Thank you for choosing to read Metal Birds, I really do appreciate it! You wouldn't believe how much research this baby is taking. I'm not finished yet, but she's a gem, I promise.

NOTE: This is a Historical Hetalia AU (with a twinge of Wingtalia, because why not) and these reflect real past events in order to better inform the fandom of the atrocities of World War 2. If Auf Wiedersehen Sweetheart and the accompanying stories did not, I promise this one will. I really hope this one gets as far. If ANY facts or translations are incorrect, please let me know! Accuracy is key here!

ALSO, sadly I don't own Hetalia or the Wingtalia AU, because if I did then this sure as hell would be canon.
ON TO THE STORY!

An angel stared bitterly up at clear starry skies.
Honestly, he wouldn't call himself an angel. So the only other words he had to cling onto were the final words of a friend. Aves homo sepien. It had mostly been a joke, but it was more than enough comfort to spur him on in such trying times.
He shifted slightly, a grimace coming across his face. His gaze was redirected down to the church he sat in, and the few others scattered about. No on said anything, too preoccupied with attempting to make up for what sanity they had lost while attempting to surive. That was all that mattered now. Surival.
Surival of the fittest had proved to be a true claim in these last years.
His habit for this was absentmindedly fiddling with the strap on his age old radio, which was probably an old model by now, but it still worked. That, and going through his few belongings.

As his eyes moved about, they landed on the man sitting next to him. He was worn, tired, a badly shaven face projected in moonlight, messy blonde hair pulled into a messy bun at his neck, swaddled in a military coat and his own feathers. He did not move, but the winged man knew he was not dead either. Dying, maybe. But not dead. Not dead was good enough.

The winged man let out a sigh, raising a shaking and bandaged hand to run through his dirtied, blonde hair. Tired green eyes danced arcoss the bricks and fissures of the place, and as his eyes landed on the alter, crumbling at his feet, he felt a pang of homesickness. He may not have ever recalled being in heaven, but he did remember one place. A Cathedral, one which he had lived in for almost a hundred years; desperately biding his time so he wouldn't have to be here like this. Cold, hungry, wounded, and -even though it was just a feeling- alone. He turned to his knapsack at the though, simultaneously bringing his coat closer around himself in an attempt to stay warm.

He pulled an aging book from the ripped fabric that made up the bag. The cover was cracked leather, stiffened from the dissuse it had suffered in the last years. The pages were mottled and dirtied, some encasing dried mud, others containing leaves and flowers; while still others held letters. The first was the letter that had gotten him in the whole mess in the first place. Others were corrispondance to a companion on the other side of the planet. As he thumbed through those pages, he felt almost remorseful.
The pages were tattered, not all the same material. Mud stained, ink stained, water stained, blood stained. All of them had their differences.

The winged man sighed inwardly to himself as he reread the most recent letter. Things weren't calming as well in the Pacific.
As he moved to stuff the letter away, he paused, seeing faded penmanship on the inside of the back cover. He could barely make out it out over the many damages, and after a moment his heart leapt into his throat. Amongst the many messages, now destroyed, the one in the far right center, scrawled, was evident.

'Safe travels, and may we meet again soon. -Marie'

He was wordless in the realization that those few words had lasted ten years, and he had never known they were there. As he stared at the tiny letters, the pang grew more evident. He didn't know if the cathedral was even still standing.

Suddenly, the ragged oaken door of the roofless church opened, and the occupants tensed. He leapt to his feet, ready to charge and fend for himself and the others, but his shoulders and wings slumped as he realized the young man was no threat.

His tanned face was solemn, and his blonde hair was a tousled mess. He wore a pair of aviator's goggles, one lens fractured; and a woolen jacket that had been cut into to make room for his large golden-blonde wings.

Everyone glanced up.
There weren't many of them in the room. Most of them were wounded, or half asleep. The young man in the doorway spoke, breathing heavily as he did so; shivering from what little comfort the night sky had provided.

"The bridge is ours."

Everyone realeased a breath no one knew they were holding.

But no one smiled.

"How long do we have?" He spoke, absentmindedly wrapping his finger about the leather strap on the radio.
"We only need to go a day or so longer. Depending on how long their defense holds up; the krauts will be in our hands pretty soon."
At that, some of them glanced away. The brother and sister in the corner shuddered, the man with the wounded back looked down; and the two women seemed to slouch. The starch blonde man seemed to tighten his hold on his coat, and the man tending to the wounded one's back seemed to furrow his brow slightly.
Most of all, the man next to him grimaced, the goateed face twisting into one of resentment.

He let out a breath, holding onto the healing wound on his waist.
"We might fly ahead then. To retrieve the others." He suggested, again messing with the strap on the radio.
"I'll fly with you." The young man with the gashes across his arm stated.
"I as well." Said the taller man.
"We will fly at dawn then."

Again, there was silence. Little more than light breathing.

There wasn't any sound for a long while. Finally, the sister in the corner started singing softly.
"...when I rose to the clear blue skies,
My siblings sang, and so did I.
We promised never to raise blade;
And swore never to lay shame,
To our siblings and their ways.
We held our heads and remained bold.
But those were promises of old..."