April 9, 1865

Washington, D.C.

General Robert E. Lee has surrendered to General Ulysses S. Grant in Appomattox Courthouse, Virginia

Alfred slept, and for the first time in many years, he dreamed of nothing at all. There was no death, no war, no blood or mutilation. He felt no emotion, could not speak or move, heard without hearing, and saw without seeing. It felt like a better version of the void that awaited him whenever he died, but now he enjoyed a prolonged stay, untainted by the fear of resurrection. It was utter bliss.

There were people talking nearby, but their words meant nothing to him here.

"Oh Christ, has he died again?"

"No sir, he's only sleeping."

"What, again?"

"He never woke up, sir. Didn't even wake up for lunch."

The void moved in sourceless rhythms around him, caressing his hair like the hand of a loving parent, supporting his body in a weightless grip that made his brain float like he'd had too much champagne.

"He must be exhausted."

"We need to wake him up. Mr. Colfax just signed the order."

"Mr. Colfax? Not the Vice President?"

"Mr. Johnson refused to sign. The President told Mr. Colfax to do it instead."

The was a great creaking noise, and it sounded like a chorus of crystal cymbals coming in to percuss the strange music of the void.

"Refused to—he's been trapped here for five years!"

"I don't think Johnson thinks the war is over."

"It's over enough. Mr. Jones? Alfred?"

He continued to float along to the melody of silent music, even as someone shook his shoulder and wiped greasy, filthy hair out of his eyes.

"Alfred, you need to wake up."

The colorless sky and ocean were not separated here, and danced around him in swirls of cool and warm, massaging his weary bones with relief that tickled.

"Alfred?"

"I told you, he's been asleep this whole time. You know he hasn't slept well. Now that it's over… maybe he's trying to make up for lost time."

A sigh, which felt like the breeze.

"Well then, help me lift him up. Get his feet. Careful of the door."

"Where are we taking him?"

"They've set up a tub down the hall in the south wing."

"Are we bringing him back here after, or…?"

"No."

Waking up was completely unlike coming back to life, and this particular time felt less like waking up and more like a dream. He was still floating, arms and legs sluggish in a cloud of softness. Softness, he very slowly realized, was water. He blinked open his eyes. The stench of his cell was gone, and in its place was the sweet smell of soap and warm water. He was naked in a bathtub, and someone was gently pouring water over his head, shielding his forehead and eyes as they scrubbed soap into his hair. Alfred melted into the touch (how long had it been since he'd felt human touch?) and let out a small grunt of satisfaction.

"Is he awake?" Someone above him asked quietly.

"Dozing, I think," someone else whispered back.

They scrubbed his entire body and he couldn't feel embarrassed about it. They trimmed his fingernails and scrubbed underneath, and the feel of another pair of hands holding his own was so exquisite he wanted to cry. They wrapped him up in a soft towel and coaxed him out of the tub and onto a chair (a chair!), where they combed and dried his hair, now long enough to reach his shoulders. One of them fetched a pair of scissors and told him to hold his head steady. As they cut away the ruined blond hair to uncover the short style he'd worn before the war, tears finally spilled down his cheeks.

"Sir?" said the man with the scissors, pausing mid-snip when he saw him crying. "are you hurt?"

"Shh," said another, softly. Alfred thought it sounded like Hal. A hand came to rest on his shoulder. "He's alright, just been a while, is all."

Thank you for not making me say it, he thought, and hoped Hal understood.

After the haircut, they tilted the chair back and shaved his face, which though still too young for a full beard, had over the years created a scraggly mess of hair across his cheeks and jaw. By the time they had him cleaned up and standing in a fresh set of clothes, Alfred was fully awake and alert. This did not help him control the tears that still misted his vision.

"Thank you," he told the men who'd taken such good care of him. His voice was hoarse from disuse, and he realized he must not have spoken to anyone in several days. "Thank you, I… I'm sorry that I-" his voice wobbed.

"None of that, now," Hal said. Alfred had never seen him in full light before, and realized now that the man must've been old enough to have grown children, perhaps even grandchildren. "Come along. The President has asked to see you for himself."

Alfred stiffened. "Here? Is that safe?" He glanced at his wrists, and then at Hal's belt, to see if the man was carrying irons with him.

"In his office." Alfred's eyes went wide as saucers. "The carriage is waiting outside."

Alfred could not stop the tears from flowing down his face. He was not crying, not exactly. His face was not screwed up in a grimace, and he was not sobbing or even breathing unevenly. His chin did not wobble and his voice did not shake, it was just that he could not keep the tears at bay as he looked out the carriage window into the endless plains of a sky he hadn't seen in five years, now cast pink and orange in a springtime sunset.

He was grateful that Hal was the one escorting him to the White House, because the older man seemed to read his mind better than his younger colleagues. He said nothing about Alfred's tears, or about how the nation could not tear his eyes away from the window and everything outside.

They reached the White House in short order, and Hal exited first, Alfred following. Absently, he gripped his wrists in his opposite hands, almost hoping someone would pull out a pair of irons. He was not sure this was a good idea, letting him near Lincoln. Haunted by hazy memories of the last time he'd come here, Alfred held his hands close to himself as the attendants led him and his guard further into the house.

"Right this way, Mister Jones," waved an attendant. Hal stayed behind, and Alfred looked helplessly back at him as he was ushered away, still holding his own wrists. Hal gave him an encouraging smile, and a gentle salute.

Then, he was being let into Lincoln's office. The President was reading a letter, facing the window. Seeing him, Alfred felt small. Lincoln's height always made him feel small, but the feeling was magnified tenfold now. After they'd bathed him, they'd dressed Alfred in a set of his old clothes, which were now several sizes too large for him. He hadn't realized how much weight he'd lost during the war, but the shirt and jacket hung off of him like canvas on a tentpole, swallowing him up whole. He had no doubt that he looked like a starved child.

The door clicked closed gently behind him, and Lincoln turned to see him. Alfred was stunned to realize how much the man had aged since he'd taken office, grey hair dusting black at the temples, wrinkles deeper than before. Then, for the first time since before his imprisonment, Lincoln smiled at him. Without a word, the President crossed the distance between them and handed Alfred the letter he'd been reading.

"General Lee has surrendered," Lincoln told him.

Alfred looked at the letter in his hand, trying to read the words and having to start again several times because he was reading too fast. When he finally took the time to read the news enclosed there, and the reality of the ink on paper finally sunk in, he cracked. Holding the letter in one hand, his other hand shot up to his face, and he wept.

The tears had been flowing all day, but now the sobs came in to join, huge, involuntary heaves that bent his back and shook his entire body. He felt the letter plucked from his hand, and Lincoln pressed a handkerchief in its place. Alfred stood there, desperately trying to stifle the sounds threatening to escape him when Lincoln said,

"You're not going back to that tomb. You're going to stay here, in the White House with Mrs. Lincoln and I. It's long overdue."

The childish wail of relief that came out of him was something he'd be embarrassed about later, but in the moment there was nothing he could've done to stop it. He pressed the handkerchief to his nose and mouth and felt as though he might fall. Lincoln grabbed him by the elbow and kept him standing.

"This ought to be a day of celebration, Alfred," said Lincoln, uncharacteristically pleased. Alfred realized he'd never known the man during peacetime. "I can only hope these are tears of joy."

Alfred looked up at the man through tears, and immediately had to blink away another sob. "Yes," he hiccuped, nodding, "yes, I know, I just…" he realized that with the war over, he was free. He was alive, and whole, and Andrew was gone for good. He was free. "I… thank you," he said, whimpers escaping him again. He tried to cough to disguise it. "Thank you."

Lincoln drew the nation into a gingerly, stilted hug. "There could be no other end, my friend."

America continued to weep, but as his president had hoped, they were only tears of joy.

Historical notes:

1. The surrender of Confederate General Robert E. Lee at Appomattox Court House on April 9 was not the only surrender it took to end the Civil War, and it would be some time before all Confederate forces had surrendered to the Union, however, this was the most important and pressing surrender. Once Lee surrendered, the rest of the CSA (and the Union) knew it would only be a matter of time before all of the Confederate armies came crashing down.

2. Schuyler Colfax was the Speaker of the House at this time. The Vice President, as the President of the Senate, would've been the one to sign Alfred's release order, but as stated here Johnson was skeptical of letting Alfred roam free. So, Lincoln asked Schuyler, the next-in-line in terms of Congressional authority, to do the honors instead.

3. As you all have probably noticed by now, this fic will continue on past the end of the war itself. Stay tuned for the fallout.