Author's Note: So, hey guys! This is just a quick story I thought up for this week, considering it's the week of Gettysburg - one of the bloodiest battles fought on American soil. I'm a huge Civil War buff, and I was planning on writing a Hetalia fic about the American Civil War where Alfred (America) was the North and Amelia (Nyotalia's America) was the South. I'll probably write it sometime, but for right now, I decided to make this little flick. It's about the night of April 14, 1865, just five days after the South surrendered to the North and the War was over. As you read, I think you'll figure out what I'm referring to. :)

"You don't have to monitor every move I make, brother. I'm not going anywhere. You've made durn sure of that!"

Alfred Jones just stared at the bedraggled woman across from him. She was curled up in a leather chair, clothed in one of his shirts and a pair of grey trousers. Her amber hair hung around her face in a tangled mess, and Alfred could see her grey eyes coldly staring back at him.

"Just a few more hours, Amelia, and I will let you go. It has been a while since we've been in the same room together without any confrontation, after all. Hasn't your time here been relaxing?"

She scoffed, looking away from him. "It's not over yet. You'll see. Just because General Lee had to sign a surrender, doesn't mean we've been beaten. There's still some men out there who'll keep fightin'!"

Alfred sighed. He wasn't surprised at her attitude. She had always been stubborn. It was that stubbornness and strength she possessed that had been one of his supports all those years ago when he was fighting against the British. Back then, it had fueled him to keep fighting. Now, her stubbornness just left him worn out.

"Come on, 'Melia. It's time to admit defeat. Your men have. Why can't you?"

Angered, she leaped to her feet in an attempt to lunge at Alfred, but the sudden movements were too much for her and she collapsed to her knees. Her body had endured massive injuries and left her exhausted. Beneath the oversized shirt she was wearing were many scars, stitched-up cuts and bandaged wounds. She had endured broken bones and disjointed limbs as well.

For the past four years the brother and sister had been at war - against each other. Amelia Jones, who had been sympathetic toward the Southern Confederacy, had turned against her brother to fight for the Southern people and their rights. It had all started when John Brown had begun to unleash his personal war on all slaveholders, killing many Southerners and burning down many of the people's homes. That had been the last straw. After that, Alfred saw something in Amelia change. She had become incensed with anger and vowed that she would not rest until she had him on his knees begging for mercy with the Confederacy as their own separate entity from the Union.

He had been forced to fight against her. He had to shoot her. His own sister. His twin, who felt almost like a part of him,and who had been there for him back in the Revolutionary War. She had been there for him back before that, even, when he was left alone after Britain had to go home and he had no parental figure to care for him. She had held his hands in her own little ones, and had told him everything was going to be all right, even as her own eyes were filling with tears. After all, she had no parental figures either. They were all that the other had, and she had been so strong for a little girl, learning how to cook and clean and tend for the both of them at a young age. She had even made sure to keep things in order by herself when he had to go away with Britain when they were only adolescents, and had always been happy to see him when he returned. He had relied upon that strength as they grew up together. When she had declared war upon him with such rage and hatred in her eyes, he felt like the world was turning upside down. He felt betrayed. He hadn't known what else to do, but to rely on the President to guide him through the war and hope that the he and Amelia could reconcile when the war was over.

Amelia and the South despised Lincoln. They accused him of ignoring their rights and trying to oppress them. They had claimed he and the North hadn't understood their way of living, nor did they care. The war was partially an uprising against Lincoln as the President.

Alfred now looked down at his defeated sister who was holding her side with her head bowed. She looked so pathetic and small, stubbornly refusing to look at him or ask for his help, but he could tell very easily that her body was in extreme pain.

"Amelia," he said quietly.

She didn't say anything. She attempted to stand but just ended up stumbling again. "Gosh durn it…" she growled. "I just…" Her voice cracked.

Tears rose in his eyes. No matter what she had done or said in the past, she was still his sister, and he loved her. He knelt down in front of her and pulled her into his arms. She didn't move to return the embrace but inwardly appreciated her brother's concern. She too had been hurt and torn by the war, and it had hurt her just as much to have to attack her own brother. But even so, there had been so many injuries, so many lives that had been lost. Amelia still felt that her brother had betrayed her and that the two of them could never see things eye to eye again. For now, however, she decided to be still and let her brother hold her.

"I'm all right, Alfred," she murmured after a minute. "Help me up, please."

He gently held her under the arms and pulled her up. She in turn held him by the sleeves and leaned against him to steady herself. With a little bit of maneuvering, they were able to get her seated back in the armchair. She heaved a sigh and leaned her head back against the head cushion, trying to ignore the pain that was coursing through her body.

"What will happen to me after you let me go, Alfred?" she whispered.

"You can go back home, of course."

She scoffed. "What home?" she muttered sarcastically.

He winced. The Northern armies had made a mess of many Southern towns and cities, burning homes down and raiding others. Amelia's home had been one of them. Alfred ran his hand over his eyes and bowed his head.

"I'm sorry…"

She felt that burning anger rise up in her again. "Sorry. Of course you are. You're sorry that many people have lost their homes and now have to rebuild their lives thanks to you and your men. You're so sorry that you couldn't try to stop any of those men from destroying everything in their path."

He glared at her. "The North wasn't the only side that did terrible things. Or have you forgotten Camp Sumter?"

She didn't say anything.

"Your men neglected, starved, and abused thousands of Union soldiers, Amelia!"

"Well your precious General Sherman killed many Confederate soldiers, Alfred!"

The air in the room became tense as the brother and sister just glared at one another. They didn't say anything or do anything, but just continued to stare the other down. It seemed that their psychological wounds had not fully healed yet and both of them knew that it would take quite a while for them to completely forgive the other for everything. They had to go their separate paths for a while. Alfred would be sad to part with her, especially since they hadn't seen each other for four years, but he knew the separation would be best for the both of them.

There was a sudden knock on the door.

"Come in," Alfred called, his eyes still trained on his sister.

The door swung open and a man quickly stepped in. When Alfred turned to him, he noticed the man's pale face and red eyes. He had been crying.

"Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Jones. But… I thought you should know…"

Something was wrong. He could feel it.

"Is everything all right?" Alfred asked, standing to his feet. He was beginning to think that the man may need to sit and drink something strong.

"It's the President. He's… He's been shot, sir."

Looking back on this night, Alfred could remember being thankful that he had been standing by a chair. His hand drifted to its head for support.

Stop. Wait. What?

"What?" He barely spoke above a whisper.

"President Lincoln. He was shot… in the back of the head tonight at the theater."

Time stopped for Alfred. There was no sound from him. No movement. All he could do was stare into space. This couldn't be real. It just couldn't. Not President Lincoln. Not him. He was the Union's strength. He was the leader of this nation. He was a good man. He was a father.

Why. Why?

The visitor touched Alfred on the shoulder. "Sir? Are you all right?"

The tears were coming. He knew they were by the way his throat was beginning to close up. Blinking several times, he clapped the man on his shoulder and nodded.

"Where… where is he now?" He had to take a breath before finishing the sentence.

"They've taken him to a boarding house across the street from Ford's. I'm here to take you there, if you would like to see him before…" The man bowed his head.

"Is he…?" Oh no. Please…

"Not yet, but it won't be long before we lose him." The man's voice cracked. He pressed his forefinger and thumb against his eyes for a minute. Then he took a deep breath and let it out. Both men didn't want to be seen crying.

Alfred nodded. "Right. I'll be down in a minute. Can you please send Mr. Jenkins up here?"

"Of course. I'll be waiting by the door."

Amelia watched as the man swallowed and nodded. He turned and left, closing the door quietly. She watched her brother take off his spectacles and run his hand over his face. She could tell when he was about to cry. She had been able to ever since they were kids. Now, it was only a matter of minutes before the tears would flow. She waited for it, but not without remorse. She had always hated seeing him cry.

Suddenly his shoulders stiffened and he spun toward her. In that moment, she was afraid. Stark anger was in his bright blue eyes. An anger she had never seen before, even when they had been at war with each other.

"You," he growled. He stalked up to her armchair and slammed his hands down on the chair's arms. Their faces were inches apart.

"You knew didn't you! You knew there were plans for the President's assassination!"

She shrank into the cushions. "I-I knew there were many death threats sent to him. I had heard of plots for his death, but…"

"Don't you dare lie to me!" he roared. "You hated him just as much as the next Confederate man! You probably even know who did it, don't you?"

Tears sprung into her eyes. She had never seen such rage from her twin before.

"Alfred…"

"Answer me!"

She winced. "I-I think I know who it is… But I didn't think they were actually going to do it!"

"Who? Damn it, you'd better tell me who!"

"His name is Booth. John Wilkes Booth!"

Alfred was stunned. "The actor?"

"He hated Lincoln. He said that he wished he and the whole government would go to Hell… I heard that he wanted to kidnap the President, and maybe kill him. I had no idea…"

Alfred averted his eyes. Booth had been known for his resentment toward Lincoln and his undying devotion to the South. But still. He had no idea that the man would go to such lengths for the Confederate cause. This was all madness. Pure madness.

"I just… I can't believe this…" he muttered.

Amelia shook her head, gaining her composure again… as well as her bitterness. "Lincoln made many enemies. Y'all should have just left us alone."

The anger was beginning to boil up again. Alfred looked his sister square in the eyes.

"Are you saying that Booth was justified in his actions?"

She just stared back at him.

"Is that what you're telling me? That Lincoln deserved to die?"

"No. I think he should have been kidnapped. Murder is too much."

He couldn't believe his ears. "Aren't you upset at all? The President is dead!"

"He had many enemies! It doesn't surprise me that someone was able to knock him off!"

Too much. This was all too much. Amelia and her damned stubbornness, her damned pride and her damned loyalty to Southern extremists were too much. The tears could not be stopped this time, nor the anger. With a strangled cry, he raised his hand to strike her.

He heard her gasp and saw her cower in her chair through his tears. He froze. No. No matter how angry he was, seeing her there, still broken and bruised by the Confederate Army's losses, stopped him from hitting her. He couldn't and he wouldn't. Instead, he crumpled to the floor in front of her armchair and wept.

Amelia just stared at him. She couldn't move. She didn't dare speak to him. For the first time since he was officially declared a nation, Alfred was weeping like a lost child. Seeing her brother there at her feet and hearing him openly sobbing brought the full impact of what had occurred this night onto Amelia. The President was dead or dying. Booth had shot him. And suddenly, she felt tears of her own begin to seep out of her eyes. In that moment, she realized that she really didn't hate Lincoln. She had never hated him. She didn't agree with him on things, but she really did respect him. Some madness, some destructive hate had invaded her mind, and now it was gone. Now she understood just what she and her brother had lost. It was not just the unified feeling they had shared before the war that they had lost, but they had lost a leader; a very important man of the nation. And she realized that Alfred had just lost the man that meant to him what General Lee meant to her.

"Alfred," she whimpered.

He rose to his feet, wiping tears from his eyes.

"I've got to go," he said in a broken voice. After clearing his throat, he said, "My friend Mr. Jenkins will be here to make sure you don't try anything."

She wanted to say something to her brother. She wanted to tell him she was sorry.

He picked up his spectacles that had fallen to the ground and placed them back on his face. Amelia watched as he stepped towards a coat hanger and quickly shrugged on one of his brown coats. He smoothed his hair away from his face and reached for the door handle.

She rose out of her seat. "Alfred, please wait!"

He paused and looked over his shoulder at her.

"Please, Amelia. Later, all right? There's somewhere I've got to be."

She slowly sat back down and nodded.

He opened the door and left.

….

When Alfred entered the room in which the President had been placed, there were already several men keeping watch over him, which included the President's son Robert Lincoln, several physicians, as well as the Secretary of the Navy and Secretary of War. These two men greeted Alfred quietly and a chair was pulled up for him to sit down. He was seated beside the President's son, who was gripping his father's hand. Alfred looked down at the President. His face was pale, almost grey and he was barely breathing. The light from the lanterns surrounding the bed cast shadows over his face. No one spoke or made any noise. Everything was solemn as they kept vigil over their fallen leader, swathed in clean white sheets.

There was a sudden commotion and the First Lady entered the room. At the sight of her husband, she broke down in sobs. It pained the men to hear her go on so. She was vocalizing each of their feelings at their leader dying. Soon, however, she was bordering on hysterical. Her cries were getting worse and worse and someone finally called out,

"Take that woman out of here and do not let her in here again!"

Alfred watched as the lady was gently ushered out of the room and he could hear her faint sobs coming from the front parlor. Once again, he felt that his heart would break. He turned back to the bedside and his eyes drifted to the men's faces. They were all watching the President solemnly, not wanting to accept the inevitable. But Alfred knew that there was nothing more anyone could do. There was no medicine, no surgery, no way of weeping or pleading. All they could do was wait until Lincoln passed from the world.

His eyes remained dry, for he had emptied out all of his tears back when he learned his sister hadn't cared that his leader was dead. How could she? How could she just sit there emotionless as the world turned upside down and as one of the greatest leaders Alfred had ever known was dying across the street? She was probably still sitting there, wondering when she would be able to go her own way instead of thinking of what the people would have to endure in the coming future now that the President was dead. He bitterly sat there, staring at the President's face.

I want you back. How could they take you away from us? What am I supposed to do now? Who is going to be there to give me advice when I don't know where to turn? You can't leave. Not yet… not yet…

His hands shook from his silent emotions and he clenched them, bowing his head. He silently prayed for a miracle.

Their vigil lasted through the night until early in the morning, when one of the men who was supporting Lincoln's head, said softly that Lincoln had no pulse.

The President was dead.

Alfred joined with the other men in kneeling for prayer and someone quietly prayed for the President's soul. After the prayer ended, the Secretary of War muttered something about Lincoln's soul being at peace with the angels, and it was over. The sheets were lifted over to cover the President's face, and they slowly walked out of the room.

Amelia saw Alfred come back. He looked tired and heavyhearted, and didn't even look her way when he passed her by in the upper floor's hallway. She just watched as he headed for his room and closed the door. For the next week Alfred was clothed in black and remained solemn. President Lincoln was to be buried in his childhood home located in Illinois, and there was to be a long funeral procession by train.

Amelia, despite being allowed to leave Washington D.C. to go back to Virginia, had decided to stay and keep house for her brother while he was in mourning. It was an awkward couple of days, but inwardly, Alfred did appreciate her apparent concern.

"Are you going with them to the procession?" she asked him one evening.

He looked away from the parlor window that looked out to the street and met her gaze for a minute.

"Of course."

She looked down at her hands. "I suppose I am not invited along for the ride, am I right?"

"You weren't mentioned either way, but I don't know if it is a good idea that you are present."

Amelia nodded. "Then I'll stay here."

She noticed the doubt in his eyes as he looked at her. "Don't worry," she remarked. "I won't do anything or cause trouble. I've had all the fight knocked outta me. I promise."

He knew she was a woman of her word. "All right."

Alfred left to join the funeral procession on the morning of April 19, 1865. Amelia watched him go from the window of his home. She could see his tall frame clothed in black get into a cab that headed down the street. For a long while after he was gone, she could still see the deep sadness in his blue eyes staring back at her. It broke her heart.

She too ended up wearing black and spent her days reading the family Bible, waiting for her brother to return so that she could ask for his forgiveness. It was time for them to begin mending their wounds, and time for them to learn how to trust each other again. She also had more decisions to make.

Once he comes back and I apologize, I will head for home. I will start my life over again. I will begin a new South.

….

Alfred was a witness to the President's funeral. He was present to stand by the First Lady in an attempt to comfort her and her sons to the best of his ability. While he silently stood by, watching the coffin lowered into the Illinois ground, he began to wonder what the future would hold for him and his countrymen. Would he and Amelia be able to come to terms and forgive? Would he see an end to slavery once and for all? Would President Lincoln's ideas and morals be upheld by the government for years to come?

By all that is within me, I will make damn sure that they will, Mr. Lincoln. I won't let them forget. They will remember you. The North and the South will reconcile. We will see an end to all these wrongs. I promise.

It had been the first assassination of a president that America had ever experienced. It had been the first war that had torn him apart - literally - from his own flesh and blood. It had been the first time that he, the representative that stood for all American people, had fully broken down and cried. It was the first time he had prematurely lost such a good leader as Abraham Lincoln, who was like a father to him. And he would learn that being such a figure, being America itself, would come with such costs. He would never forget that night. He would have regrets, wishing he could have done something; even deceiving himself into believing that he could have done something to stop Lincoln's death. It would haunt him, and his sister as well. Both would never be as they were before.

The Civil War and Lincoln's assassination had changed the young nation's life forever. He and Amelia reconciled, but as suspected, never completely saw things eye to eye again. They would get into arguments more frequently, and there were times when Amelia would do or say something that would cause Alfred to have to stop talking to her for a while. Amelia, herself, soon learned to forgive her brother and change her ways. She even finally saw Lincoln as a good leader, and not just a good man. But she would always be haunted by the look of anger, betrayal and utter despair that she had seen on the night that the president died and her brother wept brokenly for the first time as a nation.

A/N: I figured that Amelia, being a representative of the South and their cause, would resent Lincoln and even despise him for a while, considering many Southerners did. But I had it in my head that some sort of madness had overtaken her mind as she watched her Southern brothers and sisters become more and more incensed and blood-thirsty. I'm sorry, my fellow Southerners, but y'all were a bit radical back then. Some of you were a bit mad, I think. Anyway, I figured that this madness would wear off of her after her side lost and then she would realize just how horrible Booth's actions were. Not all Southerners hated Lincoln. Many mourned his death as well, and so I decided that after some thought, Amelia would as well.

I love President Lincoln. He's so inspiring and he's probably one of the best presidents America will ever see. I think Alfred would see him as a role model, if not a father figure. Lincoln was said to be a kind man, after all. I could see Alfred heavily relying on Lincoln for support and wisdom as the war waged on. Gotta admit, I don't hate many people, but if there's one person I do hate, it's John Wilkes Booth. Even if he is dead.

The Civil War is so intriguing to me. To think that just a few decades after the American people had joined forces to free themselves from the British, they would have to separate and fight each other is so sad to me. The South seemed to see the North as just as bad as the British, but in reality, they seemed to just be stubborn and not want to give up their traditional ways of living and their slavery. And the whole idea of America is that it's a land of free men. No slavery allowed. In all of American history, the Civil War saw the most losses of American soldiers. D-Day, I've heard, pales in comparison to the lives lost in battles like Antietam and Gettysburg. So sad. And putting Hetalia and Nyotalia into it can make it sadder.