In her early youth, everything appeared to be so much more insignificant and inconsequential. Any heart wrenching display of deeply imbedded emotions was lost on her. She didn't linger on the tiny details of her life, taking for granted the sheer intrigue of her circumstances. She stood—watching and waiting for understanding to come upon her as the world transformed of its own accord.
And thus, when England seated himself in his office one fine evening, America did not—could not—grasp the imperative nature of the situation upon them.
She had been playing with her wooden blocks, building a fort for the beautiful fairy princess that she hoped would reside within its sturdy walls. She placed her doll on the highest block, sitting her upright so that she could watch over the expanse of the royal property. Then, she heard a shuffle of movement behind her, and the unmistakable sound of England's shoes making contact with the doorway to her bedroom.
She turned toward him at once, a proud smile on her face as she flaunted her fort to the empire, cheeks pink and colored with animosity. "England, look what I did all by myself! Wanna be the knight that protects the fairy princess?"
Riddled with indecision, England allowed the ghost of a melancholy smile to wash over his features. America picked up on his sullen stance rather hastily, frowning upon noting that something was troubling the man.
"I'm afraid now is not a good time," England murmured pityingly, rubbing a hand over his face. "My dear, I'd like to have a word with you."
The child pouted at his tone, lowering her chin slightly in fear. "Am I in trouble?"
England shook his head reassuringly, finally stepping into the room to take hold of the young girl's hand. "No, it's nothing of the sort. Come along, and I'll explain."
America allowed herself to be guided into the old office, finding some pleasure in the warmth and coziness of the room as she was seated in the nearest leather chair. England stood before her, just in front of his mahogany desk in order to lean on it for support.
"What's wrong?" America prodded, growing impatient and frightened at the fact that her mentor had suddenly become so serious. He said that she wasn't in any trouble, but she was still not entirely convinced that he was not upset with her.
England took in a deep breath, closing his eyes momentarily before finding the energy to speak. "I know that we've spoken of this matter many times in the past, but I'd like to reinforce it once more just to be certain that you fully understand."
"You said that I wasn't in trouble!"
"You're not going to be scolded, but it's very important that you listen very carefully to what I'm about to say to you."
America sat up straight in her seat, arms outstretched on either armrest of the chair as she met her guardian's gaze.
"As you well know, we are not ordinary people, America. What are we?"
"We're nations," America replied jubilantly, resisting the urge to bounce in her seat. "You're England and I'm America. You're an empire and I'm your colony. You came all the way across the sea to find me, and now I'm part of you!"
England grimaced mildly at the less than eloquent explanation, but nodded his head nonetheless. "Precisely. Now, what is it about nations that makes them different from everyday people?"
The child in the large leather chair beamed with happiness, a triumphant grin on her face. "We're stronger!"
"What else?" England pressed imploringly.
America chewed on her bottom lip in thought, contemplative. "We…We don't grow as fast."
"Yes, that's the answer I was looking for," England praised softly. "Even though you seem to be growing rather rapidly for a colony, you won't grow nearly as quickly as the human children. We have and will continue to age very gradually. Now, when you're an adult, this won't be as much of a hindrance, but for now, it's important that we don't attract too much attention to this particular phenomenon."
America gave the man a confused look, slumping forward as she waited for clarification.
"What I'm trying to get at is that you can no longer interact with these new friends that you've made in Boston. You may no longer talk to that boy you are so fond of, Charlie, nor the remainder of any other acquaintances. It is for your own safety," England finished sternly, hating himself for the immediate crestfallen look in America's eyes.
"I'm sorry, America."
"W-Why can't I have any friends?" the child whispered, dangerously on the verge of tears.
England sighed, crouching down to be at eye-level with his charge. "Your friends are getting older, America. They'll all be teenagers before you know it. Don't you think they'll find it strange that you'll still appear to be six when they'll be sixteen? We can't risk the exposure of our kind."
"B-But it's not fair! Who am I going to talk to now? I can't talk to any humans?"
"America, please. You know that I'm not asking you to do this just to be an old grouch. It's for your own well-being," England said, patting America's knee comfortingly. "In essence, I suppose it's my fault for allowing you to grow so attached to the other children. Until you're fully grown, it's best if you only remain in prolonged contact with those who are aware of our existence."
"You can't keep me away from everyone!"
England clenched his fingers into fists, losing his composure. "America, you will do as I say or face the severe consequences. If I ever catch you talking to Charlie again, other than to tell him that you are breaking all relations with him, you will be punished accordingly."
America's breath hitched, eyes flooding with tears as a horrible gnawing sensation grew in the pit of her stomach. "It's not fair! I don't want to be a colony or even a nation!"
Unsure of whether or not to allow America to cry herself out, England watched helplessly, rubbing the girl's arm until she swatted his hand away, storming out of the room and disappearing into the hallway. Immediately, the older nation trailed behind her, making frugal attempts to calm her as he entered her bedroom once more. He stood in the corner, making sure the child didn't wreak too much destruction.
In a fit of rage, America knocked down the fort she had built, watching the fairy princess fall from her pedestal and collapse with the rest of the rubble. Then, America lowered herself to the ground as well, tears dripping onto the wooden floorboards.
"America," England tried again, walking forward and placing a steady hand on the shaking shoulder. "I know it's hard, but I need you to be brave and strong, all right? This is a lot to ask of you, but—"
America swiped her tears away furiously before pulling away from England's touch to allow her anger to consume her. Wanting nothing more than to be left alone in peace, she turned to England and shouted the first offensive remark that came to mind.
"I hate you!"
Time seemed to stop as England withdrew his hand from her proximity, stunned by the impact of the child's words. America had said those same three words in a joking manner many times in the past, but this was the first time that she had uttered them with such sincere conviction.
Guilt instantly bit at America's nerves as she watched her father figure stare back at her morosely. He just stood there for a while, not daring to move. For a moment, America feared that he'd been paralyzed, but when he finally made his way for the door, she felt both relieved and sorrowful.
Habit willed her to get up and chase after the man to bolster his spirits, but her defiance won the struggle, keeping her planted to the floor like glue.
Though she was small and still missed more subtle social cues, America knew that things had changed between her and England. She still hadn't apologized to him, and spent most of autumn in the yard, partially to avoid the uncomfortableness of being in his presence. She would climb the large oak tree— whose leaves had turned an orangey-yellow—perching herself on one of the solid branches. Then, her feet would swing back and forth beneath her as she enjoyed the crisp breeze that would occasionally flutter through her hair.
It was rather fitting then, that at the peak of her crumbling relationships, the earth seemed to be in a state of mourning as well.
On some days she could spot Charlie leaving his house, and she would smile as he helped his father in his work shed, lending a hand for some of the more laborious tasks.
Occasionally, when England was not in as foul of a mood as usual, he would come out into the yard and chide her for her actions.
"Young ladies don't climb trees," he would say before disappearing back into the house, leaving America to go about her day without further comment.
Apparently, her people had a lot to say about the British Empire, and she began growing more aware of this as she passed newspaper kiosks in the streets. Salutary neglect, some called it; the policy of lenient law enforcement upon the English colonies as the British government dealt with its own affairs in Europe.
In fact, for the first time, America felt herself form a bond between her people, which was a welcomed surprise after her long bout of loneliness. She finally seemed to discover that she did not have to talk to others to feel and empathize with them—it was already one of her inherent senses.
And as she grew, she felt her connection with her inhabitants develop evermore intricate.
Therefore, the seasons passed and meshed into one another as America continued to sit in that faithful tree. England was right when he claimed that Charlie would mature, and America witnessed his transformation into a lanky teenager right before her very eyes.
A few years seemed to leave little of an impact on America, but Charlie was quickly approaching adulthood, and the passage of time at last left its mark on her when she noticed that one day something had changed about the lively house that she'd been observing. Charlie came out of the edifice with a collection of wooden boxes that were packed high with miscellaneous items before piling them onto a carriage.
Then, it finally dawned upon her that he was leaving.
The family was moving up north, just as Charlie had relayed to her all those years before. America remembered the pain of saying goodbye to him after England had forced her to break all contact with him. She'd come up with a measly excuse that she couldn't be friends with him anymore because of something he had said. It had all been soaked in lies, and she hoped that she hadn't broken his heart beyond repair.
Charlie had come to her house days afterward, apologizing and asking to see her multiple times, but each time, England would apologize and turn down his requests.
Tall and older, though still highly impressionable, Charlie seemed happy, and that was enough for America to find some closure in their previously bitter ending. She tried to sense what he was feeling, seeing as he was one of her people, but before she could get the opportunity to dwell on it, Charlie had turned his head and looked straight at her.
She was startled at the prospect of getting caught, swiftly making her escape out of the tree and back to the grassy ground. Charlie only blinked at the sight, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. He turned back to the carriage, but couldn't shake the strange feeling growing in his chest.
America smiled from her spot on the ground, and though she was once again hidden from his sight, she could feel the blossoming questions in Charlie's mind. Though she might never find a way to properly explain it, he simply seemed to know—or at least a small part of him knew—who she truly was.
And that was enough.
It wasn't until she was quite a bit older (physically eleven to be exact), that she recognized the true extent of what it meant to be a nation, with all of its woes in particular.
She had been accompanying England to the market, sidling past numerous people along the way and attempting not to converse with her parent country unnecessarily, when she suddenly doubled over in a flash of burning pain; a crippling pain that seemed to twist the very bones through her entire form, sending her to her knees.
"Amelia?" she heard England call out as he rushed forward and knelt beside her, taking her hand in his. Despite their recent turmoil, the older nation's eyes were full of concern and worry, grip firm as he held his protective hand over hers. "What's wrong?"
A small crowd had gathered around them, and a few Bostonians scurried forward to help, but England waved them off and assured them that the situation was under control.
"Everything hurts," America gasped, tears spilling over her cheeks as another ripple of throbbing pain ran through her legs and sent a chill down her spine. "Why does e-everything hurt?" she asked, stumbling on her words.
England knit his brows together and brushed a hand through her hair reassuringly. He was relatively calm considering the circumstances, having dealt with such illnesses and injuries in the past. "Let's get you home, hmm? Can you walk?"
Testing out her limbs, America tried to stand, but only ended up in a writhing huddle of pain once more. She continued to cry, sobs growing in strength as England kept his cool, rubbing circles into her back.
"Right then, put your arms around my neck and hold on tightly," the man ordered, waiting patiently for America to do as she was told. Once her grip was secure, England put one hand on her back and the other under her legs. "That's it. I'm going to lift you up now, all right?"
"Are you strong enough?" America couldn't help but mock the other, a painful smile twitching on her face before fading altogether.
England merely scoffed and rolled his eyes at her. He was an empire and she was the size of an eleven-year-old child, rendering her nearly weightless in his arms. "Feeling well enough to be cheeky, are we?" he murmured without any real bite in his words. Slowly he raised her up from the ground and began the walk to their home, leaving the frazzled colonists behind.
"What's happening to me?" America queried once they had retreated to a less populated area.
England growled under his breath for a moment before replying in a hushed whisper. "France happened, that's what. I'll see to it that this madness ends quickly."
The girl glowered, resting her head on England's chest as fatigue caught up with her. The man had spoken to her about the impending war with France and the French colonies, but America hadn't paid it much mind. After all, England was always at war with someone, and it usually didn't impact her. In fact, not even England himself seemed to be fazed by the troubles in Europe.
Was this what war felt like then? Her body was flaring up with pain in every muscle, and as they finally reached the house, America begged England to make it stop.
"Hush, love. We'll get you tucked into bed and you'll feel a bit better," England promised as he tried to drown out her growing hysteria. He had to remain calm. It was only natural that such a young colony would be so effected by its first encounter with true warfare.
America's whimpers smoldered when England set her down on the awaiting bed, but increased a tenfold upon the loss of contact with the older nation.
"Don't let go!" America pleaded, reaching out her arms for him as she felt lost and hollow without the protective embrace of her father figure. "I-It hurts so much that I can barely breathe."
England sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, taking hold of America's hand once more to help her relax. "It's going to be all right. Your people are fighting, and the first battle is always the worst, but the pain will fade after a while. The pain is intense because you're still young. Unfortunately, there is little we can do aside from waiting it out."
"Don't leave," America demanded, squeezing the hand clutching hers. "Please, don't leave."
And perhaps, this was why she felt such a childish affection for England, admiring his fatherly reassurances. The man could be stodgy and unreasonable, but when he cared for something, his entire arsenal of dedication and loyalty would step forward to protect it.
With a sympathetic smile, her parent nation leaned forward and kissed her head softly, brushing the hair out of her face afterward. "Don't be afraid; I'm not going anywhere. I'll be staying right here to keep an eye on you."
America nodded and looked as if she were about to say something else until her skin became clammy, making her grimace. She suddenly felt sick and turned her head to the side, feeling relieved that England had predicted her body's actions and now held a bucket in front of her. Immediately, she retched and expelled her lunch, wincing as her stomach and throat burned with displeasure.
"Unfortunately, that happens sometimes as well," England told her lightly, as though it were customary for him to soothe vomiting children. He set the bucket on the ground once she was done, leaving momentarily to clean up. He returned with a glass of water and cold washcloth, wiping her face and passing her the water to keep hydrated. "If I could take the pain instead, I would."
America frowned and tried to sit up to the best of her ability, only to collapse onto the pillows again. "You don't feel any pain? It's your nation too."
"I feel an occasional twinge," England admitted with a shrug, "but when you've been around for hundreds upon hundreds of years, these types of skirmishes are numbed by the body. The most inconvenient pain is the paperwork," he finished with a smirk. "But you have me to take care of that for you."
"Are we gonna win?"
England chuckled quietly, patting America's hand. "I shall tend to our imminent victory. You, on the other hand, are to stay in bed and rest. Pushing yourself will only make matters worse."
"But I wanna help fight France too! I'm old enough!"
"In due time," England assured with a little laugh. "You're already helping, after all. The pain you are undergoing is evident of that, but this is the last thing that I wanted."
America cocked her head to the side. "What do you mean?"
"I never want to see you unwell. You see, America, no matter what the political climate is, and regardless of what goes on between our relations—" England cut himself off with a shake of the head. "I shouldn't be telling you this; it borders on treason. Just know that our government doesn't always determine our fate. We have our own feelings too, yes?"
Sleepiness looming over her, America nodded to appease England, tugging his hand close to her heart before drifting away from the pulsating pain of reality.
Nine years.
Nearly a decade had passed since the conflict had begun, but America was finally able to see peace on the horizon once more. They had won, though there had been some worrying moments of trouble for a span of time. Nonetheless, success rained over them, just as England had promised, and their empire swelled to an even greater size.
As such, America did not find it surprising when England had come into her room one day, still fussing over the child's slow recovery before stating that she would soon be meeting her sibling, Canada. Apparently, they were twins, and America found herself both startled and enthusiastic at the prospect that there was another copy of her out in the world.
"Your brother will be moving in with us now that he no longer belongs to France. I expect you to be hospitable and on your best behavior, is that clear?"
America smiled mischievously, already planning all of the trouble she would be getting into with the new addition to their little family. Plus, she wouldn't have to worry about becoming attached to him, seeing as they were both nations.
"Crystal clear!" America assured in the most angelic manner she could manage.
"He should be here any moment. As a matter of fact, I think that's his carriage now," England muttered, gesturing out the window.
Not waiting to be introduced, America swung the front door open and raced over to the carriage, hopping up and down impatiently as a figure emerged from the other side.
"Hi, Canada! It's nice to meet ya! My name's—"
She stopped in her tracks, taken aback and bewildered by the young boy that finally entered her field of vision. She imagined that he looked exactly what she would look like if she were a boy. He had wavy hair that curtained the sides of his face, and a single curl just at the top, which stood out prominently.
Despite being tall for a female, Canada was still an inch or two taller than America, and held a stuffed polar bear in his arms as he looked the other colony up and down.
"America?" he asked, frowning slightly at her. He had a bit of a French accent, but his English still appeared to be fairly understandable. She assumed that he would pick up her accent soon enough.
"You're a girl?"
Taking a moment to register the disappointed tone, America scowled. "Yeah, so? I'm your sister."
Canada held up his hands quickly in alarm. "I didn't mean to offend you," he mumbled softly. "I was just surprised…"
America huffed, lifting her chin into the air. "Well, that still wasn't a very nice way to say 'hello'!"
Blushing heavily, Canada remained flustered until England came out of the house to rescue him from further embarrassment. He'd met England before, and though he didn't particularly like the man, he supposed that his new guardian could potentially have been worse.
"I'd be careful if I were you," America continued, feeling more confident with England in the vicinity, "I could take you on any day!"
England rolled his eyes from behind the girl, placing a strong hand on her shoulder. "I thought you were going to behave yourself. What did we just talk about, America?"
"Hmph… He started it."
"I apologize for America's ill-temperedness," England began, holding out a hand to Canada. "It's been a while since I've last seen you. My, how you've grown."
Reluctantly, Canada took the proffered hand and shook it, suddenly aching for France to guide him through this new transitioning process. Unfortunately, the man had important business to take care of in Europe, and their goodbyes had been said earlier than expected.
America, meanwhile, seemed suddenly unhappy at the idea of having to share her guardian with anyone else. Ever since the beginning of the French and Indian War, she had grown closer with England, but now, it looked as if they'd be wedged apart again.
"Why don't you show Canada around while I bring his things into the house, America?" England suggested, removing his hand from America's shoulder and gently pushing her in the direction of the front door. "I'm sure you two will get along just fine."
America scrunched her nose up in disdain. "Do I havta?"
"America," England warned, stern and unwavering.
The child sighed peevishly and nodded, wrapping one hand around Canada's wrist before dragging him inside. "Hurry up, brother! We've got lots of stuff to do."
She led him into the foyer first, stopping to point at various objects. "This is where England puts all of his vases and expensive stuff. Don't break any of it, or you'll get in trouble."
Canada smirked. "How many vases have you broken?"
"No questions," America stated threateningly, pulling Canada up the stairs and into the first room on the right. "This is my room. It's off limits, got it?"
Canada, slightly sheepish and a tad frightened by America's intimidating glare, nodded ever so slightly.
Then, they traversed into the room directly across the hall. "This is England's office. You're not allowed to go in there either unless he lets you. If he does let you come in, it's usually 'cause you're in big trouble—like the no dessert for two weeks type of trouble."
Continuing on with the tour, despite Canada's protesting wrist, America wandered into the next room on the left. "This is England's room. Only I'm allowed to go in here uninvited, okay?"
"How come?"
"I said no questions!" America hissed, looking very exasperated. "But if you havta know, let's just say that England likes me more than you, so I get to go in there when I don't feel well and you don't."
"That doesn't seem fair," Canada pointed out quietly, never raising his voice.
"Well, rules are rules, and they have to be followed," America rationalized, using the line that England often used on her. "The washroom is at the end of the hall and the outhouse is to the left of the yard. To the right is the well. Got it? All right, I've got stuff to do. See ya around!" she said, departing to her bedroom.
Timidly, Canada stood in the empty hallway before going after his sister once more, unsure of what else to do. He invited himself inside with a little knock, watching America sprawl herself out on her bed.
"I said that my room is off limits! Get it?"
Canada wrung his hands uncertainly, feeling exactly like a fish out of water. "But where am I going to stay?"
America sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "You can sleep in the yard, just set up a tent."
Spluttering and flustered, Canada felt his cheeks flush in anger. "You don't have to be so rude."
Maybe this whole 'having a brother' ordeal wasn't going to be as rewarding as America initially thought.
"England! Send him back!"
The sound of someone climbing the steps followed, and soon England had entered the bedroom, staring at America accusingly. "Stop your hollering. What is the problem now?"
"Canada won't get out of my room!"
England clicked his tongue in the usual disapproving manner, frowning down at America. "You'll be sharing this room now."
Her worst nightmare becoming a reality, America hastily began to plead her case. "But why? I don't even know him! He's a total stranger! What if he turns out to be an axe murderer and chops my head off while I'm sleeping?"
Awkward and uncomfortable, Canada scratched at him arm, hugging Kumajirou tightly as England mumbled something indistinguishable under his breath.
"I worry about your rampant thoughts sometimes. It'll be absolutely fine, and you'll learn to adjust to sharing. I'll have the other bed set up by tonight," England announced with a tone that clearly left no room for further discussion. "Canada has had a long trip and is tired, so I expect you to be sympathetic. We'll have a quick dinner and then it'll be time for bed."
America glared at the two male nations, conceding defeat, but only momentarily. If she had to share the only room that she had to herself—in the house that seemed to be suffocating her—, she would find a way to persevere.
In fact, appeasement and accommodation would soon become everyday occurrences.
"We've been through this before, America," England growled one afternoon, barely sparing a moment to look up from his paperwork. "It's uncouth to arrange a private tutor for you."
America threw her hands up into the air out of frustration, unable to believe what she was hearing. "But Canada has a tutor! It's not like you can't afford one!"
"Canada's circumstances are different. He's been brainwashed by France and now requires a proper education," England reasoned, waving a hand of dismissal in his colony's direction. "I don't have the time for this argument right now."
She was quickly growing sick of this act. Ever since Canada had moved in with them, she had noted that he was immediately given preferential treatment and greater responsibility than she had ever been graced with. England trusted the boy to deal with some of the affairs in his own nation, while America was left on the sidelines and treated like a caged dog, expected to stay at home and away from the other children with nothing to keep herself occupied other than chores.
"But I want to learn history, geography, and foreign languages too! I might need to know these subjects in the future!"
England scoffed, tightening his fingers around his pen. "Such skills would never be expected of you, especially as a colony... A female colony nonetheless."
"So, that's what this is about? It's uncouth for a girl to study something other than how to be a seamstress? You remind me constantly that I'm not an ordinary human. Why shouldn't I be able to learn more about the world?" America asked bitterly, approaching England's desk and placing her hands on the smooth wood.
"You expect me to be too liberal with you at times."
America shook her head despairingly, tucking a chunk of hair behind her ear. "For someone who always talks about being proper and cultured, you're no better than the rest of that European scum across the damned sea!"
"America!" England scolded, slamming his pen down and standing upright. "Enough!"
The younger nation held her ground, fuming as she vaguely noted the hint of concern in her mentor's eyes; he was scared of her. She was growing rapidly, already sixteen in appearance while Canada still looked to be eleven. England chalked it up to her growing ports and cities, but America knew that something much deeper was the root of her growth spurt.
Hatred bred awfully fast.
"You best remember your place," England cautioned, looming over America with a pointed finger. "Get out of my sight at once!"
America felt her lips stretch into a sneer. "You can hide the affairs of my land as much as you'd please, but you'll never be able to stop the connection that I have with the colonists. I don't need to be able to locate nations on a world map to know that turmoil is growing between my people and the Crown."
"Your people?" England inquired with a raised brow, inwardly seething. "You don't have 'people', America. See, this is where you are sorely mistaken. They are my people, and mine alone. You are my colony, and you will always answer to me, and until you learn to stop being so ridiculously naïve, it is the way things shall remain."
America furrowed her brows, a dry smile on her face. "Taxing them without representation after years of letting them roam free under salutary neglect? We'll see how long they'll stand for that. Not to mention that the Proclamation Line just added fuel to the fire. Your 'people' never felt the need to answer to you before. What makes you think they'll change their minds now? And I'm the naïve one?"
It was silly really, allowing such a confrontation to spawn from a disagreement over a tutor, but America could feel the bubbling rage of the civilians around her, and—being unable to control her emotions just yet—she easily felt all of her grievances begin to spill out of her mouth.
England, however, had apparently reached his breaking point. Scarlet faced and fatigued from dealing with constant affairs at home and abroad, he raised his right hand at America, hitting her sharply across the cheek.
Immediately, America held her face in shock, steadying herself after momentarily losing her balance. She gaped at England, wide eyed and terrified as the man whom she once ran to for protection seemed to transform into an enemy.
"You hit me," she gasped at him, feeling the sting of the injury long after the impact. "H-How could you—?"
England strained to align his thoughts, feeling both overwhelming guilt and never-ending frustration. She had pushed him too far, but even so, his actions had been uncalled for.
"Go to your room," the man finished coldly, gesturing to the door. "This conversation is finished."
Knowing that continuing wasn't going to accomplish anything, America spun around on her heel, knocking a precious and antique knick-knack off of one of the office's shelves. It splintered into multiple pieces on the ground, and offered her some solace.
"How's that for being lady-like?"