(April 1865)

Heat, debris, and sweat practically blinded him as he ran through the ruins of what had once been his capital. The Confederacy was clutching his gun tightly to his chest, even though it no longer had any ammunition. He just needed something to cling to, to convince himself that he was still alive. Suddenly, he threw himself down as he heard another blast from a cannon, and he felt pieces of a newly destroyed building raining down on him.

He stayed down, arms covering his head, desperately trying to block out the gunfire, the cannons, and the screaming. Oh God, why was the screaming so terrible this time? Was it because they all knew that they were being defeated once and for all? Was it because he knew these could be the last things he ever heard?

I should be brave, he thought. I should get up and fight! But his legs rebelled against him, and he could not make himself move.

He heard footsteps. He didn't want to look up. He was afraid to look up.

When he did, he was staring into the barrel of a gun, wielded by a man in blue wool, flanked by two others, looking down at him with angry eyes.

Am I going to die? he thought to himself. Then again, maybe it would be better this way. He had failed after all. Failed the people who had given him life. But, still, he was afraid, and tears began to sting his eyes.

"Go to hell," he heard the blue-clad soldier say. The Confederacy closed his eyes, ashamed at his cowardice, but not sure that it really mattered, anyway.

I'm never going to see those places up north, he thought. I'm sorry Alfred. I really wanted to see them. It would have been so wonderful. I really wanted to walk on water…

He waited for what seemed like an eternity. Waited for the final boom of a gunshot. He hoped it wouldn't hurt.

"NO!"

The Confederacy's eyes shot open as he heard the familiar voice. He felt strong arms wrap themselves around him as he stared up, and saw Alfred's bright blue eyes shining against the filth on his skin.

"Get away," Alfred said in a voice that commanded respect. The Confederacy had never heard him talk like that.

"What the hell are you doing?" one of the soldiers' demanded.

"That's none of your business," Alfred said. "Now get away."

"We ain't leaving him," the one with the gun said. "You wanna protect a traitor, fine. Guess that makes you a traitor too." He raised the gun again, but Alfred rose to meet him, standing tall in spite of the fact he was unarmed.

"You want to shoot me?" Alfred said. "Fine. Go right ahead."

The soldier hesitated for a moment. It was all Alfred needed. He flew forward, tearing the gun from the other man's grasp and laying a fist into his jaw. The soldier reeled back, stunned by the sudden assault. His companions were quicker to respond, though, training their guns on Alfred, but Alfred was too quick and before they could get off a shot, he had already shoved his fist into one man's gut with such a force that he was launched backwards, landing hard on his rear. The third seemed wiser than the other two, and he simple ran before Alfred reached him. The other two followed soon after.

Alfred walked back over and knelt down, his blue eyes meeting the Confederacy's bloodshot amber ones. "It's okay," Alfred said. "You're safe."

"What are you doing?" the Confederacy asked. "Why are you saving me?"

Alfred smiled. "You're a part of me, idiot. I won't let anything happen to my little brother," he said, as he wrapped his arms protectively around the Confederacy.

"I am not," he replied, but he still clutched tighter to the wool of Alfred's jacket. It was easier to block out the horrible screaming with Alfred there.

"I'll keep you safe, little brother. I promise."

The Confederacy was too tired to protest.

….

America swallowed nervously before stepping into his boss' office. He had known that his actions in Richmond would have consequences. But he was ready to face them. After all, he had made a promise, and he was not ashamed that he had kept it. At least Sam was safe at Lee's home just outside of Washington. For now, anyway. No matter what, he told himself, Sam has to stay safe. I can't let them hurt him.

He knocked on the door. A voice bid him enter.

When America saw his boss, he was not surprised to see him pale and wan, the lines of his face etched deeper than usual (which was saying something). He was tall and very thin to begin with, but the war had been hard on him, and it was showing. Nevertheless, he stared at America with the same sad, but somehow knowing, look in his eyes that he had always had.

"Sir," he said.

"America," his boss returned.

America took a deep breath, straightened his back, and broadened his shoulders. "I'm prepared for whatever punishment you have for me," he said in the bravest voice he could. "But I do not regret my actions. So do your worst, I can take it. Just so long as you promise not to do anything to Sam."

His boss regarded him for a moment. Then he started laughing, softly, and America instantly deflated.

"Forgive me," his boss said. "While I admire your fortitude, America, I can assure you that it is unnecessary."

"Oh," America replied. "Really?"

"Yes, really. It is my goal to reconcile with the South, not to punish them. In light of that, how could I punish your actions in saving the Confederacy?"

"Uhh… I guess you can't?"

"Precisely. America, your relationship with the Confederacy gives me great hope for our chances at a lasting reconciliation and peace. I assure you, I will do everything in my power to ensure his wellbeing."

"Great!" America exclaimed. "I promise, he won't do any harm. I mean, he isn't happy about Lee surrendering, but he won't do anything. In fact, can I take him up north? You see, I promised him that I would when-" he stopped suddenly, catching himself before he blurted out anything about their meetings. No need to risk his boss knowing about that. After all, he may not have minded that America saved him, but his boss would probably not be happy he had lied to him. "Uhh, when we left Richmond," America said. "He was curious, you see."

"Mm-hmm," his boss said, nodding.

"Anyway, does this mean that Samuel has nothing to worry about?"

"Not from me. Others will be angry with him, and may seek to do him harm, but I will do whatever I can for him."

America beamed. "Thank you," he said.

"No thanks are necessary, America," his boss replied. "Now if you excuse me? I have a great deal or work to finish."

"Yes sit," America said, before he ran off, excited, from the office.

….

Everything came crashing down in an instant.

He had felt it, when his boss had been shot. He had tried to deny it, tried to convince himself that he had imagined everything. But then he got the news. His boss had been shot, while at the theatre. He was dying. America had rushed to the White House the moment he heard what had happened, but he had only been in time to hear the man's final words. Then he had been escorted out of the room. Unable to keep still, he had run out, and now he was wondering aimlessly about Washington.

America felt numb. What would this mean for him? What would this mean for his people? What would it mean for Sam? His boss had been the one advocating peace with the South, but others disagreed. What would happen now that his boss was gone?

He wanted so badly to pretend that it hadn't happened. He wanted someone to comfort him and tell him everything would be okay. One of his bosses had never been assassinated before. He had no idea what he was supposed to do now. Should he even do anything? Would the transfer of power be any different than it was after an election? Would there be more fighting? God, he had no idea.

He stopped. People moved around him, news of the President's death hanging heavy in the air. They were afraid, they were angry, sad. But some were glad, although they only said it in whispers. America found it hard not to hate those people.

He shook his head. I can't do this, he thought. I need to be strong now. I faced a civil war and came out of it okay. I can handle this too. I will never let anybody see me weak. Not France, not Britain, not my people, not anybody.

This resolution made him feel better, if only slightly. He turned, and he knew that he still had a job to do. People would be angry with the South after this. He needed to protect Sam. He set off at a brisk walk, then at an all out run when that wasn't fast enough for him. Ragged breathing burned his throat, and his limbs felt stiff, but he did not stop until he was out of the city, and headed across the bridge over the Potomac into Virginia. Lee's house was there. That's where Sam was.

He allowed himself to stop for a rest, when he reached the base of the hill on top of which a dignified estate sat. Once a surrounded by a proud plantation, it now sat amongst the graves of fallen soldiers. They had turned Lee's former home into a cemetery. America had thought Sam wouldn't like it.

"I don't mind," Sam had said. "After all, I am a nation. It's important that I remember the cost of fighting. That way, I won't do it for a bad reason. Besides, I want to be with my people."

That was a wise thing to say, America thought. He didn't hear wise things very often, but he recognized it in his younger brother. Sam had his moments.

America took a few deep breaths, and then he began to run again. It was getting easier, even though he was running up hill now. He passed graves, some completed and marked, others waiting to receive their charges. He tried to ignore them. He'd had enough of death.

But the instant America reached the top of the hill, he knew that something was wrong. The front door was wide open, and blue clad soldiers stood at the entrance. As he got closer, America recognized two of his generals, as well as a man from his government, who was wearing a black tailored suit that stood out amongst the others' blue uniforms. They were standing on the porch.

"What's going on?" he shouted, running towards the men he recognized, but two soldiers blocked his path. "What the hell?" he demanded.

"Alfred?" one of his generals said, looking over to him. "What are you doing here?"

"My brother's in there! Let me though!" he ordered, as he attempted to shove his way by, but the soldiers pushed him back. "What's going on?" he cried again.

"Get him out of here," he heard the man from his government say.

"No! I want to know what you're doing. Let me go!" he yelled, shaking off the hands that tried to grab his arms. But then there were three, then four soldiers surrounding him. He attempted to push past, but he did not want to hurt them, and while he was stronger by a large margin, they had numbers on their side. And they seemed to have fewer compunction about hurting him. Although he fought against their hold, soon they had him by the arms, but he would not allow them to drag him away.

"Get off!" he cried as he struggled. Then he saw movement in the open doorway. Another general he recognized walked out, pistol drawn. Two soldiers followed him, along with two more officers. They were followed last by two more men, holding a struggling figure between them.

"Sam!" he cried when he recognized their captive.

Sam lifted his head. "Alfred?" he called back. "Alfred!"

"Let him go!" America yelled, but no one listened to him. He now fought against the men holding him in earnest, shoving hard to one side and forcing the two on his left to the ground, then quickly twisting and turning on the other pair. He managed to free his left arm, and aimed a swift punch at one man's head. His fist cracked against the other man's skull, and soon his right arm was free as well, but when he attempted to advance, someone grabbed his ankle and he crashed into the ground. The weight of men piling on top of him began crushing his chest.

"Alfred!" Sam cried. "Leave him alone!" he pleaded, but no one replied to him.

America raised his head as best he could. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded. This time, the man dressed in black approached him.

"This is none of your business Alfred," he said. "Please, do not make a scene."

"The hell I won't!" he shouted. "What do you want with Sam?"

"Alfred, leave now. It is not necessary for you to see this."

America felt his heart plunge into his stomach. He looked at the cold expressions of the gathered men, then at the gun in the general's hand. "No," he said. "No, you can't."

"Alfred?" he heard Sam say. "Alfred, what's happening?"

"You can't do this," America said again. "My boss, he said…"

"What he said is of no consequence, now," said the general wielding the gun, who was now walking towards them. "A Southern traitor killed him. That was the result of his attempts at peace. Well, now we try another technique. We must have a firm hand."

"But Sam didn't do anything wrong!"

"Would you rather we wait?" the general barked. "Would you rather we wait until he kills someone else, or incites another war?"

"He won't! I promise he won't! He would never do anything like that!"

"Alfred, they won't tell me what's going on!" Samuel cried. "I didn't do anything! I promise, I didn't!"

"Just let him go!"

"Alfred, we don't expect you to understand-"

"I'm sick of waiting. Let's get this over with, already."

"Alfred, help!"

"Sam! Please, please, let him go! Let him go!"

"Alfred, this needs to be done."

"No!"

"Help me!"

The general sighed, and lifted his pistol, drawing back the hammer. He walked away, back towards the others. Back towards Sam…

"No, please!" Samuel cried. "Alfred!"

"Stop!" he begged. "No!"

His vision was blocked, but America could still hear everything.

He heard Sam crying.

"No!"

"Alfred," Samuel sobbed weakly.

"No, please!"

He heard the blast of a gunshot.

"NO!"

It was quiet.

….

The funeral had been minimal, at best. They had buried him in an unmarked grave, not too far from where they had killed him. America had been the one to plant the tree. It was only a tiny sapling now, but soon it would grow up, into a big and strong oak tree. He thought that Sam would have liked it. He had always liked it when America took him out into the woods. Besides, if they wouldn't let a headstone mark his grave, this was least America could do.

America had cried. He had wept for so long, that he couldn't seem to bring any more tears to his eyes. They were tears of sorrow, tears of anger, hatred. Hatred for the men who had killed his brother, hatred towards the man who had killed his leader, hatred for the war, hatred towards himself. That was the strongest feeling, after grief: a consuming self-loathing.

I couldn't protect you. I promised I would. And I failed. Dammit, why couldn't I do anything?

He was kneeling before the freshly turned earth, the sun shining down on him. It was too bright. The sun had no right to be so bright and warm while Sam was trapped under the dark, cold ground. It wasn't fair.

"I'm sorry," America said. "God. I'm so sorry."

No one responded to him. He gave a dry sob, but still no more tears came. Maybe that was for the best. He was a man, after all. Men shouldn't cry.

Nor should they fail those they promised to protect.

America didn't even bother trying to push away those terrible, nagging thoughts filling his head. They were all true.

He rose, slowly. The fresh earth smelled nice, even if it was for a grave. America took a deep, steadying breath as he tried to collect his scattered thoughts. He could not afford to wallow in his own grief forever. He had a country to rebuild, his boss' murderer to catch. While he had failed this task, he did not have to fail those.

"I'll do better," he said. He wasn't sure if he was talking to Sam, or himself, or anyone really. But he was tired of silence. "Never again. I'll never let anyone suffer like this. I'll become stronger. I swear, I will. So strong, I can save anybody I want to, no matter what."

"America?"

America whirled around, startled. Then he saw, standing before him a few yards away, another figure. A familiar one too, though not anyone he had expected.

"Britain?" he said.

"How are you doing?" his former guardian asked. His expression showed an attempt to look easy going, but even America could see the tension in his face, the concern in his eyes.

America didn't know how to feel. He figured that he should be feeling something, considering who was standing in front of him, what Britain had done to him. The wars they had fought, the angry words, the bitter feelings. But America wasn't angry. Maybe he was just too tired to feel angry anymore.

"I'm fine, I guess," America said. "What are you doing here?"

"I- I really shouldn't be here," Britain said. "My boss does not know I came. But I…I heard about everything that happened, and I wanted, uh, I wanted to see how you were."

"Hey, I won, didn't I? I'm great." America replied.

"But your boss? That must weigh heavily on you."

"Well, yes. But I can't just sit around moping about it. I'm gonna go out and find the son of a bitch who killed him."

Britain sighed, shaking his head. "I should have expected no less from you. Still," he said. "Are you really all right? I would understand, if you, I don't know, needed to talk? I know, we have had some troubles in the recent past. But I am still here. If you need me." He looked embarrassed, America thought.

Still, it would have been nice to be able to talk. America wanted to tell him about Samuel. He wanted nothing more than to have Britain reassure him, tell him everything would be okay, tell him it wasn't his fault.

"Please, that's ridiculous," he scoffed. "Like I'd need anyone's help. I mean, I just won, didn't I? What would I need to weep about?"

"Oh, well, nothing I suppose," Britain said hurriedly. "I merely wanted to check."

"Nice thought, Britain, but, seriously, I don't need it," America said, his gut wrenching as he smiled and said those words. But he could not go running to Britain. Not if he was going to become strong. He could not afford to depend on anyone else. Never again.

"Well, fine then," Britain said. "I'm glad to see you are doing well."

"Of course. I mean, the war was rough. Really rough. I saw a lot of people die," he said, his voice growing softer.

"America-" Britain began.

"But I'm fine!" America declared quickly, catching himself. "Watch out, Britain. One day, I'm going to become powerful enough to stop any war. Then we won't have to worry about stuff like this."

Britain rolled his eyes. "You've been reading too many adventure stories, America. I don't remember you having such a ridiculous hero complex."

America laughed out loud. "Hero, huh? I like it. Alright then, one day, I'm going to be the hero!"

"Oh, heavens defend us," Britain sighed.

America only laughed, and stole a quick glance back at the little, unmarked grave. I know, I let you down, Sam. But I'll try to make it up to you. I'll become powerful. I'll be a better nation. I'll make sure nothing like what happened to you ever has to happen again. I'll be the whole world's hero.

America smiled as he felt a gentle breeze caressing his face, and the leaves on the little sapling began to rustle, softly.

The End.