"No one knows, and few conceive, the agony of mind that I have suffered from the time that I was made by circumstance, and not by my volition, a candidate for the Presidency till I was dismissed from that station by the failure of my election." ~John Quincy Adams (in office 1825-1829)

Under his new president, America had learned many things.

First off, he had learned that to bestow the greatest possible honor on John Quincy Adams was to compare him to his father, but to liken him to his mother was an unpardonable offense. America had also learned more about Aristotle (but not Plato; never Plato) than he cared to know and had picked up some Dutch and Russian phrases he had not previously known.

Most important of all, he had learned never, ever to go near the Potomac at five in the morning. Ever. The thought of capsized canoes still made him shiver.

The nation had not planned to experience the pain of losing two of his former leaders in the same day—his birthday, no less.

"Beautiful parade, isn't it?"

"Most certainly. Every bit as loud and rambunctious as you are."

"Hey." America shot his president a mock wounded look. "I can't believe you'd say something like that when you used to be quite the brat yourself."

"Yes, but I at least outgrew being obnoxious."

America coughed. "Obnoxious or pretentious?"

Now it was Adam's turn to give America a pretend pained glance.

"Kidding, kidding." A firecracker exploded above them, showering a series of red, white, and blue sparks like shooting stars. "You were a pretty cute kid."

In front of them, a few children skipped in the parade, their pudgy fingers sticky from the melting caramel oozing from their candied apples. America smiled—in the children's glowing eyes he saw those of his own leader as a toddler begging his father to let him play with his "best friend Alfie, the one who always brought lots of sweets!" Secretive as America had been about the smuggling, John and Abigail had eventually caught on (not exactly a hard task when the boy had made it so obvious just why he loved "Alfie" so much). Parents and nation never spoke of the matter, leaving it an unspoken but well-known secret.

"Try telling that to my mother."

America tried to fight the temptation to roll his eyes. Pushy, rude, impatient—he had heard enough of the adjectives Adams loved to apply to Abigail. He knew he should have sympathized with his president, but the more he tried to muster compassion, the more annoyed he became.

"At least you have a mother."

His remark was disrespectful and brash, he realized too late. He could see from Adams's frown and pursed lips that he'd hit his target dead-on. Perhaps a little too dead-on.

America made a joke to lighten the mood. They were at a celebration, after all.

"She's better than a certain reporter we all know and adore."

Adams turned on him. Whoops. Maybe he'd lightened things a little too much at his leader's expense.

"It wasn't that funny."

America tried to smother his giggles, but doing so only made the problem worse. He didn't dare tell the president he'd helped Anne Royall find his clothes as he bathed in the river, having thought her idea a brilliant and daring prank. Nation or not, he still feared what Adams would do to him if he ever found out. He was America, but his nationhood didn't give him a blank check for mischief (much as he sometimes wished—and thought—it did).

In spite of himself, the president smiled as more sparks scattered in the air. Soon, he'd let the people see and study real stars. The observatory would be only one part of his modernization plan. He'd seen the scientific surges in Russia and the Netherlands. The marvels had mesmerized him so much as a young man that he'd known he would have to share them with the American people. He had finally grown weary of the Old World: the time had come to focus on the New and make it newer still.

John Quincy Adams took pride in his plan, though he wasn't entirely sure what to think of the cheeky streak it had given his childhood-playmate-turned-country.

"I suppose we can set aside our disagreements for the sake of such a celebration," Adams said. "Happy birthday, America."

The country watched the parade pass by, his mind wandering somewhere far away. Fifty years had gone by. Fifty turbulent and tumultuous yet happy and hopeful years. Fifty years of growth and change, of diplomatic dances and war games, of discovery and delight.

A short time for a nation, perhaps.

Yet it seemed like forever to America.

"Thank you, John Quincy."

As the end of the parade passed by, James Barbour came running through the crowd as quickly and dignified as possible with hundreds of people all around him packed so tight there seemed to be no air.

"Mr. President, Mr. Jones." The Virginian nodded to both, panting for breath upon reaching them. "I'm afraid I have been sent to bring some… bad news."

America felt as if someone had tied a knot in his stomach and was pulling the strings taut.

"Don't tell me England has declared war on us again just in time for the fourth." Adams smiled wryly, but his humor was lost on both the country and the Cabinet official. "Let us move away from here. Given the nature of this news, perhaps it would be best if the people did not overhear."

Barbour nodded. A prudent decision.

The two men and their nation slipped past the crowd like skiers sliding through a slalom. Adams was hardly fazed: after so many years of education and public office, he had learned to bury his emotions and take bad news in stride. America should have felt the same—but he didn't. He hadn't gotten the hang of handling such things. He might never know how to write off the issues that came with nationhood, how to pretend he felt nothing, how to shrug off tragedy.

America did not want to learn: his education would have been in callousness. One day, he could possibly discover the art of burying his emotions and letting things beat him up on the inside—but never to the point of creating a hardened shell with a hollow interior. He would hold on to the piece of humanity he had.

And part of that humanity was drawing back in shock when Barbour cleared his throat and said, "I'm sorry, but Mr. Jefferson has died."

"How long ago?" asked Adams without a moment's pause. America had yet to find his voice.

"In the early afternoon, I'm afraid. He died at Monticello—nearby, as you know. Everything all right, Mr. Jones?"

"Yes, I…" America put a hand over his mouth and looked away. Fifty years. Fifty years ago he had worked with Jefferson to write his Declaration, his proclamation of freedom. From the beginning of his new life, they had fought together against the struggles that accompanied the creation of an independent country. Jefferson had put words to his emotions and brought his hopes to life, allowing him to undergo rite-of-passage after rite-of-passage.

He had animated the soul Washington had fostered and Adams had nurtured.

And that soul had only memories left of his third president.

"I'm fine, yeah."

Just because he did not want to bury his emotions did not mean he could not lie.

Jefferson's funeral was as simple as the man himself, America noticed. He had arrived hours before the other mourners—before the family, even—to sit beside the coffin. Not to think or to speak, just to stare. And to wonder. He hardly understood the idea of death. The man lying in front of him was as much Thomas Jefferson as he was not. Something had happened; something had taken his president away and yet left him there in front of his country.

America couldn't even begin to make sense of it. Reverend Clay's sermon, heartfelt and beautiful as it was, did not help him overcome the obstacles in his mind. In a way, it only obstructed his heart even more. Not because it did not comfort him—the thought of his president partaking in the eternal salvation the Reverend spoke of brought a small smile to his face—but because it only gave him more emotions than he really knew what to do with at the moment.

Still, he had grown since Washington's death. He hadn't tried to deal with that at all.

It might have been the buildup of feelings that gave him an uneasiness that persisted into the next few days. America had been grieving, of course. Everyone in the White House had been, though some to a greater degree than others.

It was healthy. It was natural.

The twisting in the pit of his stomach wasn't.

"I just don't know," America said. He and the president were sitting in the East Room of the mansion, watching his pet alligator swim about in its bathtub. America was still thanking France and Lafayette for their "incredibly awesome!" present, which he probably enjoyed even more than Adams did. Even so, it didn't excite or entertain either man as much that day.

"Something's not right."

"Many things can go wrong in a country like this one. Are you sure it's not the slavery issue again? Damned Southerners."

America shook his head. "It feels different. Deadlier. Or something."

"Something. That's a very broad term."

"Well, I am a country."

"Quite right." Adams folded his arms. "Can you think of anything it might be? You've had these sensations before in your dealing with other countries. I remember when you used to visit my family during the war. Child though I was, I could tell how tired and upset it made you."

"Yeah. I remember, too." America could still see little John Quincy pulling on the sleeve of his dirty uniform and begging to play when he had visited the Adams home following the Battle of Fort Washington. He had all but pushed the child away and spent the afternoon sleeping instead. The nation winced at the memory of the boy's crestfallen face and teary eyes. America knew he wasn't the cause of his leader's depression, but when he recalled rejecting him as a boy, he couldn't help but hear a sneering voice in his mind insisting that he was responsible. He had sent the child away—just as everyone else had.

"Is it possible," Adams said after a moment's uncomfortable pause, "that it's still because of Jefferson's death?"

America shrugged. What he felt now resembled—nearly mirrored, in fact—the nervousness that had plagued him the moment he saw Barbour hurrying through the parade. The two feelings seemed too similar for him to dismiss them.

"It could be. I'm just not sure."

"Yes, of course." Adams gazed at his hands a moment before adding, "I am terribly sorry, you know. He was an intelligent man—a good friend of my father's for a time. I understand you two must have had a close relationship. I... I have simply seen too much death to…"

He trailed off, but America knew what he left unsaid. He knew how whenever Adams closed his eyes, he saw the still, cold body of his daughter in his wife's arms. Even though his sons were still alive, America knew his president counted them as dead, what with their self-destructive, reckless behaviors. When Adams looked at them, he saw his boys alone and lifeless, just like their sister.

America, too, had seen more than his fair share of death, as part of the burden of his identity.

It still caught him off-guard every time.

"It's all right. I know. Speaking of your father, how's he been doing lately?"

"Fine, as far as I know."

"When did you last hear from your family?"

"A few weeks ago."

"Maybe you should ask about him."

"You don't mean to say…"

America nodded.

"Well," said Adams, returning his attention to the alligator, "if that is the case, then let it be so."

"What do you mean? He's your father."

And, what's more, he's your hero.

"People die, America. My father is 91 years of age now. It is hardly unexpected that he should die soon."

"But…"

"Yes, he is my father. Yes, I love him and have ever since I heard of his bravery and courage in my youth. Can my love prevent his death? And, what's more, can you prevent mine?"

Adams let the question linger for a moment with all the grace of a man walking across a floor spread with butter; then, he rose and adjusted his suit jacket.

"Let us go. We have much to do if we wish to keep Mr. Jackson from stealing the office from us. Although I do suppose he may have it if he so wishes. If he says one more word about this so-declared 'corrupt bargain…'"

With heavy, slow steps, America followed his president. He had been crushed when his idol had died. Yet Adams had shrugged at the idea of losing his father—and even challenged him to protect his leaders and loved ones from their inevitable human end.

America had grown so much. He was becoming a great nation and could accept any challenge issued or any obstacle thrown at him—except this one.

He cared too much. He loved too much.

Therein lay his Achilles' heel as a nation, he realized as the fear tightened its hold on his gut.

When the news of John Adams's death finally arrived, John Quincy left to visit his family with no more than a brusque, matter-of-fact farewell to his country—who, much as he tried, could not find it in his heart to follow this time.

Historical Notes:

In case you couldn't tell from the epigraph, JQA didn't exactly want to be president. Like Jimmy Carter after him, he was better known as a diplomat and master of foreign affairs. He wasn't a horrible president; in fact, he could probably have gotten more done during his one term had Andrew Jackson, whose grudge against him stemmed from the "corrupt bargain" of the election of 1824, not tried to stymie all his efforts. Although Jackson received the most votes of the four candidates (himself, JQA, Henry Clay, and William Crawford), he did not receive a significant enough majority, and the election was decided by the House. Clay gave his support to JQA, who became president and appointed him Secretary of State. Jackson, to say the least, was not happy.

JQA's main focuses as president were modernization and education. He's well-known for keeping an extensive diary, on which I based my portrayal of his reaction to his father's death. Unfortunately, I couldn't read some of the entries, so I don't know how Adams found out about Jefferson's death. I thought it made sense for Barbour, a Virginian and Cabinet official (the Secretary of War) who knew Jefferson to find out about his death relatively quickly and let America and Adams know. It probably didn't happen that way, but hey. *shrugs*

Re: America in this chapter. I love the idea of him caring so deeply about his people and presidents. His reaction to their deaths is meant to be a direct contrast to JQA's relative indifference and an inquiry, in general, into nations and their relationships with death. I don't think America's devotion to his people to the point of being somewhat unable to understand or deal with death is a weakness, but he certainly comes to see it as such here. Draw your own conclusions; it's meant to be thought-provoking. (:

Andrew Jackson is up after this!