Based off of The Story about no one knowing that America had a personification. Saw the story around, cannot remember who wrote it. Really sorry. Doing this on my phone, but full credit to them. Just to be perfectly clear

This Author does not claim ownership of any characters/lyrics/ ideas contained herein.

Rated M. I own nothing.

OoOoOo

It was a well known fact, that had through the course of the centuries been debated a thousand times over, that the United States of America possessed no personification.

None at all.

Which was both surprising and often, to the other countries, rather sad.

Even during the course of wars and disputes, a figure head of the government for the U.S.A. was present, but not a personification. It was a constant reminder to the other countries of the passing of time. For the individual would often grow old, or be elected out of office. Then another would take their place.

Over the decades, and centuries, the people changed, but not the personifications.

Finland, whom had first visited the land, thought nothing of it. For perhaps, the native peoples required no one and therefore none existed. He commented as such to France and the British Empire both. They, per usual, dissolved into a fight over whether the personification was hiding or truly did not exist.

So when a woman strode through the doors at the next meeting, no one seemed entirely perturbed by it, believing it another representative of the US. They had all been given an e-mail about the change.

However, there was something about her that seemed wholly familiar.

The largest nation, Russia, seemed to pause as he stared at the slim blonde female. Her glasses flashed as she looked over the room. Some part of him tugged at the vague recollection that he had seen her... somewhere. But where?

A lonely port, seemed all too far away as the winds howled over the angry ocean. A storm lingered above them, and the vessel just might not make it. Though Russia would survive, he worried for his men. The sea fairing had gone better in recent centuries, but it was not perfected. Nothing in life was perfect.

Just as they managed to make it to the deserted port, by the grace of God and perhaps a bit of luck. He turned and saw a single figure out in the pouring rain, the pounding winds did not seem to affect her. A spirit of the land, perhaps?

Russia blinked, noticing that her blonde hair was slicked to her skin, wet and dripping, but her eyes never faltered off of him. She came forward slowly, beckoning he and his men to follow. She led then through the dark and wet streets that night, even as the ship was smashed against the piers and would be in need of repairs.

The woman, with eyes so blue they seemed to suck him in, brought them to the only inn for miles in a quaint little settlement. She smiled at him then, and though she said nothing, Russia couldn't escape the feeling she was wishing him luck.

He shook his head, blinking at the memory. That was impossible. The woman looked like an exact copy of the one from Colonial America. She must have been that kind woman's descendant. Yet, the features were too alike.

He squinted his violet eyes as he truly looked at her. The hair was different, and there were glasses now, but... da. Da, that was the same woman.

How could that be?

For Canada, it was remembering something out of a film.

The year was 1938.

The worry of war was heavy in the air, and he had take a walk to clear his head. Concerned over what the future would bring for his country and for others involved. If one were to ask him, death was looming on the horizon.

A woman, who looked remarkably similar to the one that entered, looked at him from across Niagara falls. Her blue eyes seemed to inherently seek him out. A flash of a smile, a warm look. Just as he was feeling all alone. The nearest personification to him was so far away. He'd often wished that America had someone, just so that he would not have to travel so very far for companionship.

But things were looking up, between his country and the United States. Even after the Smoot-Hawley Tariff act and the great depression that had weighed so heavily on both countries.

However, his attention focused on the blonde woman, who was smiling widely at him. She moved and held up a sign, Canada squinted to see it.

'THE US WILL NOT SIT IDLY BY.'

He blinked and tried to make sense of it, as she waved and walked away. A few short weeks later, the President of the United states makes a speech in Queens University in Kingston, Ontario. Franklin Roosevelt assures the people that the United States would not sit idly by if another power tried to dominate Canada.

The connection between Mr. Roosevelt's words and the woman with the sign, were never made by the personification. For he was too busy being relieved over the warning against attacking his lands.

South Korea recalled her easily.

A woman holds him close, tending his wounds. The war has not been kind to him. The crimson cross she bears on her uniform, it means that she is medical personnel. She is there to aid the injured and tend to those poor souls that have lost everything from limbs to their sanity.

American.

He can tell by the way she talks to him. Soothing and soft tones, like one would use for a precious but fragile creature. Her blue eyes seem so warm as she gives him a reassuring smile. And, for a moment, he truly believes that everything is going to be alright.

His red blood is brushed away with snow white cotton. Linen bandages press over the gaping areas of flesh, but her touch seems to bring him more peace, as if he is being comforted and cared for by one of his own.

Mexico could only gape. He remembered a woman like her.

1836

The Alamo was a slaughter of a final stand. 32 men held out against insurmountable odds. For 13 days. His men had finally pushed through, slaying all the men present that had tried to defy Mexico's claim on the land. Each man had seen it is a key stronghold for protecting Texas.

Finally, Mexico's' men, led by General Santa Anna, had managed to scale the walls and rush the compound. Not a soul was left alive, which had fought. And, even those that had tried to surrender had been slaughtered out of spite. Yet, they had fought with so much determination, that it was deeply respected.

His brown eyes watched his men as they were weak from exhaustion, thirst, and hunger. He did his best to care for them.

However, he caught a glimpse of someone by two of the corpses. A woman, with sad blue eyes, filled with tears as she traced the features of the fallen men, as if to memorize them. Her fierce gaze locked with his, and Mexico stilled.

A woman? On the battle field? How could that be?

He started forward, intending to do what must be done, but it stuck him as strange that his men did not see her. Mexico's path was blocked as his General tried to report to him. However, in the time it took to push the man aside...

The woman was gone.

All of these memories happened in the span of mere seconds as sets of eyes widened, and jaws slackened.

The golden hair, blue eyes that glittered with some sort of strange energy, and a large smile were all attributes they instantly recognized.

It was England who was the first to speak, clearing his throat as his mind burned with curiosity.

"And... whom might you be?"

The woman turned toward him, smiling brightly, a soft laugh escaped her and there was a sense of nervousness about her features.

"I," she said clearly in English, her voice carried perfectly through the crowded room. "Am Amelia F. Jones."

Amelia inclined her head slightly, as her blue eyes seemed to flash behind the glasses she wore. Something about them seemed vaguely familiar to Mexico. As a lock of hair, a cowlick really, bobbed as she turned her gaze around the room.

"But you may, if you wish," She continued without faltering and in steady voice, "call me the United States of America."

"That is reserved for personifications," Canada interjected, trying to be polite. "Miss."

"Oh," America said as she turned toward him, "then there is no problem either way."

As soon as her sentence was finished, the room seemed to explode into Chaos. Shouts of disbelief, and some of excitement sounded around.

Canada looked as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

Blue orbs gazed back at an astounded England, with a slightly smirk on her lips.

"And, I believe, if I recall correctly, you are Arthur Kirkland. The United Kingdom."

His heart seemed to slow and stop as The U.S. flashed him the achingly caring expression he had glimpsed so long ago, on a blood soaked beach that haunted his worst nightmares still, on an America nurse who had told him not to give up hope. That the end was almost near.

"I told you," she said just loud enough to be heard over the ruckus, "that I would be seeing you again."

His face flushed and he felt hot all over.

"Wh-where have you been?" He asked in a gruff tone that betrayed the fact he was shaken to his core.

She grinned at him sweetly, and a tad amused.

"Whatever do you mean?" She questioned back at him, "I've always been where I should have been."

He gazed across the fields of golden wheat, pleased by what the colonists had achieved. A woman stood at the edge of a farm, with eyes so blue that they rivaled the sky itself. England felt himself stare at the woman, thinking perhaps she was sprite or some other fae.

She smiled at him then, a knowing look. As if she could guess that he was not simply a man from a boat that had hailed off the shores of England.

His brain clicked into place a more moments just like that.

On the docks, decades later, another golden haired woman with blue eyes watched as England's ship neared, ready to dock, carrying soldiers for a needless altercation. One that might not have ever happened had the Americans been granted representation for taxation.

Needless. All of it.

However, he sees her. Dressed in homespun heavy wool, with a pitcher of water in one hand, and bloodied bandages in the other. Her blue eyes hardened and she tipped her head in as if accepting a challenge.

England kills several colonists that day and more the next.

Yet, he never saw the woman. He would have spared her, had he glimpsed her.

Her blue eyes bored into his. Eyes so blue... they rivaled the sky itself.

"Haven't I?" America asked with far more being said in those two simple words. She glanced around the room.

Bloody war. So horrid that it truly could be called hell on Earth. Cool hands, pull him out of the mud and muck of foreign soil. England has been battered, bruised, and reduced in several places... to rubble. It is only the staunchness of his people that have put Adolph Hitler off.

Arthur had never been more proud of his people than in that moment. Their unwillingness to yield had saved them. The fighting spirit they possessed was impressive and worthy of respect. Even from a foe.

The hands smooth back his clothes, searching for the source of the warmth that was slowly leaving his body. Blue eyes watched him from behind glasses, as he dimly registered a woman above him.

"Hush now," she murmured softly. "You'll be alright. You'll see."

"Am I dead?" He asked though his tongue felt as if it would not cooperate.

"Hardly," the woman said with a soft grin. "You're still in this war."

Not the news he was hoping for. Not at the moment, at least.

"It's not quite that, love." England murmured in slight delirium. His body felt too heavy. This was more like hell, than a war.

She laughed softly.

"Well, I wouldn't know about 'love'. We hardly know each other." She replied with a strained sort of coyness. England could feel his body being shifted, and something was pressed into his hands.

"Arthur," he replied gruffly. "Arthur Kirkland."

"I'm properly charmed," the woman said, "let me assure you."

Then there was darkness. Quiet and calm darkness. Until he was roused by a rough hand on his shoulder. Someone shouting his name.

"England!"

Canada's violet eyes stare at him with worry. France is beside him, equally as concerned.

"Thank goodness, you're alright."

"D..-"

"Don't waste strength by speaking, my friend." France interjected quickly.

England blinked, feeling hazy and unsure.

"Where is she?"

"Who?" Canada asked with confusion.

"The woman."

"What woman?"

"The one who... my wounds... the bandages."

"There was no woman, England." France stated slowly, glancing at Canada.

England did not think that was correct. That couldn't be. She had been there. Hadn't she?

Said Island nation roused himself from the painful but filled memory. He had believed she was nothing more than a figment of his imagination during a stressful time. However, no nation had been able to answer how he had gotten the bandages. Or how he'd gotten a hold of American rations.

England couldn't take his eyes off of her.

The other countries quieted as they listened to her reply. Her expression was slightly indulgent.

"Haven't I met all of you before? In one time or another?" America asked clearly.

"But, why were you hiding?" Australia interjected, still taken aback.

"Hiding? Why would I be hiding?"

"Well, I don't know. That's why I asked." The male nation admitted with a slight grin.

"I was never hiding," America said with quiet dignity, "in fact, I was the one that found each one of you. Just because you didn't recognize me, doesn't change the fact that I've always been here. Does it? But, I believe there is a meeting to get started, right?"

Then she smiled at England again, and laughed softly. A look of happiness at seeing them all that made her seem to shine like a beacon in the darkness. She moved around the commotion as countries shouted, argued, and stared in amazement.

America moved next to him, pulling out a chair. She sat quietly, but her gaze remained on him. As if she were appraising him with some vague expression of relief.

"See," she said conspiratorially, "I told you, you'd be alright."

And England...

Fell in love.