The Death of Sincerity

September 1898

Yukon Territories

Clink. Clink. Clink.

The individual sounds of multitudes of men working blended into one homogenous mixture, filling the air, making up the background noise of the snow-covered countryside. If Canada closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was listening to a clockwork robot, working through the sunset and into the star-filled night that follows.

It was a good sound. It was a sound that meant that all was well, at least for the moment, as that precious yellow metal flows out of the earth and with it more money than he could be bothered to count. Money is good for a young nation like himself. He only recently, having just earned his independence, realized just how much of it he needed to feed himself, clothe himself, clean himself, and protect himself from the many older, stronger countries that would like nothing more than to crush him, grind him to a pulp, and possess the vast lands he owned.

See, with every dollar Canada earned, he became less vulnerable, less apt to be claimed, mind, body, and all, by some European narcissist. Even as a child, he was very aware of just how attractive his land could be to certain people, and of the means they were more than willing to use to secure it.

But perhaps more important than the money it brought was the time the gold had bought with two of his favourite people in the world – England and America. Well... the latter had always been a bit iffy. Here and now, though, they might as well have been age-old friends.

Good coffee brings people together like nothing else. Coffee and hot chocolate and a sunset over the majestic valley where his fortune was being made. Tensions may have been brewing in the East, but right here, in this precious happy time, there was a peace like never before. England and America were not only tolerating each other's existence, but they were talking as if they were equals, and friends. How could the world be anything but perfect?

Well... good times like this can never last. Nothing's ever free. Last time he let himself get this happy -

"Canada!" Canada was jarred out of his thoughts by the startlingly dapper man sitting next to him with his feet up on the table as if he had never heard of that strange little thing called etiquette. "You get so... zoned out sometimes. It kind of scares people, you know."

My goodness, a silent Canada thought to himself, why can't I look that good in a suit?

"See what I mean?" America chuckled.

"Yeah," Britain replied, "Now that you mention it, it is kind of unnerving."

Seriously, Canada continued, that guy could make my great aunt's dress look like it was tailored just for him. He looks good in anything.

"Hey Canada!" America waved his hand in front of Canada's nose and the latter flinched, realizing this was the second time in less than fifteen seconds he'd lost himself in thought. America laughed, and Britain gave his usual shallow, hard-to-read smile before looking back out at the sunset, soaking in the lovely sound of pickaxes on stone.

"It's getting dark. I think I'm going to turn in for the night, alright?" America slid his feet off the glass table, revealing a small spiderweb crack where his steel boots had hit it a bit too hard. He set his empty mug of coffee on the table and stretched before yawning and rubbing his eyes.

"Oh... Alright, America. I guess I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"A little word of advice, bro – stop putting question marks after your statements. You'll have so many more friends."

Canada and Britain watched as America walked off to the west, towards the ports that would bring him back south to his home. Canada sipped quietly from his coffee cup, careful not to disturb the peaceful silence that he had the privilege to spend with Britain.

After he had waited long enough and the comfortable silence had fully served its purpose, Canada decided to break it. "Britain?"

"Yes, Canada?" Britain had always used a bit of a softer tone with Canada than with America.

"Since when does America wear suits? Didn't he bury them after that whole episode you two had a while back?"

"That's what I thought too."

"You know," Canada continued, "he seems to be warming up to you."

"Maybe. I'd like to think so." Britain paused for a few seconds to look out at the setting sun and the sky, painted with purple and pink and a gold even richer than the kind in the ground. "Perhaps he's starting to see what you've seen all along."

"And... And that is?"

"Oh, I don't know. The value of learning, maybe. The price of... well... being alone, I guess. For the longest time he thought he could make it all alone, with no help from anyone."

"That sounds like him." Canada nodded. If he had as much attention as his brother had, why, he could... Well... He didn't know, really. He could do stuff. Important stuff. Good stuff.

"And a while ago he decided that maybe friends aren't so bad after all. And do you remember who he decided to be friends with? Yeah – it was France!" Britain's voice raised in a slow crescendo as he spoke. "After all the years of hard work, all the sweat and tears and long nights staring out my window wondering what on Earth I'm going to do about that impossibly confusing little boy, he had the nerve to show up every Saturday at France's doorstep with flowers!"

The air was growing more tense. "Britain," Canada said, trying to soothe Britain's nerves before he burst, "don't worry. He's starting to like you. And your lessons haven't gone to waste, after all. I mean, he wore a suit today, but I didn't see him in France's bright red pants."

"Aww," Britain said, smiling, "How sweet of you, Canada, always trying to cheer me up. Thank you. I suppose you're right. I suppose he is growing a little more sensible."

Canada blushed and stared down at the remaining coffee in his mug. He swirled it around a little, watching the little brown hurricane at the bottom of the cup. "You have a lot to think about, don't you, Britain, what with Germany and Austria and Hungary building big boats and what not?"

"Yeah. Sometimes I don't know how I'm going to make it through to the next morning." Britain sighed and ran his hand through his unkempt blond hair. "I saw the strangest thing yesterday after a diplomatic meeting with Germany – and I swear, those are going downhill fast; each of them is more tense than the last, but I digress – I think I saw Italy in the bushes outside Germany's house, peeking through the window and watching our meeting. I'm afraid the little guy's taken a liking to Germany."

"Oh dear... That can't be good."

"It really isn't. I don't know what I'm going to do. I've been trying to invite Italy to lunch every now and again to see if I can strike something up with him and keep him away from Germany, but he politely declines every time. It's frustrating."

"Don't stress yourself out, Britain. You've always got me."

Britain's smile let a good deal of warmth show through. "Of course, Canada. And likewise, I'll always have your interests at heart. Anything for you, little one."

Canada looked away. He thought he had outgrown the term "little one" long ago, but he'd never had the courage to say so. After all, it was endearing, and it meant that people liked him, even if they liked him as a child.

"Well," Britain said, "I think I'll turn in too now. It's a long way home, and the sun's just about finished setting. It's been nice talking with you, Canada. And it's nice to speak freely once in a while. It's hard to be anxious around someone so calm."

Canada nodded and waved goodbye. But just as Britain was turning around, slipping his arms into his coat's sleeves, he ran into a rather upset America with a crumpled yellow sheet of paper in his hand.

"Canada!" America shouted, his face a couple of shades closer than normal to red, "Explain this -" he shoved the paper in front of Canada's face and waved it about. Canada tried and failed to read it – it was too close for him to focus, and moving too quickly. "The men at the ports out west won't let me take my gold home unless I pay you a tariff! Those are my ports! What are you up to, Canada?"

"Oh, I... um..." Canada had feared that this was going to happen – it had been gnawing on him somewhere at the back of his mind for the whole day. "Well... last I checked, they were on Canadian soil... Weren't they, Britain?"

"Well," Britain said cautiously, taking his time to choose his words, "I don't know whether -"

"No," America cut him off, "Of course they're mine. I built them years ago!"

"Actually, I built them," Britain said in a more assertive tone. "Both of you were just toddlers."

"And you gave them to me," Canada said before America could seize the air-time, "didn't you?" A bead of sweat ran down his forehead and he could feel his ears heat up and redden slightly.

"I can't say..."

The three of them were quiet for a moment, America fuming, Britain almost frightened, Canada with a lethal look in his eyes. Oddly enough America was the first to cool down. "How about this," he said, "Since I, unlike the rest of you, have embraced a just and fair way of solving disputes since, well, forever, I propose that we have a vote. Canada, I know you have your constitution and everything, but that's not saying much. You're still Britain's little kid. So you'll have two votes. Britain will have one since he really isn't as relevant here as the rest of us. And I, the only directly involved real country, will have three votes. Sounds good?"

"No," Canada protested, "How is that in any way fair? I don't -"

"Sure," Britain interrupted, "That's reasonable."

"Now that that's sorted out," America announced as Canada clenched his fists and hissed under his breath, "Who here believes that I, the United States of America, am the sole proprietor of the ports on Alaskan, mark my words, not Yukon soil?"

America raised his hand. Canada of course did not. And Britain, piercing the ground a few metres in front of him with an intense, thoughtful stare, stayed silent and immobile. Canada's heart leapt. Britain's words echoed in his mind – I'll always have your interests at heart. So he was telling the truth.

But in that case it'll be a tie, won't it? How will that get us anywhere?

America's eyes betrayed a hint of unsurety and his voice faltered. "Who here believes," he said in a rather sullen tone, "that the ports belong to Canada?"

Canada, beaming, raised his hand and stared America straight in the eyes for a few seconds before turning to look at Britain. His smile vanished. Britain might as well have been a statue, sitting on the chair, frozen in thought. He did not raise his hand. He did not speak.

"Britain?" Canada said, suddenly insecure.

"Britain?" America echoed, "Are you going to vote?"

"Yes," Britain replied, "Yes, I will. But... I... I won't do it today. I need a little bit of time first. Is that okay?"

America ground his teeth and glanced at a wide-eyed Canada before speaking. "Sure. Tomorrow, alright Britain? Tomorrow for sure."

Britain nodded, turning his piercing stare towards the horizon. The sun had set, and the stars were starting their journey through the endless black sky. An oppressive quiet, a fragile peace reigned supreme as the three parted to return to their respective homes with not a single word more.

Canada felt sick in the gut. He just couldn't know what to think.

Britain was glued to his seat, and as much as he was trying to create a defiant sort of look in his eyes, something closer to fear showed through. Germany's basement was a scary place.

Prussia's laughter rang out clear and crisp as a drop or two of saliva landed on Britain's face. Britain blinked but did not wipe it off. He couldn't wipe it off. Not here, with this guy staring down his throat.

"You know," Prussia picked up where he left off, "You really should be thankful that you get to spend so much time down here in my domain. I'll bet a little bit of my power has seeped into you. Maybe you'll become just a little more awesome through osmosis."

Prussia laughed again. Britain grimaced.

"You poor soul," Prussia's ruby eyes smiled a malevolent, mischievous smile. "You know how osmosis works, right? The less of something you have, the more of it you soak up from your environment. But if you take in too much, you just might burst."

The laughter redoubled before dying down with a contented sigh. "I digress. As I was saying, my engineers really are miracle workers. They gave me this rifle just this morning. It's wonderful. Shoots straight. Shoots hard. There's only one problem with it – the trigger is very loose. You never know when it just might -"

A blast of thunder filled the windowless room as fire leapt out of the gun's barrel. Britain nearly jumped out of his seat as a bullet buried itself deep into the floorboards between his feet. As the ringing in his ears faded he could hear Prussia laughing again, louder than before, louder than he had imagined possible.

"It's too bad you don't have your little America to defend you any more," Prussia mocked, "He's stronger than you could ever be. But really, after all's said and done, I don't suppose it makes any difference. You can die now or die later, because no one can stand up to the awesomeness of the mighty Prussia."

The strangest kind of quiet was present in the room as Prussia, leaning forward in his chair, stared deep into a vulnerable Britain's eyes.

"You may leave now."

Britain got up in a rush, putting on his jacket, and walked as calmly as he could up the stairs to Germany's ground floor. He made his way out of the house, taking care not to make eye contact with Germany, who was looking at him as one looks with something odd between pity and contempt, or Austria, who couldn't be disgraced to so much as glance at such a frightened little animal, or Hungary, who held her husband's hand, distracting herself from the many things that needed thinking about with small talk.

The air cleared up as Britain reached the world outside Germany's house, slamming the front door behind him. He could think again.

Italy was sitting in the bushes outside as usual. He had become an afterthought, lost among the infinite, self-propagating dilemmas Britain had to sort out. He tried again anyways: "Good day, Italy."

"Salve, mister Britain."

"Lunch?"

"No, thank you kindly."

"I'm learning to make pasta, Italy, and I was thinking that maybe you'd like to try it."

"Ehh..." Italy's eyes darted back and forth as he sifted through the many things he could say, looking for the most appropriate way to turn Britain down. "I have pasta too often. I was going to have something different today?"

"Really?" Britain was surprised, "What did you have in mind?"

"Oh, I don't know. There are lots of good things out there. Potatoes are really good if you know how to cook them. Potatoes and sausages and sauerkraut with eisbein."

Britain cursed under his breath.

Sauerkraut.

Bloody sauerkraut.

Seriously?

Once he was out of Italy's view, Britain paced about on the sidewalk, pulling at his hair, clenching his teeth, trying to sort out the many thoughts and emotions that tossed him back and forth like a little schooner in a tempest. He was losing friends. Losing support. Losing the war that loomed on the horizon, threatening to break out in a wild storm of lightning and fire at any moment.

Canada and America were waiting at the glass table for Britain as he walked back to the place where the whole tariff incident had happened the night before. The tinkering sound of the workers in the valley was like wind chimes in a calm autumn breeze, but this time he could only hear it in his right ear. His left was at times deaf, or still faintly ringing.

America was dressed up in his suit and tie as if just for him. It was almost enough to make him smile. Almost. But given the circumstances, that was pretty impressive.

Britain could not, however, look at Canada.

"And here's our good friend Britain," America said half-mockingly. "Where've you been all day?"

"How about I explain that issue," Britain replied, "after we're through with this one."

"Alright..." America's voice contained an emotion in the realm of curiosity, bordering on concern. "But really, man, look at yourself in the mirror once in a while. Your hair's even worse than usual and your eyes are sunken in. Were you in a fight or something?"

"I guess you could say that."

"Awesome! Did you win?"

When Britain showed no sign of answering, America continued. "Dude, next time you're in a fight, tell me. It's been too long since our last little bout, and I'm getting out of shape."

Britain couldn't help but give the shallowest grin. Maybe Canada was right the night before. Maybe Prussia was wrong that morning. "Anyways," Britain said after a couple moments of dead air, "why don't we get to our vote?"

"Great idea," America was shifting back and forth in his seat, overcome with excitement. "So last I recall, I gave myself three votes and Canada gave himself two. It's your turn now, Britain."

"Yes, I suppose it is."

"So who are you going to vote for?"

"I..." Britain paused for a second or two to silence the suspicions in his mind that maybe he was making the wrong choice. "I vote for America."

America smiled wide, clapped, and got up from his seat, holding his hand out to Britain. Britain closed the distance, shaking his hand as America drew him into a hug.

"Thank you so much, Iggy. I knew I could count on you. Maybe you're not the stiff old man I thought you were."

And the contagious smile spread to Britain, who let himself forget about his troubles out east. Right then and there, the world was perfect.

"So, Britain, what's wrong? What's been troubling you?"

Britain was shocked and grateful and happy. This was a side to America that he'd never seen before. The America he knew would have been quite eager to deride him for his sunken eyes, uncombed hair and tired voice. This – this caring was new and strange and wonderful.

"It's... quite complicated, really." was all Britain could come up with in reply.

"Nothing's too complicated when you take things step by step." America encouraged Britain to continue. "Come on, Iggy, tell me how I can help."

"Well, you see... It's Germany. And Austria. And... that blasted Prussia"

"Oh." America's happiness was toned down a little as his smile weakened and he withdrew from the hug. "Oh. Britain, I'm real sorry. I'd love to do anything and everything for you, but... Germany's... you know... Oh, I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do."

Britain's smile vanished in an instant, and the smallest tear took shape in his eye. "I – I see. It... I... I guess it's okay. I can't expect you to bring trouble upon yourself for business not your own..."

America took a step back and straightened out his suit's collar. "I mean, wars are kind of a big deal. I can't just jump right in as if I'm going to turn the world around all by myself or something. Europe's, you know, a long way away."

"What do you mean, America? Who says you can't turn the world around? Maybe you could... And maybe you could be a hero."

"A hero, huh?" The concept seemed to be of great interest to America. "A hero."

"Yes, America," Britain's smile returned, albeit weaker. He was making progress. "A hero! And they could call you... Captain America!"

"Or even Field Marshal America. Now that would be something."

"Come on, America, help me out. Be a hero."

"A hero." America thought hard for a moment, shifting his gaze from Britain's eyes to the horizon over his shoulder. "I'll have to think about it."

Britain's shoulders sagged and his little grin faded again to nothing. "Think well."

America turned on his heel and took a few long strides towards the port before stopping abruptly and looking back at Britain. "Hey Britain," he said, "Where did Canada go?"

"Oh," Britain touched his forehead. "I, uh... He completely slipped my mind."

"Me too," America said. "You didn't see him leave?"

"No. I didn't see him at all after I voted."

"Huh. Well..." America frowned. "No matter. I'll see you tomorrow, Britain. And I'll investigate this whole 'hero' thing you've got going, alright Iggy?"

"Yeah. That sounds swell."

America ambled away to the port, and Britain's eyes wandered up to the clouds as his hand wandered to the steel flask on his belt. He was alone again. It was going to be a long day, and an even longer night afterwards.

Canada soaked in the beautiful, crystal-clear night sky as if it was medicine to cure his pain. He didn't know what to think. He couldn't know what to think. Never in his darkest dreams had he imagined that Britain would choose America over him...

Anything for you, little one.

He had been sure, the night before, that he would have Britain's vote. It was enough of a slap on the cheek when Britain said he needed the night to think it over. When he ended up voting for America, it... well... Canada was devastated.

I'll always have your interests at heart.

Always.

What to do, what to say? What to think?

With a war larger than the world had ever seen before just around the corner, Canada needed all the help he could get. America didn't need those ports. America was rich enough. America probably wasn't even going to be involved in the Great War that was brewing. Why did America get the ports?

And Canada knew that when it happened – when that wretched thing called war happened again, as if he hadn't seen enough of it in his life – he was going to have to participate. For Britain, of course. Anything for Britain.

But...

But what had just happened? What was Britain thinking? How could he be so inconsiderate, so rash, so... dishonest?

Canada kicked the ground with his steel-toed boot, prying the earth open with his toes. And the birds sung on, and the picks hit the stone, and the clouds crawled across the sky. The stars kept their courses, unswayed by his anger.

Why? Why had Britain done that? Why, by the sun and the moon and everything good on the planet had Britain chosen the rebellious, uncooperative, self-glorifying child over the loyal, selfless, supportive one?

And even from a purely selfish point of view, why would Britain have given the ports to America, who had no interest in the war out east, when giving them to Canada would have at least earned some more money for an ally?

It was bizarre. Bizarre and perplexing and unfathomable. And -

"Well hello there America!"

Canada turned around to see Britain slowing down from a jog, waving in his direction. Canada was confused for a moment, and looked around for America. Hadn't America gone home already?

Oh. Hang on... This wasn't the first time this had happened. Perhaps he could...

An evil idea took hold of Canada.

"Hey there Britain!" Canada added a somewhat sharper edge to his voice and raised it to something that bordered on a shout. His voice dripped with self-confidence.

"Hullo!" Britain wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead. "Fancy seeing you here. I thought you left a few hours ago."

"Yeah, no, I decided to stick around for a while."

"Thinking hard?"

"Oh, aren't we all."

Britain chuckled. "So," he said, "have you made up your mind yet?"

"Hm?" Canada asked. Perhaps he had missed some conversation between America and Britain after he had gotten up to go, an emotional wreck, after the latter had cast his vote.

"About heroism," Britain reminded him, "about saving the world."

"Oh. Yeah," Canada said, "Being a hero would be nice."

Britain's eyes widened and he smiled a deeper smile than Canada had ever seen before. Britain's shoulders returned to their proper, upright positions as he took on a straighter posture, suddenly inspired by an immense joy.

"Oh, thank goodness," Britain exclaimed, "Thank you America. Thank you so much. You have no idea how happy the world can be, when you..." He leaked a few tears and wiped them with his sleeve before throwing himself into Canada's open arms. "Thank you so much!"

Canada shivered, a peculiar tingle running down his spine as he felt the warmth of an embrace that belonged to someone else. An embrace that was not his. An embrace that he had stolen. "Think nothing of it, Britain. Anything for you."

The two of them stood there in the moonlight, Canada savouring every last bit of Britain's company and Britain enjoying that of an imaginary America. The symphony of the stars played a soft melody for Canada, a melody both ecstatic and weeping, grieving in bitter joy for the death of sincerity, for Canada had murdered truth and replaced it with a man-made happiness.

And as for Britain, the glorious quiet was all he wanted, all he needed to make it through the night and the difficult days to come.

They stood there in the perfect darkness for hours that felt like days, every minute worth more than the gold beneath their feet, more than a lifetime, more than the world. And the symphony played on, and the clouds crawled across the sky, and the stars kept their courses, as if just for Canada and his new-found confidence.

But the symphony produced more than just wistful, happy melodies. It produced thoughts, ideas, and doubts. It reminded him of the crime he was committing. It tortured him with its passiveness that spoke louder than words, reminding him of his wrongdoing.

And after a while Canada could no longer tolerate it. An urge of either incredible lucidity or ill-meaning madness compelled him to say something that he'd have wished he'd never even thought:

"I'm not America."

Britain froze for a few eternal seconds, and then he pulled out of the embrace. "Y – You're..."

"I'm Canada."

"Oh, no," Britain stuttered, "Surely it can't be – I... Oh goodness no."

"Yes, Britain. It's me. Canada. Do you not recognize me?"

Britain cowered under Canada's glare. His world was falling apart. "I... Oh, I'm so, so sorry, Canada. I didn't mean to -"

"To break the promises you made to me every single day as a child and repeated just last night?" Canada laughed bitterly. "Right. You just go right on believing that."

Britain avoided Canada's eyes, looking instead at the ground under his feet. Canada sighed and looked up at the sky before softening his tone a little and asking the question that had been gnawing on him: "Why did you do that? Why did you vote for America?"

"I'm so sorry, Canada. I -"

"Why?"

"I'm sorry. You know how it is. There's a war coming, a huge one, just on the horizon, and... well... America's more, you know..."

"I don't know. More what?"

"More... relevant... than you. He's stronger, you know, and he can actually fight, and I kind of need him to..." Britain was cut short by something, he couldn't tell what, something deadly about Canada's demeanour that seemed to be getting more hostile by the second. "Oh no, I didn't mean it like that. Oh no. No, no, that's not what I meant to say!"

"You meant to say," Canada corrected him, "That I am weak and unneeded, and – irrelevant – so you don't want me anymore! Is that it?"

"No."

"You meant to say that you just held on to me as long as I had a use, but now that there's a big war coming with big people in it you may as well leave me at the curb because I'm just not useful anymore?"

"No! Goodness, Canada, what's gotten into you?"

"A sense of self-worth, that's what! Listen to me, Britain. See to it that you hear each and every single one of the words that I'm about to say. If you really care as little as it seems, you can have America for all I care. But when the Great War comes, mark my words, you won't have me. I refuse to bail you out of this one. You've used me long enough. I'm unneeded."

"No, Canada, please no..."

"Yes. It was your choice. Your vote."

Britain's shoulders sagged back down again as a few tears came to his eyes. "I'm sorry, Canada. That's not what I meant at all."

"I don't care."

Canada watched Britain as he started the long walk west to the port where his great steel freighter would bring him to his home. He'd pay a tariff to America first, of course. But the gold didn't matter to Canada any more. The money and the tariff were insignificant. What he had just lost was the friendship it had taken him more than two centuries to build.

It was his fault, and his fault alone. He could have let America have the ports. Both America and Britain would have liked him more. Or he could have let Britain know it was him and not America earlier than he had, and perhaps some decent, honest conversation would have fixed things. But it was Canada who had ruined that perfect night. There was no-one to blame but himself.

Canada fell down to his knees, weeping for the death of sincerity. If there was any way – any way at all to make it up to Britain, he would gladly go to the end of the world and back for him to repair the damage caused by the many lies that he had told that night.

For when he had told Britain that he didn't care for the War, he had known deep down that he was lying.