Ch. 2—Sleeping (Southern) Belle

"Oh it's just horrible, William," Carolina heard a woman say as if in a dream. "I still cannot believe they burned Washington, the brutes!"

"It gets worse, Emily my dear," a male voice replied. "They looted many government buildings before burning them. It's horrible! And as if that wasn't enough, more and more slaves are escaping every day to join their ranks! Imagine: they would rather risk death in battle than stay content with their masters. I can't understand it at all. One thing I know for sure is that if there are any Loyalists still left in our country, there won't be after all the Crown has done to us."

Carolina raised her head and pulled back the covers. They released a cloud of dust into the air, and she did her best to suppress her sneeze so that the people speaking wouldn't hear it. She lit a candle and looked down at her body. Sure enough, she had grown again, but this time she looked like she was around 11 or so. She got up from her bed and slipped on a larger dress. As she put her hand through one of the sleeves, it tore right off and fell onto the floor. She stared at the sleeve. The material was rotted and moth-eaten.

What on earth? How long was I asleep? she wondered. She glanced around the room: everything was coated in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs covered every corner.

She glanced at the other dresses and items around the room and saw they were also in various stages of decay. She then remembered something that made her heart jump to her throat. If they're all rotting, then—! she thought, dashing over to a small trunk. Taking the key she had hanging around her neck, she unlocked the trunk and opened it. Glancing inside, she saw that the handkerchief Alfred had given her and sighed in relief. She reached in and held it up in the candlelight so she could inspect it more closely. It had yellowed a little with time and smelled old, but the trunk had protected it from the elements and time.

She ran her finger over the monogrammed A.F.J. and then a thought occurred to her: Why hadn't Alfred come to get her? The man's voice she heard couldn't possibly be him; the woman had called the man "William", not "Alfred".

Unsure of who might be on the other side of the door to her little room, she waited until it was quiet and then pushed open the door. She hardly recognized the place; it had been redecorated in a style she'd never seen before.

Quietly she slipped into one of the upstairs rooms and searched through trunks until she found a dress that would fit. Just in time, she heard the new residents return, and she hurried back to her room. She wasn't able to stay hidden for long, however. She tried to do a little cleaning and ended up sneezing several times because of the dust. Within a minute, a young girl nudged the door open and peeked in.

"I knew I saw someone disappear through the wall here earlier. I'm so glad it wasn't a ghost," she exclaimed. She glanced around the little room. "I always thought there was something strange about how this house was laid out."

"Please do not hurt me," Carolina begged. "I will leave here tonight once you are all asleep."

The 10-year-old brunette girl raised an eyebrow. "Why would I hurt you? You talk strangely, did you know that?" she asked. She noticed the tattered clothes hanging nearby. "Those dresses look like my grandmother's dresses," she stated, "but why are they tattered and why is your room so dusty?"

"I suppose that it is because I have been asleep—" Carolina clapped a hand to her mouth. This girl would surely think it odd for anyone to sleep so long that dust could accumulate like it had.

The girl raised an eyebrow. "Asleep? How—I know! You must be a fairy princess under an evil sleeping spell!" She looked more closely at Carolina. "I see. That's where my dress went. You can have it. I hated it. Don't worry: I won't hurt you, and I'll keep your secret. Are you hungry? I can get you some food."

Carolina held up her hand to stop the girl's rambling. "I am not a—" She stopped in her denial of being one of the faerie. Perhaps this can be used to my advantage, she thought. "I am not allowed to tell you if I am a fairy," she corrected. "But if you will tell me the year and your name, I can tell you mine."

"I'm Dorothea Stower," she said, "and the year—although I don't know why you need to know that—is 1814."

Carolina tried her best not to show any shock. I've been asleep 84 years? How? "My name is Carolina," she replied finally.

"Amazing! Just like our state!" Dorothea said with a smile.

Carolina blinked. "State? Is this not a colony of the British Empire?"

Dorothea laughed. "No! We haven't been colonies to Britain for years." She looked over her shoulder. "Papa says I don't need to know this stuff," she whispered, "but I peek in his books and listen to his conversations with Mama on politics all the time. I think our country's history and politics are interesting."

"Country?"

"Yes," Dorothea replied. "Don't you know about that?"

Carolina rubbed her head. "Well, I have been asleep in this room for a while."

"Oh, that makes sense," Dorothea said. "Well, fairy, South Carolina is one of the . . ." She paused to count on her fingers, " . . . I think it's 17? . . . states in a country called the United States of America."

"Wait a moment," Carolina said, holding up her hand. "So England let America become a country?"

Dorothea laughed again. "Gracious me, no! America had to fight in a war to get freedom from Britain." She shook her head. "You must have been asleep for a long time, fairy, because that happened even before my Papa was born."

Alfred . . . you have many things you will need to tell me, Carolina thought. "So when I heard someone talking about the British burning Washington, who or what were they talking about?" she asked.

"Washington?. . . Oh! You must mean the Capitol, Washington, D.C.," Dorothea said. She rubbed her chin. "I didn't hear the whole story, but apparently a neighbor told Mama about how the British burned down our Capitol. Papa comforted her by telling about how our soldiers beat them back to Baltimore."

"So was this in retaliation for the war fought all those years ago, or was it just a whim on Britain's part?" Carolina asked.

"I'm not sure about that, but I do know that this war we're fighting with Britain has nothing to do with the War for Independence," Dorothea stated, "and some of the army is from our neighboring country, Canada." She looked at Carolina and frowned. "But I didn't think fairies were interested in history or politics."

"Yes, well, I'm a special kind of fairy," Carolina replied. "I'd love to hear more history if you'll tell me, but first I must ask you, have you or anyone who lived in this house before you ever received letters from an Alfred Jones?"

Dorothea shook her head. "Not that I know of. Mama and Papa handle all the letters that come here, and none of them are ever for me, so I don't know who writes us."

"I see," Carolina said. So the reason I slept so long and why Alfred did not come to wake me may be because of all the war and commotion, she concluded. Well, that is all right. I still have all this money. But now I wonder if anyone will take it since it is British money.

"If you like, I could sneak a peek and see if it's in Papa's letterbox," Dorothea suggested.

"I would appreciate it," Carolina replied.

For the next couple of months, Carolina's new friend helped feed her and make the room livable again. Dorothea also taught her about everything that she had missed out over those 84 years, including about the new government that had been established. For the most part, they were unnoticed when they conversed, but they had several near-discoveries by the slaves serving in the house or by Dorothea's parents. Unfortunately, none of the letters in Mr. Stower's study were addressed to Carolina or from Alfred. Both of these things encouraged Carolina to decide to stop waiting and go herself to see Alfred.

So one morning, she waited until the house quieted and then slipped past the servants in the kitchen and out the door. She found that the bank nearby gladly accepted the coinage she had but as gold, not British currency. They gave her US money in exchange.

Carolina promptly walked over to the general store and bought some paper and borrowed a pen and ink. She wrote a letter to the President's home in the Capitol but addressed it to Alfred Jones. To prevent suspicion, she instructed Alfred to address the letter to Dorothea and talk in code by telling a fairytale about Carolina the fairy and a knight named Alfred, and then she sent it out before returning to her home. She nearly got caught by the gardener sneaking in the back door, but somehow managing to escape the rest of the servants' notice.

Carolina was sure she would get a quick response. Months passed; it never came. Even after the war with England ended, no letter came for her via Dorothea.

Perhaps his name is too common and the postman was unable to find him, she concluded one evening after snuffing out her candle. She didn't want to voice or even think the other possibility: perhaps Alfred had forgotten about her. She shook her head.

He wouldn't have forgotten me so easily, she told herself, reaching over to her little trunk and pulling out Alfred's handkerchief. We cared about each other too deeply for that to happen. Besides, he made a solemn promise as my knight that he'd come for me. He wouldn't forget that, right? She ran her thumb over the initials on the cloth and smiled at them before placing it back in the trunk and locking it.

She climbed onto the mattress Dorothea had helped to repair and re-stuff and pulled the new blanket her little friend had given her up to her chin. As she started to close her eyes, the same sleep that had knocked her out for so long gripped at her toes. No! I must stay awake, she silently screamed at it. If Alfred can't come to me, I need to try to find him and go to him.

The sleep seemed to laugh at her as she struggled in vain against it. Using the last of her energy, she pulled the blanket over her head; if she was going to sleep a long time again, she didn't want dust in her hair. No . . . I need . . . Alfred . . . she thought futilely, silently weeping as her body gave into a deep sleep.

"But Momma, there is a girl, I swears it," Carolina heard through a sleepy haze. The door to her room pushed open, and the chocolate-colored face of a 15-year-old girl peeked in. "See?" the girl said. "There she is."

A dark-skinned adult woman poked her head in behind the girl's. "Lord bless us, you was telling the truth," the woman said. "The Missus gonna have to know about this."

"No, please don't tell anyone I'm here," Carolina begged.

The woman shook her head. "No can do, Missy," she said, closing the door. "Carolina, you stay here and keep watch," she heard the woman tell the girl.

As soon as she heard footsteps go down the stairs, she quickly unlocked her little trunk and gathered everything she could fit inside into it before pushing open the door to the room. The girl jumped.

"Don't be afraid," Carolina said. "I won't hurt you. I'm Carolina too. Please let me leave."

The slave girl's eyes seemed to sparkle for a moment as if they had a connection merely through their names. "Push me down," she said.

"What?"

"Push me down 'n run," she stated. "The Missus or Mastah is most likely gonna put you in an orph'nage. I's gonna get beat if I jus' let you go. But if you fight me, maybe I ain't gonna get beat for you gettin' away."

Carolina nodded and pushed the girl as she had requested. She went flying against the opposite wall.

"I'm sorry! I don't know my own strength," Carolina cried, running up to the girl.

The girl clutched her arm. "I's okay, just go," she said through her teeth. She tried to move her arm and winced. "This is gonna give me a good excuse."

Carolina nodded and ran down the stairs, pushing past some servants who were down there. She blindly ran down the street, not watching where she was going until she ran into someone and was suddenly buried in petticoats, losing her little trunk in the process.

"Good gracious!" the woman she ran into cried.

"I'm sorry," Carolina said, crawling on the pavement over to the woman. She helped her stand and brush the dirt off her skirts.

"It's all right, child. I wasn't hurt," the woman said.

Carolina nodded and then scrambled to find her trunk; it was lying in the gutter on its side. She picked it up, tucked it under her arm again, and turned to leave when a hand grabbed her arm, stopping her. She turned to find the woman staring at her.

She examined Carolina's expression and her tattered clothes, and the woman's face softened. "Why you poor little thing! You look like you've had the fright of your life." The woman released her arm and grabbed her hand; it was warm against the wind. "What's your name child?"

"Carolina Jones."

"Well Carolina. My name is Helen Goodman. How old are you child?" she asked.

"How old do I look?" Carolina asked, biting her lip.

The woman tapped her chin. "Well, I'd say you're about the same age as my dear Anna: 14."

"I see," Carolina replied, her head reeling from the estimation. Tears involuntarily formed and spilled down her cheeks. What is wrong with my body? It seemed like I just fell asleep last night, and yet Dorothea wasn't anywhere to be found, there were strangers in the house, my clothes are shabby again, and Alfred . . . how many years have passed this time?

Helen furrowed her brow. "Why are you crying? Are you lost? Are you hurt?" she asked, touching Carolina's arms and shoulders for broken bones. "Where is your home? I'll take you back to your family."

Carolina shook her head. "I don't have any family. I lost them."

Helen unexpectedly embraced her in a warm hug. "Oh my dear little one, you must be one of those who recently lost your family to disease. Come spend Christmas with me, you poor thing!"

Instinctively, Carolina returned her embrace.

"You can be our daughter until we find your extended family," Helen continued. "We'll get you out of these tattered clothes and something in your belly. You look so thin I'd swear you hadn't eaten in years."

That's very likely, Carolina thought sardonically. "Won't your husband protest a new mouth to feed?"

Helen laughed and took her by the hand. "The plantation is mine, dear child," she said, "and all the slaves and animals. My husband lets me do whatever I want."

"So you have still no memories at all," Anna asked Carolina as they looked over the March 16, 1861 edition of Harper's Weekly+. Mr. George Goodman had let them have the older issues of the magazine to look at "for the pictures", but Carolina had been carefully reading the articles as well. They were sitting on a bay window seat next to him enjoying the sunshine while Papa Goodman perused most recent edition, March 30th.

"So our army may finally be getting possession of Fort Sumter . . . hopefully the US forces won't change their mind," he grumbled quietly before setting it aside and picking up the Edgefield Advertiser. He still purchased Harper's Weekly despite the fact that it seemed to be leaning "more and more towards the Union's cause" as he had put it the week before. He had started reading one of the local newspapers in order to get a more balanced view of things.

Carolina smiled at her new sister and shook her head. "It's all a blank nothing," she lied. "My memories are slowly coming back in bits and pieces though," she continued, glancing down at the magazine. Everything in it seemed to be about Union President Lincoln's inauguration along with some images from the event. Papa Goodman had also managed to obtain some photographs of the event as well as some other sketches made in honor of the event.

Carolina skimmed over the other people in the pictures, searching for someone no one else would even think to look for. One of the young men in one of the photographs looked like someone she knew, but she wasn't completely sure. She frowned slightly. Alfred?. . . If that is him, he looks like he hasn't a care in the world, she mused. So he must have completely forgotten about me after all. Her eyes stung with tears. I've stayed here in this area waiting for nothing. I was stupid to think he'd come looking for me after all this time.

"What is it?" Anna asked, scanning her face and then looking at the photograph.

"Nothing," Carolina said, wiping away the tears before they fell. "I guess I got some dust in my eyes." She tossed the pictures and magazine aside, grabbing the February 23rd edition and flipping through it distractedly.

A map on the 124th page caught her attention, and she stopped to stare at it; it was a map of the Northern and Southern states. She flipped to the next page and looked at a group of pictures of men; the article below them gave some brief biographical information about the new President and Vice President of the Confederacy.

Carolina stared at Jefferson Davis's image for a minute, then flipped back to the picture of the map. A tickle started in her heart, and the organ palpitated at an idea that was growing in her mind. Everything about her current state of mind now made sense: why she was drawn to the South, why her opinion on every issue talked about in the magazines and newspapers—political or otherwise—was often decidedly opposite of the North's and the Union's, and why she existed. On those things, her mind was clear and lucid.

"Carolina, what is it? You're smiling like it's Christmas morning again," Anna said.

"I know who I am," Carolina said.

"Really?" George Goodman said as he perked up in his chair.

Helen, who had been content to listen to their conversation while she did her embroidery, looked up with eyes full of excitement. "Do tell us, dear."

She held up the magazine and pointed at the picture of the Jefferson Davis. "I'm his niece."

George blinked. "Carolina, it's not Christian to make up stories. You'll go to hell for lying."

"No, Papa," she replied. "Give me money to go visit him. As soon as I meet him, I guarantee he'll be writing a letter asking you to let his long-lost niece live with him."

"I don't know," he said. "It's not right for a young lady to travel alone, Carolina."

"Then come with me, Papa," she said. "You'll have a hero's welcome—and my name's not Carolina. I guess I got that name from this state's name."

"Oh? What is your name then, child?" Helen asked.

The Confederate States of America smiled. "It's Emily."

The railroad trip from the city near the Goodman farm in South Carolina to Montgomery, Alabama, had taken about a week, but taking the train had shaved more than two weeks off of the trip had they traveled by carriage. Even though they had stopped and rested along the way, there was a stiffness resting on Emily's shoulders like a vulture. She rubbed them and tried her best not to groan. She didn't want to sound like she was complaining about the Goodmans taking the time and expense to get her to her destination.

It had been an interesting and growing experience for all. The Goodman family had slipped a couple of times in calling her "Carolina", but she was learning to keep from answering to it. There was no doubt in her mind that she was the Confederacy and that was what she was born to be, but training years of habit out of her mind was going to take a while.

She wasn't completely sure why she picked Emily.* She theorized she may have heard it somewhere or seen it in some book she had read. All she knew was the name seemed comfortable and right to her; it was that, and the fact that she couldn't hold onto the name Carolina anymore.

If I'm going to do this, I need to reinvent myself, she told herself over and over. I can't rely on the persona that Alfred—I mean, the Union—gave me. To truly commit to the new identity she had created, she decided that her new birthday would be February 4, 1861, the date that the Confederate States of America had been formed; although she told her human parents, the Goodmans, only the month and date . . . minus 15 years. She couldn't tell them the whole truth; they'd think she was insane.

She now knew the reason for the terrible stomach-ache she had back in January; it was no coincidence to her that the earthquake in South Carolina happened at exactly the same time. But she definitely couldn't tell them that the ache that caused her to faint back then was caused because she was a nation. If she'd told them that, not even Mama Goodman would have allowed the trip to take place.

As the family checked into a hotel, Papa Goodman wrote a letter to the Davis family, requesting a visit and claiming that Jefferson Davis's long-lost niece had been discovered. Emily knew she couldn't allow that letter to arrive without President Davis knowing who his niece was, so while the family was resting from the trip, she slipped into some of Papa Goodman's clothes and darted toward the Davis home.

It was early evening and she calculated in her mind approximately where her new boss would be. She also theorized that he'd probably think she was crazy, so she figured she would have to come up with something phenomenal to convince him that she was the human representation of the Confederate States of America.

When she finally arrived at the Davis mansion home, she easily knocked out the guards at the gate and slipped into the backyard, running quietly across it. As she entered the backdoor, all noise within stopped. The slaves in the kitchen stared as she marched right past them. Guessing Jefferson Davis was in the study, she headed in the direction she thought such a room might exist in this home.

"Excuse me, sir," a slave said running up to her. "You can't come in here."

"I'm sorry for this," she said to him before thrusting her hand into his solar plexus; he flew across the room and into a crumpled heap. The commotion from this raised an alert to the guards who were in the living room. They rushed to where she was.

"Halt!" one shouted raising his rifle. "You have unlawfully entered the President's home."

Emily looked at him but said nothing. Jefferson Davis stepped out of his study and looked down the hallway to where she was. A smile came across her face as she strode towards him.

"Halt or I'll shoot!" one guard shouted while the other ordered President Davis to take cover.

Emily ignored him and continued forward, her eyes focused on Davis. "Hello Mr. President," she said just as she heard a boom behind her and felt a burning in her torso. She looked down to see blood bubbling out of her right side. She fingered the wound gently and then suddenly she couldn't breathe.

An involuntary cough forced its way out of her lungs, and Emily covered her mouth to catch it. Her heart skipped a beat as something warm and wet hit her palm. She pulled her trembling hand away from her mouth and looked at it; her palm was covered in blood. All at once, she became light-headed and her legs crumpled underneath her, causing her to fall to the floor. As she watched her vision grow dark, she heard a woman scream as if she was far away.

After what seemed like eternity and a few seconds all at the same time, Emily felt pressure against her chest, which made it ache and grow warmer. Her entire body seemed to tingle and the wound in her chest seemed to grow hot and painless.

"Good Lord, it's a young lady," she heard someone say as if they were far off and the pressure on her chest lessened.

She found herself able to breathe again, and her lungs hungrily drank in deep gulps of cool, clean, wonderful air. Emily opened her eyes to see President Davis and his two guards above her. They had removed Papa Goodman's hat and released all the hair she had tucked underneath. She reached up and pushed their hands away from her. She wiped the blood away from her mouth, and then, as she helped herself stand again, the guards and President Davis scrambled back and away from her.

"How are you alive?" President Davis asked, his eyes wide.

"Demon from hell!" one of the guards barked, lunging at her.

"Hardly," she said as she easily caught him by the collar, lifted him off his feet and tossed him away from her as if he was a rag doll. He hit a wall and fell in an unconscious heap. "I'd like to think of myself as more of a guardian angel." She glared at the other guard. He didn't move, but his finger twitched near his rifle's trigger. "Haven't you already learned that won't work?" she asked him.

"What are you?" President Davis whispered, barely audible.

Emily turned to him and curtsied like Mama Goodman had taught her. "'What' is probably apropos. I am the human representation of the Confederate States of America. If you don't believe me, you could ask Union President Lincoln who Alfred Jones is. I'll bet that he will either pretend that he has no idea who you are talking about or he'll have a hard time coming up with an answer. But I promise you he's just like me, only a little older."

She watched as President Davis regarded her. She smiled slightly when she saw his expression was calm and had a gleam of understanding to it.

The guard she had left standing shifted his weight. "Sir?"

President Davis held up his hand to stop the guard. "I believe her. Or should I say, I think it's worth giving her a chance to be believed. Especially after what we have all seen happen just now."

The other guard groaned and a slave helped him to his feet.

President Davis gestured for them to leave. "Get this young woman some proper clothing," he commanded them before looking at Emily. "I was rude before by asking you 'what' you were. What is your name, young lady . . . your human name, that is?"

"I am Emily Jones," she replied, "and I've come to help you win the Civil War."

A/N

Okay so here's the Confederacy part. What do you think? (don't worry; I'll get back to Alfred soon enough). Please let me know what you think! Feedback will help me to make this a better story.

I haven't decided how much romance I'll be putting in this story (that is, whether or not the romance will be all fluff and "Disney"-like with only pure kisses, or if it will have more "implied stuff" like the kind of stuff you'd see in a PG-13 movie).

I've been told that my description/writing doesn't go over the T (teen) level, but I'm still concerned about it. I have put on my profile a poll where you can let me know if I need to raise the rating or not. Please take a moment to vote? I would greatly appreciate it. Also, if you think my story should have a M rating and you don't want to let me know via my poll, could you PM me and let me know rather than report me to FFN? I'll happily change the rating.

Please note that this is a fictional story. I do not support slavery of any kind!

*As many fans of Nyotalia may know, Emily is the Japanese fanon name for fem!America as opposed to the name that most Western/English-speaking fans choose: Amelia (or something similar). The reason I picked Emily is because this fem!America's personality, origins, and situation is nothing like the Amelia that most fans know (at least it seems that way to me . . . she's definitely not acting or behaving the way most of the fics I've read portray fem!America). You'll see what I mean as the story progresses (although you kind of get a hint of it in this chapter). I honestly did try to call her Amelia in this chapter, and doing so just seemed wrong; when I changed it to Emily, it felt right.

Quite a bit of historical information on the Civil War seems to imply that the succession happened suddenly, but the abolitionists vs. the slavers issue had been around for hundreds of years . . . since the late 1600s if my research is correct. The issue would flare up every now and then, which is why I had Emily keep falling asleep and waking up again.

I decided, for length reasons, not to cover every little flare-up, but I chose to focus on the War of 1812 because British Royal Navy commanders of the blockading fleet, based at the Bermuda dockyard, were instructed to offer freedom to defecting American slaves, as the Crown had during the Revolutionary War. Thousands of slaves escaped over to the Crown and then helped fight on the British side. It caused a lot of disillusionment on the planters' part; they thought that the slaves were content with their lives and were shocked that so many would risk many difficulties to gain freedom with the help of a foreign power. After Treaty of Ghent was signed ending the war, the Americans protested that Britain's failure to return all slaves violated that treaty. After arbitration by the Czar of Russia, the British paid over $1 million in damages to Washington, which reimbursed the slave-owners.

Finally, some historians argue that the Civil War wasn't about slavery; it was about economics and the states' right to govern themselves, and slavery was just a component of those other irreconcilable differences (and as I research more about this war, I tend to agree with them). As a result of this disagreement about what caused the Civil War, there is also a disagreement about which of these issues killed the Confederacy (but I'll stop there lest I get ahead of myself).

BTW it's my head-canon that nations can't die . . . or actually that they can, but their bodies are connected to the land and people they represent, and so as long as those two things exist, the nation thrives and can heal quickly. That's why Emily could get shot, die, and then recover from that mortal wound.

And yes, the title is meant to be play on "Sleeping Beauty". ;p

Lastly, the title of the entire story will eventually make sense; I promise!

Oh yeah. Hetalia belongs to Himaruya and other license holders, not me.