The Italian language is beautiful, Roderich muses, crouching lower into the mud of the riverbank, even when it's commanding an attack on his men.
Cold autumn skies rumble above his head as he waits for the call to be given, suppressing a cough and wincing. He is aware that around him the war is slowly nearing its conclusion – the movement smoothing into the coda—already some allies have separated from him, but he is used to it. After all, he's been around a long time. He helped this war, and he isn't about to quit now.
He glances at her, further along the flooded bank of the river. Mousy brown hair pulled back under her cap, her rifle slung over one shoulder, she's all he has, out here, at that moment. He fixes his gaze on her and tries to ignore the growing nausea in his stomach. Their troops are in chaos, Roderich knows, and his generals are nothing but a flurry of retreats and orders falling on deaf ears and it's slowly tearing away at him. But he won't stop. Not now. It is not how he is.
Eliza looks back at him, a grim smile crossing her face, and signals to what is left of her troops. They are almost all gone, and Roderich is left with her and his men against two dark-haired brothers who won't rest until their Empire is ground into dust.
The Italians are on their way. And they're not alone.
He hears them before he sees them, boots splashing and skidding relentlessly, vengeful shouts across the field as they open fire. Where the hell is the call? The realization hits Roderich like a ton of bricks—the army is cut in half. Eliza seems to notice as well, and she lets out a cry as she launches fire on her end. Roderich warily follows suit, and his troops scramble to arms, facing the oncoming attack with one last flare before a Sun is extinguished. He knows full well of his situation: almost his entire army is on the casualties list already. He's dug himself into a deep hole, and he isn't sure if he can climb out in time. He lets out a brisk laugh, raising his rife to his shoulder and trying not to notice how much his arms are shaking. Shot after shot after shot, like a metronome. Roderich reloads with relative ease and raises his gun again, wanting so badly to just lose himself in the deep hum that is war, but his mind won't shut up: his thoughts fly from Eliza to himself, to his broken army with casualties flooding like the river, to the Germans still further into the war than he is, to the look on Feliciano's face across from him and wait—is Feliciano crying, what—
Roderich's gun clatters to the ground, but the sound is lost to him as nothing but a dull echo as the bullet hits him square in the chest. His aim has gotten better, he thinks automatically, staring stupidly down at the flower of red rapidly spreading over his uniform. Somewhere, he thinks he hears Eliza scream, but he cannot be sure. Staring up at the Italian almost in disbelief, he staggers backwards before crumpling into the mud with his wife's name on his lips as a call for help. War changes people, he thinks vaguely. He of all people should know.
He has been killed before, Roderich knows, having woken up more than once on an empty field with that strange feeling of having your system be a little too even, a little too inhuman—as a nation, death usually lasts a few hours, as long as you are strong enough. As he sinks back against the mud, however, a sickening thought crosses Roderich's mind and makes him choke, his vision already beginning to flash. What if – what if this time is different for him? This doesn't feel the same as the last time, and for a moment he's terrified, because what if he can't come back this time? What if the war's taken too much of a toll? What's going to happen to his Empire, to Austria—to him?
A face blurs into view, her face among the pounding of feet and the blending of languages into one huge mess, and every enemy shot that hits its target seems to ricochet into the musician with a jolt, causing a green-eyed lady to shake his shoulders and yell something about stay with her, Roderich, dammit, not here, and he wants to answer, wants to reach up and tell her it's fine, but all he does is cough up blood. Not quite the reaction he would like.
Something heavy seems to press against his chest and he tries to push it away, but he's tired, so tired, and for the strangest reason it's not Eliza's face he conjures (even though he can confirm she is in fact here, pushing on his chest and really crying now, and a fuzzy brain registers a fear in her tone that really shouldn't be there) but red eyes that match the red creeping the edge of his vision, and an unspoken name freezes on his lips as violet glazes over, staring up unseeing at a thundering, war-torn sky. One, two gasping breaths, and Roderich succumbs to casualties and broken lines and a bullet from a screaming Italian.
The temporary death of a nation is a peculiar thing. Probably one of the most unsettling aspects of it is the gaps in memories.
Like how Roderich doesn't remember being lifted out of the mud as the skies open up over the retreating armies, being pushed into the back of a truck and sped off to the nearest hospital tent. Or how, once he gets there, a stationed general that knows of his status pales and orders him to be taken home straight away do you understand and I goddamn well know he's dead don't question orders. He doesn't recall Eliza already being there, in Vienna, sitting in a chair beside his bed, still wearing her muddy uniform and staring at an unmoving chest.
He doesn't hear her choke back a sob as she takes a pale hand in both of hers and the confession of "They're asking for a divorce" escapes trembling lips. He will have to hear that later, and he will have to feel like perhaps he's dying a second time.
"Gilbert, where are you?"
"One sec, Bruder."
"We have to go!"
"Gimme five minutes!"
"What are you talking about? This is an evacuation of the Germans from Austria, not a playdate! We don't have five minutes. Get a move on!"
Gilbert sighs but doesn't get up. He had gotten to Vienna only to practically crash into a sobbing green-eyed girl who looks like she's about to be sick, and his heart had promptly dropped to his stomach.
Is he…?
Gunshot.
For how…
More tears threaten to spill. Almost a week now.
No. Nononononono—
Gilbert swears and buries his face into the sheets. He's been on his knees beside Roderich's bed for how long now? The answer is obviously too long, because his legs are cramping, but he refuses to leave until he confirms that the man he's grown up across from on a field is going to wake up. Pale fingers curl into the cool fabric and he swears under his breath, looking up at soft features on a colourless face.
"C'mon, Rod," he whispers a little too hoarsely, a little too desperately. "I'm the only one who gets to kick your ass, remember? You have to wake up. For Liz." A beat. "For… for me. Please?"
It takes a while for him to realize there are tears in his eyes and he shuts them in annoyance. "Don't be selfish." It doesn't make any sense, but Gilbert doesn't care. "I'm supposed to… I'm supposed to be there for you, and you're supposed to be there for me. It's always been that way so don't you fucking give up now, Roddy, you hear me?"
Gilbert's shoulders shake and he hides his head in his arms again. Ludwig's yells are growing louder, his name mixed in with threats of being thrown into prison by the Entente if he stays, and Gilbert yells back just as loudly. He stays even after his brother leaves with a promise of catching the first train out that he can, he stays until the Sun rises over Vienna and the silence of dawn is broken by the frantic beating of a second heart and deep, shuddering breaths. He doesn't move an inch until he's positive that Roderich is pulling through, and even then he uses the phone rather than leave to call for Liz or anyone who's around.
When violet eyes blink open in confusion on the brink of consciousness, the first thing they see is white hair at the edge of the bed, sound asleep with the smallest hint of a smile on thin lips, but perhaps they only imagine it because the next thing Roderich knows he wakes up for good and there is nobody there.
Bandages strain against his chest as Roderich presses the pen against the papers so hard he almost tears through them. His leader had signed them in his… absence, but requested a signature nonetheless, "as some sort of closure." He smirks, straightening and handing the papers to an official with an icy gaze that sends him scampering away.
It's no secret that divorce papers are not his favourite thing to wake up to.
Running both hands through his hair, he stares up at the ceiling. The war is over for him, for Eliza, and for several more. Ludwig is being slowly pushed back into a corner, and his leader will be smart enough to call it quits. None of them – not Roderich, not Gilbert, not even Arthur or Francis – have seen war like this before. Roderich had almost keeled when the final casualty rate for his army had been handed to him and the first number of the percentage had been a nine. He flinches inwardly as the telegrams fly in regarding prisoners-of-war in Italy—another number to add to his growing list of misery. Making his way to his room, he practically throws himself onto his bed, and just this once lets himself scream at nothing.
The Empire is gone, replaced by the Republic of Austria.
And for the first time in over six hundred years, Roderich is well and truly alone.