I didn't feel like doing any of my homework, so instead I wrote a Hetala oneshot instead...

This decision will bite me back later, I'm sure. In the meantime...

I've been feeling rather wistful lately, so I might crank out a couple oneshots in the near future. ^_^ Thank you for reading!

Alfred wasn't supposed to be here.

As he drove the rented truck out of the bustling city and into the thickening forests, his conscience nagged him like a middle-aged wife.

He was supposed to be back at his capital city, helping his boss deal with less than pleasant ordeals. He was supposed to be straightening out the whole 'don't ask don't tell' conflict. He was supposed to be dealing with that feud between the boss and the Chamber of Commerce. He was supposed to be doing a lot of duties that very moment.

And yet he found himself steering a heavyset truck through a virtually empty road, the windows cranked open and the hot tropical air brushing his hair like old times.

Like old times.

Alfred casually glanced at the rearview mirror to check if anyone or anything was following him. There was nothing behind him except for the outline of the small city retreating into the distance. There shouldn't be anyone else who knew where he was going. No one knew that he was even here. Not even her.

He involuntarily pressed harder on the gas pedal. The bulky vehicle jerked and trudged faster. The road underneath the rubber wheels began to roughen as it transitioned from smooth pavement to abandoned dirt. The emerald green trees thickened on both sides of the road. Sunlight was pouring down to the ground, the broad leaves laden with its warm gold. Color bloomed out from behind the leaves and trees that could hide anything so easily.

Alfred had never realized how beautiful this place was before.

Of course, that wasn't much of a surprise, considering the situation he was in the last time he entered the sweltering forests.

Though, if Alfred remembered quickly, the last time he crawled through the unfamiliar forest, he did have a passing thought that this was the most beautiful place on Earth.

Until he took a closer look and saw the exploding grenades, the telltale underground tunnels, the ground drunk with blood, and the death that had once infested every corner of this country.

Not long afterward, the road dissolved into nothingness, overtaken by thick and dark stalks of grass and brightly colored flowers that seemed too innocent to be crushed. Alfred finally halted the truck in the middle of nowhere and slid out of the car. The air was thick with humidity, making his clothes weigh down on him. Alfred sighed exasperatedly before rolling up his sleeves to his elbows and striding right into the jungle.

As he stepped through the tall trees, their branches drooping from the weight of the heat and the leaves, memories piled on top of him like an avalanche. He swallowed hard, his heart suddenly jumping nervously as he clambered over the vegetation. The leaves were so plentiful up above that little sunlight could wheedle its way through the cracks. He was wrapped in mysterious shadows and loneliness. As his feet moved, they grazed the fallen leaves and the gritty soil. The birds would sometimes whisper to him. The wind gossiped in low tones. But there was no one else with him. He was alone.

Alfred felt something hard and round under his heel as he took a step. He froze, his breath caught in the middle of his throat. A cold chill rippled under his skin and his heartbeat thundered in his ears. He dared not move an inch as he felt that unseen object under his sneaker, because if he did, it would explode, it would throw shrapnel all around it, it would sever him to pieces—

But then he remembered that it was 2010, and none of that existed anymore.

He let out a sigh and gingerly lifted his foot, wincing as he did so even though he knew that there was no landmine under the grass. He scolded himself for such nervous cowardice. He was the fearless hero. He shouldn't be afraid even if it was a landmine. If he was to be dashed to bloody shreds, he shall do so with dignity.

Suddenly, in his memory, he heard a thunderous bang and saw clumps of bloody flesh clinging to trees. He swallowed hard and hurried on.

As he moved faster, the rustling of leaves and grass strengthened. It sounded as if someone was pursuing him, and Alfred was nearly jogging by now. He saw dancing shadows around him as the wind moved the tree branches like a puppeteer would with its toys and he felt a rush of apprehensive adrenaline. Memories clung to him like burrs, scratching him painfully and refusing to let go. Sometimes he thought he could hear a bang or a shout and he would immediately skid to a halt and reach for his shoulder, only to remember that he no longer toted an M-16 here anymore.

He tripped over the tangling flora at his feet and fell to his knees. He landed among the scarlet flowers that decorated the forest. The vibrant color made his stomach churn; it reminded him of blood. Could a battle have taken place in this very forest, and nature having drunk his boys' blood was forever stained with death? He automatically reached out a hand and grasped at an elegant bloom, crushing it in his hand as if expecting his soldiers' blood to seep out of the petals and taint his hand. At least then the young boys' blood would not have to remain forever in a foreign land far from home.

Even after all this time, the memory of his soldier boys haunted him.

Alfred pushed himself back to his feet, letting the crumpled flower fall from his fingers. He looked around him nervously, once again wondering if anything was watching him. He saw dark birds flit from one branch to another, but they paid no attention to him. Perhaps something was waiting for him in the shadows? Waiting for an opportune moment, but unseen?

Alfred broke into a run. The wind rushed in his ears as he tore through the trees and grass, trying to free himself from old nightmares' grasps. No, he was not running away. He told himself over and over again as he wrestled his way out of the forest, spying a sunlit open area ahead and dashing toward it, that he was not running away. Was it even possible to run away from old memories?

And suddenly, he was free.

The trees no longer hovered over him. He was in the honest sunlight that never hid anything from him, that never gave him surprises. He let out a sigh of relief as he staggered toward the docile river before him. He cast a glance behind his shoulder at the dark jungle that whispered old familiar tales.

Such a large jungle, and so many secrets that it could hide.

Alfred flinched and his heart jolted painfully.

So many things that could be hidden that he would never find.

That he failed to recover.

So many that he lost.

He heard a rustling of leaves. At first, he dismissed it as the wind, or his own feet, but he suddenly realized that the air was deathly still, and so was he.

Something else was moving.

He narrowed his eyes, searching quickly for the unknown. He was not afraid; heroes were never afraid. He was merely concerned, that was all. Suspicious; yes, that was it. Wary.

"Who's there?" Alfred demanded. He reached down and swiped a rock from the ground. He held it up, threatening to throw it. "Don't hide!"

Why was everything concealed in this country?

"Show yourself, or I'll attack!" Alfred threatened loudly.

"You never change, do you?"

Alfred let the rock slip from his fingers and land with a splattered thud in the mud. He nearly did not recognize that voice, but as a figure stepped out from the shadowy forest, he was attacked by a mixture of relief and shame.

"Neither do you," Alfred mumbled, shoving his hands in his pocket.

The girl smiled noncommittally, though Alfred doubted there was a hint of happiness behind it. He couldn't see the rest of her face except for light smile and the pointed chin; everything else was obscured by the shadow cast by the straw paddie hat.

"You seemed frightened," she said, her voice clear and as-a-matter-of-fact.

"I wasn't," Alfred said stubbornly. "I was just being—being militaristic."

"You really haven't changed," she repeated. She did not take a step closer to him, and he did not beckon her to. They stood ten feet away from each other; whether it was out of fear of each other, out of resentment, or out of guilt, Alfred did not know. Perhaps the answer was all three.

"It's hard not to," Alfred said. His bright blue eyes lingered at the long and thick stick in her hand. "You weren't going to attack me with that, were you?"

"I didn't know who you were at first," she admitted simply. "I thought you were a troublemaker. I generally prefer it when you tell me beforehand that you were coming to…visit."

"It wasn't anything," Alfred said quickly. "I didn't think it would take a while. Just a…little break, you know? Stretch my legs, have some relaxation, get some fresh air…"

He knew that she was not fooled. She lifted her face so that the paddie hat no longer clothed her face with shadows. Her gold eyes penetrated him reproachfully, as if insulted that he would think she would fall for such an excuse.

"You didn't seem very relaxed back in the forest," she said accusingly.

"Were you spying on me?" Alfred said warily. The thought reminded him of old times.

"Only a little," she said casually. Alfred scowled. "It isn't every day I find another nation venturing through my great outdoors. Especially you, of all nations."

"Hmm," Alfred responded simply. He wasn't exactly sure how to reply.

"Why?" she asked.

"Why what?" Alfred said.

"Don't play stupid, as hard as it may be for you," she said indignantly. "Why are you here?"

Alfred let out a sigh. "I don't really know."

She brushed her long black ponytail off her shoulder and finally approached him. Her sandals sank slightly in the wet mud and she laid down her stick. She straightened and stared defiantly into Alfred's eyes.

"What's the point?" she said.

"I told you, I don't know," Alfred said firmly. She was close to him, and it made him nervous. He thought he could feel her accusation radiating from her skin and burning him.

"Don't tell me you jumped on an airplane and flew about nineteen hours just to take a stroll," she said gruffly.

"What's wrong with that?" Alfred tried to defend himself.

"What's wrong is that it isn't the truth," she said. She turned toward the river and lowered her voice. "I thought you hated this place."

"What? Why?" Alfred said, surprised. "I don't hate you. And our countries have pretty good relations."

"I'm not talking about that," she said immediately. "You hate the soil. The sun. The trees and the flowers." She kicked off her sandals and stepped into the wet mud. "What lies underneath the soil. Maybe even who lives on it."

Alfred didn't speak up. She walked toward the river, letting the water skim her toes. She pulled up her white pants so that they would not be dirtied. Alfred watched her silently, struggling with words.

"It's nothing personal," Alfred finally admitted. She grazed her toe across the water surface, appearing to not have heard Alfred at first. She stepped into the river, the soft current tickling her ankles. He sighed and sat down in the dry grass, staring at the tiny insects balancing on the tips of grass. He waited for her to say something, but she didn't, so he went on.

"More than one thousand people," he said softly. "More than one thousand of my people are missing in action, still somewhere in this place. I know it's been about fifty or so years, but I can't let them go." He swallowed, waiting for her to interrupt. She didn't. He never actually expected her to. "I just wonder sometimes if—if I looked hard enough—even after all these years—maybe I'd find them. Maybe I can bring them back home and for once we can finally change those goddamn crosses into circles."

He wiped the sweat from his forehead. The hot Asian sun pressured him intensely. He gave a glance up at her. She was still wading, her back turned toward him. He did not mind.

"Hell, I could deal with changing them to diamonds," Alfred said in a shaking voice. "I just want closure. For them. For me. For the people back home." He thought of how torn his people were in the war. The great chasm that divided his children that he could still feel in his heart every now and then.

"Do you blame me?" she suddenly spoke up, her voice barely heard over the sound of streaming water and the buzzing insects.

He hesitated. "No," he admitted. "I reckon you'd return them home if you knew where they were." He pursed his lips, a small prick of doubt in his heart. "Would you?"

"Would you?" she echoed.

Alfred bit his lip, guilt pulsing inside of him. She turned toward him, tilting the paddie hat back so that it would not hide her face so much. Her eyes were filled with dried tears, flooded with mourning for a long and forgotten tragedy. At that moment, Alfred remembered all the dead Vietnamese people he was forced to see. He remembered the napalm that scorched and destroyed. He remembered My Lai and Dak Son and Agent Orange.

Alfred sat stiffly before pushing himself off the ground. He kicked off his sneakers and socks and stepped into the slipper mud, treading his way through until he stood beside her in the river.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. He did not think of his pride for one second. He deserved to apologize; there was no point in lying to himself. He closed his eyes. " I'm sorry for the war. I'm sorry for screwing with your people's conflicts. I'm sorry for—"

"Stop," she said immediately. He turned to her curiously. She did not look at him in the eyes.

"It doesn't matter what you think or feel about it now," she said calmly. "The dead are still dead." Her voice was not biting or accusatory, but painfully truthful. "But I've forgiven you. I can't forget it, but I've forgiven." She looked up at him. "Can you forgive me?"

Alfred nodded wordlessly. She said nothing as she turned away from him and walked slowly down the river. She bent down after she put some distance between her and him. Alfred suddenly felt an urge inside of him to reach out to her.

"Vietnam—"" he started to say.

"Look, America," she suddenly spoke up. She was holding something pale in her hands. He frowned slightly before walking up to her and bending down next to her. Vietnam held up a mauve lotus to his eyes. It was so delicate that Alfred thought it would positively crumble if he merely exhaled at it. The petals were so fragile that it seemed that God had crafted it by merely painting with a thin brush in midair.

"During the war, most of these died," she said quietly. "From all the chemicals and the fires. I thought they would never grow back again. I thought all of that was just too much."

She offered the lotus to Alfred. He hesitated; what if it died in his hands? In the end, he finally let her gently place the flower in his palm. He could barely feel its weight, but the petals were smooth and wet on his skin. She lifted her eyes to his.

"But they did grow again," she said. "Even after all that, they still bloom. They always do in the end."

A droplet of water clung to one of the petals. At first Alfred thought that it was merely morning dew, or perhaps it was beginning to rain. It was only when he looked back at Vietnam and she reached a small hand to his wet cheek did he realize.

And he let himself cry.