Tonight
He's not asking what you would tell your daughter
He's leg deep in the hell of this slaughter
He's already died a thousand deaths
With every unsteady breath
A thousand ways
And every pore of his flesh
And he knows the war's not over
Knows there's bleeding to come
Knows he's far from the only one trusting this world
No more than hands trust rusted barbed wire
The next few days passed in a kind of absent haze. If asked, Peter would honestly say he couldn't remember anything but that there'd been a lot of crying and a lot of tea. He and England had talked a while each day. Peter was pretty sure they both spent most of that while apologizing. They spent a long while in silence, curled up together under the blanket Peter had spent months painstakingly making for England.
It was different, and it was exhausting, but something about it felt right. Something about it felt, deep down inside, wonderful. Somehow, despite the crying and the apologizing and the ever-looming fact that soon they'd part ways again, those long hours with England where they didn't fight and no one was yelling were... nice.
The time did come, however, when the meetings were over and it was time to go home. Peter couldn't sleep the night before, lying awake in his hotel bed petting Hana Tamago and watching the shadows on the ceiling. He was torn all over again, between being happy that he and England were finally, finally acting like father and son, and fear.
He was afraid, he admitted, that this wasn't going to last. That once the shock wore off, England would go back to before, to avoiding and hating him. For all he was older than he looked, for all he'd been through, Peter was still a child, with a child's fears and a child's vulnerable heart. He didn't know if he could bear for England to abandon him again.
So he lied awake all night, afraid. He didn't even pretend to have slept when Berwald and Tino woke- simply got up and went to prepare for the day. Berwald watched him impassively, but Sealand had learned that Berwald did everything impassively, and that there were gears turning in the big man's mind.
Tino's expression was more open and much easier to read- he was worried, and kept gnawing on his lip fit to tear the skin right off if he wasn't careful. Peter hated making them worry, but he simply couldn't muster the energy to be his usual self for them. It was all he could do to smile before he started packing.
He packed his clothing and the books and toys Tino had insisted he bring. He packed Hana Tamago's ball and spare leash. Under the bed, he found a shopping bag of water pistols and sat on the floor, staring into it. Two pistols- one red and one blue. The blue one was for him, he knew, because Gilbert would never have given up the red one.
Gilbert. Had Gilbert been telling the truth in claiming to be his father? England would know, but did he dare ask?
Of course he didn't. That would be unspeakably cruel of him.
But he knew who he could ask.
"Papa Berwald, Papa Tino," He said, standing and turning to them. "I... I need to do something. I can't go home yet."
Tino bit his lip harder. Berwald put a hand on Tino's shoulder and nodded. "Do what needs doing." Berwald said. "Y'need money?"
Peter nodded, flushing slightly. "Can you buy me a plane ticket? I need to go to Germany."
Saying good-bye to England had been painful in a way Peter hadn't expected. He'd expected to miss England once they were apart again, and he expected to be sad to have to leave him once more, but he hadn't been prepared for the sharp, twisting pain in his heart. He felt as though someone had run him through with a sword, as if his heart were burning up inside him, and the pain made him cry.
England cried as well, and they hugged. They hadn't hugged Peter's entire life half as much as they'd hugged in the past three days.
Peter went with Tino and Berwald to the airport. Berwald took him to the ticket counter and bought him a seat on a plane to Munich. His flight didn't leave for nearly five hours, because he'd asked Berwald to be sure he left after Ludwig and Gilbert, so he took his suitcase to the proper gate and sat down out of the way to wait.
Five hours in Heathrow was... interesting. There was so much shouting, children running about, yelling and baggage handlers and pretty stewardesses. Peter held tightly to his ticket and watched everything move past him, like ocean water around the massive columns that were the base of his micronation self.
He managed to doze off at one point, exhausted, and was woken by a pretty blonde lady with a wide smile who told him it was time to board.
He let her take his suitcase, gave his ticket to another lady, and stepped onto the plane. He was sat at a window near the back, and the blonde lady stowed his suitcase overheard once he got out a book to read. The flight would only be about two hours long, and he didn't want to fall asleep.
A portly man was in the seat next to him, dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase. His face was red and he sweated a lot. The aisle seat was for a thin old lady who talked loudly across the aisle to her friend about how rude young people were these days.
Peter was used to plane rides by now, and barely noticed the plane taking off. He simply opened his book and began to read. It was best if he didn't think about what he planned to do.
Peter's book was long finished by the time the plane touched down in Munich. Berwald had given him plenty of spending money, in case he needed it, and from the airport he took a cab to the trains. Gilbert had invited him to come spend the summer, so he knew where they lived, and bought a ticket on the right line to get there.
The train ride was long, but Peter knew it would be, so he settled back with another book, tucked in a corner at the window. The conductor who checked his ticket spoke only German and a little English, but they managed a decent conversation- the conductor's children apparently liked the same books Peter did.
When they finally, finally reached Berlin, Peter grabbed his bag and hurried off the train and onto the crowded platform. He knew the address he needed, but not how to get there from the station- he needed a map and a cabby who spoke English.
The map was easy to find, and he paid for it almost proudly. The lady at the stand smiled at him, called him sweet, and gave him a lolli for free. He made sure to thank her politely and went to an empty space, spreading the map out on the ground and searching for Südende.
About the time he decided whoever designed Berlin's streets was mad, a shadow fell over the map and someone crouched next to him, breaking his concentration. He looked up, squinting against the afternoon sun, at Ludwig.
"What are you doing here, Sealand?" Ludwig asked, frowning.
"I want to see Gilbert." Peter said. "I have to ask him something, and it's very important. He told me your address."
Ludwig sighed, shaking his head. "If it's important, I'll take you to see him." He said, standing up and offering Peter his hand. It was large, calloused, but warm and gentle. Like Berwald, Ludwig really only looked scary.
Ludwig's car was old but looked brand-new. He probably spent a lot of time on it. The seat was deep and comfortable, and Peter settled back with his bag in his lap, watching Berlin out the window.
"What did you want to ask Gilbert?" Ludwig asked after several minutes of driving in silence. "I don't think you'd be going to my brother for advice."
"No, I have to ask him if something he said was true." Peter said, not looking away from the window. If Gilbert had been lying, maybe he would come spend the summer, anyway. Hopefully he wouldn't burn the way Scotland did in the sun.
"What did he say?" Ludwig pressed, but in such a casual voice that Peter answered without really thinking.
"He said he's my other father." Ludwig always read the papers, so he had to know about England being his father by now.
The car came to an abrupt stop, almost pitching Peter off the seat, and he turned to find Ludwig staring at him.
"He said what?"
"Th-that he's my other father." Peter said, swallowing apprehensively. "Do... do you know if he was telling the truth?"
"He was lying." Ludwig said, taking off again, faster than before. His expression was pained and a bit grim. "Gilbert is not your father, Sealand.
"I am."
The next thing Peter knew, he was sitting in a chair in Ludwig's sitting room. His bag was on the ground at his feet, and Ludwig was sitting across the room from him, rubbing his temples as if they hurt.
"Why?" Peter asked. He had no idea what had happened between the car and here, but he knew he hadn't asked that yet, and it was what he wanted to know the most. "Why did you do that to England?"
"I don't know if you can understand." Ludwig said, sighing. "I don't even understand. I don't know- it was as though something possessed me. I... I don't want to say these things to you."
"You have to." Peter insisted. "You owe me it. You owe me telling me why, at least!"
Ludwig winced but nodded. "You're right, of course." He sighed again. "You're young, and you've been in war, but have you ever been in battle? Pitched battle, where people die? Where you take life, in cold blood? Have you ever felt battle lust?"
Peter bit his lip and shook his head. He'd seen some fighting on the fort, but it had mostly been long and boring and dull, and he knew it was nothing like pitched battle.
"Battle lust doesn't stop when the battle does, Sealand." Ludwig said, standing and walking to the window. One of his dogs rose to its feet and padded over, nosing at his hand; he pet it absently, staring out at the street. "The urge to hurt doesn't stop when there's no one left to fight. We fought, and I lost to battle lust. England lost that battle to me, and I lost it to myself. I wanted to hurt him badly, and I did. In ways I can never atone for. I let myself do something unforgivable- to him, and to you."
"You're not making excuses." Peter said quietly, almost accusingly. He wanted Ludwig to make excuses. He wanted to be able to maintain his towering hate and rage. He wanted to be justified in hating the man who'd hurt his England.
"There are no excuses." Ludwig said. He knelt on the rug, running his hands along the dog's flanks. "There are no excuses, and no atonement. It's not the only irredeemable sin I've committed- I stopped making excuses a long time ago."
"I want to hate you."
"You have every right."
"Why can't I hate you?"
"Hate is a dark, ugly thing, Peter- it doesn't become someone as bright as you."
Peter stared, his brain taking a moment to process that that was the first time he knew of Ludwig calling him by his given name.
"I don't hate you." He whispered, looking down at his hands. His vision was blurry. He must be about to cry. "I want to hate you, but I don't."
"Forgive me, Peter, but I'm glad." Ludwig said just as softly.
A long moment passed in uncomfortable silence, stretching on endlessly until finally Peter stood. He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around Ludwig's neck, sobbing into his shoulder.
"I forgive you." Maybe England didn't, and maybe Ludwig didn't forgive himself, but they couldn't all go on hating and regretting. France had been right in saying something beautiful had come out of something ugly, and if Peter was going to be beautiful, he had to be able to spread it. "I forgive you."
He was whole before that night
Believed in heaven before that night
And he won't be the only one
He knows he won't be the only one
