nature of the nations. Then, it went and tied itself into Robert Dahl's polyarchy theory of authority, an idea that political power, as well as the State that contains it, are neutral, simple tools to be taken up by those who attain it and used for the furthering of the society's collective ideology (assuming the government is legitimate, of course.)

-"Like the wider world above his borders" (referring to the international community) : The world of international politics is considered anarchic; there is no higher power than the States themselves, and even if there arguably is, there is no obligation. For example, if the US decides it wants to break every international code by invading Iraq, no one can stop them.

Thanks for reading :)

Edit: Fixed line breaks, which somehow got omitted from the original post.