It had all started, the day that I'd met him.

He was young and just a little smaller than me; I had seen the look of childish glee and determination in his eyes then.

I couldn't forget that first meeting; young nations or in his case at that point, micronations, were not all that common.

I found myself instinctively watching out for him as there was so much that could go wrong in a nation's earlier years.

I still wonder if he knew just what he was getting into, wanting to be a nation as badly as he did; all of us had our bruised pasts.

Mine did not just center on becoming communist, becoming a part of the Soviet Union, feeling the terror in my veins of upsetting Russia.

I knew of other battles, tough times, and I had known even then that being a nation was a lot harder than one might think.

I remember hearing of his adoption and yet found myself worrying what it would all mean; he was separated from his big brother that he didn't get along with, but was still more of family than many of us had known.

I remember that first conversation with his adoptive parents or siblings whichever they all preferred to be called as I heard for the first time and saw then that Sealand was doing fine.

He'd met Ladonia, a boy about his age, who like Sealand had a hard to explain history despite how recent and the almost simple beginnings that we all had.

I remember the gleam in his blue eyes, so full of wonder and joy, and I knew then that he'd make a great nation though no one could avoid our mistakes, the pit falls of bad decisions.

I know that every full fledged nation has their dark sides, the pains of existing with shifting times, the confusion of politics and leaders.

I imagine that Sealand does not know of all of this nor will he truly understand until his history becomes a long marking from the beginnings of old.

I watch after him; I feel as if being a small nation, myself, I must look after other ones.

I watch as his legs grow longer and as his eyes grow more serious; he's still happy, excited, but there is an almost dull glow to the past joy now.

He has begun to realize that being a nation has its ups and downs and that not every flag can avoid the stain of blood.

I watch after him and when his independence is a bit better established, and he's closer to my height, I defend him from the other nations that may think that he isn't ready yet.

None of us were ready for the long and exhausting years, the little pin pricks of being nations, the rise and fall of empires, the loss of losing even one citizen, let alone many in wide battlefields that either become an expanse of sea or a long pasture that had seen better days.

I'm there when he arrives in the night, clothes fresh torn from battle, tears pooling in aquamarine eyes, and I hold him and listen to the ache in his voice.

I know that he fears the other nations now, that he feels his own eagerness to become one of them down to the very last bone of his body; we've all felt that burning desire to rise up, claim ourselves and our people as our own, break away from being colonies or being too small to stand up for ourselves.

I hear the hiccup of tears in his voice and only hold him closer; I fear for the history that is made by bloodshed and bullet wounds.

I wish that I could will it away from him, anyone but him.

My hands move of their own accord, comforting where there is none; I listen as he tells me about England's denials of his newly acclaimed country status and hear of the fear in Finland's eyes.

I hold him, knowing that I'll fight for the teenager that he's now become, and only pull away to tell him that he is strong, that he is a nation; the words that we all needed to hear at one time.

It hurts to know that he's growing up, leaving the years of relative peace and content childhood behind for the issues of statehood.

I hold him and promise to fight for him; I have no idea whether we can stay loyal as bonds shift all of the time to new friendships as if old ones could be written off the map.

Perhaps they are, when you look at a map from the eighteen hundreds and see old alliances, old sides, picked as if from straws.

I will remain strong for him as he doesn't know quite what he's gotten into yet; I've grown from a weak, childish nation under another's thumb to a stronger, a little more confident one and that is a lesson that can't be taught, only learned.

I will remain by his side for the memories that he hasn't made yet, the scars that haven't formed yet, and the nightmares that have yet to come.

I'll listen to the nights when the pain haunts and when battle wounds sting harsher than pride; he deserves to be taken care of, because he is not yet an adult, but will only grow up faster through this.

When I pull back, he's asleep, wounds slowly healing from sight though the memory of them will last forever.

I carry him to bed and watch his even breaths before sleep turns to nightmares and wonder why it is he had to grow up so fast; it is there in the laborious breaths and the shaky shifts.

I wonder if he'll make it through nationhood, wonder if he won't become a distant memory, like the Roman Empire, Prussia, The Holy Roman Empire, Germania, and the countless others that fell.

I reach out to hold the nation that is still a child close for perhaps the last time; nationhood will scare away the past and force him into the present after all.

Pride will probably one day make him long to be more independent than this, than clinging to a nation that is older, looking for the warmth and support of a parent rather than just another friend.

This is where my heart breaks as he doesn't have England at his side and most of us haven't even had this much.

I know of very few that would have remained by my side then if they could; I'm lucky compared to most.

I can remember watching the steel of guns clicking, the blood dripping from a young teenager's open wounds, and I remember the moments when gunshots left, and I could hold the boy that already felt too much to be considered a boy.

I listen that night, the first real battle, one that wasn't only half-forced by the others, and I worry that this scar will never give him rest again as I nurse him back to health, and he finally asks me about my independence.

I sit back and tell him then, about Russia, about Communism, and about the ache of not having what my people should have.

I don't hold back; I tell him of how independence really was at first, how difficult it is no matter how often one has become independent, how some days, when you're really hungry, you long for your past of dependence and how you still can't sleep well at night.

I tell him of the nightmares, the images that my mind made up to haunt me, to convince me that no one cared and that every single second with Russia was worse than it probably was, and how I can hardly tell my past from the fabricated stories anymore though I can feel the truth in me.

I know that my history isn't all fictionalized yet some stories sound better told from another than myself; I tell him how the history books tell of my past, how not all are true.

I know the others don't always see me as they should, that they don't always stop to think about how I felt also.

"I'm young to them too, not much older than you."

It hurts to think about after all of this time that some of the others like me don't truly see me, that my people aren't as well known as they should be; I'm horribly biased to them however.

I tell him of the little pains of being a country, of the pains of war as more than your own; I don't have to tell him this though, he's already learned.

I do hold him though as not every nation has felt someone by their side; who was to hold America when it became too much or Finland when war marked his land?

I know that no one did this for me; I can only do what I can though before he's fully grown and has left my care.

I see the tired pride in Sealand's eyes as the battle is won, and I wonder whether he's seventeen now or eighteen; he's taller than me now.

I can see the exhaustion written on his face and know that sleep won't happen yet.

His boss has papers for him to sign and treaties to deal with; he won't sleep until at least a few days from now if his nightmares will let up some.

I wish that I could tell him that those nightmares subside in the next year, but I can't lie to him; I never could really.

I smile back at him and offer my shoulder for when times get rough.

I don't know whether he'll come like my promise entails or whether he'll flee to his own people, his own internal remedy for pain.

I leave just for now; I know that I'll see him again one day.

I can barely count the years that have passed when I see him again; I'm starting to catch up with his new height.

He's nowhere near as tall as America is and probably will never be that tall; he's much closer to England's height, perhaps an inch or two shorter.

I can tell from the curve of his smile that today was a good day so far and that he must have not dreamt of war terrors last night.

I can't help but smile at him, staring up at the man that once was a small micronation, clustered close to the others his age and now has become a man strong enough to defend his people and brave enough to take on England or anyone else that stands in his way.

I hope that he won't have to anytime soon and that he'll be neutral like Switzerland and Liechtenstein remain to this day.

I wonder if he sees the nearly paternal way that I look at him as I step closer and feel his strong arms wrap around me and listen as he invites me to play with him as if we both were too young to know of war.

I wish that it was that easy to forget our pasts as we act out some silly game that his creativity allowed and hope just for a moment to forget all that locked us to our pasts.