Hello to all you wonderful people!

The warning from the chapter before still applies to this one, but let me restate it.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

THIS CHAPTER IS RATED M FOR VIOLENCE AND VIOLENT SUBJECT MATTER, INCLUDING TORTURE. IF THIS COULD BE A TRIGGER FOR YOU OR IS DISTURBING, PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS CHAPTER. SERIOUSLY.

If you're cool with it, then have at it.

When Alfred came back to consciousness, everything around him was silent. His raspy breathing sounded sharp against the stifling silence around him.

What… What happened…

The air was oppressively thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and sweat, along with a twinge of whiskey. Something was dried against both the side and the back of his head, something that he vaguely remembered as being blood.

The pounding in my head…

He was sitting up on what felt like a wooden chair. He tried to move, but his arms and legs were bound fast to what he gathered were the legs of the chair. A clinking of metal met his ears, and something sharp poked at his wrists and ankles. His joints were stiff and sore. How long have I been out? Confused, he eased his eyes open. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but once they did, he didn't know what to make of the scene that greeted his eyes.

He was sitting in the middle of a small enclosed room no more than ten feet in length on either side. His feet were bare and cold as ice, and he could feel from the grittiness beneath his toes that the floor was rough unfinished stone. Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out the outline of a long table set against the wall. There was hardly any light to pierce the inky blackness that pressed in from all sides around him save for faint starlight coming into the room from behind him, along with the red glow of a burning cigarette directly in front of him. The cigarette's burning end illuminated the hollows and features of a face.

Alfred instantly recognized the face, and a cold stone dropped down into his stomach.

It was Samuel.

My God…

Instantly, everything rushed to the forefront of his mind. The battle, the hunt for Samuel, the confrontation, and the the hellish kick to his skull that knocked him unconscious. The wink Samuel gave him just before everything went dark seared itself into his mind.

Alfred's stomach turned at the sight of his face, and hatred burned like acid inside of him.

As Alfred's eyes adjusted better to the darkness, he could better make out the shape of Samuel's body. He was reclining in a chair much like his own, with one ankle crossed over his thigh and one hand on his knee. The other hand's index and middle fingers gently held the cigarette in front of his lips, and he let it slowly smolder in front of him. Samuel's eyes looked like empty black holes of nothing.

His lips were pulled into a smile that sent chills down Alfred's spine. It was vacant, cold, dead.

The two men stared unmoving at each other over the two foot chasm that lay between them for what felt like an eternity. The only movement that broke the stillness was when Samuel flicked the ash off of the end of the cigarette with his thumb or when he placed the cigarette between his lips, took a long and slow drag, and blew the smoke out of his nostrils slowly as if he were enjoying the moment. The smoke bathed Alfred's face and it curled into his nose and through his hair, but he didn't flinch. He focused solely on the red glow of the cigarette, not on the man who held it.

Suddenly, Samuel uncrossed his legs and leaned his chair backwards, then he knocked on the wooden door behind him. Instantly, a lock slid and the door opened, and Samuel righted his chair. A column of soft and flickering yellow light stretched through the opening of the door and draped over Alfred's toes. Two men with kerosene lanterns entered the cramped room and stood by the table along the wall where they set their lamps. One man slung a large canvas bag onto the table that clanged when its contents hit the table's surface. Their eyes were glued on Alfred, who for the first time, had a chance to take a good look at his captors.

The two men who walked into the room with the lamps were disheveled and swathed in grime. Their gray uniforms were bloody and stained, but they were of little importance to Alfred compared to Samuel.

In stark contrast to his companions, Samuel was pulled together perfectly. His hair was washed, combed, and tied back. Every part of his suntanned skin was scrubbed clean to the point that the faint freckles that spotted his nose and cheeks were easily visible. Even his nails were spotless. There wasn't even a hint of a wrinkle in neither his loose white ivory-buttoned shirt or his dark slacks. His black leather shoes were shined to perfection. He looked nothing like the madman he met on the battlefield, but Alfred felt that the veil between this version of Samuel and the killer he met a short time ago was paper thin. He thought back to when last they had met, on the balcony at the party.

This man, he thought, he can change on a dime. He has got to be swayed easily by his people. I know I was when I first got started. Alfred thought about how his thoughts had so easily flipped from boyish shenanigans to dark desires in those early days. He thought back to the Indian Removal and of what he did, how awful his actions were, how inhuman he was, how sick he felt when he finally regained control of himself. Those were days that he wished to forget. To this day he still drank himself into a stupor on the anniversary of the passing of the Indian Removal Act. He shuddered at the thought, then stared at the man before him.

It took me years to become able to control my people's influence on my mind, and even then that was with England's help.

He swallowed, but his throat was suddenly all too dry. The hatred that burned inside of him diminished instantly.

Samuel has no one. He's trying to figure this out all on his own.

Alfred met Samuel's eyes and searched them. His palms began to sweat, and grief suddenly swelled up in his heart. He knew the emptiness in Samuel's eyes.

His states have completely gutted him, they've taken over everything. There's no way he has any control.

Alfred's eyes softened. He's got to be terrified.

After a terse silence, Samuel leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He looked at Alfred very seriously for a moment, then cracked a questioning grin.

His cigarette danced between his lips as he asked what Alfred thought was the strangest question, "Do you drink?"

Alfred didn't know what to say to this, so he didn't say anything at all. No matter what he does, remember that he can't stop it. He has no control. This isn't him. This isn't him.

Samuel let the question linger in the air, then shrugged the silence off before continuing with his thought. "Well, I do, but we can't make any booze down here because we need the corn. Which is a tragedy, really. When I do happen to find some though, I try to grab it up as fast as I can."

Where are his states going with this? Alfred thought.

"I recently came into a bottle of Old Crow," Samuel remarked casually before he dropped what was left of his cigarette onto the stone floor and crushed it under his booted heel. He then reached into his right pocket and withdrew a silver flask, which he absentmindedly flipped in his palm as he talked. "That's what your general, what's his name–Grant!–likes, isn't it? I've heard he is quite fond of the bottle, if you know what I mean." He tipped his hand up as if it were a bottle and made glub, glub, glub noises, which threw him into a fit of deranged giggles.

Alfred sighed, his face pained. He's so far gone… There's no way I can reach him.

Samuel continued to laugh at himself for nearly fifteen seconds before pulling himself together with a sigh and leaning forward to withdraw a crystal bottle filled with an amber liquid from under his chair. The bottle landed on top of his knee with a dull thud and Samuel leaned back in his chair. He twisted the top off of the bottle, tossed it away, and opened his flask with his other hand and started to refill it. Almost as if he had forgotten Alfred's presence, he became engrossed with the amber flow of the whiskey. His head snapped up suddenly, and he held the bottle out to Alfred. "Are you thirsty?" he asked.

Alfred didn't respond. He didn't even acknowledge that the bottle was being offered. He thought back to all of the horrible things that he had said about Samuel before, and they made him feel sick. He's just a kid, he doesn't deserve this. No one deserves this.

Samuel continued to hold the bottle out toward Alfred. "You've got to be a little thirsty, you haven't had anything to drink in hours."

Alfred swallowed, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He was thirsty, but for water, not whiskey. A gnawing in his stomach grew with every second. He didn't know how long he had been unconscious, but it had been a number of hours. He chewed nervously on his cheek. He was thirsty though…

But there was something in that lopsided grin that Samuel proudly tacked onto his face was very, very wrong.

A rustle of fabric came from Alfred's left, and before he could turn his head to look, a hood was roughly thrown over his head. Hands jerked his neck back so that his head was tilted behind him, and another pair of hands held his frame steady against the back of the chair. Alfred tried to struggle and fight, but sharp metal spikes dug into his wrists and ankles with even the slightest movement. He could already feel blood trickle down the back of his hands and dribble to the tips of his fingers.

"Samuel," he pleaded through shaking lips, "Samuel listen to me, please, you've got to fight them! I know this isn't you!"

Alfred could see enough through the rough fabric over his head to make out Samuel's figure. It rose from the chair and slinked to Alfred's shoulder slowly, letting every footfall echo around the corners of the room. Alfred's breath caught in his throat.

"Come on," Samuel cooed from above, his voice unwavering and sweet. He raised his arm and held the open bottle of whiskey over Alfred's head. Slowly it tipped forward. Alfred could smell the whiskey, and it turned his stomach.

"Samuel, please-!"

Samuel's words dripped from his lips like honey.

"Have a drink."

Alfred's scream ripped through his throat and shattered the night's uneasy silence.

"Sammy!"

-x-x-x-

Samuel watched the golden whiskey spill from the open mouth of the bottle onto Alfred's hooded face, emotionless. Alfred choked, coughed, gasped, and gagged. Samuel's face, however, was stone.

He wanted to make this stop, he really did, but… He just couldn't bring himself to do it.

It sounded sick, but he was almost enjoying this.

He felt as if he were split into two people, but these two people resided in the same body. What was it Lincoln had said? 'A house divided against itself cannot stand'? How could he want one thing, while this other rivaling, primal side wanted the complete opposite? Where did it even come from?

Who even was he?

How can a man feel his heart beat in his chest, but not know who it beats for?

Sickened at what his own hand was doing, he lifted his flask to his lips and sucked down one, two, three gulps of the whiskey. It burned all the way down his throat until it settled deep in the pit of his stomach. It was the only warmth he felt in his body at all, aside from the burning of buried tears in his eyes.

Cheers.

-x-x-x-

ATTENTION

THIS IS WHERE THE TORTURE REALLY PICKS UP. IF YOU DO NOT WISH TO SEE THIS OR ARE WORRIED THAT THIS MAY BE A TRIGGER FOR YOU, THEN STOP READING NOW. IF YOU SKIP THIS, YOU WILL NOT BE MISSING OUT ON ANYTHING IMPORTANT AS FAR AS PLOT IS CONCERNED, WE PROMISE.

PLEASE, IF THIS IS A CONCERNING ISSUE, WE ARE BEGGING YOU TO SKIP THE REST OF THIS CHAPTER. IT'S NOT WORTH IT IF IT WILL NEGATIVELY AFFECT YOU. IF IT'S NOT AN ISSUE, THEN READ ON NERDS.

-x-x-x-

Alfred's hood was ripped off of his head and his body surged forward. He vomited up the contents of his stomach onto his knees, which was all whiskey and bile. He coughed until his ribs hurt, and snot and saliva dripped from his nose and lips. He sucked air into his lungs only to cough it back out. His eyes burned so badly he couldn't open them, and his nose felt as if Samuel had poured acid into it. Tears streamed from his swollen eyelids. The hair that wasn't plastered to his forehead or neck stuck out in all directions and was soaked with whiskey and sweat. Alfred's chest heaved as he tried to expel the whiskey from his lungs, but he ended up just vomiting more.

His body slumped forward and shook like a leaf. He could barely form a thought in his mind outside of God help me.

Footsteps slowly circled his chair. They went around him once, twice. A hand roughly shoved Alfred's head to the side, wrenching his neck to an angle that it was never meant to go with a sharp crack. Alfred groaned, then fell silent again. Footsteps circled his chair once more, then they stepped to the side. The empty glass whiskey bottle is placed gingerly on the table on his left. Alfred could hear a rustling through the bag on the table. Metal clanged together, followed by a succession of thuds. Alfred tried to count them, but he didn't bother with it after he realized what was happening. He tried to swallow the lump that instantly formed in his throat.

He's laying out his tools.

By now, Alfred's breathing had settled down into to a haggard rhythm. He sucked in a lungful of air, then let it rattle out of his chest. His pounding heart picked up speed until he was sure that it had never beaten so hard or so fast before in his life. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but he had to. He was scared out of his mind. He had heard the horror stories of what Confederate soldiers did to Union prisoners of war. They were brutal, ruthless, inhuman. Combining this reputation with a gutted nation resulted in something that Alfred wanted nothing to do with, but now this fate was staring him directly in the face.

He nervously picked at his fingernails behind his back. What am I going to do?

Alfred slowly straightened his spine so that his back rested against the chair. He sighed, then opened his swollen and bloodshot eyes.

Samuel was leaned against the wall by the table, his arms crossed against his chest, his expression smug yet strangely unreadable. His usually crystal-clear blue eyes were empty and dull. He looked present, yet not there at all. It was almost as if he were watching Alfred from a distance. He forced his eyes to remain on Samuel so he could keep them from roaming to see God knows what was laid out on the table.

He tried, he really did, but his twisting stomach got the better of him. He had to look.

He took one glance at the table and nearly vomited out of sheer terror.

Laid out on the wooden table from one end to the other were metal instruments that struck fear into his very core.

Rusted metal stakes as long as his forearm, thick leather straps and lengths of rope, hammers, saws, knives, a box that emitted scratching sounds and squeaks, buckets and long metal hooks.

I'm screwed.

Samuel watched Alfred closely for a few moments, then stepped up to his chair opposite Alfred and eased himself back into it. Every few seconds he would drink long and slow from his flask until he had sucked it dry. With nothing to steady himself, he ordered one of his men to go and find him something more to drink. Once the man left, he stood from his chair and ceded the comfort of whiskey for pacing back and forth across the room, one fingernail between his teeth that he would chew until it bled, then he moved on to the next finger, then the next.

Alfred watched him cautiously out of the corner of his eye. Now, every time he looked at Samuel, he saw a piece of himself. One moment it could be the way he walked, the next it could be the way he ran his fingers through his hair, and the moment after that it could be the flicker of fire in his eyes.

I was wrong, Alfred thought. He really is my brother. No wonder I couldn't see it before. I was wounded and he was overtaken by his people. Both of us were wearing blinders over our eyes, and neither of us could realize the other as a man. I just can't bear to see him like this…

Samuel rubbed his face with one hand, then started to roll up his sleeves.

If he isn't my spitting image… Alfred mused.

"Tell me Alfred," Samuel remarked casually. His voice rang hollow and empty as he absentmindedly ran his fingers over the edge of the table while he slowly walked past it. His hand grasped one of the metal stakes, and he flipped it in the air once. "The Army of the Potomac." He let a pause linger in the air before he continued speaking. "Where is its' next heading?"

Alfred clenched his jaw. He tried to not look at the rusted spike in Samuel's hand. Don't say anything, you can't say anything, no matter what don't say anything…

Samuel waited for Alfred to give an answer, and when he remained silent, Samuel shrugged his shoulders and drew close to Alfred's left shoulder. He laid a heavy hand on Alfred's shoulder, then draped his other arm around Alfred's other shoulder and neck. The hand that held the spike rested lightly on Alfred's chest. Alfred's heart pounded hard and fast, and he swore that Samuel could feel the beating of his heart through his shirt. Samuel brushed a stray strand of hair away from Alfred's neck, then put his lips lightly against Alfred's ear. His whisper was little more than a breath. Alfred tried to keep his body from shivering, but to no avail.

"The human body is an amazing thing. I find it utterly fascinating. The brain is what I find most intriguing." His fingertips grazed Alfred's temple and slowly traced the side of his head. They wound around the back of his ear and softly touched the base of Alfred's skull. "The brain can receive pain signals from the spinal cord and the adjoining nerves in a fraction of a second." Samuel dragged his finger down the back of Alfred's neck, over the skin of his shoulder, and hooked the tip of his finger under the neck of Alfred's shirt. He toyed with the hem, then pulled it to the side to expose the soft skin of Alfred's shoulder and chest. He eyed Alfred's collarbone, then slid his calloused hand over Alfred's shoulder. Goosebumps ran up and down Alfred's arms.

"Here–" Samuel circled his index finger over the skin and muscle under the collarbone but just beside the shoulder joint, "–lies a bundle of nerves under the muscles of the chest."

Alfred's breathing quickened. He knew what was coming, and he had to steel his body for the imminent, but he also had to steel his mind. He doesn't know what he's doing, he can't stop it, it's not his fault, Alfred repeated to himself over and over in his mind. It's not his fault, it's not his fault, it's not his fault…

Samuel's right hand flew up and drove the spike deep into Alfred's chest, right where Samuel had pointed out the nerves with the tip of his finger. Alfred's scream pierced the darkness and shattered the night. His body went rigid, and he strained at his bonds. His mind went numb to everything outside of the fire that licked at the left side of his body. Lightning surged through his arm and chest, along with a pain that was completely foreign to him in its intensity.

Samuel was unphased by Alfred's suffering. He continued speaking as if nothing had happened, only slightly louder. "When severely damaged," he said, "the injury can lead to paralysis of the arm." With a twist of his wrist, the spike wrenched to a new angle inside Alfred's chest, shredding flesh, fraying nerves, and severing blood vessels. Another scream broke free from Alfred's lips and ripped through his throat. Blood seeped from the wound and dripped down Alfred's chest in small bright crimson rivulets. Sweat beaded on his forehead, neck, and hairline until it dripped down his skin and settled in the hollows of his features. His mind was reeling, he couldn't form anything that even remotely resembled a coherent thought. Pain flooded his brain until there was no possible room for anything else.

When Alfred could manage to suck a breath into his lungs, he dared to open his eyes. His wide-eyed gaze caught Samuel's, and what he saw shook him.

Samuel was standing at arm's length away from him, with his eyes wide with both shock and fear. His lips were parted, but he made no attempt to speak. His calloused and bloodied hands shook like leaves, and a single glittering tear slid down from the corner of his eye down his cheek until it dripped off of his chin and onto the stone floor.

As soon as Alfred saw this display of emotion, the next second it was gone, replaced by the stony and cocky exterior that he had grown to know. Samuel's trademark smirk was back on his face where it belonged, but the tear stain betrayed the truth of the turmoil underneath his skin.

A deep rumble rolled in the distance and was followed closely by a far off flash of white. More than one storm was brewing in the dark of the night, but the one blowing in over the hills was the very least of Alfred's concerns.

And the plot sickens–thickens, my bad... Oh Alfred, Sammy, our babies...

What will happen next?! Tune in to the next chapter to find out! Leave a review if you're as stressed out as we are.

Love always,

Harley and Amanda