the united states of america, except i make her cunty

england and america slowly becoming closer

England sat in the library, surrounded by the forgotten tomes of his past. The pages whispered ancient stories and forgotten knowledge, resonating with a familiarity that stirred memories long buried within his mind. Old and Middle English flowed effortlessly from his lips as he traced the words with his gaze, basking in the nostalgia of the language. Each turn of phrase, each passage, evoked a bittersweet smile as he remembered a time when those words held significance.

Reading Beowulf to New York had awakened emotions and memories he had tried to suppress. It had been a long while since he had shared such a moment with anyone, not since he read the very same epic tale to his mother, Britannia, before her eventual fading.

The sight of New York clutching the book, her presence reminiscent of his mother, had stirred longing and pain within him. He exhaled a heavy sigh, realizing he had allowed himself to be lost in the memories, forgetting the consequences of his actions.

New York was frightened, timid, and miserable in the bustling streets of London. England had no desire to keep her in such a state, despite the complicated emotions that stirred within him.

Gazing out the window, England observed the sun slowly emerging on the horizon. As a centuries-old country, he no longer required the respite of sleep. His physical body had long adapted to the absence of rest. However, New York's physical form was still young, and sleep was a necessity. His thoughts turned to Beowulf, still held tightly in his grasp, and a decision formed in his mind.

England closed his eyes, his fists clenched tightly as memories flooded his mind. He remembered all the times he sat by his mother's side, reading stories to her. But now, reading Beowulf to New York had resurrected long-suppressed emotions that he had tried to bury deep within him.

Centuries had passed since those days, and even now as England had existed for far longer than his mother, he still felt like a naive young nation. He was known as Wessex back then, bearing the human name Artorius, a name bestowed upon him by his father, Ancient Rome.

Vivid images of his mother lying pale and motionless on the bed filled England's thoughts. Four centuries since the fall of his father, and still his devastating cruelty lingered. He recalled the pain etched on her face and the flickering of her form as if she were slipping in and out of existence, the sheen of sweat that encompassed her pitiful form. In an attempt to alleviate her suffering, he would read Beowulf, spin tales of heroism, and bring her handcrafted materials—anything that might bring her a moment's solace.

England remembers having to sneak into the room. His brothers had long forbidden him from entering.

"Modor," England would begin, desperate, "modor, I brought-"

"Romulus?" his mother would whisper in horror, her eyes filled with fear. Though England shared his mother's eyes, he resembled Ancient Rome more than anyone else. "No," she would screech, thrashing around. "No, I am not yours. I am free! My boys, please, what did you do with my boys?"

His brothers, Ireland, Wales, and Scotland, though known by different names in the ninth century, would rush into the room, pushing England aside to comfort their mother.

"Stay out!" Ireland would hiss. "You do nothing but distress modor!"

Wales would push England from the room, slamming the door. Only the muffled cries and hushing from his brothers could be heard through the door.

England remembered himself, as Wessex, clutching Beowulf tightly to his chest, wondering what he had done wrong to elicit such terrifying screams from his mother. The book was his only source of comfort, the only shield from the harsh reality of who he was.