Note: I wrote this for #hetaliawritersmonthly challenge on tumblr. (As usual, as tradition mandates, between midnight and 1 am, lol.) The style is quite different from my usual one, it's just how it came out. I hope you'll still like it, let me know what you think!

Theme: Celebration of Writers
Prompt: "If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it." —Toni Morrison

Summary: "The fairy tales England used to tell hold a special meaning for Canada."

Sweet Memento

Terror and desolation were constant companions in Canada's first days as a British colony. The sudden illness that gripped him left him too weak to move or even talk, helpless against the fever blazing in his body. Sometimes, when his chest was so heavy that drawing each breath felt like a fight against a rock compressing his lungs, Canada thought he was going to fade and die.

England's earnest reassurances that everything was going to be all right didn't help much.

England was kind. He sat next to Canada's bed and ran hesitant fingers through the child's hair, tried to curb the fever with a soft wet cloth on his forehead. He even forced himself to speak French, although the awful accent and frequent, brief pauses as he fumbled to find the right words made it clear it took quite an effort out of him.

But Canada didn't know if he could trust England.

France had been kind but he had lied; there was no reason England couldn't be the same. For all Canada knew, England was trying to make him comfortable before he drew his last breath. While deeply appreciated, England's gentleness didn't loosen the knot of fear in Canada's stomach.

His stories were a different matter.

When he was telling stories, something changed in England's demeanour. His shoulders and back became straighter, his eyes bright and focused as his smooth, confident voice retraced the adventures of old kings and knights. He was mesmerizing; Canada could do nothing but let himself be swallowed and trapped inside the tale.

And as he did, the pain and fear seemed to fade as well.

Much to his surprise, Canada slowly got his strength back and his illness ended in recovery instead of death.

The difficulties didn't end there, however. Everything was new and daunting – a different language he didn't speak nor understand as well as he had thought, people looking down at him in disapproval because he was 'a foreigner'… sometimes, Canada got to the end of the day so weighed down by sadness that he was even too exhausted to cry.

England's stories, however, always broke through the clouds looming over him and made the air lighter. In those words and adventures, he found comfort and even the strength to face the following day.

As time went by, Canada grew accustomed to his new living situation, but England's bedtime stories were still treasured among his favourite parts of the day. By listening to them with unrivalled attention, he committed them to heart. Oftentimes, during his darkest moments, Canada would find his mind going back to those stories, mentally retraced his favourite passages as he tried to ground himself. Every time despair was about to strangle any hope, the memory of England's words and those moments they had shared brought a trickle of relief.

As it turned out, Canada remembering England's stories was a stroke of luck. For England eventually stopped telling them.

Rationally, Canada knew that he shouldn't be disappointed: at that point, he was old enough not to need a bedtime story and England was far too busy to worry about that. The knowledge didn't stop disappointment from clenching his chest. Despite telling himself that he should have coped, Canada often mourned that loss.

And maybe, Canada hadn't been the only one benefitting from those moments. Canada couldn't forget how lively and relaxed England had always been when telling his stories – so different from the frazzled young man Canada often had in front of eyes; one who seemed about to break into pieces in spite of how hard he was trying to keep himself together.

It took Canada weeks to gather enough courage to ask the question. Every time he was about to, he would take notice of England's tight features and tired eyes and feel silly for burdening him with such trivial concerns.

The solution came easier than he had feared. A single mention of intentions to America, and his brother was already yelling across the room.

"Oi, Artie! Did you ever write down the stories you used to tell us when we were kids? You know, all those fairy tales and stuff… They were cool!"

England stiffened at that, his face flushing bright red. As usual, he didn't offer a direct answer to America's question, but Canada didn't need that. All he needed was in the mumbling about how those tales had been mostly made up on the spot – and even more, in the haunted longing that for a moment England wasn't able to hide from his eyes.

For once, Canada knew what to do.

The first time he placed his hands over the keyboard, his fingers trembled; looking at the white page in front of him closed off his throat. In spite of everything, his memory was still good. After a bit of fumbling, the words started flowing easily on the page. It wasn't long before Canada realized with surprise that he was actually enjoying himself: those words he was writing were filled with the pleasant memories and feelings that came with them; a reminder of some of the best moments he had lived and of the bonds he shared not only with England, but also with America and even Australia and New Zealand. They weren't only stories but a memento of their family.

Self-doubt once again assaulted Canada when he extended his trembling hands to present the book to England.

England stilled, his eyes widening in surprise.

Canada's stomach made a painful summersault, a voice in his mind berating him for overstepping boundaries – but the gentleness England stroked the cover with almost spoke or reverence. The incredulous smile that slowly morphed his lips made him look younger and more relaxed.

"Those stories… they meant a lot to me," Canada explained without being able to conceal the slight trembling of his voice.

England's answer was in the way he hugged the book to his chest.

(word count: 988)