It all starts with a drop. Or a grain of sand. Or a blade of grass. Or any of nature's givings. We came from those drops, blades of grass, and grains of sand. Before we became, we sprouted, glistened, and tumbled.

My mother was present when I condensated. She knew she was expecting another, but she didn't know she would find me so soon.

I've been told the story hundreds of times before, and even after my mother's death, by my brothers. A single drop of rainwater on a leaf that fell. I fell.

I fell into a blossoming bush, sparkling on the day I was truly born. You might wonder how such things could happen, but the ways of the Earth can never wholly be understood.

Anyway, my mother noticed me. What odds are there that in a million falling drops she spotted just the right one? A flash appeared, a glowing green light. She peered into the bush to find me, a small child not old enough to open his eyes swaddled in green.

That was the day I became me, not just a drop of water.

A child born from water.

I became Britani.

I now tell that story to my children. I tell them how most nations are born, or should I say most nations before the age of empires were born?

They might not have been born the way that the Ancients or the way most of Europe was, but they are still Nations whole and true.

I tell them how Portugal washed in with the tides. I tell them how Prussia formed from a spring breeze. I tell them how China was birthed from an ember.

I don't tell them how they came to be. I don't tell them how they are different. Whenever they ask, I answer with uncertainty.

"I don't know."

I don't know how they feel about my avoidance.

I don't know how they'd feel if I told them.

I don't know what's stopping me.

I swore the others to secrecy. They won't tell my children without my permission. In fact, I hope they never tell them. If they were to ever find out, I would be the bringer of news.

The others are the reason they're here after all.

If I hadn't been so careless about the creation of London, this wouldn't have happened. Would my children exist? Would have been personified at all?

I sometimes wonder if I would change my actions. On one hand, it would save me many of my troubles. On the other, my children wouldn't exist. The bundles of joy that made my life worth living would never have been held in my arms. I would never have sung them lullabies. Never would I have loved, fought, and cried for them. Lord, without them I would be nothing. A shell, maybe? With no purpose, what would I do?

I wish I told them this. Maybe if they knew how important they were, they wouldn't have left. Who am I kidding? I know they had to. I don't blame them one bit. After all, didn't I do the same with Rome? The Normans? The Vikings? It would be hypocritical to claim I didn't understand. I just wish their parting didn't happen so soon and with so much bloodshed.

When I saw them during those conflicts, both verbal and physical, they weren't my little angels anymore. They grew into their own identities and became strong men and women. There are no words to describe how proud yet horrible I felt in those moments. I raised those warriors who fought for what they thought was right, but they were fighting me. Had I been led astray? My babies couldn't do anything wrong, so was I? To say that I regret my actions is an understatement. I should have let go. I should have. So many would have been spared.

I've tried to be better once before. You can still see the failure in your history books.

But I have to keep trying and not just for my sake.

For my children and for their people, I swear.

I will make it up to them.

I've cried enough tear for a thousand lifetimes. May tears of joy, sadness, and anger still soak into my little island. They're still present in my former colonies' soil. There is no denying I cried when they left. Most of them bore witness to it.

It was like a strange parody of a parent sending their child off the university, except that child fought and pushed their way out the door and their parent was screaming for them to come back and-

…

I guess those tears could represent the part of me that still lives within them. No matter how they may have disowned me or rebelled, I still love them. They still hold my mark. No one will mess with them unless they want the former British Empire on their tails.

I guess that was part of why they refused to look at me afterward. Did they think if they ignored me long enough, I would forget to love them? Did they think that would make me protect them less? They wanted to prove they were strong enough to be on their own, away from their parent's ever-watching eyes and able to defend themselves without intervention. I also understand this feeling.

After the Normans, I believed I could take on anything. I guess that was why I went to war with France for over one hundred years. Pity how pride and hubris does that to people and nations alike.

Maybe their ignoring did more than I give it credit for because somedays when I see them, I can't even function.

Then somedays I see them, and I feel so proud, I could soar with the wind.

On holidays, some come to visit. We have get-togethers during Christmas and Halloween. Some like Canada are interested in our Gaelic holidays. Those are the few times my brothers are willing to look them in the eye. Samhain is one of my favorite times of the year of that reason.

It's rare that they come for those and even rarer that I'm invited. Only the thinnest of string is keeping our family together, and every day I fear it's going to snap.

I've always had a strained relationship with my brothers. Even before the Roman Empire arrived, I was the runt. The runt was meant to be beaten and battered around as the others grew stronger. From shooting arrows to stoning, my brothers drove me away while they continued to celebrate their beloved holidays.

After Rome's "cleanse" of my people, we were even more divided. I was the traitor. I was Rome's little pet that did his bidding and answered his every call.

I was no longer Britani or Albion.

I was weak, little Britannia, a shell of their former brother.

I was alone.

I'm used to being alone.

Mother only kept me by her side until I was old enough to hold a bow. Then she left me in my land to fend for myself. My first friends were the fae. Mischievous and sinister as they could be, they never laid a finger on me. Maybe being a Nation had something to do with it.

I remember the first night alone. I was scared. What child wouldn't be? I had spent the past 75 years with my mother, and the sudden vacancy of her presence filled me with terror. It wasn't until the sun began to set that I saw them. Tiny twinkling lights dotted about the forest. I first thought them fireflies but was quick to rethink.

I heard their bell-like voices and couldn't help but sing along. The sand of the land and the trees, of summer.

"Bring us Litha! Bring us summer! Bring us Litha! Please, oh Mother!"

I sang with their melodies until they noticed my presence. They probably knew I was near yet refused to acknowledge me.

I spent centuries in the company of the fae. They always hid when mother came about. She had her own faeries and spirit friends. They weren't too keen to share.

I felt more connected to the tribes inhabiting my land when they began trading with the Gauls.

Gaul, Gallia, Normandy… France.

Whatever he is called he'll always be a bastard. How was I to know? At the time, he was only the "annoyance across the channel." I would never have speculated him to become my rival… nor a lover.

How was I to know?