'A mother is she who can take the place of all others, but whose place no one else can take.'
He wasn't coming.
By now, Russia had convinced himself of this fact. He had walked around the sprawling green space, staying close to the borders in case a shock of gold hair (and even more shocking eyebrows) would come gliding in, always unruffled. Russia always thought that strange - he had this idea that mothers were infinitely harassed and flying from one place to another. But no matter what, even if he was trying to put out one of his fires on the lawn, he retained a measure of grace. No, not grace. Control. He wondered if that helped maintain the Empire so long, then his eyes strayed back to the paved roads around, and his heart sank a little more.
"Sorry I'm late." England, in the exact way he pictured it, came gliding in, somehow appearing calm even with a ketchup stain on his lapel, a coffee stain on his collar, and a brush of chipped lip gloss on his knee, bright pink against the black material. His hair was ruffled and there were fading nicks on his hands, bruising at the knuckles. No doubt he had got into a fight again, maybe while caring for one of the younger nations; that made him knee France in the face, smudging France's lipstick, overbalancing slightly and spilling his coffee; then one of the colonies would express concern or pull them apart, perhaps with a ketchup blob on one of their fingers.
Russia wondered how he had got to know England so well all of a sudden, even as a smile jumped to his lips, shy and open. Another feeling he wasn't used to having was the sudden surge of affection. He suspected England felt it too, the feeling of being whole again. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."
"It would be remiss of me to decline an invitation from one of my allies," England replied, eyes twinkling. A little bubble of humour rose in his throat, and he copied England's smile. For a while, they wandered aimlessly around, pausing at beautiful statues or as the gardeners worked on flowerbeds. They came to rest on a bench opposite an engraving of runes. No recognition came to Russia's mind as he stared at it, trying to make sense of it.
"Do you know the story?"
England's voice broke him out of his musings. He shook his head. "There's a story behind this?"
"Yes," England said, looking back at the stone. "It's an English artefact. It reads 'you, who knows my heart because you have seen and laid upon it.' It was said that a young woman fell in love with an unscrupulous man... One who took advantage of her affections... They were together a while, at the disapproval of all her family and village, until he found another's affection, and left her. Her family encouraged her to get rid of her baby, to start again. They told her to leave the child in the woods, to be torn apart by the wolves."
Russia was listening intently, his face turned to England as he continued to speak.
"She couldn't bring herself to do it, however. Instead she ran to a Roman outpost... and begged them to take the child from her. The Romans, though not the nicest people, and believe me I know that better than most, agreed to take the child, and send him back once he had turned 16. She went back and started her new life, but she never forgot her child. She sat on the edge of her village, marked by a stone, and waited for him everyday once she knew he came of age. She waited and waited and waited... And soon she was old, too old to wait any longer. Her final act was this message, the message she had uttered to him before leaving him behind, that she implored the Romans to tell him: you, who knows my heart because you have seen and laid upon it."
"Did he ever find her?" Russia asked, an almost desparate hope in his voice.
"I don't know," England replied softly. "Maybe he knew his origins, and of his aggrieved mother. Maybe he knew nothing except the Roman way of life. Her story is known to few and her name is long forgotten... as is the outcome of this tale... yet her hope has resonated through the centuries, forever etched into a stone and into history. The boundless hope of being reunited... the fleeting joy of holding a child in her arms still fresh in her memory as she sat, day by day, year after year. The story, quite rightly I think, has no end."
"Why?" Asked Russia naively.
"Because motherhood is forever," England said simply. "But not just for the mother. For the child too. Just as the mother will hold her children to her heart, her children reserve a space for her too. She is eternal, and no one in history can take her place, although she may appear in different names and forms."
Russia tentatively reached over and took one of England's hands into his, marvelling at the change he had gone through in these past few months. "I think I understand that last bit," he murmured, a silent admission of what they already knew; an acknowledgment of importance.
Meanwhile, unseen, a nation ducked behind a tree, watching with wide eyes the interaction - and touching - happening between the two.