A/N: Well. It's been awhile. I'm still working on this fic, slowly but dutifully. Like I've mentioned before, I'm still trying to make sure the quality of each chapter is consistent - thanks for being so patient with me!

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN AXIS POWERS HETALIA OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS FROM SAID SERIES. All depicted anthropomorphisms of countries are for entertainment purposes only and are not meant to offend.

It was late in the afternoon when she arrived home to her quiet – oh, so quiet – house. The mountains, very visible outside the cottage's windows, blocked out the sun too early in the day and plunged each room into premature shadow. The old lady did not turn on any lights as she moved through her home.

She did not light the oven to start dinner, nor did she start the bath. The woman moved – slowly, carefully – over to the fireplace mantel in the middle of her modest living room. The wool rug shuffed under her feet.

On the mantel was an assortment of things. Two simple candlesticks, a bundle of dried wildflowers, a small hand-painted wooden bird… Her aged hands strayed over these, lightly brushing the dust from the tops of each. The corners of her eyes crinkled as she picked up a small porcelain rose and set it back down with care. So many memories on this small stone shelf…

And then her fingertips brushed the glass of a photograph frame. A picture of a young man, not a day older than thirty smiled out at her. The glass protecting the photograph was smudged and dusty – she made to move to clean it like the other trinkets. Both hands grasped around its edges, and it was with careful action that she finally brushed a thumb across the man's smiling, captured-forever face.

Slowly, the woman laid the frame down to touch the mantel with such care as if it were made of diamonds. She left it flat, face-down – the woman turned away and busied herself for bed.

She pulled back the blankets and lowered herself onto the creaking mattress. With a broken sigh, the woman rolled over and closed her eyes, ignoring with silent and aged resignation the tears that were dampening the pillow case.

The cottage remained dark.

o-o-o

Three months later, the woman rested against the pasture fence, wiping her forehead on the back of her glove. Several goats milled around her, bleating as they brushed against each other. Two butted their noses against her pockets, stamping their hooves expectedly. It was a nice day on the mountain.

"I've already given you food today," the woman said, not unkindly as she brushed them away. "Shoo, go off and graze. Let an old woman be." They didn't listen, of course. She reached down and scratched a spotted goat behind its horns. It flicked its ears and nibbled at the seams of her shirt.

"Now enough of that," the old woman scolded the goat – she pulled her clothing away and stepped out of the pasture, closing the gate behind her. The goats followed her to the fence and nosed through the wooden slats at her fingers. She brushed their noses fondly before bolting the gate to the little goatshed.

It and the surrounding pasture sat nicely next to her cottage. The homely combination was only held off from being a perfect picture because of her inability to plant garden flowers around the little lean-to. The one time she had tried (she remembered fondly), the daisy heads had been eaten within the hour, and the rest of them were quick to follow. Goats were impossible.

Off in the distance, thunder rolled. The sound echoed through the mountains like a growl until finally settling in the valleys. The old woman double-checked the padlock, then quickly set her tools against the back of the lean-to and went inside. No sense in staying out tonight – it was going to be a downpour, undoubtedly.

o-o-o

She had been right. The little house stood remarkably well against the gale going on outside. Rain came in sheets against the windows, making the lace curtains around them shudder like moth wings. The old woman sat calmly by the fireplace in a fraying armchair – she kept busy by reading a little novella she had picked up in her spare time; it looked like tonight she would finally finish it.

A wave of rain hit the windows and the sound reverberated through her little cottage like bullets. The woman shivered and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Though the house was by no means large, sometimes it felt as huge as a mansion. An empty mansion.

Thunder outside boomed, and the old woman shifted in her chair before getting to her feet and shuffling over to the window. The little electric light swung slightly in the distance from the roof of the lean-to, but she could make it out even through the storm. From what the woman could see, the goats were fine – the night was absent of any distressed bleats or the thumps of hooves against wood. Still, as the rain drove on, the woman supposed it would do to check on them. She chuckled to herself, muttering, "old woman's folly, going out in a mountain storm to make sure her goats are happy," under her breath as she put on a heavy coat.

The woman was sure it was her bones creaking instead of the house as she stepped outside. The rain soaked her – thankfully thick – coat easily, and she nearly lost her footing on her first step in the muddy, slippery ground.

'I'm getting old,' she thought blearily, hoisting her own electric lantern up high and feeling the protest of arthritis in her arms. She swallowed that thought and hiked up her boots, heading towards the pasture.

Like she had expected, the goats were all huddled together inside the lean-to, keeping dry next to the tools and chopped wood piles. "I thought so," she murmured with a smile while patting the closest one on the head. The woman rearranged some of the tools as to give the animals more room before picking up her lantern and trudging out again into the downpour.

It was as she was halfway back to the cottage (and severely looking forward to the kettle she would be putting on the fire to boil) that the old woman caught sight of another light swinging in the distance. She stopped, caught off-guard.

"Hello?" There was no response. Maybe she had been seeing things. "Hello!" she tried again, more loudly – the rain was quite heavy, after all.

This time, there was an answer, albeit more annoyed-sounding than the woman would have expected; "Yes, hello? What is it?"

Almost stunned to silence that there would be someone out in this downpour, the woman hurried to the mountain path she couldn't see but knew was there. When she drew closer, the woman was able to make out a figure – a man, blonde with chin-length hair and slightly taller than herself, and looking thoroughly soaked in a thin jacket and using a handheld flashlight.

"Where are you going out in this storm?" she asked, furrowing her eyebrows once she reached the man. He held a sleeve over his face to hold off some of the downpour in order to see the woman clearly.

"To town. Listen, I'd like to talk, but I need to get going-"

"To the town?" The old woman shook her head. "No, no, no… that's at least another four kilometers from here!"

The man frowned at her as if to say 'that's why I was hurrying'. "I know that, and I'm getting soaked so I would really like to get there. …Actually-" he took another look at her – "What are you doing out in this weather? Shouldn't you be indoors?" Concern flitted across the young blonde's face, nearly invisible in the lantern's beams.

She pointed to the light coming from her cottage. "I live just over there. Please, you can stay until the storm ends – it's dangerous on the mountains in this rain."

"No, I really do need to get going. I suggest you go inside." He turned to leave, but she reached out and clamped onto the man's jacket with surprising strength for her age.

"I insist. Whatever you have in the town can wait for an hour or two. Please," she implored him, "it's no trouble at all. I would feel much better if you were safe inside than thinking that I let someone walk outside in this downpour."

"But, I…" The young man seemed to chew the inside of his cheek as he looked down the road, then up at the sky. It loomed over the mountain like a menacing black monster. "…Okay," he conceded. He followed the woman through the rain to the doorstep of her cottage and nearly tripped as he hastened inside – she shut the door behind them both, blocking out a fresh cascade of water. A peal of thunder rang throughout the house as the woman fetched a towel and handed it to the blonde.

He accepted it gratefully after he had peeled off his coat and shoes. She set these by the fireplace while he dried off with a sigh.

"I didn't think it would rain today, otherwise I would've taken a car instead." He hung up the towel next to his coat once he had soaked up as much water as possible. "Thank you for letting me stay here," he told her seriously. She smiled kindly in return.

"Think nothing of it – I wouldn't dream of letting any poor soul out in this storm." Outside, the wind seemed to prove her point – it rattled the panes and echoed through the valleys below, creating an eerie howl.

"My name's Vash," he offered after a moment.

"It's nice to meet you, Vash." She smiled again, busying herself with putting on the kettle. "My name is Marietta. I like your name – very nice, a strong name."

He shifted uncomfortably and mumbled "thank you." Vash stood awkwardly in the middle of the room until he noticed Marietta struggle slightly with the kettle. "Here, let me do that – don't hurt yourself."

Marietta looked up from her work. "Oh, no – you don't have to-" but he gently took it from her, ushering her in the direction of her armchair. "Nonsense, you're letting me stay here out of the storm. Go sit down, I'll take care of it." She laughed at the seriousness of his sincerity.

"Alright," Marietta said with amusement twinkling in her eyes. "I'll let you take care of it."

o-o-o

Vash stayed for dinner that night. He dutifully helped with the preparations (Marietta kept reminding him that he was a guest and should let her do the work, but then he would stubbornly reply that it was a guest's duty to assist their host in whatever way possible, and that she should really just leave the whole thing to him.) They sat down to eat around her tiny table, two places set. He complimented the food she had prepared, and then praised the ingredients and how cheap they had been at the supermarket the last time he had been there, which Marietta thought was an odd comment, but an amusing one, all the same.

She learned that the reason he had wanted to return to town that night was because his younger sister was expecting him back – he assured Marietta that his sister would not worry and would assume that he had found somewhere out of the rain to wait. He didn't really seem to believe himself, though, so Marietta nodded in agreement with a remark about how nice his sister must be, and Vash agreed and that was that.

The storm refused to retire that night, so after several hours Marietta offered him one of her umbrellas. Vash rejected it at first, muttering something about "just walking in the rain isn't that bad," but she kept insisting upon it, showing him the other ones she had just to convince him that he wouldn't be leaving her helpless. Finally, he gave in, talking the umbrella – though he looked thoroughly unhappy about it. Marietta laughed again and patted his shoulder.

"You shouldn't be so serious. Smile a bit; you've been delightful company – a very responsible young man, you are."

For the first time that night, Vash did smile. It was small, but enough to lighten his rather strict demeanor.

"Thank you. I'm glad you think so." For just a moment, Marietta wondered how old this boy was, but supposed it would seem rude to ask outright. "Goodnight, Marietta." He shook her hand. "Thank you for letting me stay, I'm sorry I couldn't do more to help."

She waved it away, "No, no, don't worry anything about it – worry about getting to town safely and seeing your sister."

He nodded and opened the borrowed umbrella before stepping out into the downpour. Vash waved once before disappearing into the dark, and Marietta closed the door with a light click behind him.

Like every night, she busied herself with getting ready for bed. Marietta closed the curtains, smothered the fire down to burning coals, and changed into her bedclothes. During the whole process, she felt… oddly content.

Her house felt more familiar to her that night than it had in quite a while.

o-o-o

Marietta was not expecting Vash to come to her door the next morning. She opened it to find him not only holding her old umbrella (which she hadn't expected to be returned, anyway) but also a covered basket. He held out the basket for her to take, and then placed the umbrella back in its stand once Marietta had stepped back to allow him in.

"My sister made those for you," he said, looking at the basket. Marietta lifted the cloth to discover freshly-baked buns.

"Well, isn't that the sweetest thing," the old woman exclaimed.

"She wanted to say 'thank you' for letting me stay dry during the storm yesterday. I told her I had already said thanks but she insisted, and I have to say that I agree with her…" He smoothed back his hair, as if embarrassed. "So thank you."

"It was a pleasure, my dear." She glanced at the table, then at the working clothes she was wearing. "I would like to offer you something to drink, but I was instead about to go outside and tend to the goats – would you like to join me for a bit?"

He didn't even seem surprised by the unconventional offer – many people in Switzerland, especially those who lived in the mountains, herded animals for a living. He followed her out to the lean-to.

Just like yesterday, Vash insisted on helping her. She tried to reason that she hadn't taken him out there to work, she had simply wanted his company. "I may be old, but I've been taking care of my goats for seventy years and I don't need your help."

"One day of rest won't dull your developed work ethic, then," he idly retorted, and turned back to the work before him as Marietta smiled on.

Later on, Marietta would reflect on how naturally Vash had carried out the chores and handled the goats, and wonder if he didn't come from a herding family himself. Obviously, he had experience with the animals that only comes from being around them for quite some time.

o-o-o

"I brought my sister today. She wanted to thank you face-to-face." Marietta had opened the door while wiping her hands on an old dishcloth to find Vash once again on her doorstep, looking quite flustered. Next to him stood a girl, small in stature but with large, pretty eyes and a ribbon in her hair. Marietta smiled back as the girl beamed at her and then set the dishcloth aside to accept the basket being offered.

"Please have these vegetables as a gift – we grew them in our garden," the girl told her. She clasped her hands in the folds of her old-fashioned dress afterwards, and Marietta thought that she was adorable, and no wonder Vash hadn't wanted to make her worry at all.

"And I would like – if it's not too much trouble-" his sister continued in her timid voice while her brother looked on, suddenly seeming very interested in Marietta's doorhandle, "I would like to cook dinner for you tonight, as well."

"I think," Marietta said thoughtfully, and she saw Vash glance up out of the corner of his eye. "I think I would like that. Very much." She held the door open with a warm smile for them, and the old woman was very happy.

After commenting on how beautiful Marietta's cottage was with an earnestness that almost made the old woman blush, Vash's sister disappeared to the kitchen. Marietta apologized for the lack of ingredients in her cupboards, but the bright girl insisted that everything was perfect and that she would try to make a good dinner and wouldn't she like to sit down in a comfortable chair while everything was being prepared?

Marietta chuckled as she entered her sitting room. True to the girl's wishes, she sat in her favorite chair, resigning herself to being treated like the old woman she was – at least for that night. It was only as she rested her head back against the cushion that she noticed Vash.

He was staring at her fireplace mantle with the intensity that Marietta had just found to be commonplace in the boy. His fingers brushed over the frames and wooden little pieces of nothing that meant more to her than anyone else. Perhaps she should dust the mantle soon, Marietta thought idly.

Vash stopped at the simple silver frame, turned down against the brick, and gently lifted it up. The photo – protected in its little cave between frame and brick, had been left unmarred by the settling dust.

"Who is this?" he asked, turning towards Marietta and holding the photo up for her to see, but she already knew which one he was showing.

Marietta was calmer than she had expected to be upon viewing the smiling man's face again. "That," she answered quietly, "was my son."

The discomfort was there on Vash's face at her slow answer. But instead of moving on to another subject – the weather, perhaps, or maybe asking about her goats – (she expected him to, after all; why would someone so young with all their life ahead of them want to think about death?) he instead turned the frame to himself, staring at the smiling face of her boy while he seemed to mull the next words over in his mind.

"When did he pass away?" Vash finally asked, placing the frame gently back on the mantle – face up, this time.

"Oh… about three months ago it's been." Marietta's gentle expression faltered for the first time, but she had known it would. She felt so tired. Old. Marietta felt so old.

Vash turned from her to look over the photos and trinkets once more. "Is this your husband?" he asked quietly, taking another photograph from its place. She nodded.

"He passed away eleven years ago. He was a fine man – I was proud to be married to him." And as Vash's eyes roamed over the other pictures, she knew he was looking for more – sisters, perhaps, or friends or nephews or brothers-in-law…

"I am the last one left in my little family, Vash." Marietta said softly, and Vash turned his gaze from the photographs. "I am alone, but not lonely. I know what people think about a woman my age living alone without any relatives to take care of her, but please, try to understand." She paused, massaging her wrists (when had her joints started to ache so much?) "I would rather stay in my house with my animals than in any nursing home."

Vash shifted, then frowned. For one sad moment Marietta thought that the man wouldn't understand – he would pursue the issue despite what she had said. But instead he took the photograph of her son back up and walked over to where her bed was. Vash placed the frame on her bedside table and angled it to face her before stepping quietly back.

"I think it looks better there," he said as way of explanation, and Marietta found that she agreed with him.

They talked about unimportant things for the next hour – the weather, prices of meat in the supermarkets, the flowers currently covering the mountainside. At half-past six Vash's sister appeared in the doorway with her same beautiful smile and announced that dinner was ready. It was delicious and Marietta insisted that she had never been treated so well before, to which the girl blushed and made Marietta laugh.

Marietta found that she was quite happy.

o-o-o

Vash visited again the next week, saying that he was on a business trip that day, but since he was using his car instead of walking he would be early, anyway. The next weekend Vash appeared at Marietta's doorstep with two loaves of bread, saying that his sister had made too many and insisted that he bring these to her. Two weeks later, he dropped by again, this time insisting that the weather looked bad for tomorrow and he thought it would be a good idea to help her fix any leaks in the goats' lean-to.

Marietta enjoyed these visits, which to her pleasure and surprise became quite a normal thing. A knock on her door and Marietta would answer it to find the blonde, flusteredly explaining his reason for visiting after she had ushered him inside.

They would sit and talk – or, if there was nothing to talk about, they would stay in companionable silence. Sometimes Vash's sister would join them, in which case Marietta found herself to be spoiling the girl more and more like a grandmother would, and the way she would blush and keep insisting that Marietta didn't need to so anything for her Marietta found ridiculously charming.

She looked forward to her visiting days. Marietta didn't know when, but at some point she had forgotten what it had felt like to truly enjoy another's company. Had she really become such a hermit up her in her mountain cottage?

"You need to take these with you. There's no way an old lady like me could ever drink so many liters of milk," Marietta insisted one day, pushing the jugs into Vash's unwilling arms. The man was halfway out the door as he was finally made to accept the goat milk Marietta had told him to take.

"Fine, fine, thank you. But only because milk in the stores is ridiculously expensive this week." He loaded them into the backseat of his car, making sure they wouldn't tumble against each other on his trip down the mountain. Vash nodded at her before getting in the driver's seat. "Take care of yourself," he said as way of parting, like he had many times in the past months. Before he could roll up the window, Marietta set a wrinkled had on his shoulder and squeezed gently.

"You've made an old woman very happy, Vash." She beamed at him, but Vash looked up in surprise.

"What? How?" Marietta shook her head slowly, still smiling.

"I told you once that I was 'alone but not lonely,' do you remember?" he nodded and she continued softly, "I think I might have lied to you about the last bit. So thank you, for giving me something to grasp onto."

Vash turned red at her thanks. "I-I have no idea what you're talking about – it – I mean – I was just doing what I wanted to!" At the old woman's laugh, Vash visibly relaxed, unruffling his feathers. "But… um – you're welcome, I guess. I'm glad."

"Goodbye, Vash." Marietta squeezed his shoulder again before turning back towards her cottage. Her bones ached, she felt stiffness in her knees. She was old, she had accepted it by now – no more running away for her.

She was old and content and very much not-alone anymore, even as the mountain clouded around her and she turned out the light to take her rest, for the last time.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Switzerland went to the funeral. He wore a black suit and tie that he had dug out of his closet from quite some time ago. When Liechtenstein had asked him where he was going, the nation had made something up about a government party that he couldn't even properly remember, now. He didn't think that she had been fooled, but she had said nothing.

The church was small. Not many people came – Switzerland recognized a few faces from the town, a few from the countryside around the village. Marietta had said that she didn't keep in contact with too many others – but he was still expecting more people to fill the space which felt so empty being smothered in the black cloth draped from everything.

The nation didn't listen to the priest, or even to the ones who came up to the head of her grave and spoke. He didn't really care about the stories they had to tell, or about the prayers said over her coffin. It was a respect to her memory to come, so Switzerland had stayed because of that. He left after the service, speaking to none of his people, almost like he had never been there.

o-o-o

The next day, he visited the grave. The patch of dirt stood out against the grass surrounding it – at her head was a simple gravestone, yet tasteful, Switzerland thought. It said nothing but her name and the dates of her birth and death on a darker mottled stone – Probably granite, he thought idly, scuffing the dirt with his toe. The nation stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"The priest yesterday mentioned that you died peacefully in your sleep. I guess that's a decent way to die." He paused awkwardly, running a hand back through his hair. "I wouldn't really know myself, but I've seen plenty of others go in worse ways, I guess."

The blonde nation stared up at the sky. "I bought your goats," he said suddenly, looking back down at the little black letters which spelled "Marietta" in small engraved print. "It was a horrible deal – I've never seen such atrocious prices for goats in my life at an auction, but Liechtenstein's taking care of them now, so you don't have to worry. They were probably the only thing you're sad about leaving behind."

Switzerland trailed off awkwardly, looking around. He was far too old – he had seen far too many deaths and wars and famines to get emotional about something so small, but the nation still blinked a little more than was necessary as he bent down to place a simple silver picture frame next to the headstone. He straightened up slowly.

"I brought your picture of your son for you, although I see now that they buried you right next to him, so you probably don't need it anymore." Switzerland nodded at the grave next to hers before falling silent. He stood like that for awhile, looking at her headstone, the grass, the mountains off in the distance – turned blue by the hazy atmosphere.

"I think…" he started slowly, haltingly, as if he hadn't expected for himself to keep talking, "…you were very nice. And exceptional. But not exceptional because you were nice – but because…" Switzerland paused and faltered, realizing he had no idea where he was going, so he stopped – and tried again.

"I am – proud. To have had you as one of mine. You… you were stronger than I've given humans credit for being in a long time." And he wasn't one for hand motions, but Switzerland gestured widely around him with one arm as he continued. "I think – you realized better than most that it's not the land, but the people who make somewhere home so… thanks."

He had a lot more to say but nothing else seemed really important. The sky was nothing but blue, that day. Butterflies fluttered around the grass, playing in their circles and spirals of erratic flight; one came to rest on the headstone. It soaked up the welcome sun on its wings. Switzerland turned from the grave and walked away, thinking, I would say that you were strong-willed and stood up for yourself right from the very start, Marietta – but, you were Swiss – you couldn't be anything else.

A/N: This one's quite a bit more depressing than the others - sorry about that.

Once again, I would like to ask for suggestions about countries and issues that people are interested in seeing written. I can't promise that I will use everything that's suggested, but anything helps! Thanks to those who have already shared their ideas with me, I can't wait to put some of them into play. :)

Reviews help me see where I should go next with this fic! Critiques on anything from my plots to characterization to my writing style are all greatly appreciated.

Next chapter is Russia - kolkolkol~