'All that I am, and all that I hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.'
I'm the hero!
Yes, Alfie, you're the hero.
Those words had been spoken so many times to him. When he was falling asleep - go fight monsters in your dreams, hero - when he was running around, chasing bunnies - you're a bunny-hero Alfred! - when he put on his clothes by himself every morning or brushed his own teeth - wow what a brave, grown up hero you are! - those words were spoken so often, America believed them to their fullest. He was America the Hero, America the Beautiful, America...
... The Free.
"I... I can't do it..."
"What happened to you Britain? You used to be so great..."
It was like coming up from under water, taking in a sharp breath as he snapped back to reality, and dropped the carved figure in his hands. The figure was one of resin - a beautiful young woman in a long period-typical dress, flowing blonde locks held back by a few tresses, gazing adoringly at a newborn baby in her arms. In her dress were set crystals, glittering and dancing as though celebrating new life. The figure rolled away from him, landing with a heavy thud.
It was ironic, he supposed, kneeling and opening the other, forgotten chest further. Ironic that he should love these figurines now, these things given to him to symbolise love - lost love now - when really, he should have treasured them as a child. The chest contained more female figurines, all blonde with a little blond boy by her side. A little notebook full of pressed flowers, carefully and lovingly preserved. A pair of silver rings, carved with an image of the moon. A small handmade pouch with intricate embroidery on the sides. And, of course, a set of handkerchiefs, crumpled at the very bottom.
The figurines were him and England, he knew that now. At the time he had been confused as to why his (seemingly) very much male guardian would give him such a thing, but he had learnt that gender roles and gender was very flexible for nations, to the point where he called England 'mother' and the 'motherland.' But, in those times, it would be unorthodox to associate the man with a child, so a woman it was. The handkerchiefs were a different story, made to perfection by oft-bleeding hands from war for his child - for him, America.
But it's all gone now, and America is left with England, not mom, left with a (not so) special relationship, not that special bond. England - the nation - is not dead, yet something died on that battlefield. His mother - the one he knew before that moment - is gone, a man made into an angel, sitting on the old rocking chair deep within this storage cupboard, still humming a soft tune to a sleepy child who cannot yet utter the word independence...
And he knows that all his confidence, all his aspirations of freedom and justice - they are his mother's, who rests somewhere in this cupboard and inside England's heart. His mother filled his head with dreams. Maybe one day he'll see him again, when everyone smiles from their eyes. Maybe he'll see him again when all the children laugh from their hearts.
When everyone is united with him, when they reach Eden, his mother will be waiting for him there, on that rocking chair, and he'll open up his arms with a laugh, and America will run towards him, feel himself get smaller and younger, the age and years and pain fading away until he lands safely in those arms, and they'll watch the cornfields sway in the breeze again...
07/12/18: Hey I'm not dead! But until I write more chapters I'll be posting once every two weeks instead of every week. To the guest reviewer on the last chapter: I know where you're coming from, but this is more of a feels story rather than historically accurate story. I'll try to keep within the realms of reality as much as I can.