Author's Note

This story is planned as a three-parter, and obviously, contains an OC (the Confederacy). Thanks for reading, and please review (as always, constructive criticism is welcome).

(April 1863)

America wondered just how far he had strayed from the army's camp. He had set out in the morning and the sun was already past its noontime zenith. He should probably get back soon, he thought. After all, his generals would probably scold him if he came back too late. And what if there was a battle or something while he was gone? He couldn't stand the idea that he might miss any of the action.

But sitting on the flat rock by the bank of the stream was so lovely. The water was cool against his feet, which were sore and weary from marching. The sound of the stream was so soothing, and the air was just warm enough without being too hot. He could have stayed there for hours, even days. Once, a long time ago, he would have done just that. He would have run through the fields, climbed trees, and sat by any brook or stream he wanted, for as long as his heart desired. But he had been a baby then. He'd had neither government to please nor wars to fight. His own people hadn't been trying to kill him…

During the battle at Fort Sumter, it had felt like someone was ripping his guts out with hot knives. That night still gave him bad dreams, even two years later. But the worst part was, he didn't understood why it had happened. He still didn't understand why. Why would his own people try to hurt him? He knew the South wasn't happy, but surely they could have worked through it? Tearing themselves apart just didn't make sense. They needed to stay strong, what with Europe still keeping a greedy eye on him even now. It had been almost a hundred years since he had won his independence from Britain, so why couldn't everyone else just leave him alone?

Sometimes, he wasn't sure whom he felt more betrayed by: his South, or his former mentors. Both Britain and France were supporting the revolutionaries, to try to weaken him. That fact had stung more than he thought it would. It was never as if he had wished them ill, he had just wanted them to stop interfering with him. He had fought with both of them, but not because he hated them. It had never been about that. He just wanted to be left alone, to build his country. God, he wanted Britain to understand, it had never been about hating him…

A sudden noise startled him out of his own thoughts. It sounded like something further off into the trees. Picking up his rifle, leather bag, and throwing his boots back on, America went off to investigate. It was probably and animal or something, he thought as he peeked around a tree.

A voice yelped in surprise, then yelled, "Stay back!" America was startled, and he nearly fell over, but he regained his footing and looked around again. "Don't move!" the voice said. "I'm warning you, this thing is loaded!"

In front of him, America saw a youth in a gray uniform, lying on the ground and pointing his gun up towards him. His hair was light blonde, with amber colored eyes, and he looked terrified, in spite of the fact he was the one holding a weapon.

America tilted his head and said, "I'm not sure that thing would work on me." It was true; he didn't think nations could be killed by getting shot. At least, he was pretty sure they couldn't. He had never actually been shot himself. Come to think of it, if Britain hadn't been able to bring himself to shoot him that one time, maybe it actually was dangerous to nations.

"Look, just…just stay where you are!" the soldier said, his voice cracking in the middle. He was very young, America thought. He didn't even really look old enough to enlist in the army.

"I'm not moving," America said, in an attempt to placate him.

"Good," he replied, attempting to stand. But when he put his weight on his left leg, he winced and fell back again.

"Are you okay?" America asked.

"Yes!" the other said.

"Did you hurt yourself when you fell?"

"No! Now stop talking!" He tried again to stand, while simultaneously keeping an eye on America, but again he failed.

"I could take a look at that," America said.

"Don't come any closer!"

"Are you sure? I can probably help."

"I don't need your help!" he yelled. "Y-you damn yank!"

America shrugged. "Suit yourself." He started walking away.

A moment passed. Then he heard the boy yell, "Hey! Wait!" America stopped and started to grin.

He walked back. "Yes?"

"Um, maybe I could use some help?" the confederate soldier said.

America smirked. "Only if you say please."

"Oh, come on," the other boy groaned.

"Hey, you're the one who pointed a gun at me first," America said.

He sighed. "Fine. Please help me?"

"Sure," America said brightly. Then he added, "Just put that gun away."

Though he looked reluctant, the other boy set the gun on the ground, though it was still within reach. America decided to take that, set his own rifle on the ground, and went over to look at the boy's injury. Any one of his general's would probably be furious with him for helping a confederate soldier, but the way America saw it, these were still his people. So he was still obligated to help them when they needed it.

"You twisted your ankle," America said.

"Great," the soldie sighed.

"It's not too bad," America replied. "I can patch it up quick enough."

The soldier raised his eyebrow, suspiciously. "Why are you helping me?" he asked. America paused, unsure of how to answer. It wasn't as if he could just tell him that he was one of his citizens.

Or could he? Actually, he saw no real reason why not.

"Because I'm the United States of America," he said. "And I help my people."

The soldier's face twisted with anger. "No, we're not!" he yelled. "We aren't yours! I'm my own country, now!"

America was taken aback for a moment, before realization dawned on him. "Oh, I get it," he said. "You must be a new nation."

The boy nodded. "The Confederate States of America," he said. "And don't you forget it," he added as a bit of an afterthought.

Well, that was a little unexpected.

"Huh," America said in the absence of anything better.

"Huh?" the Confederacy parroted. "What do you mean, huh?"

"Just, huh," America replied. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting to ever actually meet you." He almost said 'didn't know you existed' but even he thought that sounded a little offensive.

The Confederacy scowled at him, but he didn't say anything. America reached into the bag he had around his shoulder and pulled out a roll of bandages (he had found that these were always good to have around a battlefield) and began wrapping the injured nations ankle. He winced a little as America tightened the bandage, but, again, he said nothing. Awkward as the situation was, America couldn't stand sitting there in silence.

"So why did you secede?" he asked.

The Confederacy gaped at him for a moment. "What?" he finally said. "I mean, what kind of question is that to just ask right away?"

"Sorry," America said. "I just want to know."

"N-no, you don't," the Confederacy said. "You don't care about me. None of you do!"

"Uh…If I didn't care about you, why would I be helping you?"

America actually felt quite self-satisfied at his show of logic, which had managed to render the Confederacy speechless. For a moment, at least.

"It's a lie," he said. "I mean, I don't know why. But I don't trust you," he insisted.

"Well, that's kind of rude," America said. After all, what had he ever done to the Confederacy?

Besides the war.

The Confederacy looked pensive for a moment, before he spoke again. "Why do you want to know? Why I seceded, I mean?"

"Because I want to know what happened," America said. "It really hurt when South left" (literally, he thought to himself) "but I still don't totally understand why it happened. I mean, I know everybody talks about those dumb tariffs, but that doesn't seem like a good reason to split up a country. And, I figure you're probably a good person to ask."

"Well," the Confederacy began. "I wasn't born during all the stuff that led up to it. I only know what people have told me. And, yes, they were upset about the tariffs. But it was more the fact that the North was taking advantage of us. And nobody seemed to care. The rights of my states were being violated, but still, nobody tried to do anything. It's like you didn't respect us enough to hear us out. So we got fed up and left."

"Oh," America said. "Yeah, I guess I know how that feels." Memories of his time with Britain came flooding back.

"If you know how it feels, then why did you do it?" the Confederacy demanded.

"It's not like I did anything on purpose," America shot back defensively. "And you guys are the ones breaking the law."

"It's not a valid law if it infringes on our rights."

"What rights are being infringed? You all had just as much a say in Congress, but the majority ruled. That's how democracies work."

"Well, clearly it didn't work!" the Confederacy exclaimed.

The sat opposite each other, on the ground, eyes locked in heated stares. Anger and resentment, while unspoken, filled the air between them, creating a tenser and tenser atmosphere. Until the entire thing was broken by one bright bout of laughter.

America couldn't contain himself anymore. He started to giggle, until a laugh broke out in full force. The Confederacy began staring at him like he was a lunatic.

"S-sorry," America managed to say through the gales of laughter.

"What exactly do you find so funny?"

"Not, funny, exactly," America said. "I just don't think I've argued with anyone like that for a long time."

"So?"

"So, it's fun!" America said. "I mean it's not as if you have to hate someone to fight with them. And arguing is interesting. You learn a lot."

The Confederacy was now sure he was sitting with a crazy person, but for some reason he could not find it in himself to be bothered. He had been sure that the Union would be a big, cruel, monster. But the young man before him seemed so nice. It had to be some sort of trick, he told himself. Everything everyone had told him about the Union had been bad. They couldn't have lied to him, could they?

"Don't you hate me?" he said softly.

America stopped laughing. But he did smile. "Of course not," he said.

"Really?" the Confederacy said, but then he began to worry that he was sounding to eager. He cleared his throat and said, "Why not?"

"Why should I?" America asked. It was such a simple question, the Confederacy thought. And he just seemed so sincere. A little dense, though.

"Well, we are at war," said the Confederacy. "And I'm rebelling against you."

"Yes, but you came from me," America said. "That kind of makes you like my little brother or something, right?"

"No!" the Confederacy insisted. But America only continued to smile at him.

"Sure it does," America replied.

"We're at war!"

"I know, but brothers fight, right?"

The Confederacy gave a loud, frustrated sigh. "How can you make light of this! People are dying!"

America's expression sobered almost instantly, and for a moment the Confederacy felt a twinge of guilt. "I know," America said. "And I want it to stop."

"I do too," replied the Confederacy. "But I need to fight for my freedom."

America smiled again, but it was a sad smile. The Confederacy thought it made him look older, somehow. "Yeah. I know," he said. Then he looked at the ankle he had finished binding. "Are you okay to walk like this?"

"I'll be fine." Then he grinned and said, "No offering to help me walk back. I'm not going to fall for any tricks to find out where we're camped."

America returned the grin. "I don't need tricks to beat you, kid," he said. Then he added, "We should meet here again. When your ankle is better."

"What?"

"Right here, in one month," America said. He grabbed his belongings and ran off, yelling, "Don't be late!"

The Confederacy just shook his head. "Is he crazy?" he asked himself. Unsurprisingly, no one answered. So he picked himself up, and limped back to camp, though he still checked to make sure no one was following him.

To be continued...