**CONTENT WARNING: Semi-graphic discussion of death/dead bodies.**

September 19, 1862

Washington, D.C.

Matthew knew that getting an actual audience with Lincoln would be difficult, but it was not, after all, quite as impossible as his inner pessimist had been expecting. It was nearly dusk by the time he'd made it to the White House lawn, and sunset by the time someone noticed him standing in a petitioning stance at the gate. When the butler made it close enough to see Matthew's face, he'd frozen, face going paper-white and shocked. Matthew was afraid he'd turn and run, so he quickly explained:

"I'm Matthew Williams," he peered through the bars of the iron fence, trying to catch the butler's eye and give him a firm but encouraging expression. "Alfred Jones is my brother. I've come from Canada to speak with President Lincoln—unofficially. Please, can you tell him I'm here?"

The butler may have attempted to say something, but it was lost in a mumble and he hurried back into the great house. Left alone with the crickets, Matthew stood at the gate and waited. It was past dark by the time the butler came to fetch him, but this time, he came with a set of heavy iron keys.

"Right this way, Mister Williams," the man said, and Matthew tried to ignore how the man kept looking at his face. He had no doubt it was because of his resemblance to Alfred—their identical faces had become more and more apparent as Matthew caught up to his brother's growing spurts—but the fear evident amid the surprise on his face made the colony nervous in ways he had not been anticipating.

He was let into a small sitting room where he was told the President was expecting him. There was a cart by the door filled with empty plates and cups, remnants of tea or perhaps supper. The fire was low and in need of more coal, but the two men gathered around the table full of maps and papers did not seem to notice or care. When Matthew entered, they both looked up, and collectively seemed to pause.

Lincoln looked exactly as he had in the photographs Matthew had seen: tall and deep-featured, bearded and stern, but with darker circles under his eyes and a wearier tilt to his brow. He was not alone. The other man had a long and frayed beard, a frown, and was peering at Matthew through small wire-rimmed spectacles with equal parts annoyance and interest.

"President Lincoln, Sir," Matthew gave an aborted bow, hands clenched tightly in front of him. He never knew quite how to behave in front of American presidents. Did he bow? Shake hands? Neither? He soldiered on: "Thank you so much for seeing me, I know you could not have been expecting me. I'm Matthew Williams. I'm Alfred Jones'-"

"Twin brother," Lincoln finished for him. His voice was tired, but kind. "Yes, he's told me about you. It's good to meet you."

"The same to you, sir," Matthew blushed to think that Alfred talked about him so much. He hoped his brother had curtailed his comments to flattering stories only. "I only wish that we could have met in better times."

"Indeed. I was surprised to hear that you were at my door, Mr. Williams, and so late at night." Lincoln looked around at the strewn papers, the half-consumed tea. "I apologize we cannot entertain you properly." He then gestured to the long-bearded man next to him. "This is Edwin Stanton, our Secretary of War."

"A pleasure," said Mr. Stanton.

Secretary of War, the words echoed in Matthew's mind. He gulped and steeled his mind to say what he'd been rehearsing to say for two days:

"I must apologize for my untimely and unannounced arrival, Mister President, Mister Secretary. I know my arrival has been unannounced, and it is because I have traveled here alone. My government does not know I'm here. The Empire certainly doesn't know." He paused to gauge their reaction to that, but if either was surprised, it was not evident to Matthew. He mustered his willpower and continued: "It is not my intention to waste your time, and I have nothing to say of politics. I am here only to ask after the well-being of my brother. I worry for him, I-" Matthew stopped and had to blink rapidly to fight off his own emotions. "Alfred and I are close," he said, "and for nearly two years I've had only one letter from him. I know the post is rarely secure in wartime, and so did not want to burden you with whatever I may say in my letters. For this end, I have traveled here in person to ask: where is my brother? Is he well? Is he-" Matthew was going to say 'safe', but he knew by now that Alfred could never be safe, not with the war. "-is he cared for?" he said instead.

Lincoln and Stanton stared at him for several long moments before exchanging subtle looks with each other. Matthew stood his ground. At length, Lincoln asked,

"Where have you traveled from, Mr. Williams?"

"Montreal," he said. "And Quebec before that."

"That is two days, at least, by train. Longer, if you took a coach from Quebec."

"Yes." Lincoln peered up at him.

"You travelled two days to ask after your brother?"

Matthew had known they would think it ridiculous. Humans always found it peculiar when nations felt so deeply about one another, when they cared about the passing of time when they themselves were so long-lived. Humans could not understand what it was like, to feel everything every man, woman, and child felt in one thousand-fold for centuries.

"Yes, sir," Matthew told him. "I worry for him, for the entire United States. Alfred's fortune is my fortune, and Alfred's peril will, in due course, always become mine. As we speak, hundreds of my people are joining your Army to fight for you, to die for you. I care for him and his wellbeing deeply, and his disappearance has caused me no small amount of worry."

Worry that the war would claim Alfred first, and come for Matthew next. Worry that Alfred would abandon the bonds of brotherhood and eat Matthew whole. Worry that the next skirmish at the border would spell an end to one or both of them. We've only ever had each other, he didn't say, because that wasn't something they shared with humans, and I worry I'm going to lose him for good.

"Alfred is lucky to have you as a brother," Lincoln said quietly, expression softer than before. Stanton remained stern-faced, and looked as though he wanted to say something, but Lincoln interrupted him. "Mr. Williams, you understand this is a unique and delicate time for us and for your brother. Alfred is an incredibly important person in this war. We must protect him, and information about him, quite ruthlessly." Matthew's heart was sinking to the floor. He'd known this was a likelihood.

"Yes, sir."

Lincoln tugged thoughtfully on his beard, and looked away from the colony. "Give me a moment with Mr. Stanton," he said. "While we decide what to tell you."

At Lincoln's beckoning, a footman escorted Matthew from the room, and the colony perched himself on a hallway bench, jumping at every noise and shift of light as he awaited a summons back. Please just let me hear of him, he prayed desperately. Let me see him, or know where he's gone. Give me whatever letters he may have been unable to send. Please, just tell me what's become of him.

The door opened in a burst, and Matthew jumped. Stanton stormed through it first, ignoring Matthew entirely and marching down the hall leading away. Lincoln appeared a moment later, watching Stanton go with something like regret or apology in his expression, before closing the door behind him and turning to find Matthew waiting for him. Matthew stood as Lincoln approached.

"I have always understood Canadians to be, even moreso than their brethren from across the water, men of their word, Mr. Williams." Lincoln appraised him from above; the man was immenselytall. Matthew remained silent. "Therefore I am willing to accept your word, should you swear it upon God and all that you hold dear, that what I'm about to disclose will forever remain between yourself and the Almighty. Not a word, not a whisper, not even a hint to anyone in your house, your staff, or any other personage be they human or nation in the world." Matthew didn't have to think.

"I swear it, Mr. President." Lincoln nodded, and consulted his pocket watch. It was very late now, but the President only sighed.

"Come with me."

It was a short carriage ride to the Capitol building. Lincoln did not explain much on the journey. He told Matthew that Alfred had become unstable upon the outbreak of war, but withheld all detail, leaving the colony to wonder. He explained that Alfred was, in fact, in D.C., and had been from the onset of conflict. This news raised Matthew's spirits more than he thought possible. He'd hoped, of course, but not actually expected to see Alfred in the flesh. However, his visible elation had only made the weariness in Lincoln's eyes grow stronger.

"I hope you will not take offense, Mr. Williams, when I say that the only reason I've convinced Secretary Stanton to let you see your brother is because I desperately need your advice. I do not understand the nature of nations, and I do not know how to help him. And he does need help," he said. "Help I'm not sure any earthly being can give."

Matthew frowned. The eels of worry writhing in his gut gobbled up the dregs of his relief.

"I will do what I can," He promised, not knowing what it was worth.

Matthew had not seen Alfred's Capitol building, or indeed D.C. itself, since it'd burned to the ground in 1814. He'd not personally helped set that fire—that had been Arthur's doing—but he remembered feeling intense vindication upon feeling the flames' heat upon his face. Now, seeing the grand building restored to its former glory and more, he felt stupid and silly for ever thinking 1814 would deter Alfred from his metropolitan dreams.

Marble, granite, and sandstone passed in beguiling patterns, statues, art, and rich tapestry confusing his sense of space and location as Lincoln led him through the halls. There were pairs of guards stationed throughout the building, something Matthew found odd. They all snapped to attention whenever Lincoln appeared, and through the stoic expressions of the soldiers, Matthew could tell they were surprised to see their commander making an appearance, especially at such an hour.

Lincoln led him down a set of stairs, and then another, and they emerged in a level of the building Matthew knew had to be below ground. The ceiling was lower here, and the lack of windows made it feel claustrophobic. Unlike the rooms above, there was no art, no tapestries or fine scrollwork to speak of. There were only bare walls and cold floors, upon which their footsteps echoed not in grandeur, but isolation.

After following a long, curved corridor, they approached a short hallway where not two, but four guards stood posted in front of an iron grate. It looked as though it had a sheet of iron bolted to it to form an opaque door, the handiwork new and somewhat sloppy. As they moved closer, Matthew was hit by a horrible smell: the smell of sweat, of human waste, stale blood, and decay.

"I must warn you," Lincoln told him quietly, "he will not be as you know him. Last I saw him, he was… I'm not sure how he is at present."

Wide-eyed and unable to hide his rising horror, Matthew nodded. They led him to the gate. Lincoln said something to the guards to make them step aside. One of them unlocked the door. It squealed as it swung open. Matthew stepped inside. The room was cast in utter darkness, so one of the guards passed him a lantern to light the way.

He saw the bed before he saw Alfred. At first glance, he thought his brother was sleeping, but after a moment the lantern light caught the dull gleam of Alfred's open eyes, and Matthew let out a cry that echoed horribly in the cramped stone cell.

"Alfred!" He fell to the bedside, nearly dropping the lantern in his haste. He set it down gracelessly and reached immediately for Alfred's neck. There was no pulse, but his eyes could have told him to expect it. Alfred's face was grey, his lips blue, and his entire body reeked of death.

"I've been led to believe he will come back," Lincoln said from behind, sounding unusually nervous. It was a tone Matthew's governors sometimes fell into when they were reminded of how old Matthew was, how utterly ancient and powerful Arthur was. "To my knowledge, he's not died since the early decades of this century. President Jefferson has left us some musings on the nature of Alfred's health and body, but… He's not told us how long to expect such resurrections to take."

"How long has he been dead?" Matthew asked, realizing he was crying only when his voice wobbled from the tears.

"Since Wednesday," Lincoln told him. It was Friday. "There was an invasion. A battle, that is. Our armies saw horrible, unthinkable loss. Alfred was—" Lincoln hesitated. "He was dying before we knew the final toll. We are not sure, exactly, when he passed."

Matthew was preoccupied and unable to listen properly. He cradled Alfred's lifeless face and hiccuped in his attempts to keep the crying at bay. He brushed filthy blonde hair away from his brother's face and grasped his limp-fish hand as if it would do any good. He's so pale, his thoughts raced. His arms are so skinny, his face is so thin, his skin is so cold.

"How many?" He finally asked, not looking away from Alfred's face. "How many dead?"

"Over twelve thousand from the Union," Lincoln told him quietly, "they're still not certain of the Confederate dead."

"Oh, Christ," Matt choked, tears welling up such that he could no longer see. "Two days," he whispered to Alfred, "it's been two full days, you should be awake by now." He shook Alfred's arm under his hand, and hated how his brother's body lulled with the motion, limp neck yanking his head to and fro like a doll. "Al," he breathed, "wake up. You've got to… come on, now, that's no way to… wake up," he shook again, and again the body jolted under his touch. He tried not to cry, but it was impossible to regain composure, seeing Alfred's face, his face, reflected in death there on the bed. He'd known Alfred had died before. They'd both died several times, across the years, and they'd talked about it before. Still, he'd never had to see Alfred after it'd happened.

"Please," He turned to Lincoln, knowing his face was wet with tears, "please let me stay with him until he wakes up."

Lincoln looked shaken. It was not until much later that Matthew would consider how traumatic it must've been for the man to see his nation laid out like this, now complete with a weeping twin brother. "Of course," the President said.

Matthew did not hear it when Lincoln left, or when the door clanked shut behind him, or when the President whispered instructions to his men to keep a close eye on the visiting colony and their slumbering nation.

Matthew waited by Alfred's corpse, crying and utterly catatonic in turns, for hours that felt like days. There was no comfortable surface in the cell on which to rest besides the bed and a ramshackle old wicker-seated chair which was too tall to sit comfortably by Alfred's bedside. Matthew contented himself with the cold floor. He leaned his head against the bed, hair brushing against Alfred's cold arms as he dozed, too worried to sleep but too exhausted from his journey to remain awake.

Sunrise meant nothing in this underground hideaway, and the only way that Matthew knew so much time had passed was by the amount of melted wax that accumulated in the bottom of the lantern still burning by Alfred's bedside.

About one and a half inches before the candle met its end, Alfred's body lurched and pulled in a wet, grotesque inhale. Matthew started awake at the sound. Alfred's eyes were open and terrified, his lungs fighting for breaths they didn't know how to take, spasming and gurgling. His arms shook as he struggled to right himself. He only got far enough to lean over the bed's edge and vomit blood.

"Alfred," Matthew said, moving out of the way so Alfred could heave. The first few breaths were always the most terrifying. "Alfred, it's alright." He grabbed his brother's wrist, and even as the nation choked and coughed and gagged, he grabbed hold of Matthew's hand as tight as though he clung to a cliff's edge. As the heaving subsided, Alfred's sky blue eyes swam over to Matthew's face, red-rimmed and worried in the candle light. It took a long moment before the terrified fog parted and he Matthew knew Alfred was fully resurrected.

"Mattie?" Alfred squeaked.

"Yes," Matthew whispered, taking Alfred's hand into both of his. "Yes, I'm here."

"Mattie," Alfred said again, his whole body trembling from shock and making his voice shake, too, "what are you doing here?"

"I'm here for you," Matthew said. "I was worried. I was—easy, now," he steadied Alfred's shoulder as his twin heaved again, gagging as his empty stomach clenched, remembering how to make acid and bile. It was all a painful process. "Easy," Matt said again.

"Water," the colony called back at the door, knowing the guards must've heard them by now. "Please, get us some water, and bread, too,"

"Not bread," Alfred wheezed, his hand still holding Matthew's wrist in a terrified vice grip. "Not yet."

"No, but I want you to have it later," Matt whispered to him. He heard boots shuffle across the ground. A latch in the gate opened, and a guard peered in, candlelight leeching in around his face.

"Is he awake?" the man sounded astonished. Matthew wondered if he even believed in the nature of nations.

"Yes, and poorly. I need water for washing and for drinking. And new clothes. And new bedclothes. And bread. And some warm broth, if you can find it. And bandages." He turned back to his brother, using the end of his sleeve to wipe away the blood that had begun to gather at the corner of his mouth. The guards' footsteps echoed down the hall as they retreated away from the cell.

"You're hurt," Matthew assumed. "Where?"

"Mattie, you need to get out of here. You'd not meant to be here."

"Nonsense," Matthew snapped. "I'm here. Now tell me where you're hurt, or I'll strip you and find out myself."

"Side," Alfred closed his eyes, too tired to put up a fight. "Left side."

Matthew uncovered Alfred's left side and cursed.

The guard arrived sometime later with all the things Matthew had requested, and once he relinquished the supplies Matthew immediately began demanding more candles and additional water, and a needle and thread to attend to Alfred's wounds. He got these, too, though it took enough time for him to complain about it to the guard who'd brought them.

"You sound like Arthur when you're bossy," Alfred accused while Matthew pulled a stitch through his skin. The huge gash that had formed across Alfred's side from above his navel to the jut of his left hip was closing slowly and painfully under Matthew's care. Alfred tried not to wince as he pressed the needle through again.

"I'm going to decide to take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't meant to be."

"I know." Matthew hated the sound that the thread made as it sailed through his brothers' flesh.

"Mattie, why did you come here?" Alfred asked.

"One letter," he said, and was surprised by the venom in his own voice. "Nearly two years, and you send me one damn letter, I've been sick with worry. I thought that you… that is, I thought that maybe…" He sighed, and finished a stitch before he spoke again. "I didn't know what to think, Alfred. The whole world has been worried for you." Alfred scoffed.

"Worried," he repeated. "Not worried enough to stop the rumors that—" he hissed when Matthew pulled the final stitch through. "Damn it all," he said. "This isn't your fight, Mattie. You need to go home, to be safe. Before I…" he paused. "Before I screw it all up."

"Shush," Matthew told him as he tied off the suture. "I chose to come here."

"Does Arthur know?"

"No."

"Does your governor?"

"...No." Despite his pathetic state, Alfred managed an impressed whistle.

"My brother, the rebel. Who'd've thought?" he teased, smiling taught through the pain.

"Shush," Matthew demanded again. The pair fell into silence as Matthew packed up the medic kit the guards had brought to him. He helped Alfred into a fresh shirt and loose trousers, and spent some time looking for Alfred's glasses until he found them sitting atop the small bookshelf in the corner. While Alfred fussed over the dirty lenses, Matthew took his time piling the soiled linens into a corner, trying to figure out how to best phrase what he would ask next.

"Why are you here, Al?" he ventured. Alfred wouldn't look at him. "This is a cell. A prison. They've locked you away here, and you must've let them."

"It's for my own good," Alfred said hollowly. "And for theirs, too."

"What does that mean?"

"I can't fight on the fields."

"Why not?"

"I just can't, alright?" Alfred snapped.

"But you died," Matthew reminded him. "You died, just like you would have done if you were fighting, but you're not. So why? Why lock you up, shut you away? You can't like it down here," Matthew said, glaring at their dark surroundings. It was well noon, from what his pocket watch told him, but it was still dark as night here in the cell. "You wouldn't choose this, I know you wouldn't."

Alfred glared at him, but only for a moment. His body was still shuddering and cramping as it remembered how to function, and he winced through a particularly bad cramp in his right leg before he said,

"I think I could have some broth now, if it's still warm."

Matthew helped him to eat for the first few bites. After that, he was able to hold the spoon himself and only spilled a little bit on his lap as he did. Matthew moved the lantern around the room, lighting the candles that the guards had fetched for him.

"There," he said once he was finished. "That's a bit more cheerful now, isn't it?" There was not much to cheer. The cell was small, with only a bed, a small bookshelf, a chair, and a tiny table, barely big enough to eat a meal on; or write a letter. Matthew remembered the one and only letter he'd had from Alfred since the start of the war, and how abrupt it'd been. I'm running out of paper, he remembered reading. Had Alfred written him from here, in this cell?

"Alfred," He began to ask, but stopped when he saw his brother. Alfred had set the bowl of broth aside and was staring ahead with wide eyes, hand gripped to the edge of the bed. "Alfred?" Matthew said again, this time in concern.

"Mattie," Alfred snapped, not looking fully at his brother, "get out. You have to get out of here, leave. I…" he stiffened, choking again in what appeared to be a post-revival fit. They always lasted the first day or two after dying. Matthew rushed to his side.

"Al, easy, there, just breathe, alright?" He frowned, watching his brother's face contort with sympathy. "Why do you want me to leave? You think I haven't seen someone come back from dying before?"

Alfred was still stiff, jerking forward as if trying to keep from vomiting again. Eventually the tremors subsided, and Alfred stilled before looking up at his brother.

"Leave?" he said, and his voice was odd. "Why would I…" he frowned and looked at Matthew dead in the eyes and froze. He looked his twin up and down. "You," he said.

"What?" Matthew replied.

"Brother," Alfred said, dropping the 'R' in an accent not unlike Arthur's. Matthew leaned away.

"Alfred?" he asked, trying to look into Alfred's eyes. "Are you alri-"

"Don't call me that," Alfred snapped. "That's not my damn name." Matthew was nonplussed, not only by the words, by the voice that spoke them.

"Al, why on earth are you talking like-"

"I said, stop calling me that," Alfred roared, and surged up off the bed to grab Matthew by the throat. The colony choked around his twin's hand, which was tighter than an iron vice. He grabbed at Alfred's skinny wrist, which despite his earlier fatigue was corded and taught with unnatural strength.

"Al," he gurgled around the name, "let me go,"

"My name is not Alfred," his brother drawled, drawing him closer, so that their eyes were only centimeters apart. His hand was too tight now for Matthew to breathe, let alone speak. "My name is Andrew. I killed Alfred afield ten thousand times over. He is not your brother any more than I will be his slave." Andrew shoved Matthew away, and the colony staggered back, coughs rattling his chest.

"What are you talking about?" Matthew said, holding his sore neck.

"The United States is dead and dying. It's going to be me, just me now. I'll be better than he ever was. More free, more upright, more true. Now get on out of here and go tell it to your betters. Sir Kirkland has ignored every letter I send his way, but he won't ignore you," Andrew squinted at Matthew and began to advance on his twin, slowly like a wolf. "He adores you. He worries for you, and it is worry well-founded. You think your dear brother won't turn around and eat you alive when he realizes I'm winning?" Matthew was backing away from his twin, not watching where he was going. He was too transfixed and aghast by his brother's monstrous expression. "You think he won't curse your name? Burn your cities? Upended all that you've built? I can help you, protect you from him, but not if I'm fighting alone. Tell that to Arthur."

Matthew only realized that his back was to the cell door when he felt it rattle against him when a guard banged on it.

"What's going on in there? Everything alright? I heard raised voices." Matthew ignored it, staring into the eyes of a stranger he thought he'd known since before they'd had names.

"Alfred," He began,

Andrew yelled in wordless fury and flew at him, hands outstretched and teeth bared. Matthew struggled with him, barely holding his brother's hands away from his neck

There was a shuffle of commotion on the other side of the door, and before he knew what was happening, the door was squealing open and Matthew was being pulled out of the cell backwards by his arms. The soldiers pried Andrew's hands off him only by slamming the butt end of a musket down on his knuckles. Cut loose, Matthew fell back and watched from the ground as Andrew howled in pain. One of the guards kicked him back into the cell.

"Close it! Close it, quickly now, quickly!" He shouted to his three comrades, who all had to lend their weight against the door to press it closed and lock it against Andrew's furious shouts and swears. He kicked at the door and the sound echoed across the entire basement.

"You tell him!" Andrew shouted at Matthew from behind the door. "You tell him my people are dying tenfold of Lancashire. Tell him the streets of Washington will run red before I let him take my freedom. Tell Arthur that he's signing your death warrant by abandoning me now. You tell him that, little brother."

Matthew was dumbstruck. One of the guards helped him to his feet.

"You okay?" he asked. Matthew could not answer.

"I need to go," he said, feeling not quite himself. "President Lincoln brought me here. I should… that is, I ought to speak with him, before I…"

"I'll call for him."

Lincoln had heard about what happened before Matthew got in the coach. It was mid-morning, but for Matthew it may as well have been the witching hours of the night.

"I know this must be hard for you," Lincoln said gently, once they were underway and alone in the privacy of the car. "You understand now why he's been under lock and key."

"Mmm," Matthew hummed, not able to make his mouth form words. Little brother. Alfred had never called him that, ever. Even in their tense days during Alfred's Revolution, when Matthew really had been littler, Alfred had never demeaned him in that way. It'd only ever been 'Mattie'.

"Do you know what's happening to him?" Lincoln asked, bringing Matthew from his reverie. "There is no one to consult, no sage who can give me answers to his condition. I can hardly bare the truth of his state to other nations, but you've come here freely, and I'd hoped you might be able to help me, in return for my trust."

Matthew realized that Lincoln had made a very serious gambit in letting him see Alfred—Andrew—whoever it was. He must've been desperate when Alfred died.

"How long has it been this way?" Matthew asked. "With the… you know."

"About two years," Lincoln said, and Matthew had to look out the window and catch his breath. "Do you know what's happening to him?"

"No," Matthew blurted helplessly. He'd heard stories from the Old World, anecdotes in some of Arthur's more gruesome bedtime stories, but he'd never thought they'd been so literal. Such fantastical re-tellings did not measure up to the reality of Alfred's possession. "No, I've never seen anything like it," He said, voice fragile. Lincoln looked, if possible, more world-weary than before. Matthew caught the expression. "I'm so sorry, sir, I am still very young. This has probably happened before, but not to me, or anyone I know—well," he looked at his hands, "until now."

Silence passed between them, the gravel of Pennsylvania Avenue crackling underneath the carriage wheels.

"I'm sorry for your brother," Lincoln said at length, "and that you had to see him like that. Losing our siblings is not easy, even if it is temporary." The tender note to his voice made a lump appear in Matthew's throat and he found himself unable to answer. He nodded instead. They were pulling into the White House's North Lawn drive before Matthew said:

"You must take care of him." He managed to look Lincoln in the eye. "You must see that he survives, Mr. Lincoln." The president met the colony's gaze and gave a somber nod.

"It is my one and only aim, Mr. Williams."

Matthew returned to Montreal and wired Theodore to fetch him. He said nothing in the carriage ride home to the wooded outskirts of Quebec, and was grateful when his butler did not press the matter. He went straight to bed, forsaking tea and supper altogether. There was a pile of mail on his desk that he'd seen when he first reached his rooms, but he had not the heart to sort through it that night.

He needed to tell Arthur about Alfred. He needed to, he ached to, but he couldn't. He'd made President Lincoln a promise, and after seeing Alfred in such a fragile state, he was terrified that if he broke his promise, he'd have to watch as the world unraveled Alfred completely. "Stop calling me that," the shouts echoed in his mind as he struggled for sleep. "He is not your brother anymore."

"Alfred, you fool," he cried into his pillow, wishing he'd had the chance to say goodbye before Andrew had taken him. He wanted to believe he'd see Alfred again, but in war, nothing was certain but more misery before either victory or defeat. He hugged his pillow hard to his face, because he hadn't had the chance to hug his brother. "You colossal, selfish fool."

Historical Notes:

1. Just a quick side-note here to say that at this point in time, Matthew does not yet wear glasses, so when people see him and think he looks similar to Alfred, they are correct, but Alfred does still have the glasses to distinguish him at this point in time.

2. Edwin Stanton was indeed Lincoln's Secretary of War for the duration of the Civil War. Though he certainly accomplished many things during his tenure that took a formerly disorganized and rudderless war apparatus and turned it into something that could fight the Confederacy, he was regarded by many to be overly cautious and controlling of those under him. He was also a very taciturn individual, and more inclined to reason and strategy than personal feelings—a good quality for a secretary of war, you might say, but not necessarily great company for tea.

3. So as you probably know, attacking British forces burned Washington D.C. largely to the ground (including the White House and the Capitol) in 1814. The capitol was afterwards rebuilt. Though most of this second capitol building stands today, the capitol as we know it has been expanded and renovated many times. One such renovation in 1958 required some demolition that removed the 19th century masonry from the building, mostly limestone and marble. You can visit these "ruins" of the capitol, now called the Capitol Stones, in Rock Creek Park, which is an NPS-run park in D.C. that is a short jaunt northwest from downtown. They're eerily beautiful! If you ever get the chance to visit them, tread carefully and with respect, those old bricks have some stories to tell!

4. The battle referred to in this story (the one that killed Alfred by proxy, as it were) is the Battle of Antietam (also referred to the Battle of Sharpsburg by more Confederate-sympathetic writers. The battle is so named because it was fought near Sharpsburg, Maryland, and Antietam Creek). This battle was fought in the Union state of Maryland, and was the first significant battle fought on Union soil. It was also the single bloodiest day in the Civil War. Fought almost entirely on September 17, 1862, the total casualties amounted to nearly 23,000, with over 12,000 on the side of the Union and over 10,000 on the side of the Confederacy. It is important to note that casualty counts include both dead and wounded, and the clear majority of the causalities in this battle were in fact injuries, not deaths, which is common in all Civil War battles. This distinction is what differentiates the terms "bloodiest" (i.e. most injuries + deaths) versus "deadliest" (i.e. most deaths). However, it's also worth noting that a lot of the men who were "injured" causalities would likely die shortly after the battle due to various medical complications. Civil War medicine was gruesome at best and downright evil at worst.

5. Lincoln's mention at the end there of how it is difficult to lose siblings was a reference to Lincoln's hard adolescence. Lincoln was born into poverty, and lost his mother when he was only nine years old. His sister Sarah, who was only two years older than him, essentially raised him for a year until their father remarried. Sarah died age 21 following complications of childbirth of a stillborn son when Lincoln was 19. This was a devastating blow for him, as Sarah was his only full-blood sibling (his stepmother from age 10 onwards had three children, but he did not grow up with these children as his siblings as he had with Sarah).