My Last Lullaby

Summary: Alfred never thought the boy he'd loved and raised would one day be his enemy. Maybe that's why it hurt so damn much. Civil War fic.

Characters: America, OC

---

He'd known.

The moment he'd picked up that bright-eyed, smiling little boy, he'd known that his little darling would try to take his place, tear him to pieces. But he still cradled him in his arms, played games with him, laughed together, and ran through the fields with him. He had still loved him.

Is this how England had felt, when he realized that it had all slipped through his fingers?

Alfred couldn't stop the tears from flowing down his cheeks as he stared at the picture, taken only a little over a year ago. They were smiling, seemingly oblivious to the war brewing on the horizon. For just that moment, they had been completely happy. Just him and Sam, spending their first vacation together after several years apart.

He threw the picture on his desk, pulling on his coat and picking up his papers as he walked out the door into the cold winter air.

No, he wasn't his little Sam. Not anymore. There was only one thing he wished to be called now.

The Confederate States of America.

---

"Don't you understand?! You think this is a game, a quickly quelled spat between the North and the South? It won't be," Alfred said, hands firmly planted on the table as he faced the people who would decide the fate of the country – of him.

The men were somber as they stared back at him. "Don't make the mistake of doubting the South. This will be a bloody war, mark my words. We may have the better economy and more men, but they are fighting on their own land for a cause they will die for. Don't underestimate that."

The meeting continued, and Alfred's advice was taken to heart. There was still some doubt, but they understood it had to be pushed aside. It would only weaken them.

Alfred had just been pouring over a map with a general whose name he couldn't remember when he doubled over, clutching his side. They all stopped and stared in shock as Alfred started coughing up blood. A boy no older than twelve dashed into the room, kneeling by Alfred and pulling him into a position that would help his coughs.

Alfred smiled crookedly, the blood speckling his face making him look utterly crazed. "Looks like another one bit the dust." He struggled to stand up on his own, but eventually conceded and let the boy pull him to his feet.

"Thanks, Johnny," he said, wiping the blood from his lips. The boy refrained from reprimanding Alfred for using the hated nickname, instead supporting him as he moved back to his seat. The other men could only watched in strained silence as their country fell to pieces in front of them.

---

He loved Sam. He would always be the little boy who could make him smile no matter how bad of a mood he was in, the one who had managed to break down the walls he'd erected around his heart after he'd been forced to build them against England.

He was the little boy who'd lay down outside with him as they watched the clouds go by, or tried to count how many stars there were in the sky. Sometimes he would even try to name them all.

He'd made and mended Sam's clothes, taught him how to hunt and ride a horse, let him crawl into his bed when he had nightmares or was cold. He taught him how to read and write, and how to play games and sports and have fun. Sam came to him when he caught a fancy for a local, or for one of the nations that often visited to see what all the hype about America was.

He was his son.

But this was war, and war is unforgiving.

---

Alfred stumbled over a body as he made his way across the blood-soaked field. He didn't even stop, didn't look at the man's face or his uniform as he continued his trek to some sort of safe place. Men were dropping everywhere, the Gatling guns doing their job and leveling anyone caught in their sights. His face was sticky from the sweat, dirt, and blood mixed into some gruesome war paint splattered across his skin. If he ever saw Antietam again in his nearly immortal life, it would be far too soon.

He spotted a small ditch near the river bank and made his way toward it, not caring if the entire Confederate contingent was there waiting for him with guns drawn. He just needed to rest.

He practically collapsed into the ditch, just flopping over and laying back so he could watch the sky. He was tired – God, he was tired – but he would never be able to give up. As long as both the Confederation and the Union existed, there would be no peace. His duty was to fight with his people, and fight with them he would, no matter how much it tore him apart to kill those who had been his people too.

He had actually dozed off a bit when he heard the scrabbling of footsteps, and he shot up. Whipping around, he came face-to-face with an all too familiar pair of gray eyes with a matching uniform.

"Hello, Sam."

Sam spat out a glob of blood before smiling crookedly at Alfred. It almost caused him physical pain to see that smile again.

"Hello, Alfred. What are you doing in this neck of the woods?"

Alfred's grip on his gun tightened. "I'm fighting a war."

Sam opened his mouth, but Alfred cut him off. "Why, Sam? You never did tell me. I think I at least deserve that much."

Silence fell between them as they tried to stare each other down. Finally, Alfred was forced to look away. Sam snorted and said, "We're just too different, too separate, and I couldn't take it. Neither could anyone else. Maybe this could have been avoided, but the time when those choices could have saved us are long past."

He picked up his gun, looking Alfred dead in the eye. "I'll kill you if I have to, Alfred. Could you do the same to me?"

He turned around and walked away, leaving Alfred alone with a hole for a heart. He glanced in the direction of the battle before turning his eyes back to the clouds.

"I don't know."

---

"What is wrong with you?!"

Alfred and Sam stood facing each other from across the room, looking like two wild animals ready to charge each other.

"You are! Everything you do annoys me!" Sam screamed at him, caught in a high passion. "Don't try to argue that you're always in the right, that your way is the only way. You're always pressuring me to be like you, when I'm not!"

He ran a hand over his face, before glaring at Alfred and saying, "You know what, I'm leaving. I've had enough of this."

He went to the door, but was stopped by Alfred grabbing his arm. Sam tore his hand from his grasp and said, "Don't try to stop me. You won't be able to."

Alfred hesitated, but stepped back. Sam left the room to go pack, and after a short while he heard the front door slam shut.

A few days later, a notification about the secession arrived on his desk.

---

A battlefield. Always a battlefield.

And he always had the ones he loved at the end of his barrel.

He knew it would come to this. It always came to this. One or the other at the end of a barrel. But this time, one of them wouldn't be walking away.

The battle raged just beyond the crest of the hill, hidden from their eyes but not their ears. The screams of dying men and machine guns were all too familiar to them by now, and scarily easy for them to block out.

His Colt was aimed right at Sam's forehead, the man's arms hanging uselessly at his sides with his gun lost somewhere in the surrounding grass. Alfred had knocked it away in their struggle. Blue clashed with gray as they stared each other down.

"You can't do it, can you?

Alfred frowned, but his pistol never wavered. "Can't do what?"

Sam smiled sadly, getting closer to Alfred. His finger twitched on the trigger. "You can't shoot me. You don't have the heart – or rather, the lack of it – to shoot me. This war is nearly over, and it's obvious you're going to come out the winner. You and I both know that I need to die."

He moved too fast for Alfred to react, hitting his arm to make him loosen his grip on the gun before grabbing it himself. He backed up rapidly, pointing the Colt at Alfred to make sure he wouldn't make a move.

"I love you too much to make you do it yourself."

He placed the gun to his temple, and Alfred wouldn't have been able to move even if he had wanted to. Sam's resigned smile tore his heart in two.

"I'm sorry, daddy."

Blood and other matter he never wanted to think about flew from Sam's head as he pulled the trigger. Alfred heard himself scream as he watched the body fall to the ground, the gray eyes staring lifelessly at the clouds he used to love so much.

He fell to his knees, staring at the face of the boy he'd loved and raised as a son. "Sammy," he crooned, cradling the boy's head in his lap. He brushed the hair out of his eyes as he sung his favorite lullaby. He used to sing it every night when Sam was small.

As the familiar strains floated away on the breeze, he cried.