To stand alone here on this battlefield is to know the end has come. There is rain and mud and rivers upon rivers of blood. This is the land where corpses decay and spirits take flight, but all of this pales compared to what I see before me:

Your blue and white back, marching away into the land that you've worked so hard to gain.

America, America, how strong you've become. You've cast off your chains and emerged from your cage, an eagle taken flight at last. I see wings spread and feel wind blow, and I hear the last call of the horn. All around, women weep and men cry and children beat their breasts. And out comes the sun, to shine on this day, the day when Independence sets you free.

Why, oh why, then must I cry, when I see how much you've grown?

But Independence is but a taste, is it not, my dear America? For manifest destiny guides your path and as you follow, it takes you places where no country has gone before. You beg to see the land as it is: rough and wild and untamed. It is your spirit, America, it is your heart, that truly runs wild, and here is the place where you can truly be set free.

I do visit often, in spite of the hateful words I once spewed, and I watch you from afar. I watch as you run barefoot through muddy tracks and roll around in wide open fields, under a sky as blue as your eyes. You smile at the sky in the way you once smiled at me; happily, hopefully, and free.

You are a young country still, my dear America, and it shows as time moves on. There is conflict, there is peace, there is war, and always, there is that dark, foreboding time yet to pass, always lurking away in the shadows. It comes constantly at you, lashing out while you spend your days in the sun, and though it attempts to join you, somehow, your smile always sends it reeling back.

But darkness grows in darkness, and it is not long before it gains strength. There is nothing I can do; I can only watch, helpless, as it strikes and grabs you at last, pulling you into the shadows that your sun has conquered so long. The mortals call this time your Civil War. Truly, it is one of your darkest ages.

I weep for you yet again, America, just as you weep for yourself. But this time, my tears mourn the little boy who has grown up too soon.

Your boss calls it the War to End All Wars. And yet, it seems like this one is unending. My visits have grown shorter and lesser in number as I am called away by my monarch, my Parliament, and my people. They beg for peace and peace I give them in the only way that's possible now: I take up arms and go to war.

You have been neutral, America, for so long. And every day, our people call to you, to emerge from your neutral shell and join us in this fight. We've won some battles, and

And finally, finally, finally, you come. You come in blazing glory. It is said that your intervention turns the tides of the war.

I want to believe it. I truly do believe it. But at the same time, the very thought tears at me; you are still young, America. Still pure. You've explored all your lands and tamed your wild heart, and yet, to many of us, you've yet to truly take your first breath. The sight of war is terrible, America, and no matter how spacious your skies, it will take root and corrupt.

This time, you alone are weeping; my people and I have no tears left to shed.

I am here, America, just as I have always been, beneath grey skies and treading upon a field of mud clumps and mines. The world has become tumultuous again, and this time, not even you can truly comprehend the horrors that await you here. The first Great War was colder than the snows of your eastern seaboard, but this new one is colder still. For here is no gentleman's game; you kill or be killed, and regardless of who and what you are, you will give in to your natural urges by the day's end.

We are fearful creatures, America. We will fight to our deaths if it means keeping our country and our dignity alive. We will beat and bite at each other, reducing ourselves to mere animals, before we allow our legacies to fade. History is written by the winners, and it shall evermore be written by them, so would you truly blame us when we take up arms when our history, our legacy is threatened?

We should have listened, America, to you, your boss, and your Fourteen Points. But we were angry, we were hungry, and above all, we wanted revenge. The German brat had it coming; he started the Great War, and now he has started a new one. But this time, even I must admit that we were foolish; he is of the blood of the greatest military state, after all. There is little wonder that he is able to conquer so swiftly.

You are protected, yet surrounded, my dear America. In the east, you have our pleas. In the west, you face Japan's blades. No matter where you look, you see our war, and- knowing you- you will behave as the boy I knew once behaved, and try your best to stay out of it. You will retreat behind promises of neutrality and treaties, hoping that without you, the war will end.

But I know you even better than that; you are a hero, my dear boy. You are the one destined to lead us to victory. The Axis can do all they want to destroy your spirit, to break your courage, to darken your sky; but always will your wings spread and help you soar. You are much stronger than that.

I am old, America, and the years are catching up. Sooner or later, I will weaken, and perhaps I will fall. But I am much more stubborn than that; I will, at the very least, live to see you brush your wings against the sky, before you soar amongst the stars and finally reach the sun. And then, you will go further still, beyond anything that might exist up there, and though your wings will tire and break, I will mend them, and I will happily mend them again and again until there is nowhere left for you to fly, so then you have no choice but to come down and meet your friends' arms again.

The pains wrack through me as the aerial battle rages overhead. Bombs drop, fires roar, and machine guns rattle. My hand twitches as I reach for my own pistol, only to fall weak as I slump against the wall, darkness dancing at the edge of my vision. The skies are grey, America, and for a brief moment, I envy your blue. But it is a fleeting bout of envy, for the pain hurts too much, and it does not take long for me to slip.

I fear teardrops on my head. Is the sky weeping for me? But, as I look up, I see not darkening grey but miles of spacious blue. I hear not the rattle of machine agains, but the wind through amber waves. And the heat around me is not fire, but warmth, and it envelopes me as I begin to weep along with the sky, and I clutch onto it as long as I can, taking flight alongside you as victory explodes overhead.

Present day, and you hold me in your arms. You whisper sweet nothings in my ear. Our relationship is Special now, and with luck, Special is how it will always be.

I turn towards you and smile. You smile back and lean in, pressing a kiss to my lips. I wrap my arms around your neck, before pulling myself close and trailing my hands down your back. It is so different from the back of the colony I once raised. You have battle scars now, but it does not matter; to me, you will always be America the Beautiful.

You murmur something into my hair. I close my eyes and, for a second, believe you are singing. I ask you to repeat it, and you oblige, but not before you first make a remark about my hearing. I snap back one about your iPod, before sobering down and listening.

You sing not your national anthem, or even the song praising your spacious skies. No, instead, you sing a song of my people, of years spent running around lofty mountaintops and dense forests, all beneath a sky just as blue as your own. I feel the sun on my face and the wind in my hair and, for a moment, I am young again. Whole. Free.

"I love you," you murmur, so quiet that I nearly miss it. I cling to you and beg you to repeat it. You do so three more times.

Yes, yes, yes! This is what love is. This is what it means to be able to wake up in your arms and smile at you, knowing that wherever your wings take you, I will happily follow. I am a little robin compared to your eagle, but I hope that even my poor wings will please your own. I whisper back my own sweet nothings and promises and of course, my own "I love you". I repeat it two, three, five, ten, fifteen more times.

And again, again, I'm weeping.

But this time, I'm smiling as well.