Once upon a time, there was a young man who lived on an island with his older siblings. The eldest two, a girl and boy with a similar shock of red hair, were the cruelest, while the first youngest was quite tolerable and at times kind, even. The young man grew weary of the eldest two, and he sailed to a new land— a new place to call his. While his heart always belonged to the sea, the young man could not help but kiss the Virginia beaches upon arrival.
He lived alone and the other settlers seemed to like him enough. To eat, they said, he had to work. The young man was no stranger to Labor, but they'd been out of touch for quite some time. Soon, the blisters and open sores turned into calluses. He would go with the other men on hunting excursions and conversed pleasantly with them. He worked the fields.
It was a particularly hot and uncharacteristically dry July afternoon when the young man heard a baby mewing int he distance. Abandoning his post (though it seemed no one heard the sound anyway), he sought the source, cursing phantom parents for leaving their child in the wilderness. It took some time to identify, but in the thick of Farley ferns, there was, not just a baby, but an infant wrapped in animal furs. His small face was red from screaming; his body scarlet from the heat.
The young man gathered the babe to his breast and rocked him. Despite his inability to find a pitch, he sang a familiar church hymnal to calm the child as he looked for fresh, cool water. When given water and sung to, it didn't take long for the infant's fluttering heart to slow, nor for the child to shut his eyes in slumber.
Once upon a time, there was a young man—but he was much more than that; he was an embodied Nation with all the pomp and circumstance that followed such titles, though the humans he represented knew nothing of his existence. His heart beat with the rhythm of the power of the Empire. His blood ran thick with the will of his people. His name was Arthur and so long as there was one person alive who called themself English, he would draw a new breath.
In the New World, he found a child Nation: small for now, but there was such potential in the babe's July blue eyes. With the guiding, paternal hand of the British Empire, the boy would grow into a fine colony. Arthur named the child Nation—
"Alfred!" the child Nation proclaimed. Appearing no older than five years of age, Alfred laughed, freckled cheeks pinching in dimples.
"And right you are, lad," England said, ruffling Alfred's wheat-colored hair. Something moved inside England and it warmed his heart. He couldn't remember the last time a Nation made him feel this way, if, in fact, a Nation had ever made him feel this way. He smiled. Alfred bounced about and demanded his charge tell another story.
"Just one more," Alfred pleaded. "Tell me about the knights again!" The young boy stuck out his lower lip and his eyes shone in the lamplight. Try as he might, England could not stop the laugh from escaping. The lad had had a full day at sea (only a few knots from shore—just enough to feel the wind in their hair). England wondered only a-quarter begrudgingly, if he would ever get the child Nation to sleep.
"You've a long day before you," England re-tucked the boy in and he followed suit by settling into the blankets. "My impertinent little Colony, you need your rest." Before standing to leave, England ruffled his hair again, making the boy's face light up again. When he was in the doorway, Alfred piped:
"Will you be here in the morning to cook porridge and eggs?"
If he were one of the lamps, England's light would have dimmed. "No, Alfred. I've duties to attend in London. I must return early before you rise."
"When will you be back?" Alfred's voice was softer now. He brought the blanket close to his face, hiding his freckled nose.
"As soon as I'm able. I will return for you, Alfred. As I always have, and always will. Now, beastie, get to sleep."
He stands taller than England now.
"I want you out of my land."
England does not stop writing. His eyes are trained on the page before him.
"Your land?" he scoffs, "You are still a direct subject of the British crown and what you declare is treason."
"I have no representation in your government. How can I commit treason against a government who does not recognize my existence beyond a penny?"
He is yelling by the last word, the vein in his neck straining.
"You are virtually represented with the same rights and liberties as every other man under the British crown!"
"It's not good enough!"
There's a crack as England's open palm strikes his cheek.
"Impertinent. Irresponsible. Ungrateful little brat—that's what you are. You don't even know what you're asking. You don't know the first thing about being a Nation. I've done my absolute best—well, it's certainly not my best work, considering the circumstances—to shield you from the world's ills. What would you do as a Nation? How will you protect yourself? Support yourself? You're just a child, Alfred."
He doesn't speak for some time. He only breathes.
"…Every last redcoat, I want gone. If I have to push you into the Atlantic myself, so help me God, I will remove you from my lands, Arthur."
Another crack.
"Petulant child, you are to address me as the Empire of—"
"I will address you how I like, Arthur Kirkland. I am not a child this"—he makes a motion between the two of them—"is war."
He turns and slams the door behind him, leaving cracks in the wood and fractures in the windowpane.
—who would eventually take the name The United States of America.
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Musubi's Fried Rice Corner
This takes place in the same universe as "A Scotchman in Jamestown." And for those of you who are curious, Alfred's middle name is Farley, for the plants England found him in.
That's all this time around :)
