A/N: This is my first, and likely going to be only, Hetalia fanfiction. As a proud American, I was inspired by the concept of the states having their own personification. Takes place during George Washington's retreat through New Jersey.

His feet hurt.

America had been running for what had seemed like forever. Like the young patriot besides him, that wasn't stopping him. The Brits, the king's soldiers, were still not far behind. No time for hurt feet.

His feet were cold.

Hardly anyone, only the officers had shoes even close to being worth a damn. There was no money. It was a stretch to feed everybody properly, and many were a bit skinnier when they first came to fight. It had been this way since America had left Boston with General Washington's men.

His feet were bleeding.

The shortage of money wasn't just limited to shoes and food. Bandages for the wounds had to be handed out sparingly, knowing that their limited supply could mean the difference of dying and living to fight another day. America just wished there was enough to properly bandage his feet from the cold damage.

He felt like he just needed to stop.

America looked up, seeing General Washington up front on his horse, his mere presence encouraging their ragtag army of artisans and farmers to move onwards. He wasn't sure if they could win this war, he wasn't even sure if these people had a good fight in them for the British Army. But he did know that this was all they got, unless France got of his lazy ass to help him.

He felt his feet go out from under him.

America collapsed into the snow, ready to give up. There was no way that he would outrun the enemy. The British Army would catch up to him, and hand him over to England. England had been lenient in the past, but with this new revolt, the older nation would have him on a leash to tight that he would be unable to breath, what made him a nation of his own slowly suffocating.

A fair of small hands tugged him out of the snow drift. Squinting, he looked up to see the face of his son, New Jersey. "Come on," the colonial personification said, dragging him to his feet. Leaning on the young colony (state! Surely, they would unite under one banner with all the rest if they somehow won this war) for support, they ran after the Continental Army.

At the border, Delaware was waiting for them, to help through his territory. They were there to fight the good fight. Seeing his children uniting together, despite their disputes, made America think that someday, somehow, he would be the nation of the people that England had failed to be. He was the hero, anyways.

His feet still hurt.