This is a collaboration between my friend Amanda and I. We both greatly appreciate you, the reader, for taking the time to read. Without you, none of this would be possible. Thank you and enjoy!

We are reposting this chapter due to the problems in the text it was having. We are sorry for the inconvenience and hope that it does not happen anymore.

It's hard to win… When the enemy is yourself.

-x-x-x-

The sun was shining pleasantly on this Monday morning. An unusually warm breeze for this time of year meandered through the trees, whose budding branches added a flowery aroma to the wind. With better weather than could be wished for, it was quite unlike him to remain indoors on such a day as this. However, it could not be helped, considering the circumstances.

Despite the glare from the sunlight making it difficult to see out of the window, he decided that this was as good a view as any of the proceedings below. Even from this height above the masses, he could still hear the humming of thousands of voices, all excitedly talking at once. And while all of the souls below him were eager to catch a glimpse of the soon-to-be sixteenth President of the United States, his heart was heavy.

Never in his life had he had to deal with so much unrest among the people. He hadn't slept in days. He could always hear them, screaming at each other about injustice and lack of freedom. No matter what anyone proposed, it was immediately shot down and deemed unfair. No one was innocent in this though, and the escalation of accusations and threats had been growing steadily over the past few years and months, all leading up to today.

The tragedy of December and the last four months had rocked him to the core, and he was almost at a loss for what to do. Here was his salvation.

Today, he hoped, would see an end to it all. Although he knew, in his heart of hearts, that that was impossible. Today was only the beginning.

A hush fell over the crowd below, and the man in the window straightened. This was the moment he had decided would either make or break the nation beyond repair.

He watched closely as Abraham Lincoln stepped up to the podium, where the Chief Justice awaited him, Bible in hand. There, he placed his left hand on the Bible, raised his right hand, opened his mouth, and clearly so that even the man in the window could hear, he said:

"I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States."

His hand still on the Bible, he closed his eyes and declared with emotion, "So help me God."

The man in the window sighed heavily as a roar erupted from the horde below. If anyone had been in the room with him, they would have heard the man whisper, "God has deserted this land. There is no help to be found."

The man in the window continued to watch as Lincoln delivered his Inaugural Address. He remained emotionless, face as unreadable and hard as stone. Even after Lincoln deserted the podium, the man in the window did not turn away, but he only took to watching the people below.

A knock sounded at the door some time later.

"Yes?" the man asked, only half interested now. His attentions were focused on one lady in particular, who had deemed it appropriate to wear an obnoxiously large hat covered in flowers. It appeared that she was busy shooing off bees that kept wanting to land on her head.

"The President is here to see you."

The man did not face the door, but only replied, "Send him in."

The knob turned, and the door squealed open. Footsteps. The squeal of the door as it shut.

Neither of them moved for a full ten seconds. The man at the window finally pulled himself away from watching the lady below to adjust his suit jacket, then a piece of blonde hair that had fallen into his eyes. He turned, his right hand extended, to face the President.

"May I be the first to congratulate you on your inauguration, Mr. President."

"Thank you," Lincoln said with a warm smile as he shook the man's hand. "However, I do not believe I have officially had the pleasure of your acquaintance."

"My apologies, sir." The man smiled in return, only it was half-hearted and heavy. "Alfred F. Jones, Personification of this great Union."

-x-x-x-

Four months earlier…

Marion Harris, or better known by her people as the personification of the state of South Carolina, sat at her writing desk in a corner of her parlor, weeping. Her silent sobs racked her small frame with every breath she drew in, and her fingers curled into her disheveled hair, trying to grasp at something, anything.

They just wouldn't stop. The screaming voices of her people, constantly calling for her to do something. Anything. As if she could do anything with them giving her not even a moment's respite so she could think.

She had been sitting at this desk, paper and pen before her and ready to write, for two hours. However, every time she picked up her pen, she couldn't accurately put to paper what she wanted to say. She had lost count of how many drafts she had balled up and thrown angrily to the side. To be entirely frank, she was sick and tired of dealing with everyone. All she wanted was for the voices to stop…

She had sent a letter to her sister, Olivia, explaining to her the situation. Olivia had written back , saying that she was having the very same problems. Her people were restless, and they wanted to see something happen now, and the thing that scared her most was the fact that they didn't really care what happened, as long as it was something.

Olivia had suggested for her to hang on and wait it out, but today, Marion had finally reached her breaking point.

She was done.

"Fine!" she screamed to no one, and yet to everyone and anyone. "You want me to do something, here you go! Here's something!"

As soon as she put her pen to the paper, she couldn't stop. Every complaint that her people screamed in her head came out onto that paper. She didn't leave a thing out. Every slave issue, every rights issue, everything that her people had complained to her about was poured out onto that paper.

As she came to the final line, she paused and allowed her hand to linger. Was this the right thing to do? Did her people really know what they were asking for? Was this move too drastic, too much? What if this was a mistake? There was time to turn back, to pretend that this never happened.

No. This was what her people were calling for. She didn't have a choice.

At the bottom of the page, Marion Harris, personification of the state of South Carolina, signed her name. The instant her pen lifted from the page, every screaming voice in her head became silent. The change was so sudden, she nearly dropped her pen in shock. She waited for a few seconds, expecting the voices to return, but they remained silent. This silence scared Marion more than anything.

With the realization that turning back now was impossible, she quickly folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, sealed, and addressed it. She then called a servant, a teenaged girl by the name of Evaline, to take the letter to the post office for her. After Evaline had left, and the house was silent once again, Marion put her head back in her hands.

In a tiny voice that was nearly inaudible, she whispered, "Are you happy now?"

There was no answer, and Marion was more alone than she had ever been. Hot and angry tears began to flow again, although it wasn't as if it really mattered to her anymore.

That's when she heard them.

Tiny footsteps, and a small creak of wooden floorboards behind her. Then, a small voice. A child's voice, accented with what was unmistakably a Southern twang.

"Please don't cry, miss."

Marion turned around quickly, quite startled. She expected a slave to stand in the doorway, but was surprised to see a small white child. He appeared to be only six or seven, with dirty blonde hair that fell just below his eyebrows and covered his ears. Freckles dusted his nose and cheeks, and his skin was a healthy bronze, as if from time in the sun. What stood out to Marion were the child's piercing eyes, which were a strange mixture of blue and green. He was dressed only in a pair of faded blue overalls, with one strap unclasped and hanging behind him. He was barefoot.

"Please miss, don't cry."

Marion distractedly wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, in awe of this strange child. "Where…?" she stammered. "Who…?"

The boy furrowed his brow questioningly, clearly confused.

"What I mean to say is…" Marion paused, then took a deep breath. "What's your name, son?"

The boy grinned widely, his smile lighting up his eyes. "I'm Samuel. Samuel Lee Jones!"

"And where are you from, Samuel?"

The boy furrowed his brow again. He looked disappointed. "Don't you know miss?"

Now it was Marion's turn to be confused. "I'm sorry Samuel, I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Miss," Samuel said, suddenly quite serious, "I'm the personification of the Confederate States of America."

-x-x-x-

At this exact time, Alfred F. Jones was out in the White House garden, enjoying the brisk afternoon air. He had always loved Christmas time, especially here at the White House. Everything was decorated with red and gold ribbon, crystal, and silver tinsel. The pervasive and sharp scent of evergreen boughs had reached every corner of the house, and the feel of the holidays had penetrated even the most dreary and lonely of offices.

Alfred paused in his walk down the path to watch the falling of a snowflake. Snowflakes had always fascinated him in their purity and brevity. One moment they were there, the next they were gone, melted into nothingness, never to be recalled again.

A memory that had long since been forgotten welled up inside of him again, and Alfred was for a moment lost in the recesses of his mind. He was a young child again, still only a colony of England. It was his first winter, and Arthur was with him. The only thing that Alfred could remember about that winter was this single memory.

Nothing extraordinary happened, yet extraordinary wasn't a word nearly powerful enough to describe it.

Alfred was sitting on Arthur's lap, and they were perched on a brick wall, watching the first snowflakes of the year fall silently on the barren ground before them. Alfred was smiling broadly, his face hurting from the chill of the air and from smiling so much. Arthur was smiling softly, and they were both happy to just be in each other's company.

"Look Alfred," Arthur whispered as he reached his hand out. On his fingertip, he caught a tiny snowflake. Alfred gasped in wonder, and Arthur pulled his hand close. "See this snowflake?" Alfred grabbed at Arthur's hand and held it in his own tiny ones. "It's the only one like it in the world. There'll never be another one that looks exactly like it ever again." As he spoke, the snowflake melted into a drop of water on the end of his finger. Alfred sighed sadly, then looked up at Arthur, his eyes misty and on the verge of tears.

Arthur smiled. "There's no need to cry, Alfred. Just remember this: Never fail to see the beauty in the little things, because before you know it, they'll be gone, much like this snowflake, and another moment like that will never come again."

A stab of pain in Alfred's chest wrenched him from the memory, and it faded as quickly as the snowflake did on that day. He gasped loudly, and his face contorted into a painful grimace. There it was again, but worse. Alfred grabbed at his coat over where his heart was, and he couldn't hold it in. He screamed. He fell to his knees. He cursed. He bent over until his face was in the freshly fallen snow on the ground. Hot tears of pain streamed from his eyes, and all he could do was scream into the snow, which was falling faster by the minute. Someone came and tried to help him up, but when he tried to straighten, the pain redoubled and shot through his chest and stomach, sending him back into the snow.

"Mr. Jones, sir, please, what's wrong?"

Alfred shook his head, but he knew exactly what was wrong. "I need… to speak to… the… President…" he said through clenched teeth. Another cry escaped his lips, and the person-whoever it was, Alfred didn't look-ran off to deliver his message to the President. Now he was alone, the snow falling silently all around him. In the crushing solitude, Alfred began to weep. Arthur, he thought, If this is what I did to you when I left you, then God forgive me.

-x-x-x-

Marion wasted no time. Within an hour, little Samuel was bathed, his hair combed. His dingy overalls were replaced with a pressed white shirt and dark trousers. Marion even found a pair of black leather shoes that were his size.

As she stood behind Samuel before the full length mirror in her bedroom, Marion was beaming with pride. "Now," she smiled broadly, "Now you look like a young nation."

Samuel didn't reply. Instead, he gazed at his transformed self in silence. He looked pensively at the reflection that was supposedly him with a slight frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

Marion was convinced that she had done exceedingly well. However, she wasn't sure Samuel was entirely on board with her vision.

The longer Samuel stood before his reflection in silence, the more Marion began to doubt whether this was the best idea. I only just met the child, she thought, and the first thing I do is change him completely.

She had begun to falter in her resolve and confidence in her work when Samuel reached his little hand up, slender fingers extended, toward the mirror. His fingertips gently brushed the cool glass where his face was reflected. He traced the outline of his nose, his chin, and his cheek, slowly and deliberately. His face suddenly became hard. His jaw clenched, he brought his hands up to his straw-colored hair, which was parted to the side. He ran his fingers back through it, erasing the part and smoothing it back. This completed, he dropped his hands back down to his sides. A smirk replaced his shadow of a frown as he turned his eyes up to meet Marion's in the mirror.

"Yes, ma'am, I do."

Marion smiled cautiously and patted his shoulders before she spun around and left the room. "Your room is at the end of the hall. Let me know if you need anything."

Samuel listened to her hurried footfalls on the stairs. When they had faded into silence, his smirk disappeared. The confident Samuel Lee Jones, face of the newly formed Confederate States of America, was gone now. A scared little boy only remained.

The angry voices were loud, and he couldn't make them quiet. They kept saying something about 'bringing our brothers in' and needing more people to 'join the cause'.

What exactly that cause was, Samuel had no earthly idea.

One voice cried out something that shot a spike of fear through his heart.

"The only good Yank is a dead one!"

And that's when they all started at once. Cries for war, death, destruction.

Samuel became frightened, and became downright terrified when he couldn't make the voices stop talking of such things.

So he did the only thing he could think of.

Samuel sprinted out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the room Marion had said was his. He whipped the door open and slammed it shut behind him. He didn't care that the sound was loud, that it echoed through the entire house. The second the door was shut, he ran to the corner of the room, slid down against the wall until he was sitting, held his knees, and began to cry. "Please…" he whispered in between quiet sobs, "…make them stop…"

He would soon learn that these prayers are seldom answered.