Alright, new beginning, I'm getting there on the reposting and editing and…and…and~ .ect. Please forgive the delay! Love you alll~! ^J^

A faint roar of thunder heralded the retreat of a storm over the cold, gray ocean. It had ravaged and passed these grounds, leaving a frozen feeling of calm in its wake. Down at the waters edge a wet bundle on the rocky flotsam-strewn tide line stirred.

Seawater and bile flooded from Matthew's lungs and he coughed feebly. He shifted a bit and groaned, vomiting up more salt water forth with a gurgling groan as the movement jarred his insides unpleasantly. He continued retching until most of the acrid liquid had been evacuated from his newly revived lungs. Matthew felt as if he was breathing liquid nitrogen, so cold that it burned him with a painfully icy fire. Strength took its sweet time returning to him, leaving him to lay there, eyes closed and breath coming in wheezing gasps that slowly evened out as his body worked its weakened abilities in overtime to repair itself.

Steady ripples of ice-cold water ebbed and lapped at his lower legs, diamond hard stones pressed into his skin with harsh resilience, and jabbed into his skin. Wincing, Matthew tried to open his eyes, closing them reflexively at the seemingly blinding light – however dim it truly was— met them. His muscles screamed as he heaved himself to his knees, cautiously trying his eyes out once again. Peering through his golden lashes, only open to a sliver, he blinked rapidly, trying to adjust. The feeling bringing on a sensation like flaming butterfly kisses, which—however painful—improved his tolerance to an acceptable level.

He looked up, tottering to his feet unsteadily and looked about in confusion.

Where am I?

Snow covered trees in the distance, pebbles and jagged rocks stretching to the tree line, to salty to hold a layer of white, as everything else did.

With a lurching and stumbling gait, he began to walk—each step loosing strength and steadiness—towards the trees. At the edge of the trees, each hung with shells of frost and ice, he fell. Muscles momentarily giving out, he slumped to his knees- with a jerk he fell backwards, startled by the shock of what he had nearly fallen on top of.

There, half buried in the snow, was a corpse. The raw wind ruffled his golden hair as he stared in horror at the man's frozen face.

His exhausted and flustered mind entertained the idea that the dead soldier might be watching him for any reaction. He tried not to show any, not fear, not disgust, not horror, or outrage, a shiver none the less raced through him – from cold just as much from fear—and he found himself glancing over his shoulder nervously.

He stole a glance at the man's eyes. They were dull and filmy. Matthew had heard people say that the dead appeared to be sleeping. He didn't. His eyes were dead, blank, like the eyes of fish at the market, his pale lips were taut, his face waxy. There was a dent in his head; dark bluish bruises on his face and neck, and a small trail of dried blood tracing a line from the corner of his mouth.

He had been killed, murdered, and left to freeze. Matthew shuddered at the thought.

What a horrible way to die.

He sighed, and then held his breath, digging a hand hesitantly into the dead man's pocket, there was little in it, only a few coins. Matthew froze, oh god, rubles.

Previously he had not known where he had washed up after falling off of his ship – on the way to visit his father, France. —Now he knew that the country he had ended up in was Russia. One of the places he had planned never to go to if he could help it. But it seemed that he couldn't, he was here after all.

He groaned quietly, shivering, horrified by his own behavior, and dug his hand into another of the man's pockets.

:::

" Вы знаете, не вежливо вырыть через карманы мертвеца, люди могли получить неправильную идею." (You know, its not polite to dig through a dead man's pockets, people could get he wrong idea.)

Matthew jumped, and spun around at the cheery Russian words, landing in an instinctively protective crouch.

His stomach flopped unpleasantly. He knew the man standing in front of him, though he doubted that the man remembered him. No one did, even people like this man, and his overly protective brother, Alfred – or America—who had been around him on a regular basis for years. Canada was easily forgotten, and often found he was ignored, for simply not seen, even when he was right in front of someone. A bitter feeling ached through him at the lack of recognition on the tall man's face; though it was probably better that he didn't recognize Matthew.

It was Russia that stood before him, arms crossed and expression dangerously cheerful. A whitish violet scarf— matching his silvery hair more than his mauve eyes— was pulled up around his mouth, lightly muffling his voice. His beige and brown duster flicking in the wind.

"I-I d-don't understand y-you…" Matthew said softly in reply to the flowing string of words.

A look of surprise flickered across Russia's face and after a moment of inspection, smiled, so falsely friendly that it made Canada shudder with horror once again.

Truthfully, Russia was really surprised, both by the soft, shy tone of the young mans voice, especially after he had taken a battle trained stance so easily, and had been digging in a corpses pocket. As well as by the fact that a young, innocent looking young man who obviously could not speak the language was wandering around his country without a guide. In addition to this—Russia was just realizing—he was far to lightly clothed for Russia's winter climate.

"And who would you be? A little American murderer perhaps, da?"

Matthew's eyes burned with annoyance and outrage as he replied somewhat sharply, heavily restrained in his severity for fear of insult to the dangerous nation.

"I-I'm not a murderer."

The silver haired man chuckled coldly at the reserved firmness of his tone. "Oh? HeT? What are you then?"

"Lost is what I am. And I'm Canadian, thank you."

Russia studied him briefly; he could have sworn he had heard that last exasperated statement before, but where from eluded him.

"Alright 'Lost' perhaps you are not a murderer, da."

"M-Matthew, Matthew Williams, though I-I am also lost…" he said shyly, suddenly remembering himself. He couldn't believe he had snapped at Russia of all people.

He was well known for his ruthless, cruel, and sometimes sadistic, actions towards those that got on his bad side. Not to mention his preoccupation with getting others to 'become one' with mother Russia, as he called it. A rather embarrassing term, Matthew thought, that he used instead of absorption.

Russia cocked his head thoughtfully, his expression slightly childish. The name, also, seemed familiar, but he paid it no more mind, and advanced towards the boy and the corpse.

Matthew withdrew a little, keeping a careful eye on the tall man as he bent over the lower half of the body and began to do something to its legs, back turned on Matthew.

"I am called Ivan Braginski. You are lost? I think I will help you become un-lost, da."

With that he turned and tossed a pair of snowshoes—obviously off the feet of the dead man—into Matthews nervously fluttering hands. And began to make his way down the rocky, frozen shore. Throwing a simple "follow me," and a smile—considerably warmer than the first, though still fake looking—over his shoulder.

Matthew had no choice other than to follow him; he hadn't been lying when he said he was lost. He grasped the snowshoes to his chest and stumbled unsteadily after Ivan, legs a weak, and a little numb from cold.

To Ivan it was suddenly clear what was familiar about Matthew. He had an uncanny resemblance to Alfred, in looks at least, in attitude they were as different as fire and ice. America was brash, rowdy, loud and had a hero complex, while this young man, Matthew, seemed quiet and unobtrusive, though he had showed a bit of well-rounded verve on the subject of murder. He most certainly was not America, though the resemblance was unnerving.

He sighed inwardly, In normal circumstances he would have disliked the boy for being a reminder of yet another person who hated him, but he was in an unusually pleasant – not to mention lucid—mood. A good bottle of vodka and a warm fire waited at home.

Knowing that this boy was dying of cold because of his actions would have ruined his good mood, it was miles to the nearest town, and freezing was a long, painful way to die. While Russia found a good dose of pain caused a welcome therapeutic drug, it was not needed—as he could rarely say—at this moment, as he had said he was in a good humor, and Matthew's death would have done nothing for him.

So he lead on until they reached the end of the salty gravel that had kept snow to a minimum.

Ivan leaned against one of the first trees and began to fasten his own snowshoes to his feet, instructing Matthew to do the same. Blinking in surprised relief when Matthew did so with little trouble, clearly experienced with the various straps and buckles.

Russia turned his attention to the path ahead, barely noticing the quiet crunch of snow behind him as he lead on towards home, following his own tracks back the way he had come.

:::

Matthew was to cold to care anymore. A man that he hardly knew and that he feared was leading him to an unknown location. His father and brother had no idea where he was, though they had most likely felt him die as he had drifted at sea.

He didn't remember anything after hitting the water, but he had coughed up water when he had come to on that beach, his lungs had been filled. Who knew how many times he had died and come back to life while he was unconscious? But his country had not fallen, and therefore he had not lost his life permanently.

The water had frozen on his clothes long ago, and they now gave little protection against the frigged air, or the light feathery snow that had begun to fall. He was to cold to care, to tired, to numb, and in much to desperate a situation to care—or, for that matter, notice—it as his heart fluttered weakly, causing him to stagger.

As his body weakened, his knees gave out, as the world spun and brightened erratically, and dizzyingly. His. Heart. Raced. For. Its. Life. And. Stuttered.. To… A… Stop…

Thanks for reading! Hope you liked the changes I made~!

Also, as always, if you know any of the languages in this Fic and the translations are wrong…. It's not me. I can't tell the difference!

Thanks for reading and please review!

-Sai