Archive of Our Own

We’re always fighting the French and it was no different in 1811. Or rather, England was always fighting France (just for the sake of it, I think) and I would be called on to help. I didn’t mind. Sure, France had been my family first but, as nations, fighting those you care about is inevitable. Maybe it sounds tragic, but it's our lot in life and we’ve all learnt to grit our teeth and bear it. As best as we can. The past few decades have taught me this - in fact, I am still seeing the effects of… that event.

“Canada.” England’s brow was furrowed deeply as he perused the newly-delivered dispatch before him.

I looked up from my plate. “What is it?”

England frowned down at a corner of the table as though deliberating how to say whatever he wanted to say. I studied him carefully and saw his fingers absently pick at the stock of the musket lying on the table before us.

Oh. Of course.

“Have you talked to him lately?” England inquired delicately.

“No,” I muttered, stabbing at my food. No need to ask who “him” was. Who else could be on England’s mind?

England continued to fiddle with his musket, repeatedly tracing a nonexistent line diagonally along a patch of unmarked wood. “You should see him more. I know you two are like brothers. Lack of communication isn’t healthy.”

That was something he wished he’d realised earlier. What I wished was that he would realise that not all was too late yet. Yes, it was too late regarding my brother but couldn’t England see that I was still here?

“Has something happened to him?” He might constantly be on our minds but I knew that there had to be a reason why England was bringing him up in the middle of our dire war against France.

“The USS President and our HMS Little Belt had an altercation,” England replied.

“Why?” I asked, though I thought I already knew the answer. Relations between my brother and England had been… charged as of late, what with the Orders in Council we’d put in place to prevent other countries from trading with France. There was also the matter of England’s assisting North American tribes through me, which my brother angrily and correctly took as an attempt to keep him in check. And then there was also-

“Impressment,” England sighed. “We think the President mistook Little Belt for the Guerriere.”

A few weeks ago, the HMS Guerriere had impressed some American sailors - or former British seamen posing as Americans since who could tell?

“I… I need to talk to him,” England murmured, turning his face away from me. “I’ve already put it off for too long because of how our last meeting went.”

I winced. Ah, yes. I had waited outside for that last meeting but I knew that it had involved quite a lot of shouting. But…

“But we’re at war in Europe…” I wondered - in a fit of paranoia - if my tone was sharper than usual, though I had tried to keep it as quiet and gentle as was my wont.

England straightened. “You’re right, Canada, but I should still discuss this with my commanders.” He tucked the dispatch carefully into a pocket and rose to leave at that instant.

“But you’ve barely touched your breakfast yet,” I protested weakly.

England spared a second to glance down at his full plate vaguely before continuing on his way to the tent door, taking his musket with him. “A day without breakfast isn’t going to kill me.”

The words “But I made the breakfast” and “this is hardly that important” hung on my parted lips, unspoken while he left. A feeling of bitter disappointment welled up in me, washing my own appetite away as well, and so I started to clear away our dishes. England could have sent me to parley with my brother in his stead.

But of course, parleying had always been an excuse, hadn’t it? I stared at the plates in my hand, though my mind could only see England folding the dispatch with such care and leaving with such briskness.

Even now, all his time was for America and none of it for Canada. For me.

– –

16th June, 1812.

Back in London, Lord Liverpool joined us for breakfast one morning, delivering a dispatch along the way. It contained more events testifying to the growing tensions between ourselves and America, which had only escalated since last year.

“This looks uncomfortably like an impending war,” Liverpool admitted.

“Again?” I murmured to myself. It had hardly been 30 years.

England’s eyes were at first downcast. “We cannot afford that.”

We can, and you know it. Our situation isn’t so dire yet.

Yet Liverpool was nodding agreement. “I thought we might suspend the Orders in Council.”

England didn’t even pause to consider, or perhaps he had already thought about this at length. I knew that he spent no little fraction of his time everyday fixated on my brother, and I knew also that I shouldn’t be bitter about it. Frankly, I wasn’t much different, but still… it stung. “That should be effective,” he agreed.

Liverpool rose - England standing up as well out of respect to his prime minister - and bowed slightly at the waist. “Consider it done. We shall even carry out the changes immediately, I believe.”

The repeal of the Orders in Council would hardly end the tensions between our countries but they would without a doubt diffuse some of it. England was relieved, I was relieved, everyone was relieved.

– –

A month later, on July 12th, we were informed that the United States of America had declared war on the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.

How were we informed?

I woke up in the middle of the night on that date with a splitting headache and curses directed at my brother on my lips. All I knew for facts was that a foreign army had entered my country - in Sandwich, Windsor, to be specific - but there was no mystery at all about the matter: America had invaded Canada.

War was at hand.

Once I managed to piece all of this together - not an easy thing to do through the pain drilling my head open caused by the invasion and the dull ache of my heart caused by the realisation that my twin brother was attacking me - I staggered out of my room in my nightclothes to find England. We were in London, lodging at No. 10 Downing Street by Liverpool’s invitation, and his room was across from mine. I had barely knocked when the door was opened.

“America’s invading,” I managed.

England went deathly pale, and when he lowered his arm after coughing into his sleeve, the fabric came away red. But he seemed otherwise to be remarkably composed, especially in contrast to the stumbling me. He put my arm around his shoulders and helped me into his room, laying me gently on the bed. He made sure that I was comfortable before starting a fire in his fireplace, over which he suspended a kettle of water in preparation to make tea. I’d known from childhood that making tea was his way of dealing with shock, grief, any kind of bad news, really. Needless to say, we’d been drinking tea a lot more since 1776, which had been preceded by a period of near-complete abstinence from the beverage in 1774. While England busied himself over his steaming therapist, I had gotten used to my headache enough to be able to begin untangling the confused emotions in my chest, none of them positive ones.

Sinking deeper into the soft mattress, I noticed that it and the pillow were still warm. All of a sudden - quite inexplicably - my throat and eyes started to burn. How often had I felt such tender treatment from England? I began counting on my fingers.

Those first few days after he’d won me from France.

Another instance not long afterwards when I’d fallen from a maple tree.

A frigid morning when the ice on one of my likes had proved treacherous beneath my feet.

After I had gotten lost in a forest that had not been part of my country yet.

And so many others.

Then, he introduced me to America and everything changed, to use a cliche.

No, that wasn’t quite right. Nothing had changed apart from my perception of everything. Being with America had opened my eyes. I swore that it was like I had faded to become a shadow - America’s shadow, perhaps, since it was when my brother and I were together that I felt most acutely that I was completely eclipsed.

From the first time I met my brother, England had paid more attention to America’s demands and left me by myself. When I was younger, almost every time I tried to speak to him in America’s presence, my brother would somehow capture his attention instead. America blamed England for his “salutary neglect” but he had never known the feeling of perpetually being passed over, ignored, seen but not heard, heard but not acknowledged, acknowledged but not understood. He had never known - and would never know - what it was like for someone to be alone with you in body yet never with you in mind, nor in heart.

Always being second-best.

It was America’s nature to draw all eyes on him and thoughts on him, just like it was my fate to have such a brother. After that first meeting, I realised that what England gave to me even when America wasn’t there was still incomparable to what he did for America.

The world didn’t have enough fingers to mark every time England had shown his care for me, yet I would give the world for England to act once towards me as though I was America.

Yet, in a droll twist of fate, America, the favourite, was the one who left. Without its object of substance, how could the shadow exist? Or perhaps the shadow was always there, but merely of such little consequence on its own that it becomes invisible? I did not know if either or if neither of these directions were right. All I knew was that though America had left, I still remained. And that though I remained, it was still to him that everyone turned.

“Is the pain so bad? It can’t be worse than the Seven Years War.” England had completed his therapeutic session with the kettle and returned to me to share its results. Upon glimpsing my tear-stained cheeks, he set the tea cup down and handed me a handkerchief.

If I were America, would he have wiped off my tears himself?

“No,” I whispered, dabbing at my cheeks. “I’ve gotten used to it now. It was just that I couldn’t believe America would attack me.” Which was true, I told myself.

England handed me my cup of tea and gazed at me while not seeing me. “He is not fighting you, Canada. He’s fighting me. I’m sure he will apologise to you at the first opportunity that presents itself.”

I nodded.

Because it was always England and America.

Because it was always America.

– –

A few days later, we received a copy of America’s declaration of war. It was dated the 18th of June - two days after the Orders in Council had been suspended. It had taken three weeks for the news to reach America. England jumped at the excuse this provided him but was ultimately unable to justify leaving Europe while Napoleon’s power reached new heights and an invasion on Russia was underway. I had to go back home, however, and I was on a ship bound for North America that very day.

I reached Sandwich in early August and, finding the town overrun with the blue coats of American soldiers, - there was an entire army, it seemed - immediately inquired into what the situation was. Stopping one of my soldiers - a sergeant, by his uniform - I noted his extremely disgruntled countenance and asked him what the problem was, introducing myself as a junior officer newly returned from Britain. Because of my tentative inquiries, I was suddenly his bosom friend and he whisked me off into the nearest tavern, insisting that he treat me.

“You British originally? Or are ya from one of these colonies here?” he asked me over a mug of beer.

“Canadian, but I was called to Europe to fight Napoleon,” I replied.

The man nodded sagely. “Ah, fighting Bony and the frogs? Confound these Americans. Don’t they know we’re in the middle of a war already?”

I murmured some incomprehensible words noncommittally and gestured at the tables around us which were also dominated by blue coats. “So what’s happened here? All I’ve been told is that the Americans declared war and invaded Windsor.”

“Aye, they’ve done that, alright,” the sergeant said darkly. “Came struttin’ inter town one morn and started actin’ like our great heroes, canya imagine?” He took an irate gulp of his beer. “Called ‘emselves liberators. Said they were freeing us from British tyranny, the traitors! Turncoats! Twaddled about sharing their liberty n’ wealth with us. Then followed up with a cartload o’threats, sayin’ any o’ us caught fighting ‘longside the Indians’ll be killed!”

“Who said all of that?” I demanded, leaning towards the man, anger overcoming my habitual shyness.

“Their commander. Some William Hull.”

William Hull. I knew the name - he was a veteran of the Revolutionary War, wasn’t he? I took a deep draught of my beer with shut eyes.

“You alright, lad?” the sergeant asked me with some alarm.

Indeed, I could feel my hands shaking and my cheeks seemed hot - I knew they were probably flushed a feverish red.

I ignored the question and asked my own instead. “Have you seen an American soldier here who looks a lot like me?”

The sergeant screwed up his eyes and studied my face. “Don’t think so but there’s so many of ‘em, lad.”

“The man I speak of would likely be close to the commander.”

“Definitely not, then. What's this fellow’s name?”

My nails dug into my palm. “Alfred Jones.”

“Never heard of ‘im.” The sergeant drained his tankard.

I had emptied mine as well. Casting my eyes around the room, I noted that the American soldiers were a minority, and an unwelcome one at that. The anger and alcohol rushed to my head and I walked up to the bar, slamming my entire purse down.

“All subjects of the British Crown shall have a round on me, or however rounds this money can pay for,” I declared.

One of the American soldiers standing next to me before the bar put a hand on my shoulder, frowning. “That’s not very nice, laddie.”

I slapped his hand away and responded heatedly, “Invading my country and insulting my people isn’t nice either.”

That prompted a cheer from all of the Canadians and Britons in the room. The tavern keeper took my purse and began setting out tankards as though the devil stood behind him with a battle axe, though there was the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Free drinks for you every time you come down, lad,” he whispered to me as he handed me my refill.

I might have voiced a reply to him, but my mind was such a mess of indignation, fury, exasperation, and other emotions that I couldn’t name that I didn’t even know what I was doing. My people thronged around me, clapping me on the back and drinking to my name - both my human name, that someone had coerced out of me, and my real name - the name of their country. I drank with them, carelessly, brutishly, allowing the beverage to spill out of my mouth and down my chin because I couldn’t bring myself to care, manners be damned!

My people raised their tankards again and again, drinking toast after toast. Now, I heard snatches of other things- to the British, to the King, to victory! Yet I drank to my own rhythm, raising my drink to my lips at the sound of different words. Unwelcome words. Words that I hated. Yet they imprisoned me, heart and soul and I could not escape from them.

I raised my tankard- “Liberators!”

And again- “Liberty!”

Yet again- “Heroes!”

And I cursed every single letter of every single one of those words.

I raised my voice and tankard, crying, “Down with America!”

– –

August, 1814.

It had been an eternity under the guise of two years. I had had my victories and America had had his. Our people showed no mercy against each other, and in the aftermath of the Battle of York in 1813, York - one of my capitals - was looted and burned. It put me in more pain than I can begin to describe, though I knew it would be worse for a country with only one capital. After York, America had sent me a letter written in his own hand, filled to bursting with apologies. He attached copies of orders, attempting to prove to me that the looting of private properties had been done in defiance to commands.

I told myself that I hated him and tore up his letter without sending him a reply. They were mere words, weren’t they? And written words, moreover. Ink loses any semblance of life its liquid fluidity may have given it when it dries on parchment. The entire letter was quite cold in my hands and to my heart when I received it.

Apologies and repentances, what are they but words?

Until he managed to breathe life into them, I would not believe, nor would I forgive. America followed up his letter with a request that we meet in person. It would be for the first time since this war had started - in fact, the last time we had met was quite a while before the war started, when he showed up at England’s door after the Revolutionary War and I had turned him away.

Up to now, neither of us had actually gained anything decisive in the war. I had hope that that would change, however, as the Napoleonic Wars ended four months ago. England had wasted no time in making his way here with his army. Together, we had just won the Battle of Bladensburg, leaving the road to Washington D.C. clear. Major Ross had led the 3rd Brigade ahead in an attack on the capital already and a success was reported. The city had been mostly evacuated, we’d heard, yet our occupation of it was sure to dent American morale and allow us to restock before we moved on to Baltimore.

“Do you think America will have remained?” England asked me as we rode together near the head of our army.

My stomach turned over - I had no wish to see my brother. We had last parted not on particularly good terms but certainly still as friends and now, I would say that I hated him.

“He won’t have,” I said, to set my mind at ease. “He’ll surely see the value in sacrificing a bit of ground now so he can better fight another day.”

“He’s too defiant and too proud,” England countered.

That was true and far more in keeping with America’s character than my conjecture was, which had been provided by my wishful thinking. Of course, I knew that England still wanted to see America. He wished to, as he put it, “drill some sense into his stubborn skull,” and seek a peaceful alternative that might progress better than the negotiations currently underway in Ghent.

I gave a murmured agreement and England glanced at me, an eyebrow raised. “You don’t want to see him?”

The peculiarity that, for all his perceptiveness, he couldn’t see how much I wished America would take up less of his time and attention was a point that I wondered at.

“Not really,” I replied.

“Are you angry at him?”

“A bit.”

“Enough to hate him?”

“Maybe?”

England grabbed the reins from my hands and pulled us over to the side of the path, so that we could halt without blocking the army behind us. Seated calmly atop his horse, he crossed his arms and held my eyes steadily. Thinking he was about to ask me to tell the bloody truth and ask me why, before shooting all of my reasons down, I mentally compiled all the ways America had wronged me during this war, throwing in my discontent with England’s favouritism for good measure.

I had worked myself into quite a fury when England hit me with the question, “Would you want him to die?”

I was startled. Yet, I was not the type of person whose anger subsided in a flash, as quickly as it had some. In short, I was still angry and miserable and altogether not thinking clearly when I told England, “Under what circumstances would you let that happen? He’s the centre of your world, isn’t he?”

A block of sugar wouldn’t miss the bitterness in my voice so of course England heard it. “Canada,” he began, voice equal parts stern and concerned, “America-”

“It’s always America!” I burst out. England recoiled, startled, but I didn’t spare him another glance in my frustration. I clapped my heels to the flanks of my horse and galloped towards Washington D.C. I would tire myself and my horse out at this pace but we would make it.

When I reached the city centre after hours of exhausting riding, I saw with a grim satisfaction that the buildings were being looted. I construed this as my vengeance for what America had done to me in York. In this state of fatigued, malignant glee, I reached the United States Capitol which was also being looted extensively. I noticed, however, that there was a procession of men bearing branches and other wooden materials into the building.

“What is the wood for?” I asked a soldier at random.

“We’re burning the thing down,” he replied dismissively.

Perhaps it was the muddling effect of anger, or maybe the exhaustion of my break-neck ride to the capital was getting to me. All I knew was that every logical, coherent thought suddenly melted into nothing and drained out of my head, leaving behind only the pressing need to stop this from happening. If I had been in a clearer state of mind, I should have found Major Ross and demanded for him to put a halt to this. However, as it was, I rushed straight into the building with some half-formed fantasy of grabbing the torch from the air as it fell, before it set the tinder alight.

I don’t know why I suddenly wanted to save America's Capitol so badly. I just knew I needed to do it.

I made my confused way to the South Wing as, in the back of my mind, I noticed a commotion in this section. Entering the House Chamber - which I dimly noted to contain quite a lot of redcoat-wearing soldiers - I was greeted by a towering wall of wood falling in my direction. As I dumbly watched my impending killer descend, I heard someone gasp. A pair of hands pushed me so hard that I went flying into one of the walls and someone pinned me to the said wall before I could rebound off it. There was a monstrous crash behind me, then I choked on a mouthful of sawdust.

My assailant and saviour turned me around by the shoulders and pulled me into a bone-crushing embrace.

“Canada!” America exclaimed joyfully.

He released me swiftly to hold me at arms’ length instead, talking excitedly all the while. “Damn, I haven’t seen you in so long! Hell, your hair is so long that I can see France’s influence. Ha, I bet England hates that! Why didn’t you respond to my letters? You got them, right? It’s not important now that you’re here though. I mean, I just wanted to make sure you’re alright and I can see you’re fine now so, yeah. By the way, I’m damned sorry about York and stuff, y’know? Some of my people are idiots, I’ve gotta admit.”

It had been over two years and America hadn’t changed a bit. My sluggish brain tried to follow along with his enthusiastic babbling but I stopped listening to him when I heard the word “York.”

York. Something important had happened just then that had reminded me of York. The burning of the US Capitol, yes, but America had just prevented that in part. There was still the North Wing but, no, that wasn’t what was bothering me. Ah, yes, how had he prevented the South Wing from getting burnt?

Oh, great heavens.

My blood ran cold. The House Chamber had hardly been empty when I’d walked in, yet it was so silent now. I prised myself out of America’s grip and stumbled my way over into the collapsed pile of would-be tinder. Sifting through wooden planks and branches in the mess, I unearthed a red-sleeved arm. Head spinning, I looked around me more carefully and found that I could see - everywhere - hints of red coats underneath the wood.

“America…” I said dumbly, staring at the arm.

“Oh, sorry about that,” my twin answered with a wince. “But they were gonna burn down my Capitol and I had to stop them, didn’t I? It’s alright,” he said, patting me on the shoulder, “I’ll apologise to England later.”

“These are - were - my men,” I said dully.

I felt as though I had left my body and was looking through my eyes, speaking through my mouth and moving my limbs from a place far away. Distantly, I saw America’s mouth drop open and he fidgeted uncomfortably.

“Oh… I didn’t know that,” he mumbled. “Look, Canada, I’m really sorry. They were gonna burn down this amazing building of mine and several others too and I just had to stop them because they’d be going too far…”

His mouth continued to move without pause, yet a ringing had started up in my ears and was drowning out all other sound. America concluded his tirade and took my lack of reaction as forgiveness. He grabbed my arm and started to pull me to the doorway that led directly out of the House Chamber, and into the hallway beyond which was brightly illuminated with fat torches on the walls.

The ringing in my ears cleared just as America said, “C’mon, I need to go and rescue the North Wing too. Oh yeah, where’s England? I guess we need to have a meeting face-to-face now that neither of us have gotten anywhere and our people are spitting fire at each other in Ghent. Your people were so stubborn, Canada. I wanted to help you lot be free from England so he can’t interfere with us anymore and we can be close again. Why’d they stop me?”

Liberators? Heroes?

From the same distance, and with the same detachment, I watched myself wrench my arm free from America’s grasp. I saw my hand grab one of the torches from its wall bracket. I was vaguely aware of a part of my subconsciousness screaming as I threw the torch into the fallen pile of tinder.

What astounding speed with which it all ignited! How bright the vast hall became as the flames soared!

As the walls began to catch fire, I saw America stumble and press a hand to his chest. Over his heart. A moment later, he screamed and crumpled onto the floor and I vaguely realised that the North Wing must have been set on fire as well.

As he collapsed, I felt as if I had travelled miles and miles in a second. I was back in my body, in reality again. As I became aware of my surroundings, I was seized with an overwhelming feeling of disgust so overwhelming that I actually gagged.

By the heavens, what did I just do?

I fell to my knees beside America, who was trembling as he huddled into a ball. I stared, motionless, in debilitating horror and regret until I choked on a breath and became aware that the air was rapidly filling with smoke as the flames spread towards us.

Galvanised into action, I scooped America up and sprinted for the door at the end of the hallway. Yet I saw that it had been shut - probably for the benefit of the fire - and I cursed my weakness. If I were America, I would have kicked that door into smithereens without breaking step. Instead, I was forced to waste valuable time in setting America gently down onto the floor before turning the handles and flinging the doors open.

They weren’t locked, thank God, and the fresh air beyond them was more beautiful than anything I had ever known.

Taking America in my arms again, I stumbled onto the lawn outside.

Then everything went black.

– –

The first thing I became aware of when I had some inkling of consciousness again was the violent howling of wind close by and cacophonous banging outside. My eyes snapped open and I sat up sharply.

“Canada, thank God.”

That relieved exclamation and a cup of tea shoved under my nose announced England’s presence.

I pushed the tea away. “America?” I called urgently and made to get out of bed. England swiftly took the cup from me before I could tip it over and set it down, before putting an arm around me to assist me as I stood.

America lay in a bed across the room from mine. My heart skipped a beat - he looked dreadful. His hair was drenched in sweat and stuck flatly to his forehead, and an unhealthy flush dominated his sunken cheeks. He frankly reminded me of an invalid in the latter stages of consumption. The thought sent me into a panic.

“What’s happening to him?” I was convinced - against all logic and evidence - that I was the cause of his present suffering.

England drew up a chair and sat me on it, even though my body felt fine physically. He laid a hand gently on America’s cheek, gazing down at him while he replied.

“It’s a tornado. It started an hour ago and has ripped off several roofs already, from the sound of it.”

A loud crash outside corresponded with America crying out softly, causing us both to cringe.

“At the very least, it’s putting out the fires,” England grimaced.

Guilt positioned its claws around my heart. “What happened?” I asked apprehensively.

“Ross burnt many of America’s public publings, including the US Capitol where you two were found. I arrived too late to do anything about it. It’s only the 25th,” he added reassuringly, seeing me start. “Were you trying to stop the fire?” he continued.

The claws holding my heart squeezed and I wondered when it would burst. Instead, I burst into tears.

England immediately left America and knelt by my chair, putting his arms around me and pressing my head comfortingly into his shoulder. It made me feel wonderfully dreadful. I tried my hardest to get my hiccups under control so I could speak but, the more I struggled, the harder I cried. I gave up after a while and just let the tears run their course.

When I could finally string a few words together, I mumbled into England’s now-drenched shirt (for he had never relaxed his hold on me).

“I lit the fire.”

How did that phrase come out so clearly? It was detestable.

I felt England stiffen and after a while, he pulled away. My heart dropped but I knew I deserved every bit of it.

I closed my eyes, not wanting to see how England would react, and jumped violently when I felt a pair of hands gently cup my face.

I opened my eyes in shock, and opened them wider when I noticed that England’s eyes were glossy and his cheeks wet. He had been crying as well.

“I’m so sorry, Canada.”

He didn’t need to say more, and he didn’t say more. For the rest of that storm, we clung to each other wordlessly. And for all the turmoil outside, I had never felt so at peace.

– –

24th of December, 1814.

Status quo ante bellum.

Those were the words that had dominated the negotiations as of late. Those were the words that conveyed the crux of the Treaty of Ghent.

I had sat in a corner of the conference room while the members of the British and American negotiating teams signed and stamped their seals on the document. After four long months of debate, the treaty was finally being signed. It was a treaty to show that the war had changed nothing. Concrete evidence that all those lives had been lost for nothing.

When it was England’s turn to sign, he waved me over and handed me the pen. I was touched by the gesture, yet I knew it was not my place. I pushed the pen back. “This treaty is between you and America.”

England didn’t press the matter and signed the document. He passed the pen to America when he had finished. To satisfy formality and protocol, they shook hands over the treaty. Then, in a breach of the said formality and protocol, America pulled England forward into an embrace.

I stood beside them with a genuine smile on my face, knowing how much this meant to England.

Ours is not a fair world, no matter how hard we try to make it so.

England’s bond with America would always be stronger than with me and it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Neither mine, nor America's, nor even England’s.

In that moment, somehow, I found myself knowing that in the future, England and America would stand together as allies and as world powers on the global stage, while I watched them from the wings.

I didn’t mind that.

This war had taught me so much, made me see so much, that I could no longer begrudge America for something as petty as attention. Love is love. It is too pure and too previous to be sullied by our attempts to put it into tiers and rankings.

It was these thoughts that brought my heartfelt smile onto my lips as I watched them, content to merely stand at their side.

Waiting in the wings but content to do so.

Then America grabbed my arm and yanked me over, and I became part of the embrace.

Never mind, this is definitely better.

Guess we all are born with parts to play
Some of us are stars, and some are just in the way
I know I was meant for glory
But that's never what my story brings
And yet I keep on waiting
When you have the passion and the drive
You expect your moment center stage to arrive
I show up with heart a blazing
Ready to achieve amazing things
But I'm left waiting in the wings
I hear my cue
And yet I'm kept there, waiting
Know what to do
And still I stand there, waiting
It's always someone else who sings
While I'm left waiting in the wings
And so I keep on keeping on
My chances come and then I blink and they're gone
Always overlooked unfairly
While pretending that it barely stings
But it stings, yes it stings
And I'll shed no tears
I'll only keep on waiting
If no one cheers
Well, I can keep on waiting
Who cares how loud
The silence rings
You'll find me waiting in the wings

-Waiting in the Wings (Eden Epinosa)