Nineteen years ago, the War ended. After twenty years of fighting such as the world had never seen - excluding, perhaps, the days of the Roman Empire - it was finally, finally over. No one knows why it began, only that it was the worst war Europe had ever experienced.

No one knows what to call it, so it is known as simply 'the War'. There are no other words to describe it, except War, and Hate, and Disgust. But only the word War lived on.

Not much is known about the War, still, even close to two decades after its end. Much is based on speculation: the people had finally snapped; the laws were becoming too harsh; it was because of some strange and new religion; they just did it to do it. One thing is known for sure: it began in Switzerland.

Such a strange place for a war to begin ,isn't it? The country known for neutrality, and isolating itself from the world, was the beginning to the War. It began in much the same way as many other wars had in the past: citizens revolted.

But unlike those other wars, this War was much more violent. Guns had been outlawed so long ago, no one remembered them, along with cannons, bombs, tanks, and other modern military weapons. People resorted to knives, to fires, to ancient swords rusted with forgotten blood. Neighbors burned down each others' homes, friends slit each others' throats, families were torn apart by fear and hatred.

Every river ran red.

Soon, the fighting spread over the rest of Europe, engulfing once-innocent countries in bloodshed. (But is any nation truly innocent, after all?) A few countries were spared, and only got the slightest taste of copper blood in their air and their water. Most of the United Kingdom, especially Ireland. Iceland. Islands like Sicily, Corsica, and Sardinia. But even those innocent places - Iceland, doing nothing but resting across an ocean - had fighting. Primal, animalistic fighting, people resorting to their teeth and nails.

Fortunately, most of the rest of the world wasn't involved, though parts of Asia and Africa had been part of the fighting at some point. The citizens of Europe saw no reason to bring the rest of the innocent world (innocent - such a vague word) into their senseless fighting, which even they recognized to be senseless. Even so, they couldn't bring themselves to stop.

Twenty years of painful brutality later, salvation came in the form of the Bill of End. The Bill, as it came to be called, stated that Europe would become isolated from the rest of the world. No citizens would be allowed in or out, and Europeans vacationing in other countries were immediately brought back to their country of origin. Once that was accomplished, every border was shut down.

Russia, poor Russia, had two options: be destroyed completely, or be separated from their capital. Eventually, they were reduced to territories and towns, much the way it had been before the great Russia became great.

Communication with the rest of the world had been shut down. Phones only contacted phones in Europe, and each conversation was recorded. The Internet had become a thing of the past, replaced with the EuroNet. The post offices would immediately destroy any cross-continental-bound letters or packages.

At first, citizens thought it to be unfair. Then, slowly, they began to accept it. Embraced it, even. After all, why would they want to involve anybody else with their War? Soon, few were left who remembered any of how it used to be, and they were on the islands, too far away to consider communicating and too primitive to bother.

And Europe was again at peace.

These were Antonio's favorite nights. The ones where he and Mathias would build forts out of the hundreds of pillows and sheets in their coastal house, then spend the entire night in them. Only a lantern lit their immense fort, built in a ballroom no longer useful to them. After all, the only company they ever entertained was Emil, and he was a small man. He'd already staked out one of the guest rooms as his own, anyway.

The Spaniard leaned back against the wall, the soft thud muffled by the sheets that hung against the wall. He liked to think their little pillow-and-blanket forts were impenetrable, though he knew that to be impossible.

Mathias grinned when they were in place, the small lantern between them reminiscent of fire. "So?" he prodded, legs crossed like a child.

This was a tradition they'd had for a long, long time, as long as they could remember. Of course, they remembered political things from their history - for Antonio, there was the Inquisition, the discovery of the New World, faceless colonies surrounding him. He didn't know much about Mathias's past, though. The Dane didn't like to talk about it.

But their personal memories were lost so quickly, and they only had them from the last few decades. So, rather than recount stories from their pasts (which were almost as bloody as the War), they told each other of dreams. Faces lost to the mists of sleep, lovers in another life (though they didn't want any lover besides each other), evenings spent by fireplaces.

"Last night," the Spaniard began, "I had a dream about the same boy as before. Remember?"

Mathias nodded in earnest, leaning forward and listening to the story eagerly. He'd heard all about the strange, dark-haired boy that resided in many of Antonio's dreams, and each 'sighting' of him was interesting.

"He was coming up to me, and he was crying," he began, whispering as though it were a dark and terrible secret. It wasn't just for effect, though. No one knew for sure when the EuroNet was listening, or what they considered 'important.' "And I was hurt. I was hurt real bad. And he started to try and fix all my wounds while he was crying, and then when he was done, he nearly passed out."

The blond sitting across from him shook his head in wonder. "You haven't been hurt that bad since the War, and I know that kid's not here." A small grin appeared on his face as he spoke, though.

Antonio nodded in agreement, falling silent for a minute. When he spoke again, it was even quieter, "I feel like it was back when I was a country, around the Inquisition."

Mathias's eyes widened slightly. Antonio rarely talked about being a country, and it was even rarer that he spoke of the Inquisition. "Crazy," he finally whispered, his grin returning quickly. "Wanna hear mine?"

The brunette nodded, moving so that he was laying on his stomach. It was a childish position, but then, he had a childish disposition.

The next several minutes were spent by Mathias recounting a dream where he'd seen Emil and a quiet Asian man (what a miracle it was that he remembered what an Asian looked like) whose name was lost on him. Antonio had heard stories from Emil before, stories of the Before Time, as it had come to be called.

When Mathias was done with his story, they fell into a comfortable silence. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence for the two - it may as well have been part of their ritual.

Finally, they turned off the lantern, shared a quick kiss, and curled into their bed made of pillows. It was the perfect end to the perfect night, to Antonio. Curling up with his lover on a soft bed of their creation, in the warm darkness.

Neither of them expected to be woken in the middle of the night.

"There will be no communication outside the continent of Europe. The Internet will no longer be permitted for citizens' use, and will be replaced with the EuroNet. The EuroNet will be a government funded and maintained substitute." - The Bill of End

"I can't take it anymore!" cried the British man, tossing a plate across the room. It shattered against the wall, pieces falling to the floor in shards.

Silently, Francis moved to pick up the broken china as Arthur curled into a small ball against the cabinets. "I know," he said simply, moving to toss the shards into the trash. He grimaced at the sight of what the can contained; cigarette ash, bloodied rags, broken glass. Once he had rid his scarred hands of the plate, he sat next to his friend, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "He'll be okay," he muttered. "Alfred is strong. He won't do anything too stupid." The man cracked a small smile at his own small joke.

"I don't care if he's strong, I want him back!" Arthur snapped, acidic green eyes burning. "Goddammit, I miss him!"

"I know, I know," the Frenchman soothed, not allowing himself to be affected by the other's anger. It wasn't really anger, he knew, but sadness, and fear, and longing, all because of decades of missing someone. "You'll get to him again, I know it. After all, he's managed to ha - "

"Don't say it," he hissed, slapping a hand over Francis's mouth. His eyes said everything that needed to be said: 'The EuroNet could be listening.'

Francis nodded in understanding, gently moving Arthur's hand away from his mouth. "You think I don't miss Mathieu?" he whispered softly. "I do. Every day of my life, I miss him."

Arthur let out a long sigh, the anger finally fading away. "I know they're okay," he muttered, standing and moving to the window. "Alfred is strong, like you said. He's gone through some bad times, but he's always pulled through. And he's definitely taking care of Matthew, if he can't handle anything himself."

Yes, they'd both lost someone once the Bill of End was signed. Francis had lost a son, and Arthur, a lover. Why, oh why, did they have to be so attached to someone across an ocean? Water had never seemed as vast before the Bill was signed.

The worst part was that they'd each had a hand in it. Every once-nation had signed their name on the Bill of End, each signing with a shaking and scarred hand. Once the last signature had been scrawled onto the paper, they'd lost something. Most nations had simply lost their land and their nation name. Arthur Kirkland was no longer England - he was just Arthur Kirkland.

Francis had signed for his people, who were dying just as quickly as they were killing. Arthur had signed for his land, which was being destroyed slowly by fires that reminded him so harshly of the Fires of London. No matter the reason, they'd signed away their last chance to talk to Alfred and Matthew.

"I wish I could've said good-bye," Arthur muttered, staring out the window. It was raining again. How easy it was to watch rain, so mindless. 'Maybe,' he mused silently, 'if I could just stare at the rain forever, I could live the rest of my life easily. No worries whatsoever.'

Francis was the one to snap him out of his foolish reverie by wrapping his arms around the smaller man gently. "I know," he cooed for the millionth time that night. "We all do. We - "

"We has nothing to do with it!" Arthur growled, shoving the Frenchman away. "We're the only ones with relatives so far away! All the others, they have their families here, and nowhere else!" He took several deep breaths, muttering under his breath, "America…India…Australia…Alfred…"

"How do you think Yeketerina and Natasha feel?" Francis asked quietly, not wanting to anger the other any more than he already had. "Their brother was dissolved, and now Ivan is stuck in Asia, and he's very sick. Or, he was sick twenty years ago. There's no telling what could have happened to him." He let out a long sigh, staring out the window with Arthur. "…Or Lovino. You remember Feliciano's disappearance, oui?"

Arthur nodded silently, closing his eyes. "…I suppose. But with Lovino, he knows that Feliciano is dead. Yeketerina and Natasha have a sort of Schrödinger's cat with Ivan…if they don't see him, he could be alive or dead, and they're probably betting on alive. But I know Alfred and Matthew are alive, I just can't see them!"

"Worrying will do you no good," Francis grumbled quietly. "…Arthur, I can't stay. It's getting late, and I need to be home."

"Home isn't home anymore," Arthur said simply, not turning away from the window. "…Go on, then. Go."

And with that last word, Francis was out the door, already starting towards the plane that would bring him back to the mainland.

"Telephone access will be limited to Europe, and will be transmitted through the EuroNet for government maintenance." - The Bill of End

"Nice night, isn't it?" said Tino absently, standing at the counter near the coffeemaker.

"Mmh," hummed Berwald in agreement from his seat at the small, square dining room table.

"It's fortunate…it's been raining so much, I didn't think we'd ever get a clear night!" The small man laughed lightly as he spoke, bringing two mugs of coffee over to the table. He sat across from his self-proclaimed husband, passing him one of the mugs. "But then, I guess it had to clear up sometime, huh?"

He often found himself speaking much more than Berwald, filling up an otherwise silent home, but he didn't mind. He knew that the tall Swede had trouble with words, and even more so since Loke had gotten so sick. The pessimistic part of Tino's mind doubted whether the boy would ever recover, but he quickly pushed that to the back of his mind.

Up the flight of stairs, they could hear Peter and Loke playing some sort of video game. Tino couldn't help but chuckle slightly. Even in his sickly state, Loke never changed. His smile faded as he remembered why Loke loved video games so much. He'd been the Internet nation, hadn't he? Back before the Internet was replaced with the EuroNet.

"Who d'ya think's winn'ng?" came Berwald's sudden and random query over the ceramic mug of coffee.

Tino blinked at the question, the smile returning. "Loke, of course. He always wins, doesn't he?"

"Unsurpris'ngly," the bespectacled blond said, and if Tino wasn't mistaken, he'd actually laughed a little. It was good to hear his husband laugh…he hadn't since before the War. "Bein' the 'nternet nation an' all."

The Finn's eyes widened at how carelessly Berwald had thrown the word 'Internet' into the air, as though it were as meaningless as the word 'coffee.' "But obviously, the EuroNet's better," he said a little too loudly, laughing nervously.

Berwald shrugged absently, taking another sip from his mug. "I wouldn' say so, but if ya 'nsist," he muttered, adjusting his glasses slightly.

They sat in an awkward, uncomfortable silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the forest their house was located in. The house was perfectly secluded, almost like an imagined wonderland come to life. The idyllic two-story house sat in the middle of a large clearing, surrounded on all sides by evergreens. Just a short walk away, there was a lake where they would often bring Peter and Loke during the summer. Yes, it seemed absolutely perfect.

The silence was broken by a loud cry of triumph from the floor above. Tino couldn't help but smile a bit at Peter's shout. "Looks like he finally beat Loke," he said with a tone of parental pride.

"Huh," Berwald answered nonchalantly, finishing off his coffee as Peter stormed down the stairs, his eyes shining beacons of pride.

"I beat 'im!" he cheered happily, raising one small fist into the air. "I finally beat 'im!"

"Great job, Peter!" grinned Tino, reaching out to hug his adopted son. Their entire family was adopted, wasn't it? The…spouses (as Tino preferred to think of them as) brought together in a time of fear, the sons brought to them from abandon, the dog found starving in the woods. Somehow, the bundle of misfits became the perfect family, the envy of other once-nations and humans alike.

Berwald gave him a small nod of approval, the trace of a smile gracing his lips. "Wh're's Loke?" he asked casually, looking down at his beaming son.

The look in Peter's eyes quickly changed from pride to alarm. Usually, whenever Peter beat Loke in something, the latter would come racing down the stairs screaming profanities and protesting the unfairness of the world. But this time, there was only silence.

"…Loke!" Tino shouted after the silence became unbearable, tearing himself away from Peter and racing up the stairs. Distantly, he heard Berwald and Peter running after him, but he barely registered it as he dashed for the door to Loke's room.

The redhead was laying facedown on the carpet, his arms and legs looking ashen and pale. His breathing was light and slow, just enough for him to still be alive.

But just barely.

Surprisingly, it was Berwald who was at his side first, picking up his ill son. He began to mutter something in Swedish to him, a language none of them had heard in quite a while. After the Bill had been signed, everyone just switched to English. It was easier than trying to maintain all those different languages.

Peter didn't understand much of the language, nor did Loke. Unfortunately, though, Tino recognized it. The message was one of good-bye, a message very rarely heard outside of… He shook his head. That couldn't be what Berwald was saying.

Because what it sounded like was what was said at funerals.

"No one nation should distinguish itself from another; the continent, along with what was formerly countries, will be known as Europe." - The Bill of End

Lukas watched his partner sadly from his position by the twisted tree, not wanting to leave yet, but not wanting to interrupt Lovino's personal time. After all, he knew the Italian missed his brother - and why wouldn't he? Feliciano had gone missing halfway through the War, and once it was over, everyone just assumed he'd died. It was the most believable story, anyway.

Lukas and Lovino had created a tombstone together, chosen the spot in the cemetery, buried a few of Feliciano's possessions and pictures. It was the closest they could get to finding a body.

After several more minutes, Lovino stood from his kneeling position by the smooth granite stone, wiping away a few tears that had formed. "Let's go," he muttered quietly, already starting towards the silver car they shared. His black jacket fluttered out behind him, matching the cool night perfectly.

With a small sigh, Lukas followed behind him, the keys jangling in his pocket. He'd always been their designated driver - besides the fact that he could maneuver even the busy streets of Rome, he also drank less than Lovino.

Neither of them thought Lovino could drive now, anyway.

The drive to their (rather large) home was long and silent. Lovino obviously didn't want to talk about what he'd been doing, and Lukas didn't talk much anyway…but even so, it seemed strange for them.

Once inside, Lovino collapsed on the couch, already half-asleep. The Norwegian cringed slightly at the sight of him; his hair disheveled, his jacket hanging off of him loosely, his complexion pale. He knew that Lovino had been depressed about this for weeks, and he knew that it happened every year, but it never failed to depress him.

"C'mon," the blond said softly, shaking Lovino's shoulder slightly. He was using a tone of voice he rarely used, one full of sympathy and concern. Most of the time, he didn't let much emotion into his voice…it was all in his posture. "C'mon, you've gotta get to bed."

"Nnh," was the response, muffled by a pillow.

"C'mon…"

"Nnh."

"Lovino."

No response. He tried again, "Lovino."

"What?" grumbled the tired and spent Italian.

"You've gotta get to bed, and I will drag you up the stairs if I have to." Lukas crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes slightly at the other. "Needless to say, it won't be pleasant, and in the morning I will make you clean your own blood from the stairs."

Slowly, the brunette stood, his own arms folded over his chest. If there was anyone who could match the hot-headed Italian in threats and insults, it was Lukas. "Fine," he hissed, starting up the stairs and leaving his blond boyfriend in the dust.

Once Lovino was upstairs, Lukas collapsed where the other had been, running a hand through his hair. This was always the most stressful day of the year…it was the anniversary of Feliciano's disappearance, and Lovino was always depressed and miserable for weeks before. Once the day had passed, he always returned to his irritable and angry self. But the weeks that he didn't were torture for the Norwegian.

Hopefully, he'd return to normal soon. He always did, after all.

A/N: Whew! This took a really long time to write, so I hope you guys are satisfied with it!

A few things:

1. I'm sorry for not updating recently! I just haven't had it in me enough to write more responses for Dear Lovino, so I'm labelling it as 'complete.'

2. Stephanie - I lost your number, text me? ;3;

3. This is sort of a post-apocalpytic thing, but instead of everything being destroyed, it was just freedom that was destroyed (essentially - I'll reveal more later!). So, yes, it is in the future.

I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of Every River Ran Red!