America was never truly aware that he was a nation.

Sure, he noticed that the other people seemed to grow bigger, their hair would gray, their eyes would glaze over, and they would go away one day, and when he asked where they went, the townspeople would always respond: "A better place."

Some people would stare at him, they would whisper things about him, they would say, "Hey, that little boy looks exactly like the one that vanished fifty years ago..." and sneak him suspicious looks. America would always ignore them.

Once or twice, he saw a very nice lady dressed in strange, soft clothing, and she seemed to recognize him every time. Whenever he bounded towards her to say hi, however, she turned away and vanished into the trees.

Life was nice and simple. He enjoyed it very much.

One day, his bunny got lost and he was looking for it in the bushes when a trio of men approached him, each of them looking at him strangely.

"Is this the kid?" the one with the long hair asked.

"Yes," said the one with the short hair and the kind face.

The one with the big eyebrows was scaring him. He was scaring him a lot. America retreated further into the bushes in an attempt to hide from the big-browed man, but he couldn't bring himself to leave these men. There was a friendly, familiar vibe radiating off of them, and they all seemed nice. Except for the one with the big eyebrows. He was scary.

They had a weird conversation about how he looked (America was quite confused. Why would they need to compare looks? They all looked relatively the same) and the scary one and the one with long hair offered him food.

Somehow, America decided to comfort the one with the big eyebrows, and the rest was (literally) history.

America would later try and recall these memories, but would find that he no longer remembered that he was ever happy during that time. They were tainted by the pain of war and separation.

The first time America ever saw someone go to the "better place" was after he met... England, that's what the man was called.

America had been sitting in the fields, playing with his bunny when a man approached him and introduced himself as "Davie." Davie was a nice name, America decided. People with nice names were always nice.

America liked Davie. He was kind, friendly, gave him good food, and had an obsession with collecting assorted plants. He had shown America a picture of a soft, pretty, and small flower that was a nice shade of purple, and told him that he would love to acquire it.

Of course, upon hearing this, America stood up and fiercely proclaimed to the world that he would find this purple flower and deliver it to him. It was like a quest of some sort. America didn't know what quests were, but he assumed it was like a trip of some sort in which you would fight evil rocks and get a treasure and bring it back to Davie. The treasure being the flower, of course.

So off he went, waving goodbye to Davie, (Who was laughing for some reason, he had no idea why) and set off on the epic quest to find the pretty purple flower.

However, it was much harder than he anticipated. There were so many purple flowers, but none of them were Davie's flower. After crawling around and asking many people, he got a bit tired. Eventually, he decided to take a break from his epic quest and return to "headquarters," also known as Davie's house.

When he returned to headquarters, however, Davie had grown... bigger, and his voice was deeper, and he looked different, but America was sure that this was Davie, the man who sent him to find the purple flowers. Headquarters were bigger too. It was cool.

For some reason, when America called out Davie's name, Davie turned, stared at him weirdly, and walked away, with his other friend in tow. America was confused. He decided that Davie had some important business to do and that America should leave Davie to his important business and start hunting for the purple flower.

The disappointment came again, and after many years he went back to headquarters to report the status, only to find headquarters full of kids. Davie's hair was whiter now. It suited him. White went quite well with purple.

As he reported his mission status, Davie nodded, smiled, and sent America back out to find the epic treasure. Only he didn't use America's name. It was weird.

He eventually learned that the flower simply didn't grow in his land and that they only grew at Big Brother England's house. Luckily, England was nice, and he gave America an entire bouquet of the pretty flowers. America ran to Davie's place at top speed afterward, only to find Davie again, only, this time, Davie was smaller and his voice wasn't as deep.

"Davie!" he had shouted and thrust out the entire bouquet of flowers into "Davie's" face.

But instead of thanking America, Davie walked over to a big box and threw the flowers in, much to America's horror. He quickly ran up to the box and peered inside.

In it was a man, an old, old man, and he was sleeping amidst a lot of flowers, the purple ones that America had just brought were grouped around the chest area. It was nice. America was glad that this old man was sleeping among all these pretty flowers. However, he was still confused, so he reached out and grabbed a single purple flower, and thrust it out at "Davie."

"Davie?" he asked.

"Davie" shook his head and pointed at the box. "That's Grandpa Davie," he said quietly. "My name is John."

Oh! So Davie was sleeping in the box! But why wasn't Davie in his bed? Why was Davie in a box? Why were there so many flowers? Why did Davie have so many lines on his face? So many questions...

America leaned over and started shaking Davie gently. Davie didn't wake.

"Davie? C'mon, Davie, wake up! I brought you your flowers, see, they're on your chest, here-" America grabbed one of the purple flowers and waved it in front of Davie's face- "Davie, wake up!"

America heard John choke back a sob, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that America had finally completed his quest, and now he needed to show Davie his treasure, and Davie would wake up and they would smell the flowers together with John and they would laugh and eat together, America had so many stories to tell-

His thoughts were cut off when John laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Davie's gone. He's in a better place now."

America frowned slightly. He should come back from the "better place," he decided and continued to try and wake Davie up.

"Look, kid, I don't know who you are, but there isn't any point in trying to wake him up. He's dead," John said as he choked back another sob. "Grandpa Davie's dead, okay? And he isn't coming back either."

What was "dead?" Why couldn't Davie come back? Why wouldn't Davie wake up? Did Davie change his name to "dead?"

He was about to ask John, but the boy clearly was not in the mood for answering any more questions, he was sobbing and wiping his tears on his sleeve, and was clearly not paying any attention to America.

When America had questions, he would go ask Big Brother England. England was smart. He would know what "dead" was.

"England? What's 'dead'?"

England looked up abruptly from his tea, frowning slightly. Where did the child go when England wasn't watching him? America was too young to know about this, way too young to comprehend that people died and they didn't, too young to meddle in such dark subjects. He decided with the safe approach.

"Well," he said cautiously, setting his teacup down, "Dead is what you call people who have gone to a... better place."

That clearly wasn't the answer America was looking for, as he stamped his foot on the ground angrily and glowered at England, his cheeks puffing up and turning red, and England found himself wondering how many times America had asked people the same question and gotten the exact same answer.

"No! No, no, no, no, no!" America shouted loudly. "That's not what I wanted to hear! Why do they go to a better place? Why can't they come back? Why won't they wake up? Why does their hair gray? Why do they have lines on their faces? Why are they in boxes? Why doesn't any of that happen to me? Why..." America sniffled softly and started tearing up a bit- "Why isn't Davie here anymore? Why did he go to a better place? England, I brought him the flowers he wanted, and he didn't wait but went to a better place, but why? Why did he go?"

At this point, the first tears were starting to drop down America's face, but at this point, England was too shocked to move. The little colony had encountered death already? Had he already become attached to a human?

England found the strength to move and crouched down so he could see America's face. America averted his eyes and turned his head, ashamed of crying.

"America?" England said softly.

America's only reply was a small sniffle.

"America, there's a lot I need to tell you, okay? So come on- Let's wash your face and I can tell you a story."

The small colony brightened up slightly at the prospect of a story, so he let England walk him over to a the washtub and scrub his face gently, cleaning up all the tears.

After a change of clothes and the lighting of the fireplace, England and America sat together on the big chair, America kicking his legs ever-so-slightly.

"So can I hear the story now?" America said hopefully.

"Alright. But you have to be quiet and listen, okay?"

America nodded earnestly. "I will! I'll be the best listener ever, and I'll be quiet- Oops!" America said as he clamped his tiny hands over his mouth.

England chuckled and ruffled the colony's hair. "Once upon a time, there was a country called 'Rome'..."

America sat in fascination as England told the story of a mighty country once called the "Roman Empire" (Not as great as the British one, of course) but had no idea what this had to do with Davie.

"Now, America," England said. "The Roman Empire had citizens, just like we do. And like us, these citizens are our life force. For as long as there is a single person who calls themselves one of yours, you will live. When no one identifies as ours, we will... die, in a sense. Do you understand?"

America nodded earnestly, eager to get to the part about Davie and what "dead" was.

"Our citizens don't last forever. They... will die. They will be born, they live, and they will die, and that's how the cycle goes. It's the same with countries. We are born, we live, and after a long time, we can die. Your friend- Dave, was it?"

"Davie," America corrected, forgetting his oath of silence.

"Davie," England said. "Davie... he died."

"Oh!" America said. "So he didn't have any more citizens, so he died? Like Rome?"

England pursed his lips, choosing his next words carefully. "Not... quite."

America gave England a confused look as England sighed, running his hand through his hair.

"America, we are not people. We are countries. Davie was not a country, so he couldn't have citizens. We die when we lose our people. The people die when..."

England paused once more, trying to figure out how to explain the concept of death to a child. America stared at England, wondering when England was going to tell America why people died.

"When they no longer exist in this world," England said with finality.

The answer confused America even further.

"Death is a tricky concept, America," England said. "But let's just say this: Davie is dead. That means that he will not be coming back because he has moved on and doesn't exist in this world anymore, and he can't come back, no matter what you do. The only thing that is left is his body."

America stared at England, his eyes wide in shock. Nobody that went to a better place was coming back. They all... died. Died. What a strange word, "died." Such a simple term for something so harsh and brutal. And even if people kept dying around him, America couldn't do a thing about it. He could only stand there... And watch his people die.

Die. America hated that word, "die."

And it settled on him with resounding finality: Davie was dead, and would never be coming back. He was dead. Most of the people he knew were dead. And they would never, ever, come back.

America didn't even realize that he had jumped off England's lap until he was out the door, staring at the wide, big sky sprinkled with stars, breathing heavily.

Dead. Davie is dead.

No, no, no, no-

Dead.

America couldn't take it anymore, and he started running. He didn't know where he was going, didn't even know that he was crying, he was just trying to run away from that awful, awful word and the horrible truth. He tripped once and fell, but he got up and kept on going, regardless of his torn trousers.

Keep running keep running keep running

If he just ran, he could forget everything. He ran out of the town, off the road, and once he finally stopped, he realized that he was now officially in the hills, about fifty miles from the town.

Dead.

And America collapsed, crying hard. Davie was gone, he was dead, and he was never coming back-

He didn't care that England was probably looking for him, didn't care that the seat of his trousers were getting dirty, didn't care that tears were streaking down his face like the stars during a meteor shower, didn't care that his shirt was rumpled, didn't care that his bunny had found him and was trying to comfort him, didn't care about anything because DAVIE WAS DEAD.

America had been crying for a while when he felt a presence behind him. A soft, comforting presence that America was familiar with, but the colony wanted nothing to do with anybody at the moment.

England stood behind America for a long time and stayed there without moving a muscle. At one point, America said:

"Why-" he sniffled and hiccuped slightly- "Why do all the people around us die?"

England said nothing and didn't move though his eyes saddened considerably. A moment of silence passed before America then said:

"If- if that's what it's going to be like-" America choked back a sob- "Then I wish I was never a country! I don't want to be a country! What good comes out of it, anyway? I just sit here and watch people die-" America said as the river of tears increased- "And I can't do anything! I wish I was never, ever a country!"

It was at this point that England crouched down to America's height and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"America," he said softly.

America turned away, refusing to look at his brother's face.

''America," England said, "I know it's hard watching people die around you. I've lived for hundreds of years and I still can't handle it."

England paused, and when he next spoke his voice was softer:

"But if you think that being a country is a bad thing, then I think that you're very, very wrong."

America turned his head in surprise, tears still running down his face as England continued.

"It's true that we can't prevent them from dying," England said as he sat down in the grass next to America. "But since we can live for a long time, we should do the best we can to make their lives worth it, even if they are short. We can't choose how we were born, but we can do our best to help the people who are ours. It's worth it just to see a child smile because you have done something for them, it feels truly amazing when you know you have made one of your citizen's life's better."

America sniffled slightly and leaned into England.

"Okay," he said quietly.

England smiled at the small colony and put his arms around him in a warm hug. America hugged England back tightly.

"You'll be with me forever, right, England?" America said happily.

"Of course," England responded. "Of course."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

And the two stood up and walked back to the house together, hand in hand, with the stars shining brightly above.

"You'll be with me forever, right, England?"

"Of course I will."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

How did it ever come to this? No, how could it have ever come to this? What happened to that promise that they made so long ago, under the stars? Whatever happened to the little colony that night?

But the little colony was grown now, and the little colony wanted independence. It was for a good cause, America thought to himself. It was for his people. He needed independence.

Yet why did that one memory keep on circling back to him?

"I promise."

Two simple words, meant to last a lifetime, were now shattered and covered with the dust of the battlefield and pounded to bits by the pouring rain.

Seeing England like this just wasn't right. It wasn't right. Kneeling on the battlefield, crying and hoping that this was all a joke and that they could go home. They could be brothers again.

The rain was pouring harder now, but it didn't stop the flashbacks of memories. Happy times- but America would no longer see them as happy ever again, the one he shared these memories with was broken. He would never be able to recall those memories ever again without remembering this very moment.

Die. What a strange word, die. Typically, it meant that one was leaving the world. But looking at England, America could see that England was dying. Not physically, but inside, England was crumbling into pieces.

America turned away with his troops, celebrating victory as the rain pounded as hard as ever.

Strangely, some of the rain tasted of salt.