Alfred knew when it happened. It had been festering for months, really. First it was the voices. Humans, clamoring constantly, drawing his attention incessantly to the rift growing ever wider. Then the secession, a pain he felt physically when announced. But even with these things, even with things spiraling downhill rapidly and war not only imminent but expected, he never thought the effect on him would be so great.
"Hey, Yank, looks like I'll be joinin ya."
Alfred froze, eyes widening at the pronounced southern drawl, the low voice he had only before known as his own, the smug tone of the speaker that was so indicative of only one thing. Slowly he turned towards his mirror, eyes locked with his reflection, when its eyes narrowed and a smirk grew slowly on its face.
"…You…"
The weeks that followed had an incessant chatter at the back of his head; drawling about politics, about the wonders of slavery, about how they were so much better off away from him. He was constantly distracted, and pushed to the point of breaking when a simple taunt pushed him over the edge and he cried out, punching the mirror he was at and cracking it, startling a poor worker in the process.
And if Alfred covered all the mirrors and asked them to stay like that until the war was over, well, who could wonder?

There was a very slight reprieve granted after the mirrors were covered. In the stead of this, battles were fought, won and lost, all in a span of days, weeks, months. The day after a particularly taxing battle had Alfred dressing himself tiredly, still sore and worn out. He sighed and looked toward the door, wondering what the day would bring, when the voice rang out.

"Bless yer soul, Yank, thought ya could block me out?"
Alfred stiffened, eyes widening for a flicker of a second before narrowing and replying in a short, clipped tone.
"Whataya want, Reb?"
"No way to treat a neighbor, issat, Misser U.S.?"
Alfred bristled slightly before sighing and finishing the buttons on his shirt.
"You're not a neighbor, you're a punk."
"Not a neighbor yet, you mean."
"No, not ever."
And if Alfred continued to talk to himself, in harsh, sharp undertones, around the house and in various circumstances, well, who could wonder?

Weeks of arguments, battle, and avoiding his reflection could take a toll on a man, and Alfred was no exception. He was strong, yes, undeniably so, but even he was not invincible, and all of these different factors building onto each other made him wear down, bit by bit.
He thought occasionally that he might be going crazy, but he pushed it aside when it surfaced, as there wasn't much definite proof. There wasn't any proof that it was any more than the "Reb" was messing with him, any more than there was that he was less than the man they all needed him to be, until the day he woke up and knew something was wrong.

He smelled it right when his eyes opened; the smoke, and carnage, and gunpowder of the battlefield. Panic slid into his mind as his eyes shot wide, and he had run out of his room, startling some of the other inhabitants milling around nearby and confusing a few guests, to which he had apologized profusely before retreating into his room, closing the door, and leaning against it with his eyes closed.

This scene continued daily for months, and though he got accustomed to it, he would always leave his room to check, to make sure he hadn't brought the war home with him. One time the fire alarm had actually rung, but it was merely a small kitchen fire; though his reaction would have said otherwise. It got so bad, and he was put under so much, that he stopped sleeping, refusing to lie down until he collapsed where he was standing. And if, finally drained, he broke down crying in the arms of a sweet girl who had asked him if she could help, well. Who could wonder?

Alfred was tired.

All the fighting, on the field and at home, physically and mentally and emotionally, had drained him. He barely flinched anymore when he woke to the smells of battle. When he heard the voice in his mind, he responded automatically, in a short clipped tone that never failed to get a snide comment from his other half. He had even become so used to avoiding his reflection he never even glanced outside anymore. His eyes were dull, his clothes disheveled and dirty, his hair matted and tangled with the results of the fighting. He had only focused on winning the war, on ceasing the fighting and maybe getting just a minute of peace. And they had won, officially. Now there was only one thing left to do.

As he took a breath, leaning over the sink in his bathroom, he looked up at the mirror that hung over it. He'd had it covered with a cloth for the duration of the fighting, but now that the war was over, there was really no purpose for it. Still, he was a tiny bit nervous? What would he look like? What would the 'other' look like? Terrible, he bet. It had been a hard fight. He then sighed and shook his head.
"Pull it together, America."
He squared his shoulders, and pulled off the cover, starting at what he saw. There was only his tired reflection staring back at him, a worn-out young country that just finished fighting itself. There was no cocky grin, no narrowed eyes filled with hatred and protest, no sync to match the voice that used to be in his head. Nothing.

In a way it was an odd sort of hollow. He had gotten used to the Confederate side wandering around, taunting his every waking hour, making life hell as much as he had made the other's. They had dealt with each other for so long, it almost felt like something missing to not see that, to only see and hear himself. But that was when it hit him: it was over. He had won.

And if he cleaned up and ran out, and if he laughed for the first time in months and greeted people warmly, and if he was so relieved he found the girl who had helped him just months before and swept her into a hug to fall asleep on her shoulder (leaving her confused, yet happy to see him better), well.

Who could wonder?