Chapter Fourteen:

Jefferson Davis President Davis Jefferson Davis had eyes of steel cutting layers of fat and muscle ripped away underneath the beating flesh so red and the white bone so pale so sick

Did you think you could get away with it, did you think I would not notice?

Those nights out in the fields the sting of ice on skin the whirl of shadows of membranes unformed fingers did you have fingers back then what were you when you walked out into the fields walked out among the cotton and pricked your hand as it caressed your cheek

What were you hollow and still with no heart with cornflower eyes and chaff for hair you were not a man you were not a man then only shrieking ghosts heavy and throbbing in the ground in the roots in the veins of the earth

I thought you were stronger than this I believed so but I was wrong you cannot create men from nothing from fragments intangible and unreal no you are only dust and small and a child you have no concept of yourself you are mine and ours alone

You do not think and

You do not feel.

Jefferson Davis President Davis had—

"…fred—Alfred!"

Alfred jerked awake with a gasp. "What—?" he slurred, feeling as if his thoughts were wading through molasses.

Lincoln looked down at him. "Are you all right?" he said, worry in his grey eyes.

Alfred blinked. "Me? I'm—fine." He winced as a dull ache began to settle in his temples. "I was just sleeping—oh."

He flushed as the situation hit him with full force, his mind suddenly snapped into glaringly bright lucidity.

He had had an appointment with Lincoln at four, but when he had arrived at the president's office, an attendant had informed him that the cabinet meeting was running late—and that Lincoln, with full apologies, would be out as soon as he could. Somewhere between settling into one of the chairs near the fireplace and admiring the portrait of George Washington above the mantle, Alfred had—dozed off.

"I never pinned you for a napping man," Lincoln said, seating himself in the chair across from Alfred. Even though his tone was teasing, there was an undercurrent of concern in it that Alfred did not miss.

"I never did either," Alfred admitted. "I guess I'm just tired—but, it's nothing to worry about."

"You haven't been sleeping well?" Lincoln said, too casual to be nonchalant.

"Not...particularly," Alfred replied. Not at all, he thought.

For the past week, Alfred had been plagued by—nightmares wasn't the right description, because there was nothing exactly terrifying about those jumbled images and thoughts that rushed through his head during the night, so garbled and half-formed. No, what bothered Alfred most about those dreams was the sheer overwhelming force of them, a relentless assault on his unconsciousness. And never mind Alfred's nagging feeling that those dreams were centered around Johnny somehow. No—that couldn't be…Johnny was fine. Hell, he was probably shooting birds at dawn and drinking whiskey at night, having a great old time—or so Alfred liked to think.

Lincoln frowned at him. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Alfred said and then ducked his head as Lincoln eyed him sharply. Too quickly—Alfred had answered too quickly. In an effort to change the subject, Alfred said, "What did you want to meet about today?"

"To business then?" Lincoln arched an eyebrow, doubt still lingering on his face. "Well, there's no point beating around the bush, so I'll just get right to it." He leaned forward. "Correct me if I'm wrong—you are planning to fight in the war?"

"How do you know?" Alfred startled. He couldn't recall telling Lincoln about that—or telling anyone, for that matter.

"I know you, Alfred," Lincoln said. "And from your expression, I suppose it is true."

Alfred bit his lip. "Will that be…a problem?"

Lincoln gave a heavy sigh and seemed to sink into his chair. "Not a problem—although it does introduce a new factor that…Well, I always thought it would happen eventually, but…" He shrugged. "Tell me—why now, out of all times?"

"I—" Alfred paused, his tongue thick in his mouth. "I mean—God, why not?" He laughed, bitter and flat. "Ever since this war began, all I've seen—all I've felt—is other people die, for this nation and for me—and what have I done?" His fists balled up as that familiar resentment swelled in him again, resentment at how little of a role he had played in this conflict so far, and—of course—guilt at how utterly useless he was, both before and after the secession. "No—I've only sat here and done nothing."

"You don't owe anybody this," Lincoln said.

"But I do, don't I?" Alfred sucked in a shallow breath. "When I was…away…a woman asked me why her son was suffering, but not me. And—it's not right, me being safe here, and all those men out there, killing and being killed."

"Safe," Lincoln snorted, and Alfred flinched at the amount of venom in his voice. "For the past five months you have been everything but safe. Those two assassins—and then Johnny." He met Alfred's eyes, his face grave. "We've come close to losing you two times already. And the next time—we might not get so lucky."

"I can take care of myself," Alfred said, irritated. He didn't want to think of himself as some sort of damsel in distress as Lincoln was insinuating—and it stung all the more, because it was true, if only to a certain degree.

"I didn't say you couldn't," Lincoln said, ignoring the barb in Alfred's words. "All I'm saying is that the stakes are high—horribly high. An entire nation and more is on the line—and if you were captured out there, God knows what I'd have to do—what the Union would have to do—to get you back." Lincoln shook his head. "Alfred, I can't with good faith send you into the fray like this."

"You can't with good faith leave me here, either," Alfred said pointedly. "If worse comes to worse, I'll just run away." Then, softer, he said, "I've been sent out in more dire circumstances."

"This is not an ordinary war, Alfred. These are not ordinary circumstances." Lincoln slumped back, and Alfred thought that in that moment he looked very tired and very old. "I won't send you to slaughter."

"You won't be sending me," Alfred said gently. "I'll be going because I want to—not because you ordered me to. This is my duty."

"Duty." Lincoln chuckled, although it sounded more worn than amused. "Now that's a word. Tell me—is it part of your duty to sacrifice yourself?"

"If it saves even one person, then I'll take the shot."

"You're not immortal, Alfred," Lincoln murmured, troubled. "There are some things in this world that even men like you can't stop. War is one of them—death is another."

"I'll be damned if I don't try," Alfred said, his voice quiet. "What other reason am I here for?"

"To live," Lincoln said. He turned away to the fireplace. "What have we gotten into?"

"I don't know," Alfred confessed. Then, he whispered, "It won't be your fault if I…" He couldn't finish, but he knew from the way Lincoln twitched that Lincoln knew exactly what Alfred was referring to.

Lincoln gave a wan smile. "I keep telling myself that, Alfred, but it gets old—too fast and rightly so."

"You can't do everything."

"I can't." Lincoln covered his eyes with his hand. When he spoke, his voice was brittle. "I see many ghosts at night, Alfred. Hundreds and thousands of ghosts, all of them crying and screaming in the dark. And—to think that someday, you might join them? That is unacceptable."

"I'll come back," Alfred said, surprising even himself with the vehemence in those syllables. "No matter what it takes."

Lincoln faced him abruptly. "Are you sure about that?"

"What?"

"Are you sure that you would do anything to return to the Union?"

Alfred bristled. "Are you suggesting that I would just roll over and let the Confederacy have their way with me?"

"No—by no means." Lincoln spread his hands out before him in a gesture of peace. "But—I'm not sure that you know the full meaning of what you just said." Lincoln's eyes were grim. "If Johnny were blocking your path, are you saying that you would kill him without hesitation?"

Alfred grimaced. "I—I'd rather not."

"And that's what I have a problem with," Lincoln said, an uncharacteristic edge to his voice. "Alfred, I need to know before I register you that when you finally have Johnny in front of you, you won't hesitate, not even for a moment."

"Why?" Alfred said simply, although he wasn't sure if he wanted to hear the answer to that question.

"Because Johnny won't even stop to think—and you will. That is the greatest gamble we're playing with—and that is why I won't let you fight."

"Do you think I'm soft?" Alfred snapped, knowing full well that Lincoln was simply being honest-and that honesty stung.

"I think you're kind," Lincoln corrected. "And kindness is one commodity that is terrible for war. Mercy is necessary—but kindness? That's a deadly flaw."

"Since when should I be damned for being human?" Alfred said, gripping the sides of his chair in—rage? No—not rage. Something deeper, almost—almost like shame.

"Some of the men you might fight are men no longer. They will be cruel—and they will not care. War is not about heroics," Lincoln said, stressing the last word. "Do you understand?"

"If that's the reality, then I don't want to understand," Alfred spat. "Tell me, Mr. Lincoln, what are you so damn afraid of?"

Lincoln went still. When he finally spoke, his tone was as cold as ice. "What are you afraid of, Alfred?"

"Me?" Alfred laughed bitterly. "I'm afraid of many things, Mr. President. I'm afraid of killing—and I'm afraid of dying. But, unlike you, I don't care."

"Your instinct for self-preservation is remarkable," Lincoln said dryly. "I've never met anyone so pigheaded in my life."

"It runs in the family." In a swift movement, Alfred stood up. "I'll give you some time to sort everything out—but you know as well as I do that if things don't work out, I'll be going-with or without your permission."

"Where will you go?" Lincoln said, half a challenge and half a—well, as close to a plea as he would ever get.

"Anywhere but here," Alfred replied.

"And where will you go now?" Lincoln pressed.

Alfred gave a small, sad smile. "To pay my respects to a good man, Mr. Lincoln."

"Good men are something we'll always be short of."

"And I'm glad that you are a good man," Alfred said evenly, "regardless of what others—or yourself—might say."

Lincoln looked away and it was awhile before he said, "Take a coat before you leave. It's cold outside today."

The walk to the cemetery was brief—only a few blocks from the White House—but the trip still crawled by with an agonizing slowness, the trees and houses passing by at a snail's pace. Alfred knew the walk by heart—had memorized it ever since he had first learned from Phillip—but a small corner of his mind still contemplated the possibility of getting lost, of taking this side street or that alley way or turning around completely. There was something final about seeing Wallace's grave—something that made the reality all the more painful.

When he finally reached the cemetery gate, the frigid metal handle biting into his palm, Alfred closed his eyes. His heart had started pounding in his hears, loud and rushing, and his breath came in uneven pants, biting in his throat and lungs.

You should not be nervous, Alfred berated himself. This is not something that you should be scared of.

But—Alfred was anyway. How many men had he seen die, on the battlefield or in the towns? How many funerals had he stood out, somber and blank, surrounded by strange men and women all united in that single moment? How many people had he known that were now gone, left in trenches or locked in caskets deep under the earth? Too many—all around, bodies everywhere—and yet here Alfred was, frozen and unable to move.

In some respects, Alfred supposed he was grateful for this fear—that he had not yet become inoculated to death. He had seen the indifference in Arthur's eyes and the resignation in Francis's—that this is life, and this is what it all adds up to—and, even though the two would never admit it, Alfred had witnessed that numbness eat away at the both of them.

Alfred opened the gate with a loud shriek and stepped into the graveyard, making his way among the headstones to the one under the tree—just as Phillip had directed. As he drew closer, a lull wrapped around him so that when he was finally staring at those meticulous words—Wallace Whitfield—along with those damningly cold numbers—1804-1861—Alfred felt nothing but a profane hollowness in his chest.

He dropped to his knees, all the strength in his legs gone as his eyes swept over the recently placed flowers on the dirt, the partially empty whiskey bottle to the side. Alfred pressed his head against the unforgiving headstone, his fingers digging into the soil, not caring about the wind that had picked up and drew daggers on his cheek, not caring about the rocks jabbing into his skin—not caring about anything all but the grave in front of him and the man—his friend and perhaps even someone he could call a father—under him.

The tears would not come. Despite the sting in his eyes, Alfred—for the sake of anything—could not cry and instead shuddered and shivered. He couldn't control his muscles—no, he was trembling, trembling everywhere, from the cold or the grief, he could not tell. Maybe it was both—but what did that matter, what did he matter, when Wallace was dead and Alfred hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye?

Alfred almost screamed when he felt a hand on his shoulder and then clamped his mouth shut, knowing who it was—the only man in the world who Alfred didn't want to see right now, because he didn't want to appear so broken, so vulnerable, so unworthy of anything.

After a moment of silence, Arthur murmured, "I'm not leaving." Any remnant of his usual sarcasm was gone.

"I want you to go," Alfred whispered, but he didn't move away from Arthur's touch, and he didn't push Arthur away when Arthur hugged him from behind.

"There's nothing embarrassing about this," Arthur said into Alfred's ear.

"Don't lie," Alfred said. "Please, for me, don't lie—because you've never been like this, have you?"

Arthur's hold grew tighter. "You don't know that. You don't know how many graves I've stood over—the same as you now."

Alfred shook his head. "I've never seen you like me. How do you do it? Remain so damn detached from it all?"

"I have to," Arthur said slowly. He turned Alfred so that Alfred was facing him. "I've lived for over a thousand years—do you think I'd still be here now, still sane, if I hadn't learned how to bear it?"

"I don't think I can," Alfred admitted, ashamed.

"You will learn how to someday."

"I don't want to learn how." Alfred grasped Arthur's collar, bunching the fabric between his fingers. "Is there another way? Please—" His voice broke.

Arthur's green eyes were uncompromising but kind. "I've searched for many years an answer to that question."

"And?"

"I haven't found one," Arthur said bluntly. "This is our curse, Alfred."

"I didn't want it."

"But here we are."

"God—" Alfred jerked away from Arthur's embrace. "I hate it. I hate it all."

Arthur didn't reply, only squeezed Alfred's arm in comfort.

"Why are we here, Arthur?" Alfred cried helplessly. "What are we?"

"I don't know," Arthur whispered. "I—Alfred, all of us have wondered about this and are still wondering about this, but few of us—no, none of us have ever…" He trailed off, unwilling or unable to continue.

"You told me when I was young that I would understand eventually." Alfred threw up his hands. "I'm over two hundred now, and I still don't understand. Was it God? Was it the Devil? Are we human? Are we ghosts? Hell—are we even alive?"

In a swift motion, Arthur held Alfred's face between his hands, his green eyes urgent and angry. "You are alive, Alfred. And so am I. We all are."

"Then how can you explain any of this?" Alfred made a wild motion at Wallace's grave. "Why can't we die?"

"Nobody said we couldn't die," Arthur said.

"But not permanently."

"No—not permanently." Arthur sighed. "God damn you, Alfred. Of course—it had to be you."

"What?"

Arthur shook his head. "Out of all the Personifications I have met, your capacity for feeling has always been the greatest. Even compared to Francis, you are the one who has the most soul out of any of us."

"Is that wrong?" Alfred asked plainly.

"It's very wrong," Arthur said. He placed one hand over Alfred's chest. "You have the greatest heart out of our terrible lot of men and women. I wish…I wish it wasn't so." Arthur gave a soft, scornful chuckle. "Over the centuries of our existence, people have condemned us as demons, and people have worshipped us as angels. But—Alfred, you…Anyone who would look at you would say that you are human, down to the marrow. And that is a sin—unforgivable—"

"But?"

"But it's what makes you worth so damn much," Arthur finished. "The first time I saw you, the time you wandered out of the fields, you were unlike any one Personification I've ever met. Pure—and you still are. Even when you grew up, even through the…Revolution." Arthur scowled at the word. "Always tossing these big ideas and huge morals, acting as a paragon of virtue—and I damned you because it was so true, and you believed in that hypocrisy."

"It's not hypocrisy," Alfred said roughly.

"Then why are fighting now?" Arthur said coldly. "Liberty—it's a double-edged sword, Alfred."

"I know," Alfred said. "And I understand now…How hard it was for you during the Revolution. You were fighting for me, weren't you?"

"Is that even a question?" Arthur arched an eyebrow. "Yes—you bloody git, I was fighting for you." Then, in a quieter voice, he said, "I should have fought harder. Maybe this Civil War wouldn't have happened to you if I had."

Alfred gaped at him. "You really think you could have stopped this?"

"It's a reasonable thought," Arthur retorted. "The North and the South would be united in their mutual hatred for me."

"I never hated you," Alfred said. "You know that. Resented—maybe. But, hated? No."

"It seemed like it," Arthur admitted, hurt in his eyes. "When you walked out that day after the Intolerable Acts, I—I thought you would never forgive me, never even deign to look at me again. I—Alfred, I'm still not sure."

"It's all history now," Alfred murmured.

"But—those letters—"

Alfred placed his hand over Arthur's mouth. "Don't. I know. You don't have to say it."

Arthur caught Alfred's wrist and pulled it away. "But I want to. I was wrong, all right? And—God, I'm so sorry—I—" He sucked in a ragged breath. "I wasn't good to you—not nearly as good as I should have been…Maybe—maybe you should have gone with Francis."

"But I chose to go with you," Alfred said firmly. "And I don't regret any of it." He gave a small grin. "Even the food."

"Oh, shut up," Arthur said, hitting Alfred lightly on the shoulder. "It wasn't that bad. You'd think I fed you acid or something."

"Barely any of it was edible."

"All of it was edible. It—it just wasn't…gourmet."

"You couldn't even be gourmet if you tried."

"I don't know, Alfred," Arthur said. "I clean up well—or so I've heard." Then, suddenly somber, he said, "After the war, maybe I'll show you just how well."

"You mean if," Alfred said.

"I mean after." Arthur grimaced. "If I lost you—I think I'd go mad."

"It will be what it will be," Alfred said gently.

"No—it won't," Arthur snapped, and Alfred startled at the viciousness in his voice. "I won't be able to live with myself. I won't be able to live at all."

"Don't be melodramatic," Alfred said, only half-joking.

"I'm not being melodramatic. It's the truth. God damn you, Alfred—I—to think that I've wasted so many years pushing you away when I could be spending it with you, trying to repair things—and even last week, it was you who dropped your guard first, who opened up—" Arthur paused, controlled himself, and then continued, "If you disappear—I couldn't bear to think that—all of that time—how little it was worth—pitying myself when I should have been with you—"

"Are you afraid?" Alfred said quietly.

"Afraid? I'm terrified," Arthur said. "You are one of the few people that I've—I've…" He shook his head. "If you…die…I—there will never be anyone else for me. You are everything to me—and…"

Alfred leaned in, pressed his forehead against Arthur's, felt Arthur trembling. "It will be all right," he whispered. "I won't say it—for both of our sakes. But you know."

"I do," Arthur gasped out.

"What about you? Do you, too?"

Arthur's voice was level when he said, "You win this war. You win this damn war—and when it's all over, I'll tell you how I feel. We'll both say it then, out loud."

"You're gambling with awful odds," Alfred said.

"I've always played with awful odds," Arthur replied. "Ever since I was born, everything has been stacked against me—but to hell with the odds. And—" His green eyes were blazing and as hard as steel. "If it comes down to the wire, you think of this bet we have made right now, you think of me, and you live."

"What if…?" Alfred couldn't finish.

Arthur gave him a crooked smile. "Then I'll see you on the other side."

"You will do no such thing," Alfred said, horrified.

"You can't control me, Alfred—you never could, and you won't start now. And, believe me, if it comes down to that, there will be nothing and no one, who will stop me." Arthur's face grew dark. "I'll tear it all down. I'll let everything burn—and when it's all over…"

"Listen to me," Alfred said, uneasy at the rage simmering in Arthur's eyes. "Let's not forget—Johnny is the other half of me—and you swore to me that you would take care of him if I died."

"Why do you care so much for him?" Arthur spat. "What is he to you?"

"He's my brother."

"He's your enemy."

"You were my enemy once, too," Alfred said, aware of how Arthur tensed. "And look where we are now."

"I will not lose you, Alfred," Arthur grit out. "That is what I swear. You bloody wanker—can't you understand that I can't live without you?"

"You can, and you will, Arthur. There is no other option—I won't let there be another option."

For a second, Alfred thought that Arthur might slap him, but instead Arthur slumped in on himself and said, defeated, "I can't win with you, can I?"

"No…You can't."

Arthur suddenly jerked. "I—damn."

"What?"

"I didn't just come here to talk to you," Arthur said, digging in his pocket. "President Lincoln called me to his office, and told me to find you-and to give you this." He withdrew a folded note. "I…When I saw you here, I must have forgotten."

Alfred took the paper, opened it, and laughed.

"What is it?" Arthur said, leaning in to get a view.

Alfred smiled and crumpled it before Arthur could see. Because, it was a message for Alfred and Alfred alone. It had said:

It gets cold in the barracks.

Bring a coat.

Author's Note:

So, Alfred is going to fight after all (but I'm sure you already knew that). There's only a few chapters left for Part One, but I have feeling that all of you Johnny fans out there will really like Part Two (hint, hint-change in POV-I didn't say anything). I'm actually kind of surprised how well-received Johnny has been with you all-anyone care to enlighten me? But, back to this chapter-let's just say that Johnny is not having a good old time in the Confederacy right now and leave it at that. In any case, thanks for supporting my story. If you liked what you have seen and would like to see more, please leave a review! :)