I just recently got into this fandom, and of course, this was one of the first plotbunnies to bite. I realize that there are a lot of these, but I felt the need to contribute my own.
America slouches sullenly over his coffee, his elbows propped up on the table. It's well into the beginning of autumn, and there's a chill in the air that would numb his fingers if it weren't for the warm cup in his hands. He has to admit that it's a pretty sub-par latte, but he appreciates the warmth. Maybe he spends too much time in California; he's forgotten how cold Washington D.C. can get when it's not summer.
The weather isn't really the cause of his mood, to be honest. In fact, there really isn't a discernible cause at all. His boss is a nice guy, just the type that America would love to get roaring drunk with, or play golf with, or debate football teams with over a Double Whopper and a large fries.
Trouble is, those activities are never on the agenda when they're in the same room.
"Pft," America scoffs to himself. He's being silly. Everyone knows a nation can't choose its leader. Well, technically the nation does, in his case, but not the nation nation. Not him. He can only watch, and hope, and guide. That's all any of them can do, and they can't always be responsible for the screw-ups and the assholes. Germany still punches anyone who brings up You-Know-Who.
Still, America can't help but privately hope his people elect a Democrat the next time around. They're all about education, aren't they? Maybe if they get the ball rolling here, America won't have to sneak a dictionary along whenever he talks to England.
Still, it's going to be a long few years. And America plans to start them off by going home, playing video games into the wee hours of the night, and sleeping until noon.
It's a good plan.
At 7:59 a.m., America turns over in his sleep, further tangling his untidy sheets. His hands curl into fists, his closed eyelids twitch, and a disturbed grunt breaks the silence in his bedroom. He sleeps on.
Fifteen minutes later, he draws a sharp, fast breath. He sleeps on.
Six minutes later, he rolls onto his back, teeth clenching. He sleeps on.
Twenty-two minutes pass before a strangled whimper escapes him. He kicks the rumpled sheets away and sleeps on.
At 8:46, sharp pain, the likes of which he has not felt in a long time, lances through him like a hot knife. His eyes snap open in the dark; wide awake, he sits bolt upright and screams.
Something he could never have seen coming, something he knows he can't stop, begins.
He is shaking. Something has happened, is still happening, slowly but surely. He staggers out of bed, fumbling on his nightstand for Texas, and manages to slip them on as he stumbles to his television. By some miracle his trembling hands find the buttons, and he turns it on.
The pain is not fading. For a few minutes he wheezes for breath and changes channels frantically, heedless of the way his eyes sting and water. It's the light from the TV, he tells himself (it's not). It's the light and nothing more (it is so much more). He is not afraid (he has never been so terrified). It may turn out to be nothing (it is everything, oh God, it is everything).
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he finds it.
World Trade Center disaster. The words strike home like a knife in his heart.
"—unconfirmed reports this morning that a plane has crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center. CNN Center right now is just beginning to work on this story..." America is already on his way out, sprinting as best he can as he feels the knife in him twist.
It would take most people hours of driving to reach New York from Washington. America is not most people.
His mind is utterly devoid of thought as he runs. Anywhere else, anywhere at all, he would be confident and determined, ready to be the hero he's always tried to be. Now, however, the bravado is gone, and only empty terror is left.
He is halfway there when he stumbles to his hands and knees with another agonized scream. No one is there to see his anguish, or hear the way his broken cry of pain is cut off by liquid rising in his throat. He covers his mouth as he gags, and each cough brings more tearing pain to his chest. Dark flecks fall through his fingers and spatter the ground, and he can only stare in horror when his hand comes away covered in blood. His watch reads 9:04 by the time he forces himself back to his feet and carries on.
At 9:37, the pain comes again, but this time he simply staggers, chokes, and forces himself onward. The rest is a blur until he reaches New York City a little after ten o'clock, when the pain strikes a fourth time and nearly drives him to his knees. He runs through the stench of smoke and flame and everything that is ugly in the world, he runs until he is sure that the soles of his feet will bleed if he takes another step, and he keeps running still. The pain drives him onward, and he is close enough now that he knows what it is he feels. His people. His people are...
He sees it. He nearly breaks, but he holds firm.
Oily smoke, black against the pale sky, rises from the World Trade Center, from his own beloved Twin Towers. Before his very eyes, the South Tower is slowly collapsing, and as he nears them, fighting through his own choking horror, he sees that it doesn't fall alone.
Thud... thud... thud... thud...
As rhythmic as a heartbeat.
Thud... thud... thud...
They show no sign of stopping.
Thud... thud... thud...
With nowhere left to run, the people trapped in the floors above throw themselves from the windows and fall to the unyielding ground below.
Thud... thud...
The bodies drop. It is a sound that will haunt America for years to come. He nearly breaks, but by some miracle he holds firm. For now, he stands at the foot of his Towers as one comes crashing down with its twin soon to follow, and can only stare in silent horror and swallow his tears as his children die.
A blond, bespectacled young man runs through a city he doesn't know well. He is one of many whose feet pound the pavement that morning. Few notice him; those that do are too caught up in the confusion to notice his uncanny resemblance to another man who might have passed them earlier, or to wonder why he calls the name of their country as he tears past.
"America!" He breaks free of a throng only to find himself trapped in another. "America, where are you?"
Canada doesn't shout often, but he does so now, or at least he does his best. His voice is thin in the midst of the commotion around him as he searches desperately for his brother. Alfred has to be here; he'll be drawn to it whether he likes it or not. But had he been in the Towers? The chance of that is minimal, but it drives Matthew on, twists at his heart, and forces the sour taste of bile to his throat.
It is nearly noon; he has taken far too long in getting here. Already, American air space has been closed off, not permitting takeoffs or landings. Of all the nations, Canada is probably most aware of this. The thought is trivial, however. For now, his concern is for his brother.
The air is thick as he nears the fallen towers. He coughs in the dust and and covers his face with his arm, to filter the air with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. It's hard to see. Behind his glasses, his eyes sting.
"America!" he calls, not particularly bothered by the possibility of being overheard. "Amer—" He changes tactics. "Alfred!"
There is no answer from the haze of airborne dust. Breathing into his sleeve, Canada forges ahead.
Around him, people stand in a daze, or flee, or sob, or call out to one another. There are policemen and firefighters everywhere, and for once Canada is glad not to be noticed. He slips past them and continues his search.
There are no words, in English or in French, for his relief when he catches sight of a blurry but unmistakeable figure ahead of him, standing before the ruined towers. He calls again, but his brother doesn't turn. Canada picks his way through the rubble to America's side.
"America?" He is afraid. He has not seen his brother this still and quiet since weeks before 1942.
The other nation does not offer a response. Cautiously, Canada reaches out to touch his shoulder. He expects his brother to jump, but America barely twitches.
A moment passes before his brother finally turns his head. There is a look of bewilderment on his face that might have been comical at any other time, but no one is laughing now. America's face, clothes, and hair are streaked with dust and grime, there are a few trickles of dried blood from the corners of his mouth to his chin, and his eyes are lost and confused.
"They're... they're gone," he says simply.
There is nothing that Canada can say to that.
It's a field.
For a moment, it seems so ridiculous that America almost thinks he's going to laugh. He knows he shouldn't, and he won't, but... it's a field. In the middle of Pennsylvania, of all places. And what the hell is in Pennsylvania, really? No major buildings for miles.
First his Twin Towers, then his Pentagon, and finally... a fucking field.
Today, it is littered with debris. Huge, twisted scraps of metal are strewn across the grass along with shredded and scorched cushions, the smoldering remains of one of his beloved airplanes. The bodies have already been taken away, those of his people and... and the ones that have done this to them. Eventually he will feel angry, but now all he can feel is numb and disoriented.
He has many questions about today. One of them is foremost in his mind: why here?
Why a field in Pennsylvania? It's so pointless, so... so random.
The answer comes immediately as he wanders through the remains of the downed plane. Perhaps it is because he knows his people; he knows each and every one who had been on that plane. He knows what they would have done, what they did do. It is random. Of course it's random. The murderers never intended to crash here. His people did.
They had fought. They had fought, and by God, they had won.
What's more, America reasons onward against his will, they'd had no practical reason to fight. They would have died either way. They knew that.
As America surveys the shattered plane, he knows in his heart that his children have done this for him. They have fought and died, not for their lives or those of their loved ones, but for strangers. For him.
Fierce pride wells up within him, tarnished by grief at their loss. He wavers, nearly breaking, and holds firm. His eyes sting. He looks back.
Canada has not left him. Throughout all the ugliness, the ruined towers, the burning Pentagon, and now this, his brother stands steadfastly behind him.
"They took care of it," America manages to say, his voice hushed with wonder. "They couldn't... they couldn't save themselves. But they..." His voice trails off.
"I know," Canada replies softly.
It is late afternoon in Lower Manhattan. No one seems to notice the quiet, blond-haired man in a dirt-covered bomber jacket among the police and the firefighters. Nor do they notice if he lifts a piece of rubble that he shouldn't be able to lift. The injured, bleeding, and half-conscious that he delivers to the hands of paramedics forget his face as soon as he turns away from them. No one but Canada sees him. No one but Canada sees the way he nearly breaks, but holds firm.
It is early the following morning by the time America buckles and finally retreats. Canada is impressed; his brother has worked through the entire night and has borne it as best he can. But now the loss begins to take its toll. His face is drawn and pale, and he staggers beneath the weight of a fragment of the South Tower (and Canada has not seen him stagger beneath any weight in a long, long time). Canada steps in then, steadying America with a hand on his arm as his brother sets aside the mass of stone. He refuses to release his hold. America gives a token resistance, but ultimately follows him.
Canada knows that America has a home to go to in New York, but drives him to the one in Washington D.C. instead. Not a word is passed between them for hours as America slumps down in the passenger seat and Canada lets him. America's silence is worrying, and the haunted look in his wide, pained eyes frightens him. Canada has hardly left his side, yet not once has he seen America show any emotion other than wide-eyed confusion, with maybe a touch of fear or pain.
Canada can only stay by him, to remind him of their proximity. Any resentment he might have felt toward his brother, any annoyance at America's inability to pay any attention to him, takes a back seat now. America needs him, and what truly frightens Canada is that America needs more than him, too.
In the back of his mind, Canada remembers the thousands of travelers that will now be trapped by America's shut-down airspace. He knows that America would let them reach their destinations if he could, but no one is willing to risk this happening again.
He reaches America's home in D.C. and pulls up to the sidewalk. Beside him, America opens the door and climbs out of the car as gingerly as an old man.
"Do you want me to come with you?" Canada asks. Alfred shakes his head once as he trudges up to his doorstep. As Canada watches, he opens the door almost mechanically, and disappears inside.
Canada starts the car again. He has work to do.
It hurts.
He'd thought that if he waited for the day to be over, or worked to take his mind off it, then perhaps it would fade. If anything, the pain has grown with each dead body, each half-alive victim of this mass murder, for it has made him all the more aware of his people dying around him. The previous morning alone had been nothing but death, hundreds and even thousands of lives destroyed in a matter of hours.
And still death has come like aftershocks of an earthquake, all through the night and through this very morning. He feels those who have survived the initial attacks, only to fade away lying in hospitals or buried beneath the ruined towers, and each death is another twist of the knife in his heart. He thinks he should be numb by now, but he isn't. He feels his people die, and knows each of them by name. He sees their faces in his mind's eye, and thinks of all the things they might have done had it not been for the previous day. He sprawls limply on his back in his untidy bed, lacking the energy to pull up the blankets and hide from the world, however he may want to. He is tired, too tired to sleep or be cowardly. So he lies still, unblinking, as his blood pounds rhythmically in his ears the way the bodies had struck the ground as the towers fell. The memory of the sound sickens him. He tries to block out the hideous pounding with the palms of his hands, but it only grows louder.
A whimper escapes him, and he whispers pleadingly to no one. "Stop... make it stop..."
It doesn't. He takes his hands from his ears, and the bodies continue to drop. His stomach rebels against him, bile rises in his throat, and he struggles to his feet and barely manages to stagger to the nearest bathroom before he is violently sick.
After a while the vomiting subsides, leaving him hunched over and coughing and spitting. Starved for air, he breathes deeply, and the muscles of his stomach ache from heaving. He feels dizzy and lightheaded as he climbs to his feet and flushes the mess away. Texas is crooked on the bridge of his nose, and there is not a single part of him that is steady. By some miracle he manages to rinse his mouth before he returns to his bed and collapses onto it, rolling onto his side. His fingers curl around the the corner of the sheet, and he clings to it for the sake of holding on to something.
He nearly breaks, but he hears the sound of the front door (he hadn't bothered to lock it) open. It's Canada, he thinks, Canada ignoring his earlier desire to be alone.
No, "desire" is wrong. He doesn't want to be alone, but he is. He's alone no matter how many are with him, so he might as well be alone in peace.
He is facing away from the doorway and doesn't see who enters. The muted footsteps on his carpet are hesitant, as if whoever is there is not sure they are welcome.
England is not sure if he is welcome. The unlocked door had been a small encouragement, but now he sees America and knows that it had been left unlocked not because he wanted visitors, but because he simply hadn't cared to lock it. America has always been a bit careless, to be sure, but the lethargy that England sees now is frightening. The younger nation lies with his back to England, curled up in his unmade bed. If he notices England's presence, he gives no sign of it.
Cautiously, England approaches him. He had remembered to take off his shoes before coming in, which is more than America can say; from the looks of it, he had simply lain down as he was, without even removing his jacket.
England says nothing (what is there to say?) as he seats himself by America's back. He has nothing planned to say or do, save for offering his little brother (and Alfred will always be his little brother, no matter what he says or how tall he grows) whatever comfort his presence might bring. He does not know the details, at least not as deeply as America does, but he knows what happened, and he knows that no nation, not even a superpower like America, should ever have to bear such a thing alone. In a moment of boldness, he reaches out and rests his hand on America's shoulder.
America turns his head, and his eyes seem to follow the hand on his shoulder back to its owner. England meets his gaze, and his heart twists with pity. Dark circles beneath America's eyes stand out like bruises on his ashen face, and England has never seen those blue eyes look quite so weary and lost. America is strong; England knows this perhaps better than any other nation. He is a law unto himself that marches to his own beat, and even England in the height of his power had been helpless to contain him. Now, however, England takes in America's haunted eyes and huddled form, and sees the vulnerable child he found and raised, centuries before, the child who had yet to grow so quickly on his own.
America turns away again. England can see how limp he is from exhaustion, and not for the first time, his heart goes out to the younger nation. He hesitates, just for a moment, then releases his shoulder and tenderly cards his fingers through his little brother's tangled hair. It is a comforting gesture, one that America makes no move to halt. He simply takes a deep breath and shakily lets it out.
"Oh say, can you see, by the dawn's early light..."
The song comes unbidden to England's lips. It is a tune that once caused him chagrin, one that he does not know well, but he finds himself quietly singing it now.
"What so proudly we hailed, at the twilight's last gleaming..."
He remembers lulling the young America to sleep with his own songs, in a time centuries before that he will always look upon with a certain fondness. The one he sings now is America's and America's alone, and it's a good melody, he'll grant. All through it, he continues to stroke America's hair comfortingly, and he feels his little brother relax beneath his gentle hand. He only knows the first verse, but he'll admit that it sums up everything America has ever stood for fairly well. England can't help but feel a little proud. Yes, America has had his rough patches, but he's stuck firmly to the ideals that drove him to seek independence in the first place. The history that he's made for himself is not as long as England's, but it is rich and worthy of pride, because he has always met the worst of situations and come out of them in one piece. Hopefully, this latest one will prove just as conquerable.
"Oh say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave... o'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?"
A silly question, England thinks as he finishes. Of course it does. He's seen it himself, on his way here. America's flag, "Old Glory," as he so proudly calls it, is flying in every city.
And maybe that's why England knows America will come through this.
England carefully leans over and sees that America has fallen asleep. There is a strange tightness in his throat that feels like nostalgia, like a longing for days long past. With a sigh, he rises carefully so as not to disturb him. He takes a step toward the door, intending to leave, only to dither for a moment and glance back at the exhausted, grieving nation.
He sighs.
He skirts the bed until he stands with America facing him, and feels a pang of sympathy at the sight of the younger nation's haggard face, and the unmistakeable red flecks on his collar. A stray notion passes through his mind, and he acts upon it before he can convince himself not to. America is lying on top of the sheets, but England pulls a blanket over him and, quickly (because he hasn't done this since the seventeenth century, and he's not likely to get another chance anytime soon), he leans down and presses a kiss to America's forehead. To his relief, the sleeping nation does not awaken.
There is nothing more for England to do. He smooths his little brother's hair one last time, and leaves.
America faces New York again the following day. It's strange to feel lost in his own most populous city, and a small part of him feels ashamed of the previous day he'd spent hiding from the world. It can't be helped; in any case, he's here now, and he'll stay if it kills him.
What he notices first is the heavy, acrid smell of smoke that he knows will not go away anytime soon. What he notices second are the missing posters.
Every available surface capable of holding a piece of tape, a nail, or a thumbtack is covered in missing posters. The photographs of hundreds of faces smile fixedly at him as he passes. He nearly averts his eyes from them, but it's useless; no matter where he looks, he'll see them. He shudders beneath a thousand frozen faces, knowing that precious few will be found alive.
He has reached an emptier part of the city, which is why the sound of loud, angry voices startles him. The voices rage and curse, syllables punctuated as if with physical blows, and beneath the shouting, a cry for help can be heard. America, who has always thought the way a hero should think, runs to answer it.
There are four of them, and at their feet an olive-skinned man bleeds on the pavement. His turban has nearly been torn from his head, his clothes are ripped, and there is little he can do but curl up and cover his head as punches and kicks rain down.
America sees red.
The next fifteen seconds are a blur as he throws himself between the man and his attackers and single-handedly forces them away from their victim. He doesn't harm them, because they are his children and he has seen enough of his children hurt these past days, but the man on the ground is one of his children as well, and in times like these they would do well not to forget that. Upon them he pours a small piece of his pain, and he can only hear fragments of his blistering reprimand over the pounding of his own heart. "–city has seen enough hell for a hundred goddamn – last thing this city needs is – not even a Muslim, he's a Sikh, you morons, and even if he – stop it! Just stop it!"
They flee from his fury. They will forget his face, and perhaps they will convince themselves that this never happened, but America can be satisfied that, at least for a moment, they glimpsed his anger and bitter disappointment at their foolishness. He helps the injured man to the nearest hospital, whispering downcast apologies, and is certain that he sees a glimmer of recognition in the half-conscious man's eyes before he leaves.
It's not an isolated incident; it's simply the only one he's there to stop. All across the country, mosques are destroyed, and his people are attacked and beaten in the streets for the crime of wearing turbans. As if they were the ones who had steered those planes into his towers. As if they had known, or had wanted this to happen. As if they weren't grieving just as sorely as all the others. Though he doesn't yet know it, in a few days such an attack will claim a life, adding one more name to the list of casualties of September 11.
America nearly breaks, but he holds firm, and goes to his home in New York to scream his frustration where no one will hear him.
England has left to return to his country, but America (maybe a little belatedly) finds a video of his Royal Guards playing "The Star-Spangled Banner" at Buckingham Palace in the wake of the attacks. He's touched; sometimes he forgets how thoughtful humans can be. It brings to mind England's visit the previous miserable day, and he remembers the half-forgotten feeling of the older nation's consoling presence. After squirming a little in reflexive embarrassment, he assures himself that no one is there to see, and allows himself a small, grateful smile.
As it turns out, England is not the only nation to think of him. He's soon quite surprised to find a handmade card from France in the mail, with the words Nous sommes tous Américains written inside. Not until after a run to the nearest library for a French dictionary is he able to translate the note, but when he does, he's taken aback and, if he's completely honest with himself, rather touched.
Several nations stop by to see him, to give their condolences and, he would like to think, check on his well-being. Australia is the first, which isn't surprising, considering that his boss has been in Washington. Ireland and India also make appearances, as does North Korea, though America normally sees very little of them. His old ally China also shows up, and makes quite clear his low opinion of terrorists.
A few nations stand out in America's mind. For example, he never would have expected Cuba to show up, but against all logic, he does. His bosses offer America's their support and any medical supplies they might need, and America honestly doesn't know what to think.
After Cuba, America is certain that no other nation can surprise him by showing up, but Russia comes close. The bear hug that America receives frankly gives him goosebumps, but for one thing he can recognize it as heartfelt, or at least as heartfelt as Russia can get, and for another, he'd rather not risk ducking out of it. Russia's cheerful advice on how to deal with those responsible for the attacks isn't the sort of thing one repeats in polite company, and he assures America that all hostility between their countries will be saved for after America has dealt with this tragedy. America wonders if it's wrong that he finds Russia's brand of solace bizarrely comforting.
Sweden doesn't visit, and America doesn't expect him to, but he hears about how the dour nation's flag was at half-mast all over his country for a day. He doesn't realize the significance of this until later, when he happens to look it up on the internet and find that such an honor is normally reserved for the death of a member of the royal family.
Japan also pays him a visit, not for video games as he normally does. He is stiff and restrained, as he always is, but his sympathy is clear enough, and less clear but still present is an undercurrent of anger on his friend's behalf. He lays a hand on America's shoulder, which is as close to a hug as America's going to get from him. "These acts should not be forgiven."
America had never intended to do so.
Three days after the terrible morning, America is out walking in Manhattan when who should catch up to him but Germany. He's not quite as easy with this former enemy as he is with Japan, but he's never let that bother him; it's difficult for anyone who isn't Italy or Prussia to be easy with Germany. Only in recent years has America been able to look at the tall, straight-backed nation without thinking of what his bosses have done in the past. Still, when Germany offers his hand, America takes it.
"These attacks are a declaration of war against the civilized world," Germany informs him firmly as he shakes his hand. "Not just you. We stand by you."
A little later, America sees pictures of the FGS Lütjens and tells himself that his eyes are watering because he's leaning too close to the computer screen.
The nation who stands out the most, at least in America's eyes, is the one he sees nothing of in the days following the attacks. He doesn't need to; he knows that Canada has his hands full, helping his bosses to handle the planes. His brother has taken it upon himself to neutralize any more threats by diverting hundreds of flights into his own land, and now that no threats have been detected, he plays host to all of the stranded passengers. Thousands of people hailing from all nations are now in Canada's hands, and he cares for them all until they can return home. It can't be easy, but it's a task that Canada carries out without complaint. The Maple Leaves at half-mast on top of it all leave America stunned, and slightly overwhelmed. He whispers "Operation Yellow Ribbon" under his breath, and tells himself that he will never forget.
But for all the comfort his fellow nations can offer, there is still an empty, smoldering hole in Lower Manhattan, and in the hearts of his people, that will not be easily filled. Still, somehow, America believes it will heal. It has to. He has not come this far to break now.
A week passes before it happens.
Evening is beginning to fall. Crowds still gather in the streets of New York for vigils, and America walks among them. His heart still aches every time he sees the empty sky where his towers should stand, and every time he turns on the news and sees more and more eyewitness evidence, recordings of phone calls, and shaky videos of the previous Tuesday morning. A week has passed, and yet somehow he has not shed a single tear, neither of grief over the people he has lost, nor of anger at those who have stolen them from him.
It happens in two parts.
He approaches a crowd of New Yorkers who stand together and converse in low tones. He feels the need to walk among his people in times like this, when they stand together as one. They've been doing that a lot lately; with a few regrettable exceptions, the attacks have driven New York to unite as it has never united before. People from all backgrounds and all walks of life have embraced one another, mourned as one, and come together in ways that make America remember why he loves his full name. It's a comfort in this tragedy, and one of the main reasons why this week has been bittersweet instead of simply bitter.
He sees a woman nearing the crowd as well, clearly intending to join it, and he watches her anxiously. He jogs to catch up as she approaches the edge of the throng.
Normally he wouldn't be worried, but she wears a hijab, and even in these unified times, he can't be certain.
Sure enough, a tall, husky-looking man shoulders his way from the edge of the crowd to her. America picks up his pace and sidles closer, just in case.
The man touches her shoulder gently to get her attention. "Are you okay? Nobody gave you any trouble, did they?"
The woman smiles at him, shakes her head, and thanks him, before she sees someone she recognizes and moves to join them.
For a moment, a strange tightness forms in America's throat. Fierce pride wells up within him, pride that he'd felt only a week before while standing in a ruined field in Pennsylvania. On an impulse, he steps forward, reaches out, and lays a hand on the man's shoulder. The man looks at him, startled, but before he can speak, America smiles at him. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but they do not fall.
The man will go home walking tall but strangely humbled, knowing deep down how proud his nation is to call him a citizen.
Feeling overwhelmed, America moves away from the crowds. His heart is just daring to lighten as the sun dips low on the horizon. The haze in the air mutes its glow, but a sunset is a sunset.
He's alone when he comes to a halt, and still within view of the empty space where the Twin Towers once stood. The lenses of Texas are smudged, and he removes his glasses to polish them on his shirt, never taking his sorrowful eyes from the space.
His vision is blurred, and perhaps that is why he sees it. There is something in that empty gap, a blurred shape beyond the skyscrapers of New York, that he might not have seen with the Twin Towers blocking the way. He finishes cleaning his glasses and puts them back on.
His breath catches in his throat, and he nearly breaks, but he does not. He bends.
It starts as a laugh, because really, what kind of blindness calls for him to remove his glasses to see? He laughs until his voice is hoarse, feeling a sudden, unheralded joy at the sight that his previous grief had nearly blinded him to. The tears follow abruptly, along with all the emotions he has buried this entire week. Laughter turns to hoarse sobbing, and at long last he cries for his lost children, for the people in the towers and the planes and the Pentagon and the field in Pennsylvania, for the frightened, confused travelers from all over the world now stranded far from home in Canada's care, and for the children who will grow up missing parents or who will simply never grow up at all. He cries in anger at the murderers who stole his people from him before their time, at the ones who sent them to carry out the deed, and at those of his own people who have let their hatred and anger blind them. He can't say if he weeps more for joy or sadness or anger, or perhaps all three equally. Nor can he say just how long he stands sobbing into his hands. When he looks up again at the magnificent sight, Texas is wet and blurred with tears, but he can still see it.
In the distance, stretching up to fill the not-so-empty gap left by the fallen towers, Lady Liberty stands tall and proud in the light of the setting sun.
Notes
Personal one first: I've always felt a slight need to make up for not taking it seriously when it first happened. I'd just turned eight and I was kind of a dumbass, but still.
The four planes took off on the morning of September 11th at 7:59, 8:14, 8:20, and 8:42. The first struck the North Tower at 8:46, the second hit the South Tower at 9:03, the third crashed into the Pentagon at 9:37, and the fourth went down at 10:03.
The South Tower was the first to start collapsing at 9:59, and the North followed a half hour later. With nowhere to escape, hundreds threw themselves out of the windows to their deaths.
The last plane, Flight 93, is believed to have been headed for the White House or the U.S. Capitol Building. However, passengers heard about the previous attacks over their cell phones, and several fought back against the hijackers, causing it to crash-land in a field in Pennsylvania. There is a memorial for the crew and passengers of Flight 93 three miles from where I live; I was there when it was first unveiled, and my older brother participated in the flag ceremony.
The day after the attacks, the British Royal Guards played the U.S. National Anthem at Buckingham Palace as a tribute to the tragedy.
In the weeks following the attacks, thousands of missing posters could be seen all over New York, illustrating just how many we lost.
There was a rise of hate crimes across the country against Muslims and South Asians. Many Sikhs were targeted, since Sikh men wear turbans and turbans are stereotypically associated with Muslims. One of them, Babir Singh Sodhi, was murdered in Mesa, Arizona on the 15th. I don't know for certain if any of these attacks took place in New York, but call it artistic license.
Nous sommes tous Américains translates to "We are all Americans," and was the front page headline of Le Monde, a French newspaper of record.
The Australian Prime Minister was indeed in Washington D.C. on the morning of the attacks, and expressed his support of the U.S.
Leaders in India, North Korea, Japan, and China condemned the attacks. A national day of mourning was held in Ireland, which was the only other country other than U.S. and Israel to do this. The Cuban government offered support and medical supplies, and Vladimir Putin announced that any hostility between Russia and America would be put aside for the tragedy. Sweden flew its flag at half-mast for a full day. On September 14, the German destroyer FGS Lütjens approached the U.S. destroyer USS Winston S. Churchill, flying an American flag along with the German Naval Ensign and holding a banner that read "We Stand by You."
Operation Yellow Ribbon was the handling of the diversion of flights from U.S. airspace. The goal was to remove any more threats by diverting planes from potential U.S. targets and landing them on Canadian soil instead. The number of flights varies between sources, but it is estimated that about 225 to 250 planes were diverted to 17 airports across Canada. When no threats were detected, both Canada and its people played host to the stranded travelers.
"I look out my windows, and the Twin Towers are gone. Instead, I can now see the Statue of Liberty. And you can't beat that." Jon Stewart, The Daily Show, September 20, 2001.
Thank you for reading.