Author's Note: Originally requested on the Hetalia Kink Meme, but did not follow the prompt per se, so is therefore being posted here. 'South' refers to the Confederate States of America, and 'North' is the United States of America. They had two separate bodies, and the states are voices in their head. Pretty much an AU, taking place during the end of the American Civil War. I wrote this over the course of a few weeks, so it is rather scatter-brained.

Warnings: Mentions of War, Character Death, Butchered History

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters.

Davis was his Washington, and North had been his England. Forced to stay, to labour away for a profit he'd never see, he'd never feel or taste. Shamed and demeaned for providing North with the cotton king he'd begged for. Mocked for daring to stand up for himself, to follow the example lead by North himself so few years ago.

He and North had gotten along so well, too. Started out strong. He had supplied the exports, the trade, the cotton and tobacco and indigo and grain and everything North needed for the factories he invested in. He hadn't been able to carry on the industrialised dream- it had been too much of a risk. He needed to tend the fields, he needed to keep picking cotton. He had a loyalty to his brother, but also to his own ideals. His- their- people needed him- needed them. North carried onward, and while they started as brothers- partners in crime- it soon became apparent that North was losing his grip on reality.

North started silencing him. Speaking out of turn, pointing out holes in his plans and criticising his stupid decisions, trying to make him see reason: all were crimes. North was seducing his people away, forcing South to rely on importing more and more workers, and then North turned around and snapped at him for bringing in more men. And when he decided he'd had enough with North, when he stood his ground and took the higher ground, North didn't take him seriously. He was nothing but a voice in the back of his head that North overpowered.

Arthur and Francis almost did. He'd been so close. But then North had to intervene and turn away all of his chances for allies. He was being suffocated, snuffed out from his own land. North was no longer a part of him, and South no longer a part of North. The United States had every right to disband- they were nothing but united states, so why couldn't South leave this union?

He didn't need North to tell him what to do. North was not in control. No matter how much North considered himself a hero, he was nothing but Yankee scum. He claimed he'd been upholding freedoms of his people, but instead, he had been corrupted in the same way that England had been. North was nothing but a power-hungry beast about to lunge, so it was in South's best interest to stand his ground and get North off his high horse first.

Solidarity was practically his motto. He would be just fine on his own, and he had all the determination in the world to prove it. He rallied with the different Confederate States, helping them with their plans, but his personal agenda was the same across the board. He spread his wings and jumped from the nest, ready to fly away, but North managed to reach out and yank his feathers from his wings.

And that was when he first started feeling it. Piece by piece, he was falling apart. His left hand wasn't as responsive as before. It was at first a mere itch, but even when scratched, the sensation wouldn't go away. It tingled, but it never ached, and he learned to block out the pins and needles growing in his wrist and up his arm. Soon enough, Arkansas was gone. From there, it was a slippery slope down into a pit of numbness. He scavenged what control over his body that he could. Florida and the Carolinas, all gone within days of each other. North was taking them back. He was being destroyed. It was no longer tearing feathers, but now it was breaking bones.

Food, something he had so cherished, was no longer appealing. His economies had been based around agriculture even, but the idea of eating repulsed him. Louisiana no longer stirred up his appetite. He stood, shakily on his feet, as he watched the wind play with- dance with- the grain that he had cultivated. There had to be enough to make enough bread for maybe a week if he was careful. Yet, there was no way of making it. All his men had gone to war- there were nothing but slaves and women left behind, and not nearly enough to keep himself running. It teased him. He felt pity for this field. He knew what it was like to keep supplying and supplying but not having any means of making himself useful. North was the one with the factories, after all. The petty excuses he had built in his attempt at self-sufficiency couldn't compare to North. South had all the raw goods in a world of industrialization and markets but cotton hadn't been enough to win him any allies.

He fought back. Striking a match and tossing it into the field, South stared blankly as the flames grew. It was so much like his brother... Fire was so nurturing, so warm, such a source of life, but greedy. The fire devoured the wheat, hopping from spot to spot, smothering the field in a blaze of glory, leaving nothing but ashes once the wind forced it into submission.

...Was that would be left of him? A field of ash?

It was quiet. There were no voices left in South's head other than Texas. Texas was the last.

South found himself, thin and crippled with his body barely responsive to his own orders, struggling to stand upright. He trudged his feet across the wooden floor, as if lead had been tied to his ankles. How many great nations have carried the same load? Had the great Rome felt himself tear into pieces and crumble away?

He had been right. And he also had been wrong. Did it truly matter anymore?

South stumbled his way into a torched and abandoned barn, not even needing to use a door. The walls had tumbled down. The roof was in pieces. The stalls- must've been for horses- were scorched and crumbling. There wasn't even a rat. It wasn't like there was any feed left behind; wild animals seemed to have scavenged the remains. The strong foundation for a new life that was once the barn was now nothing but pathetic remains of a broken and failed mission.

But, wasn't this what he wanted? He was free, no one holding him back. He was there for himself and no one else. He could still do this- he just had to reach Central America and rebuild-

Taking a few steps forward and falling to his knees, South fought to return on his feet, but remained useless on the ground. Once the voice started to fade, Texas's hearty, thick accent gone, South let out strangled and silent sobs. He couldn't think without a voice telling him what to do. He was truly alone. Alone, without any voices to comfort him.

He was numb. And he was going to die.

It was then that he realised that he and North had always wanted the same thing: comfort. He wanted the southern states to be his states. All being alone ever did was numb his body further. Maybe if they fought together- if the states banded together and fought as a nation, a league of states, instead of scattered soldiers. Perhaps that had been his regret.

Instead of wanting the isolation he swore up and down that he would protect, he wanted to be pulled closer and heard. Now, there was no voice to even speak, no thoughts to be spoken, and no Confederate States of America.

It was quiet.