Such pretty fruit... He marveled at them, at the stark contrast between the red of the pomegranates and the white of the snow. It was amazing, really, to find such treasures in the middle of the winter, especially when just walking about in the forest somewhat aimlessly- why weren't they guarded? Crows sounded from above, swirling, feathery omens of death- surely, they would die in this snow. Arthur couldn't resist picking them up, preparing to wrap his shawl around them to keep them warm. Such wonderful gifts, surely God had wanted him to take them! They whimpered softly at his touch, and he cradled them lovingly, smiling in adoration. What wonderful fruit! Surely his love would be happy when presented with them?

There was a faint growling from behind him, making him shudder, his heart immediately picking up pace in its beats as he wondered if he should look around. A slight incline of his head made him gasp, as he caught a glimpse of a monstrous, shaggy thing. Its eyes were red, drool dripping down from a lolling tongue, the growl growing louder... and louder...

He screamed, clutching the pomegranates close to him as he began running, shawl trailing after him pathetically, flapping sharply. The bear snapped its jaws, screaming- could a bear scream?- as its claw snagged on the whipping fabric, the sound of tearing fabric filling the crisp, cold air as it began the chase, bellowing after him. Arthur just kept running- his eyes were wide, yelping each time he tripped over a root. Each time, however, he managed to twist so that it was his back that crashed into the icy ground, not damaging the delicious fruits in the slightest. Each time, the bear was just a little bit closer, and he was still in the woods, far from his home, in the middle of the night. No one would be able to hear him scream if he was caught.

Shrieking, he scrambled up, starting to cry- the bear had started crying long before him, its bellows getting more and more desperate the longer they ran, sides heaving frantically. It was a monstrous thing, and he could only see unending hate in its beady, crimson eyes. Its tongue, too, lolling as always, was more like a vermillion colour, its teeth long and sharp, yellowed with age. Yes, he had to escape, for it would kill him otherwise, just to get at the fruits. He had to save them from being eaten!

Something in his arms whimpered, tears streaming down both of the pomegranates- were they his? He supposed they had to be, but he didn't have much time to reflect on it, terrified as he was. He skidded across a frozen river, completely missing the bridge by a longshot, unable to use his arms for balance. There was a scream- he couldn't tell whose throat it came from, his or the bear's- and he whimpered, a choked shout bubbling up and dying abruptly on his tongue. So scared, he couldn't even speak, he wanted to make his loved one happy with those fruit! It was the least he could do, unable to offer his own. Fruit, he found, was a food he was completely unable to grow. No man he knew could.

The bear roared- screamed?- in a futile attempt to imitate human words, coming out as a mangled failure of the English language. He could only run, run as fast as he could, even when his heart burned terribly, his lungs aching, and when he breathed, the sharp tint of blood hit him in the back of his nose, forcing him to keep alert quite painfully. But he could see his home, so close, only a few feet away- the bear slashed at his back, claws somehow not breaking the skin but sending him flying, curling over the fruits protectively- he fumbled about, grabbing something- it was an ax- the moon illuminated the bear wonderfully, and he hoped, and he prayed- and then- and then-

The door slammed, startling the Frenchman from his book. He smiled, gazing at the red, worn-out face of his lover- Francis found it amusing, how the bushy-browed man kept going outside at night, even though the temperatures were frigid- wondering at the fear he saw in them.

Arthur sighed, leaning against the door for a moment to recollect his wits, gazing at his two pomegranates. Eagerly, he moved his torn, ruined shawl out of the way so that Francis could see them, grinning proudly. "Look! I found them, in the forest! Bloody hell, aren't they a beaut?" His pride welled up in his chest, eventually wavering when he looked up from admiring his prize.

Francis, to be honest, hadn't been expecting this. The warm delight that came when seeing Arthur abruptly slammed to a screeching hault, as did his thoughts, his heart growing cold. His jaw worked up and down, like he was trying to speak, but he couldn't find the words to describe it, what he was feeling, and he doubted he would have been able to force his tongue to form him, his mouth to help guide the words into the air. The happiness on his face faded into abject horror, gazing at what Arthur held out to him blissfully.

"Mon amour..." Francis said slowly, thickly, finally managing to break his silence. He swallowed, voice growing shaky. "You know our children, l'orgueil de mon cœur, are dead... Oui? The ones that we adopted?"

Arthur just nodded, frowning now, a tad confused- wasn't this supposed to be a happy event? Fresh fruit! In winter...

The Frenchman continued, licking his lips anxiously. "They are very, very dead... Très morts. And nothing that you can do is going to change that... Not even stealing two children, précieux petits anges, is going to fix it, mon amour. Do you hear me? They are dead, in the ground, and taking two children from their parents won't correct that."

He just shook, still holding the pomegranates- one began to squirm, opening its mouth and whining loudly for food- as his mouth opened, this time staying open. Francis prepared himself for the worst, clutching the back of the chair anxiously.

Arthur screamed, loud and shrill, falling to his knees as he gazed at his fruit. The more he blinked, tears clouding his vision, the more he saw. Twins, two boys, one with a stubborn little ahoge, the other with a small, looping curl that bounced about pitifully. Both blonde, with wide blue eyes. The smaller of the two- the one with the ahoge- shoved his brother, who continued to whine for food, mouthing the air weakly.

His heart tore. No, they were fruit! So, the bear... He looked up at Francis, green eyes desperate. "What do we do?" he croaked, voice sore from his wailing. "What do we do now, git?"

Francis strode forwards, crouching down next to Arthur and staring at the twins helplessly. "We return him," he said simply, nodding. "We return them, and we apologize, and, if we are lucky, mon amour, then all is forgiven and we will not be shot." There was silence, and then-

"It's too late."

"Hm? Mon amour-"

"Stop calling me that!"

He cleared his throat, rephrasing carefuly. "Mon Angleterre, it is never too late! Come, we shall go together." He tugged on the shorter man's arm, frowning when it elicited no response. More tears dripped down his face, and Francis felt his heart squeeze painfully. "Why is it too late?"

Arthur gasped, choking and trying to spit the words out. "Because- she's- I- and I-"

The bear lay outside, slowly becoming blanketed by snow. It was still a behemoth, perhaps six foot five, on its side. Its tongue, still, hung out, red eyes unseeing, fetid breath no longer scratching at the air in heavy, humid puffs. Its nose no longer quivered, no longer could enjoy the distinct smells of the forest that only a bear could appreciate.

No. It wasn't a bear.

The woman lay outside, slowly becoming blanketed by snow. She was still a behemoth, perhaps six foot five, on her stomach, wire-thin. Her mouth, still, was wide open, dark brown eyes unseeing, warm breath no longer licking at the air in soft, fevered puffs. She no longer cried, no longer could enjoy the warmth of the summer sky and her babies' skin that only a mother could appreciate.

A long cloak obscured most of her form, spreading about her body magnificently. Her hair, as well, curled about the ground in various designs, swirls, and loops, ghosting over her slim shoulders, bleached in the moonlight. There was a single frozen tear on her cheek, the last indication that this lump of cold flesh once felt emotion, once felt a sickening mixture of fear and horror at finding a strange man in her house, handling her children, and then taking off with them. She'd wondered- what could he gain? Why didn't he just give them back? Why did he want her children so much?

And why did he keep calling back, "These are my fruit! Get your own bloody pomegranates!"

By her side lay a basket, overturned, opened, and crushed. She'd just gotten back from a quick trip into town to pick up food, only to find the door busted open, her children crying. She'd had no time to set it down, and she hadn't thought to either, too intent on getting her wonderful, beloved children back, Callipso and Coronet. Her husband would worry if all three were missing when he came back- where was he, anyways? Perhaps sleeping. It had been a silent struggle, she'd only started screaming at him when they were both a ways away from her house.

Their food spilled out from the crushed remains of the basket, vegetables and actual fruit- not children- and a glass bottle with a rubber nipple on it. She was unable to produce her own milk, sadly, so they'd had to go with bottlefeeding. It was a small bottle, still full, still warm, melting the snow around it. It was sad, in a way. The food had been bought with the last of their money for the month.

Author's Note- This was written, literally, in half an hour, at two AM. I've had this idea floating about for a while since hearing 'Moonlit Bear'- Vocaloid, wonderful song, beginning of the Original Sin series by Mothy-P, I believe- and while I really don't like FrUK... I couldn't think of anyone else. Maybe I'll continue it with the rest of the sins- honestly, I guess it all depends on if people like it? If they do, I'll be sure to continue! (If specifically asked, I guess.) For now, though, I'll leave it as Incomplete.

Don't think I did France very well... Felt really weird adding in 'Mon Angleterre' because this is well, AU, and so... Iunno. The French I did with Google Translate, which has been pretty reliable when it comes to French, and I'll include translations, because I'd certainly need them. Also not sure about my England...

Random dead chick is random and names also random. I was gonna have it be my view of 'Native America' but then I realized I didn't know much about the Native Americans. Plus, I'd have a helluva time explaining to myself why America and Canada's mother looks like a stereotypical Native American and they're both blonde and blue-eyed.

Translations-

Mon amour- My love

l'orgueil de mon cœur- The pride of my heart

Oui- Yes (if you didn't know that...)

Très morts- Very dead

précieux petits anges- Precious little angels

Mon Angleterre- My England