Disclaimer: I kind of wish.

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Inspired by current reading: Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini.

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A scene—windswept branches. Far-off mountains. Grass on a plain. Pitter patter, trickles into the forest, where rain deepens yellow to green. Pitter patter, and then a roar.

A picture—shade in the woods. Shadow blackens leaves. Windswept hair. The silent roar, calling now, from the depths of green. An anomaly of yellow, streaked like water. A man.

A story—the scream of a thousand years. The roar of pride, the one that calls so loudly without any sound at all. The eyes turn, reflecting forest green.

A word—kind.

...

It is the same as unlocking a door on a flood. The edges stream, fit to burst. And so much water...so much water...

Click, click, and that is all you need.

You don't even have to turn the handle.

Where to begin? Where does it end?

...

Gilbert liked to think of himself as an avid reader. Not often, but often enough. After all, when he found himself at the end of the day, on the brink of a holiday, almost inexplicably without work to do, what else was there? So he cracked open another book, one more to reading all there is to read in the world, and another and another.

But somewhere along the line, a pull was enough to make him stop before continuing again. What was he to make of this?—so best to keep reading. After all, there were dozens more books to go. Keep reading, keep reading.

And pray to God that it would never end, because he felt that he was living again. The pain of hundreds of years, an unending ache he was not spared even now.

His, all his.

Names like Vati and Ungarn and Osterreich.

Reading is to imagine. To bring memories that were never yours until you made them.

There must be a term somewhere, to describe bringing memories anew.

...

Vati brought home a baby today.

Gilbert had never had one of his own before. He had seen them being carried by the other women of his tribes, played with some of them, even. He knew they cried in the middle of the night, when it should have been sleeping. He knew that they cried when they were hungry. They cried when they need to relieve themselves, cried when they actually did. Cried when they woke up. Lots of crying.

But Vati brought home a baby today. And it looked like Vati, and nothing like Gilbert.

That was all right, though. Gilbert didn't look like anyone.

...

Ungarn's voice never changed much over the years. Neither did her name, he thought, with a very slight bitter aftertaste. She had always been commanding. Demanding. So powerful, the strongest boy in the world. And now, the strongest woman in the world. But that was a long time ago.

Osterreich used to squeak. He did not when he grew up, deeming instead to squeal. At least he whined less when he was a child, and Gilbert was never sure whether or not to be surprised. Changes came strange. Not strangely—strange.

Very little changed, until the day he saw them holding hands.

That was all you wanted, then, Ungarn. After all those battles, you just wanted peace.

But only a certain kind of peace, the kind he could never offer.

...

Dying was like retiring from life.

After all, did he not live, but differently, now? After being alone, he was still lonely. Even with his brother there, in the glorious, glorious Deutschland. And sharing in this glory, in his own small way; no grandeur, just the plainest Prussian pride. Something he had made himself. Kept himself.

So that was how one kept something for himself. Something no one could take away—and he, himself, could never really relinquish, either.

But the guilt overtook him sometimes, and his brother, too.

...

Blank pages. There was a dozen left.

Gilbert awoke in the library, the beginnings of dawn showing in the blue—blue, not black—of the sky, the birdsong calling in solitude.

Elizabeta had fallen asleep on him, the only reason he did not crane his neck to watch for the sun; on one side, the books were neatly stacked; on the other, Ungarn's head lolled pleasantly as his shoulder twitched.

Ungarn.

Hungary, he translated, and decided that he liked it in German better.

Her hair was warm. Draped over his shoulder like a fine shower of silk, ending in soft rivulets against his cheek, if he tilted his jaw enough. Which he did, rather shamelessly, now grateful more than ever for her presence; for this chance.

He had never actually considered his feelings for her. She was his friend, no matter where or when, or how, or even who they were. But what was it—a hundred years ago?—when he finally thought of it? He was human yet—immortality was still only returning in small, gradual curls of smoke. A hundred years was a long time, and he had lived it.

Strange.

He would have liked it, he thought suddenly. He would have liked to be the one holding her hand—not in another fight, but as if it was a correct and good thing to hold it. As if he should be holding it, really. He had considered this in the back of his mind for years, even when she shot at him, stabbed at him, not wanting him dead, but not allowed to want him alive, either.

And he had never really wanted to be with her as anything other than a friend...but he was too restless to have let her be just that, either. She had to be his enemy, first. The way her green eyes flashed, with anger—terrifying, beautiful, exhilarating.

She sighed, softly, in her sleep—finally relieved of the burden of centuries, allowed to be as peaceful as she liked.

He liked not being her enemy. And now it had come past being a straight friend; it had moved onto another form. Friendship with a feeling.

And that one encompassing feeling had nearly killed him again when he first felt it. Because it is one thing to love your friend; it is another to love your friend in a certain, heart-thudding way alone.

It is nothing but a burden.

Her separation from Roderich had given him another chance—or, maybe, the first chance, now that he did like her (love her, not as friend, or maybe a different kind of friend) and now that she did like him back (but not the same way).

Would he pounce, now?

A chuckle, that came out as a choke. She sighed again, and he joined her. He never deserved it before. Maybe now, but not before—she did not know that, did she?

He tilted some more. Stopped. Dropped his head the other way, leaning towards the books.

You could start anew, he thought. Forget about that. You are human now. Mortal, whole and hale. You could live a Prussian, die a Prussian. Love the one you love, and maybe she will love you back. Work with your brother as the Germans you protected for so long. Live. Live peacefully. And die. Finally die.

Elizabeta shifted in her sleep, rolling her head until it was settled comfortably in a corner near his neck, drooping down his shoulder; in her sleep, one arm—her right—reached, and her body leaned and leaned until she was wrapped around him, breathing contently. Apparently, she cuddled in her sleep.

Despite her warmth, the ice in him refused to thaw. There was something. He could not let go.

...

PT: A secret—I have bad memories with the word "kind." German for "child."

Did you know that one of my friends cuddles in her sleep, too? (Where did you think I got it from...) nwn

I wanted to make this chapter longer, but felt that it should be the way it is. And sorry for not updating in months—they've been hectic, but, you know. –Shrugs- Please don't leave me, I appreciate you all for sticking with my train wreck of a story :C I want to edit everything before this chapter right now, but there's no wifi. Because. I'm in China. Let me tell you, the whole country's wifi sucks. I know. I've tried a bunch of free wifi places.

And, no, I won't be back in America until August. I'll be going to Europe after China (note: we are not rich, I promise you that; I am just very lucky, and a touch crazy). But there's bound to be better wifi there –eyebrow wiggle- Let's just say I now see why Americans are so fat and lazy (and I'm one of them). More than before, anyway. –Embraces China- Take me back, Mother Yao!

Thank you for reading, and thanks for sticking with this mess of an author. Reviews water my soul and make mushrooms to feed this starving college student. Critique grows lettuce to remind me to stop being fat and unhealthy.