Secession

All men (…) are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. (…) That whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it... But when a long train of abuses and usurpations (…) evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is (the people's) right and duty to throw off such government.

In April of 1861, America went to war.

When he'd been very small, he'd asked England what happened when you got mad at yourself. He'd replied, in a funny, sing-song voice, an adult humoring a child, "You hit yourself until you stop being angry." Back then America had laughed and been swung up for a piggy-back ride, but now, it was ironic and hurting and sad.

Here, sitting in the Oval Office with Abraham Lincoln like he had with so many other presidents, it was a painful sort of nostalgia that set in upon him. This scene would have seemed perfectly placid and normal on the surface of it, had someone had just walked in with no knowledge of current events, but everything was horribly, horribly wrong.

He was... split, now. How funny that word sounded. He remembered England and his civil war, but he'd never imagined, never expected that it was this disconcerting and jarring. When your country was composed of polar opposites, how could one avatar represent them all? It didn't seem possible. It wasn't possible. He was a nation crossed by the stars. Cursed by the stars. The flag in the corner of the office evinced that, red and blue and white all intermingling together. He remembered helping to design that flag, when America had been wholly united in its struggle for freedom and when... and when...

"America, are you okay?"

He tore his eyes away from the red stripes and whispered, "I'm sorry. I can barely think for the headache. I can feel... nevermind." America shook his head and hated the look in the president's eyes, something not-quite understanding and almost pity.

"Your decision?"

"I can't... I can't choose. Please don't. Please don't ask this of me."

How could this all have happened? It wasn't perfect -dammit- but he would have though that the compromise ten years back would have prevented this. Not forever, because he knew this could never be averted, but until he was strong enough to face it head on...

"America..."

He had felt it happening and he'd done nothing to stop it. He'd felt the bitterness and the resentment on both sides, felt the outrage as the Moral Tariff Act went into place, felt the pain of mistreated slaves and just hoped it would work itself out. But then, what could one man do? What could one country do?

"Alfred," and it was very rare when he was referred to by his actual name, instead of his country-name, "Who do you support? Me? Us? Or the secessionists? The rebels?" There it was, that pull and urge to obey that accompanied the request of a President of America, but it was not as strong as it should be. America was able to resist. It left a sick, empty feeling in his stomach.

"You say that it is unconstitutional for the Confederacy to have seceded. That they have no right. They do."

President Lincoln eyed him, jaw slightly agape. "Alfred, you of all people... do you know what you're talking about?"

I helped write it, he wanted to snap. I was there! Of course I know what I'm talking about! But... that... would... be... rude. And it didn't do for a nation to be rude to its... well, half its leaders, did it? "You know what the Tenth Amendment is... the federal government has no say in state affairs. And you know that they have a right to leave. You can't force someone to stay in your country. That's not just unconstitutional. That's tyranny. The foundation of republicanism is that people can choose their representatives. The Southern people didn't choose you and they don't want you."

"So," the man deadpanned, "you're a secessionist." America shook his head. "Then you support us." His face brightened for a few seconds. "I knew you would. You're a good boy. You're doing the right thing."

When it came to human standards of age, Abraham Lincoln was not young by any stretch of the term, but in America's eyes he was barely a teen, and dammit, he would gladly sacrifice anything but his pride. Anything but his pride. "I'm not a boy and I know more a hell a lot more than you. I was here before you were even a twinkle in your daddy's eye, so don't give me that. I won't have it and I won't let you. It's not only demeaning to me but it's an insult to yourself."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. You just..."

"Go on." He didn't mean to sound petulant or annoyed, but that was how it came out. He figured he was due to be at least a little mouthy somewhere along the line. "Don't do this to me."

"You look so young. It's... I know you're nearly twice as old as I am, but..." There were two large, ornate mirrors on the east wall of the Oval Office, and America found himself looking at his reflection. To be honest with himself, except for a certain hardness about his eyes and strange set to his mouth, he really did look like one of the tow-headed Iowa boys riding off to join the Army of the Potomac, thinking the war would be over in time for Christmas and grand tales of gallantry and valor. (He'd been the same once... but years of bloodshed fighting for his independence and his people had changed that.)

"It's really disconcerting, isn't it?" He laughed and jerked his head away from the mirror, back to meet Abraham's eyes again. "Isn't it?" As if he'd said something particularly profane or insulting, he blanched and averted his gaze. America guessed he must have looked a bitter or maybe a little crazy. Pain could do that to a man -- or a nation. "Don't lie."

"... Yes, it is. But more to the point, who do you..."

"Please stop."

"Who do you think is--"

"Stop."

"I will when you tell me who you've chosen. I thought you trusted me... I'm the president. The President of America."

America didn't miss what that implied. "Half of America, Abe. Half of America. Only half." And there was a bite to his tone, and now the man did look a little hurt. All of the sudden he felt distinctly uncomfortable, as if he was a guest in a house that didn't want him. He knew that probably wasn't true (who didn't want America incarnate?) for sheer assurance's sake he stood up, brushed off his trousers, and said, "I need to leave."

Abraham sighed and America might have felt a little "Fine, then," he sighed, waving his hand. "You'll be welcome if you ever decide to come, but do what you want for now. I want to force you to stay. God knows I want to. We need you... but that wouldn't be fair. This must be... extremely stressful... for you."

You have no idea, Mr. President, America thought dryly. You have no idea and you won't until this war is over and done with and this whole nation is crying in sorrow.

One thing America had learned fighting guerrilla-style against the Cherokee with Andrew Jackson was how to make himself scarce, and that was exactly what he did. He retreated to a rickety house in Virginia he hadn't lived in since before the Revolution and managed to sleep through the worst of the pain. What he couldn't ignore he added to. It was difficult to differentiate between pain from battles he wasn't fighting in and pain from strenuous exercise. Still, the events at Antietam left him curled on his mat-of-a-bed and staring at the knotted pine wall, frozen with pain, but not so much that he couldn't think coherently.

He would survive. He couldn't be killed by these sort of things. The other countries had proven that much. How many wars had France lost, and survived? (For he would lose this war one way or another. It was inevitable.) But he had still become a country without a man behind it. What was a nation worth if there was no unified leader?

So America never did bother going to see Jefferson Davis. He knew what would happen and all that would come of it was anger and pain and an even higher sense of loss. What do you do when you're asked to do two different things, while you can do neither? There was no sing-song voice to answer.

The days precluding his 87th birthday left him in unease and trepidation. His head felt as if thousands upon thousands of feet were marching across it (which was maybe a little accurate) and then little twinges came-- anticipation that wasn't his, fear that had no cause, a hideous pastiche of emotions that didn't belong to him and that he didn't want. Before he knew it, the floodgates opened and washed him loose into a river of pain and confusion.

Gettysburg was not anywhere near him but he knew and he saw and he felt. He had never felt such pain, pain that would have driven a human (ha, ha! He wasn't human, but then, who wanted to be?) stark out of their minds and then straight into death, and if it didn't come in lulls and crescendos, he was sure he couldn't have bore it. When the agony and the bloodshed became truly maddening he would somehow find the will to collapse and black out, but it was not a peaceful slumber. Phasing in and out of consciousness he was aware of nothing but that something was wrong and there was an ever-constant hurt all over.

America remembered catching a wild hare once a long time ago and planning to keep it as a pet. He had been very excited and put it in a wooden crate to show England when he got home from Parliament, but when he lifted the lid to reveal the cause of his joy, there was nothing but a dead animal with a bloody cracked head. It had been so terrified and so constrained by its environment that it had chosen to ram its head into a protruding nail until it died. England had awkwardly tried to comfort him by telling him animals were stupid. It didn't help much.

When he emerged from his madness and hysteria on the day he had so long celebrated, there were glass shards from his -broken-glasses deep in his hands and dried, caked blood all on his scalp, his face, his wrists, everywhere. There was broken furniture and a guitar with a broken neck that he had loved a little -a lot-. Everywhere he hurt and there was nowhere he could retreat from the ache. He wondered if this was how Russia got his start, but soon the idea upset him so much that he refused to think of it any longer.

Just because you chose not to think of something didn't mean it wasn't happening.

He now had a burn to compliment the one inflicted when the White House had been razed. His new one had marched a bloody trail down his spine, starting in the area between his shoulder-blades and curving down in a slight arc to touch upon his right hip. It was red and angry, like the citizens of Atlanta, and it smarted with humiliation and defeat, like the citizens of Savannah. He couldn't bend over to tie his boots because he would split the scabs on his back, so he was forced to bring his heel up to rest on his opposite knee to even lace them up, like a pregnant woman.

The absurdity of such a concept brought tears to his eyes.

They came with a hysterical sort of laughter.

The battle of Appomattox Court House was over and done with and what remained of the Army of Northern Virginia was camped in a low valley that had probably once been beautiful, but the ravages of war and the needs of a starving army were great indeed. In just a few hours, most of the trees had been chopped for firewood and the grass had been trampled and overgrazed. Of the remaining trees the bark had been stripped by hungry horses as high as they could reach, and within a few months even these few remaining stragglers would die. There was blood and there were bodies, but America didn't want to look at them, so he settled for staring at his watch and counting off the seconds.

America had expected him to come, which was why he'd been standing in front of a pockmarked and gnarled pear tree atop a ridge since early morning. The dew had come and gone, and it was hot, but he kept his coat on. He didn't speak as Robert approached, because he didn't know if he could. There was a smell in the air that he'd long been able to identify, but he tried to ignore it when he could. (Death. Blood. Flesh baking in the sun. The sound of crying and of flies...)

"Can you help us?"

Had it been a few years earlier, America would have been surprised and maybe a little hurt, but defeat led men to greater depths of despair than he ever knew could exist. He couldn't blame the man for trying. "You know I can't." But still he felt disappointed, like a parent who had had to admit to their children that they were unable to protect them.

"No," Robert sighed, "I suppose not." Traveler's muzzle dusted the back of his owner's neck and the horse snorted, a soft fuzzy noise. America reached out to pat the buckskin's cheek but he pinned his ears back and glared. Not wanting to get bitten but somehow needing to ease that empty feeling of his, he offered, "I'm... sorry. I didn't want it to be like this. I never wanted this war in the first place. This war has... this war has been terrible for this country."

"For you."

America knew without looking that the man had noticed his hands, and he balled them into fists. "No," he countered, stiffening, "for you." Robert E. Lee looked weary, thin, old. Hounded by the stress of commanding an army, a legend ready to die. His fingers were crooked from where his horse had broken them and old and withered, strong but with a desperate, dying sort of strength.

"You want me to end it."

"... Yes." A slight breeze passed over them, distilling the April heat somewhat, but it wasn't nearly cool enough to dismiss the tremor in his voice as from chills. "It's... it's the best thing for your men. They have no food. No medical supplies. Nothing. Grant's blocked you from the supply depot at Lynchburg. It'd be cruelty to make them stay like this. There isn't a chance for you to win this war now." Both of them were too tired to ever think that there was a barb in that last statement. "They can't take anything else from you but your lives. Surrender with dignity. This nation doesn't want any more battles or fighting."

"Do you think we were right?"

Staring at the man, America didn't answer. He just stared and stared until he had to blink and look away, a few tears (it was no use bothering to tell himself that it was from the bright sun) welling out of his eyes. Robert frowned, reaching out as if to clap America's shoulder, but he flinched and backed further away, back against the flowering pear tree.

"Please," he whispered, barely audible above the sound of the crickets. "Please." What went unsaid was more painful than what he choked out, and after a few moments of quiet tension, General Robert E. Lee nodded. Then he mounted and trotted away, towards submission, towards defeat. An end of an age followed in his wake, and the revelation of that hit America with the resonance and force of a thousand army drums.

The air was stifling indoors this time of year and he loosened his collar, ill-at-ease, with a hollow ball in the pit of his stomach. He could feel eyes on him and he just couldn't meet them, however traitorous that was, and instead he stared at the paper on the desk ten feet in front of him and watched as Robert and Ulysses negotiated, something about keeping horses, something about parole, something about this-or-that. His ears were buzzing with something like the sound of heat, if heat had a sound. He felt like a caged hare.

America swallowed his anxiety. There was no reason to worry over time, because he had learned nearly 90 years ago that words, however just and true they were, couldn't change the world. It would almost be better if these two sides continued stabbing each-other into bloody, tattered shreds, right down to the bone and splitting apart the ribcage, deep, deep into the heart of immortal America. But at least it would stop the fighting. It would stop hurting him.

But this surrender would not alter these two men or their beliefs. It would not join this country -he the country- back together again, or heal the million men who had lost arms and legs and lives. The Union and the Confederacy still clung to different ideals, each neither completely right nor wrong, and these ideals were so jarringly different that it took his breath away, like the combined cold of three-hundred winters now long past.

Sometimes even he couldn't understand what his nationbelieved, or what it stood for, because it it was so very, very fractured, and though the majority of the damage had happened in just four... short... years, it was possible it -and he- would never be mended. It certainly would never be as it had been before. The desperate belief that a war could end so abruptly comforted lesser men, but America was not exactly human. He could not even pretend to be unfazed.

The union was as painful and transparent as the glass that had scarred his palms, but in April of 1865, America became "whole" again.

END

cynical dogs only ever bite

END

I wrote this without access to the internet, but I still did have my Encylopedia Britannicas, and I'm a pretty big American history geek as well, so I'll try to explain this as I reasoned it out. Along the same lines, all historical dates, battles, ect., are purely from my memory and could easily be off a day or two. There were four main catalysts for the Civil War:

1) The Moral Tariff Act. Prior to the invention of the cotton gin, the South could not mass-produce cotton products and relied on the North for supplies, but once it was invented, the south could ship cotton out to England at such a high price that it justified the cost of sending it there, and they began buying (higher-quality) English good and services. Because of this, the North (an industrial society) took an economical beating and tried to force the South to buy Northern-manufactured goods, by implementing the MTA, which heavily taxed merchants who sold things from England.

2) There was growing abolitionist activity in the north funded by businessmen in the North, because they wanted to turn the South into an industry-driven society as well. (Without slaves, Southern society would become that way.) Midway through the war Lincoln used the Emancipation Proclamation as a political ploy, and "freed" only the slaves he had no control over (the ones in the Confederacy), while ignoring slavery in the North (which was not uncommon). He did it attempting to cause a slave uprising in the South, which would presumably divert the Confederacy's attention.

3) The South did have a right to secede (not that I'm condoning slavery, but then, the war was never about ending slavery). They joined the union willingly and could exit as well, as America explains to Lincoln. However, the North refused to accept this and attacked, saying, "You do what we tell you!" Lincoln was elected with not one electoral vote from below the Mason-Dixon Line.

4) States' rights vs. a strong federal government. The Tenth Amendment says that any duties and powers not explicitly assigned to the federal government belong to the state governments. The Confederacy believed in the Tenth Amendment and the Union believed in a strong federal government. What we have today is the latter.

Concrit would be super-duper-loved, and I'm sure this totally needs it. Rage against the horrible writer! But thanks for reading! Review for the luvz? XD

Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia.