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America was five, and he was waiting in the foyer of his colonial house. The slow, choked sound of snow falling outside of the wood walls, the tree that gazed wordlessly as his small legs guided him past it, the star that watched from the top of the oak.
“...and we thought that the shipment Master England put it with would be late, but by the twentieth, it would be-”
One of America’s assigned caretakers, his favourite: a blond, sturdily built woman in her thirties, was cut off by the little personification barreling into her side, his blue eyes sparkling as he looked up at her.
“Engwand?” he said breathlessly. America pulled his gaze away to look around the foyer, empty save his two main caretakers. England was his beloved guardian, his scent and smile and warmth, he was here-
“Oh. Oh, little America,” his favourite caretaker said softly, picking him up and cradling him. Another reason why America was so fond of her: she cuddled him like England did. “You’re awake early this morning, aren’t you?”
At his enthusiastic nod, she continued to speak. “Well, Mr England couldn’t be here today. He’s a country like you, and so they needed him to stay. He desperately wanted to come see you, but his bosses wouldn’t allow him…”
America blinked at her. “S-So, Engwand isn’t coming?”
“No, I’m afraid not, my dear,” she said, and that was all she was able to get out before America burst into tears.
He’d been a good boy, hadn’t he? England said he was cute, sweet, adorable…when England had visited three months ago, America knew that he had been as well behaved as a button, eating all his vegetables, maybe except a few he’d put in the flower pots outside. England had spent hours talking to him, reading him stories, telling him all about the other scary countries, about America’s twin brother living far, far away. He’d even brought him his fairy friends…which America couldn't see, but he pretended to, and it was worth it, all for England’s smile.
“He…he doesn’t want to see me…”
“Don’t be silly!” his caretaker said gently, giving him a bounce. “Wipe those tears, dear.”
“Wipe those tears, lad. It’s just a scratched shin - you’ll be back walking in no time. We’re big, strong nations, aren’t we?”
America howled.
“Ah…don’t cry, America!” As the little nation was still sobbing into her shoulder, his caretaker gestured with her arm to the other caretaker, who dashed off. “Now, now. England has done his best to be here with you today, but he says he’ll come soon, in the new year.”
“But I want him here now!”
“I know, I know. But in the meantime, for Christmas, someone special has delivered a present for you.”
“Engwand?”
“Well, no. It’s someone even more special - his name is Santa Claus!”
America pondered at this for a moment, wiping at his wet cheeks with his red ribbon on his clothes before he spoke. “But no one can be as special as Engwand!”
“...Yes, I suppose that’s right. But Santa Claus is very special too, you know. He knows you’ve been well behaved, so - ah, there we go. He got you a present!”
It didn’t take much. America saw something shiny and pretty and bright red, and reached out for it as his other caretaker tucked it into his arms, all tears forgotten for now.
America was ten, and he was waiting in the foyer of his colonial house. The snow lay two feet thick outside, he had hauled the big tree in from the nearby farm to the astonishment of the workers, and he’d used some string to fashion one of his toy soldiers from England into a Christmas decoration.
Like every other year, England had visited in the last few months, but by now, America understood he wouldn’t be there for Christmas. Christmas was, as England had said, for family, and even though Canada had been over a few times, he, too, was needed in his own country, and England had his own family of sorts to return to. It was disappointing every year, but England always buoyed him with a visit and wondrous gifts; especially his box of toy soldiers his guardian had handmade him.
If only England had made one bearing his own face, America thought, so he could pick out a favourite easily! He loved all of them, but of course, in the end, he loved England the most.
“America!” His favourite caretaker had started a family and had a three year old daughter now, and she was running around her as America made his way down to receive his Christmas present. He’d been caught once trying to snoop through the entire house for gifts and been scolded.
“Did Santa come this year? I’ve been good, swear!”
“Of course,” she said warmly, petting his head. America tried to not think of how England would do the same, carrying his arm in a sling, and plastered his smile harder on his face. “Come, give it an open.”
As his caretaker’s daughter watched, clutching her skirts and putting a thumb in her mouth, America hastily undid the packaging. Santa was a wonderful fellow and America always enjoyed what presents he’d bring, but at the same time, how was he supposed to tell him that nothing could top England’s handmade toy soldiers, that was really-
His caretaker’s daughter gasped as America pulled out five pieces of carefully carved wood. There were two painted wooden horses, one blue one red, two carved shields with a tiny painted lion on one and an eagle on the other. The last piece was a tall wooden house that fit perfectly in America’s growing hands, the same pair of hands that shook in excitement.
“Wait a second!” America exclaimed, gently putting down his handful of goodies as he sprinted over to the Christmas tree, disentangling his toy soldier from the branch it was carefully hanging on. He cradled it carefully to his chest as he returned to the wrapping, first fitting the toy soldier onto the horse, then balancing the shield with the eagle, before finally dismounting the soldier and tucking him into the miniature house. America’s fingertips grazed over the steady bumps on the side of the house as the toy soldier rocked gently from left to right.
“How did Santa know I had the toy soldiers?! They’re amazing…they fit him so well…”
“I’m sure Santa was sent a note by England to give you things for your toy soldiers,” his caretaker said, coming over to peer at the toys, whilst her daughter picked up the red horse that America had left to the side.
“They’re almost as pretty as England’s toys,” he said cheerfully. “I’m going to put it up with the other soldiers now!”
“Later, America. We have lunch now, so do it afterwards, yes?”
America placed the miniature house on the table right after he sat down, with the toy soldier and his eagle shield inside, and didn’t stop staring at it during the entire meal.
America was fifteen, and was fiddling with the collar on his suit as he frowned at himself in the mirror.
Since England had forbidden him to show off his super strength by carting the Christmas tree to his colonial house after a few overly curious locals had asked about him, he sulked as he watched two older men cart them to the house. At least he got to decorate, but even that wasn’t as fun as pulling the thing and setting it up!
“America?” his caretaker called, her voice fainter than previous years, given she was now almost sixty years old. Now that her daughter and sons had grown up, the only time America would see them was when he helped escort her back to her house after a long day, given she no longer lived with him now that he was old enough. Still, they spent Christmas together, given how she didn’t want America to be lonely.
Better than what England can do for me every year, anyway…he’s been visiting less and less…
“Coming!” he called. “Do I…do I really have to wear this suit?”
A pause, before a reply came back up the stairs. “If you really hate it, then I suppose you don’t,” she said. “It’s just that after England left it for you, you’ve been barely wearing it. I suppose on a special day, it could be used.”
America groaned, but continued trying to wrestle with the buttons. She was right; better to wear it now than have it collect dust. It wasn’t as if England was around to see him wear it, anyway, which was what really mattered…
Moving down the stairs, America spotted a telltale package at the base of the tree and couldn’t help but grin, despite himself. Even now, when he’d grown so fast and much older, Santa was still trying to please him.
“You’ve got a gift this year too, haven’t you?” His caretaker wore a knowing smile as he gave her a hug. “I’m sure with all those books you’ve been reading, he thought you’d be interested in seeing more.”
America bent down to pick up the gifts, cradling each book in his hands.
“Santa must really like me to give me two books, huh,” he said to himself, unable to help his piqued interest. He’d been able to get about one a year before this, running through it until it was dog eared and the sides of his right palm had smudged over a word or a paragraph, but two…
The Present State of the British Empire in Europe, America, Africa, and Asia
An Historical Dissertation Concerning the Antiquity of the English Constitution
To America: for your future studies as a young nation. Good luck.
“Those sound dreadfully difficult,” his caretaker said, peering over his shoulder. America knew she was illiterate, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her that she was right.
“It’s quite interesting, actually,” he said cheerfully, his socks stepping onto the soft carpet of the foyer. “Do you want me to read them to you while we eat Christmas dinner?”
“Oh, heavens no! Put those away immediately, I’ll not have them spoil my cooking!”
“But your cooking’s the best!”
“...well, yes, that’s true. Get the chicken out for me, then we’ll get started as soon as my youngest arrives, hm?”
America was eighteen and had lost everything.
The house was quiet as he nudged the door closed with the back of his shoe, wrangling the top of the tree into the foyer. Two years into the War of Independence, his caretaker had passed away. Her daughter had left for another state, and both her sons had been lost fighting for freedom.
America’s freedom.
He stepped over two letters calling him to the Continental Congress as he placed down the tree, another letter from Washington inviting him to Alexander Macomb House to have dinner with him and Martha, but America just wanted to be at home, even if it meant being by himself. He’d write an apology letter to Washington later.
Turning the lights on, he removed his blue coat, shaking off the snow, stepping out of his boots. He saw his breath billow in front of him in cold plumes, wrapping his arms around himself as he lit the fireplace before trudging up to his bedroom, picking up that wooden house from all those years before. America heard the fires crackle and thought about his caretaker, about the wooden horses and the meals, the sound of the plates on the table. England’s smiles last October. His tears this July.
The silence this December.
America had known. Ever since he had received those wondrous horses, their carved shields and the house for his platoon, he had an inkling, but would never dare to voice it. Once the others he studied with, fought with, had spoken about how they’d grown out of believing in Santa, he’d kept up the facade so that his caretaker would smile, and England would nod as America told him about his Christmas gift the next time he came ashore.
If he believed in Santa again, he was sure he still wouldn’t get a present. No amount of believing would bring England back, after all. Not the warmth of his hand, his soft smile, the love America had wanted from him so desperately, so desperately he had broken his heart. Not after what he had done.
America he sat in front of the fireplace, the wooden box in his lap. He picked up a toy soldier, the same one he had strung up with string, and cradled it in his hands. It felt cruel to put him on the tree, knowing how lonely he’d be.