A/N: Written in honor of the 150th anniversary of the Gettysburg Address. Nations who use human names (they're surrounded by humans during the war, so it's safer). AmeCan if you squint (or if you know my ships, haha). Mostly about brother helping brother during a time of great need. (See notes for historical information.)

Many Happy Returns, a North American Brothers fic
by crashedtimemachine

July 1, 1863

"Hey, Mattie, thanks...and...happy birthday."

I don't expect him to remember, and for a moment, I must look like a fool. I'm smiling broadly, despite the sobering task of packing up our camp and preparing to cover the last few miles between us and the Southern army. A comfortable silence settles between us as we work in the pre-dawn glow alongside the soldiers of the 1st Corps of the Army of the Potomac.

It isn't just today, of course. Lately, Alfred is just quieter than usual.

And he's a bit stiff climbing onto his horse. Major General Reynolds reaches out a hand to steady him, but he waves it off. "Let's go," is all he says, and we all comply, riding out together at the front of the corps.

I can't help but wonder if Alfred's covering up the extent of his wounds. Civil war is…tricky for our kind, as any injury dealt to the "enemy" is inevitably dealt to oneself, and Alfred isn't the type to hold back. He's brutal—but he has to be—and I admire that. (I tuck that admiration away in my chest to nurture it there, perhaps saving it for a rainy day. I don't yet realize that in less than sixty years, I'll retrieve it with trembling fingers, clutch it tightly, and lead the charge through a valley in France).

We arrive at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania by mid-morning. Alfred's blue-sky eyes are cold and devoid of any sort of emotion. I guess I understand that, too. He knows he'll lose even more of the men riding out with us today.

In fact, within half an hour, Reynolds is dead, shot through the back of the skull, and when Alfred turns to look for his replacement, his lips and cheek are spattered with bits of flesh.

I look away, and I feel like a coward for doing it, but there are some things I won't accept—can't accept—and no matter our differences, Alfred is still my brother.

The new Major General is sworn in and more shots are fired. The descent into chaos begins. The fabled thrill of battle is something only brought to life by tales regaled from the comfort of memory. The reality is the sound of gunfire in all directions, the ringing of the canons like a death knell echoing off the hills around us, and the beat of the drums that atune us all together—one heartbeat, one surge toward the enemy lines, one long fall into oblivion.

My eyes meet Alfred's rebel doppelganger fighting his way across the field of battle, seeking us out, and my last thought before losing myself to the fray is simply that we cannot and must not fail.

July 4, 1863

The cloth on his forehead is getting warmer, so I peel it off and hobble over to the half-full basin of water the limping drummer boy brought in a few hours ago. My leg is only wrenched; I'm told I'll make a full recovery in a matter of days. But Alfred hasn't awoken since I found him lying unconscious under the body of a horse. He's fighting off a fever and the wounds, of which there are too many to recount, are festering and angry and weeping pus already.

Rain is pattering on the canvas roof. We've been given a private medical tent under orders of the corps surgeon Wafer; he's one of mine—a proud volunteer from Kingston, Ontario—and I'm sure he suspects what and who we are because he hasn't been back to check on Alfred yet.

Or perhaps he thinks it's a lost cause.

But I know better.

"Alfred?" I whisper it close to his ear, not really trying to wake him, but becoming desperate for some sign of life. It's been more than a day, and the Confederate hospital caravan had moved out by mid-morning. The soldiers wanted to give chase, but Major General Meade had thought better of following them and instead insisted they, themselves, needed rest and time to recover. I know it was a hard decision, but I'm glad.

I replace the cloth on his forehead and smooth his blanket. There's nothing I can do for his injuries; they'll heal on their own, and some will scar while others disappear, and it will become another memory borne by his body for the rest of his existence.

Some scars are easier to live with than others, and if Alfred survives the war intact, they'll be a real reminder of the terrible price he had to pay. I don't envy him that.

The rain outside continues, and Alfred sleeps for another few hours. Not surprisingly, it's the smell of stew being warmed on the cookfires that finally rouses him—or, rather, his growling stomach wakes him up where I've been failing all day.

"Hey...Mattie…"

I look up from the book I've been reading by candlelight to find his eyes open and watching me, and my cheeks burn at the intensity I find there. He's awake, and for the first time in months—no, years—his eyes are full to the brim with emotion: with pain and fear and hurt, but with other things, as well. He's really, truly there behind his crooked spare pair of glasses, and I can't stop myself.

I hobble straight across the tent and I hug him; I can't help it. There's just something about a war in which brother must fight against brother...I'm reminded of Alfred's revolution and the look in his eyes when we stood toe-to-toe on the battlefield, and I just can't help but hold him a little closer and be thankful that he's still with me after all we've been through.

With France long gone and England barely remembering I exist most of the time unless the taxes are late, well, I guess we're really all we have, right?

So I hug him, and I cry, just a little—I'll admit it—and I whisper into his wheatfield hair, "Happy birthday, Alfred."

..

Historical notes: The Battle of Gettysburg was the bloodiest battle of the American Civil War. Officially, Canada wasn't a unified nation, and as assorted territories of the British Empire, it couldn't support either side. However, many Canadians crossed the border to join the Union army. Up to 55,000 Canadians fought for the Union forces (and several hundred for the CSA, as well) in the war, and many died at Gettysburg alongside their American brethren. Coincidentally, the Battle of Gettysburg began on July 1st (later, this would become Canada Day, or in Hetalia terms, Canada's birthday) and ended on July 3. July 4th (America's birthday) was marked by rain and rest as the troops withdrew. The Southern medical train of wagons carrying the wounded and dying is said to have been 27 miles long.

Wikipedia: "Canada in the American Civil War", "Battle of Gettysburg"