Legacy Ch 40 [APH Mexico fic]

At this point, the blonde cut in again. He seemed glad to have a topic on which he could speak, "You know, I have always wondered about why Texas showed up so suddenly. He said it was your doing, but I was never sure he was telling the truth." Mexico smirked, "He may be a coward, but even he wouldn't dare run away when I needed him. I needed him far away, and I got just that. Tell me, did he have a happy reunion with your sister?"

The question was flippantly cynical, and America heard it. He had come to accept the relationship between Texas and his sister a long time ago, the wedding had pretty much cemented it as a reality anyway. But, Mexico continued to treat it as a strange curiosity that he both disliked and felt as strange intrigue towards. It was almost chafing to America to hear him mock his sister's relationship. This was no exception.

He responded to the question with something that was meant to sound like a sharp reproach, "Why do you want to know?" This immediately got a reaction from Mexico, who took a small step forward, "I want to know because I want to know if I furnished someone with happiness while I was so terribly miserable. But that is beside the point. I expect you to tell me what I want to know because I am bearing my soul for you, it is only an even exchange for you to do the same, don't you think? Don't make that face at me, Alfred, you don't have the moral high ground on me."

The words were delivered with such force that the blonde felt himself start to shrink slightly. America immediately tried to lessen his disapproving scowl, which only resulted in his face dropping into a defeated flatness. Mexico walked back over to the bed and sat down next to his lover and put his arm around the blonde's shoulders, "I'm sorry I have to do that, Al, but sometimes you just get so childish. Just tell me about it." America turned his head to look directly into the other's gold eyes, "But you love me despite that, right?" The Latin man responded with a smile, "Of course, now tell me about my brother."
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The Virginian fall was still very warm, although the wind was chilled slightly. America had come to talk to his sister about the state of their sovereignty, which was currently being encroached upon by England. The young country was struggling more than enough without his old colonizer deciding to take back what he had lost. America had just finished commissioning the very first of his own navy, which would give him some hope of being able to keep Arthur at least off his coasts, and he now wanted to talk to his sister about the shared crisis. It was rather convenient that since the construction of Washington DC their homes were so close together. Richmond was a very short ride away, which facilitated these kinds of visits.

Annabelle was not hard to find, since she was lounging on a couch on her veranda, drinking a cup of tea. America had not written to her about his visit, and it was quite apparent that she had not been expecting him from the state of her dress. Her golden curls, usually neatly pinned, were loose and spilling over her shoulders. She was wearing a simple white gown with only slight blue embroidery; around her shoulder she was wearing a dark blue shawl, which was serving as protection against the slight cold in the autumn air. In short, she was dressed as though she was not expecting company.

America walked up the steps of the porch, but didn't immediately announce his presence. Instead, he watched as his sister put down her cup in a delicate matching saucer and picked up a letter, which was creased as though it had been unfolded and read several times. As she read over it again, she sighed and put her hand to his chest. Her expression was tender, but there was a slight crease forming between her eyebrows. It was only after watching her read for a few minutes that America cleared his throat and said, "Good afternoon, Annabelle."

Her head jerked up at the sound of his voice and her expression immediately hardened. Their eyes met and hers made no secret of the fact that she was displeased with him observing what had been a personal moment. Finally, Annabelle spoke, "Alfred, I was not expecting you today. It would have been proper for you to send a letter ahead of yourself." America was terribly unperturbed by his sister's scorn, it was normal for him and he had far more important things to discuss with her anyway. So, he walked over to the couch and sat next to her, As he did so, she quickly folded up the letter she had been reading and placed it on the table as far away from him as possible. She then picked up her cup of tea, which had been filled by a young girl with very dark skin who was standing just behind the couch clutching a silver teapot. It was this girl that Annabelle addressed, "Girl, go to the kitchen and fetch something for my brother to eat, I do imagine he is hungry. After all, he must have missed lunch to ride here." The slave meekly said, "Yes'm" and walked into the house.

America waited until the girl was gone to start talking, "Listen, we have a problem. I know no one particularly wants to go to war with Arthur again, but he is acting against us with impunity. I simply ask for your help." Annabelle scowled, which was still somehow a charming look on her doll-like face, "We barely won our independence and now you want to drag us into another war? Alfred, we have just gotten on our feet as it is." She glared at him for a second, but she soon took a quick glance back at the letter. America noticed it, but decided not to inquire as to the contents of the letter.

He responded, "I know that far better than you do. I have had to deal with the rebellions, the failed revolutions, and the discontent. But what do you think will happen to us if we don't show Europe that we do not answer insults?" He was about to answer his own question; he realized that she was looking away from him and back at the letter. America became slightly irritated. He had important things to discuss with her and she wasn't even doing him the courtesy of paying attention. He continued, this time attempting to speak loud enough to break through her thoughts, "They will descend upon our weakness like wolves!"

She didn't respond again. Instead, she started chewing on her lower lip. He lost all his patience and said, "Are you listening to me, Annabelle?" The sound of her name was enough to snap his sister out of her reverie. She looked back at him and said, her voice making it quite clear that her mind was still very far away, "I'm sorry, what were you saying?" This response did nothing to ease America's frustration; it actually magnified it.

He knew the source of his sister's distraction, and he now wanted to know what the letter said. He abruptly stood up and walked around the table. Without giving his sister any warning, he reached out and put his hand on the letter. Annabelle lunged forward as soon as she recognized the action for what it was, but she was a half-second too late. Her hand came down on top of her brothers. America pulled the letter off the table, unrestrained by his sister's hand. The paper felt like it had been handled often, it had a certain softness to it.

Annabelle quickly said, obviously flustered, "Give that back, Alfred. It's nothing important. It will mean nothing to you." She extended her hand pleadingly. Her blue eyes were also wide, placating. America had fallen for her begging too many times when they were children to be moved now. He took a step backwards, away from her and started to unfold the letter, saying as he did so, "If it were not important, it would not be distracting you so much. Now, let's see who is writing to you." Annabelle stood up and said, this time firm, "That letter is very personal. It was sent to me, which means it is not meant for your eyes. Now give it back!"

Again, America made no attempt to give the letter back. By now, he was curious as to what his sister was so desperate to keep secret. Once he finished unfolding it, he looked over the paper eagerly. The handwriting was proficient, by no means unreadable, but lacked any grace or style. There was even a slight disorder to it; some of the words did not match the proceeding ones in size. It was certainly not handwriting that America recognized, which only added to the mystery. Only one line stood out from the rest, where the ink became far thicker, as though the quill had been pressed into the paper much harder. It read, "I confide this in you alone: I have begun to lose my ability to control myself, as hard as I try. My brother is at once absent and overbearing, his presence is becoming unbearable. I fear that I may soon lose control completely and that will spell the end of me." America skipped over the rest of the letter to get to the signature at the end. He spoke aloud out of shock, "Texas?"

A voice spoke behind him, "You called?" America turned around to see the aforementioned man. Texas's clothing was covered in a light layer of dust, but was generally in order. He was smiling with a strange carelessness; America dared even call it relief. Perhaps it was relief at being away from Mexico. Texas took a couple long strides and was soon on the veranda. He walked over to America and said, "My letter, por favor."

Still stunned by Texas's sudden appearance, America wordlessly handed over the letter. He wondered if he should reveal that he knew about Texas's feelings about Mexico. He decided against it for now. When he said nothing, Texas turned his attention to Annabelle. She was just as shocked as her brother had been, but she handled it with more grace. Texas's face lit up when he turned to face her, and he was suddenly full of light. Annabelle took a couple small steps forward before deciding to throw away dignity and closed the space between her and Texas very quickly. Once they were close enough, she threw her arms around him.

America couldn't be more surprised. He had never seen his sister express so much affection for anyone. She was so thoroughly independent that this reaction seemed very strange. Texas responded by wrapping his arms securely around her. America found it even harder to comprehend when Annabelle started shaking slightly and said, "I was so worried about you. I was waiting so long for a letter. I thought…"

She stopped as though suddenly unable to express what she was thinking. Texas cradled her head with one hand and kept the other arm firmly around her waist. When he responded, his voice didn't sound exceptionally stable either, "Don't say that. I'm here for you. You deserve to never be alone." America stood there is flabbergasted silence, trying and failing to think of something to say. The pair embraced for what seemed like an eternity before CSA finally broke away from Texas and said, her eyes shining, "I'm such a mess, you shouldn't even look at me."

Texas reached out and brushed back one of her loose curls, seeming very sure of himself. He then said, looking directly into her blue eyes, "You're beautiful all the time." Annabelle's porcelain complexion immediately turned pink. America was finally able to think of something to interrupt the moment. He said, "Diego, why are you here? What is going on with your brother?" Texas hissed, almost imperceptibly, and turned towards America. His eyes had turned hard and endlessly black. He said, "Is that all I am to you? An extension of Alejandro?" America could see the bitterness he had felt in the letter. However, he was more worried about Mexico. Having Texas here meant that Mexico had sent him, because the younger brother would not dare desert simply to reunite with Annabelle. That meant that Mexico must need something from America and Texas was here as a messenger. There were more important overarching political issues that he needed to address without Texas's bitterness getting in the way. The relationship between Texas and Mexico wasn't really his business. He responded, "That's not the point. You must be here for a reason." Texas sighed, but his gaze didn't falter, "I do, in fact, have a reason. My brother gave me a proposition for you and it involves you giving him weapons. If you are willing, we can talk about it later."

America raised one eyebrow, "Why can we not talk about it now?" At this point, Annabelle spoke, while taking a step forward so she was standing right next to Texas, "Because this is my moment, brother. Diego has ridden all the way here, he is probably very tired." The inflection in her voice indicated that rest was not the only thing on her mind. Texas nodded and turned his gaze back to Annabelle. When their eyes met again, America had the distinct feeling that he was suddenly alone. In the other two's perspectives, he had completely disappeared. Annabelle said, still looking at Texas, "Let's find you a room so you can stay for the night, or longer." Again, Texas nodded and carefully took Annabelle's hand in his own.

They both walked away, leaving America standing on the veranda alone. He decided that there was nothing he could possibly do at the moment. Both of the people he wanted to talk to at the moment had just walked off with each other. He sat back down on the couch and looked out over the land surrounding his sister's house. The slave girl returned and set a tray of sandwiches down lightly on the table. She looked at him with some concern but held her tongue, apparently more used to his sister. America took notice of it and said, "You can talk; I need the company. What's your name?" She took the cue to sit next to him on the couch and fold her dark hands carefully in her lap. She responded, "My mistress calls me Jane when she uses my name." America picked up one of the sandwiches and nibbled on a corner as he responded, "Well, I will talk to you since I have nothing to do." He waited for her to respond as he thought about what Texas could possibly have come to ask him.
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Mexico was standing above the spectacle as the rivalry between Allende and Hidalgo came to a head. He had watched them fight the night before following the loss at Calderon Bridge, and now the moment had finally come. They had stopped in a large town after the retreat, and that was where Mexico now was. He was occupying a room that had belonged to the mayor of this town. The loyalist mayor had already been dealt with and Mexico was glad to have a room with some hint of luxury again. True, this was not a large town nor was it a confluence of wealth, but the change was still welcome. Once again, he was residing in a building that had more than one story.

He was standing on the balcony looking out over the scene he had known was coming for several days. He had chosen to distance himself from it because of his emotional tie to Hidalgo. Below him, what remained of the army was assembled in the town square. On a raised platform, Hidalgo and Allende were standing facing each other surrounded by lesser officers. The wind that was whipping through the square making it so that Mexico could hardly hear the words that either of them were speaking. It didn't really feel like a detriment because he could clearly see the emotions through the facial expressions and body movements. Allende looked as though he was pleased, but trying to keep it hidden behind a mask of discipline. He extended his hand and his mouth moved as though he was saying something crisp, possibly an order.

Hidalgo looked drained, almost pale. His brow looked far more lined than it ever had before, especially in the harsh light of midday. For the first time, the priest looked like an old man. Moving slowly, he removed an ornate sword from his belt. The sword was a symbol of command and authority and Hidalgo handing it over was the gesture that indicated that he was permanently giving up command of the army. Once the sword was free of his belt, Hidalgo made to hand the sword over easily. Mexico felt his heart sink; he was not comfortable watching Hidalgo be broken like this. No matter what he said to Allende, Mexico's heart was still with Hidalgo, which would not change.

Hidalgo suddenly looked up at Allende's face and the fire returned to his eyes. Instead of simply handing over the sword, he drove it into the ground right next to Allende's foot. Mexico felt a slight smile curl over his lips. But, the scene below him was not yet over. As Allende struggled to pry the sword out of the ground, Hidalgo turned his gaze away from the other mortal and looked up at the balcony. Mexico felt as though the piercing gaze saw right through him. Hidalgo's dark eyes met his own and he felt himself shiver, despite the heat of the day. He turned away.

Mexico felt a strange swelling emotion that he could not name, although it may have been guilt. He had agreed to this when Allende had given him an ultimatum, so in a way it was his fault. He wanted to win his freedom, but this was starting to make it clear what the costs may be. Allende was very capable of leading, but something about this still felt wrong. Mexico turned completely away and took a couple steps inside the room. Being back within the confines of the room made him feel slightly safer.

Mexico took a couple deep breaths. He could feel emotions beginning to subside again. If this was the price of victory, he wanted to be able to accept it. A couple minutes passed as he attempted to grapple with himself. Then he heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs just outside of his door. A part of him already knew who was just outside, but he didn't immediately come to the door. He wasn't certain if he was ready for the conversation that was going to ensue. There was a light knock on the door and he heard Hidalgo's voice, "I know you're in there, Alejandro. We need to talk." Mexico walked to the door, but he still couldn't bring himself to open it.

He spoke through the door, "What can we possibly say to each other? Are you going to blame me for siding with Ignacio? You have every right to blame me." He put his forehead lightly against the wood of the door as he waited for a response. It felt like an eternity waiting for the blame to fall on him. But when the voice came from the other side of the divide again, it said, "No, I don't blame anything but his ambition and my own failures. I can't stay here now. I wanted a chance to say goodbye to you."

Mexico heard the defeat in the usually strong voice, and that finally broke him down. He carefully wrapped his hand around the doorknob and pulled it open. Hidalgo was standing just the other side of the door. He looked slightly surprised when the door actually opened. Mexico took a breath, even though he was not entirely sure what he was bracing himself for. Hidalgo said, looking directly at Mexico, "May I come in?" The Aztec boy nodded and stepped out of the way. The priest closed the door behind him as he came in.

When the door was firmly closed, Hidalgo spoke, "I know that my dismissal was not your decision. You haven't done anything wrong in doing what you think is right." Mexico tried to find words for a response, but they wouldn't come. He shook his head slightly and looked down. The priest was able to read his actions, and continued talking as though Mexico had agreed with him, "But you need to know that even when I leave, I will still be here for you. I want to believe that Ignacio will not fail you, but I can't be sure."

Mexico finally spoke, "Miguel, what can I do about it? I can't change the situation now." The priest responded quickly, "I'm going to leave regardless. But, if Ignacio fails you, I will do whatever I can to be back with you. But, if I can't, you should go to Jose Maria Morelos. He is my protégé, and a very talented strategist." Mexico shook his head and took a step back, "Why are you telling me this? You're acting like you're planning to die." He didn't mean the last words; he hadn't even considered it. But, now they came out in a rush of words and strangely strangled emotions.

He didn't want to be told about what his last resort should be when he still had an army and a leader. True, losing Hidalgo would hurt him, but it didn't not mean that the independence movement was lost. Hidalgo sighed and responded, "Like I said, I don't want to leave you, but I may not have a choice and I do not trust Allende to take care of you." Mexico nodded, but said nothing else. He could feel that this was an irreversible moment, but something told him that it was going to be important. Somehow, this conversation, this moment, felt vitally important to his future.
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America looked across the table at Texas, who had been unavailable for most of the day, and said with some reservation, "So, your brother wants me to supply him?" Texas nodded, "Not completely, but he will take whatever you have to offer. There was actually supposed to be a mortal messenger who came before me, but that's not important." America nodded and looked out over the ornate dinner that his sister's slaves had set out. He didn't feel particularly inclined toward any of it, but his sister was sitting next to Texas across the table from him and looking at him expectantly.

He cut into a piece of chicken simply as something to do while he thought about Mexico's request. He hardly had enough weapons to keep England off of his own shores, let alone give any to Mexico. But, if he didn't do something to help Mexico in his time of need, America would feel negligent. He knew how important aid had been to him during his own independence and he couldn't deny Mexico help. Annabelle spoke in the meantime, "Personally, I'm in favor of doing what we can. I don't want to put Diego in danger."

America nodded again, attempting to comprehend the situation and make a decision. He took a small bite of his untouched meal to stall. He chewed slowly and deliberately as Texas watched him. America found himself wondering how much Texas really wanted him to agree. There was probably a part of Texas that didn't want to see Mexico win. Perhaps there was a part of Texas that wanted to see Mexico's ego deflated.

When America could no longer stall, he said, "I will do what I can to help your brother, but you must know that my own situation is not easy. I can not give you a definite answer, but it would be far easier to talk to your brother in person." Texas responded, his voice sounding very measured, "I can return to my brother and give him your offer. If I do, it is likely he will come in person. If that is what you want, I can do it." Again, America was not sure how that made him feel. His face-to-face conversations with Mexico seemed to have a tendency to turn hostile. If they met again, especially when Mexico was in the middle of a war, it could be very bad. But, on the other hand, it would give him a chance to help, which would likely heal the past offenses in his relationship with Mexico.

America looked down at his plate and realized that he had cut his chicken into very small cubes without being conscious of the action. He looked back up at Texas again and noticed that both he and Annabelle had already finished eating. He finally answered, "Diego, tell your brother that I will do what I can to supply him. That is my decision." Texas was quick with a response, "Then Alejandro was right about you, yet again. I will leave tonight."

This got Annabelle to react. She turned to Texas and said, "Surely you can stay longer. You must at least stay the night." Her hand moved across the table and softly laid itself on top of Texas's hand. He looked at her and his face showed that he was truly regretting what he was saying, "I really wish I could, but my brother demands news quickly and if I tarry here, he will be displeased." There was genuine fear in the last words of the statement, and America could hear it. For the first time he noticed a fading bruise on Texas's jaw line and he wondered what it had come from. Apparently, Annabelle noticed the tone as well because she simply dropped the subject. Texas half-heartedly nodded, "Then it is decided. I will depart tonight."
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"And Antonio captured him on the way back." America looked over, surprised by Mexico's interruption. Mexico looked back at America and his golden eyes had turned hard, "That's what happened to the mortal messenger as well. Antonio was carefully watching all channels of communication north, expecting that I would reach out to you eventually." America tried to figure out what to do with this information.

He didn't really need to think for long because Mexico, as was his usual fashion, continued, "Again, I made the mistake. I wanted my brother out of my hair so desperately that I didn't think of what Spain could do with the information that I was looking to you for help." The blonde hesitated before asking, "And what did he do with that information?"

Mexico stood up again and started to pace, which seemed to be his usual reaction to memories that made him angry. He spoke more to himself than to America, "He did the best thing he strategically could do: He arranged for me to get a messenger who said that you wanted to arrange at meeting. So, I went north to reach you." America intoned, "But since Texas never got back to you, that means…"

Mexico finished the sentence, "That the meeting wouldn't have ever happened. Antonio played his cards very well and he almost got exactly what he wanted." He held up his hand and held his finger and thumb very close together, "I was this close to being captured, this close to losing my chance at independence for good. It was too damn close." The blonde blew out a single long breath. He had the feeling that Spain had used him without him even knowing it. In some way, he felt like he had been a part of Mexico's downfall. He tried to say something meaningful, "I had no idea, Alejandro. I really just wanted to help you."

Mexico hissed through his teeth, but said nothing. America continued in a desperate attempt to get the other to talk again, "But what happened to Texas? Being captured by Spain couldn't have been a good experience." The other sneered as he turned around again, continuing to pace, "What do you think? He told Antonio everything he needed to know and Tony let him go just to torment me more. The only comfort I could get out of it was the frustration Antonio must have felt when he realized that he had my bastard brother and not me." America immediately felt like he should defend Texas, but simply because he wanted to keep the peace between the brothers. Mexico skipped right over the issue again, as he was like to do, "Anyway, what happened to Diego isn't important. What mattered was what his actions spawned."
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It still seemed strange to only be talking to Allende, even though it had been several days since military power had been wrested from Hidalgo. The planning table felt a little emptier, but Mexico couldn't let it bother him. What was done could not easily be undone, so there was little choice in fighting it. Allende was speaking, "I have gotten word from the Northern border. We can get weapons from the Americans if we can make it all the way north."

Mexico looked down at the map that was showing the border between himself and America. He had a sinking feeling that this was a terrible idea, but he couldn't place why. There was no logical reason he should be worried about going through with this deal. In fact, he had told Texas to broker this deal. It was only slightly strange that Texas had not yet returned. But, that could be easily explained by the relationship that was developing between Texas and America's sister. If he had stayed to spend more time with America's sister, then his absence was completely explainable. Mexico couldn't explain his sense of disease, but it persisted even when he tried to convince himself that there was no reason for it. He looked at Allende and attempted to look for some kind of reassurance.

Command suited Allende, who looked far more comfortable now that he didn't have anyone to fight. He looked certain of himself, which should have comforted Mexico. Even without some sort of reassurance, Mexico could not reasonably object to the plan. He nodded and said, "Fine, do what you will. What about Spain? He holds the majority of the North." Mexico drew his finger across the map to illustrate his point.

Allende replied, "You're cautious, but my information is good. I know what I'm doing." Mexico couldn't stop himself from hissing through his teeth. But, he had no reason to object. Again, he said, "Do what you will. You have the army now." He didn't want to continue this conversation. Mexico could feel the power slipping between his fingers and the feeling unnerved him. He had not had the power to change the decision about Hidalgo, and he didn't feel like he had the power to change the course of the independence movement now.

Allende recognized the dismissal and suddenly straightened back up. He looked around at the other commanders and said, "Everyone leave." As the room cleared, he turned to Mexico, "Are you mad at me?" The question seemed like it should have a simple answer, but, in truth, it did not. On a personal level, Mexico was becoming less and less fond of Allende as time went on. But, he realized that Allende was necessary to the independence. So, although his heart may be set against the change of leadership, his brain knew that he had to make peace with the man.

So, Mexico fixed his eyes on the mortal and lied, "No, I'm not mad at you." It was a simple response and it would allow Mexico to back out of this conversation. Or at least it would have if Allende had decided to believe him. However, the mortal responded, "I'm in no mood for your lies. Is this because of Miguel?" Mexico clenched his back teeth and attempted to keep his tone neutral, "You made that decision without me."

Allende sighed and took a couple steps, as though he was about to walk around the table, but Mexico took the same amount of steps backwards so the distance between them remained the same. Frustrated, Allende spoke again, "I made a deal with you and you honored it. Honestly, Alejandro, you are a country and you must bend your own desires to that of the majority on occasion. I'm sorry that this isn't to your taste, but it's for your own good." The last statement made Mexico bristle. He felt like he was being chastised like an irrational child. He could feel his temper start to boil.

When his voice came out again, it was deeper and colder, "Don't patronize me, Ignacio. If I were to truly be with the majority, I would be in Mexico City by Antonio's side. I'm here which should be enough to tell you that I have my own will, which takes precedence over anything else." Allende looked down, acting almost defeated. When he looked up, he said, "Is there nothing I can do to gain your blessing?" Mexico shook his head because it was the honest answer. Clearly, Allende could see through his lies. He coupled the gesture with a statement, "Short of handing me Antonio's head on a platter, no."

The mortal looked as though he had expected that answer, but was hurt by it all the same. Mexico didn't feel any sympathy for the man; after all, Allende had gone behind his back to make the decision. All he felt was a gnawing irritation at this display of emotions. Mexico turned to leave and was stopped when Allende said, "While you are getting your feelings off of your chest, is there anything else you would like to say to me?" The Aztec boy turned back around so he was facing the mortal again. He said, his voice colder still, "Miguel was twice the man you will ever be." Without waiting for a response, Mexico turned and left Allende standing there.
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Mexico stopped, apparently because the emotions were too strong. He even stopped pacing and turned his gaze to his lover, "That was the last thing I ever said to him. It was our last conversation and I was cruel to him." America attempted to by sympathetic, "You had every right to be upset." But, as was usual, this was the wrong response. Mexico immediately responded, "No I didn't, I was being a prima donna. Ignacio had set up the entire independence; he was more involved than Miguel ever was. He didn't deserve any of that. And even with my cruelty, when he was executed he stood proudly as my champion."

America struggled to find something to say. He had nothing that he could compare it to in his own experience. None of his leaders had ever been executed by the British, so he never had the guilt of thinking back on an unintended last exchange. He had also never developed a dislike for one of his leaders the way Mexico had. So, he chose to move on, "Were you there when he was captured?"

Mexico shook his head, "I wanted to be there, but Allende wanted to make the deal and then send for me. I personally think he wanted to keep his distance from me after that conversation. Whatever the reason, I was not there during Spain's ambush." He took a breath and America realized how emotional he sounded. It was strange to hear especially from Mexico, who was usually so collected.

The blonde remained silent and Mexico continued, "I can't tell you how that kept me up at night. If I had been there, there would have been no way for me to get away. Antonio would have had me. It all could have ended right there." America's feeling of being a part of Mexico's defeat intensified. He could never have forgiven himself if the other had been captured by the Spanish, even though he wasn't actually involved in the trap. He chewed on his lower lip while he thought, "It was good that you were safe though." Mexico half-heartedly scoffed, more out of habit than out of scorn, "Safe? Let me tell you how it felt to be safe."
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Mexico was livid about being left behind. True, he was with the army, but that didn't help. He felt slighted. He could have personally overseen the exchange of weapons with Alfred, but he was stuck here in a small town instead. He had nothing to do except wait for word, which should have come by now. Mexico was walking around just outside of the building he was currently residing in. His anxiousness had made it impossible for him to simply stay inside and wait. The feeling of uneasiness that had plagued him since he had first heard Allende's plan had now increased to an unending frenzy that he could not simply push to the back of his mind. Every moment that passed without news from Allende or one of the two other commanders he had taken with him magnified the feeling. Every time Mexico tried to sit and wait or occupy his mind with something else, the anxiety came surging back with sickening force. He couldn't stand it and he also couldn't explain it.

Philippines was watching him with some trepidation from where she was sitting on the porch of the building while she occupied her hands with braiding her long hair. Mexico could understand her fear, she had never seen him truly worried and now he was. She tried speaking, "You're going to wear a rut in the ground doing that! Don't be so worried, word will come soon." He didn't even look up at her as he responded; "We have been saying that for at least an hour. If there was word, it would have come by now."

As he spoke, he heard the gallop of a horse behind him and he turned to see Hidalgo on a horse ridding towards him. A strange relief washed over Mexico at the sight, although it didn't change the situation about which he was worried. When the priest was level with Mexico, he said, "What are you doing here? I though you would certainly be with Ignacio." The country shook his head slightly, trying to express what he was feeling in a gesture. He looked up at Hidalgo, who was still astride his horse, and said, "He told me to stay with the army. He went on ahead on his own and I have been stuck here waiting for news."

The priest caught the frustration in the boy's voice. He dismounted so they were at the same level. He reached out and put his hand on Mexico's shoulder, "You're worried, aren't you?" Mexico simply nodded, although the word didn't seem to describe the frenetic mix of emotions he was feeling. The priest nodded curtly as a sign of understanding. Then, the mortal mounted his horse again.

Mexico was shocked by the sudden action, "Where are you going?" Hidalgo replied quickly, "I'm going to go see what is keeping Ignacio. Don't worry, I will be back soon." Mexico wanted to say something to stop Hidalgo, to keep him here. But he swallowed his response, the paranoia was completely illogical and he shouldn't cave to it. So instead, he watched Hidalgo ride off in the direction Allende had gone a couple of hours before.

He exhaled slowly, attempting to calm himself. Even the warmth of the sun felt somehow tyrannous at the moment. It was too harsh, too warm, and too bright. Mexico couldn't stand it, just as he couldn't stand anything right now. Over on the porch, Philippines had watched his short conversation with Hidalgo in silence and finished braiding her hair. But, now she spoke directly to him, "Alejandro, please calm yourself. Come over here and sit with me." He sighed, simply out of exasperation, and decided that there was nothing better he could possibly do with his time.

He walked up to the porch and sat in the empty chair next to Philippines. Sitting felt completely wrong; it made him even more nervous. Philippines put her hand on his leg and it had a strangely comforting effect. She spoke, "Employ some of your control, because you're scaring me." A nervous laugh bubbled up in his throat as he realized the absurd role reversal. He said, his voice still sounding rather unsure, "Since when are you the controlled one?" Philippines leaned a little closer to him so their shoulders were touching, "Don't be stupid, it's out of character for you. Just take some deep breaths and wait."

The sun was beginning to near the horizon when the messenger arrived. The appearance of the mortal immediately told Mexico that he had been right to worry. The man looked battered to put it lightly; he was covered in dust and was cradling what appeared to be bullet wound to the shoulder. Mexico stood up at once. Philippines, who had fallen asleep against him, jerked awake when he moved. By the time she had realized that he had gone, he was already in front of the messenger, who was slowly making his way off of the horse.

Mexico wasn't the only one who had been waiting anxiously for news. Behind him, people were coming out of the buildings and forming a crowd. None of it mattered to Mexico; he was only interested in the shaking man who was slowly descending from the horse. As soon as the man looked up after guiding himself to the ground, his eyes met Mexico's. Without any niceties, Mexico immediately said, "What happened?" The mortal's eyes widened and he had to grab his horse's mane to steady himself.

What was left of Mexico's patience failed, and he reached out with both hands and put them on the man's shoulders. He could feel the man wince as his hand touched the bullet wound on the man's shoulder. Mexico couldn't bring himself to care; he needed his answer. He repeated, "Tell me what happened!" The mortal looked directly at him, eyes still unimaginably wide, and said, with his voice shaking, "It was a trap. The Spaniards were there to ambush us." Mexico could hardly believe what he was hearing. He tightened his grip on the mortal's shoulders, "What happened to Allende?" The mortal slowly shook his head as though attempting to ward off an unbearable thought. His voice was completely hollow when he responded, "They're all gone. Every single one of them."

Mexico understood what this meant in unbearable clarity. His heart seemed to stop, his breath hitched in his throat. His hands fell from the mortal's shoulders. In a numb mindlessness, he turned and pushed his way through the hushed crowd. Once he was about a foot from the side of the crowd, the news finally hit him. The ground beneath him felt like it had disappeared and only seemed to reappear when both of his knees hit it. He could feel his heart bleeding in his chest; it hurt unbearably. He put both of hands to his face and could feel water on his face, which he knew must be tears although he did not remember crying. He couldn't force himself back to a standing position; he was in too much agony.

He felt a pair of hands on his shoulder and looked up at Philippines, who was standing next to him. She grabbed one of his arms and pulled him up. His legs felt like they wouldn't hold his weight. He felt like he was in a haze, nothing seemed real except the crushing reality that all of his leaders were now in Spanish hands. He felt Philippines settle him down in a chair. Mexico finally spoke and his voice sounded weirdly strangled, "I should have been there."

Philippines responded angrily, "What would you have done? If you had been there, Spain would have you by now!" Mexico wasn't really listening to her, he continued to talk more to himself than to her, "I could have done something, changed something." Philippines glared at him. Without any warning, she slapped him.

It was tactile enough to break through what he was feeling; the paralyzing grief was suddenly spiked by rage. When he looked at Philippines and really saw her for the first time since hearing the news, she said with wetness in the corners of her eyes, "Don't you dare say that. If I lost you, I would have nothing left. I need you, so don't you dare start regretting."

All of the emotions that had welled up were quickly being replaced with the icy rage that had been fighting with the emotions. He should be blaming Spain, not himself. That was very clear. Self pity and blame would do him very little good at this point. What he needed to do was avenge, not grieve. He said, his voice returned to its usual neutral tone, "Thank you, Piri, I needed that." He stood up and took a couple confident steps. He spoke, voicing the rage that was now filling him, "I will make Antonio pay; he will regret this eventually." The Asian girl nodded and said, "That sounds more like you. What is the next step?" Mexico thought back on a conversation and said; "Miguel told me I should go to Morelos, so that is my next avenue."