King of Tears

He was born from the land. Land that had been graced with nature in it's most beautiful of forms. While his greater aunts and uncles had built magestic cities of stone and gold, and had been blessed with great power, his mother's people had rathered the gold as it's natural grubby form, and the stone flat where it belonged. Her people were born as one with the land, with the trees and the animals, and the rivers. And maybe that's why she didn't last long. Because even though she was one with the world, she wasn't strong enough to keep away the modern men from across the Alantic...

And as her son, he was the same. He, America, was not only the represenative of the land, but he was the land. He was every leaf on every tree and every drop of the water he carried. He was the sky in his border as well as the dirt on his floor and every grain in his feilds and every buffalo roaming them. As they made him, he was them, because that's who he was meant to be. He was his land, his people, his crops, his nation. And nothing more.

And it was a curious thought, one that came random and strange on a normal day, that made him relise this. A curious question of, "Who are your parents?", one day while Canada and he were sitting just outside of Boston on the soft green grass that had always welcomed America in a way that no other could.

Canada, giving him a look that screamed, 'Are you mad?' said, "France, of course. Who else would it be?" He'd asked. America had frowned and restated his question differently.

"No, France is your brother. Who's your parents? Who lived on your land before you exsisted?" He'd asked carefully, watching his brother for a change of expression. This time Canada had looked thoughtful, no doubt trying to reach deep into his brain for any memories of him in his snowy paridise. And then, slowly, he finally answered,

"I am New France, now apart of British North America. Once a represenative of Viking settlers, but never a real nation until recently...So once again, my fatherland is France." He'd repeated. America had protested, had asked him if he even remembered his land's people, but all he got in return was, "They were from this land but they are not me. I am New France. Whoever my father or mother's people were and are is of no concern to me." He'd said finally, and America had been too let down by the monotone, abnormal non caring voice his brother had spoken with, that he'd forced himself to think harder. To think farther and farther back, desperately trying to get a grip on something greater than that, than a lonely existence as a part of Britain. And then he'd caught his first glance of it, of his true past and the woman who'd lived it. Of those gorgeous streams, and people, and culture. Of fresh air and laughter and love in the world.

Of the power and the beauty that his dearest brother couldn't see.

His second question had come one evening while watching England sew on the wooden chair carved perfectly for him. Skilled hands moved in patterns-up, down, criss-cross, up, down, criss-cross- over a white cloth. And America had started to wonder, 'Is this his passion? Is this what he looks forward every day after doing whatever he does? Is this what seperates him from his nation?'. And then, leaning on England's shoulder, he'd asked ever so innocently, "What are we?" and his curt answer had been,

"We are nations; you are America's thirteen colonies as I am Great Britain." And he'd said his own nation's name with so much pride that America's Puritan roots had almost convinced him to damn the elder to Hell for such sin at one time. Then, America had asked,

"We are brother's though, right?" And he'd said it with a hopeful smile and blue eyes that begged England to make it seem more than the couple of words it would be. But once again, the answer was curt and blunt in the way that seemed to stand out more now than ever.

"Yes, we are." He'd said, and even though the empire had smiled and ruffled America's hair as he said it, the colony had not seen or felt any of the warmth or affection that should have been there. And maybe it really had meant something to England. But it just wasn't enough for him. of course, America hadn't thought up that explanation until much later. At that moment, he instead thought about how England's words had never really ever meant anything. They were cold, heartless, without a bit of love in them. America was reminded of the sharp tugs forward when France or Spain would come near them. Of the hands that only ever held him (now, at least, since the touches had been different when he was younger) when England had felt threatened.

And it was that thought that had made him look down at England's perfect clothing. The thick layers of clothing that didn't have a wrinkle in sort nor any other perfection in color. A beige pair of trousers, cloud white stockings, and a soft black waist coat over it. If they'd been in public, England be wearing a large coat over the outfit that had always made America wonder why the man worked so hard to make clothes, that wouldn't even show, so perfect.

And then, America had looked at his own clothes. At the ragged shirt, overused brown coat, and torn black trousers. Wrinkles were the least of his worries and neither was washing them. If they'd been in public, England would be sure to have America follow him like always, and it wasn't until then that America finally figured it out that England had never done it to keep his colony away from lusty eyes as he'd been told (though it was definately part of it). And America supposed he could understand the logic, he'd thought bitterly. After all, someone as grand and powerful as England would never dare be seen with a dirty, unsophisticated teenager.

And those bitter thoughts were confirmed as England left once more, along with most of his crops and animals, and also with a half-hearted, "Goodbye, America."

It was not long after his independence that America had finally thought up his third question. The one that was without a doubt the hardest to answer. He'd thought of it while in a meeting with a few forgien nations, the question that would change his life. America had been leaning back in his chair, at the time intelligent eyes watching every movement and ears listening for every detail of what his superiors were saying. But as a break was called, America had leaned back in his seat and begun to let his mind wander.

He was his land as his land was him, he concluded. He was a nation, which meant he was used to show the state of his country and show what the people wanted or did. But it also meant he was the father of many, of so many people and animals and life. With his desicions, he could kill them or save them, and that brought urgency to his exsistence. He couldn't go around and do as wished simply because he wanted, he had a duty. But he also had a soul, and didn't that give him a right?

And that was what led him to his final question. It's what gave him the courage to walk up to the only nation there who wasn't busy: Russia. They'd met formally, but not personally, and that had made America curious. He wasn't like the others, he seemed lonely and quiet...and there was something else in there too, but America would not figure out what it was until much later in time.

It was then, that he'd sat next to the tall nation and asked, "Why do we exist?"

The response wasn't immediate, but once the elder had began to say 'Represent', America had stopped him and said, hoping with every bit of his soul, desperately, that Russia would know,

"No. Why do we exist?"

And this time it felt like an eternity, every single breath taken was exaggerated, every glance around the room and every thought racing. Why did they exist? Why were they there? Why them? Why weren't they given the blessing of humanity and love? Why, how, was it fair?

It was then, during one of America's first meetings, and during his first real conversation with Russia, that he was finally given an honest, true, and utterly perfect answer:

"I don't know."

And maybe, America had thought with a bitter chuckle, the emotion put into those three words could make Russia, the so called 'coldest nation', instead known as the King of Tears.

AN: Before you ask, no, I have no idea what this is about. I was trying to right something about how America and Russia might have met, informally, and instead I came up with this. And what do you know! Russia doesn't even appear until the end! But I think it has enough emotion for me to like it. It's not good with description, I don't think, but that's a good thing at the moment. If you really don't understand this, then try and follow their train of thought. Humanity, existence, family, love- that's basically what this story revolves around. If you still can't figure it out, I really would like to ask that you don't ask me. People have done it too many times before. Just interpret it as if it was a poem. What does it mean to you? If you come up with something, I would be delighted to hear it. And if you do understand every bit of this, then thank god for you. Really, I don't mean to be rude but I'm tired of people telling me logic or asking questions that should have obvious answers- everything I write, or at least mostly everything, is based solely on a characters emotion and thoughts or are 100% fantasy.