Chapter 2: Sprout
The next time England visited, America had gotten older.
He entered their little house without knocking, and was promptly bowled over by a golden-blond boy garbed not in a white nightgown, or even simple trousers and a shirt. This child wore the clothing of an adult - waistcoat, bow, and all. When America hugged him, England noted that the lad was at least a full head higher against his chest. No, more than that; he'd been only barely taller than England's knee last time, and now the top of his tousled head touched the older nation's rib cage.
England hugged back before pulling away, grasping his charge by the shoulders, and looking him over. It was definitely his America, only... taller. And there was something in his eyes, a blight on his previous blissful naiveté.
Something had changed.
"England, you're back! I missed you!"
A small smile twitched at the edge of the island country's lips. "And I you, lad."
America grasped his hand, tugging him into the sitting room. "Have you been having adventures? Did you fight epic battles and beat the pants off France? Tell me, tell me!"
With a chuckle, England sat in the armchair by the fire, letting the comfortable furniture tempt his eyes shut for just a few moments. When he reopened them, America stood before him, rocking heel to toe and peering up through his fringe. England recognized the gesture from every time the child had misbehaved and knew it. Given that England had been here under half an hour, this was more than a little concerning. "What's amiss, lad?"
America bit his lip. "I got bigger."
"Mm," England hummed noncommittally, wondering where this was going. America had grown before, as the colonists gained territory and more autonomy, and as the lad had learned more about himself and the world around him. None of his previous growth spurts, however, had been of this magnitude, and England wondered at the cause. He hadn't purchased or conquered any new territory in the area, didn't remember passing any laws or hearing of any events that might produce such a change. The alteration, then, must have been in America himself, giving him some vital understanding. "Do you know why?"
"Yeah." Sky blue eyes clouded, and a tiny frown tugged the corners of America's mouth down. When England raised an eyebrow to spur him on, the colony sighed and plopped down beside him. "'Member when I told you 'bout Davie?"
England wasn't about to forget that conversation anytime soon.
"I didn't really get what you meant," America stared at his folded hands, swinging legs that didn't quite touch the ground back and forth. He was quiet for a long minute, and then, with a sigh, he continued his story.
After saying a tearful goodbye to England at the docks (and trying to stop his elder from leaving by any means necessary, including attempting to kick holes in the ship. Not that that had done anything beyond making England's huge eyebrow twitch), America wandered into town as he'd done many times before. Ever since the day he'd arrived home practically in tears, clutching a small purple flower, America had started watching the humans around him. He rarely came into populated areas, preferring the wild woods around his cottage, but he wanted to see the strange phenomenon England was talking about.
Did humans get older? He knew Davie had gotten big and wrinkly and gray, but he had still been Davie. England always knew everything (which wasn't fun when America had been bad), but maybe this time he was wrong. Or making a joke! America didn't get bigger, after all. England said they weren't humans, but they didn't look all that different.
And the time thing was funny, too. Cycles of the sun and moon seemed to fly by in a never-ending flow. How could it go by slowly for someone else?
As he trekked through the little town, America watched his people. They came in so many shapes and sizes and he loved every single one of them. It felt like he almost never saw the same one twice!
On the edge of the village, he found a small farmhouse with a smiling man and woman, who welcomed the (presumably orphaned) boy with open arms. After he'd helped with the chores, they'd let him play with their own children. Curious, with England's words on time echoing in his ears and the memory of Davie's many faces before his eyes, America decided to stay. He joined their family, and he observed.
Moon cycles flew by, and in what felt like a blink of the colony's eye, the other children grew taller, the girls gaining strange lumps on their chest and the boys' voices deepening and everyone gaining hair all over, and soon they no longer wanted to play with the strange, tiny youngster. Even worse, they shied away whenever he came near, assuming him some kind of ghost or apparition whose wrath ought not be raised by shooing him away. The parents, too, changed, growing gray, wrinkles like canyons carving their way onto faces, more appearing each day like new lines on an artist's drawing.
Throughout it all, American found himself still small, examining his tiny hands with a perplexed frown. Somehow, for some reason, he was different. The leap off the high fence near town hadn't hurt him at all, but one of his new friend's arms had given an awful snap, and his cuts and scrapes during their young adventures had been gone within a day, while the other children's lingered for much longer.
And then the mother had gotten sick, wheezing and unable to rise from her bed. America had sat with her, telling her tales to make her laugh but only succeeding in making her cough more, so instead he held her hand. One day, she closed her eyes and went to sleep, the rise and fall of her chest stilling, and she didn't wake up again. America had seen his animal friends do that, too, but he'd let them sleep and assumed that they got up when they were rested, or better.
He had stood by the father, holding the back of his leg as the villagers put the woman in a box - a coffin, he remembered - and draped the house in black. He'd watched, hiding behind the children-no-more, as the box was carried to the church and then to a yard filled with decorated stones, where a few words were said. Then the box with the mother in it was lowered into the ground and covered with dirt. Everyone was crying, and as America glanced from face to face, his chest throbbed painfully.
The nice lady wasn't coming back. That's what death was, going away forever.
Davie was gone forever. He'd never know that America had found his flower. It was as though the Earth had dropped out from under him.
That night, America ran, back to his dusty, solitary cottage hidden in the woods, and cried himself to sleep.
The next morning, he had hit his elbow against the kitchen table, where before he had always knocked the top of his head.
America had gotten taller.
By the end of the tale, England could feel his heart heaving in his chest, and he gathered his charge to him.
So he finally understands. "I'm sorry, lad," he murmured, stroking the lad's hair. America clung to his shirt, leaving little wet spots on the fabric.
"Why do they gotta - gotta -" the child hiccuped, peering back up at his guardian.
"Time is different for them, remember, lad? They can't live forever." Resting a hand on America's golden hair, he tried to smile. "There wouldn't be room for new people otherwise, eh?" America thought that one over and then nodded, but he didn't let go of England.
"You're not gonna die, are you?" The question was soft and tremulous, and England wrapped his arms around the lad.
"No, America. I shan't."
"Good." America snuggled into him, and England made a mental note to craft America some new playthings more suitable to his older body. Some toy soldiers, perhaps? He'd think more on that later. "I don't want you to leave. Ever."
Warmth suffused its way through England's chest, and he smiled down at the little blond boy. "Of course I won't. You're my colony. We'll stay together forever."
America nodded enthusiastically, and the conversation turned to more pleasant topics.
But time moved too fast, even for a nation. The hour of splendor had passed, wilting like a single purple flower held in tiny hands, trying to grasp the nature of mortality. America had started watching, and listening, and learning, and every time England came back, he was older.
Soon, too soon, he was taller than England, and then they stood across from each other on a blood-and-tear stained battleground.
It was America who did the leaving, then.
"You used to be so big."
End.
"What though the radiance that was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight
Though nothing can bring back
The hour of splendor in the grass
Of glory in the flower
We will grieve not
Rather find strength
In what remains behind."
William Wordsworth, English poet (1770 - 1850)
A/N: And so it ends. This was fun to write, and I hope it was enjoyable to read.