Chapter Text
Alfred had learned from an early age not to get close to humans.
He had considered it several times throughout the centuries. He was older than he had been - no matter how much the other Nations didn't see it - so maybe he could deal with grief better. But his mind always flashed back to the few humans he'd let himself get close to: Washington, notably, as well as a few other presidents. The one that most affected him, however, was and would probably always be Davie.
He had been a child when he met Davie, and a child still by the time Davie grew old. Blue flowers still hurt his heart to look at, but he always carried one with him. None of the other Nations knew that, and there were really only two humans he'd ever told. It didn't really have a designated place, just wherever on his person he could put it. He carried it until it wilted and died, loosing its beautiful blue color to the natural decay of organic material. It was poetic, really, and if Alfred were a more artistic man he may have written it down, turned it into a poem. Alfred wondered if Russia had ever noticed it, what with Cold War espionage, or even Lithuania or South Italy with their time they had spent living together.
Alfred had never been good at getting over grief. He wondered if anyone was. He wondered if even someone as old as China reflected on someone who had died centuries prior. More specifically, though, he was never able to get over the grief of Davie. Davie was no president. He wasn't a politician, or an explorer, or a scientist, or a general, or anything that would get his name in the history books. He was a name on a grave that Alfred was pretty sure he was the only one to ever visit. Perhaps that was why it was so much harder. George Washington's name would forever be remembered; his portraits would forever be the first of many portraits in the presidential line of succession, his residence would forever be a historical sight, and his grave would forever be visited. It was the same story for all of the other humans Alfred had let himself grow close to. Davie had none of that.
Upon years of reflection, Alfred had also realized that he'd never had time to really grieve Davie, although he was much too prideful to admit that out loud. Even after England's explanation of death and the lifespan of humans, Alfred had been too young to really understand. Part of him had still anticipated Davie's return - he wondered if that was why he started carrying the flower. The grief hadn't hit him until much later in life. Then, however long later (Alfred wasn't really sure when exactly Davie had lived, and his grave didn't say), Alfred had experienced his own death firsthand for the first time. He still remembered the way the rope suffocated him slowly as he swung, the words the judge said when he was found guilty for witchcraft, the feeling of the eyes of the people - his people - as they watched him be put to death. He remembered the aftermath, too; suffocating underground until he managed to dig himself out. He wondered if anyone ever noticed, then spent their life even more paranoid of witches. Alfred wouldn't know, though, because he ran back to his nice, mostly isolated colonial home and waited for England to return, whenever that might be.
And there were always skirmishes and disputes throughout the colonies. Alfred had not been old enough to fight until the French and Indian War, but he felt the pain. And, by the dawn of the 18th century, Alfred had started growing. Before he knew it, he was fighting a war, and then another, only, his allies and enemies had reversed. It was hard not to feel camaraderie when one was fighting side-by-side with someone, musket in hand, but still Alfred tried not to get too attached. They would die too soon, and war only sort up the process. Washington was a natural exception as the father of the nation.
By the time the Revolution was over, he was busy learning how to be a Nation, how to run a country, and how to be truly independent. And then there were more wars. And then a Civil War, and by then, Alfred just had to go West and get away from it all. He tried not to think about Davie, although he still carried a flower, and he was only mildly successful. It was when the grief finally hit him. But it was only a brief time in his long life, and soon enough, it was back to business. More wars, the Great Rapprochement, then a Great War, and by then he was more than done with it all.
Perhaps his avoidance of humans partially influenced his country's isolationist phase. He briefly wondered if Japan had gone through something similar, but just managed to hold onto it longer. To grieve longer.
Alfred wished he'd had time to grieve.
At most, he had a day every few years where he could go back to Davie's grave and think about what could have been. What if Davie hadn't forgotten him? What if Alfred had told Davie who he truly was - what he truly was? What if Davie could have lived as long as Alfred could?
Alfred had found Davie's grave again some time during the Revolution. He was glad he never forgot where it was again. Davie had forgotten him, but Alfred would never forget Davie.