It was a beautiful day with fine weather and gentle breeze. Trees in the forest swayed lazily under the caress of the whispering wind, and the stream reflected the brilliant sunlight on its water.

A fine day it was, but yet not everything is calm and peaceful.

A hare swiftly and stealthily moved among the rocks and trees on the forest bed. It ran fast and silent, hopping over anthills and tree roots, leaping over puddles and under hovering leaves. But its movements did not escape the sharp eyes of its pursuer.

Echoing from behind the hare was thundering hooves of a gallant chestnut stallion, with its mane flying like a proud banner and its legs like steel hammer, closing in towards its victim like an inescapable thunderstorm. On its back was a young woman, with her long brown hair in a low ponytail and boyish clothing; anyone would've easily mistaken her for a man. Her slender fingers found their way to an arrow on her back and with ease, she readied her bow and pulled her shoulders to a shooting position. Emerald eyes pierced through the scurrying creature in front of her, and just a moment later, so did her arrowhead.

Pulling the mighty beast to a halt, she leapt off its back and walked to collect her game. She yanked the bloodied arrow off the hare and tied it on her horseback along with three other hares and a goose she had shot earlier that day.

'That should do it for today,' she thought. She led her horse by the reins towards a nearby river and immediately plopped down on a rock while her horse drank its fill from the stream. She leaned back on a tree and slowly her eyelids fluttered to a close as she started to sense the ache in her muscles from riding all morning. The weather was just perfect for a quick nap. Not a minute later, however, her peace was disturbed by a voice.

"Quite the catch you've got there." She groaned at the familiarity of the tone and reluctantly opened her eyes to turn at the source of disturbance. "What are you doing here, Gilbert?" she asked, making sure her message of annoyance was clearly relayed to the man in front of her.

Gilbert leapt down his own horse, a stallion whose coat is the same as his silver hair, and walked towards her. His crimson eyes seemed displeased. "Well, that's my line," he said while crossing his arms in front of his chest, "what are you, Elizaveta of Hungary, doing here, inside my territory." It was more of a demand than a question.

She was slightly surprised. She checked her bearings and she realized that he was right. She had crossed into Prussian territory.

"Oh, I beg your forgiveness, Gilbert Beilschmidt of Prussia," she said sarcastically as she rose to her feet, "I had not realized that while I chased after this splendid game I had crossed our boundaries. Now if you would be so gracious as to let me go I shall take my leave immediately."

"Cut the pretty talk and just get out of my sight," Gilbert hissed coldly at her. "Must I remind you that at the moment we are two nations that are at war with each other. I am no longer Prussia, your friendly neighbor. You are not welcome to step foot inside my forests as you wish."

For a moment they just stood unmoving, glaring deep into each other's eyes. Elizaveta had always found his eyes strange. They were the color of blood, deadly and dangerous. Yet they were oddly beautiful. His glare was far from friendly, and she felt as if he could look into the deepest crevice of her soul while she couldn't read his.

She found herself holding her breath under his glare, and without another word she leapt onto her stallion and broke it into a run away from the river.

As soon as she had crossed back into her territory, she brought her horse to a slow trot. She brought her left hand to her hair and undid her hair tie, allowing her locks to fall on her back. She gripped her horse's reins so hard until her hands trembled and stung painfully. Yet she couldn't get her attention off the pain resting deep in her chest. In her mind she replayed again and again the cold words he said earlier and his threatening gaze.

She loathed the present. She loathed the time when she couldn't greet him with a smile when they meet, or tease him about his odd hair and eyes, or wish he would hold her hand gently and place a flower on her ear. She loathed the time when he couldn't greet her with a grin when they meet, or tease her about wearing a skirt, or simply laugh with genuine happiness in her presence.

How she longed for the past. She missed the time when their clashing blades were filled with passion and joy instead of pain and sorrow. She missed watching him drown in peaceful slumber on the fields and secretly caressing his silver locks affectionately. She missed standing proudly on the same side of the battlefield as him. She missed racing their horses across the fields in pure fun and joy. She missed the time when his eyes met hers in kind affection. She missed that night when they held each other close, and their lips met in a soft, gentle kiss.

For years she had been taunted by doubt and uncertainty. She had doubted her own heart, but she couldn't deny it even if she tried. Yes, she was in love with Gilbert Beilschmidt.

As her horse slowly trotted its way home, she let her head hang and didn't even bother to wipe the tears on her cheeks. She spent the whole trip home like that; praying God would forgive her for loving the enemy of her people, and cursing her fate being born as a nation and her obligations to cross swords with the man she loved.

Deep inside her heart, she would wish he felt the same way. But she realized that even if he does love her, this impossible love would never have a happy ending.

Because they are countries.