A/N: CONTENT WARNING: Discussion of death.

July 12, 1864

Washington, D.C.

Battle of Fort Stevens

It was pitch dark in his cell, but Alfred was awake. He'd been awake for some time, now, but he had no idea how long it'd been. A small corner of his brain told him that it had been a long time—too long, but the void behind his own eyelids promised nothing but nightmares, so he stayed awake.

For months now, his dreams were always of the dead and dying. He felt them in their last moments, on the operating table, on top of their dead comrades, by the cannons, in the ditches, scared too stiff to move even as their commanders heralded the charge. Day in and day out, it was the same. The same pain, the same death, the same jolting blows of cannon fire. The phantom smell of blood and alcohol lingered in his nose from his dreams inside the butcheries they called hospitals.

The dreams had grown worse as the Confederates drew near, so he refused to dream at all. Eyes open, stomach empty, rocking gently to generate some sort of breeze to cool himself in the sweltering heat, he waited. Sweat dripped down between his shoulder blades and disappeared into the already-soaked fabric of his shirt. He licked his lip and thought he should probably drink more water, but moving would jostle his brain and make the voices ring louder against the sides of his skull, like the bell in St. John's church.

A not-distant-enough boom rattled the ground all around him and he jumped. There were shadows slinking around in the curved walls of his cell, hiding in the groutlines of the tiles and the corners where his eyesight faded, waiting for him to let down his guard. Colorful stars dotted the blackness, dancing like sparks across his vision before melting away. The slivers of light around his cell door, usually a welcome spot of brightness in his dim world, shone like a halo of fire, a reminder of his isolation, of his vulnerability, of a coming storm.

"Has he even laid down yet?" asked someone outside, thinking they were speaking quietly.

"He's exactly where he was yesterday, and the day before," said someone else. "I don't think he's moved an inch. I've had the boys check on him every hour or two."

"Christ."

If he listened close enough, he could hear their thoughts take off in a sprint, down Pennsylvania avenue and into the river, running, running, away. It was so hot. Too hot, as hot as the August when his heart had burned, when the very building where he sat had burned to its foundation. It'd been so hot in the flames, choking him, smoking him out of his own body, killing him over and over and over again. He'd died so many times, too many times, enough times to fill the seas with the blood of his soldiers

Boom went the cannon, and Alfred jumped again, hands shooting up to cover his ears. It was too much, too close. It was bad enough with the battles were in Virginia or Maryland, when the fighting danced like razorblades along the seam of the sutured faultline arching down his left side, but now they were here, close and boiling in the District, and it was like a red-hot brand on his chest. He could hear every gunshot, every cannon fire, every shout and scream and dying wish. Montgomery county ached like a sunburn, and the violated borders of his Capital pulled on the twin cords of his neck until it brought the pain from his head down to his chest towards his heart.

"Return fire! Return fire!"

"Cavalry line, reform!"

"Sharpshooter, sir, on the roof!"

"Surely he needs water. Has he eaten anything?"

"No sir, not since Friday."

More gunfire; crumbling buildings; screams.

"General Hardin! General, a message from the—agh!"

"Stand your ground!"

"He needs to sleep."

"He needs us to win."

"More ammunition!"

"Don't let them take another step, boys."

"More sharpshooters, sir, across the road!"

"Why won't he answer?"

"Do you think he died again?"

"Open the door. Let's at least make sure he's got water."

A sound split the air like dynamite, a metal groan that became a human groan, humans dying all around, fresh-faced, untrained soldiers bleeding until all the sandstone in Washington was dyed red.

"Mr. President, get down, now!"

"Lincoln!" Alfred shouted, and was shocked to see that the door to his cell was open, and two guards were standing in front of him, startled and warily holding a bucket of water.

"Mr. Jones?" Said one. Alfred stared back, not sure if the guard was a figment of his imagination.

"Where's the President?" He asked instead. Even the imaginary ones answered, sometimes.

"Safe, sir."

"Are you sure? He's there," Alfred said. "He and his wife, they're watching, they're… a surgeon. He needs to be safe."

"A… surgeon?" whispered one guard. The other shook his head.

"We've brought you more water, sir," the guard set down the entire bucket, watching Alfred warily the entire time. "Would you like something to eat?"

Alfred's eyes wandered to the ceiling, where a shadow was waiting to eat the sound of his heartbeat.

"Alfred?"

"You should go," Alfred told the guards, eyeing the shadow that hid from the fiery light of the door, "I don't know how long it'll wait for. Maybe it's already burning."

The guards looked at each other, befuddled, before shuffling out of the door and locking it behind them.

"The battle will be over soon, Alfred, I swear," said the younger guard, with all the overdrawn optimism his youth allowed him. "Just hang in there."

Alfred waited for the shadow to descend, no longer able to tell waking from sleeping or battle from prison. Somewhere, someone was ferrying his President away from the battle, and the guns at Fort Stevens blazed on, rattling his bones with thunder and raining destruction down Georgia Avenue.

"We named this city for George," Alfred said loud enough so every scaffold, tile, and crane atop the Capitol dome would hear him, "and so help me God, you will not take her."

Historical Notes:

First of all, thanks for bearing with me! This chapter was a little different, but I wanted to spend some time on the psychological toll of the war on Alfred and use some more surreal-esque imagery to represent just how hard civil wars are on the nations.

1. The Battle of Fort Stevens was fought from June 11 through the 12th in 1864, and was the one and only time the Confederate Army breached the borders of Washington, D.C. The Confederate forces were about 10,000 strong, and while Washington ostensibly had at least three times that many, in actuality the bulk of their troops were untrained recruits, wounded, or other unsuitable soldiers. Therefore, D.C.'s defense was initially just under 10,000, making the two sides about equal in terms of manpower. D.C. was not well defended or fortified, and leaned on Fort Stevens, a fortification in the northeast of the city, for artillery support. The Confederates came into D.C. from the north, through Montgomery county, Maryland, near Silver Spring. They used houses in the district as perches for sharpshooters (snipers, essentially) to pick off Union soldiers. The battle ultimately resulted in a Confederate loss, and they retreated back up through Maryland and to Virginia. However, some Confederates still considered it a worthwhile venture. CSA Lt. General Jubal Early, the leading officer of the march into Washington, later commented "We didn't take Washington, but we scared Abe Lincoln like hell."

2. The battle of Ft. Stevens came in the middle of one of the worst heat waves of the summer, with no rain and temperatures above 90 degrees F (about 32 Celsius). This is still fairly toasty by D.C. standards today (and it's freaking humid in D.C., too, which makes it 1000x worse) but back then, before A.C. and when everyone was still fighting in wool uniforms, OUCH.

3. St. John's church, which opened in 1815, is about a block away from the White House. You know, the quaint yellow church from that "Oh, so America has a gestapo now" mid-protest photo op earlier this summer? That church. It's an old and beautiful D.C. landmark.

4. Lincoln and his wife stayed in D.C. for the entire battle, against the advice of many officers and advisors. They even went out to observe the battle on the 11th or 12th. They were at one point fired upon, and a surgeon standing nearby was shot and killed. It was at this point that Lincoln was sternly told to take cover, and then quickly whisked away to safety.

5. Regarding scaffolds and cranes on the Capitol dome: the Capitol building was still in the middle of construction during the war (as was the Washington Monument). You can find photographs of both structures from around this year, where you can see them unfinished. The main dome of the Capitol was not completed until after the war.