Disclaimer: Hetalia...isn't mine. –Le gasp- I know, shocking, right?

...

"...Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation..."

- Shakespeare

...

Elizaveta felt the abrupt snap of cold over her wrists and did not wince. This was her reward for speaking.

"Standard procedure," Gilbert said, almost apologetically (but that would not be Gilbert then, would it...?). "der Führer's"—he made a face—"orders. He's Gott-damned furious."

Elizaveta merely shrugged; she was going to jail, and though she detested oppression, she accepted it. She had mild support, and the act was complete; her people were at least all right—aside from those in the camps, to her disgust—and there was not much to do. She wasn't helpless—she was merely there. And afterthought was added when she said, calmly, "So der Führer's going to see me?"—and her own mockery surprised her; she felt no emotion to be noted; it must have hidden itself in the ashes.

Like Gilbert, she was wiping clean the stone tablet and crowding the words in moss.

She thought the Prussian smiled, bitterly or wickedly, but could not see. He was behind her.

There was an awful feel to the knowledge that one's hands were cuffed behind their back; Elizaveta felt it not, for it would soon be over. She was not to be humiliated.

At least Gilbert had been gracious when she asked for time to clothe herself; it only took a period of time for her to let consciousness of exposure drag itself back into her mind, for she had come across a lack of shame. The Prussian was such a femme fatale in reverse and hell—those red eyes suited him. The green uniform that had been so painstakingly snatched and zipped from Hungary overnight was his doing—a miraculous feat, and for something so trivial; the soldiers ordered to do so deserved merit and more.

Green felt good for wear. If only there was a rifle.

She had slipped the crumpled paper from the pocket of her jacket to her military outfit's pockets. The artificial yellow of her hair had been washed while changing—it was strange but familiar, to see her hanging locks of brown. She was no longer an Aryan—no longer a fake. No longer an actress, nor Elisabeth Wertheim.

Elizaveta and Gilbert walked again with admirable cadence, bearing and posture woven to look alike; people stared, murmured to one another; this was expected, and phenomenal. There was shock and outrage, and once Veneziano could be heard crying in the distance. And still Elizaveta remained cold, proud; unhindered, but postponing care for the boy she mothered. The stares drew her poor contempt, for she had known these people. It did not hurt ut it was not to be ignored either. The halls and atrium echoed as a void.

And ah, der Führer himself. Standing with the ridiculous mustache and parted dark hair—oh, Aryan, of course, Elizaveta taunted as his gaze met hers; green on brown, not blue. Frosty hate chilled her veins as the Hungarian walked and neared. There was fury in those eyes, and perhaps madness...then again, what was madness?

Egotistical, ran through Elizaveta's mind. Hypocrite...

Der Führer raised his hand; Gilbert paused to reply, intoning, "Heil Hitler."

That echoed throughout the room in the voices of many before Gilbert nudged her slightly; off they went.

That was that—the first and last meeting between Hungary and Adolf Hitler. The next time would be when she was there to look at the body, look, once. Those eyes could not meet hers then.

The cells were cold, stony, gray, and that was expected. The footsteps were pitched patters like rain.

When the door was open, Elizaveta glanced around—tiny windows to the booth-like cells were empty, not filled with curious faces. Abruptly she met the gaze of her Prussian companion, elevating to her toes to kiss him on unmoving lips, with a crooked whisper of "auf wiedersehen." Frowning at the lack of reaction she tried again, sans words; not desperate, but unsure.

He replied this time midway, kissing back with lips like death, sans blue. "Ja," he said quietly, so unlike him; and yet still...

He undid the metal cuffs and Elizaveta felt the rush thickly back to her hands, filling her fingertips. They stood awkwardly for a while, before she reached out and clasped one of the white hands firmly; her nails scraped lightly over the rough palm and scarred back, feeling the throbbing blue veins pressed against skin. Unlike Roderich's soft hands, made for but the piano. Cottony, cottony hands.

Elizaveta held it for a while in silence, remembering the tiny hands that she should have held at least once in faraway childhood. They were adults now, and that label seemed almost far-fetched. A few months were a long time, if they could lead her to savor the warmth of a rival hand, one she would have wanted wet and hot with running blood—not the very much dry bit of heat for her to lean into. Was this Lady Fate joining with Madam Irony?—and Father Time?

Suddenly Elizaveta realized that she didn't want to let go, but she did anyway; she let it drop. Focusing on her nemesis's calm face, she backed into the prison. There was but a hard bed that was more of a table, but she did not mind. Roderich had no luxury—save disconnected notes—nor did Gilbert—save the new era—so she could fare, with a burden, repenting like one old and dressed in sack.

For a split second, in the light painted gray, Gilbert's feature's shifted for a formation of wistfulness—then vanished as they both nodded—soldiers, comrades, enemies, and lovers, agreeing. "See you after the war."

"Ja."

A pause—then the door was closed, slammed in its weight.

Enclosed in gray solitude, Elizaveta stared at the window of light. Closing her eyes to shut out the physical tunnel vision, listening to the Prussian's unbreakable steps, she looked to the future, for insanity or else the end.

...

One week. Or was it two? No matter; she needed to find something else to check her sanity, lest it fly out and latch itself to the walls; then she wouldn't have it, and never get it back. To think she'd lost it—perhaps this was a process beginning in short bursts.

Confinement is a dull subject to chronicle—it only informs, and unless there are assassination attempts involved in the story, it should be but recorded in brief—or else, the excitement should be rushed to at once. And how it happened on a day when, mouth dry, Elizaveta remembered that she was a country—how ridiculous that she should.

She was the very embodiment of her people—she knew that, but these little bursts of epiphany came rarely—she was a country, the representation of a land and a people. Only then did she realize it—through the responsibility, the struggles and fire and flame—that she had missed out...on something. She was sure that she hadn't, but perhaps she had...perhaps, a friend instead of a lover. Roderich was a friend, but he lacked...

Still, she loved him beyond most people and things in the world. Throughout the hardships, while Gilbert had laughed and taunted her, going on to stand alone—alone—he had spared kindness, despite the times she had beaten him in childhood, so that he could barely even move. And what did she have in the end?

She realized then and there—that Gilbert, for all his struggles to become a nation, had only one candy bar; he had only just that, because something was clinging onto him, or else the entire store...he was at his last throes for life. Perhaps it was fate or horrible history; but he was but a state now. The great militaristic Prussia of freethought, once an empire—über alles...now a pitiful free state knuckling under the Third Reich. And still he fought. He had nothing but the crumbs of chocolate lying on the ground now, snatched by the birds. That troubled him not—he could shoot them out of the sky.

Only he was onto his last rock.

Tracing idle circles into the hem of her beret, she moved onto fiddling with them, waiting for the next meal...food came twice every day, and she wasn't in the least bit hungry when it did; but it was something to focus on. She had wondered, sometimes, on the concept of confinement aside from humiliation and harsh treatment—now she knew for sure that the boredom was part of it, and more than significant. At least Turkey's home was not so. She spat at the thought, but immediately regretted it; the film of dust and dirt over the floor and walls was filthy enough.

And she thought she felt sick—there was fever ailing at her skin. Fatigue troubled her not, but the discomfort helped less; she had picked at the cut on her side, even, just to feel something other than burning numbness—which was ironic, as it was numbness.

She coughed again; Isten, was her trail of thought, these conditions are probably worse than they look.

Oh, she was fussing about in the case of hygiene—but it was practical. Gilbert and Roderich both would approve. Joy.

And she had soon learned that there were no other prisoners—probably executed, she thought darkly. She did not waste her time wondering whether she was to follow them or not.

A slot opened, revealing a thick trickle of light—oh, finally, she thought, disgusted—she could've killed for some water, what with the sandy hollow that was her throat. The tray slid in, and then the light was gone; at least it had sealed away something to help her. She noted the poor quality as she reached for it, glancing at the subjects—something that resembled mashed potatoes (she would rather not know), a cup of stale water. Good enough. The water washed down her throat, half of it then gone with the one gulp. Elizaveta didn't wince at the sourness of the liquid.

How long am I to stay here, she thought, disgusted still. Isten, this war can't go on forever.

She choked a bit from her position in sitting on the table of a bed—this didn't feel right. It never did, really, but she somehow felt worse than before; her throat was swiftly drying already.

Arsenic poisoning? she thought dryly, but not seriously; then she realized that she had hit the nail spot-on.

The explosion at her apartment...

The White Rose was practically dead, if not nonviolent...

She was a nation...

With a horror-filled look at the tray, she shoved it away with amazing strength; it crashed against the solid wall, its contents spilling over the corners. She couldn't stay here. Not with people after her life, not with her wavering health.

Fiddling with her beret she began choking, practically feeling her innards disintegrating. She was practically spewing sandy fire.

This was how the nation Hungary was to end!

This was how the woman Elizaveta was to end!

This was how the actor Elisabeth was to end!

Dust clogged her throat; she thought of only Roderich, and of Gilbert. Others ran through her mind—Italy, dear Veneziano...Holy Roman Empire, who was someplace else now...Turkey, to her flaming fury...Ludwig, the soldier...and Magyar, who was gone and still strong...

So this...this was how dying felt like. This was the blanket of dark was to come, and she leaned against the filthy wall, breathing hard; the wheezing scorched her throat.

Then—salvation. A door opening, blinding light finally rushing in, squeezing in to illuminate the pathetic, miserable grayness.

She couldn't see—she thought it was heaven, for her thoughts were steeping into foolishness; the arsenic and decided to kick her, right when she had uncovered its presence. Swearing at Lady Fate and Madam Irony, Elizaveta felt her will to scream die in her papery throat. She couldn't die...not yet. She was a nation, and she was going to see this Isten-forsaken war to the end, come what may, and hell to pay. Even if the hounds themselves snapped at her heels as she outran them.

And then—an angel. She swore at it too, told it to get away, she didn't want to die yet. Her fiery will was returning, and she had not even noticed its absence.

"Get away," she growled at the angel. "I'm not dying yet."

"You won't!" growled back the angel, whose voice was that of a demon. But Elizaveta was not to be fooled; she knew what deception was, after all.

"I can't die yet," she snarled, rabid. Choking on her fevered breath, she ranted on. "Get back, take me when I deem it fit enough! I'm a nation, I have people! I can't die just because I was stupid enough to consume toxic!" She flailed at him, with a fist that was nearly as good as her pan. She wanted it to leave. She wanted it gone!

"What the hell!" the angel-demon snapped, and grabbed at her wrist; Elizaveta jerked it back, choosing instead to aim a kick at the presence.

"You're not here to die!" he continued hurriedly as he side-stepped the sure-to-be-fatal kick. "I'm here to get you out, Gottverdammt!"

Then it hit her.

"Gilbert?" She held back her fist, just in case, ignoring the insistent tugs of the unconscious.

"Ja." He panted, stepping forward, out of the blinding light.

Oh.

Dropping the fist, letting go of her energy, she looked at him, studying the face for any changes—it was screwed up with a clear message—"What?"—and the stubble was more pronounced, unless it was Elizaveta's own prickling delusions; his eyes gleamed still like rubies, but the shadows were clearer. She almost felt sorry for trying to hurt him—almost.

She needed to explain, there and then: "Someone's been putting poison in the food..." She gestured at the mess in the corner, not adding the "I think." It was hard to remember that it was only speculation.

Then, abruptly, and not quite out of left field—she felt the suppression of exhaustion press against her, full-force; she did not quite lose her consciousness, yet, but it was nearly there—

It attacked again, like a hound.

"Damn it," she hissed at the pain; she gripped at something of a stitch in her side, regretting that she had been so bored as to pick at it; it only added to her agony. "Damn it...," she growled again—then there was white. Her fingers slackened and there was the snowy white. Not black, but white.

...

She wasn't quite unconscious—just tired. Gilbert supported her, mumbling beneath his breath about what a burden she was—her own reaction was but quiet pensiveness—did she want to punch him or smile? She was sure by now that he was sinking back to what he was before the war. And beyond; it was what was beneath—Elizaveta was not superficial.

Her feet dragged slightly, but her small attempts at a fine gait helped at the slightest; at least she could walk. And the wound in her side was once again dormant; it was not to bother her in some time, though it stained the green fabric of her clothing.

Beyond that, she was stunned that the Prussian had come back for her—he had said himself, "after the war," if she could trust him at all. Perhaps there was something of importance—maybe her people needed her. Maybe they were bombed; maybe it was not arsenic that was trying to sap her strength, maybe it was an attack.

But they were escaping. Of that she was sure.

"Where're going?" she almost slurred.

A pause, and a glance..."Back home. To Hungary. Your people need you."

Ah. So she was correct.

Home.

She had never been one to truly appreciate it—home, to her, was something else—someplace where she was with her people, free from oppression, or somewhere listening to music with Austria. She did not feel homesick, but she almost did—nearly, almost; months away from her land, playing a game with the enemy while Europe collapsed through and through. Keeping back a groggy tone, she plowed on—almost tripped—"Have I been attacked?" She could have been anxious; and her heart did skip a tiny beat. She wanted the answer to be no, and yet still yes: no would mean safety, yes would mean assassination.

Gilbert was silent for a moment; uncharacteristically; he was hiding something beneath the tin. "Nein...," he then murmured; his tone was hesitant. And why...? Elizaveta, her arm already slung lightly around the back of his neck, reached her hand; flexed her fingers. It was beneath his shoulder, and each and every one of the little digits curled around his uniform once she had pulled her arm up with slight effort. The khaki had been cooled by the chilly night air, and the only source of warmth was his bare skin. The pads of her hand skimmed over the shoulder ranks—signaling Hauptscharführer—before they settled. This was not romantic; this was practical, and natural.

"What?" she muttered; she wanted to know; needed to. What had happened? She waited, impatiently, for news of her land. Her heart skipped another beat.

He still did not speak, even as the pressure of Elizaveta's hand pressed the bottoms of his ranks against the thin shirt beneath, pricking his skin. She had strength even when uncalled for; that was to be noted. Lifting a hand to pry it away, and without breaking his pace (they were soon entering a staircase), he said reluctantly, "The commies are headed toward us." Elizaveta stared at him; she had heard right, did she not? Ignoring the way he was opening her clenched fingers, she asked,

"How..."

"Strategic." It was then that she noticed the darkening of those ruby eyes—clearly, there had been some serious side of him that was rarely seen, and entirely doubtless of sanity. Or else it was a mere spawn of this newness to the tin. Dropping her voice without realizing it, she asked, "...How bad would it be...?"

Now his fingers tightened—around her fingers still, they seemed to freeze still; worry. The tension weighed heavily in the chilly air. He spoke at the same level she had: "It's Russia. You should know."

Instead of answering, Elizaveta chose to let her head tilt back to take in the sky—they had climbed out of the stairs without realizing it, and the burst of cold air—real air, not stale and cramped—was insistent in reminding them. There were stars above; not scant, but the myriad was generous to the black velvet tonight.

Suddenly Gilbert tensed; she felt it, for he stopped immediately, and his hand tightened. Immediately his right hand reached for his belt; the clear air was cold as fire, crackling with alarm. One of them spoke, as Elizaveta, clearing her throat, dropped her head back to look around and at him—"What—"

Whipping his pistol from his side, Gilbert immediately shot at the right with the focus in his eyes flaming, as if this were a swordfight. Elizaveta immediately wished for one herself as she heard the cracking bullet fell a soldier—one man was revealed in death, as he clutched at the gaping black hole in his chest: A perfect shot.

If this wasn't a set-up, then what was it?

More soldiers appeared around them, as the cat was dropped from bag; it hissed with unsheathed claws as Gilbert shot as many of them as he could. Elizaveta clenched her teeth with him as she rummaged the unseeable corners of the ground, looking for at least a stone to throw—damn the lack of a rifle!

Suddenly adrenaline was shot into her veins; mountains could be moved with those; the pain in the side was instantly forgotten. This was Elizaveta as a soldier.

Isten! The soldiers were brandishing machine guns!—and they—they had only one warrior-since-birth firing away with but a pistol. This was so outmatched that it could have been unfair; but really, what was it?—and what would it have changed? Gilbert was quick in shooting at every one that dared to so much as lift his weapon, and Elizaveta was still groping about; sweat poured and wet her brow as she came across a chink of broken iron—it was well-aimed as she threw it at a man with a mustache; she saw blood but spared no extra thought for the downed enemy.

There was blood everywhere, anyway.

Finding more abandoned iron bits, she threw them, feeling like a pathetic schoolboy, but determined, anyway, to aide Gilbert and his slowly-dying gun.

"Scheiße!" he swore as a spray of bullets was allowed to pepper towards him; rolling aside, he shot the offending man straight to the throat, who gave a strangled gurgle of a cry before dying. Eyes flashing, he shot the last man before more Nazis in the background gathered to replace them; in this gap of time Elizaveta sprang forward to nudge him, and they both leaped to their feet, racing across to the gates. This was the only seeable chance...!

More men. They were nearly at the gate! Spurring herself forward, Elizaveta pummeled herself at the black doors of iron, unlocking it and bursting it open—there were no guards, and how stupid—they had probably been killed in the fire, then.

"Prussia!" she yelled—almost croaked—over her shoulder, and he was already there.

"Scheiße," he swore again; the men were behind and opening fire—

Elizaveta shoved him away first; grabbing him by the shoulders—(surprisingly thin beneath)—and thrusting him sideways where there was a blessed wall; adrenaline, it was so useful in times of weakness. She went after him and his shocked face like a ghost in the night, but not before the bullets came. She cried out, throat practically tearing, once, as the first tore the flesh of her shoulder; the second passed her by sheer luck, grazing her temple. It was hot, and hotter when the blood ran down her face and side—still, she caught up with Gilbert, whose eyes were in a clear struggle to check the emotion within them; they were red and blazing in the light of the moon.

Remembering that he was lonely—had been, his whole life—Elizaveta began to say something, like assurance that she would have done it no matter what, uncharacteristically like herself—then remembered that they were still being pursued, and not safe. And, like a beacon of the Holy Land, she then caught site of the river nearby—surrounded by steep slopes where they could jump down and not be sighted. Jamming her jaws together, listening to nothing but the frantic gallop of her heart, she grabbed his arm, and they both ran.

Too late, of course.

The soldiers came, and Elizaveta may have yelled a curse or simply screamed; they opened fire, and though she tried to shove Gilbert away, down that slope that was a matter of yards away, he took one glance at the trickle of blood running down her face, one more at the browning green at her side, and did so in reverse.

In the case of this remark, it should have been punctuated more dynamically.

Because Elizaveta did not scream after they shot her temporary partner, and not because of her weakening throat.

She could only stare.

Screaming was for women who knew nothing but romance.

Screaming was for women who knew nothing of Gilbert Beilschmidt.

He fell, and there was blood. And she was falling with him, but not with him—she was flailing as she was lifted by the force of his arms, to the waiting water below. Flight while he fought.

There was a rush, and time slowed all the same...as she stared, shocked, at his bent back—the world turned surreal, as she crashed into the watery abyss.

And still, she did not scream.

Still, as she stilled in the channel of water, she did not make one sound.

Yells, she heard them...but this couldn't be real. No...she had had her failures before, in the past—many times over...but not Gilbert. Gilbert Beilschmidt had been many things in his life, the only thing he wasn't was dead. He had been a knight, a state, a kingdom, and now a state again. Still he was alive.

He was immortal...

Dying was impossible...

"Scheiße!" one man grunted.

There was a scuffle as she stared upwards, at least standing, immobile, held back by a line of—of something! She could not move...she wanted to...but she stared. While there were swears...to think she had once wanted to do this herself...

A thud.

A dull, heavy thud.

It was not unlike the fall of a guillotine's blade.

She did not even swear when it seemed that she had jinxed him—but she had, maybe she had...

A rising spurt of blood, an absolute geyser; she choked, and still she said nothing, watching so helplessly like some stupid smiling moon. Disgust came, and it was too late—too late—

Something fell. A head, it could be nothing else; it was kicked down like a football, and rolled in the same fashion. Hungary as a whole had seen more of rolling heads than there were stars in the sky.

It splashed into the water, and then stopped, bobbing up and down, flowing gently near her elbow—immediately the water was a spreading red. Choking, Elizaveta watched the silvery locks turn disgustingly pink, then red. The pale skin was just as stained, and the face she had always hated stared emptily. The moon illuminated all; it was shining.

Then the eyes.

Eyes have, throughout time, always been the gateway to the mind, or else the soul—Elizaveta saw at once that they were soulless. Those eyes that had once sparked so fiercely, so hatefully—she mourned them at once. They were empty and a red void—no, a filmy red void; pink.

Gilbert Beilschmidt with pink eyes.

Ignoring the retreating feet—they were teasing, they did not pursue her—above Elizaveta bent forward, retched, as the checking string snapped; the air was thick with metal. This wasn't Gilbert. This was not...this was not him. This was just a proxy now removed—this was a thing.

Gilbert Beilschmidt could not die.

The tears came; fast, hot, thick; they quickly blended in with the uncaring red water; it could not care that the one she had always known had died, right above her, and she now had to see the color of his dead eyes...and the tired gray shadows that would never recede...and the shady stubble that was, in fact, nonexistent. No body—just the head, it taunted her. Roderich was no longer in her mind; he was alive, at least. She knew that. But something had snapped—a long thread, red or black, and she knew that he was dead. The little knight who had seen the fury of her fists; the tall young nation who had cheated death and rose above all; the stoic, changed tin man, who had learned to love her, who had given her a chance to wipe away his loneliness, just once. And he had not even become what he had always been—what was beneath the clanging cracked tin.

And yet still, she screamed not.

Only a whisper, for her throat was knotted and strangled—how could it have been that he had been by her side in the last...hour? How could it have been that he had been just there for years upon years, and suddenly nothing but a head that was not even him? How, and how and how?—and why? Always, why? Why!

Backing away from the head, she let one whisper carry itself in the currents of air, to slowly tear apart and fly away as the spider egg sac: "You are dead."

Gilbert Beilschmidt.

He did not answer.

She retched once more, filthy with the water, the head filthy with her. Not Gilbert—just the head. It was wet and sopping and disgusting, and Elizaveta did not care; she was already all of those.

"You are dead."

Turning away, she fled into the dark, the black water letting diffusion do its work; it absorbed her steps in sopping splashes. Hungary.

One glance at her ruined uniform, and one glance back. She fled. Hungary. Home, where she was to go; and without the one companion who was to initially follow.

She had a country to protect, alone, and a man to avenge.

Pandora followed.

...

"...Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined..."

- Shakespeare

...

PT: HOLY MOTHER SHITTIN' GOD. –Promptly flees- ...No, I didn't feel bad while killing him –shotshotshot- This isn't the last of him, just keep reading! D8 –Runs-Madam Irony –facepalms- Dear Gott, what am I thinking? And I wonder if I can go through a single chapter without those two making out. This is so...fluffy, in a way, that I'm wondering if I'm going too far like Stephenie Meyer, Gott help me if I am xD And I've been making a mistake...it's not Hauptscharführerb, it's Hauptscharführer –facepalm- And maybe I shouldn't really use the word chink at all...

- Repenting, old, dressed in sack. This is a reference to an old...practice, if you will...that I read of in Victor Hugo's Notre-Dame de Paris—y'know, Hunchback of Notre-Dame. I don't remember much, but the French (and of course, probably beyond) had a thing for mourning...as in, some people would lock themselves up in a small stone room with straw, dressed in nothing but black sackcloth to mourn there for the rest of their lives—mourning for some loved one or such. This is, indeed, integral to the Notre-Dame plot.

- SHIT I WISH I STILL HAD ANNE FRANK'S DIARY –facepalms- I read it last year, borrowed from the library. It was brilliant—Anne Frank's thoughts were interesting as well as eye-opening; and aside from that significance, it gave me a glimpse of life then; as in, the political part of it. From Elizabeth II's birthday to Winston Churchill to D-Day...

- "...come what may, and hell to pay." A line shamefully ripped off of Wicked, the original book, which I greatly admire.

- Please review!—even you invisible readers, please do! –Bows-