In the Name Of

by miilky

War has devastated the land and the people, and Elizabeta will not stand for it. Nearing the end, she succumbs to a red mist and finds herself trapped in a Romanian castle. The guests are kind, but the walls are cold. While she intends to keep herself alive for her country's sake, there is a darkness lurking in the wind that appears to have other intentions for her. RomaHun.

A/N: AU. AU. Not historically accurate. Please, do not expect historical accuracy. 29 pages.

Disclaimer: Hidekaz Himaruya owns Hetalia and all related merchandise. I am merely taking his characters, using alternate interpretation, and doing what I want with them.

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''It is not her body that he wants but it is only through her body that he can take possession of another human being, so he must labor upon her body, he must enter her body, to make his claim.''
"In the Founders' Room" Unholy Loves Joyce Carol Oates

Hands that carried her armored weight benevolently but not kindly placed her on the wooden table, and he realized that some time had passed since she had awoken to the morning light. Without tension he released his hold on her unconscious body, and moved them to his sides while his eyes examined the and uncurled in a massive wave of rolls and curls that cascaded low beneath her concealed waist. She was dressed in her battle armor, and he was surprised, proud, that he was able to lift her defeated form from the battlefield without difficulty. For some time he looked at her, brushed his black tipped fingers against the tiniest of scars that rested on her jawline and collarbone, and he inhaled the musky scent of her sweat. When she moaned in agitation, her head titled to the right when it had been at the left, he felt a sudden jolt in his body that was both bewildering and pleasurable.

Above his head was the lighted chandelier, and the walls were built of the hardest cement. He knew that she could not remain where she was, not when there was battle going on outside the walls of his castle. The sounds of clashing swords and frightened horses echoed dimly in the dining room, and he licked his lips anxiously at the thought of returning. Yet, he was aware of the situation he had forced his side into, and it would be unwise for him to turn his back on his plans now. He turned around to the bolted wooden doors that were more dependable than they appeared, and nodded to the guards who stood awaiting their next order. The mend did not speak to their commander, but disappeared into the darkness of the forlorn halls of the castle. Whispers could be heard, and in less than a minute another set of burly men stood where the previous set had. Their armor was a browner-red shade than his, their swords hung to their waist, and in their hands they held banners with their country's flag adorned on it.

Underneath him, the woman slept. She slept on and on without a sound. Her snores could not be heard, and he was almost tempted to dip low on his knees, lower his head exactly so, and listen to the amusing sounds of her bumbled slumber offerings. He did not do it, and he waited until the pampering, scampering, and hurrying steps of his men returned to his hearing. He stood near the table, and he looked up to his front where an elderly man with a bald head dressed in black robes with blotchy red, puffed skin panted to him. At his sides were the guards from before, and they went down on one knee and lowered their helmet-clad heads. The older man with his gray beard and thick eyebrows approached him without kneeling, but he lowered his head in regal manner. The golden chains around his strangely thin, sickly neck bounced and jingled together, the Cross of Christ glittered gold on his chest.

"My Lord, I see that you have captured the Heir-Presumptive." He too looked at the woman on the wooden table, "May I ask, what do you intend to do with her?"

Crimson eyes revealed nothing of the intent held within them, but he nodded slowly, calculating, "How goes the battle? With their leader disposed of, it will be challenging for them to oppose us."

"Yes," the old man stiffened, "The Hungarian troops are beginning to retreat as our men grow stronger and offensive. Without her, they have lost their last hope of victory." He gestured at the woman, and nodded his head in silent approval of what he had spoken.

"Good." He lined the unexposed form of the woman's body with his eyes, "We will keep her here tonight. Please, get my servants and have them clean her up. The stench she carries is horrid."

"Sir!" In a moment of senseless the old man burst in a small fit of hysterics, and his beady brown-black eyes sparkled with deranged excitement, "Must I explain to you that this is the woman who claimed that she would conquer the world, including our kingdom? The one who has killed countless of our men, women, and children? She has led those barbaric armies. I've read the reports more intently than any general. She deserves the dungeon, not a bath and pampering."

His gazed turned upwards, but not to the old man or the guards; he traveled to the mantle where an old portrait was adorned in a gold, delicately crafted frame. A portrait of a man dressed in robe tunic with gold draping on his neck and arms. He had a thick brown mustache, along with a beard, and his tightly coiled hair was hidden beneath a tall, wool hat with the country's emblem stitched on the front. In sight, the man was not conventionally handsome, but he was considered appealing with his grave and condiment stature. His lips were pulled in a thin line, and in one hand he used a saber sword as a cane. Great strength and dignity! The man narrowed his orbs at the portrait and nodded as if in agreement with himself, "This has happened before, has it not?"

"I ask what, Sir?"

"My father once captured not the heir-presumptive but one of the daughters of the previous King." His mind returned to the hours spent in the office of his tutor, "And though he was in a position to do what he pleased with the young woman, he did not choose such a path. He treated the woman with dignity and care. He did not degrade when he could have, and I intend to do the same."

"With all due respect, my Liege, this is an entirely different circumstance! This woman is no mere spoiled princess. This woman is heir-presumptive to the throne of Hungary. She is skilled and dangerous. Do you know how many men are willing to trade their lives for her safe return?"

He thumbed the metal of her suit, "I am well aware of the fact, but I would like to see how many would dare try to enter these halls. And how many will perish if they attempt to do so."

In a movement that was too abrupt to catch, he turned to his long time advisor and standing guards. His stare was severe, "I want you to guard the castle, get to the top. I doubt it is necessary, but it's better to be safe than sorry."

The old man appeared defeated and was. He did not stop the disapproval from masking on his face, but he nodded low, not kneeling, "I fear the worse with this, Your Highness, but I cannot change your mind on this matter." Without another word, the old man turned around with the guards and disappeared into a hallway on the far right of the dining room.

He returned his gaze to the woman. He would not admit it aloud, but she was more than worthy of the title Heir-Presumptive. He was not grateful for the battles she had won, the men he had lost, but he was impressed, more than he should have been, with her strategic genius. As he wavered down to the top of her forehead, the crown of her matted brown hair, to the soles of her feet, he imagined what would have become of him if he had been in the reversal role. He doubted that she would be as merciful as he intended to be; yes, he could see it. The overwhelming amount of uncontrollable rage in her eyes, her lips twitching at the corners, and the opaque aura of her madness was familiar to him. Yes, he meant to prove her that he could be hospitable, somewhat.

"Excuse me, Your Highness." A timid voice came up from behind him, "We are here to assist the young woman."

The servants were dressed in their proper uniform, but they appeared frightened of their master. He smiled a crooked smile, an attempt to lighten to mood, and nodded cordially at them, "Please, she is still in cased in her suit, let me help you."

---

Sight was the sense to return first. When Elizabeta, the Heir-Presumptive to the Hungarian throne, awoke it was the blurred sight of candlelight that registered in her mind. In a daze her eyes parted, and the image became clearer. Yes, it was a light of some sort, hovering above her and connected to chains to keep it from crashing down on her body. Second, came the sense of touch, and it came stronger, less blurred, than sight. Her hands were bared, not like the time when she was in battle and metal embraced them, and so were her legs and arms, face and feet. Even her hair, tied up in a knot that was most reassuring was released into strands or boundless hair! She was not in her armor, and she was not on the battlefield. And what she could remember, which was a good amount, was not something she liked to think on. Her defenses were breaking, her men were dying, and the opposing side, the demons from Hell, was rising against her. She had been duel with the leader of the Romanian troops, that Vlad, and had swung her sword heavily at him, ready to chop her head. Then, but then, something caught her, in the stomach, and she fell, to her knees, not knowing what had happened. The world went black. The screams of anguish sounded in her head before she departed to oblivion.

But now, now, she twisted her hands in the material that she immediately deemed as bed sheets. Precious cotton and warm, her hands clenched down into furious fists, and a barely concealed whimper, close to obscurity, slipped out her lips. Her body wormed on the comfort, rolled over to the side, and she saw the indistinct and abstract images on the wall. Painted or not, she could not tell, and she groaned loudly as her matted hair fell deeper and deeper, turning into a tangled mess, on the pillow. Too weak to open her mouth in an inhumane scream, she looked around her surroundings and felt the dim sensation of relief begin to creep upon her. No, she was not dead, as she looked into the mirror that was placed on the far right wall. The window that was next to the mirror was barred shut, and she had a good idea as to who was responsible.

Yet, the mirror was an impressive piece of art, and it distracted her from other thoughts as she gazed at her reflection. The sturdy fabric that kept her hair contained was missing, and a great consequence that it was that her hair cascaded down her back in gentle rolls. Gone was her valiant amour and chain, with sword as well, but she stood in a cream-white nightgown that revealed her lightly scarred shoulders. And around her neck, she pressed her hand to the middle of her neck was a gold necklace that bore the Holy Christ with the Savior placed in his rightful place. Gently, she braced her fingertips on it, and a deep shiver swept down her spine, causing her to drop her hand numbly.

The last moment her mind was able to retrieve from the depths of unconsciousness was the battlefield. It smelled of death, and the air was a dust red that hovered above their head in an ominous glow. No sunlight could be seen, and a dark curse graced her lips as she surveyed the damage that had been done to her troops. She had refused to turn around. They were too close, so close; to the castle that there was no chance she would shrink from the opportunity to free her country. Then, something happened; something that she had never foreseen. Taking a seat down on the bed, she gingerly toyed with the laces of the nightgown, and there were many; she forced her mind to cooperate with her.

Yes, the images made their reappearance. The plan appeared to be flawless; she and her advisors, plus generals, had spent months detailing each and every possible leak of the plan. And it had gone all according to plan, a success; they were terribly close to the castle. To the point that the euphoric taste of victory leapt and twirled on her tongue, but then, something horrible happened. On the bed, Elizabeta clamped down on her bottom lip, squeezing out blood, and forced the chain of events to make its sad return.

A canon. A long line of men. It was impossible to think how it happened, but they were able to to gain the advantage on them. The canons exploded in the air, and she had looked on, shocked. The skies suddenly grew into a deeper shade of red, and the land at the bottom was a sea of death. All of it was to be ignored as they approached the castle; it still surprised her as to how far they reached into the opposite land, closing in on the fiend himself and his henchmen. As the bombs burst in the air, the swords clanging against one another, she rode on her horse, prepared to make her way in. Some faults happened, true, but she knew that she could get in, as long as her men kept a ground barrier around her.

It failed. It had all failed. One by one, she watched as her men collapsed from an unknown substance that could not be seen by the human's eye, and in horror, not for her own very possible death, but for her subjects. She released a mournful howl into the cruel air before she too collapsed from a sudden blow to the head. The pain shot into her head, and then it swam throughout her body, causing her to tumble down as well. When she tried to detail what was the last thing she saw, she saw men who were not dressed in the silver-metal armor that her men was dressed in. "No," was the last thought that was brought into her mind before she succumb to the wicked spell, "Please, no."

Still on the bed, she pressed her hand to her head, and she felt the tenderness beneath the heavy bangs of her hair. Gently, she passed her fingers along and realized that the wound had been bandaged, and it was the same behind. Pressing down, she hissed at the stinging sensation, but at least, it did not end her life then. However, it was hard to see the predicament she was in as a blessing. It was sickening to think that she had been overtaken; a word that she used as a replacement. She would not dare use the close relative ot the word as an adjective to describe herself, but as the settlement began to sink into realization, she saw that this was not a good thing at all.

Too stunned to claw into her nightgown, and too distraught to allow a madness to overcome her, she hastily walked to the window where iron bars were placed to keep her inside. Indeed, she had taken in account that the bedroom she had awoken in was fit for a king, but she also noted it was disturbing to be in there as well. With all the bejeweled figurines and statues, safety was not a word that could be used to describe her state of mind. But she had gone to the window, and she used an old stool that sat silently to the side to look out the window. And what she saw paralyzed her with a bewildering sense of fright and confusion.

The grass was a blanket on the landscape, and like hair, the weak blades sprouted from the planet. Last time, she had witnessed numerous bodies sprawled about; soiling the dirt with their blood, but it was gone. All the bodies were gone, and the bare traces of their existence were rusted helmets and torn banners that represented their country. The sun was present, present and shining, and she stared up with an expression of disbelief on her face. This could not be; it was impossible that it was to be. But it had happened, and there was no sight of her men, the horses, and the war that was about to reach its dramatic end. Or had it? The chilling theory made her stomach crawl, and a deep disturbance settled in the pit of her stomach.

"Baszdmeg!" Falling back onto the cold floor, she did not know what to think, "Has God forsaken my kingdom?"

The mirror was a sign that meant many awful things. It was terribly hard to gaze at her reflection when saw how unhealthy and pale she appeared. The faint scars that decorated on her bosom and collarbone, and some happened to rise up on her neck. Though she was not much thinner than she was previously, or the last time she had looked into the mirror, there was an ill touch to her skin, to her very presence. Horribly, horribly malnourished, and she tried to reason how long she was asleep. There was no telling based on the grounds below, and did not risk going out while she was in such a weakened state. Her legs wobbled, and her feet were uneasy as she walked.

But she did not want to remain in the bedroom. Exquisite as it was, the room she was locked in disgusted her, and she could not stand to reside in it any longer. In a hurried pace, she went to the door, readied to fight if the need to be, and she was positive that it would. When she wrapped her hand around the doorknob, she felt an opposing force on the opposite side. It was not like, or she did not think it was, but she tried to open it with no avail. The frown that she wore on her face grew intense, and she struggled with the door while releasing hissing curses in her native tongue. No matter how hard she pulled, or pushed forward, the door would not open.

"Damn you!" Her patience reached it's breaking point, "Open, damn it!" And in anger, she slammed her fists hard on the wooden surface of the door, causing it to rattle at the hinges. Turning from the door, she began to pace while tipping her bottom mouth between her teeth, sucking in the blood as she pierced her canines into the squishy skin.

The door opened, as she paced, to reveal an older woman dressed in a nurse's dress. Her hair was a glazed brown; much like honey, and her eyes was a steel gray with certain hardness, cool hardness to them. Her medical uniform was a long robe tunic that reached down to her ankles, and it was the color of ruby red. A hard red that was not often seen around, and the wrinkles that were propped on her face and around her eyes were mild. She was not as old as some would like to think, and she wore a heavy hat on her had, similar to a nun's but not quite. It lacked the overwhelming kindness, the sincerity that a nun held, but it was no less authoritative. The Cross of Christ was present as a gold chain around her neck, and it rested between her breasts as expected.

With a grave atmosphere, which reminded Elizabeta of her long departed mother, the older woman entered the room without a care. And Elizabeta hid behind the open door, staring through the small crack in between, examining the intruder and her worth. No, she was not much, not much at all, but she deemed that it would be best not to attack her. Not when she had no idea where she was exactly, but she held onto a suspicion as to where physically. To even think about her present location made her want to grovel in the dirt, but she tightened her hold on her bottom lip, quivering in anger.

The woman surveyed the area with a prim set face, and she nodded in agreement with herself or some other thing that Elizabeta did not know of. Up and down, she went with her hands tightly clasped in the other, and she stopped close to the bed, noting that was it unmade and simply a mess. Her eyes narrowed, but she did not turn around to look at the lightless corner that the girl had hidden in. She remained standing with her hands folded, and she clicked her tongue in admonishment in the rustled state the bedroom was in. As she had nearly lost her mind with worry and frightful recollection, Elizabeta had toppled a lamppost, a stack of old books, and by the window, where she had grazed out into the morning sun-almost, she saw that a pile of hand made quilts were on the floor.

And it did not shamed her to think that she was responsible for it; her mother had always told her that she was more emotional than she liked to believe. The old woman with her tightly pressed lips and well-dressed form, she clicked her heels on the floor, commanding a presence that did not wished to be seen.

"It appears that the serpent has awaken," unkind was not her tone, but it was scolding in the way that a grandmother would do to a naughty child, "and she suspects that I'll clean it up. But sadly, the serpent is mistaken."

Without giving attention to the area she crept in, the old woman took a seat in a chair that was finely decorated with elaborated stitching on the cushions. Appropriately, she crossed her legs, and as her knobby knee stuck out, she placed her blue veined, liver spotted hand on the knobby knee. She rocked back and forth, quite gently and patiently, and she whistled a cool tune that reminded Elizabeta of her far away home. Knowing that the old woman, old nun, whatever she may be did not intend to harm her. Cautiously, she reached out her hand to the opened door, seeing that no one else was on the outside, and she permitted herself to be seen. The door closed behind her, shutting with a gentle click, and she came closer to the faint light that glowed menacingly in the room.

"Look at you." The old woman whistled, "I never imagined that I'd see the day that the child would grown into such a lovely, heart-stricken woman."

"It is you," she scrutinized the woman and her light painted make up. "Oh, it is you," her lips were a dried crimson, and lush hovered on her eyelids, "You old crone. You old crone; I be damned." Around she went, staring at her in a mixture of shock and confusion, and confusion always came when it concerned the crone.

"You still live," Elizabeta breathed out in a steady breath, "And I thought you dead years ago. I can't believe."

"Oh, but believe it." The wrinkles on her face laughed along with her, "You might wish me dead one day, and I'll admit many do. I'll choose the right place to die on my own time, and I'm still much needed."

"Cut the monologue, Crone," the amazement had vanished and returned her strong willed tone, "where am I, and why I'm here. And what's with the grass, the earth, outside? Outside there was war, outside there was suffering, and why isn't it still there?"

As the words spilled out her mouth, she grew frantic and threw her hands up in the air. Once she was finished, she stood panting and staring hard at the Crone, wanting to ask more, but at the same time, she sensed that hardly any of her questions would be answered at all.

"Well," she spat out, "what is it?"

"What's what?" The Crone shifted in the chair, and shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly, "Have you not realized that you have slept for more than one week. I'll admit the body count was quite impressive; you certainly outdid yourself. But we Romanians are used to cleaning up the dead, hard to imagine it, no?"

One week. That would explain her malnourished appearance, and even the moderately swollen eyes. Still, the information was more than she could digest, and she shook her head in disbelief. "No," she placed her head to the light wound on her head, feeling the sharp pressure, "No, it cannot be. I have not slept while my men were slaughtered by your barbaric race. No, this is impossible."

"Impossible? One of my husbands told me that it was impossible for a woman could shoot an arrow twice in the same place. So, I shot two in the same place. In his knees." She shook her head and laughed at the memory, "No, my dear, nothing is impossible." Her old bottom shifted on the chair, and she cracked a wicked smile at the girl's incredulous expression.

"Look right out your mind," she commented, "you'll live."

"Not this indignity!" She hissed, "And the level of severity both sides have suffered, I sincerely doubt that it had taken a mere week to remove all the bodies." Her hand fell on the bedpost, solidly wrapping her hand around it, and she grew green with sickness.

"I don't know where the bodies are," she lamented in a hoarse whisper, "I don't know where they can be found, and I don't know what to tell their families when the time comes. How can I ever return to the people who supplied such a large amount of heart and encouragement to this campaign?" Their exhausted faces she could envision, and the varied expressions of mourning and grave disappointment soared into her heart. In a feverish move, she clasped onto the golden crucifix that hung around her neck, and she fought back an assault of emotion that threatened to cripple her.

"Please," drawled the Crone, "don't be such a dramatic. I'm sure they were buried properly, and if not, their bodies were burned to prevent any possible plague from spreading about."

"Plague?" Questioningly, she turned to the woman, her lips quirking into an agitated flip of a smile, "There is no plague, is there?"

"Unfortunately not!" The Crone exclaimed, and sighed, "Plagues are quite an interesting experience if you think it to be."

At this, Elizabeta curled in disgust at the old woman, who sat on the chair without a care in the world. It was hard to imagine that she was still alive, as rumors were prevalent in court and she was known for various, unspeakable reasons. Elizabeta only knew the basics that she was once the nursemaid to future kings, her great-great grandfather included, and perhaps a mistress too. But the tales had stretched and squatted in so many ways that she couldn't keep count. She simply stood staring at the Crone, and the Crone returned the stare with a smirk that revealed her toothless gums, still a healthy shade of pink in spite the age.

She breathed heavily, "Did he send you?" And when the Crone played innocent, simply shrugging and looking out the iron barred, she nearly hurled out a scream that could have shattered mirrors, "Oh damn it! Tell me, evil wretch! I know that he sent you. Of course he would; it makes sense."

"I was called in a long time before your unexpected arrival," she slouched in the chair, "and I believe if anyone was to seek you out, it was me."

"It doesn't matter!" Her lips moved quickly, "I must know what's happening, and you're going to help me."

"Help?" The Crone widened her eyes and cackled, "Now, you must be insane, child. You are in the castle of your enemy, and you expect them to let you out and walk about and do what you please?"

"I don't expect them to do anything," she cast a malicious eye onto the Crone, "unless, I have a hostage."

The Crone wasn't amused nor was she impressed. Her face hadn't changed its shape, and it was as cool and plain as it was when she first entered the room. "You suppose that you'll hold me for ransom," her tone was slithery and a knowing more than it should have, "and everyone will lose their minds over it?"

"No." Keeping her tartness in check, "I don't expect them to lose their minds over it, but it'll be best if I have someone to cover me while I find out where he is. I don't think they're so mindless to put an innocent old woman in harm's way."

"But am I not already in harm's way?" Sighing, she flapped her hands about in a tired gesture, beckoning Elizabeta to come closer. Though she didn't want to, her suspicious stayed close to her mind, Elizabeta did as she was signaled, leaning down to the old woman's puckered face. And she inhaled the scent of her perfumes, which were a mix of several exotic scents that she couldn't identify. But she didn't dare let the trembling of her body hinder her thinking. The Crone was dangerous, more dangerous than any mad monarch, and the dark aroma that attempted to hide beneath the layers of sweet perfumes was most transparent.

"Yes."

"Your death would mean liberation for this country," her voice was extremely low and was like thorns to the ear, "but remember that it is his will that does not deem is so."

Elizabeta moved away, unable to understand as to why she was still breathing, and she clutched her throat, imagining what could have happened if it had not been due to his mercy preventing it. "He needs something from me," she thought aloud, "that's why I'm not dead yet. He must need something out of me. Maybe a ransom, maybe an award from my father, but it is not kindness from his heart that keeps him from ending my life, Crone."

"Or it could be memories from the past that restrains him," her tongue draped on her lips nastily, and Elizabeta winced at the unnatural movements of the pinkish thing, "memories live much longer than man."

There was time to evaluate the old woman's words, but Elizabeta was in no mood to do so. She raised the woman up to her feet and hurried to the door. Swinging it open, disregarding that possibility that waiting guards could be perched at the door's frame. But when she opened the door, inhaling the musky odor, she saw that it wasn't the case. The hallway was a narrow piece, and for the majority, light was absent. A medium size window, much larger than the one in the bedroom, was down the hall and allowed only a bare minimum of light to daze out of it. Dust specs swirled and twirled in the air, and the unhealthy odor scratched at her nose. She shielded her nose and mouth with her free hand, using a fair portion of her nightgown, and she didn't hide the disgust plain on her face.

"Mercy," she gasped, "how long has it been since this section of the castle has been used?"

"It wasn't like they were expecting visitors," the Crone pointed out.

On the outside, there were no guards to be seen, and Elizabeta found that incredibly puzzling. Though it had been some time since she had last visited the ancient castle, she was knowledgeable enough with the history that the previous king had been a paranoid tyrant who had more than an adequate amount of soldiers at his disposal. And he aimed to make the fact known to the entire kingdom and the world, as they were perched in various corners in his household.

Nonetheless, having not to battle guards offered some relief, and Elizabeta hurried down the hall without any disturbance. Bleak memories of the palace served her well as she rushed down, reaching a door that was unlocked, and she gazed down at the Crone, who had followed on without missing a step, a look that requested an explanation.

"He did not order for the guards to keep you in, as he did not order for them to lock the doors," she replied with a grin on her face, "I wonder why."

"An idiot man will do idiot things," she bit her tongue, "but I never took him as one. He is making up devilish tricks, no doubt. What's behind the door?"

But the Crone did not answer. Instead, she looked at Elizabeta with a glistening, steel gray stare, and infuriated the girl to the point where she wanted slap the woman. She withheld her rage, and speculated on what could be beyond the wooden door, "A trap, or something else." Cautiously, she tapped her knuckle on the door and wasn't surprised to see that it didn't move a budge; apparently, it was constructed out of stronger wood and hands than the door that was meant to keep her confined in the bedroom. She latched onto the handle and pulled on it, momentarily releasing the Crone to do so, and it wouldn't move. Not a single scratch, not a sound of the rusted hinges, and she glared at the blasted thing, hated it with all her might, and swore.

"No need for such language, Child," the Crone laughed at her frustration, "he isn't a fool, you know. He knows of your strength."

"And it's my strength that he should fear!" Using her shoulder, she rammed into the door, but her weakened state prevented her from opening it. In a fury, she slammed her fists onto it, stringing out an extensive list of declarations and swears that cursed the land she was now imprisoned in.

And all the while, Elizabeta's fuming gave the Crone a hearty laugh, and she reached into her pocket, fingering an aged black key. The head of the key, not the key part itself, was in the shape of a marigold flower. She whistled high enough to gather Elizabeta's attention, and when the younger girl ceased in her sad attempts to open the door, she turned to the Crone. Immediately, seeing the key in the dim sunlight that the Crone held, Elizabeta narrowed her eyes down into cat-like slits that gleamed dangerously bright in the darkness.

"You are a wretched creature," she said through gritted teeth, but she moved to the side to allow the Crone to walk to the door, silently and patiently, "a wretched creature indeed."

In the key went into the keyhole, ungraciously thrust into it, and the Crone winked at Elizabeta, who averted her gaze with uneasiness. The door was unlocked, and she heard the shuttering click as the key was turned. Then, the Crone pressed her hand calmly on the door, using little force to move it in and out, and no more than half a second since she began, the door opened wide to reveal nothing that was extraordinary.

"Where is everyone," Elizabeta asked when they stepped into the empty dining hall, "I would think they would be about celebrating their victory."

The dining hall was of an adequate size, no larger than an average one in an average castle, and the tapestries hung about detailed the lives of the previous kings. As she treaded carefully, Elizabeta noted that many of them were mainly about the man's father, not his ancestors, and she scoffed at his indulgence. No wonder, she piped, That he died so young. His pig headedness ruined him. Despite her opinions, the tapestries were beautifully crafted, and she walked, she kept her gaze on them while checking on the Crone who followed at a brisk pace.

The dining table was at a great length, and the cloth that decorated it came from the official colors of the nation. A reddish brown with gold mixed into it, it was a zigzagged design that crossed between the colors and Edelweiss flowers, stitched with care into the fabric. Stone statues of lynxes were placed in the four corners of the hall. Wooden chairs were beautifully carved, and Elizabeta paused at one to examine the obvious work put into them; smooth to the touch, it caused shivers to dance excitedly down her spine.

"Lovely work," she sighed, "Father would appreciate this."

"Oh yes, he would, he was always a man of art rather than logic and war," hummed the Crone, "but as much as you would like to reminisce, I thought we were in the middle of an escape."

Calling back to her reasons, Elizabeta stared blankly at the Crone, frowning, "Yes," she murmured, "we are on a mission, aren't we? Well, we must hurry to find their conference room. Do you know where it is?"

"Yes, I do, but may I ask what you intend to do when you get, if you get there? Undoubtedly, there will be guards at the conference room, considering that the other nations have arrived to discuss your capture."

This, Elizabeta didn't know, as she didn't know many things about what had transpired during her sleep, but the information caused a tremor to pass through her body. And at the doorframe she paused, taking a long look at the Crone who stood next to her with a bored expression on her face. Knowing that the younger woman was looking at her so, the Crone glanced up and nodded as if in agreement with an unsaid question.

"Then, my allies are here," hope began to muster inside, "here to negotiate my freedom." And yet, the possibility discerned her. It most likely meant that her allies were putting themselves in considerable danger when concerning her safety and guilt struck her heart as she clutched the cross that laid upon her chest.

"Oh, it is probable, my dear," the Crone said in a flat tone, "but I don't know much about it. I was ushered out by him before I got a chance to even see who was there. I do know that there was a small group of men outside the conference hall doors when he told me to leave."

"Did he tell you to come to me?" She questioned gently but not without a certain amount of firmness in her voice. She was too tired to be angry at the Crone, but she was more than unsettled with her presence.

"No," she said solemnly, "I was given no such command, and if he had done so, it would've deterred me. I believe that's why he didn't."

In turn, she said nothing, and decided that it was best to keep quiet. They had yet to reach the conference room, and she was positive that the guards had returned to her room to inspect it. Grabbing ahold of the Crone's wrist again, she rushed out of the dining hall and scurried behind the numerous sets of armor that were placed in showcase glasses on both sides of the empty hall. Though it was a great relief to not have guards posted in every position, Elizabeta found it suspicious and didn't trust the probability that the men were simply taking a leave of absence. No, in her mind she knew that it was a plan set up by their leader, to offer some warped sense of freedom and safety in her mind. But he must be a fool to think that she would actually for it.

It had taken them some time, but they eventually made it to the staircase that would lead them upwards to the conference room. The Crone had been helpful in the details, and Elizabeta had remembered much from her previous visit, which had occurred years ago when she was just a small child. The staircase was a hidden one, going hidden by the average eye, and it was placed to the right side of the man's long deceased mother, a woman she had never met but heard much about. Quickly glancing at the painted portrait, Elizabeta was able to surmise that the son had inherited his looks from his fair mother, but even she didn't possess the light-heartedness that was known to her son.

Yet, she was a beautiful woman with crimson-brown eyes there were narrowed down into a dull but lovely structure that was the portrait. Her blondish-brunette hair was tied up in a high bun, and the crown that was placed into the consort's inventory when the marriage was claimed as official glittered on the top. Her face was angular, pointed low, and her cheekbones were held high, making her appear older than she was when the portrait was created. She could not have been over thirty, Elizabeta thought as she pressed down on the slightly weakened wall where the staircase was hidden, But I suppose that was what running a country may do to you. Even she was not exempt from the malady, as she was but twenty-one years of age, and yet, it was stated throughout the land that she appeared much older whenever she dressed in formal occasion or battle. Not that it bothered her, but it was a concern that kept her troubled in the quiet moments.

The wall closed behind them with a final shove, "I suppose no one has cleaned this place either." Shielding her nose from the dust and ignoring the scraping feel of the unkempt floor beneath her naked feet, Elizabeta followed the Crone upstairs with little chatter.

During their ascending walk, Elizabeta thought back to the times when war was but a figment of her overactive imagination. The Romanian and Hungarian kingdoms were at peace, and the Kings were more than pleased with the negotiations of a treaty that would keep their kingdoms in melodious harmony for generations to come. And though it was impossible that the two would be joined by marriage, as Elizabeta was the oldest girl and her sisters were already betrothed, the treaty would verify their alliance. How long ago those times were, but it wasn't that long, she reasoned with the timeline, and she saw that it was not yet ten years. War made time seem longer than it actually was, and she wasn't surprised that the years were lesser than what she expected.

The staircase was beginning to come to an end, and the two women saw that it led to a rickety appearing door, unlike the door that had kept Elizabeta sealed in the bedroom. It was still compliant to the hinges, and it stood together in an informal manner. But nevertheless, Elizabeta could tell that the door had aged uncomfortably, and that it would easily collapse into itself if she didn't move accordingly. On the last step, digging her toes into the dirt and dust of the floor, she cautiously moved in front the door. And as she stood, she inhaled the musky scent of age; the Crone stood behind her, her lips smacking quietly. She must be suspecting the worse, Elizabeta thought wryly, Anticipating my failure. But this would not be the battlefield. There was determination and refusal in her body, and the two feelings said to her not to fail the people, the people who needed her most, again.

Through a creak in the door, she was able to see a shining light, and she predicted that the windows were more open in the second level of the castle. The floors were marble but were painted a colors that was caught between an opaque brown and blank, and she also saw that the portraits of the past leaders were framed to the right of where she stood behind the door. In the right light, the corridor had maintained the gloomy atmosphere as the bottom levels held. The walls were painted a firm brown color that danced on the velveteen shade, and though there were numerous carpets that had exquisite designs, each detailing the national lynx, it kept up the foreboding aroma of the residents. The doorknob was wiggly, and when she fastened her hand to it, she had to make sure that it was gentle for it clanged and screamed alert in the empty corridors.

Sucking in a trembling breath, she put little pressure to the door, and a fluttering relief flooded her that the door did not collapse with the added weight. The door slide to a muffled screech, and she was able to maneuver her head an inch or so into the light. Sunlight was more open, or more freely moved around, in comparison to the lower level, but it did not harm her eyesight as she had grown accustomed to it in the minutes that had passed. The air smelled sweet of wildflowers, and it was a pleasant aroma that attempt to divert her attention. But she held fast to the scowl on her lips, and her hands tightened around the frail doorknob and the edge of the door. Looking back to the Crone, the older woman stood patiently with a sly grin on her lips, concealing the decaying and missing teeth.

"You are pleased," she stated cordially, "much too pleased."

"Oh, I am just very happy that my two poppets will become reacquainted," she said merrily and with a whistle.

"Sorry to displease you, ma'am," Elizabeta replied as she opened the door wider and began to stealthily move about, "but your two poppets will never be as they were."

"Yes, yes," the Crone immediately followed her at a slower pace, "but that does not mean, as you know much, that there will be simply nothing from this reunion."

Elizabeta believed that she should have stopped there, and there was good reason to do so. In the Crone's voice, she heard a shadowing tongue that meant more than it appeared, and her heart tightened, constricted to a point where she laid her hand above it in worry. At the time, she was too involved on the present to concern about the future of her own general welfare, and she had taken the Crone's visible warning in little forethought. As a child, the old Crone had done much in the similar manner, and she had laugh, being the impressionable child she was, as if it meant nothing.

But it all means something, Elizabeta! A voice in her head reprimanded, And you know the witch means something too.

Not today, she countered eagerly, There's too much weighing on the balance. And so, she continued forward at a calm pace until she reached the end of the corridor. Seeing for the first time that it was actually guarded, Elizabeta went to grab ahold of the Crone's sleeve, assuming that the worse would befall them if the two guards happened to see them. The second she stretched her hand out to the old woman, a vein festered, liver spotted hand slapped it down eagerly. Stung but not harmed, she retracted her hand and moved out of the eyesight of the guards, moving close to the armor with an expression that was a mix of confusion, anger, and terror at being found out.

"I've played long enough," the Crone drawled out, "and I'm tired of playing. They were given specific orders not to harm you, and they are good men to follow them." She motioned to the guards who continued to stand like lifeless statues, and she pointed her slim finger to Elizabeta, who flushed red with annoyance.

"You've known this the whole time!" It wasn't so much a shock as it was a cruel trick played by a cruel person, "You could have told me earlier. I wouldn't have gone through all of this!"

"And ruin the fun," crackled the Crone, "I think not!"

Quickly, it occurred to her that slapping the old woman would be acceptable and most gratifying, but her conscience overwhelmed her unseemly thoughts. In due time, or she liked to think, the old woman would receive proper justice. And holding onto that, Elizabeta moved from the armor collection and walked regally down the corridor to the positioned guards. Head held high, in her stance she dared them to cross her, and though their weapons gleamed in the sunlight and were ready to strike, they did not move against her. No, almost, if she had seen it, she would have recognized that there was some cowering in their heavy armor, and she would have laughed at their intimidation.

"Open the doors," she said icily to them, "I wish to see your king."

"Ma'am," the guard to the right explained in an even tone, "we were given specific orders to not allow anyone unless called upon. You, ma'am, have not been called upon."

"And you were also ordered not to lay a finger on me," her eyes glinted dangerously, "is that so?"

The guard looked to his partner, confused, and returned his attention to the woman below, "Yes, yes it is, but I do not see what this order has to do what you mean to do."

Crossing her arms in front her chest, she lowered her head while a wicked smirk draped on her lips, and a light, humorless chuckle exited her mouth, "Unless I am permitted to go in, you will have to learn to disobey your master's orders."

A risk must be taken, words she had said to her men on numerous occasions on the field, and she glared the phrase deep into their skulls. And now, as she stood in front of the two men, standing strong up to them, she restated the words in her mind. Jaw set, she reminded the two men that she was the young warrior who had drove several thousands of their men back and had ambushed them using the aid of her country's primitive allies. It was she, they had to remember, who had nearly charged into their capital city, prepared to set it aflame, but she created it as a fair warning. A fair warning to the man, who wanted her country enslaved, and she had charged away, as quickly as she had came. A force to be reckoned with, she was, and she expected them to know it.

"I promise you that you will be punished by your master or anyone else if you disobey this one command," she said smoothly, "but I can only imagine his disappointment if he knew that you had attempted to harm me in any way during our potential squabble."

Noticing their uneasiness, she smiled on the inside while keeping the smirk intact on the outside, "Are you willing to take that risk, gentlemen?"

The two guards shared an uncomfortable and questioning gaze, and the one to the left, narrower but taller than his partner, heaved a great sigh, "I suppose," his voice was a deep, gut-like one, "we can allow this, but you must not direct his anger onto us if he is displeased with our decision."

"I give you my word," and she looked to the Crone, who had quieted down and stared at the conversation with gleaming, expectant eyes. It had not occurred to Elizabeta that in the right light, the Crone's eyes were the faintest of green, and that the sunlight somehow managed to make her appear less condemning than she actually was. Though her hair was tied up in a high bun that was hidden beneath a holy nun's cap, the slimmest of silver strands were visible around the crown of her head. Elizabeta noted that the Crone must have been a handsome woman in her youth, whenever the time had taken place, and some traces of that youth remained present around the corner of mouth and eyes, so vivid and true.

And yet there was a tinge of mischievousness endeavor in those eyes, and Elizabeta took an unconscious step from the Crone.

"I assume you will take delight in what you are about to see," she said stoically, "and I hope you do not. But I can't help that, can I?"

"Everything will fall into place meu de copil," and she gestured to the closed door, waiting for them to open, "all in due time."

Pretending that she did not hear the Crone's words, Elizabeta nodded to the two guards, and they hurried about to do the business they promised to the door. The doors were not extravagant, and in her opinion, they were quite modest. They were larger than an average set of closed, but still designed in a manner that proclaimed their royal prestige. No matter to them, Elizabeta thought as the winds the doors caused struck her in the face, It is time to set right the many wrongs. The doors opened with a loud creak, but the creak was silenced by the drumming noise that came from the nations' royalty and ambassadors inside the conference room.

---

"Verdammt, junjehexe!" Chaos was a good word to describe the setting she had placed herself into, and she was pleased to know that her presence had gone invisible due to the ruckus on the inside. Leaning on the wall, she looked around at the round table where all the leaders and ambassadors sat, and she was amazed but not too surprised to see that no order was gained with the meeting. Men and women blew up at each other, throwing slanders and curses in their native tongues at one another, and the noise was so loud that she felt her ears beginning to ring. But she kept her silence, as this was the time to observe who was on her side and who wasn't.

Gilbert Beilschmidt was the one who she recognized first. His voice was the loudest in the room, "Verdammit, junehexe," and rocked on the walls itself. He was dressed in his militant uniform, and though he shouted loud and slammed his clenched fists on the table, she saw from his expression that he too was growing weary from the war. Bags hung low beneath his eyes, and there was a prominent scar on his right cheek that wasn't there the last time she had seen him. Though he was known to have unusually pale skin, something she was able to attest to, his skin was much paler and sickly had ever seen it. It was not the healthy skin she had known, not the healthy man she had known, and she wondered whether she appeared to be the same.

"You must ask him about this, once you can catch his attention and ask him in private," he was a long-time friend of hers, and despite his obnoxious behavior, he was more than reliable when it came to times such as these, "And you will not allow him to deter you."

She also noticed that he was without his little brother, Ludwig, but from letters weeks ago, she had read that they young boy was fitfully ill. This, she would bring up in conversation when the time provided.

Arthur of England was present, and so was his betrothed, Marianne of France. But she sat close to her cousin, Francis of France, and though their faces were sullen, moreso on Arthur's, Elizabeta imagined that the two cousins were forming up a manipulative plan to swing the war in their favor. There was no evil blood between her kingdom and theirs, but she always knew that she could not trust them to stretch so far without thinking of their kingdom's interest. "But I can respect it. I would've done the same thing."

Too many countries present in the room, and too much noise to think clearly, Elizabeta could not identify each and everyone. But she was keen to recognize the Netherlands prince and his sister who had recently married into the Belgium monarchy, and she stayed put in her bleak corner, watching in earnest at the disgruntled shape that had taken over on all of them. As she stood, watching with a lightly amused smile, she turned her head forward, to the front of the room, where a young man sat in a regal chair that was similar to the throne that he held in his memories. Decorated in gold and garnet coloring, he sat with is piercing reddish brown eyes, so close to a dull shade of crimson, staring her with an entertained grin on his lips.

His skin was a peach-ish pale. Blood normally filled his cheeks and arise a red flush that could not be hidden. He too was dressed in his formal ware, though his clothing was less militant as the others. Like his home, it was colored in garnet or blood red dyes, and there was some gold buttons to his garnet coat. A white-fluffed collar was shown sticking out from the coat, and on his head rested a coal-black hat, not is imperial crown, that seemed to settle him more than his crown. As in the portraits painted of him since he was a small boy he sat with grace and elegance not unknown to his lineage, and he looked at her, in the direction where stood, with a light of knowing all that had occurred. Naked, Elizabeta felt in her dingy nightgown, strung out and dirtied from her adventure, but she did not huddle in the corner. It would be a submissive move to do so, and so, she moved around, hovering like a specter, until she made her place to the window on the far right of the room, adjacent to the chair where he sat.

As she had done this, he began to trail her with his eyes, but she had gotten lost in the throng of disagreeing nations for him to keep up. He knew where she meant to go, and he waited in his chair until she arrived to the point where he expected her to be.

There she stood, to the front of the disorganized room and the right of his replica throne, with a scowl her face and defiance on her lips. Dressed in a mere nightgown that had more than a few tears and stains on it, she raised her head high, and her lips moved as she told them to, "Gavril."

"Elizabeta," was his slithering reply, and he gestured to the booming voices of the leaders, "See what you have done? I cannot even conduct the kindest and polite of meetings because you."

Before she could stop him or retort at his comment, he rose to his full length and stuck his hands in the air. The loudness had not dimmed, and he gone unnoticed. Yet, that did not deter him as he opened his mouth, and when he began to talk, she was no less amazed that his serpent tongue, as cool and relaxing as buttermilk, seemed to pacify the moods though the moods were against him.

"My friends! My friends! Please, do not ail yourselves with well-directed concern over your fallen comrade, as I have her here, as I promised! Do not tell me that I am not a man of my word."

Hearing those words, the voices began to hush, and all eyes turned to the man who had caused them such woe and confusion. Then, realizing what his words said, they turned to Elizabeta, who stood out as an outcast when physical demeanor was considered. Gavril was much like priest as his words were able to subdue and put to rest the trouble that had risen, as the priest did to the agitated sinners during a holy sermon, and a smile crept onto his face, most pleased at how the conference was turning in his favor.

"Crowned Princess of Hungary, Elizabeta Hedervary," he had descended to the floor and dropped his floor into a deep bow, "now, please, let us be a reasonable flock, as we are the future leaders and advisors to our respective nations, are we not?"

"You are alive," came out a croaked response, "Mein Gott, you are alive!"

Sudden as it was, Elizabeta felt her face squished into Gilbert's clothed chest, and all the air in her lungs was smothered out. "Mein Gott! Wirdachten, du wärst tot!"

To her vexation, his hold on her was too strong to deny, and though it pained her to be captured in it, she could not stop the muffled smile from appearing on her smothered face. As she punched and pinched him, he ignored the sudden pains that assaulted his body, and he only eased on his embrace when he saw that it had lasted much longer than he intended.

"Verjemeg! Mitakarnakölni?" He flinched at her sharp punch, "But I am happy to see you, Gilbert, and all of you too." It was then that the other ambassadors and royal persons crowded around her, and she flustered at the various people talking at once.

"Please, please, my friends," she laughed and hushed them with patient words, "I'm fine. Gavril has kept whatever promise he has made."

"Mon Dieu," bursting through the crowded numbers dressed in high fashioned clothing, the latest in France, was Marianne Bonnefoy. With her hands on her hips, she scowled at the slightly younger woman and narrowed her eyes down into feline slits, "I cannot believe this. I simply cannot."

Caught off guard by the woman's sudden seriousness, she was known throughout for her somewhat frivolous behavior, Elizabeta did not stop the woman from tipping her fingers underneath her chin, examining her face. From right to left, up and down, she scrutinized her heart-shaped head, and she moved back to inspect the nightgown she had worn for the majority of her adventure. Elizabeta was not disturbed by this action, but she was most confused as the longer Marianne stared, the more repulsed she became.

"And you have nothing to justify this, do you?" Tiredly, she shook her head, "You look like a rag doll! A sickly and torn up, worn down rag doll!" Throwing her hands up in the air, her betrothed slapped his hand to his forehead while her cousin laughed at her antics, almost agreeing with her. He would not say that aloud as the situation was complicated, and he needed some laughter in his life before he returned to their respective kingdoms where his own father was in weakening health. Though, the knowledge was kept private, and his journey to the land was one forced upon him by his father.

"Oh," Elizabeta raised the skirts lightly to her knees, "I suppose it did get a little dirty, but that's only because I was trying to find where Gavril and his minions were. I didn't know he was holding a conference until the last second!"

Marianne clicked her tongue and retreated to the other side while keeping her cousin and betrothed close at her heels, but that did not stop the two from briefly conversing with her. And she earned their sympathies towards her most unfortunate situation.

"Now, now, I think we have had enough of this reunion," Gavril called out after minutes had passed, "this conference is now over, and I think it kind that you all take your leave." Eyeing Gilbert stepping closer to Elizabeta, "Except the Heir Presumptive of the Hungarian throne, of course. She must stay until our diplomatic issues have been resolved."

Most of the ambassadors and leaders had exited the room, guided out by a great number of guards, but Gilbert and Elizabeta were the remaining ones. The room was now silent, and she could inhale a good taste of air that was not infested with dust and confusion. For the first time in a long time, she was allowed to think without a cruel finger pressing against her skull. She may not have liked Gavril, down right hated him to be honest, but he was no worse than the Crone. And the Crone had delivered a non-physical blow that forced Elizabeta to take a seat in a nearby chair.

"Is Roderich well," she said as she pressed her hands down on the round table, "is he safe?"

"The little girl man boy is still in Austria. His Grand Duchess refuses to get involved with this war, although we have been allies for generations!" She did not need to be told of how Gilbert felt towards the Duchess' indignant reply at his request of his help, and Elizabeta shook her head, opening her mouth to deliver a stern reply.

"Trade between our countries have been beneficial," Gavril pointed out sweetly, "and I understand why she would not want to jeopardize our present and future settlements."

The two shared glares at the young king, too realistic to say anything in protest. It was known that trade for the Austrian country was vital for their survival, as it was for any nation, and though it pained her in her heart to know that Roderich would not be accompanying them to war, she knew it was for the best.

I don't want him getting killed, she thought assuredly, This way, he will be protected. Looking at the man with more clarity, she saw that he had grown out of his baby fat stage. At the time, when they had last met, she had teasingly noted that around his cheeks and neck was a firm set of fat that had yet to burn off. Even as a young man, as it was written in letters from her ambassadors who attended the barren land for ill-fated treaties, it was known that he had not fully grown into his true handsomeness. He had none of his father's stringy black hair and angular, pointed facial figures. He was not like Gilbert and his young brother Ludwig, made up of muscle and tall height, but he was a stark contrast to Roderich. And yet, he was familiar to the man too.

"You must come with me, Liz," suddenly, Gilbert clasped his hands around her right one, not so much that he pulled her out of the chair where she sat, "it's not safe here. He'll kill you and your country."

Gavril stood with a merry smile on his face, not in the least nerved by the proclamations the older man ungraciously threw at him, but he was a patient man. What needed to be said would be said in front him; regardless where the words came from.

"Gil," surprised at the ferocity held in them, it made her heart clutch into itself, "please, be at peace. I cannot afford you to lose your mind over my welfare."

Earlier that morning, when she had awoken in the chambers, there were questions and answers. Some of those questions had been answered, and yet, there were many more questions that riddled in her head. "The land," she said absent-mindedly, staring at the window that allowed the sunlight to swim through, "it was so rancid. The air was ash, and the sky was blood stained. The birds were not of harmony, but of scavengers, awaiting their next meal."

The memories were fresh in her head, and she nearly reeled back in revulsion. The stench! It was a horrid smell, and she wanted to turn from it all, but could not. If she had done so, she realized silently, it would be disgracing the men who had fought and died in her name. Slowly, she turned to Gavril, who moved to a nearby chair that was not his throne replica, and though her eyes did not narrow in suspicion, they trembled in anticipation.

"Elizabeta," Gilbert said tenderly, "Elizabeta, tell me what you want me to do." No way to have known, she felt stupid that she hadn't realized it sooner. Hearing his voice, trembling and troubled, Gilbert wasn't concerned to the new growth out on the dirt, the skies cleared out, and the air cleaned to its proper place. No, he didn't know, and she suspected that no one else knew. And when she gazed into Gavril's ruddy brown eyes, it all but confirmed it.

Closing her heads and resting her free hand on top of his closed ones, she breathed in deeply, "I want you to do what you have been doing all this time, Gilbert. I want you to defend this cause, and bring more supporters to it. You may not be aware of it now, my friend, but your enthusiasm and courage is greatly admired. And we need it more than anything, more than you believe."

"Elizabeta-," he paused, unsure of how to go on, and she saw that his face had contorted to its thoughtful expression.

Minutes passed between them, and she wasn't sure whether he would speak his response until the doors were opened. The two turned towards a young man dressed in the Prussian militant uniform, lacking the decorations that crowded on Gilbert's, and he stepped into the room with a deep, formal bow. Visibly younger than his commander, the man came in with a youthful face and stern eyes. Moving immediately to the person who meant to speak with, the man spoke in a crisp tone, "Apologies, sir, but you are needed elsewhere. We must report the developments to your father and mother as soon as possible."

Stricken by the man's speech, Gilbert frowned, but he was aware that he couldn't ignore the times. Unclasping his hands from hers, he grasped onto the golden crucifix that she wore around her neck, but his eyesight remained locked on hers. He sighed heavily and caressed her right cheek, and though the action caused her body to involuntarily convulse, she said nothing in protest.

"You need added protection from evil," easily, he removed the black and silver crucifix, a sign of his nation, from his neck, and he placed it into her hand, closing it tightly, "and I hope this will suffice for the time being."

The black cross was cold in her hand, and yet, it burned at the same time. The inanimate object knew that it did not belong in her palm, and in its own manner, fought back, "Gil, you shouldn't have given this to me. I don't think I've ever seen you without it."

"Yeah, it'll be a first, but I'm too amazing to go down without it. No worries, Liz," he cracked a reassuring grin, "besides, you need it more than I do."

She wanted to protest and hand the cross back to him, but his face told her that it could not be done. And inside, she felt her heart begin to crack. He was such a strong man, a stupid man at times, but a strong man nonetheless. She was surprised to feel the piercing emotion that struck her heart, and she fought back angry and sorrowful tears that blinked on the rims of her eyes. The second she began to fully understand what it meant to be royalty, true royalty, she had promised that she would defend and ensure the well-being of her country, kingdom, and the people residing in it, but she had not thought about the allies and friends that she would make along the way. Her mouth opened to protest, some words did stumble out, but she was unable to string them together in coherent sentences.

Gilbert was able to see through it, and he smiled the same smile he used whenever the younger woman grew fretful over petty thing. But this time it was not the case of the missing gown that her governess had seamed for her, or the missing dagger from her father's wardrobe, it was much grander and more dangerous than the silly childhood mishaps.

"You will return it to me," he bent low to her forehead, and his lips hovered on her perspiring forehead, "when we are victorious."

And the kiss that was planted on her forehead was filled with a passion that Elizabeta could not understand at the time. An awareness ran through her veins, and she curled her toes inwards in pain. The kiss caused no torment, but the feelings behind it, the knowledge that came with it.

"Be safe, my friend," she whispered as he turned his back to them, throwing one last glare at Gavril as he made his way to the door, "and please, don't die."

---

His distinctive laugh rang inside the room, bouncing on the walls, "You underestimate me, Elizabeta! I am the awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt, future king of the great Prussia!" The doors closed on his still grinning face, and the light in Elizabeta's heart dwindled down into a flickering ember of hope.

"He was always a cantankerous man, wasn't he?" Gavril tilted his head to the side at the closed door, "But that's what made him so interesting and fun."

"And you've always been a manipulative squid," she breathed hotly, "and that explains why you and your people have wormed their way through into the top nation list!"

On instinct, offense should have been taken, but Gavril continued to smile the easy go smile that he was notoriously known for. He drummed his fingers on the table, not caring that it made her eyes twitch, and he licked his lips absent-mindedly, concentrating lightly on his chosen words.

"Ah, ah, you mean to hurt me, don't you?" He laughed gently, "But what nation, what country, does not use underhanded tricks to ensure their country's survival? Oh Elizabeta, my sweet girl, I thought you smarter than that."

"I do not appreciate your implications, Gavril,' she replied coldly while grasping the cross tighter in her hand.

"Please, don't mistake my words, dearest," he rested his head on his propped wrist, "you are as naïve as you appear to be."

Anger boiled inside at the remark, and more than ever she wanted her bleeding face to make contact with his proud and mischievous face, "If you are not too unkind, may you explain this newfound naivety to me."

Gavril sat back in his chair and propped his hand onto the table. He stared at Elizabeta strangely, in a way that she could not understand or wanted to, and she found that she was flinching at his unnerving stare.

A moment's passed, and he nodded in agreement with a person who was invisible to Elizabeta, "Yes! I will explain this to you and other important matters during dinner. That will be the best time to make my offer." Again, it appeared that he talked more to himself than Elizabeta, and this worried her, as she aimed to know all that could be known from the eccentric man.

"Yes! Yes, you will be most pleased with the outcome!" He stood from his chair and walked to her, making sure to keep an amicable distance, "In this way, both our kingdoms will be saved."

"How did it happen?" Seeing that he barely regarded her presence, she spoke immediately after sensing a foreboding presence in the room, and when he paused in his miniature speech, to look at her quizzically.

"What?"

"The day of battle it was doom. The air, the dirt, the grass, the bodies, it was death, and now, that I wake, all is better."

Like stone he became, but the eccentric enthusiasm had yet to drain from his face. He leaned back on the table and crossed one leg over the other, and he looked down at her, not in reproach but fascination, "So you say."

"Yes, I say Gavril," she stood hotly, "I saw a red mist. I didn't think much of it, not initially, but then my men began to fall. Thought it was the plague, but I knew better."

He smirked. "Of course you knew better," she wished that she could understand why he seemed at ease with her accusations, "you've always known better, Bettie."

---

"You're an awful girl, Bettie," the tip of his nail tapped her on the forehead, "if you were only like more girls, more boys would be interested in marriage propositions."

"Oh shut it Gavril!" Punching him heartily on the shoulder, she knocked him from the bench he sat on, "If any boy chooses not to marry me because they're afraid, th-then, they're not man enough for me!"

His laughter during this time was the morning church bells, and it rang down the empty corridors, "I don't mean to be a prude, Bettie, but I doubt any man is man enough for you. You could be your own man-woman if you wanted." And while he struggled to regain his posture on the bench, he decided to move towards the crystalline fountain in the middle of the yard.

"Mark my words, Gavril," she laughed and chased after him in the afternoon sunlight, "for you will be eating them once I'm crowned Queen!"

---

"Give me your word you will keep your promise," she said strongly, and the look she handed to him was one that spoke no discrimination towards her, "you have kept this up for a good time now, which is remarkable for your race, but I have no choice but to extend my friendliness in this temporary alliance."

"Alliances are bonds forged in paper and made concrete through actions, my daughter," Hun said to his daughter years gone in the throne room when court was not in session, "we must abide by this alliance, a new friendship, and ensure that our friendship lasts through hard work and endurance."

"But Dad," a nine year old Elizabeta sat on her father's lap and pulled lovingly at his coarse beard, "alliances don't last, they're hardly reliable when it comes to foreign relations. New kings and queens, different policies."

"Incredibly smart," the burly man laughed richly, and dropping his large hand on her hair, putting it out of place, "we cannot rely on the kings and queens of the future, but we can always hope to the future. We can hope that our bonds do not rust and die as the future shines out."

Not bothered by her now ruined hair, the young child looked up at the father, at the eyes that were a darker shade than her own, and she dug her face into his chest, glad that he was not a man prone to carry his weight in cold and exaggerated clothing. When compared to other kingdoms, he was a common man with common knowledge, and she clung to his clothes, relieved to take in his presence.

"Do not forget, my sweet child," his arms tightened around her doll body, "friendships may last into eternity if we will it."

---

"And now, I am to have dinner with this man." Staring into the mirror, she did not know what to think about what she was going to do. Agreeing to the dinner that was being prepared below, Elizabeta was not gripped with apprehension but curiosity. Quick and to the point, he chose not to dwindle on what he meant to do with their impending conversation, and in his voice, there was all seriousness and no play. For her credit, she remained quiet and devoured each word he spat out, though it was too brisk to catch the full meaning of it.

"You and I will be having an exquisite dinner tonight, alone, and there, I will tell you everything you will need to know," a lingering curve of his lips tickled her stomach for unknown reasons, "also, I'd like to show you something else. Something that will surely pique your interests."

Pique your interests, she wondered what it possibly could be, but her mind came to a blank. Navigated to a new room, as she requested, Elizabeta became as docile as she could be, but in the hours that passed, she continued to be an annoyance to the guards and servants alike. She couldn't stop her thoughts from slipping out, from scowling at her situation, but there was good in her manners. Polite to the servants and at best, civil to the guards, she was no more defiant than she was at the beginning. She traveled the halls and empty rooms to get a better understanding of the castle, and the various rooms that remained vaguely present in her memories unlocked the door to certain scenes that were best kept silent.

For the majority of the time, until sunset arrived, she regained her strength and ate sloppily. He went missing after their conversation, and she had not heard from him since. As the hour grew near and the servants grew unsettled with her dismissal of fashion, Elizabeta's curiosity grew. Many questions swarmed around the man's very existence. He was always treated as an enigmatic entity in the European nations, and this had only grown since the war between their countries began. Well, the point where his father had fallen ill to disease and succumbed to it, and she was aware of the rumors surrounding his death. Poison. Murder. Patricide. Her memories of the man were bleak, but Elizabeta was led to believe, as many others were, that the young leader was greatly fond of his father.

He respected the man. Gavril respected and loved Dracul, the infamous warrior king.

"But could that stop a man from killing," she bit down on her tongue.

"Worried about your date!" Looping the strings of the dress that was forced upon her, the Crone laughed distastefully at the young woman's misfortune, "I'm sure he won't bight, deary."

"Please!" She snapped angrily, "I've had enough of you, but because you're so terribly fond of me, I couldn't refuse your assistance. Plus, you have more knowledge on this situation than you would like anyone to suspect."

The Crone smiled a gummy smile, having dismissed the irritated servants, and she tied the knot tightly behind the girl's back, "May be, but it won't stop him from doing what he wants. I'm only a spectator."

Falling into silence, Elizabeta took the time to inspect the dress she reluctantly decided to wear. Far from royal or formal fashion, it was more to the peasants who roamed about. The main cloth was white, and the stitches and aprons were light red. There were various yellow flowers stitched on the cuffs and apron, and on the laces of the dress too. Something she did not prefer, but it was better than what everyone else wanted her to wear. Those frilly dresses with too many skirts underneath! In good name did they expect her to walk?

This dress would do, and with the leather boots that were hanging about, her appearance was acceptable. A red scarf was wrapped on her head, and it kept her hair bound. But with it was a flower, a pink tipped flower that seemed to keep dripping petals but never losing any. She didn't understand how it worked, but the Crone was the one to give it to her. Suspicious upon seeing it, she muffled her gratitude, but she cautiously sniffed the flower before slipping it on top of her head. A sweet aroma and tender between her fingers, with ease it slipped through the locks and rested there.

"Tonight, I will learn what has happened during my sleep." Dropping her hands on the surface of the vanity, she stared intently in the mirror to concentrate on the possibilities, "And I will learn how I can stop it."

The Crone remained quiet as she continued with the tying and making sure the young woman was prepared.

"He's done something, but I don't know what. Somehow, the air has returned to normalcy, and the bodies have all gone missing. I can only imagine where he has disposed them."

The Crone came to a stop, and from an angle, she looked into the mirror. Like a shadow she was, and Elizabeta swallowed at the sight. It was more unnerving than she thought it would be, but beneath it, the old woman was withholding vital information. She will not tell me, her words were hushed and uniquely understanding, Owes more to this lineage than anyone could guess.

Perhaps, the Crone heard the unspoken words. The Crone did not clench in body, and there were no obvious signs to detect. But very quickly, she did not appear the same. No, from where she stood behind Elizabeta, in the reflection, she saw that the Crone's face began to peel away. Not in flaps of bleeding flesh, but in feathery petals, one after the other as they dropped to the carpet. In one swift second, the Crone became menacing, and Elizabeta bit down on her lip, feeling the sharp pain to remind her that it was all real. And when it failed to destroy the image, she shook her head and cried out in a cool hiss, "You are not real."

"Am I?" The Crone nodded, "I am not real. I am not here, but you can see me."

"What was that?" Placing a hand to her forehead, "No, it was nothing. I'm just tried, anxious. My nerves are getting the better of me."

This must done, it was all that she could do to preserve her country and kingdom, and she dismissed the Crone. This time the old woman didn't tease or dawdle. Looking up at the young princess, her smile was crooked and all concealing, and somewhere, deep inside, Elizabeta felt something crack.

"You can lead me to the dinner room," she said briskly, "and after that, I want you to leave us alone."

"No worries, child," her voice was like silk and incredibly warm in that one moment, "you're both adults, and I wouldn't think to coddle you."

Down the hall she went, towards the dinner room, but she was quick to realize that it was not the same dinner room she visited earlier that morning. The trail was different in ways she could not describe. Hotter and deeper, she supposed, but she believed that it was because the nights were usually warmer. From the few windows she passed, she was able to see the sunset ritual. Gingerly, she caressed the cross Gilbert had given her, and by time she reached a wide door, but not as decorated as the others in the castle, she was pressing it down onto her breasts until it began to sting.

---

The door was oval shaped, not too wide and not too small. The corridor she and two guards stood in was narrow and thin, and she knew it to be invisible to the common eye. Heart racing, she brought up various scenarios of what was to happen, but none of them seemed to be sensible enough. The Crone had vanished during their walk, and she cursed the woman for her awful timing. There was no turning back, that much she understood and accepted, and she breathed deeply, catching her thighs in a vice grip.

"You can go," Gavril's voice was a melody behind the giant door, and the two men gave quick glances at each other. Nonetheless, they obeyed their master without hesitating, and they disappeared behind a different, safer door that was invisible to the common door. Elizabeta didn't understand how she was ale to see it when they approached the walls, but she managed, just like the others.

"Are you going to open the door," came to mind was the Advisor, he was present when she was going out her room, and he glared at her, with such ferocity that she glared back. He was an ugly beast in her eyes, and she was amazed that he kept the old bitty in his company. But as she passed him, going down the path that was laid in front her, she heard the dimmest of whispers. It was meant for ears only, and no other person reacted to them. Even she did not immediately respond to the cruel words, but on the inside, her entire body felt to have caved in from anticipation.

The place was not the place to think about such things, and she fought back the urge to run away, the inner terror that was beginning to grip her. No. Fear was not something she succumbed to readily, and this would be no different from the countless battles she had fought and won. This was but another battle, another battle to end the war, to kill it. He may not have meant to imply the assumption, but she had caught onto it the second he opened up the unknown offer. She hoped that he didn't think she was blind and stupid because she was a woman, but he wasn't like most men. He wouldn't underestimate her, and then, she questioned why she held him up to certain standards.

Because you know him, Elizabeta. You know him better than most people.

"Yes, you can come in. Open the door." Behind the door the sound of moving footsteps reached her ears, and she tugged hard on the curvy doorknob that was cold in her grasp. It didn't budge the first time, and she reasoned that he didn't unlock the door the first time. Maybe, he was as nervous as she was, but she couldn't detect any signs in his voice. Her second attempt was successful, and the door opened with a loud creak. But before she could wince at the sound, an unseen force pushed her into the room, and she released a startled yelp as she aimed to regain her balance and composure.

At last, she looked up to inspect the new world she was thrust in, and she didn't know what to think. The room was much bigger than she anticipated, and it was much cooler than the halls and other rooms in the castle. There was a square table in the middle of the room where two plates of well-cooked pork and greens were on, and two half-filled glasses of red wine were present to the side as well. The room was hardly decorated, except with the national flags and other ornaments she didn't recognize, but the room was homely in more ways than one. It was chillier than she expected, but there was indescribable warmth within the room. She walked to the fireplace and believed that was the cause, but it wasn't so. Hands opened, she warmed the while watching around the room.

The armor in this room was more menacing and stronger appearing than the ones outside. Painted black, coal black, the sharpest black, it lacked the imperial shade, and she wondered what was the reason behind it. The Tapestries, matching Gavril's eyes, were rusted red-brown, and they hung about on the walls ominously. The firelight created great shadows using the armory collection and tapestries that were nailed down, and she looked around in curiosity. Food snatched her attention, and she walked towards the table, pulling out a seat and taking one.

"You said to come" she used a knife and fork to tear into the pork leg, "and I'm here. Now, I'd like to know what I'm waiting for."

Delicious! She hadn't realized how hungry she was until the pork piece ran down her mouth, and she grubbed down on the greens that were thrown kindly on her plate. They were sweet and rough at the same time, and her stomach hummed in relaxation. Before she knew it, the dinner was gone from her plate, and she was finishing off the goblet of wine that was on the table.

"If you mean to get me drunk, the joke is on you," she chuckled breathlessly, "I'm known widely for my alcohol tolerance."

She sipped tentatively, watching around to make sure that she didn't miss anything, but that didn't stop him from appearing in a way that made her jump slightly. Unbeknownst to her, he moved from the shadows, and she didn't see when he swiped some black muck off his shoulder. His footsteps were inaudibly light, and the shadows embraced him in a way that seemed to be right. With caution he approached her, her head lowered slightly due to her consuming the food he laid out of her, and he believed himself to be in safe heights when he reached out a hand to her shoulder, prepared to frighten her with his puzzling attendance. He was some inches from her, a ready smirk on his face, and his hands twitched in anticipation. So familiar, it all felt to be, and maybe, just maybe, his smirk transformed into something more, something yearning of what once was.

"Honestly, I was led to believe that you've outgrown your little mind games," slowly, she turned to him and reproached him with an oddly maternal scowl, "but I was wrong."

Holding a fork, she chewed down a slab of pork, and in her appearance, she seemed as innocent as a reckless child. Her eyes were wide and unassuming, and her cheeks contained some merriment rose to them. But he reeled back as if burned, and he stumbled for words to say. And this reminded him of the long, hot days in the gardens, when they were but children, and he frowned, displeased with his actions.

"Halcyon days." He sighed and messed with his fingers, "Best not to think about those days."

She swallowed and shrugged, "Lately, I've been thinking about those days more often than not, but I suppose it's to be expected when you're set in a familiar childhood place."

Ignoring her last comment, he walked around to his part of the table and sat. He wasn't hungry and didn't know why the maids insisted that he eat. "Sir! Your but skin and bones," the Crone cried out to him months ago when he was just beginning to understand what his predicament expressed, "How can you command and bind anyone with your stature." Sighing, he folded his hands together and pressed his hand down on them, in thought. The time was at hand, and there wasn't much to do about it. He could not protect her any longer from what was to come, but staring at her, holding onto a bizarre sense of hope, he prayed that she would see reason in his offer.

"Our countries were always a tenuous pair," he stated flatly, "but we've managed over the years to make good with what we have."

He watched her eyes narrow in contemplation in her chair, "Yes, that is true, and we have done much good for each other…when you were cooperative."

"Now, you mustn't blame me entirely for this, Elizabeta," he sighed, "it's not that I wanted this war."

"But you are leading it!" Crying out, her face flushed, and she automatically reached to the goblet, "You and your miserable lot are leading it against us, to take away our pride and goods."

"Only because I have to," he pointed out simply, in no mood to argue, "my father wanted to take your lands and your crown, I just want to end it."

"Then end it," she said icily, "call off your forces."

"But if I do, then I would cause damage to my own country and will be required to forfeit numerous lands and sacred grounds," he cocked an eye her that begged contradiction, "or as your so called treaty says."

"Due to Romania beginning this war, prices must be paid if Romania chooses to end it, or unless," her smile was remarkably fascinating in the firelight, "you are defeated and must forfeit your lands anyway."

"And that is why Romania will not lose."

Damn him. The remark would not have stung so hard, so bitterly, if he hadn't said it like that. Smooth and uncaring, plain and to the point, she could not fathom why he was the way he was, and she did not point the war as an option.

"I do not see why we are having this conversation," she replied briskly, "if you are not going to submit to my forces and allies, then what is the point."

Unamused, his frown turned into a chastising smirk, "Romania will not succumb to defeat, and it will not succumb, not because Hungary has, but because we will take a third option."

"A third option?" Unable to contain her emotions, she gaped at him and glared, but the glare was not normal. It did not appease to the emotion that boiled inside her, and she stood, slamming her hands down on the table that caused it to tremble in pain, "What do you mean?" The sentence came out in a guttural growl, and even Gavril was astounded by the animalistic sound that echoed from her mouth. But he remained motionless, pointed, and the astonishment jumped in his stomach did not make it to his face.

"A third option?" Laced with anger and frustration, "You think I wouldn't have taken it if I had known it existed?"

"Did I imply it?" His laughter was gentle, "No, I didn't mean that. I know you would. Of all the people in this world, I know you would, but what are you willing to do to ensure that this would be the final end?"

"Final end?"

"The final war. The war to end all wars, and to mean it." He grew animated and clasped her hands into his, "To mean end all wars, to make sure that this will be the last."

Going numb, the words barely registered in her brain where his enthusiasm stumbled him, but she knew it was right to stop him before he went too far. But she found that she could not, she was too lost to move.

"We can do this, Elizabeta," he said breathlessly, "we can bring peace and prosperity to the world."

Not right. Gulping and looking confused and shaken, the air had grown uncomfortable, "Gavril, what do you mean by this? How can we put an end to all wars? To all salvage things?"

And this, she saw, was the wrong thing to say. His smile grew wider, and he pulled her from the table into a darkened corridor that she had not seen before. But it was not that it was hidden. If it was, then it was unintentional, as it was placed towards the back where the firelight laminated greatly. The tapestries were more balanced in the area, and while a voice in her head cried out in protest, she was too cold to do anything else. The corridor was pitch black, and she let out a fearful hiss. The dark was the opposite of light, it's brother, and she did not like it. Gavril was more than strange in this respect, as she had grown up knowing the man's affinity for it.

Must get out. Need to get out. An escape in more ways than one, she was determined to locate, but his hold on her was unyielding. He was a passive young man, a mellow young man, it was all in his posture, but there was a glowing light in his eyes when he spoke to her. And she was sickened with the truth that she couldn't understand it. But she allowed him to lead her, curious to what he was going to reveal, and as they descended further, she noticed on the walls that bulbs of violet light starting to appear. Like gumdrops on the walls, their sweet light captivated her. Not a dark violet but not an incredibly light one, they were placed in a straight row down the walls, and she realized that they were guiding, not revealing, them to where they needed to be. For a second, she opened her mouth to inquire what all this meant, but she slowly closed it, sensing that their adventure was reaching an abrupt end.

"Together, we will bring paradise." She stumbled when he came to his expected stop, and she braced herself to a grand sight. To her disappointed, or relief, she saw that where he led her was not as fierce as she anticipated.

Pressed back and narrow, the end part wall was no different from any other dead end. The bricks were the same rusted red-brown color, and the smell had not change in the slightest. Gavril stood still next to her, and she searched his face for anything that might betray his motives. The dim lights, though helpful in keeping the darkness at bay, could not readily describe his facial expression, and this caused more than enough concern for Elizabeta, who was still at a lost for what was going on. This did not mean she was completely blind in the dim world, as the violet gumdrops directed their light into a precise area on the wall. It was not so much in the middle as it was underneath the invisible middle line, and she was most glad that she caught sight of it when she did. Jerking her hand from Gavril, who'd gone surprisingly limp, she stepped closer to the accumulation of light.

"What's this?" Underneath her fingertips, the bricks were cold, and she trailed the lights until she came to an uncertain point on the wall. Using a nail, she detailed out the figure, and she visualized that it was a circle, not a square or a rectangular. There was some design in the circle, a star and snakes, but even with her good hands, she couldn't see as clearly as she wanted to. To her delight, she was able to dig her fingers through the creaks and pull it out, and it popped into her hand, without argument.

Walking up to Gavril, "Is this what you wanted to show me? What is it?"

She didn't see that he'd gone uncomfortably silent, and when the circle was popped out, a cruel whispered spoke into his ear. Must be done. And while it had gone silent and unseen, the shiver that ran on each knot of his vertebrae rocked his entire being.

He felt incredibly weak all of a sudden.

"It's our savior." He smiled and looked like a young boy again, "Using this, we can put to rest all animosity and pain. We can create a New World Order."

"Oh." Not comprehending, "New World Order? By what means will it happen? Hm. I've heard about it, after the Apocalypse."

Sighing, "Elizabeta, this will create a New World Order." And on a lighter note, "Of course, a sacrifice must be paid in return."

"In turn?" Violet light streamed on his boyish features, and she saw that he didn't look right. There were heavy lines underneath his eyes, black and bruised, and his cheeks appeared sunken in. Bony. So helpless and vulnerable, and moments ago, he was in pristine health.

He grabbed onto the wall, a heaving breath escaping, and he felt so very weighted, "Elizabeta, I-I've tried to do this on my own, but…I cannot."

"Gavril!" He was always a sick boy, or so she'd been told back at home. Words like that hardly affected her, and now, she was seeing it with her own eyes, clutching to him and putting him to rest on the cold floor. How did he get so light? Where was the muscle? Swarming in her head were possibilities and reasons behind this abrupt change in health, but he looked up at her, quite aware of what was happening to him. Those crimson orbs were all seeing and accepting and resigned to a sad fate to a hopeful and prized man.

"I did this to save my people and to protect them," his voice was uncharacteristically hard, "and I promised my grandfather that I would keep his familial line strong and secured, on my life I promised this."

"What did you do?" Fear tugging at heart, and this what was she wanted. Disturbing as it was, she remembered many nights when she lied in bed in her royal chambers or in a drafty tent that she believed resolutely that his death would mean ultimate victory. And she would be the one to end it, the one to make him submit. Now. Goodness, indescribable what was happening to her at the moment when he clasped into her warm body, his body growing frighteningly cold.

"Gavril," on her knees and shaking him with a high-pitched but demanding voice, "what did you do? Tell me. What did you do?"

He stared up at her, eyes growing glassy and cloudy, "I did what any leader would do for his people."

And it dawned her. Please, God, no. The rumors were around since the Dragomir family ascended the Romanian throne, but she didn't believe it. All superstitious, silly talk, but as she held the medallion, not brick, in her hand, she knew that it was true. The rumors were all true, and she didn't know what to do-think. The man was in her arms, and he was dying, breathing growing shallower and shallower. Panic rose in her heart and bile in her throat, and all she wanted to do was run out and get help. But even in her fright, she knew that was a terrible idea. If no one knew what was going on, they'd immediately point blame on her. Murder. And what good would it do for her then? To be trialed and ultimately condemned to death in a foreign land, her throne defenseless and people hopeless?

"Gavril, tell me what to do." Mustering up bravery regularly used on the battlefield, she rocked him back and forth tenderly patient, a mother to a child, "Tell me what I can do."

"No." He bit out painfully, "I was wrong to do it. I know, but I was desperate. It's helped me so far. To keep my people safe, and when you were charging to the castle…."

"You used it then too. How long?"

He laughed dryly, "Not long enough. Grandfather taught me some things, and Father taught me most. Father was always an impatient man."

"Now, now, look at you. You're dying, and your death will do us no good. So tell me, tell me what must be done."

"You will have to give something up," Gavril strained to put emphasis on his next statement, "something to appease it. I don't want this for you. I was wrong."

"But you'll die if I don't." Her voice trembled, "You'll die Gavril, and I wouldn't know what to do then."

His skin grew pasty and slackened, and his eyes were growing heavy, closing. The medallion somehow landed on his chest, and his strangled cries lowered into whimpering gasps.

"Damn it Gavril!" She shook him violently, "How dare you do this to me? I was the one! And you take this from me."

Savagely, in blind emotion, she turned to the medallion and saw it. A purplish color was surrounding it, and it seemed to sink deeper and deeper into his fragile white blouse. She hated it. She hated him, but she didn't want him dead. Not like this. Not in the prime of his life. Maybe, it was foolish and went against everything she personally believed in, but she didn't want this to be his death. Still holding onto his sagging body, now cold and limp, the medallion pulsed and burned in her hands. This was ignored, and she glared at it, daring it to strike her if it possessed the power.

"Give him back to me," she hissed darkly, "give him back and bring him security."

Silence. The black blood swimming out his mouth drowned out his last, quivering breath. Dead.

"What must I give to get him back?" Must not look down, to prevent from going mad, "What must I do?"

The medallion throbbed and breathed, but it did not move. "Tell me, please!" In her anger and frustration she threw it against the wall and to her astonishment, imprinted a burned mark on the brick. Then, a tingling sensation begged her attention, and her eyes moved slowly to her hand where a scar was beginning to form in the center of her once unblemished palm. The perfect painting of the medallion, she saw that it was a star, and in the star were snakes and thorns. This, she did not recognize and the time did not permit her to dig deep in her memories, but her heart tingled in fright and pain at the sight of it.

In her arms, he breathed no more, and she gazed at him in a crumbling sight. This was what she wanted. His death meant many good things for her country, and at the same time, there were many bad things as well. To her chest she clutched him, digging her face into the crook of his neck, and bitter tears that she did not know she even held began to slip through. Fat drops of water splashed on his neck, stained his crusty bloused, and she hugged him tighter, releasing small sobs that could not be contained.

"I must be able to do something," she whispered, "anything. I can't let it end like this. Kérem, nem ez."

Hidden to her, the medallion glowed ominously, and before she arrived at the chance to observe it, it sunk beneath the bricks and out of sight. The floor grew warm, but not too warm that it caught her attention. And she rocked him back and forth, not stopping and not ceasing in the pattern. She had come to realize that he was the final trace of childhood, and that she did not want to let him go. She should have paid close attention to her surroundings; the violet orbs went out in a hush. The walls grew close and stuffed them in, but she did not feel, did not notice, all these happenings.

Holding him still, waiting to hear the reassuring gulp of breath, she whispered to no one in particular, "Together, we can create Utopia."

And the world turned to darkness.

---

The war ended not with a bang, but a whimper. The two emerged from their hollow grounds evolved but at the same, unchanged. Gavril called off his troops, and Elizabeta did the same. In the castle, there was no question as what to was going on, but the Hungarian forces and Allies were confused and angered with this change. No nation was as bewildered and injured than the Prussian throne. But yet, they didn't understand what this signified for the future, and there was nothing to be done about it. The war was over, and the Heir Presumptive to the Hungarian Throne was sent home.

"Elizabeta!" A last wish preserved to a dying man, Hun looked up to his daughter well and alive. In turn, she stared down at him with an angelic curve of the lips, and relieved tears trailed down her blushed cheeks. Around her neck, resting on her chest, was the black and silver cross that had yet to be returned to its rightful owner.

In spite of the cross, there was something different about his daughter. Hun could not describe it in words, and he could not describe it in gestures. He knew, he saw, that a change had gone through his daughter, and in his bed, he looked at her strangely, not in the same way as he did moments before. He asked her, in a quietly serious tone that no one else could detect, "My dear, what happened during those days in the Dragomir castle?"

"Oh Father," she chuckled humorlessly, "nothing that I could not handle. You've taught me so well."

And the king died that afternoon, mouth torn open in aghast and horror. He was alone and unguarded, but when one servant, one who served the family for years, entered with the king's lunch, he was dead. From a distance, he appeared to be sleeping, but on close inspection, his face was ashen and gray, his eyes foggy and morbid. The funeral was set a week after his death, and the country mourned the man who brought them to glory. Yet, it was whispered throughout the kingdom that the beloved daughter of the king had something to do with his death, as she did not shed any tears for her fallen father, but it was obvious, when she spoke eloquently to the court, that she could never replace or succeed her father in proper.

She was right, but that didn't stop her from trying. The land was prosperous, and the kingdom rejoiced when their newly anointed Queen married Roderick of Austria. The two brought many children into the world, and she died, a good age at fifty-three. And a son ascended the throne.

Romania prospered as well, and though he was greatly mistrusted among the kingdoms, Gavril was famed for his leadership skills. He too eventually married, the young princess of Liechtenstein, and she bore him three sons and one daughter. His daughter was graciously named after the woman who had ended the war, Elizabeta, and she was famed for her ingénue beauty.

Many years passed, and with all things that lived in nature, the glorified Romanian king was reaching the end of his enduring life, similar to his Hungarian counterpart ten years prior. On his throne he sat, in the walls of his true palace, and he looked out to the golden crested windows. And he saw that he'd done much good, no matter the cost. No one in the palace and the country knew that the king was ill, and it was assured that his will was modified some months earlier. Fortunate, that no one suspected that his end was right around the corner.

Death could not be submerged. He was a truth that hid beneath the depths of subconscious, but he was most reliable when he was hour was mandatory. Gavril sat on his throne and gazed about at the courtroom he held dear to his heart; he knew that they were with his gentle and loving wife outside in the courtyard. He meant to join them, told them that he would, as he pressed his dry lips on his wife's lovely ones, gazed into her warm, green eyes. Different as can be, but similar in some aspects! But he knew that could not. The strength to move had evaded him, and he leaned into his throne, smirking, knowing what it signified.

He did not lower his head. He did not clench his hands. He did, however, made sure to muster the strength to sit up upright, to sit strong, and he gazed out to his court, beyond to his kingdom. And as a peculiar wind swept through the closed windows and steady walls, "You wicked woman. You surely must know…that I have mastered the flames."

Gavril's body turned stiff on his throne, died, and slammed down onto the pedestal that elevated his throne above the rest. His crown, which had sat proudly on his head until then, toppled and made a clanging noise that moaned inside the empty room, and the sound was as loud and as mournful as the bells that would toll for him in the later hours.

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A/N: Well, that escalated quickly. I didn't intend for the story to be as long as it is, but I didn't intend for it to be a multi-chaptered one either. I tiptoed around the idea to make it one, and went with the one-shot.

I've seen many interpretations on Romania, and I know one fan-favorite is that he's a vampire. He does look vampire-ish, with his little fang, but I say he's more on the dark wizard side. He could give England and Russia a run for their money if he wanted to, in my head canon. The mix is drama/angst/fantasy/romance. While it might not be full blown romance, I wanted their attraction to be believable and stuff.

Understandable, it's a long one-shot, but please, don't forget to leave a review after reading, if you don't mind. Thank you to those who had taken the time to read, review, favorite, and/or all of the above.