Dro: Sorry I missed my Friday deadline for this. I had class, then packing, the driving home, the dinner, then a bath...Ah, you get the point. I finally got around to this like an hour and a half ago. So, enjoy! And don't forget to drop Dro a review, sweethearts!

Chapter Summary: Alfred wakes up, broken and alone...and blind.

Warnings: Language, Sensitive Subjects

Disclaimer: Yo, of course Dro doesn't own!

He could hear. And that was it.

When he came to, alone, in silence, in darkness, Alfred had been sure he was dead. He thought himself to be floating in some black purgatory, trapped between heaven and hell until his judgment came to pass. But after hours of this darkness, he began to realize his mistake. He felt then. He dared to move. Immediately he had recoiled from the simple twitch of his fingers, his tensing muscles only making the spike of intense stinging worse. A quiet gasp broke free from between his chapped, aching lips.

Burns.

He was badly, badly burned. How much of one's body could sustain burns before you were destined to die? Alfred found he could not remember though a part of him was sure he had surpassed it. His greatest temptation was to move. He wanted to stand on his own two legs, look up at a bright blue sky, smile triumphantly and yell "I survived!" But the acid-like burns prevented him from doing so, every random twitch of his muscles making the angry scorches hiss at him.

So instead, he simply laid there like a doll. For the first hour, it was maddening. For the second, it was depressing. For the third, he resigned himself to his fate. He would be in this immobile state for quite some time, if he survived his injuries at all. A part of him whispered traitorous words, that perhaps this was his hell, to suffer in darkness from creeping burns forever, unable to move or rightly feel. Alfred swallowed dryly. His parched throat hissed at him too.

But at least they hissed. Every part of him that ached was at least aching to show it was still alive. It was the parts that didn't hurt that scared him the most. Every random surge of pain seem to skip places, and Alfred was no fool. Some of his nerves were dead. There were places in his arms, his legs, his torso, where he would never regain feeling. The thought made him want to cry, the idea of living a life where his body was so broken. He would no doubt be grotesquely scarred, partially lame, and…who would want him after this? Was his face ruined? Was he forever disfigured and hideous? He had seen men return form war missing limbs, but burned to the point of becoming monstrosities?

Perhaps this really was his hell.

Or perhaps the burns were but a ruse. Perhaps underlying them was something far worse. It was the topic Alfred had dreaded since he had awoken. It was the topic that frightened him more than anything else. It had been his pride when he'd trained as a pilot. It had been the aid that helped him so valiantly fight the enemy. And now…now it was gone.

His eyesight.

He could feel the stiffness of new gauze wrapped gently over his eyes and around his hair. His short hair. Really short hair. Most of it had no doubt burned away in seconds. Just like his vision. Flashes of flames dancing across his eyes shifted into his mind. For the briefest few seconds, he'd truly known the fate of those sentenced to hell. What was more terrifying than the pain of burning than seeing it with stark clarity as it advanced on you and reached out its hand to silence the terror in your eyes in forever, leaving you to dwell in ignorance as it mockingly burned you when you least expected it?

Blindness.

He was blind.

Alfred truly wished for death at this point. Had the burns not screamed at him to be still, had he had the strength to move his ruined his body, he would have killed himself now. But he couldn't. So he was forced to dwell in his misery. He would never see Mattie's face again. His twin's face would gradually fade from his memory, and along it, Alfred's image of himself. He would never get to watch his brother smile that beautiful, happy smile that made Alfred proud to be the brother that had always been there. He would never have dared to leave Matt.

He would never get to see Arthur's pissed off face again as he beat the older man at a game of cards. Arthur was a bit of an ass, but that didn't mean Alfred wanted to forget his face. He was one of the few relatives the parentless brothers were close to, though he would never admit it to Arthur's face.

His thoughts wandered to even simpler things. He would never again see the sun, the sky, the moon. The wondrous vivid colors of nature would be lost to him for the rest of his life. His existence would be one of shadows and blackness and nothingness. Everything he loved about the world had just been taken away from him. He would never be able to walk the down street and enjoy the view of the simple life. He would never be able to play the mundane games he always enjoyed to relax himself. He would never be able to even fucking feed himself! He would never fly again! The exhilaration, the pure joy, the euphoria of flying so far above the earth, as far as the birds, the clouds, farther…he would never experience it again. The thing that made him happiest in life had been taken from him, as had everything else just beneath it.

God, please tell me…what have I done to make you hate me so? I admit to being a sinner, but what kind of sin have I committed to make this a just punishment? Is it because I killed people in air raids? Because I'm involved in a war? Is that why so many men are maimed and brutally murdered in war? Because you detest them for being part of it? If I have angered you in this way, then why have you chosen this fate for me?

What did I do?

Please God. Please tell me. What did I do to deserve this?

There was no answer.

At some point, exhausted from his wounds and lack of sustenance, Alfred fell asleep. From his tormented thoughts had arisen the question of where he was and why he had been taken here. Again, he wondered why he was not dead. He had been shot down in Germany. He was deep in Axis territory. Anyone that came upon him should have put him out of his misery without sparing him a second glance, so why instead was in this mysterious, quiet, lonely place, slowly starving and dying of thirst? Why was he bandaged and left alone in the middle of nowhere?

Why? Why? Why?

Why was there no one here who would answer his questions?

He'd become too frustrated to continue his tortured thoughts, so he'd let them go. Let his mind go blank. Just like his eyes would be forever. Thankfully, he had one reprieve. He did not dream. He did not yet have to relive the agony of his descent into this hell over and over and over, though he knew one day, the recurring nightmare would descend upon him. So for now, he savored this small shred of peace. He slept in utter dreamless darkness, the only darkness in his new life that he could possibly stand.

When he awoke again, who knew how many hours later—he would never be able to read a watch again anyway—something was different in his feeling. He felt warm. Fever? Will I die of this pain instead? Is this my fate? Already burned to a crisp and still destined to die by more burning?

But no, he did not have a fever.

It was the sun.

Morning had come to his solemn underworld.

He supposed if there was one thing he could count on in this life, it was the sun would rise and fall with the days. So he counted. This was Day One. His first day of consciousness after having his life snatched away from him by a German fighter and his hope crushed by an apathetic God. Personally, he hoped it was the last.

Slowly, he turned his head toward the sun's phantom warmth, basking in it. He supposed he should be grateful for having any sensation whatsoever after being burned like this, but though the feeling was warm and comfortable and nostalgic, he felt a hint of bitterness nesting in his heart. This was to be the extent of happiness in his life? The warmth of the sun? How pathetic a life was that? How sorry—?

Something moved.

His angry tirade fizzled out in an instant, and his heart started to pick up its pace. Perhaps he had imagined it? Certainly…Certainly it wasn't a…ghost, right? Ghosts weren't real, just like Arthur had said. So maybe the wind had moved something? A good theory, except…he was pretty sure none of the windows were open. He hadn't felt any sort of breeze.

So what had moved?

He heard absolutely nothing for the next thirty seconds. Only the intensifying sound of silence around him filled his ears.

Then he heard it again.

A creak.

A creak on a set of stairs.

Someone was coming up a staircase…

Another step. He knew the sound now.

Footsteps.

A faint flickering memory of them whisked by his consciousness. What was it that was so important about footsteps again?

Oh right, it meant someone potentially dangerous was heading straight for him, and he could not even stand up! He was going to die now. He knew it. Finally, someone would end his life.

Something rustled.

A bag?

The footsteps steps paused for a brief second, and Alfred heard the distinct twisting of a doorknob. He tried to calm his racing heart, but he only succeeding in making himself run out air, and he ended up gasping just as someone walked through the threshold. He could almost feel the other person's presence in the room, eyes honing in on his prone body like a hawk. A deep sigh rang out like a crashing cymbal, and Alfred forced his body to stay completely still.

Whoever it was walked closer to him, stopping just before—what Alfred believed to be—the side of his bed or cot or whatever the hell he was on. For a few brief seconds, nothing happened. Then the person touched him. He couldn't stop himself from tensing. The man recoiled.

"Ah, you thought you could fool me?" A deep German voice filled the room. German. A German man was holding him captive! A German man was going to torture him! Oh God, please help me! "That is foolish move for you, boy. If I do not know your condition, I will think wrong things to try and help you."

Help?

The termed sounded so foreign on the man's lips, above and beyond the language difference. "H…h…help?" It took three tries to get the word out from between his parched lips, and his lungs completely emptied of air to voice the one word.

The man sighed. "Unfortunately. My…uh…conscience would not allowed me to leave you on battlefield. So I brought you here. You will recover, I hope, and leave me be. I will have no guilt, and you will have freedom. We will work this out, ja?"

Alfred was thoroughly confused. A German man had decided to help him? Because of his conscience? What kind of fucking lie was that? Did he take Alfred for an idiot? He wasn't stupid. What German would want to help an American fighter pilot? Alfred said nothing, but he silently seethed at the arrogance of this man. I'm not a fool, and you won't take me by surprise. Throw whatever you have at me, Nazi scum! I swear to God I can take it. I've already survived this! His sparked anger gave him a new resolve. He didn't know who this man was, but he wouldn't let himself fall into a shoddy trap like that.

The man seemed to take his silence for an answer. "Good. It is time to eat now. I am assuming you cannot feed yourself."

You think, bastard? I can't even get up.

"Therefore, I do it for you."

I'm not eating a single damn thing you get near my face!

Or so he said to himself.

The man left, bags (of presumably food) leaving with him. When he reemerged from downstairs a half hour later, the smell of something simple and delicious filled Alfred's previously dormant nose. Soup. The man had fixed him soup. He licked his lips, his mouth salivating uncontrollably. Oh God, he was so hungry. So despite his oath to not eat a single bite of what could potentially be a thousand poisons, he devoured every spoonful the man brought to his lips. It was the most humiliating situation that Alfred could ever remember being in.

Here he was, an invalid, after being shot down by a Nazi plane, being spoon-fed by another damned Nazi. God, this was fucked up. But of course, God did not hear him. So he ate his fill and greedily gulped down water and turned his head back toward the window. The man did not say anything as he sat the bowl down somewhere with a clink.

"Angry, I see."

"Is…is there a reason…I shouldn't be?" He had to take a deep breath between every few words, but at least his throat and mouth and lips were working now. Somewhat.

"I suppose not. Logically, you would be angry after being hurt as much as this by the enemy. I anger you, do I not? My presence? Because I am German?"

"What kind of…question is that? It was you fuckers…that did this to me."

The man was disturbingly silent. That's it, bastard. Get angry, and kill me, and get this over with! I don't want any of your false sympathy shit!

"You are…right."

Huh?

"I have…personally…hurt many. And so have my comrades. But then again…so have you. Outside, there is war. It is nasty. It is brutal. It is cold. It is…heartless." Alfred heard the man rise to his feet, his presence so imposing that the air seem to do its best to evade him. "But I am not. Nor are you. So in this place, we will not be at war. You sit here. Recover. And eventually leave and go home. I help you. I aid you to escape. I go on my way. And that is final."

Alfred couldn't think of a single thing to say that could even begin to fight back against the man's proclamation. So he bit his tongue and kept his mouth shut.

"I will return again this evening for another meal. Until then, rest. You will need much to recover from such extensive wounds."

Who was this man? Why would a Nazi…a soldier, presumably, even dare to defy his allegiance to help a single, normal wounded pilot? Why commit this kind of treason for a man he did not know? Alfred was standing at a crossroads here. On one hand, he wanted to know more than anything the "Why?" of this situation. But behind that path, behind which was a million dark and terrifying possibilities, was the sense that perhaps that "Why?" was better left unanswered. So instead, he asked the first question when the man began to stomp—boots no doubt polished to a tee as he walked with the measured steps of a well trained solider—and head toward the door.

"Who…?"

But as soon as he got his answer, he suddenly realized the true extent of his stupidity. He had just asked the second question too.

"Ludwig."

And its answer had been left wide open.

Dro: And the plot begins!

Next Chapter: Matthew, in France, suddenly runs into Arthur, who is supposed to be in North Africa. And after he gets the answer as the why the man left, he wishes more than anything that he was still there.