The frigid rain poured from the dark clouds as the soldiers held their ground. Their guns ready and aimed, their chests heaved with nervous breath as they waited for someone to break the overwhelming pause. The battle seemed so unjust: five against three. Even with the experience of the strong German and perceptive Japanese man beside him, the young Italian's hands shook as he struggled to aim his weapon at one of the five opposing figures.
The battle hadn't even begun and already the boy was wishing it were over. Having never been in this situation, he simply could not understand. Why did they have to fight? His brown hair was soaked with rain as it fell in front of his eyes, but still he did not dare reach to fix it. Even as he felt the watery ground beneath him begin to slowly engulf his feet, he stood motionless, unable to grasp what to do. His trembling hands suddenly froze with the rest of his body as he heard the low, familiar voice from beside him.
"Feliciano… You don't have to be here if you don't want to be."
The young Italian turned his head to look at his German ally. He was a strong man, with broad shoulders and powerful arms. His black boots were covered in the muddy soil of the drenched battlefield and the grease that he normally wore in his blond hair had been washed away by the same rain that soaked his green uniform. His fierce blue eyes stared contently forward as he quietly whispered.
"We can handle this if you're not up to it. I don't want you to get hurt, so if you want to you can run."
The words grasped the boy's heart as if trying to constrict its beat. His head turned to his other comrade who was standing, still as marble, aiming directly at his target. His white uniform ruined by the water and earth that flew around him in the gusts of unforgiving wind. His black hair was distorted from flying in the gale, but still he stood, unwavering.
Feliciano lowered his gaze to the ground beneath him, realizing his own weakness in comparison to his friends. He had never been good at fighting or skilled in tactics; he had always simply run away. No matter what had happened, the flag of the coward had always been his weapon of choice. He always let his allies down. He had only ever been a burden to them.
The thoughts struck him as if the rain were bringing lightning upon him as well. The only wars he had ever won, the only security he had ever known, the only reason he still even existed was because his allies had been there shielding him all this time. They had done everything: taken every bullet, nursed every wound, and still they never complained. They were always so dependable. They were always so strong. He wished he could be like them.
The boy's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a loud sound. He felt something fly past him as a voice followed the blast.
"Lets get on with it," shouted the American man confronting him, his blond hair and brown jacket flapping wildly in the wind, "I'm tired of standing around!"
He pointed his weapon, still hot from its last shot, directly at the young boy and braced his arm once again. A loud crack suddenly filled the air and hot blood mixed with icy rain for the first time in the battle. The American howled in pain as he dropped his gun and clutched his mangled hand. Crimson poured from his palm and the confidence in his face had changed to disbelieving fury.
Feliciano whipped his head around just in time to see a small cloud escaping from the barrel of the German's gun. He was glaring at the American, pure hatred burning in his eyes as he caught his panicked breath.
"Leave him out of this!" he shouted, pausing for a moment, a little surprised by the desperation in his own voice.
"If he didn't want to fight then he should have stayed off the battlefield!" snarled the English man who was now standing partly in front of the injured American to protect him. He snapped his gun into position and fired two shots.
The German threw himself at the young Italian, plunging him into the mud. The boy's clothes and hair were drenched with filth and his breath had been knocked away. The cold reality of the ground suddenly awakened him from his state of panic, and he realized his situation. He stared at the man crouching over him. A look of panicked relief was consuming the German's expression. His friend had saved him again.
The shame washed over him in a wave of embarrassment that caused his cheeks to burn with colour. Was he really so useless that he couldn't have escaped those bullets alone?
"You're going to get hurt. Get out of here."
The Japanese man had already begun to move. In the instant the two shots had been fired, he had broken into a sprint and was flying across the field at incredible speed. He had cast aside his rifle and drawn his favoured blade in its place. Lunging at one of the men, he thrust his weapon to the stomach, but was evaded by a swift step to the side. He stumbled over the slippery ground and turned to face the French man again, but in his moments of lost footing the tall Russian had found his way behind him.
A large hand came around the Japanese man's neck and lifted him from the ground. Before he could retaliate the French man had smashed the butt of his gun into his knuckles, causing him to drop his sword. He grasped at the impressive, asphyxiating grip in a vain attempt for freedom. He pried at the powerful fingers with his own, desperate for breath, until he began to feel his consciousness slip away.
"Dammit!" The German cursed under his breath as he shot up from the young Italian. He cocked his gun and faced the five men, turning only his head to the side to shout an order at the boy still on the ground. "I've got this. Now, get out of here!"
With that he had launched himself into the battle. The rain flew by him as he streaked across the field toward his constricted ally. His free hand shot to his side and grabbed one of the two grenades he had on his belt. With expert precision and impressive speed he had ripped the bomb from his hip, removed the pin with his teeth and hurled it toward the English man who was trying to aim his gun. The bomb landed at his feet, and before he could take any action to escape from it, it exploded with a shatteringly loud bang. The blast threw him from the ground as shrapnel ripped through his body. Blood sprayed through the air as the Englishman hit the earth, his lower body mangled by the blast and his legs blown apart. His torso was ripped and bleeding as it twitched and writhed in the mud.
"Arthur!" The American scrambled to his comrade. His face was cut and bleeding from the shrapnel that the bomb had released, but the Englishman had taken most of the blast.
The German whipped his gun in front of him and shot two bullets, one of which buried itself in the leg of the Frenchman, who fell to one knee, the other into the waist of the Russian, who barely seemed to wince as his beige coat began to turn red with his own blood. His grip was still tight and the man it held had become limp and motionless.
The German ducked under his suspended comrade and retrieved the abandoned sword. Spinning around, he thrust the blade through the wrist of the Russian who subsequently dropped the man in his grasp. The German had just enough time to find that his friend's heart was still beating before the Chinese man, who had held his ground until now, rushed up behind him and locked his arms to his back. He couldn't move.
A bone-chilling grin snaked across the face of the Russian as he grasped the hilt of the blade in his arm and tore it out, splattering a streak of blood on the ground beside him. He stepped over his breathless victim and placed his free, blood covered hand on the arm of the struggling German. His smile widened as he sliced through the shoulder of the helpless man. The yelps of pain his actions caused seemed to excite him as he withdrew the blade and repeated his blow.
"Ludwig!" The young Italian cried as he rose from the ground. He had to do something. He had to help. His grip tightened around his gun as he found his footing. He thrust his weapon out in front of him, began his run forward and took aim. This time he would help his friends.
Feliciano had seldom ever felt it, and thus the recoil of his weapon took him by surprise as he fired his first shot. But still, by some miracle, his bullet found its mark in the head of the Chinese man. His body slumped to the side, the grip on his captive loosened and the German was able to easily shake him off as his legs gave way. The Chinese man's eyes were dim and his expression blank as his lifeless body fell to the earth. The black hair that had been tied back had come loose and now fell over his face and into the bloody puddle it lay in. He was dead.
The German looked up at the Russian who was staring at the unmoving man. His expression was faint, but it was almost as if a transparent grief were stabbing through him. Suddenly a very clear emotion flashed in his eyes as he shot his glare in the direction of the Italian boy: pure hatred. The monstrous man turned away from Ludwig, cast away the sword, took up his gun and took aim at his new target. A murderous fury had overcome his senses and he did not think of where he had thrown the blade. He did not think that when it had landed at the German's feet he would pick it up, and he did not think that with his back turned the German would plunge the weapon through his heart. He froze, overcome by the pain of the cold metal burning in his chest. As it slid from his heart he fell to his knees, blood leaking from his lips, and he felt another penetrating blow plunge into his back. The blood flowed from his heart into the mud around him and mixed with that of his comrade. The German's foot came down on his shoulder and held him forward as the cold metal slid from his chest. The Russian fell to the ground, unable to move, unable to see his ally. His warm blood left him and the cold emptiness overtook him as the hatred in his eyes faded to become the loneliness that he had always felt. His breath left him, and his life slipped away into an eternity of forsaken darkness. It was over.
The German clutched his lacerated shoulder, applying pressure to his bleeding wounds. He stood in a pool of red that had poured from the lifeless soldiers laying aside him. His comrade in white had begun to breathe again and the grey clouds continued to shed their tears.
"Ludwig!" Feliciano was running toward his German comrade, a look of joyful pride on his face. He had done it! He had helped his friend and not run away. A smile also found its place on the lips of the German. Everything was going to be all right now; his friends were safe. He began to take his careful steps forward, minding his footing through the corpses.
What happened next seemed completely unbelievable. It happened so fast that it was as if it couldn't have happened at all. The boy was only a few feet away but in a signal instant there was a loud sound, and his steps slowed. He came to a stop, wobbled for a moment and looked down to see the thin wound through his chest. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet his ally's. Both wore expressions of paralyzed terror, and neither could seem to find their breath. Blood began to seep threw the boy's jacket; as a shaken voice cried from near by.
"You killed him!" The American was kneeling in blood and earth, the English man's limp, lifeless, mangled body sprawled over his lap and supported by his bloody arm. His other had held his gun, aimed directly at the young Italian. His body was shaking and unfamiliar tears streamed down his cheeks in the grief stricken anger. He looked at the German, his aim still on the boy, as his desperate, breaking voice screamed out again, "You killed him, you bastard!"
The shots exploded from his gun like fireworks as he let out a cry of mourning and hatred. Feliciano stumbled back as the bullets tour through him. Unable to move or do anything, Ludwig watched in horror as his friend took each blow. Every bullet that found its mark seemed to tear away a piece of the German's heart as well, but still he could only watch. He couldn't help his comrade.
Finally, after what seemed like a never-ending rain of fire, there was a click and the bullets stopped. The American scrambled to reload his gun but in the short pause Ludwig had found his mobility once more and was returning the angry fire. He pulled his trigger recurrently until the same click echoed from the shaft of his weapon.
The American's body was torn and still as his wounds began to seep with blood. He looked down at his ally, tears now flowing freely from his eyes as he let out a soft whisper. "Sorry for being so much trouble, Arthur..." He put his gun down and brushed his friend's hair from his face.
The American's lip trembled. He leaned over, pulling his ally into his bleeding embrace as he began to sob aloud. He held him tightly for a few moments before slowly slipping the weapon that the Englishman had carried, from the lifeless hands. He sat up, letting the dead man's head rest over his lap as he lifted the gun, "…But I don't think I can do this without you." The American put the gun to his own head, screwed his eyes shut and pulled the trigger.
"Feliciano!" The German threw his weapon to the ground and ran to his ally, completely oblivious to the scene only a few feet away. He grabbed the shoulders of the young Italian who was standing, bleeding, staring up into the falling rain, and shook him in desperation.
"Feliciano…" he choked, "Hey, you're okay, right? You're going to be fine, right? Hey!" The boy slowly dropped his gaze to meet the German's. His eyes were dim as he faintly smiled at his friend. Suddenly his legs gave way and his weight pulled himself and his ally to the ground.
"No!" The German pulled the boy into his arms like a child and knelt in the mud. He felt his heart begin to race, and his arms begin to shake as he held the delicate body tightly to his own.
"You're hurting me…" The weakness of the sudden voice pierced the man's heart like the sword he had born before. He looked at the young face beneath his own, pale and weak from the loss of blood, and found himself overcome with sadness, only able to whisper.
"I'm sorry." The boy's hollow eyes looked into the man's, puzzled.
"Why?"
"This shouldn't have happened. I should have been able to help you!" His voice was shaking violently now, his cheeks began to burn and his eyes filled with a watery glaze. Feliciano smiled weakly at his friend, the light seeming to appear in his eyes again.
"No. L'Italia farà da sè." Ludwig looked at his friend, now with confusion and grief. The boy's eyes fell dark again, but his grin remaned as he giggled faintly.
"It means 'Italy will take care of itself.'"
A look of curiosity suddenly passed over the boy's expression. Slowly he lifted one hand to the German's face and wiped his cheek.
"Ludwig, why are you crying?" The realization of his own tears came as a surprise to the man. They were so unfamiliar, so revealing, but now that he had acknowledged them, he couldn't bring himself to make them stop. Slowly, he leaned forward and softly kissed the boy on the forehead, his lips warming the cold skin for the moment of contact before he whispered quietly.
"Weil du ziemlich starle geworden bist." He smiled weakly to himself, knowing that the boy had no idea what he had said. As he sat up to see the boy's face again he translated his words aloud.
"Because you have become very strong."
Through the weakness and pain, the German could see happiness and satisfaction in the boy's eyes. Though hurt, he was overwhelmed with joy, and the German imagined for a moment the beaming smile that would dance across the Italian's face if he weren't in this state. His eyes would be tightly shut in that way that only magnified his smile and his cheeks would be flush with exited joy. His carefree nature would cause him to skip around, and the man would probably end up in an unconsented hug. However, his eyes were open, staring faintly at the German with a dead light. His smile was weak and quivering, and his cheeks were white as a sheet. He was unable to move and the only embrace present was the man supporting his limp, bleeding body.
The boy opened his mouth and took a deep, shaking breath. His eyes watered slightly and his head relaxed over the man's arm.
"I'm kind of tired," he said quietly, "I think I'm gonna take a nap." The German's heart stopped. Panic flooded through him as he tried to steady his shaking body. Forcing himself not to yell, he said weakly.
"No, not yet. I want to keep talking to you."
"But I'm really tired. We can talk when I wake up, Ludwig." The man looked down at the pool of blood that had come from the boy. He knew there wasn't much time left, but he didn't want to scare his friend. He took a deep breath, tried to steady himself and smiled. His tears continued to fall, but his shaking smile reflected all the joy he had been givin by the boy over the years he had known him.
"Okay Feliciano… When you wake up."
The boy smiled weakly. His eyes closed and his head turned slightly into the man's chest. His body relaxed in the strong arms and slowly his breath began to become a steady pattern as he fell asleep. For a few minutes, the German sat looking at the young Italian's sleeping face. He felt the tears streaming down his own as his cheeks burned with colour and his lips trembled. The clouds cried as well, rain continuing to pour from the heavens and drenching the two in a cold shower. One raindrop fell, as if to show what he could not, onto the boy's eye, and then slid down his face like a tear before his steady breathing slowed and came to a stop. His body became completely limp and the gentle heartbeat that had pounded in his chest ended. He was gone.
Ludwig stared at his friend until his vision was blurred with grief. His tears poured faster and they were no longer silent. He pulled the body into himself, embracing it tightly as he sobbed aloud, crying out for his lost ally over the bloodstained battlefield. They stayed that way, frozen like stone for a long time. The German continued his muffled sobs until his head pounded and his eyes began to hurt.
Only after he looked up to the sky and let the rain wash his face did his tears cease. He felt the cool water run down his neck and under his shirt. His hair fell into his eyes and his clothes were covered in blood and earth. He dropped his gaze to look at his friend once more. Only now did he realize that the pale grin was still on the boy's face. Though his injuries had taken his life he showed no pain in his expression. There was only a happy satisfaction. The man couldn't help but smile. His friend had brought him such joy and wonder. The boy was always so cheerful. He was always so free. Ludwig wished he could be like him.
Slowly, the German rose to his feet, the Italian still held in his arms like a child. He turned around to see the French man watching him, tears in his eyes at the scene. Beside him sat a boy who was tending his knee. Ludwig couldn't recall seeing the boy before, but wondered if he had been on the field the whole time and simply gone unnoticed. The maple leaf on the arm of his uniform and his kind, nervous expression told the German that he had nothing to fear.
Ludwig walked slowly over to the Japanese man who had regained his consciousness and was now sitting up, rubbing his bruising neck with one hand. When he saw the boy in the man's arms he shot up and hurried over to them. Concerned eyes passed over the Italian's lifeless body and up to the German who simply shook his head. The Japanese man dropped his view and his bangs covered his eyes as he clenched his fists. A signal tear ran off his cheek as he lowered himself into a deep bow of respect for his fallen comrade. Slowly, he rose and his eyes met with the German's.
"What now?" he asked shakily, not quite knowing how to react to the loss.
The German looked over the field. A giant by his tamer and two brothers' covered in blood lay, together forever. The French man was standing now, supported by the Canadian. Slowly, the two made their way past the fallen men until they stood before the German and Japanese man.
"Let's stop this stupid feud," the French man said, reaching into his pocket to retrieve something. Holding out his hand he presented a white handkerchief to the Japanese man who accepted it graciously. The man looked at the boy in the German's arms and bowed his head in apology before leaning his weight back onto the Canadian.
"Shall we go?"
"You go on ahead. I'll catch up in a minute," the German said as the others began to turn away. "And, Kiku, can I have that?" The Japanese man looked at him and nodded. Holding out the handkerchief, he placed it in the German's chest pocket before lifting one of the French man's arms over his shoulder to share his wait with the Canadian.
Before long, the three men had walked away leaving Ludwig standing in the rain, with the boy in his arms. He looked down at the young Italian and squeezed him tightly, one last time before dropping to his knees to lay him gently onto the ground. The young man's body looked so peaceful lying there. The delicate smile and the gently closed eyes made it seem as if he were only sleeping. But the blood soaking his cloths reminded the German that he wasn't going to wake up. He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and folded it into a rectangle. Carefully, he leaned over and placed the white cloth on the boy's chest before slowly standing up. He looked at the sky and brought his arm up into a salute, not even trying to stop the lone tear that fell over his cheek. He stood there, unable to say anything, until he lowered his arm and found himself looking down at the boy once more.
"Until you wake up…"
He turned away from Feliciano and started off to catch up with the others, a weak smile in his lips. He knew, though his friend's body was still, his soul was dancing through the heavens with complete joy. Ludwig looked up to the sky, wondering if his friend could see him, and felt the rain fall over him. It seemed warm now, as it joined with the rays of sunlight that slipped through the clouds, and he welcomed it onto his skin as it washed the blood and dirt from his clothes. He knew he would see his friend again. Not for a long time, but he would see him again... when he fell asleep as well.