England had continued to write to Arthur Fremantle in hopes he would get a reply soon. He hoped with references by the Prime Minister and the Queen herself would help change Fremantle's mind.

In the meantime, England decided to see how France was doing. France had set England up in his house. It was a different atmosphere than his own country, but he was moderately comfortable due to growing up with France.

"I don't know what to do," France said as he sipped on some red wine. He had offered some to England, but he didn't much care for the taste.

"What do you mean?" England asked as he read the French newspaper. It also was keeping tabs on the American war.

"Cotton is rising in price. The Union blockade is cutting most of our cotton supplies for our mills. A famine du coton," France said, muttering the last bit in his natural tongue.

"I wish I could help, mate. We will barely have enough ourselves if this war lasts any longer."

"Do you have the people over there supporting both sides?" France asked as he looked dreamily out the window. England could tell France didn't want his own country divided.

"Nothing too major, I suppose. It seems the public favours the United States, while a few of the political powers are in favour of the Confederacy."

"I know exactly how that feels. We want to grow an empire in Mexico," France said as he stood up, lost in thought, "It can be quite beautiful there too. The sun is bright, the days are warm, and the people…"

England smirked at the thought. France likes to see the beauty in everything. His smile faded as he realized how an empire in Mexico could ruin France's image to the United States.

"France, can I ask, do you know if there are troops in Mexico? Mexico is rather close to the Confederacy…"

"I wouldn't see why there wouldn't be troops there. That's why we have many in favour of the Confederacy. They probably wouldn't have a problem with our dream for Mexico."

England didn't want to object. He didn't need any tension between him and France. He just hoped France wouldn't seem like a threat to the United States. With a sigh, France looked back to England.

"Let's not focus on the negative right now. You're here and my guest. Let's go see the sights, eh?"

"That sounds delightful. It'll take my mind off of waiting to hear back from Arthur."

France frowned slightly. "Why would you want to replace him and go in the middle of that chaos?"

England stood up, straightened his suit jacket, and said, "I feel it's my duty. I raised America. It hasn't been that long since he has been on his own."

"Do you blame yourself?"

England looked away. "For some reason, I suppose I do."

"Well don't," France bluntly stated.

He didn't expect such a quick reaction from France. It was shocking to hear, but it helped knowing it wasn't his entire fault; at least in the eyes of France. "Right, well let's be off." England replied, beckoning for France to lead the way.

Four Months Later.

Washington had become a gloomy city draped in blue both in colour and feeling.

America found himself walking the busy streets lost in thought. The sidewalk was packed with people, normal citizens and men in uniforms. The soldiers had long sense given up trying to salute everyone of superior rank that they passed and had settled for polite nods instead. He had no destination really; he just had to feel like he was doing something.

He had been in Washington for a while now. He was waiting for an officer's position to open up in one of The Army of The Potomac's regiments. It wasn't like there weren't open spots but finding one that wouldn't raise eyebrows was hard. And he had to stay in the east; there could be no debate about that. It had taken him three days to "recover" and wake up. The President had informed him that the retrieval of his body and its transfer half a continent away was more of a difficult task then he imagined and that he now owed people favours that he didn't want to be in debt to. As was tradition sense Washington himself, only the President knew what he really was. There were those who knew of him and knew enough to know he was not what one could call normal, but his actual identity was known only by Lincoln. Thus, he had agreed that he would remain in the East, where it was easier to manage such things, until the war reached it end. At the very least the battle in which he died, which had been given the name Shiloh, had become a Union victory.

"I wish I could have seen it happen"

So now he was stuck in Washington doing nothing.

Things were not fairing as well for the Union army in the East. McClellan had continued his great peninsula campaign and ironically right after America left it started to show some promise. But then a man named Lee took control of the Confederate forces in the area and the tide turned. Lee seemed to best McClellan at all the most important moments. Or at least that's how America interpreted it through the rumours he heard and what the papers said. So now McClellan's campaign had run a ground and Lee was on the move. There were even rumours he may invade the North. He hadn't seen any fighting sense Shiloh, but he could feel the war raging all over the continent.

After side stepping a carriage he turned right down the street and started to make his way towards the white house. The President had sent word that he wanted to see him and America desperately hoped it was to give him his next assignment. When he turned his head he was met with a surprising, and in his mind, dreadful sight.

A large group of what he could only assume were slaves or former slaves were walking by. Their clothes were ripped and torn in places, as well as been caked in mud. Mothers held their children on their backs or lead those who could walk by their hands. The man carried what few positions they had on their backs in messy bundles of cloth. All of them made their way along guided by a few officers that waved them in the proper direction. He felt empty as he watched their slow sad march.

"Contraband."

A voice dragged him from his thoughts and he turned to where it came from. An older officer, a Major to be exact, was standing next to him. He had a large moustache on his face that seemed to help mask his neutral express. Unsure of what to say or do America opted for a slow half-hearted salute. It was returned before the Major continued.

"Yep, from somewhere in the Carolina's I believe, seems no one knows what to do with them."

"I see…" was all he could offer to the conversation. He remained silent and at some point the Major left him there staring.

He could remember a time in his past when it was so simply clear and no one could change his mind. Then he remembered when things became to get clouded and the uncertainty of it all frustrated him. Now, things were perfectly clear again to him. He finally willed himself to move after God knows how long. He turned, started to walk away, pulled his hat as far down on his head it could go, and felt nothing but shame.

The knocks on the door was soft but swift.

"Come in, come in."

America walked into the President's office and saw him hunched over his desk with a pen in his hand. He pulled the glasses from his face and placed him in his breast pocket before waving him over.

"Oh sit down, how have you been son?" he asked cheerfully.

Of all the things that were ever changing in his world, at least the Presidents attitude remained the same, though it looked like he had aged a whole ten years since he took office.

"I've been fine Sir. I hope I wasn't interrupting from doing something important." America responded and eyed the documents on his desk before taking a seat.

"Well…that remains to be seen I think."

Then the two of them proceeded to talk about everything and nothing at the same time. It was casual small talk mostly. The worries of war seemed to leave them behind for the time being and for a few times America genially smiled. The nation truly enjoyed these talks, even to the point of needing them. The President's quick wit was truly amazing to him. At some point however, the conversation took a more serious turn and America found his words laced with hate.

"Their reasons are so wrong Sir, can they really think of themselves as oppressed? Do they really think this is right? I can't forgive them. I won't forgive them! If it was up to me…I'd be done with them all!" America all but yelled with venom dripping from his lips.

Lincoln simply stared at him with his hands folded and calmly waited for the nation to regain his composer. After it was clear he had, America spoke again.

"Forgive me Sir…I know I shouldn't think that way."

"Well…I don't know about that. It's just how you feel. I think I can understand it somewhat, but then again, you are very different from me…" Lincoln began and stood up. America followed suite.

"But I'll tell you what I do know. This war….is to make America, to make you son, better then you were before. It's to preserve the Union of course but the North can't be the same as it was when this is all said and done. And when our friends to the South return to us they will be better for it to. All of us will be better off when this war is over. It's easy to hate them, God knows I'm as frustrated as a man my age can get about it, but I think there's already enough hate being put into the world from this. But like I said son, I don't know what it's like to be like you…"

The Presidents words sank deep into his mind. This man, with this man the light of the end of the tunnel felt reachable.

"Sir" America said suddenly and gave the crispest salute he had given in months. "I will try my best Sir!"

Lincoln nodded.

"That's all I ever ask of anyone."

Lincoln then reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. "As always, I'm late. Dinner was served five minutes ago. I fear for the servants if they must hear of Mary's dissatisfaction of my attendance record."

"Then you better hurry Sir."

America walked around the desk and took the Presidents jacket from its resting place on the coat rack. He then held it behind Lincoln and watched as he slipped his arms into it before he popped it into place on his long frame.

"Oh before I forget…" Lincoln reached for an envelope from his desk and handed it to America. "Your new orders"

The young nation at war looked at the white paper in his hand and ran his thumb over it. Now it was back into the fray for him.

"Thank you Sir, I look forward to it."