Amelia was humiliated by the Civil War. She'd been so rash, so stupid, to encourage the South to break away from her brother, and with her loss? Nations couldn't even look at her without laughing, and her brother was always condescending.
The only thing that kept her from fading was the fact that, despite her embarrassing loss, her people weren't a part of the Union yet. It was a bittersweet thing; she was happy to be alive, but she couldn't face any other entities without ridicule.
Only rubbing salt in the wound was the scar that ran from her shoulder to her hip, a painful reminder of the path Sherman tore across Georgia. At least, though, it only ached; at the time, it had almost killed her.
No, she didn't disappear; she was instead to stand by and watch as her nation was forced to become Alfred's once more. Little by little, her power was trickling away from her, and with each state torn away, the pain that was seated deep within her bones became more and more prominent.
Soon, it fell to her last piece of the South—Georgia. Panic tore through her, and she begged and pleaded with the leaders to stay with her. They could make it! They were the center of the South! But in 1870, Georgia was taken from her too.
However, she didn't fade, and that was not to be her end. For even when she gave up on clinging to her strength, her sorry existence carried on. She was forced to live with the pain every day, and it drove her closer and closer to her breaking point.
That was reached after a particularly tough day at the world meeting, held in Washington, D.C. During the meeting, the subject of her attendance came up, and a heated argument led her brother to snap. "The old South is dead, Amelia! Go home!" he yelled at her, sending her away completely shattered.
In the home that she and Alfred now shared, Amelia finally decided to escape her pain, to leave behind her shame and humiliation. She first found her Confederate uniform, pulling it on and letting her fingers brush over the familiar grey fabric. She next dug out her cavalry sword and her Confederate flag, as well as her old pocketknife. She saluted the symbols of her nation one last time before she sat down with them both on her lap, and while tears streamed down her cheeks for grief for her nation, she swiftly brought the knife across her wrists.
When Alfred arrived home later, he looked for his sister to apologize, and after he discovered her door locked, he forced it open. When he saw her, horror and guilt washed over him, just like the blood had washed over the now blood-soaked flag. Tears dropped onto the floor, so like the blood dripping from her wrists, and he walked over to her body. His hands shook as he wiped away the not quite dried tear tracks on her chilled cheeks, but at least he could take comfort in how peaceful she looked.
He stepped back a few moments later, and he stood back to silently salute her, her uniform, her flag, and all that she ever represented.
The old South was indeed dead.
