Mexico took a deep breath. He had been talking very quickly for the last few minutes while he had been describing his fight with Spain. His hands were clenched firmly into fists because of his anger, which was coming back in caustic waves. America didn't speak. He hardly knew what to say. Any commentary on such a critical moment in Mexico's life just wouldn't sound right. So, America held his tongue, despite the fact that he wanted to console his lover.

Mexico started to breathe more deeply and tried to distance himself from the past. He understood the power in his voice and the impact that the story must have had on America. Mexico addressed this, "You may speak, Alfred. I won't hate you for it." America struggled with his words, "I don't know what to feel. I suppose I should just let you keep telling your story. What did it mean when you lost?" Mexico let out a long breathe before saying, "It meant more than just my loss. Miguel stopped the forward momentum just outside of the city as soon as I returned. It is possible that the revolution could have been won right then if not for my weakness. The city was not as well defended as we had initially thought."

America heard a dismissal in the answer, "But what about you? What did it mean to you that you couldn't beat Spain?" Mexico's demeanor shifted and America became aware a half second too late that the question might have not been the most tasteful. Mexico responded, "I would say that I was humbled, but we both know that isn't true. It reinforced that I needed to be underhanded. Trying to fight honorably had nearly gotten me killed, and that wasn't worth it. Emotionally I was shaken though."

No one had dared talk to Mexico since he had returned, sullen and bleeding. He had had a very short conversation with Hidalgo and Allende about what had happened with Spain. He had let the mortals dictate the next strategy because he was too drained to think. Allende proposed that a little reorganization would allow them to take the city. Hidalgo, however, was insisting on a retreat. Mexico had a feeling that the retreat was due to the fact that he was injured and drained. He knew that Hidalgo was worried about him and an attempt on the city would most likely result in Mexico fighting again, which would risk more injury. Mexico didn't disagree with Hidalgo, despite his usually aggressive nature. He was shaken and he admitted it, another battle was not something he was prepared to do. Allende, as usual, complained about no one backing him up, but he eventually submitted.

Once that was decided and over, Mexico retreated to a room by himself. Texas quickly and silently bandaged the wound on his side again and then left his brother alone. For a time, Mexico did nothing but stood at the window looking out. He was still attempting to organize the confrontation with Spain in his mind. What bothered him the most was that he had been winning and Spain had simply gotten in a lucky shot. It wasn't really that Mexico had been lacking skill; in fact, he had been winning at the end.

He put his hand down on the windowsill and started to drum his fingers nervously. Looking out at the lights of his capital was like a burning insult. Had he not made one reckless mistake, that entire city would be his home once again. There was no excuse for his weakness other than stupid youthful confidence. Had he just kept on the strict offensive, he would have eventually worn down Spain, whose arm had obviously been weakening. If that had happened, the army would have been able to take the city and this entire war would be won by now.

Mexico looked down at his own hand; it was more comforting than looking out of the window. The good news was that the pain in his side was now a dull throb. Other than the scrape across his side, Mexico's injuries were really quite minimal. He had a few bruises, but aside from that he was physical damage. It was pretty clear that the biggest damage had been to his ego. Mexico turned away from the window and started to walk across the room.

He caught sight of himself in a small mirror that was mounted on the wall. He still had a handsome elegance, but there was something different in his face. He looked exhausted. His cheeks were lacking color and he had black circles forming under his eyes. How emotionally drained he felt was reading all over his face, which explained why everyone was shying away from him. It would have been smart to get some sleep, but he knew that sleep would not come to him now. He was too anxious. He knew that if he even closed his eyes, all he would think about was his fight with Spain. He would visualize every move that had been made and fixate upon it. The frustration of defeat would be, if possible, even more potent than it was now. So, he would not even attempt to sleep tonight, despite how tired he looked.

After the short period of contemplation at the mirror, Mexico continued to walk out of the room. Being inside suddenly felt stifling. He wanted to feel air moving over his skin. He wanted to stand in the moonlight and look at the stars. They sky made him feel a sense of freedom and he desperately needed that right now. So, without much deliberation, he walked out of the room. The lodgings were the usual crude one floor building. Before Mexico sprawled the camp that housed what remained of the army. Still the force was large enough that the night was bright, dotted with fires that burned outside of tents. In some ways, it was magnificence to see the scale of it, the grand majesty of an army that was capable of taking up so much room. But a closer examination showed what Allende had always said and Mexico now saw. These men were not soldiers. Some of them had been hardened by the recent battles, but all the same, they were peasants and farmers who had dared to pick up a gun or a scythe, or whatever else they could to fight the people they saw as oppressive. They had been able to win thus far. But now Mexico found himself wondering if it was only due to sheer force of numbers. All the doubts he had never allowed himself to have before began to surface. The defeat at Spain's hands had shaken his confidence and now he was finally seeing all the truths he had blinded himself to.

It did nothing to lift his spirits, which were low enough already. The light of the many fires lit in the area made it nearly impossible to see the stars, which were hidden behind a thin bank of clouds. Mexico felt himself slowly accepting the fact that nothing was going to make him feel better tonight. Right after he lighted on that discouraging thought, he felt a light tap on his shoulder.

He spun around to face a very familiar priest. He had already had a conversation with Hidalgo today involving strategy, but that had been business. Already, the atmosphere felt different. It felt strangely like the first time they had met so long ago. This feeling was compounded when the priest finally spoke, "You seem to be upset tonight. Can we talk?" Mexico shrugged, but on the inside he was relieved. It had not occurred to him to voice his concerns to anyone else, but now it seemed obvious. On all the occasions thus far, opening up to Hidalgo had always made him feel better. So, the obvious answer was, "Yes, of course."

There was no one around that would pay attention to the conversation, so there was no need to go somewhere more private. Mexico allowed the other to start the conversation, which he soon did, "What is bothering you? Is it Ignacio?" Mexico took a deep breath before he started to talk. His emotional walls always seemed to come down under Hidalgo's gaze. He found himself recounting every detail of the fight. He cringed when he got to some of the dialogue because he knew it went directly against what Hidalgo had told him about vengeance. When he got to the end, he started to clench his hands in an agitated manner. He finished with a statement spoken through his clenched teeth, "I should have won that fight. I made one stupid move and I lost."

Hidalgo, as he had on past occasions, stayed quiet and simply listened as Mexico talked. This silence was part of the reason his presence was so calming to Mexico, he didn't comment on anything despite the parts that had gone against his advice. Only when he was certain that his country was done talking, did the priest make a response. Mexico couldn't read the emotions in the mortal's eyes and it was disconcerting. He at least wanted some sort of conformation of the response he expected. Mexico was thoroughly ready for some sort of rebuke for his reckless vendetta. However, Hidalgo seemed to see that a lecture while the Aztec boy was in the current emotional state wouldn't be effective. He said simply, "You did everything you could. Spain simply got in a lucky blow that disabled you."

Mexico sighed and looked down at his own feet. He still felt he had not properly voiced his own concern, so he said it much more bluntly, "But it made me feel like none of this is right. I don't feel like I am ready for any of it." He gestured around desperately in an attempt to convey the meaning. He added, "I just think that Ignacio may be right." Hidalgo knowingly reached out and put his hand on Mexico's shoulder. The contact made him look back up and straight into the priest's eyes. Hidalgo spoke, "Don't let Allende's doubts get to you. You are perfectly capable of winning your freedom." Mexico scoffed, but didn't pull away from the comfortingly warm hand on his shoulder, "If I am, then why did you advocate for a retreat. I agreed because I think I need time to learn and recover before I face Antonio again."

Hidalgo responded at once, while putting his other hand on Mexico's other shoulder, "Exactly because of this. That loss affected you. I can't watch you fall again. You mean more to me than this entire revolution. I fear that one more battle will destroy you, so I want to pull back before you physically and mentally injure yourself further." Mexico felt entirely lost for words. There was a deep feeling and commitment in the honest statement. It was entirely different from the concern that Spain had said he had so many times. This was genuine and pure that it started to warm him even with how depressed he was feeling tonight. But, the words did nothing to lift his confidence. Mexico didn't doubt his own skills with a weapon, he had held his own against Spain. But he doubted his ability to lead and win the revolution. Hidalgo seemed to read this from Mexico's face.

He took a different tact, "I know you are worried about what Ignacio has been saying about our army. But I need to remind you of something." The priest released Mexico's shoulders and took a couple steps away. He made a wide sweeping gesture that indicated that he was speaking about the entirety of the army behind him, "These may not be hardened soldiers. But these are the men who are willing to die for you. They don't even know you exist and they are willing to die for the idea of you. That is the kind of loyalty very few mortal men could ever dream of having." There was something fantastically enthralling in the statement that resonated with Mexico; it worked to ease the doubt he was feeling. He had not thought of what these men were willing to give up to fight for him. Hidalgo continued in the same manner, "You may not believe in yourself at this moment. But I will tell you the most important thing: They believe in you and so do I. You have to remember that and you will never be lost. You are a country and the faith of your people should be your strength." Mexico felt himself start to smile. The words actually worked this time. He naturally didn't feel as confident as he had before, but the doubt he had been feeling had been eased.

He spoke, "You're right, as usual. I shouldn't be worried. Antonio didn't best me with skill; he bested me with luck. I don't know what I would do if I didn't have you to confide in." Hidalgo took a step back towards Mexico; his expression had changed to something that was more somber, "Don't say that. I wish I could be here for you eternally, but I can't. I hope I can live much longer and see you grow into the country you are meant to be. But you have to face the fact that I am mortal and you are not." The other attempted to find words to respond to this, but failed. He had taken it to be a given that Hidalgo would be a constant after the revolution succeeded.

Just as he didn't contemplate his own failure, Mexico didn't think of the death of the people he cared about. If he simply ignored the possibility, it felt like he could will it to not happen. Hidalgo continued, "For those of us who can only live one lifetime, the legacy we leave is more important than the minute details of our lives. I trust that once I am gone, you will never let history forget me or how much I believe in you." Mexico simply nodded and said, "Of course I won't forget you. You've made everything possible for me." The priest put his hand on Mexico's shoulder again, "I'm glad. Now you should get some sleep. You look exhausted. I fear we will have to fight again very soon, and you will need your strength."

A/N: I'm so sorry for how long it took to write such a short chapter. But, this is going to have to be a norm for a while (at least until this January) because I have a ton of schoolwork and college applications. I don't have time to do the research I need to do to keep this story up to the historical accuracy standards that I hold myself to (and believe it or not, battles are the most research intensive parts of the story). So, I am going to have to go on hiatus for a couple months.
With that said, I actually like how this chapter turned out, despite the shortness. I adore the dynamic between Hidalgo and Mexico, and I'm trying to show that as much as I can.
PLEASE review! I really want to know what you think of the story

P.S.
If you are a fan of this story and happen to be artistically inclined, I am having a contest on DeviantArt to draw a cover for this story (the one I am using currently is a drawing on Mexico I did a little while back). If you are at all interested, PM me