A/N: This is heavily inspired by Arthur Gordon's (true) story, "Christmas In Hell". Of course, I own neither that nor APH, and am not making any form of profit from this.

He almost can't believe it has come to this so quickly. It's 1914 and he's sitting on hard-packed, frozen earth. His face is chapped from the icy wind, and even if his heavy coat would have been any protection, it would have been no good against the chill creeping up in his soul. Everything has been getting worse, going downhill – and he can feel it. He wonders, not for the first time, if this is the end. He lived through so much, fire and water, battles and wars, for this? For it to end in a snowy field somewhere in France? Him to die and his country to crumble. Or maybe, his country would die, and he'd follow – they're one, after all.

One of the boys is holding a cup of tea out to him, bitter and strong, no milk and sugar available. Of course. War isn't a time of comfort. It's a time of scrabbling for survival bare-handed, or used to be. Then some force, maybe the devil, put sticks and stones into the bare hands for weapons. Bows and arrows, later. The stoneshot pistols of his glorious, bloody seafaring time, evolved into machine guns. His own and the German's. Will it end, here?

The boy is red-cheeked with cold, but there's a confidence within him Arthur hadn't expected. One wasn't that confident when one's father and brothers were lying in their frozen blood only a few hundred meters away. Everyone could be next, and the boy's a likely candidate. He's doing this for him – Arthur, England – his father's and mother's country. He's going to die, and so many others. Just for him. For their fatherland. Shouldn't he be protecting them? He's forgotten. He's forgotten everything beside the stench of blood and the cold gnawing at his fingers and his soul.

The boy is smiling. Arthur can't think of a reason why he might smile, everything's dirty and bloody and nothing about this is something to be proud of. He and Ludwig should both be ashamed, destroying their own and each other's countries in a vain attempt to strengthen them.

„I have good news, Sir Kirkland."

Good news, in this place. At this time. It seems almost laughable.

„Good? Nothing here is good. What do you mean?"

„It's Christmas, sir. We are all Christians, and at Christmas, we don't kill."

If he could just believe that...If Ludwig would think the same, At Christmas we don't kill.

He's heard so much about the Germans, so many things his own people said. Almost none of it true, lies to raise the fighting spirit. Men and boys, fathers and sons, brothers, nephews and husbands.

All dying. Dying at Christmas. Dying for him.

„Do the Germans think so, too? Some believe them monsters. Are monsters Christians? You're right, we shouldn't kill at Christmas, no matter who. Go, tell everyone there's ceasefire. Until Christmas is over."

No firing from the German lines. No sound at all. It's really Christmas, and it's quiet. He can't feel magic in this place. There's no room for faeries on a battlefield. But sometimes, when he listens closely, swords clash and voices carry in archaic tones, the war spirits of his ancient pagan roots.

The silence is broken by something that isn't gunfire, by a voice he knows. He's heard it in peace and strife, argument and agreement, but never singing. It's Ludwig's voice, surprisingly clear, and he's singing a Christmas carol, in German.

Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht,

Alles schläft, einsam wacht

nur das traute hochheilige Paar,

holder Knabe im lockigen Haar

schlaf in himmlischer Ruh

schlafe in himmlischer Ruh.

The song ends, and the silence itches in Arthur's ears. You're supposed to sing at Christmas, aren't you? (Make noise to keep the ghosts away, his superstitious heathen side says.) Before he can stop himself, he's singing, singing as an answer to so many questions.

Silent night, holy night,

all is calm, all is bright

'round yon virgin Mother and Child

Holy infant so tender and mild

sleep in heavenly peace

sleep in heavenly peace.

He'd like to go to sleep right now, and never wake up again. But he won't, he can't. It's too loud, someone is shouting. Ludwig is shouting from the enemy lines, his voice loud, hard and staccato again, like German voices are supposed to sound. He's shouting in English.

„Hello, Arthur!"

He'd like to answer, but it feels wrong. Even with the ceasefire, it feels wrong. They're enemies.

„Hello, Arthur, Happy Christmas!"

That's right, it's Christmas. At Christmas there are no enemies, there shouldn't be. You can't hate at a time like this.

„Happy Christmas, Ludwig! What's the weather over there?"

„Cold, Arthur. My feet are like ice. My boss has promised me a pair of new woolen socks. He is making them for me himself. My boss takes good care of me!"

He just has to laugh. The image of the Kaiser, knitting socks for Ludwig, is just too much. Sometimes, you have to laugh simply because you are still alive. This is one of these times.

The war lasted four more years. The young boy, who had brought Arthur his tea, who had been so happy about Christmas, died. Many more people died. English and German, friends and enemies.

He'd made it through once more, somehow. But there were sacrifices all around.

A night of peace in years of strife. He still couldn't tell if it had been a miracle, or not. But even in uncertain times, or especially in them, Arthur – England – knew one thing:

If he stopped believing in miracles, he'd certainly die.