You guys thought it wasn't ever gonna happen, huh? Well, didn't you think wrong! Merry Christmas!

Warning: Death, grief, depressing content.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

"End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it."

—J.R.R. Tolkien

Silver Glass

They headed out at sunset. They lifted Arthur's body, wrapped in the cleanest white sheet they could find, into the back of a van and left for the cemetery. No one spoke. There was no need. All concept of time fled Francis. One moment, they were on the Arlington Memorial Bridge, and the next they were rolling down the streets between large swaths of tombstones, made uneven by shelling. Everything was covered in shimmering whiteness, so pure that it made the marble tombstones glow. The unrest hadn't touched there for a while, it looked like. The place appeared so fragile that he was hesitant to set foot outside of the van for fear of shattering one of the only good things left in the world.

Matthew took his hand. "Papa," he said. "It's okay."

Francis felt like he was walking through clouds, far above all of the bloody destruction below. He could have been dreaming if only his grief didn't make every step feel leaden. He stood back and watched the others pull Arthur's body from the trunk, the wind tugging at his clothes and hair, but he hardly felt the chill. Red had initially offered to have of a couple of her own men carry Arthur to the site, but Alfred had refused outright. Now the man was taking Arthur into his arms, eyes downcast and arms tight around him. He stood there for a moment, everyone watching him and waiting for his move. Then he turned and began making his way up the snow-covered path. The others followed, except for Francis. He just stared after the procession for a moment in awe. How could a place so beautiful be the center of something so tragic? He couldn't understand it, and, for a moment he felt like he was floating above everything, too displaced to move. Until Matthew looped an arm through his and gave him a warm enough smile to melt his frozen feet from the ground. The steps, however, were still leaden.

All that could be heard was the buffeting of the wind and the crunching of snow beneath worn boot soles. Red walked beside Alfred, guiding him with a gentle hand on his elbow, up hills, sometimes picking their way through gravestones cracked, shattered, and occasionally missing but for a few lingering pieces of rubble.

"Who would do something like this?" Matthew muttered, his breath a mist before his pale lips.

"Desperate people," Yao replied tonelessly as he clung to Ludwig's back, the German's arms holding the man up around his waist. "Lost people."

Francis had been in a daze for the entire trek, but as soon as he heard Red say, "It's just up here," it felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. Reality caught up with him so fast that Francis was forced to stop.

Arthur's gone, Francis thought, clutching his roiling belly. He's gone. He's dead. We're going to bury him. Oh God.

Matthew watched Francis worriedly as the man winced, fingers digging into the material of his coat. "P-Papa, are you—Jesus." Francis had bent double and retched with a horrible, strangled sound. No sooner had he caught his breath than the man started to sob. Matthew rushed to pull him into his arms, rubbing his back. He said nothing; he knew no words would be able to soothe the man. The others merely watched for a few moments longer before turning and continuing on their way. Francis needed to be alone for a minute. They'd all had similar experiences; they knew that Francis had to help himself before progress could be made, and that step was the hardest of all, especially with an audience. Matthew stayed behind, holding him and cursing himself for being unable to keep in his own tears for Francis's sake. Like the man needed more on his mind as it was.

The rest of the group arrived at another swath of ground that was littered with demolished gravestones. They traipsed through the snow, Red leading the way, their limbs seeming to grow stiffer by the step. Red angled toward a tree in the near distance, and Alfred clutched Arthur to him so tightly they could have molded together. This was it. As the bare, spindly branches of the cherry blossom came into focus, so too did the thought of lowering Arthur into the ground, covering him with earth, being unable to look at him, touch him…

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice he had reached the site and had stopped, staring at the place where the snow clumped around the base of the trunk. He only became aware when Red turned to him and said all too softly, "Dad?"

The grave had already been dug, Alfred saw. Red must have had one of her men come out earlier. That made Alfred's stomach turn over. He had been hoping that the grave would be dug while they were there so that he could spend a little more time with Arthur before giving him over to the earth for safekeeping. But no; this was it. He buried his face in Arthur's hair.

I don't want to let you go, Artie. He felt his eyes sting, and he half expected Arthur to wake up, bunch those bushy brows together, and scold him for acting like such an irrational child. The thought brought on more memories of Arthur—grouchy, sarcastic, smiling, snooty Arthur. Arthur flipping him off. Arthur crocheting. Arthur talking to his invisible friends. Arthur squeezing his hand.

Cold cut through the material of his pants; he had dropped to his knees, cradling Arthur close to him and sobbing into his chest. "I'm sorry," he breathed between quivering hiccups. "I'm sorry I couldn't s-save you. Forgive me. Forgive me, please. I couldn't…"

No one knew quite what to do. Nothing they could say could comfort him. He had lost someone who had been a father figure, a guardian, a rolemodel, a voice of reason, and a best friend. As all of the roles Arthur had played in Alfred's life rushed through his mind, he remembered those times when he had hurt Arthur and thought nothing of it. He had never apologized, had never seen any reason to, Arthur had hidden his emotions so well. But now that he looked back, he began to see opportunities where he should have noticed and should have known better, should have comforted him like Arthur had once comforted his younger self. How could Alfred not have seen this? More and more images were pulled from his memories and more and more he saw missed chances to apologize, to be there, to tell Arthur that he did care, that he didn't hate him, that he had loved Arthur even through the rough patches. He wished that he'd had the sense to at least tell Arthur that he had missed him dreadfully when he had left, that when next he saw the man he had to restrain himself from running up and embracing him by forcing himself to be cold, to be distant. Those had been the only things that held him together but at the same time slowly strangled him.

Why, why, when Arthur was dying in his arms, had he not told him everything? All he could think of at the time was that he loved Arthur—he loved him so, so much and maybe, just maybe that knowledge would help him live. But no, Arthur was dead, he was holding his cold, limp body in his arms, wrapped in a shameful excuse of a burial shroud, on his knees at the edge of his grave, looking down into the cold, dark, deep pit Alfred was going to leave him in, smothered under all of that soil, unable to see him, to touch him, to even think about him without imagining him in a state of decay, all of those insects gnawing all that he used to be away. It seemed so cruel just to dump him like a sack of garbage, to cover him up as if he were unsightly. The very thought made Alfred whimper and curl into what was left of his everything.

He could almost imagine Arthur's spirit standing over him, arms folded and eyebrows knitted together in utter disgust of his childish attachment. You never listen to a thing I tell you, Arthur's irritated voice echoed in his head. Didn't I tell you not to give up, or am I right in suspecting that you went completely deaf to reason centuries ago? You're sitting here crying over a fact of life. Tears will solve nothing. If you want to cry, you might as well climb down into the grave yourself, for all the use you'll be. But be warned that if you do, I'll be eternally kicking your dumb arse.

Alfred would have laughed if indeed Arthur had been standing next to him, referring to some other deceased person that shouldn't matter one whit. But Arthur was dead and the body in Alfred's arms was that very man, someone whom he deeply loved. He couldn't imagine not hearing Arthur's voice, not seeing him, just… not talking to him. Actually talking and actually listening to him. God, he would be happy living the rest of his life mute if only he could hear Arthur speak to him, tell him those stories he was so good at telling.

He was so lost in his memories of Arthur that he came close to tumbling into the grave when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder. He lifted his face from Arthur's cold form and saw Francis kneeling down beside him. As haggard as he appeared, he managed convey to Alfred that everything was okay, that Arthur was safe and happy, and that he would have wanted him to let go so that he could continue living. Francis rose to his feet and offered Alfred a hand. Alfred cradled Arthur's body in one arm as he was helped up. He stared down into the grave, feeling like he was falling into it just by looking, and then Francis squeezed his hand. Alfred looked up, Francis giving him a gentle nod and a smile although his cheeks were shining with wetness. I made a promise to you, and I'll keep it. Sleep well, Artie. Alfred pressed his lips into Arthur's hair, pulled the off-white sheet over the dead man's pale face. And he lowered Arthur into the grave. The tips of his fingers brushed the material of Arthur's shroud for a moment that felt like a lifetime—and then he let go.

It was hard to hear Arthur's body fall into the grave. It was hard for everyone. No one knew what to say once everything was ready. They were still getting over the shock of seeing Arthur in such a place of finality. It didn't seem possible.

"If I go—whether it be today, or tomorrow, or a few weeks from now—I would see you smile again. Because… it got me through a great deal, no matter if I wasn't sappy enough to admit it."

Why did you ask that of me? Alfred thought forlornly. How can I smile at something so sad? His throat convulsed again, and he had immense trouble silencing his grief as it was. He feared he had forgotten how to smile.

Francis cleared his throat beside him. "Ivan told me what you said." A small noise close to a whimper rose in his throat before he could suppress it. Then he continued, addressing the crumpled sack that lay in the ground, a beacon among the dark night of eternity. "I… I meant what I said back in the bunker. I know I've done… a lot of things to contradict it, but I-I love you, Arthur. I hoped that w-we could be—" Francis felt a sob coming on and took a deep, feathery breath to contain it. "But, I suppose it wasn't meant to be. Even though you're… not here, I want you to know that the short time we had together felt like a million years. Every… e-every time I was with you, it felt like eternity was spread out before us—time didn't matter, it wasn't even a concept. I-I know you're p-probably laughing right now, but," Francis gave a sad, quivering laugh, "I have to say this, because I was too stupid not to say it before. Like always, I-I was caught up in the vision of what we could have as opposed to what we did have. And what we had… oh God, cher, what we had. I never imagined ever having… and then I did, but I was… I d-didn't tell you all I had been feeling, all I needed to tell you. That is why I promise, once a year on a certain day, I promise, cherí, to visit you, here, and tell you one story about us and about how that story made me love you more than I already did. I will come on the day we first met—you know the date. But, seeing as t-today is the day we p-part, I will make an exception. You probably know the story already…

"I was wandering through the woods after having docked on your shores. I came alone; I was afraid that if I brought soldiers with me that it would frighten a potential nation away. I settled down in the forest for the night to await your arrival, and I ended up falling asleep. I was awoken some time later, when it was still dark and the moon was high in the sky, by a voice in a glade just beyond the small stream where I had made camp. I followed it.

"I had heard about you from pioneers, but their description of you did no justice to your image. When I saw you, with your scruffy hair and glowing green eyes, clad in rustic roughspun, wool, and skins, my first thought was that the pioneers were telling the truth: you were a barbarian, a naïve child who was deaf and dumb to the world. But as I watched you sit in the moonlight and babble on to your faerie friends, I knew that you were someone special. Never before had I met someone so insolent, commanding, and almost recklessly cheerful as you.

"I don't know how you saw me hiding in those bushes, but you did. And I was astonished at the ferocity I was met with, despite you being so young and small and armed only with a small knife. I was amused, and even though it was obvious that I was laughing at you, you weren't in the least bit embarrassed. You did not back down. You chased me away, and you did so for three days after on every instance that you saw me. The more I watched you in secret, the more I saw you confront me with such determination, the more and more I felt that I must get to know you. That you were someone very special. I did not know why at the time, but I kept finding you and came back every time you chased me away, cursing me and threatening to use some sort of magic to kill off my relatives and the like.

"Then, on the fourth day, I found you sitting in a tree. When I stepped out of hiding, you shouted at me to go away, and I challenged you to come down and fight me. The instant you dropped down from the tree and I whipped out my sword, I was enraptured. I was absorbed in your wonder at all of the things I showed you from my homeland—the sword, the coinage, even my garments—and I was astonished at all of the things you knew and had experienced yourself. We traded stories and information avidly until sunset, and then you took me to a spot rumored to be magical and that would bring sweet dreams to those who lay there. So I laid there with you beside me while I explained the names of the stars and drew constellations in the sky while you argued that the stars had different names and the constellations I drew were absurd and way less exciting than the ones you brought up. Then we fell asleep.

"I did have sweet dreams that night, as you said I would. I dreamt that a bridge was built across the strait that connected us and that we would visit each other all the time to banter back and forth. When I woke up, I was incredibly happy. And what a sight you made. You looked so small and yet so fierce, curled up in the long, dewy grass under a heap of furs that made you appear like one of the barbarous northmen I had heard so much about. Yet, your face was round and pale as milk, your hair as ruffled as ever, being stirred by the breeze. As I was watching, a strand tickled your nose, and you scrunched up your face. Then you opened those brilliant eyes and stared up at me. In a moment, you had frowned with annoyance and asked me why I was staring. I might have said I didn't know then, but the truth is right then I knew I loved you. It may sound ridiculous, yes, but I loved you from the first day I met you. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before, at least nothing as intense as at that moment. That was when I knew I was in trouble. I couldn't love you—I was supposed to make you my underling someday. So, after you had slipped back into slumber, I silently left back to my homeland. But I never forgot those days in the woods. With you, I felt like I was walking on air, as if the troubles of the world couldn't touch us at all. I missed that so much. And," here Francis gave another laugh, though this one was considerably lighter than the last, "and every time I looked up at the stars, I would always remember you listing them off by name, connecting them with your finger into a constellation that I had never heard of. It made me laugh and cry at the same time. It was rare that I ever had company like yours and even rarer that I felt such an ache in my chest at the thought of someone. Sometimes, I would lay in bed for hours at a time, debating where my loyalty lay.

"My handmaid asked what was wrong with me, and I told her my symptoms. She told me that it sounded like a broken heart. Naturally, I was confused. Didn't someone have to be in love to have their heart broken? Her answer was that I was in love, and that she was happy for me. But I was never happy, not truly, not until a few months ago when my defenses were weak enough for my desires to squeeze through. It was hard to admit that I, France, was suffering from unrequited love for centuries. But when I did and we kissed it was like I was back in those woods with you again, worrying about nothing, feeling like there was no one else in the world, uplifted—in love. That was the first time I had ever thought, 'I'm in love' without feeling hollow inside.

"Your presence filled me with all I needed. I had never known such a wonderful feeling in spite of me searching desperately for it through all my years of random liaisons. All that time I was looking through those woods for something I didn't fully understand. Little did I know that all I needed to do was run back to you after you had chased me away and keep running back. I wish with all my heart that I had, and for that I am sorry. I just want you to know that I love you—you were the only one I could ever love. And thank you for loving me, despite all of my flaws and foolishness. I hope you are happy wherever you are, and, if not, let me leave you to rest with this: 'I do' too."

Francis concluded his speech with a trembling breath. He wouldn't cry. Not anymore. Arthur wouldn't want him to cry.

Nobody spoke for a time. Francis's words were meaningful and struck a cord within them all. It would seem almost insulting to add anymore to what he said, it was so heartfelt. Alfred was standing close to Francis, staring down into Arthur's grave and feeling as if he should have something more to say. But his mind was buzzing with the idea of never seeing Arthur again and his hand refused to remove itself from its place clamped over his mouth, attempting without much success, to suppress the grief-stricken sounds that were battling to escape.

Sensing that no one else was willing to speak, Red wrapped a hand around the shaft of the shovel and yanked it from the snowy ground. She steadied herself, preparing to fill in the grave, but someone grabbed the shovel before she could begin. She turned to see Ludwig staring at him in a solemn sort of way, one hand on the shovel. No words need be exchanged. Red relinquished the shovel and backed away to allow Ludwig some space to work.

The rest of the funeral was a blur to Alfred. He watched Ludwig shovel earth onto Arthur's body, his mind blank. He felt half-asleep, as if this was all some horrible dream and he would soon wake up to see Arthur leaning over him, telling him to get off his lazy ass and help with the cleanup. Minutes masqueraded as seconds, and all too soon, Alfred was staring at a brown patch of disturbed soil—all that remained of who had been a brother, a father, a dear friend, and much, much more. He didn't know how long afterward that others lingered nor what words they had to say. The next thing he knew, a hand was on his shoulder and only he and Ivan were the only ones that remained.

"Fredka?" The question need not be expanded for him to understand what Ivan was asking.

Alfred's eyes dropped back to the bare, lifeless expanse of earth that was Arthur's grave and shook his head. "You can go on, Vanya. I… I need to spend a little more time—"

"I understand," Ivan interjected. He wrapped an arm around Alfred's waist. "I will stay here with you. For however long it takes, I will stay."

In any other circumstance, Alfred might have argued that Ivan, having been injured so critically, should go back and rest. But Alfred simply didn't have the energy to go back and forth with Ivan about his remaining out in the cold. Aside from that, Ivan's warm arm around him was just about the only thing that was keeping him standing.

The Resistance had raided the stores of the upper echelons of the Organization. There were roomfuls of butchered chickens, pheasants, ducks, and other fowl opposite large, marbled hunks of beef and hog. Whole walls were stacked high with jarred fruits and vegetables, pickled meats, eggs, and nuts. A cache of bread, pies, and other baked goods was discovered in a cupboard just behind the Council's meeting room. Sacks of flour, canisters of sugar, bowls of salt, and pounds upon pounds of grain filled one room nearly to the ceiling. Baskets of fresh eggs and jugs of fatty milk sat adjacent to an indoor grazing field and coop, maintained by sprinklers and an array of warm sun lamps. Around fifteen heads of cattle, thirty pigs, and forty chickens fed on the same slop the Organization had supplied to most of its members. Barrels of wine alone occupied an entire hall. There, Resistance soldiers found what were presumed to be missing members of the Council, drowning themselves in drink. "It smelled horrible," one of the scouts reported. "Then we found out when we tied them up that the cowardly pieces of shit had pissed themselves when they saw us come in."

The discovery was bittersweet for those who had been kept under the Organization's yoke. While the higher-ups had been gorging themselves on quality food, those of a lower standing were being treated no better than cattle. Yet, the survivors were glad to feast on the Organization-manufactured food, filling their bellies like they hadn't been filled for the extent of their captivity. By sundown, the camp was glowing with cookfires, prompting other groups of survivors who had managed to escape the Organization's clutches to come out of hiding and request protection.

Red had made it a strict rule for nobody to bother any of the nations, so they had their meal in a large white tent placed at the edge of the camp, just far enough away from the buzz of activity for them to find a speck of peace. Red had insisted that they be brought their supper, but Feliciano had tired of being isolated. So he went off and got some food himself, visiting a cookfire where two children threw snowballs at each other while their female guardian scolded them and a young girl sat soothing an infant in her arms. The woman happily offered Feliciano a whole roast chicken, but the Italian told her to keep it for herself and the children and took a bowl of stew instead. He didn't think he could stomach much more than that anyway, he was still uneasy from all the action of that day.

Dipping his head in thanks, Feliciano left, but not before throwing one of his own snowballs at the children while the woman tended the stew. When she caught one trying to retaliate, she scolded them as they blamed Feliciano, and the woman told them in disbelief that Feliciano had helped save them and would never do such a childish thing. The exchange made Feliciano chuckle as he walked away, yet there was something sad about it all. Feliciano was no hero. He didn't feel like one nor did he want to be labeled as one. After the battle had ended, he'd had a fleeting hope that perhaps things would somehow go back to normal. It seemed that now, however, his life would never be the same. He had fame to go along with the scars, and he wasn't sure which sickened him more.

He entered the nations' tent to find the others eating in silence. He looked around. "Is… where is Ludwig?"

Everyone seemed to stiffen at the sound of his voice. Feliciano was tired of seeing them act as if hearing speech was the same as hearing a volley of gunshots. They were too afraid to talk, too afraid to mention all they had lost and the seemingly insurmountable challenges that lay ahead. They had all thought, Feliciano included, that after the war was over, the struggle would end. But now they knew the truth: this was only the beginning of a long and arduous journey. After all of the hurt they had caused, all of the chaos they hadn't been able to prevent, could they manage to right the world for good or would they suffer the consequences of the same mistakes? There was no guarantee of peace. There was never going to be, and that was perhaps the hardest thing to face. But, like all bad things, they had to address it sometime.

"He decided to eat outside," Kiku finally answered. He didn't even look up from his food. Feliciano stood there for a moment more, expecting more interaction, before realizing that he was expecting too much.

It was cold outside the tent, with the wind having picked up as soon as the darker clouds had rolled in. Feliciano was met with a faceful of snow, and he sputtered, blinking the icy sting out of his eyes. It took him five minutes to find Ludwig. The man was sitting on the cold cement floor of what remained of a tunnel, half of the curved roof blown away so that it resembled a ragged stone overhang. Feliciano hurried over to him, ducking out of the wind and settling down beside him. The man didn't spare him a glance, didn't even blink. His meal sat cold at his side, barely a couple of spoonfuls gone. Ludwig was staring ahead at the sloping parade of tents, peppered with splotches of flickering orange and smeared with wisps of smoke. It looked almost like a starry night sky in place of the dismally gray one above, the falling snow reminiscent of a meteor shower. So comforting, yet so far away, seemingly impossible to reach.

Feliciano knew Ludwig was absorbed in thought and that he would be less willing to talk about anything if the Italian were to inquire about his silence. So Feliciano sat there and waited, forcing himself to down some broth. Just the fact that it tasted mildly of meat made his stomach turn over, he hadn't tasted something so rich in so long.

At length, Ludwig raised his head and swallowed, saying, "I… can't remember the last time I tasted beef."

Feliciano kept his silence. The statement seemed a prelude to what Ludwig really had to say.

The German sighed and leaned back against the wall, tipping his head upward to watch the snow dance down to meet him. "I keep seeing his face. Shawn's. He looked like… like a deer caught in a snare. He knew he wasn't going to make it, he expected to die, but… he was so scared." He ran a hand through his hair and down his face. "And before that, there was a young kid named Leighton. So young, still a child… he was stabbed in the chest, coughing up blood… he said to save his little sister. Her name is Liddy." He exhaled in a quivering breath, hanging his head and shaking it. "He was choking on his own blood, suffocating, but he still asked… I don't even know if she survived…"

Feliciano moved closer until he was pressed against Ludwig's side, weaving his fingers with the man's own. "There are some things that can't be changed. You need to eat something."

Ludwig shook his head feebly again. "I can't."

Feliciano set his bowl aside and stood, prompting Ludwig to his feet as well. The German was reluctant at first, but when he realized that Feliciano would continue to be persistent, he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Feliciano looped his arm with Ludwig's and led him toward the camp. They didn't speak. Feliciano merely guided him through the maze of tents, the German's eyes downcast. He occasionally glanced up when a child ran past or someone laughed, but it was only for a moment before he was looking away again, as if ashamed. Feliciano stopped when they were on the outskirts of the camp, behind the tent that evidently belonged to the woman and children he had received his dinner from. He released Ludwig's hand. Even then the man made no response. Feliciano cupped both sides of Ludwig's face with his hands and raised it until their eyes met. "Luddy, look at all you made possible. All of those people, the ones talking and laughing, you helped save them. If you had done anything different, they might not be here. You saved Kiku… he might not be alive if you had made it your mission to search for this girl. Ludwig, you are a good man, but you aren't all-powerful. Sometimes you must sacrifice something important to you to benefit the majority. You know that. Tell me you know that."

Ludwig stared at Feliciano, feeling as if the Italian's eyes were breaking him apart, piece by piece, until he was left bare and frighteningly vulnerable. Ludwig might have thrown up his walls again if it wasn't for Feliciano's strong, reassuring gaze boring into him. He licked his parched lips and said at last, "Ja… I know." The whole reason this Uprising even happened was because I was not willing to sacrifice something important to me before. The thought made him clench his jaw in anger at his own naivety. It was obvious that Feliciano was not convinced. He grabbed Ludwig by the shoulders and spun him around so that he could see the inhabitants of the tent hurling snow at each other, the woman smiling as she cooed to the infant in the young girl's arms. When the baby let out a garbled giggle, Ludwig knew he had never heard anything so beautiful.

"You see them?" Feliciano asked from behind, his hand still resting warmly on his shoulder. "They could have been the ones that didn't make it. But they did. You saved them. Look."

Ludwig considered the children running around before him, his lips twitching in what he came to realize as the beginnings of a smile. Then his gaze drifted over to the girl and the woman and his heart just about stopped.

"Luddy… Ludwig, what are you doing?" Feliciano called after him as Ludwig made his way toward the couple, but the German didn't stop or answer. All he could think of were Leighton's wheezing final words and his face as he looked to Ludwig for help. Before long, he was standing feet from them, both peering up at him with wide, questioning eyes. But Ludwig only looked at the girl. "Leighton," was all he had to say to have the girl sitting bolt upright and blinking in astonishment.

"You… you know my brother?" she asked. The woman beside her looked between the girl and Ludwig, completely puzzled at the exchange. The two children stopped throwing snow to watch. Feliciano appeared beside Ludwig, just as confused. The Italian probably thought Ludwig was going insane. Ludwig carried on all the same.

"Ja," Ludwig said, his heart thumping at his discovery. "I mean, I saw him. He… told me about you. Are you Lidia?"

The girl nodded, a hint of excitement flashing in her eyes. "Yeah. Where is he? Does he want to see me?"

Just as soon as Ludwig's heart was lifting, it was plummeting with a resounding ache to the pit of his stomach, sickening him with the thought of what he now had to admit. He knelt down in front of Lidia, and the girl suddenly became pale, as if she knew what he was going to say before he even began. "I… was one of the last ones to see your brother alive. He fought bravely, but he was stabbed." Lidia had lowered her head, weeping. "He asked me to save you. He told me your name. I meant to go find you, but—"

"I-it's okay. Y-you saved us a-all," Lidia hiccuped. She wiped her face with an overlong sleeve and fixed him with teary blue eyes. "Th-thank you for being there for him."

Ludwig nodded and said, "You look a lot like him, you know. I recognized you at once."

Lidia gave a sad smile. "I know. My mom used to say the same thing. I never believed her."

"Well, she was right," Ludwig said. Lidia was crying again. As much as he wanted to comfort her, he could tell that she was trying her best to keep her emotions at bay. Ludwig could relate. The Uprising had hardened them all. He motioned to the child in her arms. "Where did you find this little one?" He flashed a glance to the woman beside her. "Unless it's yours."

The woman shook her head and Lidia said, "Um… she's mine, actually. Her name's Evelyn."

All Ludwig could do was stare, Leighton's words making his ears ring: "… I missed her b-birthday. She should be fourteen now." Ludwig tried to look happy for her rather than shocked. He was sure Lidia had received enough of those looks already and enough consoling. "Oh? It seems that your traits are strong in your family. She's sure to look like you, maybe even your brother."

"Yeah," Lidia said tearfully, "I'm hoping."

"I will leave you to your supper, then," Ludwig said, getting to his feet. "You are sure to have a long night with that little one."

"Nothing that I can't help with," the woman beside Lidia piped in.

Lidia flashed her a surprised, exasperated look. "Oh no, really, I'm—"

The woman waved her off. "Nonsense, nonsense. You've been through hell. Get some rest. I'll take care of it."

Ludwig dipped his head. "Thank you for taking care of her and her child. It means a lot to me."

The woman nodded. "No problem. You have a good night," her eyes shifted to Feliciano, "You too."

Feliciano managed a smile amid all of his shock and confusion. "Um… yes. Sleep well." The Italian took Ludwig by the arm again and they headed off in the direction of the concrete overhang they had left behind.

"Sir!"

They stopped in their tracks and looked back to see Lidia running up to them. Her arms were empty, and out of the corner of her eye, Feliciano saw her older female companion bouncing the baby on her lap.

"Sir, please," Lidia said, clasping her hands together. "Let Mr… Mr. Kiku know that I'm grateful for all he's done and that I'm alive. He did a lot to help me and should know that his efforts weren't in vain."

Ludwig nodded, astounded at the irony of it all. "I will be sure to give him your message."

Lidia stood there for a moment longer, her eyes drifting and her teeth gnawing at her lower lip. Then she asked hesitantly, almost as if she was afraid to hear the answer, "Is… is he well?"

Ludwig couldn't bring himself to tell her that he had lost his sight, so he opted for telling her an edited truth. "Ja. He is recovering."

Lidia gave a little smile before dipping her head and muttering a quiet "Goodnight" before shuffling back to her camp and taking her baby in her arms again, color returning to her cheeks.

Ludwig was the one to lead the way this time, seizing Feliciano by the arm and pulling him along to the overhang. Worried about the sudden shock Ludwig had received, Feliciano gripped his arm tighter and began, "Luddy—"

But Ludwig didn't want to relapse into another somber conversation. He was feeling rather cheerful, something he had not experienced for a long, long time. "You know what?" he said with a soft smile. "I think I'm hungry."

Everyone had left the tent, and Yao could understand. Just being in each others' presence was unbearably suffocating. The weight of what they went through… Yao didn't know if it would ever lessen, and that scared him. Nothing would ever be the same. The bit of themselves they lost was gone forever, replaced by something stronger, but hardened. It would take some time to adjust, for them to feel safe enough to let down their walls. Until then, well, they would have to focus on putting the pieces of their world back together—and putting themselves back together as well.

Kiku had been sitting on the edge of his cot for five minutes straight, just staring ahead. His supper lay forgotten on his lap, though a spoon was still in his hand, as if he had gotten distracted from eating. Yao frowned as he watched him.

A minute might have passed before Kiku said, without turning his head, "What is it?"

Yao snapped out of his concerned reverie. "You… how did you…?" Then he trailed off, feeling tactless for mentioning Kiku's blindness in a way that seemed as if he found it a disability.

"I don't hear you eating anymore," Kiku explained. If he was hurt or offended, he didn't show it. "And your breath has gone shallow, like the way it does when you are contemplating something." Finally, Kiku faced him, his eyes surprisingly deeper than Yao had ever seen them. "Something is troubling you. What is it?"

"I… it's about what will happen now that everything's done."

Kiku considered his statement for a moment. Then he said, twirling the spoon in his hand, "That's not really what you're worried about, is it?"

Yao sighed. Why did he even try? Even without his eyesight, Kiku was just as capable of reading the atmosphere as ever. "No, I suppose no—"

"It's about me being blind."

"What?" Kiku fixed him with a gaze that seemed to pierce straight through him. It made Yao shiver. "W-what? No, I—"

"If you are worried whether I will be able to live with this, I can tell you that I will," Kiku interrupted uncharacteristically. He spooned some stew only to let the liquid trickle back into the bowl. "It will take some getting used to, but if you think that after all we have been through that I will give up just because I can't see, then you obviously don't know me."

A pang shot through Yao's heart at that. He set his own supper aside. "Yīnghuā, you know that I would not doubt your resolve after meeting you as a child. You were so independent—"

"Independent, yet you insisted on caring for me as if I was helpless," Kiku said, and, to Yao's alarm, there was a twinge of frustration in the man's voice. Well, Yao mused, if Kiku didn't want him to worry, he was doing a very poor job of proving that he needn't be worried over.

Yao tried not to sound hurt at the accusation. He thought that he had been a good caretaker, after all. But what most disturbed him about Kiku's words was the fact that the man knew they were hurtful, knew that they were blunt, but he seemed to no longer care for subtlety. Hardened, Yao thought with a dry swallow, Kiku still looking through him. "You cannot blame me for worrying," he said. It was a lame excuse, so he followed it with, "You can't possibly expect me to love you and not care about your well-being?"

Kiku's gaze faltered for the first time since Yao had known him. The man returned to the bowl in his lap and spooned up a few mouthfuls of stew. Yao noticed that it took a long time for him to swallow. He watched Kiku eat for a long while, unsure if he should say anything and disrupt his contemplation. Yao just stared and eventually felt himself drifting…

He wanted to sleep, had wanted to ever since everything had settled down. He hadn't even wanted to eat. But every time he had shut his eyes, he could see the pattern of dimbrightdimbright behind his lids, and he was reminded of the crows that had been so eager to feed on his flesh, circling ever downward. Once, Yao had managed to peel on eye open and saw that one of the birds had landed on his numb chest, cocking its head haltingly from side to side, its beady gaze no doubt studying the succulent morsels that were his eyes. When the crow saw that he was conscious, it quorked loudly and lifted off back into the air where it circled with the rest of its fellows, who had retreated somewhat with the discovery that their next meal was not yet dead.

He had wanted to die—selfishly, Yao thought, as he remembered. But that hadn't occurred to him at the time… nothing had occurred to him outside of the desire to just be free of the pain. The cold had numbed his body to the point that the wind that licked across him felt like nothing more than soft brushes of fingertips, soothing him, seducing him with the warm, painless retreat of sleep. It promised sleep and held back intentions to have him never again wake up. For a long while, his mouth was unbearably dry, his lips parched enough they felt fit to crumble off his face. He longed for water, it was all he could think about—and then the agonizing need was gone to be replaced with a feeling of weightlessness. He was soon drunk on the idea of sleep, strangely comforted with knowing that he would eventually succumb.

Yao was almost there, almost free, the crows spiraling closer and closer overhead. And then there were voices, muffled and incomprehensible, and blurred figures leaning over him, jostling him, keeping him awake. He wanted to bat them away—Sleep, just let me sleep—but he couldn't move and he was lifted. If by death or by the people real or imagined that had found him, he didn't know. He finally got what he wanted. He was told that he had been out for a good two hours. It hadn't seemed nearly long enough. But when he saw Kiku for the first time after the battle he felt disgusted with himself.

Tink. The sound pulled Yao out of his recollections and he looked up to see that the spoon was no longer in Kiku's hand. It had fallen to the floor and the man's fingers were trembling.

"I have lived to see Kinkaku-ji," Kiku said quietly, staring down with empty eyes, "just… not in the way I expected to."

Yao didn't know what to do. He had never seen Kiku act in this manner before. Only when Kiku raked those trembling fingers through his hair, did Yao realize that Kiku was crying.

"I can't see, Yao-chan, and I will do whatever it takes to adapt to that change. But I can never see what this world will become. My last images will forever be of destruction, blood, and death. I can't escape from it." Here he swallowed with much difficulty and took a feathery breath. "There is nothing to replace what my eyes last saw. But even that is not as painful as the fact that… Yao-chan, I will never see your face again. I will n-never see you smile like I was h-hoping to see after this was through. I… I will never be able to see how the sunlight hits your face if we ever come to visit Kinkaku-ji."

How could I have ever imagined leaving him? Yao thought as he walked over to Kiku's cot, sat down beside him, and pulled the man into his arms. "Then I will describe everything to you, yīnghuā. So you don't have to worry about those images haunting you. We will see that temple, and when we do, I will tell you how beautiful it is and how the sunlight paints my face. And I will tell you how luminous your eyes are, despite your lack of sight. I will do it every day. I will be your vision. I promise you, Kiku."

Kiku sniffed and scrubbed at his eyes. He was embarrassed at crying over something that seemed so trivial. How was he supposed to help remake the world if he could be affected by his own emotions so easily? He lifted his flushed face and took a deep breath to clear the prickly feeling of a sob from his throat. He stared upward, unwilling to look at Yao, and whispered, "Can… can you take me outside?"

Yao pressed his lips into Kiku's hair. "Of course, my yīnghuā." And he helped Kiku to his feet and guided him to the tent flap.

Kiku nearly cried again when he felt a sigh of wind roll across his face. He lifted his face upward again, delighting in the snow that covered his cheeks with cold kisses. Yao had an arm around him, his warm hand tucked against Kiku's belly. Kiku placed his own hand over it.

"Tell me what it looks like," Kiku said, eyes still skyward.

"The gray clouds cover the dark sky, like silver satin over black velvet. The wind pushes them, and every so often they dissolve into wisps before the lantern that is the moon. It is a half moon, rippling like a watery reflection as the clouds swirl over it. Occasionally, there is a break, and you can see the stars. It's as if someone crushed silver in their palm and blew the dust across the sky."

Kiku filled his lungs with the crisp night air. He closed his eyes and rested his head against Yao's shoulder. "I can see it."

"And you will see much more, Kiku," Yao said. "The world will be beautiful again, so beautiful that you will no longer remember how ugly it once was."

Francis hadn't eaten anything for a day-and-a-half, and Matthew hadn't attempted to force him to. He knew the man would only be sick and he didn't want to give Francis anything else to be stressed about. Instead, Matthew took him back to his cot and let him rest.

Matthew sat on the floor beside Francis, staring at a tent pole but not really seeing it. He didn't know how long he had been sitting there. He had lost all concept of time since Arthur's funeral. It seemed impossible that anything could continue now that the world was left so terribly broken. He had thought after everything was over and they could start their new lives that all would be well eventually. He couldn't believe how stupid he had been to think so.

Nothing would ever be the same—or right. No matter what they did, even if they managed to create a practical utopia, there would always be something off, something missing. There would always be those memories of what the world used to be like and the people who used to live in it. As long as he lived, he would carry the weight of those memories, and they would grow heavier and heavier by the year. But he would not toss them away, forget them—that weight could grow so heavy that it would be agony for Matthew to keep moving, but the images of his friends, allies, lovers and all that they had done together were too precious to consider forgetting. He would keep their memory alive so that generations to come would know how strong and undeniably human they were. For all of the mistakes they had made and all of the things they had done to fix them, they deserved at least that. Matthew and everyone else may not be able to restore the world to what it used to be, but they could shape it in a way that those who were gone would want it to be shaped.

Matthew pushed himself to his feet. He couldn't stand the suffocating feeling of grief the tent seemed to foster. He pulled open the tent flap the moment an icy breeze blew past the tent, and Francis stirred in his cot. Mattew didn't want to see the man's pale, distraught face nor hear the grief in his voice—it would be too much. He left before Francis could wake.

Once outside, Matthew didn't know where to go. Instead of relieving the tension in his muscles, the seemingly endless rows of tents interspersed with smoking ruins only served to remind him of how terribly wounded the world was and how impossible it felt just to imagine putting everything back together.

He decided to head for the ruins of a secluded tunnel, so far displaced from the tents that he could feel like he was really alone. It was all rubble now, and, judging by the scorched quality of the surrounding rock, it had been the victim of a large blast of some sort. It was beyond identification; Matthew had been too busy fighting for his life to ever devote time to getting his bearings. The place smelled acrid with smoke and ash and every few feet there were traces of blood on what used to be the concrete walls. Even so, only the glowing half-moon, shrouded by clouds, was his only company. He was alone. He had never felt such a strong urge to be alone in his entire life. Somehow, the thought comforted him.

He found a stone that was less jagged than its fellows and gingerly took a seat on it. Once again, the moonlight was muddled by the clouds and Matthew looked up to examine the sky, instead finding interest in a dilapidated, crumbling arch of concrete that curved over his head. Apparently, the force of the blast had not been close enough to completely destroy this part of the tunnel wall. The more Matthew examined it, the more he felt as if he were among some ancient ruin, an intruder, an outsider to the events that had transpired there. The battle that had taken place only hours before seemed so surreal, something conjured up by vivid dreams and nightmares. This was a ruin he wanted so much not to relate to or to understand, but he knew he had to accept what the world had become before he could fix it. Was this how the heroes of old felt like? Matthew wondered. Had they been this weary and disbelieving? Had they looked upon the ruins of everything they had known and loved and felt that the world would never be as good as it once was? Were others, generations from now, to sit on these very stones and attempt to grasp the agony of Matthew and all of the others who had fought or would they merely imagine the victors standing triumphant, invincible in all their glory?

As unrealistic as the latter was, Matthew wanted to make a world in which those that came after them would be able to envision something so grand as opposed to something so hopeless. He would have the children and grandchildren of those who had fought be unfamiliar with such hopelessness. There had been too much already, enough to make him sick. It was time that he put an end to it.

The wind died down, Matthew pulling his coat more snugly around himself, and then he heard it. It sounded like a small animal was rummaging among the rubble—perhaps, Matthew thought with a nauseating twist to his stomach, a scavenger searching for the source of the bloody scent that draped over the area like a wet woolen blanket. He stood, venturing toward the sound. He didn't want any animal feeding on a body, Resistance or otherwise.

He didn't have to move far; a few steps later, and the culprit jumped up so fast from behind a boulder that it was a miracle Matthew didn't have a heart attack. She was little, around ten. The moonlight hit her scorched hair, making the blonde locks shine gold and her blue eyes glitter. Matthew's mouth fell open.

"Ollie?"

The girl stepped nervously out of the shadows. "Wh-who?"

Matthew's face fell. It was a girl, but the relation to Ollie stopped there. She was around seven or eight, with brown hair and what used to be two pigtails, one shorn off close to her head and the other draping over her shoulder. Her big brown eyes blinked up at him in confusion. Matthew rubbed at his head, trying to come back to his senses.

Am I delusional now?

"Sir?" the girl ventured.

Matthew shook his head. "I'm fine. I just thought… never mind. What are you doing out here on your own? Is there someone with you?"

"No," the girl said sheepishly, kicking a pebble across the space between them. It hit Matthew's ankle. "Sorry," she said hastily, her blush practically glowing.

"It's all right," Matthew said, sitting down again. "What's your name?"

"E-Elle," she said, her voice quivering with the cold.

Matthew patted the rock. "Come and sit with me, Elle. It'll be warmer if we're sitting beside each other."

Elle hesitated a moment, glancing around as if expecting someone she knew to see and reprimand her. When she was sure they were alone, she walked over to him and situated herself on the rough stone a foot away.

"How old are you?" Matthew asked to break the awkward silence between them.

"Eight," she replied, her eyes wandering.

"You're not in trouble," Matthew assured her, scooting closer. "I won't tell anyone that you were here if you don't want me to. Why are you here anyway? It is a bit cold to be walking around."

Elle blinked her big eyes up at him. "Well, sir, you're out here."

Matthew smiled. It was the first genuine one he'd made in a while. "You're sharp, you know that? It's a good quality to have. But really, why?"

Elle wrung her hands. "Um, well, i-it was for a friend."

"A friend?" Matthew said, imagining someone laying injured on a cot in one of the tents back at camp. "Are they hurt?"

Elle shook her head, sniffing. At first, Matthew assumed that she was indeed catching a cold, but then she made a strangled, whimpery sound and began to wipe at her face with her sleeve. "Elle?"

"Sh-she's dead," Elle answered, and Matthew felt his gut drop with guilt at bringing up the topic. Elle sniffed again, the moonlight turning the tears that ran down her cheeks to silver. "She w-was hurt during the b-battle and she told me to look for s-something before she… she…"

Matthew covered her hand with his own as she hid her face in her elbow, sniffling pitifully. "I'm sorry." It sounded like something off a broken record, but it was almost habitual to him now. He felt feeble just saying it, as if he shouldn't even have bothered. He wondered vaguely how many times Elle had heard the same and when she had become deaf to it. He knew he himself had a long, long time ago. To make up for it, he continued, "Did you find what she asked for?"

Elle hiccuped a few times before taking her arm from her face and digging in the pocket of her coat, which was so small on her that the sleeves rolled up past her wrists. Her fist reemerged, trembling, the fingers clenched so tightly that Matthew half expected her to change her mind and return the item to her pocket. Perhaps her friend's death was still too raw a memory. Maybe this item was something she felt should only be shared between her and her friend. Elle's friend could have told her that it was meant to be private. She could have—

Elle's lips moved, but Matthew couldn't hear her speaking. He seemed to lose all biological function; he could swear that his heart stopped beating. Only when Elle's small hand grasped his shoulder and shook it so hard that he almost lost his balance. He had to catch himself on the cold stone, and he could tell by the worried look on Elle's face and how warm his shoulder was beneath her hand that he had been staring unresponsively for at least a full minute. At once, everything returned to him—the solidity of the rock he was sitting on, the icy breeze that sliced across his skin, and, especially, the sight of Elle's round brown eyes gazing fearfully up into his own, still red and watery with her grief. But he only spared her a second's glance before he was once again staring at the object that rested in the center of her palm.

"They," Matthew licked his dry lips, "they look like…"

"They're glasses," Elle filled in for him when it became clear that his ability to form words had fled him. She crooked her head a bit as she studied him. "Sir, are you gonna be okay?"

It took a few long seconds for Matthew to remember how to nod. "Yeah… yeah, I was just—wh-whose glasses did she say those were?"

Elle shrugged. "Some blond man who helped her. His hair was kinda long-ish and he was wearing black." Elle peered up at Matthew, her tiny callused fingers curling back around the frame that had been split in two, the lenses that had been all but blown out. "But there are a lot of people who look like that. Do you know him?"

Matthew couldn't answer. His mind was filled with the resounding chirp of "Didn't you used to have glasses, Mister?" and "I could find them. I think I might have saw them somewhere."

Elle seemed to sense that he was struggling with something—an awareness she rightfully should not have acquired until she was much older. The words were caught in Matthew's throat, a grateful "Yes", but they clung there in an almost suffocating fashion until he was forced to swallow them. The next words came up much easier, though they tasted bitter on his tongue. "I… yes. I know him."

Elle's face lit up even in the cloudy darkness. "You do? Can you take me to him? Please?"

What he said next could have been said by a stranger. "No. He's, um… sick."

"Sick?"

"Yeah. Very sick. They won't let anyone but me see him."

"Oh." Elle's eyes went downcast. Her fingers opened again, brushing gingerly over the broken frames. "Will he get better soon?" Matthew could read through the hopeful tone in her voice; she continued to stare at her lap, as if she already knew the answer to what he assumed she considered a very common question. A prickly lump began to obstruct his airway and he cleared his throat.

"N-no. I'm sorry." What the hell is wrong with me? "You can give them to me and I'll make sure he gets them. Don't worry." Why can't I just tell her the truth?

Elle nodded and turned over the frames in her hand before reluctantly turning them over. Her eyes remained on them even after Matthew had pocketed them, as if they were her last connection to her friend. Just as soon as Matthew read her expression, however, she was smiling sadly up at him. "Make sure you take really good care of it, okay? She really wanted him to have it."

"I will," Matthew croaked and said, before his emotions could get the better of him, "Do you want me to walk you back?"

Elle considered his offer for a moment before shaking her head and sliding off the rock to her feet. "Nah, I can get there on my own. 'Sides, you need to give those glasses to that man as soon as possible. He might be missing him."

She was gone before the sob Matthew had been holding in for most of their conversation could escape. He only allowed one to manifest; the others he held down. He didn't deserve to cry over Ollie. He couldn't even save her, one little girl. And worse—he couldn't admit to her friend that he even knew her. Deep down he had wanted with all his heart to tell Elle the truth, but he didn't have it in him to bring up the fact that he hadn't been able to protect Ollie. That he didn't deserve his glasses back. He could imagine Ollie, lying on her deathbed, with no other worry than for Matthew and his missing glasses. And what had Matthew been doing? Struggling with his own troubles, lamenting about how hard it would be for him and the others to fix all the shit they had caused. He hadn't given one thought to Ollie. He felt sick.

Not only were the glasses useless now, but they were also a reminder of what could have been; Ollie could have been the one to find him after the battle and give him the glasses he really didn't need but now mattered more than he could ever describe. For that reason, he decided to bury the frames in one of the remaining pure patches of snow around. He left after saying a silent prayer, feeling, once again, like he couldn't do enough.

He thought that he had left Francis alone far too long and ran back to their shared tent, warming his body up as he went. He was so lost in his thoughts of Ollie and Francis and what awaited for them in the morning that he just about jumped three feet in the air when he saw Francis leaning against the tentpole outside. Francis paid no mind to how startled he was. He merely said, his eyes red-rimmed and dark with fatigue, his shoulders slumped so much that one could assume he was bearing a great weight on his back only he could see. Take me to see Arthur," his voice a little firmer than it was before. Matthew noticed that he had cleaned himself up a bit, even tended to his hair. "I can't… leave him with the image of me so weak. He would probably haunt my dreams if I did."

As determined as he was, his body was far too fragile to bend to his will. Francis doubled over, and Matthew ran forward to catch him just before he completely collapsed. Giving the man's hair a few comforting strokes, he proceeded to drag him back into the tent, lowering him onto his cot and tucking the blankets in around him. Francis was so exhausted, he didn't even react.

"I don't think he would, Papa," Matthew murmured, climbing into his own cot. "He would understand."

Ivan stayed with Alfred, as he had promised. He stood beside him until the sun went down and the stars came out. He stayed and did not speak. The moon was at its apex by the time Alfred's legs gave out, plunging his knees into the snow.

Only then did he say, "Fredka, it is time to rest."

Alfred took a few, quivering breaths, wiping his eyes on his sleeves, before he allowed Ivan to help him to his feet. They returned to the camp, arm in arm, the silence between them unbroken. The other nations saw them pass. When they caught sight of Alfred, pale and forlorn in his grief, they chose to assume a similar silence.

Alfred faintly recalled Ivan asking someone to show them to an empty tent. As soon as he was out of the wind and settled on something soft, the inescapable weight of sleep pressed down on him. He dreamed of nothing.

He woke what felt like minutes later with Ivan's arm wrapped securely around him and his warmth against his back.

"You are awake," the Russian said. His voice lacked the gravelly rasp of sleep.

"Y-yeah." No sooner had the affirmation left his lips than his head began to pound. His hand shot upward to rub at a temple. "Damn… I feel like shit."

"Then you should sleep a little longer," Ivan suggested, his arm growing tighter around his waist. "You will be unable accomplish much if you are not properly rested."

Despite how much his body craved the suggestion, Alfred forced himself to sit up, only then realizing, as a cold breeze sliced through the tent, how sopping wet his clothes were. "W-what the hell? Why am I covered in sweat?"

Ivan propped himself up on an elbow, the cot creaking as he did so. "You were feverish last night. I decided to lay with you to help you break your fever. It seems to have worked."

"No kidding?" Alfred said as he wiped his sticky hands off on the blankets. "I didn't even know I was sick."

"Your mind was… occupied."

"Guess so…" Unbidden tears began to fill Alfred's eyes. He didn't understand why until the memories of Arthur's body returned to him, Arthur wrapped in a grimy white sheet, being rolled into a grave, the dirt heaped over top of him, the way his heart had felt like it was torn in two as he watched…

Ivan heard Alfred sniffle and saw him wipe at his eyes with his knuckles. "Fredka…" he began, but Alfred, utterly sick at the idea of condolences, cut him off.

"I'm going to go see Artie again." He swung his legs over the edge of the cot and lifted himself up on shaky feet.

It would be at a time like this that Ivan would have protested, but he knew that, with or without him, Alfred would go to the cemetery. And he would rather he be with him than allow the man to go alone. With that in mind, he slid out of bed himself and tossed some dry clothes Alfred's way. "Change out of those, at least. Going out there that wet will get you sick, and, trust me, you will remember then."

Alfred bypassed the others' tents and so did Ivan. He knew Alfred was in no mood to be ordered around and Ivan respected that. They found a soldier to take them to the site. Alfred didn't speak to him nor did he spare more than a handful of glances at him, but he held his hand, which was more than Ivan could ask for. The closer they got to the winter-withered cherry blossom, the harder Alfred's grip became.

Red must have ordered a path cleared through the snow to Arthur's grave, and Ivan was grateful for it. If anything, he didn't want Alfred to become ill again. Alfred gave no consideration to this. He only had eyes for the tree at the top of the hill.

"Hey, Alfred!"

It took everything in Alfred to stop. He wouldn't have if it hadn't been Red who was talking. "What is it, Red?"

"Tch, don't sound so uptight," she replied, her voice closer now. "Just let up for a minute and come here. I have something I want you to see."

Ivan could hear Alfred huff up ahead. "Show me later, Red. I'm not in the fucking mood."

"Hey now, don't fucking swear. I've got a—"

"Alfred?"

Something about the child's voice made Alfred stop dead in his tracks. A consuming tremble rolled like a massive wave through his body, squeezing at his heart and flattening his lungs. He wanted so desperately to turn and see the owner of that voice, to relieve the agonizingly hopeful ache in his chest, but he was just as reluctant to do so, to prove his assumptions false. But when Alfred heard Ivan say, "Fredka," in a voice just as breathless as he felt, his muscles took over for his conflicted mind and had him turning on the spot.

What he saw couldn't be possible—no… no, how could it be? What was his brain trying to do to him, torturing him like this? He was still ill, yes, that had to be it. He was so ill that he was hallucinating, because none of this could be real. Maybe he had died peacefully in his sleep and was being confronted by an image so exhilarating that it could only belong in another world, where impossibilities and miracles were the every day. Yes, he was gone, he had left Ivan and Matthew and everyone behind, because nothing else could explain why standing down the shovel-carved path in such surreal perfection was a boy—a boy who was the exact embodiment of Arthur. Knobby-kneed and almost frightfully thin, his eyebrows just as bushy as ever, his green eyes brighter and more innocent than Alfred had ever seen them, the boy stared at him with a sheepish expression that had been foreign to his adult double. He was wringing his hands and chewing his lips, the soft skin there devoid of scars and indescribably fragile.

"Th-that's your name, right?" the child asked meekly. "Alfred?"

Alfred could feel his eyes stinging. "Red… w-what is this?" he said before he could completely break down.

Red, who was standing a few feet behind the boy with her hands in her pockets, smiled her rare half-smile. "Merry Christmas, Dad."

Before Alfred could stop to make sense of the situation, he was running down the hill, nearly tripping in the process, arms outstretched, until he reached the boy and embraced him with a sob. It can't be you… it can't be you… it can't be, he kept thinking as his arms grew tighter and tighter around the child, so pure he felt the need to protect him from everything. But from the moment he touched him, Alfred knew, he knew it was true. A warm flush coursed through him from head to toe and his heart swelled to the point he thought it would burst with joy. Somehow, some way, this was Arthur.

Finally, after a feeble, "A-Alfred, I can't b-breathe," he finally relented and moved back to view at arms-length Arthur in miniature. "O-oh God," Alfred breathed, blinking tears from his eyes. "He's… he looks just like—Red, how… what…?"

Red had been watching them with an expression of warmth, and, for a moment, Alfred thought he saw her brush a few strands of ruddy hair out of her face in what suspiciously looked like a movement meant to wipe away tears. As soon as she saw him gazing at her, however, she took up the steely façade she had worn for as long as Alfred had known her. "We found him among the captives. He just appeared out of nowhere, no scars, no bruises, not even a scratch. He was just—there. Like he'd walked straight out storybook or something. Just—"

"—perfect," Alfred finished for her, and the boy stared at him with wide, bewildered eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked. He appeared so endearingly guilty. "You're crying…"

Alfred sniffed wetly and thumbed the tears from beneath his eyes. "Y-yeah. I'm just so happy you're here, Arthur. That's your name, right? Arthur?"

The boy was wringing his hands again. "Er… yes, if you want it to be. I-I really don't have a name."

This statement, for some odd reason, made Alfred's heart do a jubilant back-flip. He rightfully knew he should not feel so ecstatic about something so sad, but the inexplicable feeling of weightlessness caused him not to question. Just as he had known that this boy was Arthur, he knew that this boy who had appeared so suddenly and serenely, without a name or any identity to speak of, was here to be who Arthur once was—not to replace Arthur, but to continue his legacy.

Alfred didn't know how long Ivan had been behind him before he sensed his presence. The man was staring down at the youthful Arthur, his violet eyes as wide with shock as he had ever seen them. "I do not believe it. Is he…?"

Red nodded, Alfred having been overcome with tears again, taking Arthur into his arms and turning so that Ivan could see him, the person who meant everything to him returned. "Yeah, it's him all right. It can't not be. I mean, look at him."

"Doesn't he look exactly like him, Vanya?" Alfred asked, hiccuping and mopping his eyes with his sleeve. "D-doesn't he?"

The little Arthur peered fearfully up at Ivan's massive form, tugging nervously at the hem of his sweater. "D-don't you cry as well."

Ivan felt all the breath go out of him at the sound of the boy's voice, so strikingly familiar, yet not as stuffy as his counterpart's. He smiled sweetly and extended a gloved hand down to pat the boy's head, observing the plaid earmuffs he was wearing as he did so, noting how the old Arthur had favored the design and had had many garments patterned in the same way. Oh God, it is him. "I will not cry, little one. You are very cute—has anyone told you that?"

The boy relaxed a bit and shook his head.

"Well," Alfred said, giving a feathery laugh, "you are."

The way little Arthur wrinkled his nose in distaste captured the exact image of his older self. Alfred could feel his eyes stinging again.

"Yeah," Red began, kicking mindlessly at the snow. She wasn't used to emotional interactions, but Alfred got the sense that she was trying to suppress her own sensitivities. "I don't know how, but he's here. In pretty damn good condition, too. Da—Alfred, uh," she scratched the back of her head awkwardly and glanced away as Alfred looked up, "f-forgive me for interrupting your visit to the cemetery, but, um, ahem, I meant to bring him to you earlier, but you were asleep and by the time I got to your tent this morning, you were gone, so I—"

"Red!"

They all whipped their heads around, little Arthur included, to see Matthew and Francis hobbling up the path toward them. Francis was leaning on Matthew, looking much better than he had the night before.

"Hey, Red. Good morning," Matthew greeted, his face brightening at seeing Alfred up and about as opposed to his previous state. "Someone was asking for your help. They said to meet them in—" He noted Alfred's red, teary eyes and stopped in his tracks. "What's wrong?" he asked cautiously, expecting something bad, possibly worse than what they had already encountered.

"Nothing's wrong," Alfred replied, pushing himself to his feet. He bent to pick little Arthur up, and only then did Matthew and Francis realize his presence. Knowing that this had rendered them momentarily speechless, Alfred seized the opportunity and shouted, beaming and propping the flummoxed Arthur up on his hip, "It's him, Mattie. It's Arthur!"

They stared and stared—not once did they blink, so mesmerized were they. Then, Francis, who had been relying so much on Matthew for support, regained the strength in his knees and was running, running past Matthew and Red, until he was close enough to be caught in the gaze of those brilliant green eyes. "Arthur?" he breathed, his eyes filling with tears.

Little Arthur appeared uncomfortable under Francis's intense, hopeful stare, but answered nonetheless, "Y-yes, sir. That's my name."

Alfred didn't know how long they remained there, marveling over a boy who was at a loss as to why he was so incredibly dear and special. There was a point when Francis seized Arthur and held him for nigh on five minutes. There were petty quarrels over who would raise him, and it was eventually settled that they all should have a part. After all, they were the ones who had known Arthur best.

The sun was a glowing golden strip along the ruined rooftops before little Arthur complained of an empty stomach and it was agreed that they all head back to camp for supper. But then Alfred remembered what he had come to Arlington for in the first place.

"Al?" Matthew asked when he saw that his brother wasn't following.

"I… I have something to do here still," Alfred replied, craning his head toward the crest of the hill. Matthew nodded in understaning, Ivan warned, "Do not stay out for too long,", and Francis said, eyes glistening as he held little Arthur on his back, "Tell him that I'm better now. I won't cry anymore. Not unless it's for a good reason."

Alfred assented to fulfill the last request and then asked "Can he come with me?" of Francis, gesturing to Arthur. "I want to show him, you know…"

Francis hesitated at first, and Alfred thought he heard Matthew give a reluctant mutter, but Francis's eyes locked with his own for a long moment. Then he whispered something in little Arthur's ear, the boy nodded, and the next moment he and Alfred were standing alone among the snowy headstones, watching the others's heads disappear over the white drifts.

"Come on," Alfred said at last, offering his hand. "I have something to show you."

Together, they climbed the rest of the path, little Arthur keeping studious silence the whole way. His hand was warm in Alfred's own, as if his entire being was aware of the sensitive nature of what he was about to see and how it affected the man guiding him. It was like the spirit of Arthur, the small part that lived on within him, knew and meant to provide comfort. Alfred's throat became tight and scratchy as he neared the grave.

Then they were standing before the disturbed patch of earth beneath which Arthur's body lay, the mound covered in a light dusting of snow, giving the appearance of powdered sugar. He knew if he had described the same to Arthur, he would have scoffed. The thought only made him miss the man all the more.

It didn't help that someone had hammered a makeshift wooden cross into the ground, fashioned out of the debris of the battle which had killed him. Alfred didn't know who had done it; all he knew was that he was too goddamned weak to handle it, and he was crying again, like he had been for far too long. Beside him, little Arthur peered up and said, "Alfred, please don't cry."

Alfred sniffed and shook his head. He had to be strong. This boy was relying on him now. "I'm sorry, um… this was just someone… really special to me."

Little Arthur squeezed his hand and, for the first time in too long, he squeezed back. "They must be. Who were they?"

Alfred gave him a watery smile. "Someone very much like you." Arthur smiled back and Alfred lifted him up, once again balancing him on his hip. The boy felt so wonderfully warm next to him, so alive. "He was a great man. You would have liked him."

Little Arthur studied the grave all the more closely, almost with a curious air. "Really? Was he famous?"

Alfred could hear Arthur's voice in his head right then: I was the bloody British Empire, the ruler of the waves, Angleland—home of the Anglo-Saxon descendants of the seafaring Vikings. The mighty England. "He was my brother," Alfred replied simply with a wistful, quivery sigh. "And a very special man." He took a deep breath, then, steeling himself for what was to come. There was a lot of work ahead, possibly decades upon decades worth of building the world back up just to where it used to be. But little Arthur deserved it—all of the people who had been affected by the Uprising deserved it. And, who knew? If Arthur had reappeared as a fledgling nation, there could be many others out there like him right then, looking for guidance among the destruction, instilled with a desire to lead and grow, just like their deceased counterparts had been. But they weren't dead. They never died, Alfred thought. The sun sank below the distant hills, the snow reflecting the cloudless sky, splashed with delicate palettes of pink and orange and satin violet. The light made the spires and towers of the the distant crumbling buildings look aglow, like some divine city. Until that moment, Alfred hadn't realized that world they knew hadn't died; it was still there, under all of the dust and rubble and sorrow, and still as stunningly beautiful.

Little Arthur was slipping down his side and Alfred bumped him up onto his hip again. He peered into those boundless green eyes saw within them the hope he had lost. "You know what? There are some other people I think you would like. Why don't you run down to the bottom of the hill and wait for me there and then I'll introduce you? There's something I have to do before we go back. Okay?"

Little Arthur didn't question. He seemed to understand, to know. He slid down Alfred's side, his shoes crunching into the snow, giving his hand another reassuring squeeze. He left in silence, just as Alfred knew Arthur would have, kicking drifts of snow along the way. There was a moment when Alfred thought he heard him talking to himself, perhaps to someone near him, but when he observed the landscape, he found nobody present. A warm, genuine smile stretched across Alfred's face, one that he thought he had forgotten how to make.

He knelt down before Arthur's grave, his heart once again heavy. "Artie, I know I shouldn't be here again. You'd say it was overkill and to get my ass to work. Well, I have something I meant to tell you yesterday: I'm glad you fought for me when you found me, and I'm glad it was you who raised me. No matter what anyone told you, you were a wonderful brother. And… I know I was a bit of an asshole about, you know, my revolution and everything, but… you have to know that I missed you more than anything. And when you finally agreed to even talk to me again, I was elated. I may not have shown it, but just hearing your voice again was enough to help me sleep at night. If you never thought that I loved you as much as I did when I was younger, know that I did and still do. As long as I live, no one will ever be as special to me as you were. I should have told you all of this before, but you know how I am—you were really the only one who ever did know. I know I sound cheesy and all and that you usually would have protested hearing all of this gushy nonsense if you were alive. I figure now is a good time to tell you, seeing as you can't really say anything against it. So, um… there it is. And, uh, about the kid—goddammit," he wiped at his eyes again, not believing that his emotions were once again getting the better of him, "look at me. I know you wouldn't approve, but it's just that… I r-really miss you, Artie." He wiped his face. It seemed that his cheeks were chafing from doing it so much. "I know it'll be hard without you. It a-always has been. But I'll do everything that you w-won't be able to do, okay? I'll take care of everything for you. You just… rest easy, all right? And I'll take care of your little doppelganger. I'll make sure he knows everything about you and how much you meant to me. He'll have a good life. I promise; I'll raise him as well as you raised me. I promise you, Artie. With all of my heart." He pulled off his glove and pressed his bare hand to the earth. He thought he felt his fingertips tingle with Arthur's presence. He felt a familiar pressure behind his eyes and made to stand before he could lose himself again, but something caught his eye.

Someone had laid a stone at the base of the cross, the same someone, Alfred suspected, who had planted the wooden planks there. It looked to have been part of a building, ornately carved, with what appeared to be half of an angel's wing decorating the front. It could have been from a cathedral, one of the only intact pieces left perhaps, but it was the words engraved within the delicate stone feathers that truly moved him. His eyes scanned back and forth over the letters, carefully carved with an echo of calligraphy, and he found himself not caring when he felt liquid warmth run down his face.

ARTHUR KIRKLAND

Part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland

Commander of the Former British Empire, Pioneer of the Old World and the New

Captain, Gentleman, Leader, Friend, Dedicated Lover, and Beloved Brother

The Nation and State of England

Rest in Peace

Or So It Goes

The last line had Alfred on the verge of sobs. And then he heard little Arthur call, "Alfred? When are we leaving? I'm starving!"

"Coming, Artie!" Alfred answered. He never thought that he'd be able to say Arthur's nickname like that again, and the thought made his heart swell with joy, lifting it from the pit of his stomach where it had lingered in sorrow for far too long. He turned back to Arthur's grave and whispered, "Despite the whole black magic thing, I know you'll see your brothers again. What you did was so selfless… Oh yeah, and Francis says he'll stop being a baby about you and all. So.. yeah." He heard little Arthur call again and shouted, "Don't worry, Art, I'm finished! I'll be right there! See ya, Art. Have a nice nap. You deserve it."

Arthur watched Alfred go, rolling his eyes. "I've never heard anything so ridiculously corny in my life."

A tall woman appeared in a mist behind him, her blonde curls draping over his shoulder. "Don't speak as if I did not see the tears."

Arthur feigned scratching at his nose so he could wipe his sticky face, although he knew Britannia would notice. She had always been a very observant mother. He changed the subject. "We never lost anything. We grew and we gained. With the knowledge that they reaped, they will sow a new world. There will be struggle and conflict and disagreement, but once they see that silver glass behind the rain I don't doubt that this world will be grander than anything that ever has or will be."

Britannia chuckled. "That's a great deal of wishful thinking for someone whose absence may dim the tide."

Arthur sighed. "Too true. In all honesty, if there wasn't a struggle related to the lack of my presence I would be rather offended."

"Tut, tut, wishing misfortune on your comrades, Arthur." Britannia smirked, looking so very much like her son. "Death has not changed you. I wonder if such traits are strong enough to be passed on."

Britannia's words brought forth an image of the child he had seen with Alfred at the grave mere moments before. "From the looks of things, I think they are."

Nostalgia seized Britannia, expressed in a long, wistful exhale. "He looks exactly like you. Cute as a spring toadstool and just as determined to grow in a place so dark and difficult."

Arthur snorted. "Your similes are as ambiguous as I remember them. For someone so old, you also have not changed in the slightest."

"You know us Brits. Stubborn to the end." She gave Arthur's hair a comforting stroke and said, "It seems as if our time here is up. Eternity calls, my love."

Arthur took a deep breath and emptied his lungs in one reluctant breath. "I suppose so." He felt Britannia's presence fade beside him, her soft hair, entwined with honeysuckles, disappearing from his shoulder. He took one last good look at the place where Alfred had gone and the twilight that had spread like a protective blanket of velvet over the landscape. "I'll miss you as well, Alfred. You insufferable git."

He breathed in once more, feeling the air tingle around him. One moment, he was being sucked upward, up, up, up, his body weightless, and then he was swathed in warmth, being rocked side-to-side by the cradle of an ocean he had visited once before. Everything was golden, the water was clear and calm, and there was no sign of thunderheads on the smoldering horizon.

"Arthur!"

He heard his name and drifted around to see the same golden galley, shining oars parting the smooth water of their own accord, his mother with her trident, lion, and helm at the bow, his brothers waving and shouting on the deck. The sound of the warm breeze gusting against the spun-gold sails was one of the most wonderful melodies he'd ever heard, rising and falling in tune to what Arthur thought was a rendition of "The Fiddler's Green."

Home, Arthur thought, his heart fluttering. I'm going home.

This time, unlike the last, he could swim. And he swam and swam, felt like he could swim to the edge of the world and back. But there was no edge, and, somewhere, beyond this shimmering ocean and eternal sunset there lived Alfred and Francis and all the people and things he knew and loved. He would leave, yes, but he would always be a part of life, that child of time that had no beginning or end. No edge—just a circle.

The End.

So It Goes.

Translation:

Yīnghuā-Cherry blossom

Reference:

"So it goes" is an important saying repeated throughout the book Slaughterhouse 5. I don't want to give too much away about it for all those who have yet to read it, but the quote implies that, despite the belief that death is final, a person is rendered immortal by the memories they leave behind. Thus, in essence, they never really die at all.

A Word From the Writer: Holy crap am I drained! I thought this would never happen, but, huzzah, it has! This was a a year and 9-month-long endeavor that I couldn't have done without the support of my readers. I thank all of those especially who have stuck with me from March 2013 to today, Christmas 2014, to the very end. Your reviews and enthusiasm mean so much to me and inspired me to finish this monster of a fic. As sad as I am to see this end, I believe it is high time that I move onto bigger and better things, but what happened in this plot line will always have a place in my heart. Granted, a gigantic place in my heart, but I'll work through it. Because, during the almost 2 years I've dedicated myself to writing this, I've been stockpiling a bunch of new plot lines and one-shots ready to post. Here are a couple that I will be posting next:

Supersize Me

An adult store. Russia is looking for a new toy that won't break. America and Canada are looking for a new toy that won't disappoint. Needless to say, they all find what they're looking for. Russia/America/Canada. One-shot(?).

All Boxed Up

13 nations discover that being locked in a tiny room by a crazy, fangirling Hungary isn't exactly as unfortunate a situation as they thought. Orgy. (Next series)

Yes, they're both smut... because I missed writing all the pervy stuff. ;)

Love to you all, and I'll see you when I post my Supersize Me one-shot on New Year's Day. In the meantime, happy holidays!