Articles of Confederation:
"I. The Stile of this Confederacy shall be 'The United States of America'.
II. Each state retains its sovereignty, freedom, and independence, and every power, jurisdiction, and right, which is not by this Confederation expressly delegated to the United States, in Congress assembled.
III. The said States hereby severally enter into a firm league of friendship with each other, for their common defense, the security of their liberties, and their mutual and general welfare, binding themselves to assist each other, against all force offered to, or attacks made upon them, or any of them, on account of religion, sovereignty, trade, or any other pretense whatever."
Passion is hell-bent, for the most part—especially in its grass-roots stage.
But America was quickly beginning to realize that it would take more than mere passion for her to establish the stable and efficient government necessary to run her new sovereign nation. If she succeeded, they would be the city on the hill—proof that the ideals of a democracy could be achieved and maintained. If she failed, then she risked being wrangled back into the hold of another European empire. The land was like a slice of meat hanging from a tree, relatively unguarded and up for grabs should an opportune moment present itself.
And with all of the back-and-forth arguing taking place, America was surprised that they hadn't been invaded already.
Federalists and Anti-Federalists were pitted against each other, colliding head-to-head as they discussed the extent of state's rights and the potential need for a stronger national government. Immediately, the fear of another monarchy exploded throughout the meeting hall. A firm central government could send them spiraling back into the tyranny of a king, and they had shed enough blood to ensure the death of even the idea of a monarchy.
Yet, changes were imminent. The Articles of Confederation were weak and far too vague to be practical, leading to the stalemate between those interested in protecting the power of their states and those seeking branches of leaders to take control.
In a way, it was quite ironic that America had ultimately shaped her government in a similar fashion to Britain's, using the theories and political knowledge of multiple English philosophers to renew the Old World system.
No longer would there be a king, but rather, a president. Essentially, it was a limited monarchy without an actual monarch, and in America's eyes, it would be the key to their advancement as a nation. There were plenty of issues to tend to, and their new Constitution would usher in an era of industry and growth unlike any other.
The eyes of the world were upon them, and it filled her with both immense enthusiasm and paralyzing terror.
After a sequence of many migraines, they had finally tossed away their original composition of fundamental ideologies, trading it in for a much more thoughtful and organized document. In fact, she was so enthralled by the outcome that she even took the liberty of mailing England a copy, if only to irk him further. The preamble itself even held a particular je ne sais quoi about it.
"We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America."
It was certainly an improvement to be proud of, but their work was far from over.
America felt a growing new issue in her very bones, allowing herself to be consumed by an indescribable loneliness that she couldn't shake. It was ingrained in every image that fell across her sights—an inexplicable loss that had multiplied in strength over the years. She thought she'd recovered from the mental strain of the Revolution, but its remnants still seemed to follow her like a gray cloud hanging over her head.
She had returned to England's old house in Boston, seeing as the man no longer had any use for it. Some obvious renovations had been made to conceal its prior appearance, but it still held the same air that it'd always had. She could imagine Canada in his room, toiling over his lessons in geography and trade as England discussed important matters with his officials in his office.
And now, the edifice was devoid of life apart from her own soul.
The kitchen was untouched. She waited for the kettle on the stove to wail with vigor, inviting England to prepare himself a cup of steaming tea, but her patience was left unrewarded. Even then, she could still feel the residual connection that she'd had with the man.
And that's when she realized what the problem was—a lack of identity. Her entire existence had been a shadow of England's historic empire, and now she had nothing to recognize as her own. Her people had already begun calling themselves Americans, but what significance did that hold? What did it mean to be an American? Who was she, and who was she going to be?
These were the next questions that begged to be answered, and she could not find a solution to them as she spent her days in the abandoned house, hovering through each room like a ghost of the girl that she'd once been.
Canada's bed had remained in her room, and she stared at it longingly. If only her brother was free too, then they would be able to form an alliance together.
Or better yet…
She smiled wickedly, withdrawing the world map that Canada had stowed under his bed many years ago. Her eyes wandered up the length of the new borders of her land, and she hastily noted that she was still being contained by England's power in the north. He'd kept his soldiers posted on the Canadian border, and they occasionally leaked over onto her own soil. He was much too close for comfort, and if she could secure Canada for herself and rally her people to achieve the goal alongside her, then she might be able to commence the reign of her own empire.
And then, her dilemma might finally be solved. Well, that's what she'd hoped for, anyway.
But passion could be a feisty foe as well, leading her into territory that she should've known better than to encroach upon, especially with fresh wounds still littering her brief history.
She'd walked right into the lion's den, and she was an unwelcome guest, to say in the least.
"This is the result of children running around unattended," England had said, admiring the burning White House with mild amusement. Gun in hand, he'd lowered the weapon to his side, shaking his head with a smirk at the girl whom he'd once recognized as his daughter.
And though she looked quite a bit older than when she'd been under his care, he still felt a paternal affection for her that he thought he'd quelled decades ago.
She felt the sting in her chest from the affliction on her land, but it paled in comparison to the pain that she'd once felt during times of war. She locked eyes with her former caretaker, torn between being furious and comforted by the man's presence. They'd been ignoring each other for longer than she liked to admit, and it was oddly nice to see a familiar face in the midst of the chaos she'd sparked.
"I wondered when you'd get here," she regarded him in the indifferent tone that she'd been rehearsing. "I'll admit that you did well in fooling my troops."
England laughed wholeheartedly at that, and America inwardly chided herself for finding joy in the gesture. "I didn't have to fool anyone. I had your yanks to accomplish that task for me. Your White House was left completely vulnerable. Be thankful that I didn't do any further damage. Perhaps, it'll be a lesson to you."
Blushing fiercely, America tried not to seem childish as she held back her protests, unsure of what to say without making an even bigger simpleton out of herself. So, she settled on, "Well, I needed my troops to practice on somebody, and you seemed like an all right candidate for the job."
"I'm flattered, truly," England droned dully, though there was still a flicker of glee in his startling green eyes. "I should've suspected this, truth be told. You had to inherit your thirst for imperialism from someone, hmm?"
She should've attacked him, yelled at him, or completely throttled him, but all she could do was gawk at the empire like a dying fish, incapable of forming any coherent words.
He grinned once more and stepped forward, invading her personal space as he took hold of the front of her lace blouse. He caught the material in a clenched fist, drawing America close. She rivalled his height—always having been tall for a female—but still felt like a child, craning her neck to get a good look at him.
"Get your fill elsewhere because you won't find anything worth your time here, America," he warned, directing the words squarely at her face and causing her to flinch. "Napoleon has been wreaking enough havoc in Europe as it is, and I don't need to be concerning myself with your silly games as well. Keep your distance from Canada, and all will be swell. Understood?"
Feeling slightly more confident and cheeky, America managed one of her sly remarks. "That's a pity… You can't even spare a sliver for an old companion?"
For a moment, she was certain that England would grow infuriated, but he did no such thing. In fact, he allowed himself a smile at the remark, eyes glinting. "You'll have to try harder next time, love. Build up a noteworthy military, and perhaps we can continue our sparring. You don't stand a chance at the moment, and I'd rather feast on more challenging targets. I'm willing to negotiate a truce and put this behind us if you've finished taking up my time. The Orders in Council have already been repealed, and, as such, there is little motive for you to continue this fight. Your trade with Europe has been mended."
She had hoped to form a name for herself—wished that her citizens would have connected under a common cause—but she now knew that she had achieved very little of what she had set out to accomplish. The support for the war was at a dauntingly low percentage, and she had done nothing but tear her own people apart when they had seldom been united in the first place.
"I have spent ten million pounds quarreling with you, and I'm certain that my wealth could be better invested elsewhere," England reasoned with a scowl, lighting himself a cigarette in the process. "Likewise, it has come to my attention that you've nearly driven yourself into bankruptcy. I am offering to spare you such humiliation, and there's no need to thank me, poppet."
His condescending lilt made her want to oust any thought of compromise from her mind, but she had to set aside her heated emotions to make the best decision for her people.
"All right," she had conceded, taking England's hand and shaking it firmly. "But only if everything is restored to the state it was before the war. And you shall accept me as a legitimate national entity."
Releasing a puff of smoke from his lungs, England considered his options. "And you shall never set your sights on Canada again, yes? Should I hear word of any potential American annexation of my lands—"
"Understood," America agreed, cutting the man off with her assurances. "There's always the Spanish," she added with a humored tone, pleased to see that England had found her retort comical as well.
"I shouldn't be so lenient with you, or I might actually be accused of being your ally, God forbid."
"Yes, we wouldn't want that. It'd be best if we continued to silently despise one another," America replied with a toothy grin of her own. She spared a glance at the smoldering White House, wondering if she'd be engaged in any future conflicts with the man. "You know, it would be favorable to have a strong ally across the Atlantic."
Furrowing, England snuffed out his cigarette with the help of his boot. "Prove your worth, and form a hatred for the French. Then, I'll send over my delegates," he murmured with another smirk.
"I don't want to fight you anymore, England. It's exhausting."
"Mind your greedy hands and there won't be any trouble."
It should've been an insulting request, but America paid it no mind. In fact, she was quite safe in the assumption that she wouldn't be confronting England for a very long time. No, she'd had enough of playing with the lions for now.
There were plenty of other ways for her to expand her reach.
The Wild West.
The concept of life beyond the frontier was romanticized even her own mind as the Polk administration tumbled into office and revived the need for imperialism. Manifest Destiny, some called it—a God given right for America to expand her reach from coast to coast, swallowing up land that had been left unindustrialized. Ever since the Louisiana Purchase, she had toyed with the idea of increasing her size, negotiating borders with Canada and pushing the limits that England had long set in place for her.
Her new nation spilled across the western half of the continent, but the problems that came with such expansion had been unprecedented. A lack of irrigation, loss of unity, recession, pet banks—it was all the result of her ventures out into the unknown. Eventually, the frontier disintegrated entirely, and she mourned over the loss of such mysticism.
And as if matters couldn't get any worse, following decades wrought such internal turmoil and sectionalism that she plunged herself into a Civil War, struggling to satiate the needs of both the North and the South.
The balance of slave-states versus free-states had long been a teetering problem since she'd reeled in new soil, and it had been apparent that she was only prolonging an inevitable battle with agreements such as the Missouri Compromise. Later, the constitutionality of such documents would be questioned, leading to bloodshed unlike any she had ever seen. The entire southern region of her nation had seceded, leaving her to scramble in maintaining what remained of the United States. Her border states became a crucial strategic asset in crushing the South's rebellion, but protecting 'Bleeding Kansas' had not been an easy feat.
She was two nations now, though she refused to recognize the second. Never had she envisaged that such a thing might happen to her. Though, for the first time, she was certain that this war would finally establish the national identity that she'd been seeking.
Then, there'd been that unanticipated day…
"You're here."
The words were laced with an exhausted helping of bewilderment, so much so that the crisply poised visitor ventured to take an uncertain step back, lingering in the foyer as he caught a peek of the disheveled living room. He barely recognized the figure lying prone on the couch, shallow breaths causing the girl's chest to rise and fall in rapid succession.
Sloppily, America's slender form sat up in an attempt to greet her guest, only to surrender with a sharp grumble of pain, falling to the couch once more. "Didn't think you'd come," she had murmured in the approximate direction of the threshold. "After that whole mess with Oregon."
"Yes, America, fancying the idea of imperialism yet again, are you? I daresay I can sympathize with such ambitions."
America mumbled something incoherent, drenched in her own sweat. "Can't say I agree with the whole 'Manifest Destiny' propaganda. Truth is, we stole half of Mexico's land."
"I wouldn't consider it theft."
America scoffed loudly, grimacing as she gasped and drew in another pocket of breath. "Coming from the person who raped and pillaged the Indians," she said accusingly, staring up at the ceiling as though something was looming over her. "Come inside, England—I promise not to bite. I've had my stuffing for now."
Softening slightly, England entered the living area with a lighter air, standing beside the other. However, he stiffened immediately upon seeing America's pitiful state. The girl was resting on the couch in a puddle of her own sticky blood; the substance had seeped into the fabric of the piece of furniture, making it turn into a sickeningly brownish hue.
England forced himself to look away, unable to witness the nation whom he'd once considered his child in such a poor state. Despite this, he would not offer the country any assistance, recalling the strict line that had been drawn between them, as well as the constant threat of another Anglo-American War that had lingered throughout the century since the War of 1812.
"Don't," America began cryptically, reaching up a hand and clawing at England like a lost kitten. "Don't leave. I just wanted to see you—I don't want to stir up any trouble. I know things have been shaky between us lately, but I just needed to talk to someone," she murmured, revealing her intentions.
She'd invited the man to visit her, explaining her poor health and political state, but she had hardly expected him to actually endure the trip, nor care enough to bother.
England pursed his lips, shoving America's hand away. This—this miscreant across the pond wasn't his problem anymore, other than the fact that she still had not paid off a number of the gracious loans he'd given her. America had plenty of expensive infrastructure to set straight, and England had jumped at the chance to have the nation in debt to him, mostly for strategic purposes.
Seeing her now however, it was very clear that he was not going to be repaid for quite some time.
"Is this the result of your barbaric slavery debate?" he asked mockingly, lowering his eyes toward the drying blood. "Rumor has it that your precious Union is fraying."
America frowned, reluctantly turning onto her side and pulling up her shirt, giving England a full view of the state of her back. "It's already broken," she whispered dryly, face pressed up against the couch cushions.
England winced, gaping at the gruesome display. A long laceration ran from between America's shoulders to the small of her back, appearing as though someone had taken a knife to the skin and tried to carve it.
"You're bleeding everywhere," England tsked when he had regained some composure, unable to come up with anything else to say. He watched as America brought her knees to her chest and let out a hushed semblance of a sob, body shaking in trepidation.
Berating herself, she sighed through her hysteria. "I'm sorry. I just—I never thought—"
Reluctantly, England awkwardly placed a hand on America's head, petting the blonde hair gently. "Why do you do this to me?"
"Do what?"
England clicked his tongue again, looking very frustrated as he tried to rationalize his actions. "Make me worry. You're an independent nation now; I shouldn't even be… Politics be damned, I can't be apathetic toward you."
America stayed soundless except for her uneven breathing, eyes fluttering shut with weariness as she registered the comfort that the hand running through her hair brought her. This is what she had been aching for since the beginning of the war. This is what it felt like then—fighting your own people. Had England felt such pain when she'd seceded?
Another sigh, and England had seemingly made his mind up. "Turn over onto your stomach. We're going to attempt to clean this."
"You can't stitch it up, it'll just reopen," America warned, watching warily as England meandered into the kitchen and returned with a number of rags.
He situated himself on his knees beside the couch, rolling out one of the rags to soak up the mess on her back. "Stupid girl…"
She grinned at the familiar remark, hissing as her back was cleaned and bandaged. "Thank you."
Still immensely frustrated with himself, England strained to acknowledge America's words. "You had better be thankful, you ungrateful brat. I shouldn't be bothering myself with this kind of petty nonsense."
"No, you shouldn't," America agreed, letting out a little sigh of pleasure once the pain had slightly diminished. "But thank you for doing it anyway. I-I was hoping we might someday be friends."
"Friends? Let's not get ahead of ourselves," England cautioned, disposing of the soiled rags and returning a few minutes later. He sat by America's feet, huffing at the girl with a sneer. "You're an absolute menace."
She managed a melancholy smile, the urge to sleep growing in intensity. However, it would be rude to fall asleep in front of her guest, so she forced herself to concentrate, scanning England's sulky figure.
He seemed to recognize her predicament, standing up and making a motion to exit. "Well, my work is done here. I wish you luck in ending the conflict."
"Wait!"
She should've hated England for all they had done to each other over the years—ravaged by pain and distress—but she still couldn't bring herself to do it. England was still a father figure in her eyes, and she felt isolated without him, stuck in a life of near constant turmoil. She needed someone to assure her that she was secure and that there would be light at the end of this grueling tunnel.
"Please," she beseeched, hating herself more with each spoken word. "Don't go."
England clearly struggled to undertake the request, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other as he lingered in the doorway, taking in the sight of the old home that he'd once resided in. "It isn't right for me to be here."
She turned silent, certain that her pleas were falling on deaf ears as the man collected his things. Then, as he exchanged a final look with America, his resolve had been smashed.
And finally—finally—they experienced a semblance of a reconciliation.
Approaching the couch once more, England rested another calloused hand on the top of her head, brushing back the hair from her face. "I can't stand to see you like this."
She stretched her arms upward, minding her back as she wrapped the older nation in an embrace, shivering with pain and pent-up anxiety as he crouched down to return the gesture. "England, I—"
"Hush, before I change my mind and decide to leave," he ordered steadily, though his tone had taken on that tenderness that she'd missed. "I mustn't stay for long, but I suppose I could remain until morning, considering your miserable state."
She chuckled and withdrew her arms carefully. "Your company is appreciated. Now, would you mind helping me off of this godforsaken couch? It's already become the bane of my existence."
And though she didn't know it then, this war would mark the beginnings of an alliance that would last for over a century into the future.
But before that, she'd have to establish liberty for those whose voices were still ignored in the heart of her own grounds.
"Three-fifths of a person? It's unthinkable. I don't know how much longer I can withstand such lunacy. We're meant to be the living symbol of a free world, and yet, our own flesh and blood are being shackled to tyrants."
Expressing her grievances to President Lincoln only worsened the frequency of his bouts of depression, and while she didn't want to burden him with her own worries, he was the only one who could sympathize with her feelings of resentment.
"A healthy helping of lunacy is always desirable."
Scoffing, America caught the smile in the man's eyes and mirrored it, unable to suppress a half-hearted laugh. This brilliant man was made for such turbulent times, and she was sure that the war would come to an end under his leadership. She could see the burdens of his life on his shoulders, and his presidency had aged him. He didn't appear to be nearly as boisterous as when she'd first met him, and she would one day recall the enjoyment she received from simply watching him contemplate issues, wishing she could understand the inner workings of his mind.
He was a good mentor and friend, so when the war had ended and ushered in the Reconstruction Era, his murder had destroyed what little hope she'd had for potentially peaceful negotiations with the South. The fight for equality on her land would drag on into the future, and it would be an issue that would plague her for many years to come.
But at the time, she was still young and unsure of herself, utterly crestfallen at the death of such a great man who had dedicated every second of his existence to forming a better nation for his fellow countrymen to habituate.
And while time healed all wounds, she would occasionally lament upon his wise words for encouragement and strength, using them as fuel for the dreams that she still held for her divided nation.
"With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds."
Though she hadn't understood his ability to forgive so easily in the past, she knew that she wanted the entirety of her nation to return to its full form, and thus, greeted the South with open arms. However, not everyone had been so lenient.
But that was the natural course of life, and America would find a way to unite her people once more, no matter the cost. If they didn't stand together, surely they would all crumble.
And well, she'd drag her people onward, if necessary, before she'd allow for that.