The ink stain on my page has long since dried in the arid, crisp autumn air. You are sleeping peacefully beside me after staying up all night, finishing up all your paperwork (which you really should have finished off before I came, you know).
You looked more weary and worn than I remembered- bags under your eyes and stance not completely upright- but your smile was still just as bright as the sky that one night in the fields of Virginia. That night, you held onto my hand… and just didn't let go.
Though Great Wars are far behind us now (thank God) and we are amongst much more serene times, my mind still occasionally torturously drags itself back to the stench of endless smoke (where there's smoke there's fire) the sound of gunshot that is followed by the dying shrieks of the strongest men, the dye of scarlet that doesn't wash out - the list goes on.
(And I know you suffer with me too. The countless nights when we had to hold on desperately to each other, as if to anchor ourselves in the ebbing and flowing of time and history. We are both damned… and nothing can save us now. But that is the burden we were designed to hold.)
We are nations, Alfred. Our entire existence relies on the exploitation of men's greatest evils and temptations. Empires grow by devouring land and accumulating wealth in their avaricious clutches. Without greed, we cease to grow; without conflict, we cannot thrive. We are made in the image of humans, yet we embody their most atrocious, abominable and abhorrent characteristics.
Are we not ugly creatures?
I used to be the wall between you and the horrors of the world. It seems that I have become one of the monsters that I tried so desperately to save you from. To think, that when you were younger, you aspired to be just like me. (And nothing can save me now.)
You are your own nation now, standing atop the world, the hegemony your brightest jewel in your crown. (It is your age now, Alfred.) You are different, and this difference could have destroyed you. Instead, it made you. I hope you became what you wanted to be. (Just for the record, you've been a hero long ago. This is not supposed to flatter or compliment you; it's simply a statement.) Though you don't ruthlessly rule the seas like I once did, you have something beyond my Old World. You have the stars, Alfred; the most brilliant, beautiful gems I have ever seen, scattered across galaxies and some forever beyond our vision.
If I said I wasn't at least a fraction jealous, I'd be lying.
Alfred, you didn't become me. In ways, you have surpassed me, and I am and eternally will be so very proud of you.
Together, we've trudged a long way from the soggy fields of Yorktown and the smouldering and blitzed buildings of London. Together, we've seen the scintillating and extravagant city lights of France; breathed the bitterly severe winds of the Swiss Alps; heard the erratic and exotic birdcalls of Australia. I'd like to think that we've reached a mutual understanding after all these years. We're not adversaries, nor friends, or even lovers; those words understate what we are (unfortunately I must admit to not having an adequate word in my language).
But here you are, beside me and sleeping soundly, while I attempt to weave prose about us while watching the remainder of autumn's blazing vitality flutter down to rest silently on the ground, and I can't seem to ask for more. And slowly, I realise that I found home once again.