Sobbing. Horrible, heart-wrenching sobbing. America stirred in his bed, sleep-numbed mind struggling to find reason for the cries. Gradually, he grew more and more awake with the increasing awareness that he couldn't find justification for sorrowful wails.

What on earth…?

Groaning as he stretched and shuffled out of his bed, America rubbed at his eyes. His legs were stiff, but mobile. More than he could say they had been for the last several years. But that thought was hardly a fleeting query across his mind, so preoccupied was he with locating the source of the mournful noise.

The halls were oddly empty as he moved about. Full of light, and full of an odd feeling. Like something wasn't quite right. As if something wrong were going on at that very moment, but he wasn't yet aware of it.

The sobs grew louder as he continued on, ever nearing what he imagined to be the location. Walking, walking absently, but with purpose. Towards the East Room, he realized vaguely, not quite sure what to make of that observation. Only knowing an extreme feeling of trepidation was welling up inside him.

When he finally entered the room, he was met with a shock: a casket, displaying a covered body, surrounded by mourners. Their cries were terrible, heart-breaking. As he stepped closer, a horrible shudder trailed through his body, though he could not guess why.

Who had died? Who was that body?

Where was Lincoln?

Without meaning to, the questions became vocalized, to one of the soldiers stationed around the casket.

"Mr. America," the guard seemed hesitant, reluctant to answer his question.

"What's going on?" the blond persisted, with a sudden panic. His heart was pounding in his chest. So quickly, as if trying to escape.

"It's the President," the other finally responded, unidentifiable emotion in his voice. "He was killed by an assassin."

A loud wail went up then, from all of the gathered mourners, accompaniment to the scream America felt ready to give as he heard those words. He couldn't be serious. Lincoln couldn't possibly be…He couldn't be…

Couldn't be dead.

No…

With a jolt, America woke up, met with the ceiling of his bedroom. His heart was still racing in his chest, in his ears. The covered corpse still fresh in his mind.

Without bothering to get dressed, the young Nation leapt to his feet and bolted out of his room, down towards the Oval Office. His recently impaired legs couldn't carry him fast enough, and he kept stumbling in his haste, tripping into all manner of things.

Lincoln isn't dead…he can't be. No matter how often that mantra circled through his mind, America could not put the image of the casket out of his head, the wailing of the mourners. He needed to see Lincoln with his only eyes.

Breathless, America burst into the office, not bothering to knock.

"America!" Lincoln bolted up from his seat, running to meet America in a rush, concern evident in his expression. "What on earth is going on? You look as if you've seen a ghost! And it's hardly past eight…you're never awake this early."

"I knew it wasn't true," America sobbed breathlessly, as a wave of relief surged through him, so strongly that his knees grew weak, and buckled. All he could register was gratitude as he sat there, shaking.

Lincoln knelt in front of him, gripping his shoulders roughly in a panic, and shaking him slightly. "What is going on? America, answer me!"

"I…" he took in a deep breath, trying to steady himself as he looked up into his President's eyes. They were so full of worry, of fear. Life. "I had a dream….a nightmare. A terrible one."

For a moment Lincoln relaxed, before his brow furrowed once more with thought. "What was this dream about?"

"I…I was," falteringly, America began to explain his dream. The words came readily to his lips, flowing out in a gush of terror and emotion. He tried to stay calm, reminding himself that it was merely that. A dream, a night terror. Nothing more. Lincoln was right here, alive and well.

When the young Nation finish relating his tale, Lincoln looked even more ill at ease. He withdrew slightly, loosening his hold on America's shoulders. Eyes staring off into space, not meeting his Nation's.

His behavior was unnerving. America had expected him to pass off the dream, assure him that it was nothing, and try and move the subject onto lighter things. But instead he looked upset, perturbed by this news, more so than any dream should merit. Even one of his own death.

"Is something wrong?" America asked, curiosity creeping into his tone along with the anxiety. When Lincoln didn't respond, he went on. "You can trust me. I won't tell anyone."

"I know that," his President returned with a distracted smile. "But…it's nothing you need to worry about. Foolishness, is all."

"Sir, please," America pleaded, wanting to know what was going on so that he could help. "Lincoln. If it is making you worry this much, it must be if significance. I can handle it. I promise."

"I…" the older man frowned, before turning to meet the brilliant blue gaze of his Nation. "I had a dream several days ago. The same as yours, only slight variations. But…that doesn't mean anything. They're just fanciful night terrors. Nothing more."

"Yeah," America agreed, perhaps too eagerly, nodding vigorously. "They're nothing to worry about."

If only their minds could have so easily been put at rest.

Historical Notes: On April 5, 1865, Abraham Lincoln visited Richmond. The fallen capital lay in ruins, sections blackened by fire, but the president was able to walk around the streets unbothered and nearly unattended. Everywhere he went, black people crowded around him, offering praises. "Some fell to their knees as he passed, crying 'Glory, Hallelujah,' hailing him as a messiah." Even white townspeople seemed to have accepted defeat with out resentment. A few days later, in Washington, Lincoln delivered an important speech on Reconstruction, urging compassion and open-mindedness.

Despite its bloodiness, the Civil War had caused less intersectional hatred than might have been expected. Although civilian property was often seized or destroyed, the invading armies treated the southern population fairly well, both during the war and after its end. During the war, Northerners claimed they would "hang Jeff Davis to a sour apple tree," and when he was captured in Georgia in May 1865, he was at once arrested and prepared for trial on charges of treason and murder. But feeling against Davis quickly subsided. In1867, the military turned him over to the civil courts, which released him on bail. He was never brought to trail. A few other Confederate officials spent short periods behind bars, but the only Southerner executed for war crimes was Major Jenry Wirz, the commandant of Andersonville military prison.

Three days before his assassination, Abraham Lincoln confided to his wife and a few friends a dream he had. According to Ward Hill Lamon, one of the friends who was present for the conversation, the president said:

"About ten days ago, I retired very late. I had been up waiting for important dispatches from the front. I could not have been long in bed when I fell into a slumber, for I was weary. I soon began to dream. There seemed to be a death-like stillness about me. Then I heard subdued sobs, as if a number of people were weeping. I thought I left my bed and wandered downstairs. There the silence was broken by the same pitiful sobbing, but the mourners were invisible. I went from room to room; no living person was in sight, but the same mournful sounds of distress met me as I passed along. I saw light in all the rooms; every object was familiar to me; but where were all the people who were grieving as if their hearts would break? I was puzzled and alarmed. What could be the meaning of all this? Determined to find the cause of a state of things so mysterious and so shocking, I kept on until I arrived at the East Room, which I entered. There I met with a sickening surprise. Before me was a catafalque, on which rested a corpse wrapped in funeral vestments. Around it were stationed soldiers who were acting as guards; and there was a throng of people, gazing mournfully upon the corpse, whose face was covered, others weeping pitifully. 'Who is dead in the White House?' I demanded of one of the soldiers, 'The President,' was his answer; 'he was killed by an assassin.' Then came a loud burst of grief from the crowd, which woke me from my dream. I slept no more that night; and although it was only a dream, I have been strangely annoyed by it ever since."

And a little side note akuma-river brought up that I thought was pretty interesting:

"Did you know that the war began and ended in one man's front yard? The major battle that began the war happened in front of his house and the Union took control of it. After that the Confederates came back and it was an even bigger battle. He had enough and sold his house. And he moved to the place that was eventually renamed to Appomattox. The talks happened in his parlor."

I hope it's okay that I just quoted your message ^^'

Credit goes to The Q Continuum for thinking up the idea of having America share Lincoln's premonition. Brilliant idea :]

I had intended to get more in here…but I think any more might have felt a bit rushed. So Lincoln shall live a little longer ;_;

just another fma fan: I…I am speechless. But thrilled that you thinks so ^^ Japanese at your school…I am jealous. Though Italian is fun, and many high schools don't even have that. A story about Japanese-American relationship through history…might be added to my list of things I'll have to write at some point in the future. I wanted to write my paper on something like that…but the topic was too broad. We'll be getting to MacArthur eventually…

Thanks for the review ^^