Hello again. This is the final chapter in the Civil War series of WC:AP. I hope that the end is as satisfying as everyone had hoped it would be. There is so much more that I could have put, yet even without the additional material that I had wanted to add this is still the longest installment so far.
There are some majorly dark themes in this installment. Though this chapter also covers a very dark moment in America's history.
I hope that you have enjoyed my take on the American Civil War.
World Conference – 1865
The members of the World Conference had all been surprised when it was announced that the meeting would be held in Canada. No colony had ever hosted the event before then, so that fact alone was enough to generate some buzz among them. Whatever concerns they may have had faded when Canada proved to be a gracious, efficient host, as capable as any nation with receiving them onto his territory. A few nations still protested, though with England's blessing behind Canada's offer, they had no option except to attend or sit out.
England stood back to keep an eye on things while Canada greeted each nation that arrived at the complex. He had worried about having to step in to fix problems that rose, yet Canada had taken all possible obstacles into consideration ahead of time to avoid anything unforeseen. England had little else to do besides lurk around the outskirts. One of the attendants found him, a folded paper in his hand. "Sir? I have a message for you."
"Already?" England took the note with a grimace. The Conference had barely begun and people were starting to complain? He sighed as he read it over.
Britannia – Meet me in Conference Room B.
It was signed off with nothing more but a scrawled letter 'A'.
Tucking the note into the interior of his jacket, England left Canada to fend for himself since he was doing well enough on his own. He hurried to the designated spot. England was smiling when he pushed the door open to walk in, eyes sweeping the room. "America?"
The door was shoved shut behind him. That sudden movement made England shuffle away from it, as his eyes adjusted with the dim lighting so that he could properly see who had shut them in. England's smile dropped when he saw that it was Adam who was bolting the lock. "Oh. It's you. What the hell do you want?"
"Britannia…" The southerner was a mess, certainly a far cry from the polished, collected young man that he'd been when England had last set eyes on him. Adam was in a state of panic; his blue eyes darted uncontrollably behind his glasses, fingers trembling as he plucked at some threads on the bottom of his suit jacket. He seemed on the verge of madness, face pale and haggard. "I need… I need your help."
"Oh?" England queried mildly. He rested a hand on his hip. "This is new for you: No trickery, no deception – you're just going to come out and ask for my help this time?"
His sarcasm failed to register with the young man. Adam's fingers twitched before settling on the lapels of England's jacket, clinging onto the fabric as he penetrated those green eyes with his. "Please. Please! Grant me political immunity. Let me come live in London – or even in Paris! You have enough clout that you could convince France."
England stared passively up into Adam's pleading face. Adam was counting on his resemblance to America to rile up sympathy from the other man. The scheme didn't appear to be working. "Let me see if I understand you correctly, Mister Jones. You have concluded that your war is lost. Rather than facing the consequences of your defeat, you are instead asking me to risk the ire of the American government so that you can retreat to the sanctuary of Europe?"
"If that's how you want to view it, then fine. Paint me as I coward, I don't care." Adam said quickly. He tightened his hold on England's jacket. "If I stay here, he'll kill me. I didn't think that he had it in him, Britannia, but that man will flat out murder me if he gets hold of me now."
England scoffed as he plucked Adam's hands off his clothes. "America is not going to kill you. While he can be impassioned and bull-headed at times, he is also an optimistic diplomat at heart. I am sure that if you appeal to America he will grant you clemency. My assistance to you in this war nearly cost me all semblance of a positive relationship with America. I refuse to jeopardize it any further just because you're too frightened to handle the consequences of your actions."
Adam tensed up when the doorknob tried to turn behind them. When it wouldn't turn completely, someone knocked on the door. Fear contorted his face. England went to unlock it but Adam clamped his hands down on the nation's outstretched arm to prevent the action. His eyes were wide from fright as he whispered frantically, "Don't. Don't let him in. You can't let him catch me!"
"You don't even know if it's him, you fool." England pulled at the iron grip that Adam had taken his arm in. The door was knocked on again. He twisted his figure, letting his arm be pulled across the front of his body so that England blocked the taller man from stopping him as he flipped the lock with his other hand.
Adam released England, rushing backwards without taking his eyes off the door. England rubbed ruefully at his forearm where the southerner had pressed the flesh too hard. He glared at Adam for having caused him that pain, calling out through the door. "It's open now. Come in."
The door slowly swung open. Light from the corridor spilled into the dim chamber, highlighting the silhouette of a figure leaning against the doorframe. America tilted his head as he found England standing there, before his eyes danced over to where Adam was cowering deeper in the room. "Am I… interrupting anything?"
America could see England examining him. He knew that he looked more like his old self. He'd filled back out, not as thin and drawn as he'd been at the Conference in London. The physical strain was no longer present on his face, though exhaustion had left a stamp on it so that he appeared to have just gone through some grand ordeal – which he had. Despite that lingering aftereffect of tiredness, America had never felt better. Just by glancing at Adam, he could see that his southern counterpart was not anywhere close to being in the same good condition.
"No. You're not interrupting a thing." England told him with a pointed glance at Adam. "I was just about to head back out to check on Canada. Would you care to come with me?"
"Certainly." America said obligingly. "I haven't had a chance to speak with him yet, so that would be nice." He smiled at England as he swept his arm in front of him to indicate for the older man to lead the way. As England exited, America's gaze touched with Adam's, his smile creeping wider. "Try not to get lost – we have plenty of catching up to do, don't we?"
His eyes squinted shut as Adam went even paler, waving pleasantly. "I'll be seeing you later!" America was satisfied with catching a glimpse of the other man starting to tremble as he pulled the door shut behind himself and England.
The Council chamber was fuller during the proceedings this time. America checked the rows behind him with a glance. Canada and Hong Kong sat in the first row directly behind him, his brother flashing a reassuring wink at America that caused him to smirk. A few of the other British colonies had come along to fill up a few of the other rows here and there, though America wondered if Calcutta even knew what was going since the man kept blinking dazedly around at those speaking English. America still couldn't figure out how he had managed to wrangle them together in some strange, pseudo-fan club.
Adam sat at the opposite table all by himself. His eyes darted nervously towards the exits. Some of Canada's larger sized attendants were posted at each of them. When he had first noticed them, Adam had peeked at Canada to see if it had been intentional. All that Canada had done was smile at him with sham charm. The southerner was restless in his seat; it seemed that at any time he would take flight, escaping out the door if he could. He was seemingly incapable of looking in America's direction.
America drummed his fingers on his table as he returned to staring at the Council with a patience that he didn't truly feel. They were taking forever to reach a decision. America had stated to them in frank terms that the Confederacy had been defeated; what else did they need to hear that would hasten their decision? There was no need for Adam to be at the Conference any longer without a government to support him. All that America wanted was for them to tell the bastard to get the hell out.
He had informed Abraham about the proceedings here and what getting the Confederacy removed would mean for them. Considering how busy the man was handling the affairs of the nation, America did not truly believe that Abraham would be able to make it. While it would have been nice to have that secondary support, he had faith that the Council would acknowledge his victory.
Germany finished tallying up the votes as they were passed to him via folded papers from each of the seven nations that were on the Council. America's eyes touched on each of them to try and discern how they might have voted. With England and France back on the panel for this meeting, his chances were pretty good that the votes would go in his favor. It was hard to know what way the others would go; there were too many wild cards on the panel. America did not even want to begin trying to guess how Russia had voted – though he seemed to dislike Adam, the nation tended to treat things with a strange logic.
Grunting, Germany made a note on a paper in front of him on the bench. "The votes have been cast, regarding whether or not the Confederacy should still be allowed representation at the World Conference. After tabulating the votes, it has been determined by this Council that the Confederacy will indeed still be allowed to send their representative."
"What?" America's mouth dropped open in shock. "You can't be serious!"
"I am always serious." Germany informed him gruffly. "The votes were four to three in favor of allowing the Confederacy to remain. Those nations who cast their vote in favor of the Confederacy did so with valid reason: While you have shown up here telling us that you have succeeded in defeating the Confederacy, there has been no official word from your government to prove your claims. Until this Conference receives confirmation on an official level then we are unable to treat your declarations as anything other than here-say."
"But it's true! We won the war. It's over and the Confederate government has been dissolved! I don't see how much more proof that I require than that!" America told them with earnest frustration, still in disbelief that they refused him over such a minor detail.
Spain clasped his hands together. "Is there not still skirmishes taking place on your soil? I've heard rumors that there are clusters of Confederate units that are still staging attacks in some areas; until you guarantee that they cannot bolster their forces to refuel the war, how can you expect us to agree that you have successfully defeated them?"
"Without official word, we cannot act on the testimony of your feats alone." Austria said simply, mildly sympathetic. "If we were to base all of our decisions solely on the word of nations who claim to have defeated or conquered others, then Prus—certain nations—would have conquered half of the world by now."
France tapped a finger on the bench. "I must agree with Spain on his point, mon ami. We seasoned nations know from experience that unless a threat has become completely erased there is no guarantee that it will not rear itself up again. So long as the Confederacy has the will to fight than it is not our place to defeat their efforts. On that, we must be neutral."
"If you're that much in doubt, why don't you simply ask him?" America cocked a thumb in Adam's direction. "He can state just as well as I can that the Confederacy has been eliminated."
France's eyes swung over to land on Adam. "Well? Is what America says true? Has the Confederacy been soundly defeated?"
Pushing up slowly, Adam's mouth worked as he tried to figure out what to say in response. His haggard face hardened as the southerner murmured. "My numbers may have been defeated, but I will not agree that the Confederacy is gone completely. I would think that my existence is proof enough that the cause and the fight still live on in me. We have not given up."
"Then it is decided." Germany nodded. "Until this Council hears official word contrary to what has been said here, we will let the ruling stand. That is all." He picked up the gavel stationed in front of him, lifting it up in preparation to strike it down and close the session.
Germany was stopped halfway down when another voice spoke up from near the door. "Pardon me. Do I have the correct chamber?"
America whirled around at the sound of that voice. Several of the others were looking curiously at the newcomer who had just stepped into the room. They marveled at the sight of the bearded, older gentleman in his prim black suit and towering top hat. America knew that attire quite well, unable to recall a time that he'd seen Abraham in anything else. The man was walking briskly up the aisle. As he reached America's side, the young man sighed in relief. "You had me worried. I didn't think you were actually going to come."
"My apologies. I got lost on the way here. Fortunately, an energetic Italian pointed me on the right path after he'd become inexplicably fascinated by my hat." Abraham explained with dry humor. His eyes flitted around with a pleasant smile as he noticed all the stunned faces of the others. "It would seem that I arrived just in time."
Being the first one to shake the surprise, Germany demanded. "Who are you? This is a closed session. Identify yourself before we have you escorted out."
"Yes, yes." Abraham placed the suitcase that he was holding on the table in front of him. "Forgive me for my tardy arrival. I had intended to be here earlier but my duties with running America's government for him keep me operating at odd hours." He gripped the brim of his top hat, lifting it politely from his head. "Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth mortal in a line of Presidents that has had the esteemed honor and sometimes nuisance of being this young man's keeper." His head jerked to indicate America beside him before placing his hat back on his head.
"Oh. Ah, yes. In that case, you are most welcomed, sir." Germany's tone of voice had become respectful upon hearing Abraham identify himself. "Are we to understand that you have come here to support America's claims concerning the status of the Confederacy?"
"I have. Though I can't say for sure that I am in complete disagreement with the points made by your Council members either." Abraham began to unlatch his briefcase as he addressed the nations on the bench. "You see – we have not yet completely removed all traces of the Confederacy from the United States. As you gentlemen mentioned, there are still units throughout the southern half of the nation that undoubtedly plan to continue the fight. Of that I have little doubt." He pulled out some documents, long fingers tracing on the side of the papers as Abraham looked back up at the Council. "Where we must agree to disagree, gentlemen, is on the point of whether or not the Confederacy still poses a threat to the peace of the United States."
"As of this moment, I can legitimately claim that there is no hope for the Confederacy to repair itself. All of the officials have surrendered. What remaining units there are will be dealt with in a swift manner. We have already devised a strategy for how we intend to incorporate the southern half of the United States back into one cohesive nation. To save me the breath, I took the liberty of bringing you an outline of our plan to begin Reconstruction of the South." Abraham strode to the bench. He did not even need to stretch up in order to put the documents down on the top of it. "Once you gentlemen have read it over, I think you will be better convinced regarding our victory in this war."
Locking his hands together behind his back, Abraham strolled from the bench in order to pace in front of Adam's table. The southerner was glaring at him with open menace, enough of it that America tensed up, fearing that Adam might even be desperate enough to strike out at Abraham. The older man, however, was without any fear as he came to stand in front of the Confederate entity. "As to this young man. No one here could refute his claim that he is still around. He has expressed that he still wishes to fight, and considering the will of the people that are still championing for the cause of the Confederacy, I have no doubt that what he says is honest."
"However…" Abraham appraised Adam carefully. Then, with a thinning of his mouth, Abraham reached a hand across the table to where Adam was seated. The southerner flinched back from it, though not before Abraham could pinch his fingers around the rim of the eyeglasses on the young man's face. He plucked those glasses off of Adam, reflexes surprisingly fast for a man of his age. Adam grabbed for them too late. Abraham was already folding them up placidly in his hands. "It's high time that you return what doesn't belong to you. These are a piece of property that you no longer have the right to lay claim upon."
Adam lurched onto his feet, knocking his chair back as he growled at Abraham. "You son of a bitch! Give those back before I break you."
Abraham, ever a diplomat, outright ignored the threat as he returned to America's table. He held the folded eyeglasses out to the other man with a mild smile. "I think these belong to you, America. Perhaps now you will be able to read more than an inch away from your face again, hm?"
"…Thank you." America breathed out. He took hold of those offered glasses with reverence, balancing them on both palms as the young nation studied them intensely. It had been too long since he had felt their weight on his face. America fished a handkerchief out of his back pocket, beginning to clean them off as though they had been soiled by something foul.
He was just sliding them slowly into place when Germany turned away from conferring with the other nations in a low buzz of whispered words. America's eyes fluttered rapidly as they tried to adjust to the sudden clarity. Germany nodded decisively, confident that they had made their choice. Picking up his copy of the document, Germany said formally, "This document, given to this Council by the highest authority in the government of the United States of America, has provided enough evidence to sway the decision of the Council. Given this proof, we have decided that our initial choice to allow for the Confederacy to continue representation was incorrect. Therefore, we have determined that our true and final conclusion is that the Confederacy, being no longer a viable government entity, cannot seek further representation at this Conference."
Adam was squinting his eyes, glaring at the Council. "This is absurd! Y'all had just been prepared to vote in my favor. Now, because America's puppet swaggers in with some fancy-worded papers, y'all are ready to change your minds that quick?"
"That would be about the gist of it." England said lightly. His green eyes radiated satisfaction. "To twist a turn of phrase: You entered into this Conference with a whimper; now you will leave it with a bang. Germany?"
With a nod, Germany picked his gavel up again. "That is our decision. This matter is settled; our meeting is adjourned."
The sound of the gavel smacking down carried through the chamber. America thought, in some way, that it was one of the best noises that he had ever heard. He opened his mouth to congratulate Abraham, but a pair of hands seized onto the front of his jacket with sudden force, enough to make his teeth clatter together.
Adam had crossed the distance in a matter of moments. He shook America roughly, his earlier fear of the other man traded for rage. "Don't think this is the last of it! You haven't seen the last of me."
America swatted his hands away. Adam glared around the chamber at all those gathered here, his blue eyes burning as they fixed on America and Abraham. The southerner backed away from them, jabbing his finger in the air as he pointed at them one at a time. "Just you wait. This isn't over. You will see me again and the next time it will be the last."
"I think I can speak for the both of us when I say that we hope that this will be the last time." Abraham said soberly. He placed a hand on America's chest when the young nation was on the verge of lunging at Adam. They both watched as Adam stalked out of the chamber, Abraham giving America a light pat before withdrawing his hand. "Put him out of your mind now. Even if he makes himself a pest, there is nothing that he can do now to prevent the inevitable."
America scowled at the door as it shut. "I know that. I do. But… it still doesn't shake the feeling that I have – that maybe we shouldn't have let him walk away."
"Be vigilant, America." Abraham told him. He pushed his briefcase closed. Some of the other nations had come near them, lingering apart from America and his president out of respect. Abraham slid his briefcase off the table with a small smile as he looked at the others. "In the meantime, you have some congratulations coming to you. I shall be returning immediately to Washington on the next train. Once you are finished here, come and visit me."
"Why don't you stay for lunch before you go?" America asked him. "I'm sure there are plenty here that would like a chance to speak with you, Abraham."
Abraham shook his head with a kind expression. "Thank you, but I'm afraid I must refuse. This is the bastion of nations, America. I am not here as a participant, only as a witness." He raised his hat again in parting, adding more dryly, "And I am admittedly quite intimidated in present company. Though I am a man of advanced years and experience among common men, here I am nothing more than a speck in time. Enjoy your lunch and your Conference, America. This day is yours."
"I still don't fathom how on earth I allowed you to talk me into doing this." England said loftily as he frowned out the window of the steam engine chugging them steadily along towards their destination.
They had traveled down from Canada's home, currently on route to America's capital in Washington. The younger man smirked at hearing England complain yet again about the trip. It wasn't as though he had forced the older man to agree – in fact, England had been flattered by the invitation from America. England just couldn't let his pleasure with the situation be known and instead masked it with his usual sniping comments. "We're nearly there, so just relax. No one else here is having as bad a time as you. Right, gentlemen?"
America's eyes swiveled to the pair seated on the opposite seat of their booth in the passenger car of the train. Canada shook his head with a mild smile, knowing just like America that the barrage of complaints was simply England being England. It took Russia longer to respond to the question. He had been glued to the window for most of the trip as America's landscape unfolded around them. Belatedly, Russia answered. "I am enjoying myself very much. I have not traveled on a train before – it is quite spectacular!"
America still couldn't recall exactly when he had even invited Russia along, or figure out how the nation even knew that they were going. The morning that they met at the station to leave, Russia had been waiting for them. He had been so full of wide-eyed wonderment, so effused with joy that America hesitated to inform the frozen nation that he wasn't welcome along on their trip. England and Canada had stood by indifferently, leaving him with the responsibility to deliver that news all on his own. America had wavered at the moment of truth. He ended up purchasing the fourth ticket like a chump, which spoiled England's good mood right away.
The three of them had endured England's temper ever since. Now that they were nearing the end of it, England's complaints had pinpointed to minor details when he had run out of broader generalizations to vocalize about. "This isn't a proper locomotive. It's nothing more than a glorified, lumbering metal carriage on wheels. I doubt that I have ever seen such shoddy craftsmanship before. A British steamer would be much higher quality. They wouldn't be coughing out nearly half this much bloody steam. The seats are ten times more comfortable, and—" England twisted around in the booth to scowl as he searched the train for some sign of an attendant, his voice growing louder, "a person could at least get a bloody drink without having to wait an hour at a time."
America shushed him at a hiss, smiling apologetically to the passengers around them. "Would you keep it down? If you're going to behave that way then it's no surprise why they don't want to give you any more liquor to drink. They are doing the best that they can – the train is just packed to capacity. I don't think I've seen a train this full before. Everyone is spilling into Washington to celebrate the end of the war. I would have stayed away to avoid getting caught up in all this chaos, but Abraham asked me to come."
"They deserve their celebration." Russia sounded understanding on the matter. "It was a few dark, dark years. Now they can revel in the light of their new dawn. America should be just as proud of his victory."
"Oh, I am." The younger man smiled as he adjusted his glasses. It felt like he had to get used to wearing them all over again. "We just still have so much work ahead of us. The road to rehabilitation is going to be a long one; I guess I'm just not ready to relax yet like the rest of them."
"Adam is still out there somewhere, too." Canada mentioned, as he brought up the subject that still weighed heavily on America's mind. "Has there been any word on how the search is going to find him?"
America shook his head, hands folding together on his lap. "Nothing yet. Really, though, if he is still anywhere in the United States then we will find him. He can face justice just like everyone else."
That topic effectively killed their conversation for the time being. Even England had ceased his complaints and gone quiet. They were all drawn to looking out the window with the exception of America. He gazed down at his lap, watching the motions of his thumb as he slid it over the flesh of the other hand.
There was still danger hiding out in his part of the world, so long as Adam remained unfound. The southerner had fled from the Conference complex immediately after the meeting with the Council, disappearing into the lower half of the United States. America knew that if the man was able to somehow rally the members of the South who had not yet given up the fight then it was likely that the war could stretch on despite the truce that had already been made. He did not enjoy knowing that his southern counterpart was still a threat looming over his head. America was ready to put it all behind him.
The whistle of the train shook him from his thoughts. America glanced out the window as he saw that they were approaching the station. He might have been swamped with concerns, yet it was hard not to smile knowing that he had come home.
Coming to the door of England's hotel room, America rapped his knuckles against it, his other hand balancing a small stack of books. He spoke to the man through the wood. "Britannia, are you in?"
It wasn't more than a few moments before the door opened. A green eye peered out through the crack, England's cautious stare softening with relief. "Oh, thank God. I thought you might have been Russia coming 'round to pester me again." He swung the door open, easing back a few steps as England gestured for him to come inside. "I'm nearly ready. We'll be leaving soon for the theatre, correct?"
"Yes. The coach should be arriving at any time to pick us up." America told him as he walked inside. His eyes quickly took in the furnishings, before fixing on the window. He brightened at what he saw. England was left at the door as America hurried to the glass. "Hey! You've got a great view of the city from your room. I only get to see the back of some buildings and the street from mine."
England went back to the small circular mirror on the wall beside the door. He fussed with his bowtie, speaking distractedly. "If you want, we can switch. It doesn't make a difference to me."
"It's okay. I can see the view anytime I want to. Since you're the guest here, I suppose it's only fair that you get to enjoy it while you can." America turned away from the window. He caught England's eye in the mirror, holding up the pile of books. "These are yours. I made certain to grab them out of the office before I came here to fetch you guys."
"Books?" England blinked in confusion. "Oh – you mean those Shakespeare novels?"
America nodded. He tapped his fingers against the spines. "These are the ones I borrowed from you. I'm sorry that I couldn't return them sooner."
Dropping his hands from his bowtie, England frowned at the younger man over a shoulder. "What do you mean? I never planned for you to return them, America. They were a gift." The man adjusted the cuff of his sleeves, checking around the room to see if there was anything that he was forgetting.
"Really?" America lowered the books to his hip, thumping them against it. "Here I'd been feeling like an ass for not having gotten them back to you, and the whole time they'd been a present?"
"It doesn't surprise me that you'd forget. You weren't entirely lucid when I gave them to you." England smiled faintly as he eyed the younger man. He swallowed a thick breath, straightening his shoulders into their usual rigid fashion. "How do I look?"
"Nervous as hell."
"I am nervous. Certainly you can understand why?"
America chuckled quietly as he put the books down on the windowsill for the time being. "Don't worry over it so much. It's been a long time since you burnt this city down – despite what you might think, we don't go around shooting the British on sight anymore." He teased the other man, eyes widening in mock seriousness. "Though you might want to keep quiet as much as possible, just in case."
"Oh, you're a riot." England said with thick sarcasm, eyes rolling. "You're fortunate that I even agreed to go. I can't imagine your American plays being the least bit entertaining."
"This one is special. It's quite popular here in the United States." America informed him, before adding, "And I think it is a piece that even you would enjoy."
England squinted at him doubtfully. "What's the name of it?"
"Our American Cousin." America said.
"I hate it already." England droned as he twisted back to the mirror.
Now it was America's turn to roll his eyes. "Come on. It's got a good story behind it. This fellow dies and his estate falls into chaos back in England. So an American has to travel there to help sort everything out. It has all kinds of comedic happenings between him and his British relations."
"So you're saying that I should expect to have my culture mocked, then?" England asked him darkly.
"Well, somewhat." America said lamely. "Though it makes fun of Americans, too. You should enjoy those parts, at least."
England stretched out a sigh. "I'll try it out. If it is horribly droll, I'll come back to the hotel after the First Act. How's that?"
"That sounds like a fair enough compromise." America smirked. Once England had abandoned the mirror, he headed over to stand in front of it, checking his own appearance. "Abraham and his wife will be there. He already knows about all of us but it would still be best if we introduce each other around by our aliases." He smoothed a few wisps of hair back into place behind his ear. "I guess that means I had better practice addressing you by that name. Arthur Kirkland."
"Alfred F. Jones." England spoke back to him.
"Arthur."
"Alfred."
America grinned. "Arthur."
England frowned. "Alfred."
"Arth—"
"Enough." England told him. "I won't be wrapped up in one of your games tonight."
America looked disappointed. His eyes turned to the door as Canada knocked and entered. America's grin resurfaced. "Matthew."
"Alfred." Canada replied automatically.
"Arthur."
"Alf—goddamnit!" England growled out.
America laughed at his success in drawing England back into his antics. Canada eyed them both cautiously, not sure what he'd just walked in on. "Uh, well. The coach has arrived. Russia is waiting for us downstairs already."
"Thank God. I'll sit through even the poorest farce if it will get me away from this fool." England said acidly as he removed his cloak from its hanger. The man was clasping it around his shoulders on his way out, brushing past Canada so that he could escape America that much faster.
Canada watched him go, before blinking at his brother. "What was that about?"
"Nothing. Just giving England a hard time like usual." America smiled at his sibling as he led the way to the door.
Closing the door to England's room behind them, Canada gave his brother a dire look. "I wish you'd stop doing that. I have to put up with him more than you do."
America was still chuckling as they went downstairs together. Russia was standing with the driver of the coach, speaking animatedly to the man as he asked several questions one after the other. England stood stiffly on the opposite side of the lobby with his arms crossed. His hostility towards Russia was apparent enough that the people who walked between them felt awkward moving through the span of tension that tied them together.
Greeting the driver, America waved them all along with him on their way out the door. He let England and Canada go in ahead of him, taking that moment to speak to Russia. "Hey – I don't even know what I'm supposed to call you in public."
Russia was confused. He gestured to his chest. "I am Russia."
"No, no – what is the alias that you use. You know… the name that you go by around your people? If I am going to introduce you to people tonight, I need to know what to call you."
"Oh." The bigger man smiled. "Sometimes, I sign papers with the name Ivan Braginsky. That is what you are asking me for, da?"
"Yes. That's perfect." America smiled lightly back at him, holding out a hand. "Ivan Braginsky. I'm Alfred F. Jones. It's a pleasure to meet your alias."
Russia gingerly shook his hand. "Da. Pleasure." The other man withdrew his hand, shrugging to himself as if deciding that whatever was taking place was beyond his understanding but was fine anyway. Russia pulled himself up into the coach, causing the whole thing to dip under his weight before it settled even again.
America stepped in after him, pausing to knock his hand against the side of the coach as he called up to the driver. "To Ford's Theater." Ducking in as the coach began to roll forward, America dropped into the seat beside England. England was angry, Russia was confused, and Canada seemed half-afraid. It was bound to be a promising night.
"Your president seems uneasy." Russia pointed out from his chair behind America's.
They were seated together in one of the theater's box seats, just across from the one decorated for Abraham's visit. America had leant his head to hear what Russia said, straightening it with a glance in the direction of his leader. Abraham was engaged in conversation with the young couple present in his box. Despite being outwardly pleasant, America could also see the strain in the older man's posture. "He's been having a rough few days."
"Bad business with the nation?" Russia asked him curiously.
"No. Bad dreams." America said quietly. His eyes stayed locked on Abraham's figure. The man had mentioned to him just that afternoon about the dreams that had been plaguing Abraham for the past few days. He had confessed to some sleepless nights due to how distressing they had been. America wondered if the man should have even come to this event. "I think he is hoping for the play to distract him from his troubles for a few hours."
England was thumbing through the playbill in the chair beside him. He had confessed to actually enjoying the play so far, which America saw as a small victory. Their conversation drew England's attention away from the text, though he had been trying very hard to pretend that Russia wasn't there with them. Going down into the lobby during intermission had been awkward due to their unhappiness with each other's proximity. "Bad dreams, you say? You could hardly blame the man given how cheery the last few years have been for the both of you."
"I'm not blaming him for anything. It's just… something about those dreams really seems to have bothered him." America said with a small shrug. "That's why I didn't want to turn down his invitation tonight. Abraham has had quite a strain put on him; I want to do what I can to return the favor, even if it is just little things like attending a show together."
"You seem a little bothered yourself." Canada murmured to him from the other side of England. "You've been restless since we arrived."
America couldn't disagree with his brother on that. Something had been nagging at him since the second he'd set foot inside the lobby of the theater. He normally didn't mind being in a place like this; the crowd of his own people around him usually soothed him despite the constant buzz their presence created in his brain. Tonight, though, America found himself on edge. There was nothing glaringly out of place that he could see – it was just a subtle feeling that something was off. "It's probably nothing. Maybe being cooped up in the train for that long just left me with some excess energy. I hate having to sit still for long periods of time."
England snorted into the folds of his playbill. No one else expressed any sort of surprise with his admission.
America squirmed around in his chair, curling his fingers around the arms of his chair as he tried to focus his energy so that he wouldn't raise such a disturbance for the others since the play was about to start again, heading into the second part of the Third Act. The attendants were already handling the lights now that the scene had been changed. People in the seats below were settling into their seats, the din of conversations quieting politely as the first string of the conductor's music began to play to signal the new part.
His eyes wandered through the rows of people, shadows flickering over their faces in the highlights of the foot lamps. America honed his search in on one particular figure standing remote from the others that snared his focus, mingling with those who stood on the fringes of the theater's seats. It wasn't long before America saw the man's head turn to glance towards the decorated box where his leader sat, the play of lights from the stage striking momentarily off wheat-colored hair, a glittering sky blue eye, and an all-too-familiar profile. America felt the breath come rushing out of him in one gasp, fingers closing around the arm of his chair hard enough that the resulting crack of the wood drew England's attention from beside him.
"America? What is it?"
"It's him. Adam. He's here."
"What?" England dropped the playbill onto his lap, stretching to peer over the balcony in disbelief. "Where?"
America was already out of his chair. He hurried to leave, wanting to get downstairs and investigate to see why the hell Adam was there in the theater tonight. Whatever the reason, it couldn't have been a good one. Russia had risen as well. The larger man held a hand to stop Canada as the colony began to leave his seat. "No. You both remain here. Do not draw attention. We will catch America's little doppelganger. Stay here and keep an eye on America's leader."
Russia bounded down the stairs on America's heels, the tails of his black coat trailing as the larger man stopped at the outside of the lobby curtain with him. Russia's violet eyes stretched further down the lobby with a frown. "There are two exits. If we both go in here, he might try to escape through the other. You go in this way and I will grab him if he tries to make a run for it."
America nodded silently. His blue eyes were ablaze with anger. How dare that southern bastard show his face here of all places! Russia ran off to the other side of the lobby as America eased in through the curtain. One of the attendants frowned at him for coming in while the play was in progress, though America ignored him as he searched the nearby faces. The opening music was still playing as he pushed through the crowd of people at the back of the theater.
He caught sight of his target again. America's face twisted as he shouted at the other man, just barely audible over the noise of the music. "Adam!"
The southerner's face turned his way. Adam's blue eyes widened as he noticed America standing there in front of the exit. He abruptly launched himself away into the crowd of people, heading for the other set of curtains now that he knew he'd been spotted. America saw him bumping into theatergoers on his way there, knocking a few people aside in his haste. When he neared the curtains, America turned around and hurried through the curtains on his own side of the theater to see if Russia was going to be successful in catching Adam.
He had surfaced from the theater just in time to see Adam double over from the fist that Russia had pushed into the vulnerable flesh of his stomach. America sighed with relief as Russia grabbed hold of the stunned man, stalking over to them both with long strides as he glared at Adam. "You. What the hell are you doing here? When did you come in?"
When Adam tugged against Russia's grip to test if he could slip out of it, the bigger man switched his hold on the slippery southerner. Russia locked an arm around Adam's neck to hold him in place, pinning him there with the threat of cutting off his air supply. Adam grimaced in anger and pain from the blow Russia had delivered. He glared at America over the top of Russia's forearm. "I don't have to tell you a thing."
"No?" America's jaw clenched. His hand flashed out, slapping Adam viciously across the face. "How about now? Did that make you feel a little more talkative, or do I need to be even more convincing with you?"
"You can beat me all you want." Adam told him with a sneer, the southerner spitting out a mess of saliva and blood from where America's slap had split his lip. "It won't make one bit of difference. My boy is already set to do his work and there is nothing you can do to stop it."
"What are you talking about?" America demanded. "What boy? What work?"
Adam laughed, the sound high-pitched and crazed. He was a desperate man; the glint of it made his eyes burn with the need for success. "They wanted to kidnap him. I told them what a foolish idea that would be – you would just come and get him, in the end. No, no… they needed to do something more permanent. They needed to do something that even you couldn't fix."
"He's babbling." Russia murmured to America over the man's head. He shook Adam a little to get his attention focused. "Answer America's question. How long have you been hiding in this theater tonight?"
"I've been here the whole night, and part of the day." Adam told him sullenly. "I had been enjoying this evening's performance until y'all decided to ruin my night. Though the best part of the show has yet to start – are you boys sure that you want to miss it? It should be any minute now."
"What are you trying to say?" America's uneasiness increased. His eyes darted from Adam's face to the curtains then back as a weight of dread crashed through his gut as harshly as Russia's punch had smashed Adam's. "You… You're planning to do something to Abraham, aren't you?"
"Not me, no. I merely guided them along on their plan, you see." Adam's hand scooted through the air as he smiled. "A little nudge here, a little suggestion there. They're boys after my own heart; Confederate spirits through and through."
"Russia…" America began, though the bigger man quickly waved him off with his free hand.
"Go. I will keep him here. Hurry."
Nodding, America pivoted around, breaking into a run in the direction of the stairs that would lead him up to Abraham's box. He had made it up a few of the steps when a sudden noise reverberated inside the theater. America placed that sound immediately. Already, he could hear the theater erupting into some chaos of noises, shouts of alarm accompanied by the higher-pitched screams of women.
The sudden wave of emotions washed over America from all of his people within. It crippled him, America gasping out as he tried to anchor himself against the onslaught, hands clutching blindly for the railing as he stumbled on a stair. He sagged against the metal support, eyes sightless for a few seconds until he was able to surface from the tumult of their reaction to whatever had just occurred inside. America swallowed thickly, having to find the breath to shout to Russia across the lobby. "R-Russia!"
He felt more than saw that the other man had come to him, dragging Adam unwillingly along. Russia kept steady pressure around Adam's throat as he held the other man in place; it was loose enough not to choke him yet tight enough to make the threat of such an act highly possible. His eyes touched with America's as the commotion in the theater reached a fevered pitch. Several people came running out of the theater downstairs, rushing their way up the stairs past the dazed America. They were struggling to get the double doors opened. The doors came open after a few more moments, admitting the people inside the box.
Adam had begun to laugh again, low in his throat. The glaze in America's eyes diminished with a wave of pure malice. Russia solemnly stared up to the top of the stairs. His face shadowed as some movement happened up there, prompting America to spin around to see the double doors at the top of the steps bursting open to admit a rush of people. Time seemed to slow down as they came pushing down the stairs, their urgency a near tangible thing, as America's eyes and his mind fell out of tangent – denying what he was seeing when the press of their bodies parted long enough for him to catch sight of the limp figure being carried in their arms like some frantic procession.
"No. No…" America shook his head slowly in denial. He rushed forward into the press of the men, looking at all of their grim faces. His hands reached out automatically to help them with their burden. America felt as if he'd become detached from his body. He moved numbly as his hands cradled the limp weight of Abraham's shoulders. "What… where are you taking him?"
"We need to move him." One of the men said. His hands and sleeves were slick with blood already. "We can't treat him here – we're going to carry him across the street."
"I'm telling you that it won't do any good." Another of the men argued dully. "You're just delaying the end."
Other people were pressing in to assist them. America was eventually buffeted out of the crowd by the pressure that they put on him. He stood and let the crowd go. America's eyes dropped down to his hands as he realized they were warm and wet. Silently, he stared at the blood that coated them. With a soft, keening wail, America forced his feet to get moving as he hurried after them through the doors to the outside.
The sky had opened up in a torrent of rain. They had already transported Abraham across the street to a house across the way. America could not bring himself to go in. He would only be in the way of the physicians that were attempting to save the injured man inside. People had been going in and out of the place the whole night. America had seen Mary being escorted away some time earlier, the woman in a fit of hysterics. He had wanted to comfort her. All that he had been able to do was stand there mute as they drove away in the carriage.
America knew that he was soaked from the rain. It had dotted his glasses enough that he could barely see through the lenses. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw drips of water falling from the locks of his hair that had now gone limp from the weight of the moisture. He knew that he should have been cold. America couldn't feel the wetness or the chill. His eyes were stuck on the lights of the house, watching the shadows of people moving frantically around inside.
He became aware of someone coming to stand next to him. America's eyes left the window, arching down to land on the man beside him instead. There was some distant shock to find that it was Russia; he would have expected Canada, or even England to be out here. He had all his fill of shocks for the night – it couldn't raise anything in him.
"I have left your treacherous twin in England's care." Russia said softly, his voice barely penetrating America's ears. "He will keep him under control until you decide what to do with him. Little Canada is helping to get everyone calmed down."
America didn't respond to him. Russia eyed him sidelong, before speaking again. "This should not have happened. It is apparent that the Confederacy's danger was underestimated. They may have been defeated but tonight they have had a sound victory. Danger like this will not cease overnight, not with continued inaction on your part. Your president was optimistic; now he is clinging to life."
As they stood together, America gazed off into the rain-thick night sky. Russia shifted his stance so that he invaded the younger man's peripheral. The soak of the rain had made his hair look like quicksilver, black clothes and pristine white scarf giving him the illusion of a funereal ghost made real. America stared straight through him, absorbed in the imagery.
"You know what must be done now." Russia was telling him, that accented voice as unhurried as molasses pouring into his ears. He felt the warm pressure of the man's arm curl against his back; a serpent's coil guiding him treacherously along as Russia continued to speak, low and persuasive. "America, you cannot hesitate any longer; your weakness has cost you the life of a great man, da?"
Russia's hand was reaching into his jacket. America felt the cold bite of metal being pressed into his grip by the other man. He felt detached from that hand, even as he lifted it higher to stare at the pistol that Russia had placed in it. America's fingers were too numb, shaking from the cold and slick with rain, to truly feel the weapon, even as he saw them lacing around the pistol – easy and practiced, like the caress given to a lover.
His eyes were swollen with the sight of an encouraging violet gaze; with the memory of blood on a starch white collar, the patient and kind eyes of a good man, a maze of corpses stretched side by side across the rolling fields of his land, and the calculating smile on a face just like his own. America blinked languidly at Russia's face as all of those things dominated his conscious mind. He felt his fingers twitch around the steel of the pistol. Russia nodded slowly at him. "Go. Do what you should have done at the very beginning."
America's piercing stare broke off from the man's face without a word as he walked back inside the theater. His arm hung limp at his side, the pistol clutched in his hand as he took one step in front of the other on a fixed path. Nothing would deride him from it; not even Canada who stepped away from the wall in the lobby to speak to him. The younger man's eyes lowered to the pistol in America's hand as whatever words had been on his tongue wilted. Canada shook himself out of his shock when America walked past him without even seeing him, the colony moving to take hold of his brother as Canada sensed, on some level, what his brother intended to do.
Russia was there, having trailed after America to watch what he would do. He smiled faintly and intervened just in time. One of the man's arms looped around Canada to keep him from stopping America. The struggles of the colony meant nothing to him, since his strength was so superior. Russia shushed him pleasantly when Canada began to call out after America. "Hush now. We elders know what America must do; I am curious to see if he can actually go through with it."
"Brit-!" Canada had begun to shout to the other nation across the lobby. Russia's hand folded across the man's mouth with a soft hum of displeasure.
England was pacing at the other side of the theater. He had Adam on his knees, the southerner secured with what appeared to be England's own bowtie, those hands tied together behind the young man's back. At the sound of Canada's voice, the man turned in that direction. He saw America approaching.
His face softened at the edges as he saw the state that the younger man was in. England took a few steps towards him, reaching a hand out to America's hair as he gently spoke. "You're a mess. Let me-"
America brushed him forcibly aside with a sweep of his arm. While England would normally have been fine taking such a blow, it caught him off his guard. He was propelled back against the nearby wall, the mirrored panes of glass shuddering with the impact. England was dazed, blinking up at America in shock that the man would do such a thing. "America? What in bloody hell are you on about?"
America ignored him, as his eyes landed on the face of his adversary. He saw the reflection of himself in the mirrors around the lobby; drenched in rain, clothes and hands stained red with the blood of his president.
His arm swung up, lining the pistol with the delicate flesh between those sky blue eyes. America squinted in time with the tightening of his trigger finger, though he did not want to flinch, did not want to miss the sight that he was about to see.
Breath filled his lungs, then expelled as his senses pinpointed in sudden clarity.
America pulled the trigger.
Click.
A shaken breath shuddered out of him. England spoke in a breathless whisper from somewhere beside him. "America… Put the gun down."
Adam was gazing up at him with wide eyes. America wondered if that was how he would look at the moment of his death. He grit his teeth and squeezed the trigger again.
Click.
"Russia…" He whispered vacantly, "…Why did you give me a gun that wasn't loaded?"
"It is loaded." Russia answered from somewhere behind him. He sounded like he was struggling. In the glint of the mirrors around them, America thought he saw England trying to get free of the hold that Russia had him in. For some reason, Russia's encouragement stuck with him better than the distant buzz of England's protests. "Perhaps America simply doesn't want to kill him?"
"No. I want to. I do want to." America said firmly. "I will."
Click.
Click.
Adam's eyes had left his face. They were panicked as they looked past where America was standing as the southerner shouted. "You can't let him do this! Someone stop him!"
"People are coming, America. You had better hurry." Russia sang to him. He grunted painfully as England's elbow connected with his ribs. It made him relent his hold enough on the smaller man that England was able to land another blow to Russia's solar plexus; that made Russia let go of him completely.
England pushed forward towards where America stood. "Wait! Don't!"
America pulled the trigger again. This time, there came the satisfying roar of a gunshot. He watched as the face in front of him blossomed in a spray of red. America's eyelashes fluttered as some of it blew up at him, spots of crimson dotting the lenses of his eyeglasses. Adam's figure sagged then went tumbling lifelessly over in a mess of blood and ruined bits of flesh. America thought that he could still see one of those blue eyes in that gaping wound. Something about the meat inside a person's face was fascinating in a morbid kind of way.
The gun went slack in his hand, spinning limply around the lengths of his fingers. It clattered to the floor as America dropped it. He continued to stare at the limp body of his southern counterpart, blank expression giving way to the tiniest smile. "I did it. Russia, I killed him."
England had a hold of him. He was pulling America away from the body, pushing him deeper into the lobby as a crowd began to gather. Russia sounded pleased. "And how do you feel?"
"I feel… absolutely nothing."
England stood at the window of his hotel room, arms folded across his middle as he watched the trails made by the raindrops as they spilled down the glass. It was already morning but neither of them had managed to get any sleep. He occasionally glanced to the bed to see if there was any change in America. Once he'd gotten America cleaned up and changed into clothes that weren't wet or soiled with blood, the young man had rooted himself on England's bed. America had curled up at the head of the mattress, knees drawn up tight against his chest, his face buried on the tops of them. He had not lifted his head once since then. If not for the occasional motions made by his twitching fingers, England might have thought that America had fallen asleep that way.
A shiver wracked through England. He was still in clothes that the rain had soaked on their haphazard way back to the hotel. Canada had volunteered to stay behind in order to receive news as soon as it was available. There was no telling where Russia had gone. England tightened the fold of his arms, uncurling his fingers from around his elbows in order to rub at his arms. "It's cold in here; do you want me to light a fire?"
As expected, he received no answer from the man on the bed. "All right. Than I shall do so for myself, if for no other reason." England began to tend to the small furnace in the room, trying to get it lit so that there would be some warmth.
A knock on the door caught his attention. He brushed soot from his hands as England approached it, opening it just a crack to see who might have been outside. It was a man that he recognized from the hotel staff. England blinked at him. "Yes?"
"Pardon me for disturbing you, sir." The man grimaced apologetically. "It's just that one of the other members of your party – Mister Braginsky – wanted me to ask if he was allowed to come visit your room."
England's eyes narrowed. The man didn't deserve being shouted at but that is precisely what he got. "Absolutely not! Tell that man to stay the hell away from this room and especially from me! In fact, draw some money from my account, purchase him a ticket, and tell him to get the hell out of this country!"
"Sir, I—" England cut him off mid-sentence by slamming the door shut in his face. That would hopefully get his point across.
Putting his back to the door, England rubbed his face with a growl of exasperated rage. "Can you believe that Russian bastard? If he even thinks about coming to this door I will murder him. I don't want to see him, hear him, or breathe the same air as him. Not after that stunt tonight."
England went to stand beside the bed. "America? Are you even listening to me?" The young man didn't even give him the benefit of a nod or a shake of the head. England sighed heavily. "Look, it… it's terrible, what happened tonight. You can't let it get to you like this."
America's head came up. He stared blankly into the air in front of him. "It isn't often that a person gets an opportunity to see what they would look like in the moment of their death."
"That's true…" England responded with reluctance. He didn't like that being the first thing to come out of America's mouth.
"I got to see it last night." America murmured flatly.
"America, you need to… need to try to let it go." England pleaded with him gently. "Don't dwell on such dark thoughts. It won't do you any good. In fact, it will merely make things worse."
Those words prompted America into silence again. England shook his head. There seemed no way at all to console the other man. Certainly no methods that England felt comfortable enough to use for him anymore – those old tricks were lost to time and too much hardship between them. He scowled at the door when there was another knock. Had Russia actually come calling despite England's warning?
Stomping over to the door, England jerked it partially open, barking out at a shout. "What?"
Canada stood there, eyes dull and dripping wet. He didn't even react to England yelling in his face except for a sharp blink of his gaze. "May I come in?"
"Oh. Goodness, yes. Forgive me. I thought… thought you might have been Russia."
"As you can see, I'm not Russia." Canada said quietly as he stepped into the room.
He went straight to where his brother sat on the bed while England shut the door. Canada was bolder with the other man in ways that England no longer could be; his hands fit on either side of America's head to lift it. When he had it angled well enough, Canada put his forehead squarely against his brother's, their glasses hitting lightly together. He whispered, "America, are you all right?"
"No. Yes. No." America wavered with his answer. Canada's hands left his face, soothing up through his brother's hair with careful, slow affection. He gathered America's head to his chest. His brother didn't seem to mind the wet, cold fabric of Canada's shirt.
England felt useless as he stood nearby. With a few motions, Canada had managed to pull off what he had failed to in rousing America a little. "You're here, so I gather that there is some news for you to tell us?"
"There is." Canada answered softly. He tightened his hold on America, as if sharing some of his brother's pain with him. "America… I am so, so sorry. There was nothing that they could do for him. President Lincoln passed away less than an hour ago."
"I know." America said faintly. "I felt him go."
"They have launched a manhunt to try and find the shooter. Apparently it was some well-known actor that was a Confederate sympathizer. It was all part of some larger plot; your Secretary of State was attacked as well. He will survive, though."
"He can't have gotten very far." England interjected quietly. "I'm sure that they'll find these men soon."
America's features were pinched with pain that wasn't physical but was nevertheless powerful. "Britannia…"
"Yes?"
"You can't… you mustn't blame Russia for any of this." America told him in a voice that was husky with emotion. "He was right all along; I should have ended Adam's life years ago when I had the chance. Adam shouldn't have been allowed to roam free as he did. The blame lies with me."
"America, don't say that." Canada ordered him gently. "None of what happened here is your fault."
"It was. Really, it was. Had I just had the courage to do what needed to be done then this might have never happened." America told him bluntly. "It's not that I feel like I deserve the blame – it's just that I know that is the truth. My lack of action got a man killed. A brilliant, kind, gentle, good man."
"You could not have prevented what happened tonight, America." England shook his head. "Though you may not believe it, sometimes fate works in ways that we cannot anticipate. We are nations; we are not infallible. Even if you had eliminated Adam shortly after his appearance, there is no guarantee that things would not have still turned out this way. This was a man killing another man. Whether we want it to happen or not, there is nothing that we can do to stop it from happening day in and day out."
"Regardless, it was an error on my part. I won't let my reluctance to do what is right outweigh the need to do what is necessary any longer." America murmured. He gently shook himself free of Canada's grip, unfurling his limbs as he made his way off the bed. "I should get to the capitol. There will be so much work to be done. I regret being unable to see you both off but I am sure that you can understand, given the circumstances."
"America, wait…" Canada called after him.
"Sorry. I can't." America said from the door without even looking back at his brother. "You two don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I always am."
With those words, he opened up the door to the room, stepping outside and leaving the two nations behind.
Texas - 1917
The skies over Texas were colored with the hues of sunset when Canada finally arrived at the remote ranch in the middle of the desert landscape. It had been an atrocious trip to the location; he was not used to the heat of this climate, the suit that he'd worn for the visit perhaps not the best choice for the weather given the layers of garments. Canada swiped the sleeve of his white shirt across his forehead to mop up some of the sweat that beaded his skin, his jacket already thrown over the opposite arm as he stepped down nimbly from the stagecoach that had run him here from the closest town some number of miles away.
There were lights inside; the cabin looked inviting now that the desert was quickly cooling off in complete contrast to the heat that he'd suffered through all day. Canada left the driver to tend to the horses as he approached the home. It had been a couple of years since he had seen the lone resident and owner of the ranch – in fact, despite being so close to the border, not even Mexico had caught a glimpse of America the entire time. Everything was dusty. The porch really needed a good sweeping, but Canada figured that it probably was a futile struggle given the dry conditions of the environment.
His foot had just touched down on the first step when the door of the cabin burst open. Canada blinked rapidly as a blur of color came rushing at him. He grunted as America collided into him, limbs winding around him with enough force that they nearly went spilling over to the ground. It was fortunate that Canada was resilient enough to withstand even America's enthusiastic strength. America smelled like horses, dirt and sweat. The combination wasn't bad – it was the scent of America's wild, sprawling deserts. Still, it did overpower his nostrils a little. Canada delicately wrinkled his nose. "You really smell."
"You're no spring flower yourself, you know." America told him without having taken offense to the remark. He gave his brother an affectionate squeeze, pressing Canada away to hold him at arm's length, as America looked the other man over. "Wow. Look at you! It's only been a little while since I've seen you but you have sprouted up like a bean pole!"
"It's been two years." Canada corrected him. He endured being manhandled by his brother until America began to boldly prod at his stomach. That hand was swatted away with a tiny frown. "You look well yourself. Living out here in the middle of nowhere hasn't treated you too harshly."
America shrugged. He was giddy just from seeing a familiar face - especially the face of his brother. It almost seemed like he couldn't stop touching his sibling, patting Canada on the shoulders, the sides of his arms. America couldn't be satisfied until he had cemented the reality of his brother actually being in front of him in his mind. "I love it out here. It just seemed right to travel down here to live for a while. Texas is a beautiful patch of land if you know how to appreciate it right. Now come on, come inside."
When Canada didn't put up a protest, America ushered the other man inside with a hand on his arm. He flushed at the state that his cabin was in; America had not bothered to keep things tidy. "Don't mind the mess – I've been out driving cattle for a few months and haven't had time to straighten the place up. Though I wasn't really expecting company." They sat together at the small wooden table in the center of America's living area, their movements falling automatically into unison without effort. America stared at his brother, blue eyes dancing brightly, as he shook his head. "I can't believe that you're here. What the hell brought you all the way down to Texas? That's quite a trip for you."
"I wanted to check up on you." Canada admitted quietly, hands folding peaceably on the tabletop. "Your behavior was something I could not tolerate any longer. There were only so many times that I could stand having your letters returned to me before I decided that I needed to just come and see for myself where you had vanished off to."
"Sorry." America blanched regretfully. "I had not meant to leave you in the dark about my location. Even my officials back in Washington don't know exactly where I am."
Canada nodded solemnly. "That's what they said when I tried to get some clue as to where you'd gone from them. It took an exceptional effort to track you down. You have become a hard person to find."
Looking around the cabin, Canada murmured, "You haven't attended any of the Conferences for the past two years. Everyone has been curious as to where you were since the last time you made an appearance was at the end of your war. They have even pestered me, thinking that I'd have some inside information." Canada stared at him intently. "I can understand if you wanted to hide away from the rest of the world for awhile; I just can't understand why you would feel the need to hide from me."
"You know why. You should know without me even needing to tell you."
"I know why. Like I said, I just can't understand why. It makes no sense to me why you would decide to come down here and… and hide."
"It's not that I'm hiding. I guess it's just my way of mourning, you know?"
"What are you mourning? I know that it hasn't happened to you before, but two years seems like a long time to mourn the loss of one man."
America shook his head with a scowl. "It's not just about Abraham's death – that is just part of the entire picture. I am also mourning the loss of all those lives that died in the war, for the people on both sides that have not yet completely recovered from everything that happened. My time away from everyone is also my way of repairing myself. It feels like I am still too worn thin, too brittle, to be of any use to anyone."
"You should at least make the effort to answer your letters." Canada told him, gentle but stern. "Some important things have happened while you have been living in seclusion."
"Oh? Like what?" America asked him curiously.
Canada's eyes dropped to the table. He smiled serenely. "I became an independent nation this year. July first – a few days before the anniversary of yours."
America's eyes widened. "Really?" His face blossomed with a broad smile. "That's wonderful news! Do you mean to tell me that you went to war with Britannia and couldn't find me in time to invite me along?"
"There wasn't a war over it." Canada said dryly at his brother's enthusiastic remarks on fighting England. He fidgeted his fingers together with a nonchalant shrug. "He just… let me go. It was a mutual agreement. There was really nothing more that I could do for him as I was."
"He 'let you go'? Without a fight?" America was astonished by this piece of news.
Canada slid his thumb over the top of his other hand, uncomfortable. "Well. I was never very special to him. Not like you were. Especially not after you rebelled. Britannia cut such emotional ties to his colonies after you had gone; my separation was therefore not as hard for him to handle."
"Does it bother you that he didn't fight to keep you as part of his empire?"
"No. I suppose not." Canada murmured. "It has been a long time since I have endeavored to want or hoped to obtain his affection. He was always bothered by the presence of my French heritage; I have never been completely his, not in the way that you were."
Those words made America squirm in his chair. He felt so far removed from the years of his childhood. Hearing Canada speaking about it so casually made America uncomfortable. There was too much complication now in his relationship with England; those distant days had become nothing more than an unreal memory. America eyed his brother flatly. "If I promise to attend the next Conference, will you promise to stop talking about Britannia?"
Canada chuckled quietly, head canting to the side as he smiled sweetly. "If you promise to attend the next Conference, I promise to even stop talking about me."
A/N: Thus ends the saga of the American Civil War. I hope that its climax did not disappoint.
It was reported by one of Lincoln's officials that the president confessed to having a vivid dream three days before his assassination. He dreamt that he was wandering in the White House, hearing invisible weeping. Eventually he found people in mourning over a figure in a coffin. After asking one of the mourners who they were weeping for, they told him that they were in mourning because the President was dead. Lincoln was said to have seen it as an omen for the future. Despite it, his death still was not prevented.
Abraham Lincoln was the first American president to be successfully assassinated. He was mourned not only by the members of the Union, but by much of the South as well.
I could go on about the Assassination of Abraham Lincoln and the events following his death, but there is really too much to share. I would advise anyone who is interested in the subject to look into it, through the various sites that explain the series of events that took place leading up to and after the assassination.
Canada gained independence on July 1st, 1867. Two years after the end of the American Civil War. Go Canada, eh?
The history of America will resume in the next installment.
