Disclaimer: ...-Mutters in the corner about horrible internet connection-
...
"...And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all
That ends this strange eventful history..."
- Shakespeare
...
He fell.
One moment there was nothing—nothing but the silent burst of fire, the harsh look of pain crossing his face—time seemed to slow down, if only a little; the shot tore his uniform, ripped a bleeding mess out of his chest; his mouth opened, slightly, to display a scream so shrill no one but the dogs could hear. The gleaming rusted steel dropped from his hands, quickly: the soldier it had impaled fell at a faster pace.
He crumpled. His whole body did—buckling in on itself, falling to the ground: he hit with a thud.
And just like when he had "died," Elizaveta could only watch; with hot frustration and cold shock all at once, locked in stalemate: She sprang forward then, to catch him: though she did not succeed, she still pulled him back up. He was soft and heavy in her arms; his clothing was his shell. She could see his mouth working when she knelt and turned him over to face her, could feel his wild heart strangled only by the ribs—concern gushed out with her own panicked breath, not wanting him to die—
"I'm fine," he croaked at her, shaking his head. Eyes widening—he could still talk?—she looked down at his chest, feeling about the red hole she saw—the bloody crater had been opened almost in the middle of his chest, below his collar bone; ignoring the rush of Russian speech around them—they had already lost—she flinched when Gilbert did; hastily she pried her own fingers away, seeing that his Iron Cross had deflected a half of the blow, though the bullet was deep. Squinting down, stifling a cough, she saw that it would be best to pick it out with some instrument. Something she did not have.
"Kol..."
Stifling a groan, stilling her pounding heart with ease, she turned to face him calmly, albeit slowly—steeling her limbs and eyes both to face the Russian and hold onto her Prussian companion at the same time. Her past injuries tingled with sensitive memory of the flesh; the metallic consciousness irked her so much that it hurt, and she fit her lip between teeth in effort; he heaved in her arms, and made an indignant noise that she had no problem ignoring; "Hush," she hissed from the corner of her mouth, though he had already fallen silent. The whole time she kept her eyes on Ivan—he was fast for his bulk, and she ducked—both her and her burden—when he took a swipe with the rifle in his hand, eyes gleaming—this scene was nothing to him but that of a cat and a mouse. Heart pounding, she kept her eyes level—the spark of madness lay in those opposing eyes; for a moment, amidst the panic in her chest, she felt almost pity for him—time and what came with it had done this to him. But she knew he was the enemy, and that thought was soon lost for later finding.
"Become one with Russia, da?" he said grinning; Elizaveta winced.
"Is that all you can say?" she replied, taking a swipe. His face did not change, though again he took up the chant of "Kolkolkol..." Straightening herself, she dared to loosen her fingers, touching, feeling about the bullet wound in Gilbert's chest; he hissed and for a moment wriggled slightly.
"So my bullet got him!" Ivan said excitedly, eyes widening with pleasure; it ran clear in his eyes; it took effort not to wince. "That was one of my last bullets, da!—Stalin must be a good thing after all..." Elizaveta again had to suck in a twitch of reply. "That was the best shot I've had in a long time, da?" He reached out a hand.
"Piss off!" Elizaveta spat, pulling Gilbert back; he gave a shout of protest at being protected like a treasure, at which she ignored once more. Eyes blazing with green fire, she glared into the childish disappointment above her; clutching at Gilbert like a lifeline, backing away with two steps. Static electricity went down her spine, at the outburst, at the danger: Ivan would not have this victory, at least! "Stop talking," she went on, cold and feral. "Just take us in already! Spread the communism! You've won!—get it over with!" She clenched her teeth, misaimed, and sliced her lip; blood welled and flowed down her chin: She looked, for a moment, awfully dangerous.
It broke. The façade Ivan had, at least very naturally; he looked confused, hurt, angry—surely he was not that insane? "If you insist, then..." He beckoned at his men, who sprung forth readily—those who still lived; blood had flown in choppy waves, and the designs they'd left behind rippled over the ground; like watered-down silk. Their rifles were out, and the horrible feel of being aimed at emerged within Elizaveta's consciousness; staring down into the deathly barrels, she waited.
...
"Don't move."
"Tell me that when you're not reaching into my body," he snapped back.
Elizaveta chose to ignore this: fingers down the red hole, bloody, torn, and open. Tainted silver lay just beyond her reach, while Gilbert twitched and swore above her; she'd propped him up against the wall, though she might as well have been trying to pick a screw from stone—the movement about them made everything difficult.
"Why couldn't you use chloroform?—you Hungarians have no sense of—"
"Pipe down!" She glanced over her shoulder as the cart rattled onto rocky territory; Ivan was up front. Something sharp jabbed at her insides—its name was anxiety. "Do you want me to get this out or not?"
"It hurts like a bitch whether you get it out or not," he said bluntly.
"Sucks." She squinted downwards, focused again, adding to herself, Besides, it'll get infected down there. And of course, that thought was hers and hers only—undisclosed, secret. She jabbed downwards again, her nail scraping against the metal; Gilbert flinched and hissed, "Mein Gott, woman!"
Elizaveta bit her lip as the wheel of the cart leaped over a rut—it shoved her finger deeper, causing Gilbert to groan; looking at the agony on his face, and the bloody wound, she could feel the pain as well; like metal, it pressed and cut at her own chest, sliced her stomach with the sensitivity. "Hold still," she muttered, feeling the flesh rip beneath her—the sudden bump had pushed in her one digit farther than she had dared, but now that it was there anyway...while the Prussian almost seemed to be trying to wriggle away... Fool, she thought, frustrated; this was where the sweat came in, leaking from her brow, sliding down slowly; the tension, through the noise of the cart—for the Russians had simply loaded them into the back, as occupied nations—blotted out the outside world. Gilbert squirmed at the slightest, and Elizaveta braced her other hand against his shoulder. "Stop moving."
She felt the bullet move; encouraged, she slipped her nail under the sliver of lead and pushed it up.
Yes...
"God damn it, woman!" he screeched—be a man! she snapped, too focused to really reply—and gave an enormous twitch, and which Elizaveta grit her teeth and pulled; the slug came out, gore clutching to her nail and blood leaking from the small hole, now empty. Isten. She slumped backward in relief, as did Gilbert, whose hand immediately went to his chest; he was breathing hard, as if she had torn out his lungs instead of the little burden. Ungrateful—, she tried to think, but failed; she knew wounds like that hurt, and that was an understatement.
Isten.
Roderich would've been practically crying at this point. For a moment, her lips quirked—temptation to smile; strange, as she was so worried about him. He'd better be all right, she added with a quick grimness. The thought of him hurt was horrible to her mind—unbearable. For a moment she thought she heard Chopin's music, like a terribly beautiful, agonizing death.
How long, she mused aside, had they been traveling?—an hour, at least? The cart was covered, and they were rattling along in some small room set in the back, where nothing was stored but invaded—she refused to think "captured"—nations. Not that Gilbert was really a nation now; the thought of it did not hurt, but did call forth empathy: her own years of foreign rule had been frustrating—though she had been more than happy with Roderich, she would have preferred the Austro-Hungarian; being almost his, side-by-side...those were glorious days...
"Are you even going to ask," Gilbert suddenly said, breaking the silence they'd achieved, "how in hell I survived and got back?" His eyes, wine-colored, moved to look at her; she looked back with idleness, giving undivided attention.
"...Yes." She cocked her head to the side, eyeing the hole in his chest. "I should've thought of that..." She bit her lip, nodding. Then leaned forward with every intention to bind the wound; her hand reached for her own sleeve.
"Well," he said, leaping right into it—though she could hear hesitation on his part, for retelling a defeat—"they...held me down—I managed to kill their leader. They were reporting to him, so probably it was him. I got him on the head; slammed it with my gun." Elizaveta looked closely at the bullet, nodding affirmative for him to continue; as she did, she tore the cleaner sleeve of her uniform, the air ripping with the sound. "So they took me to Hitler. He charged me with that traitor shit and sent me off to some camp at your place." Elizaveta stopped. Cold sweat formed on her brow again, with the shock—he'd been on her land the whole time...?—and yet, she'd never noticed—
"Ja, he did," he said, staring at her frozen hands; with haste she thawed them, with her level mind, and proceeded to tear the green cloth to strips. "You should've seen it..."
"I did," she said, determinedly winding the first strip about his chest; she refused to remember, to again see her people—hers—clambering about when they could, behind a fence, thin to nothing but bones and a thin cover; she thought a tear rolled down her face, but she was not sure. Her fingers stiffened. "The Germans were in my land, you know."
"Right." His voice softened, perhaps... "So they experimented on me there. They didn't remove any of my limbs or anything, but they injected acid"—Prussic acid, mocked the air about them, though neither of them added to it—"and...other stuff..." His voice, she noted, tightening the bandages, was harsh now...like some jagged razor, rusted, bloody. Again, empathy nudged at her; she thought she felt her heart soften, some way or the other. "But I managed to escape. Dug a hole near the fence. I managed to get out tunneling—some Jews tried following me too, but by then the guards had seen. They were shooting like fucking crazy—the Jews were already dead by the time we saw them coming, so I could only go.
"I wanted to get to the border with my place. The commies were headed there, but then...ja, that's when I saw you. You tried charging at them or something?"
She nodded; "I did. They came and...confronted me."
"Endsieg," he said, shaking his head. "Hmph. They really hit you hard."
"I've noticed," she snapped, with a slight tremor; swearing once in her mind at the shake of weakness: It had been so painful to fall... "But...what else was there to do?"
"Surrender properly."
"Never," she said quickly, firmly.
His mouth tightened in the shadows of a smile; "Ja."
There was a pause again, one that would melt into a halt: Elizaveta finished and settled back, the blood on her fingers cooling with the air; it stiffened, dried, and soon became a layer thin as the skin beneath it. She blinked, then—looking at the blood, the thought of Berlin hit her—the Germans, the ones whose anger had flared into the beginning of the end of the world—at least, as any of them knew it. Their suffering, and her own people...she blinked fiercely, trying to forget it—Roderich's face appeared in her mind's eye, and it was then that she could only smile sadly. He had made her a lady—oppressed her in the most beautiful way: she believed in it...but war, a crisis had brought out the buried side of her. Inside, there would always be a battle between what Roderich had wrought, and what Gilbert had aided.
"The finger," she said about an hour later. Gilbert had leaned his head back against the side of the cart, breathing the chilly air: white fog emerged from his mouth. So he knew...what a belated thought.
"Ja?" he grunted, unmoving.
"I—"
"If you must know," he said, closing his eyes. "I found it near you after the explosion. I thought it'd be weird to be there, so I thought you'd probably picked it up. Don't know why in hell you would, but—"
She said cuttingly, "I felt like it."
"Right." He nodded at the slightest; though it might as well have been the cart's motion. Elizaveta managed a scowl; her head ached. "So I picked it up. I rolled it up in the paper the other day for you to discover it—"
"I didn't." No wonder the paper had been so heavy...
"Of course not," he growled.
"Prussia."
"Ja, whatever...so you didn't find it. I saw the lump in your pocket and I put it in the pocket of your uniform when I got it from Hungary."
"And why in hell would you do all that?" she inquired; despite the heat of her determination to remain stern she found that it slipped—before she could check it—to something that closely resembled bewilderment. Why?—why waste so much, to just return a finger?—the thought of it was almost ridiculous...in fact, it was. Never knew he could be so fussy, she grumbled to herself. But then his personality had changed, at least for part of the war—to see his own brother help tear apart the world he had known...
He opened his eyes. "If you must know, I just felt like it too."
...And yet, the sound of such a reply did nothing to unnerve her—she smiled wryly, and very coldly in stubbornness; "I felt like it too," he had said—she could not argue with that. And when in hell had Gilbert Beilschmidt been able to word something in such a way?—all the time, but here...when the Great War occurred...everything felt different; only felt it. She accepted that, for she found herself able to.
"And that arsenic poisoning was done by the guards, by the way. Hitler could care less about you then. They tried."
At this, her line of thought shifted—the stream found its way to a waterfall, washing down to foam at the bottom: thus she curled her lip; "So you didn't do anything. You found this out when?"
Bam, went his eyes, flicking open fast as a bullet; he looked at her in a way almost indignant, close as anything of the sort could get to one such as him—demonic, she noted, looking at his eyes. Red. "While you were stuck in there." He scowled—almost. "It wasn't just because of the Soviets invading your place. I noticed so..."
Would you have rathered to see me die?—a stupid question, as she saw him—saw him—fumble for words. German, Hungarian, French, English—she watched him pass through those languages, looking any word—any—to compose a proper retort; he needed no skill borrowed from Mozart, and she knew that there was no way to express anything properly; nothing could answer the question she knew was gleaming in her eyes.
She shrugged, as Russian sounded from the front, and knew that they had arrived—where?—Russia?—she could hardly believe that, for it did not take even a day to get from Hungary to Russia via ancient carts. She looked at him—Gilbert Beilschmidt, for she knew Prussia was soon to be no more; he was out of stones to kill those birds stealing his sweets, so he could only watch hopelessly as they fluttered away, slowly as they wanted; would he be all right?—as she stared at the gaping hole in his chest she almost wanted to help the crumbling state, once such a proud, glorious nation...
The back of the cart was opened up, and Elizaveta saw patches of snow—the air was sharper here, and for some reason she thought of the flower edelweiss; it could only symbolize so much to her own mind. Blinded momentarily, her only coherent thoughts were those of sorrow—more oppression, and years to come of it. And she would fight to keep her nation; she had not been born to be used, a cow under a yoke, a dog on a leash. Impulsively she reached one way, and clasped her hand with a white, cold one, rough from days and nights of battle.
...
Nineteen fifty-six it was, and what a hellish year. She was sure, though, that it was worth it—it could hardly be anything else.
"Ich liebe dich," she said calmly, walking through the streets of Hungary. Through the corner of her eye, Elizaveta spied Ivan, no doubt snooping once or twice in case of more rebellion. Fool, she mocked, the rebellion will never stop. Gilbert had died, or near to it—she knew he had been dissolved, and he lay somewhere in something of a limbo, lying in what could only be described as a coma on the ground somewhere; surely near her own Hungarian streets. She felt no fear, stalked by Ivan, knowing that any moment could be her last—he could decide, somehow that, a piece of land like her would prove to be nothing than a burden, if he would have liked to fancy it that way—he could spring upon her and kill her, though she would not fall without a fight. She did not fall so easily.
He knew now that he was bothered—at the very least—at her German statement; it was puzzling to her as well, but she could remember that unfinished line that day, years ago, when she had first fought—at least in a more than fairly long while—with Gilbert again. The excitement still remained, and echoed through her whole being, because it was so new, and such a tear in her perception of space and time and the world itself.
She walked some more; it was cold, she noted, looking at the steely sky—if she reached up, could she touch the flat of a blade? It was no longer the age of those.
The streets were dark; it was almost an alley. Ivan snooping about was appropriate.
She turned, pivoted on her heel, around a corner; there was a rustle—she was surprised someone with such a bulk could achieve such stealth—behind her. She was not trying to lose him, just ignore him. The cemetery was this way, after all.
She did not think as she rounded another corner—Ivan was hot on her heels, and primal feelings took hold as best as they could.
The war was over, and thank God. Relief had swamped her the day der Führer had finally died—it was appropriate, she'd thought, when learning of what details she could. Der Führer's grip had then ceased to exist: remnants were his shadows. Though they stretched and spread phantom claws over all that dared near, it was over. At least, der Führer was over. The ache, the war, had not stopped—not the Great War, but the rest of the century of toils: that had merely begun. The dull knife was still forcing its mangled tip into her chest...knowing Ivan was watching, always watching, she took a wrong turn, trying not to shudder or reach for her chest: the phantoms of the bullets that had pierced her there, and her shoulders.
At least they had not been the cannonballs.
Ivan had been merciless the day she had decided to finally cut the bloody communist seal from her flag—the day she had followed up and declared rebellion. Running afresh within her mind, there was again the memory hellfire and broken bones. She had expected the tanks, and thank God none of them had hit her, for she knew her existence was that of her people...and yet, if only...
There was a shift in the reality, a warp—it was then that she knew Ivan to be gone, done with following her. She did not allow herself the wry smile, lest he was sneaking a glance, or two, or three—it would seem suspicious. Nothing she did was suspicious enough to matter.
Or was it?
Abruptly she spun about, rewound her steps, took the right turn this time—the cemetery was not so far now. She could practically feel the grain of the stone beneath her palms, her padded fingers, skimming down the wonderfully cool mark of death; the eerie peace, and the glowing-white skeleton to meet her.
There is it was, in the distance, she spied the flickering of white through drifts of cold snow—silver could not blend, not well enough, for her.
Nor could red.
She knew she shouldn't go faster—as if to reveal her eagerness, which she smothered quickly, assuring herself it was not there (even though it was, and the background consciousness told her as much; she was bad at hiding). She kept her feet steady, quiet—the glaringly metallic sky flashed on the snow, and it beamed at her, giving silent encouragement, yet still dripping mockery; like the pieces of a puzzle, she let her facial expression fall into place, so that she would appear blank as the moon. He was watching, she was sure. The colors of the season flecking the gravestones nodded at that theory.
She tried not to smile like a child then, instead wrapping the thin coat about her shoulders with the aura of purpose; the snow was beautiful, like death. Fitting.
She ignored the speed of her heart, grinding against her ribs.
She ignored the frantic blindness in her mind, screaming for acceleration.
As if she expected herself to fly.
It was then that she reached her destination, and thank goodness, for her patience had been tested one second past too many. He was there, having fled from the Soviets' grip to stay in her country, at least for a while; and yet he was not out, so it was almost all right—Hungary was their territory, while Prussia had none. Not much longer, she retorted; she perked her chin up higher, to show what could not be seen. She and her people belonged to no one. They never had.
(Not that it had taken long to think that.)
"Gilbert?" she said, voice raspy still from the past month's shouting. She blinked, and halted at the Prussian's gravestone, then looked about.
"Ja."
Like a leopard, he sprang from behind it, cocky, unusually quiet—the cold had done that, frozen him in place. He was ablaze with fire, wintry, as always. Gilbert stared at her, and it was almost awkward. Elizaveta knew, very well, that he had recovered his personality—himself—from the struggles of the Great War, after being taken to a pit of suffering, the concentration camp; something there had triggered it, galvanized the shield of tin from his skin—the need of being himself had emerged; bless clairvoyance. And yet, she knew, it would take years for him to recover. Some part eagerly awaited that, and another repulsed the idea, wallowing in the will to avoid. It would take time to put together one such as him.
"Hello," she wanted to say, "how are you?"—the thought put a reluctant, fish-slippery smile on her lips.
He grunted, pointed at the gravestone beside him; it was small, yet bravely shining. The dull gray rock wrought grimness upon his face, and—perhaps?—a tear in his eye. Imprisoned, it glimmered there, thought it could have been the cold. "A random Prussian soldier died. I found him near my border"—neither of them wished to say former—"and buried him here.
"I don't really know him." Elizaveta blinked at him to go on. "Never really did. I just remember seeing him sometimes, with the other troops. He never really stood out, he was just another guy. Don't even know his name." He shrugged, eyes shining harder. "I found him lying dead on the ground. He was so freaking mutilated..."
She observed him for a moment then, took in his form: he looked no better than the last time she had seen him, at least before he had come to Hungary: still he was pale, thin; in fact, he was thinner, and paler. His icy skin had almost shrunken down to his bones, and she imagined herself to be in the same state, though she had not caught a single glimpse of a mirror in so long. The last time she had seen him, before he had come to Hungary, was when the cart had opened up, spilling in white light, and the Soviets had taken them, separated them. She had felt little, only maybe a bit wistful, as she had found herself to be alone once more.
She hated loneliness. She hated what brought it.
First Roderich, and then Gilbert...
She had seen Roderich too. Scraped his borders, and watched with crystalline tears the weary man in the distance, still in a fine coat, though worn. Her poor Roderich, his forlorn look as he stared blankly at the blue Danube to the side. Her heart had then, at the very last, crumpled. If only she had called out to him—but then what would that solve? How could she fix the last time she had seen him, before she had left for Berlin? No, only time could bring that, and leading action.
Time. What a cruel hand it wielded.
She turned to the stone, where it was blank but for the words declaring him a Prussian soldier to the last. Fitting, she said again in her mind.
Movement in the cold air about them; Gilbert had shuffled to her side, and they held vigil.
The only things lacking were candles.
She touched his chest, where the Iron Cross lay; she felt a protest rumbling in his throat, though it never came; she was not relieved, for she would have taken it either way. Fingering the grooves, the icy metal, she wondered in a way not idle how the bullet in his chest had fared—when he been taken away from her—how stupidly romantic, she grumbled—he had begun to look weak, his life bleeding out and staining the bandages.
Rubbing against the spot, and him not protesting—this scene almost seemed to fit, in their long history of...she decided to leave that alone, for others—what others?—to decide.
They were too tired to do much at that point, when not in the name of practicality, and nations.
"Well, I'm tired," Gilbert proclaimed, choosing this piece of time to lean against Elizaveta, at the very slightest. She grimaced. Instead focusing on his snowy locks of hair, she bit her lip—it bled again, though she was plenty used to it—and played with the cross about her neck. What was it...an anchor to Prussia, to the Germans? Was this all he had?
"I'm tired too," she said.
"And how's it going, then? Russland slackening?" he said conversationally. Elizaveta grimaced again.
"Not yet," she said, recalling the nation's face, "but he will."
"Of course." He almost grinned—she caught the slight crinkle of the lines on his face, as if his mouth was to curve...he came out almost expressionless.
She shoved against his cross, grimacing; the wound had faded to nothing, but the iron edges hurt, as did the bullet embedded into it (he had not removed it?). He tensed.
"And you?" she said scathingly; regret would not come, though it almost hurt to see the proud nation...almost humbled: He looked wearier than he already was suddenly, she'd hit a nerve; in reply, he shrugged. She was not used to seeing him like this still; not in past conflicts, not in their current crisis.
You miss him, thus epiphany spoke to Gilbert, in the best way it could—only Elizaveta heard. You miss Ludwig, your brother. Elizaveta shrugged at it; why tell her this?—it was not her brother. She wanted to tell him that, but he knew, did he not?—he was the one suffering from it; one look at his toneless red eyes was enough. In a way, she thought, he loved his brother a lot, and this split the Germans so cruelly.
But that was a conclusion long passed.
"What am I doing," she suddenly sighed—abrupt, it made her not care who was listening. "I'm talking to you about this..."
She bent down then, brushing cold powder off the surface of the stone. It stung her hands, which were still scratched from the past weeks of rebellion; appreciation grudgingly poked out its head, for the silence of the graveyard, with no one but the dead to accompany her. She'd had too much gunfire and screaming thickening the air about her, the air she breathed; the air here was clean, white.
Silent.
Gilbert stooped down beside her, as, with reverence, Elizaveta used wet hands to tear away a layer of dead ivy; she left the withered cornflowers at the bottom, long absorbed of their color: a tribute from someone...
An idea was sent in her mind for appeal.
She immediately agreed.
Breathe. She did just that as stupid excitement gripped her—she was paying tribute to a dead Prussian? How did this happen? Suddenly she was confused, with what she was doing there, what she was thinking, what time it was, what she had been doing in the past few weeks. A cough racked her chest, batting the severed thread away, for her to organize. Her breath spread a thin layer of neat water on the stone.
"Do you have a knife?" she asked.
Gilbert cocked an eyebrow—she did not need to look to know he did; after some rustling, he handed her a rusted blade, still keeping respectful silence. She reached out with a pinked hand, only then realizing how cold it was: the knife came to her, so she closed her fingers about it. "...Danke."
His breath shifted in cadence. Surprised. "Bitte."
Elizaveta turned the blade in her hands, admiring the workmanship; it had probably been torn from a bayonet or something of the sort, for it had no handle; she breathed again, blowing fog onto it. It gleamed, white, against the silver for an instant before fading away. Forlorn as she. Easing it into her frozen grip, she held it against the stone; aiming as easily as her childhood bow and arrows.
It ran in, a quarter of an inch; it hurt her hands, but she gave the start a nod; the blade had not broken from the impact.
So she went on carving at the geological flesh.
The years had been hard. She could account for that, as she lifted the blade and rammed it in again. Still, that would be an understatement. Slam—the blade penetrated the rock. They had been hectic—and yet still, that was not enough. She had emerged alive, as did her husband—she ignored the facts—and so did Veneziano, who had suffered under the Allies but, she was sure, had retained his...closest to innocence. A tear jabbed at the edges of her eyes.
She pried the blade out again and chiseled the next letter. Almost done.
She had fallen in love, or near to it. She hated Gilbert still—she still hated him so much; but as he shifted in the cold beside her, clothes nearly in rags...
"Prussia is dead," she murmured. Next letter...
"Not exactly," he drawled beside her, recovering spirit. "The land may be gone, but the people are still there..."
She finished the letter only in time to put her other hand on his arm; he flinched, she flinched—both at the contact. The material of his clothing had softened to cotton. "Right." She dropped the blade and looked down at her one bleeding hand; she was a warrior again, like the old days before Roderich had come along and brought her eloquence. Was that a good thing, or bad? She felt free, almost, and violent.
The sun...
She lifted her eyes, as did he; above them, the sky grimaced, at long last splitting itself into a gaping hole, releasing the hot butter sun pouring onto the clouds. The gold melted into the metal fluff, warm and belated, but there—this symbolized one thing at once: The future, and the years to come.
They stood.
Elizaveta blinked, dared to then look at her side to the Prussian still staring with an unreadable expression at the sheer brilliance above them. In the mist the yellow-white illuminated his face, the curves of it, every line, from frozen hair to ruby eyes; somehow, she felt as if she could stand here forever, if only he would stay silent; they were in that moment alike. (As if they never had been like that once...)
She shook her head, looking away from the shattering of the light upon him. The present. The present mattered, if she were to work for more of the light that had chosen such a time to reveal itself.
She left later. Time had not been recorded, as she plunged into the trail for freedom, and her nation; she could have been standing there with the still-alive Prussian for hours, for all one could tell; but when she did he had grinned, felt the spasming heart in her chest, in looking forward to many more days ahead of them as the carved words in the grave—of a dead nation's soldier—gleamed with small power:
"Resurgam."
...
"...Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."
- Shakespeare
...
PT: Aru~~ Final chapter. Crap, I can't believe I've plowed my way through this fic. –Disbelief- So yeah, this is the end...if anyone is confused, please comment and ask for me to clear anything up for you. I really enjoyed writing this, and it'd be nice to know that you guys enjoyed reading this just as much.
- So I'll be writing another PrussiaHungary fic—I've decided that it will be a three-shot, unless I change my mind. It won't be as...epic, I guess, taking liberties from modesty, from this fic; the writing style will be very, very simple, especially next to this—or at least I think? But it will be simpler. Austria actually appears in this one. –Flails- ...So if it would ever pique your interest... And at the same time perhaps a China-centric Three Kingdoms fic, straying from a bit of my headcanon. Haha, shameless advertising. I KNOW 8D
- The rebellions mentioned here are of Hungary's...revolution, if you may, against Soviet rule. Because, yeah, they didn't really like the Russians...-underplayunderplay-
- Might I mention that I'm in my school library writing this now?
- How ironic that I'm finishing this at about the end of the school year...to sophomore year I go~!...God help me.
- Potatoes to anyone who gets what "Resurgam" means.
- ...Okay, this is getting awkward xD Well, thank you all for reading! –Bows-
