The silence was eerie at first, it penetrated to a subconscious level that made him terrified. Silence, stillness was not something he coped well with. Every part of his body ached, every part of his mind screamed. Somewhere in the blinding whiteness Tino waited, soundlessly .It was a game of patience that Arthur was slowly losing. Finland was relentless and so much more acclimatised to the snow than he was.
Roughly he jammed snow into his mouth to mask hot exhalations, lying as still as he could. Faintly in the distance he could hear Leningrad. Ivan was so close, so very close he could almost reach out to him. Ivan was starving. Ivan's people were on the edge of depravity. Soon they would eat one another.
Arthur couldn't let Ivan face it alone.
Tino was out there though, waiting.
For three days he'd edged closer, spending every second in abject misery. If Finland saw him before he saw Finland it would all be over.
Bowing his head he pressed frozen lashes into the snow, almost crying. At least he could trade blows with Ludwig, tear into him to expression his turbulent emotions. The quietness was swallowing him. It was consuming him.
A sharp blow rolled him onto his spine, sprawling out as the Finn appeared in his vision. The smile was soft, regretful.
"Pitkäst aikaa Arthur."
The gun was blurry in his vision.
"Näkemiin."
BANG.
The morning after Arthur was particularly clingy. Why he'd dreamt of such times he was not sure, after all he had not been close with Ivan then, nor would he have sought to protect him from Tino. Now, though, things were different. Now unconsciously he piled four crumpets and two eggs onto the Russian's breakfast plate rather than the usual two and one. Ivan was going to find himself particularly well fed until Arthur was no longer inflicted by memories of that particular nightmare.