If there was such a thing as a soul, America was sure that hers was on fire that day.
A slow and blistering heat spread across the land, being fed by tears and ashes as the charred scent of soot fluttered around her. Dole and dismal, it followed her to her brownstone townhouse, filtering in through the windows as she pulled the curtains to a close and sat in the darkness. She didn't dare to look outside again, fearing the rows of candles and posters mish-mashed amongst the disorder of a stupefied and frozen city.
Canada had been the first one to come knocking on her door, waiting on the stoop for hours and pleading with her to let him in. When he'd tired, he offered what little help and reassurances he could give to the people collected along the streets, brushing the debris off of their shoulders and kneeling beside them as some prayed.
Next came France, depositing a bouquet of white lilies by her door and sharing a quiet conversation with Canada before joining him in his campaign on the street. They cleared away the worst of the rubble and pieces of burnt paper rolling along with the evening breeze, helpless and frightened themselves as the sound of stifled sobs greeted them on every corner.
From what she could gather, Germany and Prussia arrived at some point as well, but they didn't linger and only left further letters of condolences and blooming flowers by the front steps.
Regardless, she ignored them all—not because she didn't appreciate their gestures, but because she couldn't move, think, or breathe as she buried herself in what miniscule comfort her bed could offer.
Eventually, the room was illuminated by the candles and flickering lampposts outside, leaving everything slightly softer around the edges like a protective cocoon.
And then came England with more flowers in his hands, though he needn't have bothered. He rang the doorbell once, then twice, and let out a ragged sigh while his eyes roamed over the solemn street. What else was there to do?
"America," he whispered as she watched him from the window. He seemed to be aware of her nearby presence, laying a hand on the door with such gentleness that it brought tears to her eyes. "Open the door, darling."
She stayed rooted to her bed as England tried knocking instead, using slow and precise movements that carried the sound through the house like a soothing tune or lullaby.
"Amelia, sweet dear," he cooed with the patience of a saint. "I'll stay, don't you worry… I can wait."
She knew he had the capacity to sit on the sidewalk until morning; it wouldn't have been the first time.
After a long moment, she stalked to the door and turned the lock, surprised to find that her fingers still seemed to work. However, before the intrusive guest could get a good look at her, she returned to bed wordlessly, face pressed into her pillows.
England allowed himself in without making a sound, tiptoeing into her bedroom with another tiny sigh. He circled the bed and seated himself on the edge, terse and slouched with grief. They remained in that position for a while, until England settled a hand on her back and rubbed her rigid muscles.
"I care for you very much," he reminded, casting away the dust on America's shirt with the fretfulness of a mother. "I'm sorry for not being here sooner."
The warm caress on her back exposed more tears, and she sat up to catch England in a loose embrace, wracked by intense sobs as her mangled voice echoed through the room. How could he be so nice to her?
"Hahgh… Didn't do enough… My fault."
The elder nation wasted no time in returning the affectionate squeeze, swallowing around the morose lump in his throat. He supported both of their weights, guiding America's head to rest on his shoulder with quivering hands.
"Shhh…"
Dewy tears seeped into the fabric of England's shirt, and America yearned for the security that'd been her shield many years ago.
"I-I couldn't—"
"It's all right. Don't speak."
Feathery touches coaxed her back to bed once more, and England pushed the hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. She drew her knees up to her chest and trembled with anxiety, unable to bear the idea of living in such a decaying world. The horror imprinted on her insipid irises refused to disintegrate.
"Close your eyes. Focus on your breath."
"Couldn't stop it. Watched them die."
"Shh," England repeated like a melody, stroking away the goose-bumps on her arm.
"Am I dying?"
The man shook his head against the incandescent glow of creeping light. "No, of course not. You're all right. Safe and sound now, love—everyone's making sure of it."
"I think I'm dying," America garbled, chest heaving. "Can't taste anything now but embers."
"Try to sleep. Things will be better in the morning."
The voice leaving her mouth no longer sounded like it belonged to her. "Will you be here?"
"Yes, I'll be here, America. I'll be here as long as you need me," the elder assured as he occupied the spot beside her feet.
"M'not allowed to need you."
"It's okay at times like these."
Stuck in a numbing grief, America nodded her head in acquiescence and rolled onto her stomach, grasping fistfuls of her bed sheets to remind herself that she'd not lost all of her strength. She hoped this was some elaborate nightmare, and perhaps that's what it was, but if so, it was a nightmare that would pursue her forevermore.
"We will fix this," England said when her tremors had calmed somewhat. "No matter the cost, we'll find a way to fix it."
Maybe the words were spoken out of a fit of fury, clouded by hurt and senseless fear, but America would remember them all the same. Words like those started wars—wars born of vice, and contempt, and poor judgment, and ineffable pain.
"What day is it?"
"The eleventh of September… Nearly the twelfth. Why?"
America blinked away the flaring sting in her eyes. "I need to remember… It's Tuesday? What happened on the tenth?"
"I just arrived a few hours ago, but I think there was a storm yesterday. Flights were delayed, if I recall. Getting here wasn't a simple feat, but being a nation has its perks."
"No, not in New York. What was Monday in London like? Was it a good day?"
"It was fairly ordinary."
America gave a grunt of disapproval and dragged her head over the bedside with a sudden wave of nausea.
"Are you going to be sick?"
After managing a sluggish nod, she watched England speed across the room to retrieve a wastebasket. Not a minute later, she gagged and retched until her stomach was completely hollow and uncomfortably stark.
"Better?"
"A bit… You didn't finish telling me about the tenth," she admonished as another onslaught of tears freed themselves from her red-rimmed eyes.
England clicked his tongue and left the room momentarily to clean up the mess. "I told you, it was a normal day."
"That's not true. If Monday was your last day, what would you have remembered?" America persisted. Her tone had taken on a corrosive and caustic quaver.
England thought about the question for a long while, leaning against the windowsill with folded arms as clergymen from the local church made their way around the block. They sang quiet hymns of grace and harmony, cradling the warbling pain of those around them.
"There was a boy," England began, peeking at the street through the gap between the curtains. "He was sitting in his father's lap on the bus, waiting to get to school. The father nestled him against his chest and read him a story—something about a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. It was quite endearing, especially when everyone on the bus opened their ears to listen along and disregarded the dreadful traffic."
America nodded and finally shut her eyes. "Thank you. Now I can remember too."
Dozing off without realizing it, she was washed in a serene calm, hands loosening their grip around the sheets as the ache in her head and behind her eyes dulled.
"There we are," England appraised in a soft hum, swathing a thin blanket over her huddled figure. "It's okay. Your strength never ceases to amaze me."
It was this strength that they both feared.
The way the sun rose at dawn made the shadows cower in reproach. America cracked open her puffy eyes and ran a hand over her cheek in an attempt to rid herself of the incessant soreness that lingered under her flesh.
"You're up."
After a sharp intake of breath, she turned her head to the side and met England's inquiring gaze, still sick to her stomach. "I'd rather be asleep."
The flowers she'd received had all been arranged into vases, making the house look a little less mournful. They'd been handled with delicacy, and not a single petal was out of place. It reminded her of days when she'd dealt with such mundane housekeeping, willing some excitement to invite itself into her life.
Now she wished her life was a tad more boring. She always wanted the things she couldn't have.
"You should eat something," England said as he crossed the room and parted the curtains, allowing some sunshine to spill over her face.
"I can't."
"You have to try."
The man could be demanding when necessary, and America wondered if she had the mental stamina to compete with him. "Maybe later. I think I'm going to take a walk for now."
"No," England snapped at once, seeing her true intentions. "I won't allow you to go back there. That's what the rescue workers are for. Right now, you need to try to get your bearings back."
She knew he was just trying to protect her, but there were some perils that she would have to be exposed to. "I need to be helping my people through this tragedy."
"Not this soon."
"By then, it'll be too late," she muttered with a sigh, rising to her feet on jittery legs. "I'm needed now."
Languishing to her dresser, America exchanged her grit-covered attire for cleaner clothes, ignoring England's gripes. She slipped her phone into her pocket and hauled herself into the kitchen, finding the whiskey in the pantry.
"No, you don't," England scolded without hesitation, snatching the bottle out of her hands. "A proper breakfast is in order. We'll eat, and then we'll both set out for the site. Okay?"
The way he referred to the pile of rubble that had once been the symbol of the financial capital of the world made her snort with derision. It had been more than just a "site". The twin towers were steel monuments of tenacity, daring to lick at the sky to taste a changing world that was beyond all of them and anything they could possibly imagine.
"Let me make my terrible decisions in peace, England. Please, they're all I have left," she mumbled as she dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. Then, she covered her face with her hands and rested her elbows on the sleek tabletop, tired and flaccid.
"You have more fortunes than you think," England assured, placing a cup of tea in front of her along with a plate of buttered toast. They fell into their old routines rather quickly, and the elder nation couldn't stop himself from ruffling America's hair before he sat down as well. "You grew up too fast."
"You've always seen me as a child," the younger lamented under her breath, taking a sip of tea with a sense of confliction. "And I would've preferred coffee."
"You'll always be a child to me, and a day like this calls for some sturdy herbs."
"When do you think someone stops being a child?"
England shrugged his shoulders, and let his eyes take in the ebbing and waning coziness of the house. "Perhaps, when we experience true hardship. Then again, we often convince ourselves we're adult-like and more mature than we truly are."
"Those people who were killed—they were somebody's children too. They all had stories. They had birthdays, graduations, weddings, and family reunions. And as citizens of mine, I think I'll always see them, in some way, as children," America said with a tired exhale, pushing down the crushing sadness weighing in on her shoulders. "They were mine, each of them, and I'll carry them with me."
England nodded and reached across the table to squeeze her hand. "Then we know they're in good hands."
So, she went out, searching for her lost children under the echoes of their beautiful memories.
They would all learn, in due time, that some things just couldn't be mended.
And pain—pain was a funny thing because it suckled on its victims, sowing the seeds of hatred and vengeance in hearts that were already shaken. It spread through the body like a poison, lingering in the bloodstream and causing the brain to turn sour with wrath.
"Enough. Please, stop this madness."
"They pose a threat to our national security, ma'am."
"They've done nothing wrong."
"How can you be sure?"
"How can you be sure they're guilty? Who are we fighting? These innocent civilians who get caught in the turmoil of politics?" she hissed, seething with shame and regret as they blindly aimed at a nonexistent target, trying to find someone to hold accountable for all of their hurt. Scapegoat after scapegoat flashed before their eyes, but no one seemed to be sufficiently satisfied with the pickings.
The Iraq War was a mistake, and they all knew it, though it was impossible for them to voice their failures. It was a national embarrassment that would leave an ugly, red smear on history, damaging their integrity and reputability. Despite this, the end of the tunnel seemed further than ever.
This was what they allowed themselves to become after 9/11—a panicked conglomerate of scarred sons and daughters seeking closure. Airport security spiked, a heavy police presence made itself known at every major event, the military industrial complex was reborn, and a culture of uncertainty and distrust perpetuated in urban areas.
New York had taken on a new air, though America couldn't quite put her finger on what it was. For a number of years, a desolate cemetery at Ground Zero would be the center of the city, becoming a constant reminder of the damage that had irreversibly changed the globe.
Rebuilding efforts were egregiously slow and filled with legal disputes, and it would take more than a decade for the reconstruction to make significant progress.
So, they all waded along in a growing police state, worrying over a foe they couldn't vanquish.
And they named it the "War on Terror"—a misnomer for a series of campaigns in the Middle East that turned out to be nothing but scrimmages for oil and an excuse to set up new leaders that favored U.S. interests. They overthrew old regimes and left a wave of chaos in their wake, finding out the hard way that nation-building wasn't as easy or convenient as it initially seemed.
Not to mention the billions of dollars they'd spent on such ventures.
If America heard the word "terrorist" one more time, she was going to smash her head against a wall. The media threw that word around without understanding what it really meant, labeling anyone with views that opposed Western life as terrorists.
Such matters, however, were out of her hands, but she gave her vehement input whenever it was needed, recoiling at how her nation had become something that was scorned and mocked. Her people were regarded as warmongers and ignorant fools who couldn't be bothered with a culture outside of their own.
And maybe there was a hint of truth to the criticisms, but America couldn't allow herself to accept such a legacy. Surely, they would overcome such a stumbling block, as they always had.
Nonetheless, she still hid her face whenever President George Bush stirred another public gaffe. She knew that as a nation, it was her job to stand by her leader, but she couldn't bring herself to support him, troubled by too many of his slip-ups and costly expenses.
Hurricane Katrina was one of his more terrible missteps.
There were 1,833 casualties in total, and more than half of those could have been slashed if aid and assistance had been provided quickly enough.
The lack of a prompt response even left America kneeling in pain, one arm wrapped around her chest as a horrendous feeling of suffocation came over her. It was as though her lungs were being filled with water, and no matter how many times she tried to cough away the problem, it grew in severity.
The foreign aid and ministrations from the international community were strongly appreciated, considering they alleviated her failing health to some extent. However, at the next world conference, she still found herself gasping to breathe, and she chided herself for not listening to Canada's warnings when he'd advised her not to travel.
Japan had been in the middle of discussing exponential issues with unemployment in terms of manufacturing jobs, when she'd keeled over in her seat with bulging eyes.
"D-Drowning," she managed to stammer through a fit of wracking coughs. She laid her head on the table and breathed in wheezy and labored gulps of air, straining to hold onto consciousness as the other nations jumped to their feet to help.
"America, you need to sit up. It'll be easier for you to breathe if you're upright."
"Can't."
"Yes, you can."
Two pairs of forceful arms clasped onto her shoulders and positioned her against the back of her chair. Everyone was hovering about, and it made her head spin with vigor.
"Should we call for an ambulance?"
"Yes, and hurry. America, can you hear us?"
She sorted through the voices and gave a half-hearted nod, flailing one hand and grappling for something to hold onto as a means of staying afloat. "Feels like I'm drowning. Help."
"Easy now," she heard a voice that sounded suspiciously like Germany say.
A hand caught hold of her frantic one and clutched it with a comforting steadiness. "Help is on the way. Try to stay awake."
Fluttering her eyes open, she made some sense of the blurry images shuffling from side-to-side. "Aghh… Never had sea legs."
"Relax. France, where is that ambulance?"
"It'll be here any minute."
America groaned and sucked in another greedy breath of air, easing her fussing as fingers carded themselves through her hair. "Going to the hospital?"
"Yeah, but it's okay. Don't worry, sis," Canada said from a few feet away, stowing away the concern in his tone. "You'll feel better soon."
Thankfully, the paramedics arrived moments later, settling her on a stretcher and depositing a mask of sweet, glorious oxygen on her face.
"Don't… M'fine," she found herself saying as soon as she had enough breath to do so.
"Let them help you, Amelia."
America focused her glazed eyes on the figure standing beside the stretcher, giving a moan of distress. "Arthur?"
"Yes? You gave us another fright," the man accused with a leaking fondness. "You'll be right as rain in a little while. You'll see."
"No," she whined, quite delirious. "Already had too much rain. Too much water."
It seemed that such ailments and a general feeling of physical deterioration were now a common element of her life, and she wondered how much worse things would have to get before they started improving. She was growing tired of her increasing collection of health problems.
"Stupid girl… You should've exercised a bit more conviction toward your government before all hell broke loose."
"Yeah," she agreed, not really comprehending England's statement as her lungs swelled into balloons that were much too burdensome for her to sustain. "Stupid America never gets anything right anymore."
The man hung his head and sighed, rubbing his thumb across the top of America's hand. "Yes, foolish America…"
The first decade of a new century was filled with tribulation, and America wouldn't have minded it all that much if not for the endless bickering. The increasing amount of frustration and anger expressed by the other nations toward her often resulted in her shutting herself away in her hotel room to toil over the grim exchange of words.
"You might have succeeded in getting Angleterre to be your puppet, but you won't do the same to me," France asserted at another one of their tedious conferences. He stood stooped over the podium at the head of the room, hands clenched into fists as he spoke. "I've already condemned the invasion in Iraq multiple times, and I refuse to be brought into the conflict."
"I am not anyone's puppet," England had countered, springing up from his seat and slamming a hand onto the table. "How dare you—?"
France scoffed and pulled back his shoulders. "How dare I? You have brought shame and sin to Europe by feeding the girl's imperialism! It's barbaric!"
"You think I want to be a part of these idiotic schemes? I haven't been given any choice in the matter. We had to remove Saddam. I'm trying to protect—"
"Protect? You call this protection?"
America glowered and turned her eyes to England, seeing the indescribable contempt in his eyes.
"I am my own sovereign nation, and I don't need to humor the imbeciles of the American government and their complacent Yanks. I have my own concerns to deal with."
France steadied his gaze upon the man and frowned. "Then start acting like it. You helped to fuel this mess. It was British intelligence that claimed Iraq was seeking uranium, and look what that's done. This war has been dragging on for five years!"
England glared at France and then at America, struggling to decide who he was more infuriated with. He'd expressed his dislike of America's increasing pressure on him to act previously, but they'd never discussed it in public.
"I think we should have an intermission," Germany suggested, trying to soothe the opening wounds in the room. They were supposed to be discussing research being conducted toward uncovering renewable energy sources, but the conversation had spiraled back to the same topic that always loomed over them.
"That sounds like a great idea," Japan seconded, organizing his folder and grabbing his bag. "We could all use a lunch break."
The ire between France and England withered as the sounds of movement filled their ears and ushered them to leave. They shared a long glare and broke their mutual gaze, plucking up their belongings before heading for the exit.
America, who had been stunned into silence for a couple of minutes, finally clambered out of her chair and chased after the pair, still letting their words sink into her rampant thoughts.
"Wait! England!"
She reached out a hand and grabbed the man by the shoulder, forcing him to acknowledge her presence. "About what happened back there—"
"I'm sorry, but I don't wish to speak to you at the moment," he growled, tearing himself away from her eager gestures.
"I didn't know your pride was that flimsy," she huffed from behind, recognizing how the man's volatile temper had been awakened at the slightest feeling of embarrassment.
"And I didn't think it was possible for one entity to be both remarkably manipulative and half-witted."
America shook her head and walked in the opposite direction, suppressing the sting of his words. "I was going to put your offensive comments behind us, but I guess you're in one of your moods again."
Her former guardian furrowed his brows and scowled. "I don't want anything to do with you."
"Thanks for clearing that up then," she replied, rolling her eyes and storming away to make a quick retreat.
They had known each other long enough to be aware of their weaknesses, and that revelation made their arguments all the more painful. All of the correct nerves were punctured, and America wasn't surprised when she didn't hear from England for the next few months, only coming into brief contact with him when there was important business to tend to.
And she was rather convinced, that had it not been for the stock market's crash in 2008, she would not have restored her personal relations with him for much longer.
As much as they fought, and as many differences as they had, England never stayed angry enough to ignore a major crisis. He was on the next plane to New York the following day, inviting himself in and glaring daggers into her eyes as Canada helped her to the bathroom to shower.
"How did this happen? I thought your economy was in good standing," he had said, unable to keep up the bitterness in his voice for very long.
"It's probably best if you two don't discuss this right now," Canada warned, emphasizing the sweat slicking America's fevered skin as she mustered the strength to get the sticky feeling of illness off of her body. "Everything happened so suddenly, and we're still trying to work out the logistics. You should go home, England. Europe will start feeling the effects soon."
"I'm not going anywhere, and that's final."
America made a noise of complaint as Canada helped her out of her sweatshirt. "I thought you hated me, old man."
"You," England snarled accusingly as he turned on the showerhead, "are going to hold your tongue for once in your life. I won't be having any of your cheek today."
She smiled in return, shivering at the cool air against her arms. "You ask too much of me… I guess this means we're okay with one another again?"
Apologizing was always the hardest part.
"I'll go make tea," he sighed, unable to bear the way in which America was looking at him. "I think we'll be all right, America… Miraculous though that may be."
"I couldn't ask for anything greater."