Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery.

Warning: Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Intense Scenes of War, Gore and Violence

Chapter Twenty One Characters:

-England/ Arthur Kirkland

-America/ Alfred F. Jones

-O.C./ Lance Corporal Lachlan Walker

Time Frame: World War I

-Never Your Hero-

Chapter XXI

"The Burning Grey"

This was insane.

The hand with a death-grip on his arm was the only thing keeping him from being washed away by the sea of chaos surrounding him. The flares in the sky were gone, but the explosions never stopped. Somewhere beyond the meager barrier protecting the hundreds of troops racing for the far end of the trench, artillery shells changed the face of the planet and bullets replaced air molecules, all in an effort to give them time to haul ass to God knew where.

Alfred hadn't spoken since Walker bluntly told him they were on their own, and he couldn't do anything other than try to keep up with the Australian, as he cut a path through the raging current of men. The whole experience was deafening between the shouts around him, the cries of motivation and panic, the war happening just beyond his sight, and the piercing whistles of things falling from the sky just before the world shook. He'd been elbowed, kicked, accidently stabbed with bayonets and butted with rifles more times than he could count, but Walker never slowed down and he was fucking grateful for it.

Suddenly, the world went from shaking to bucking beneath him and he was thrown forward when a tidal wave of screaming men crashed into him from behind. There had been another explosion, this one much closer, and what debris hadn't fallen on the shield of bodies on top of him struck the areas of his face his helmet wasn't covering. He couldn't breathe; he was being crushed and suffocated by the burning stench of metal, dirt and flesh before multiple hands began reaching down and scrambling to get people up and moving again.

Walker's hands were on him once more, getting him to his feet and not giving him any time to recover before yanking him back into the remainder of their section of the current, and as quickly behind the standing barriers as he could.

Running. Running faster. Not looking back. Alfred was still trying to retrain his body to breathe, but he couldn't focus long enough. He was having trouble hearing; everything sounded muffled and distant behind the high-pitched ringing in his ears. His eyes were reddened and watered from the grit caught in them, and there was a horrible pain radiating from his lower back. He was holding onto his rifle so tightly he thought his hands might fuse with it, and for once he wasn't complaining about the helmet, as shower after shower from the storm of pelting debris rained down on him.

There was another intense quake, but Alfred and the men around him only briefly stumbled as they regained their breakneck pace. Another section of the barrier had been hit up ahead, which meant even more of their numbers had been reduced. Alfred's stomach was in knots when he saw nothing but thick smoke and raining ash in the distance, and all along the wall were flames eating away at what was left of their cover.

Walker looked back and shouted something, but Alfred couldn't hear him and frankly wasn't paying attention; his gaze was turned away towards the bodies littering the path.

Men were forcing themselves not to look down or give second glances; they jumped over body after body, racing for the next solid section of the barrier to catch up with the rest of the group. Alfred tried to employ the same tactics, but was failing miserably. He barely made it halfway when he slipped in something dark and wet, falling and catching himself on his hands as he came face to face with the twisted remains of what was left of a British soldier. The encounter lasted only long enough for Walker to grab hold of him again, and then to resume their previous pace.

Alfred hadn't been so covered in blood since Arras, and he wasn't happy about renewing the experience.

The race to catch up seemed impossible. Alfred felt as if the ground were forever stretching before him and extending its hellish miles out of spite. His feet never stopped moving, and Walker's hand never released his arm. Alfred was no more consciously aware of breathing than he was of how fast his legs were moving, or how many men he and Walker had finally begun to rush past in the mad dash for the front of the line. The obstacles flew by as Alfred swore not to make the same mistake of trying to make sense of them and allow for distraction again. He could have been leaping over sandbags or bodies and wouldn't have known the difference; all that mattered was that he didn't stop until his body or the war gave out first.

At some point he had passed Walker, and the human's weakening strength caused his fingers on the American to loosen as he fell behind, too out of breath to call out for his charge to stop. But he didn't have to, because this time it was Alfred reaching back to keep him moving.

Though he tried to ignore his heart, heavy with grief, as he passed human after human he couldn't save, it was an unspoken promise that he and the Australian were finishing this race. Walker had done his best to get him this far, now it was his time to return the favor.

Baltimore – the logical strategic choice, but he had warned them that this war had scarcely been about logic. He had stressed to them, practically begged them not to leave Washington undefended and his pleas had fallen completely upon deaf ears. Madison was looking north and not to the west of the Chesapeake, as he should have. It had been the reason Alfred had removed himself from the fighting at the Patuxent to return to his capital and persuade his leaders to reason.

To his anger and dismay, the reaction he had received from his boss had been the empty reassurance of a stressed parent to a child, and his military leaders had only dubbed him daft, with orders to leave intelligence to the qualified. No one would listen, no one believed him, and Alfred knew in those moments that the humans truly didn't understand him, or that the game had changed…

Arthur had landed on America's shores for the first time since departing from them at the end of the Revolution, and Alfred knew that unlike his leaders…Arthur's were listening to the words he whispered into their ears.

Take the heart, and you shall have the nation on its knees.

Now, Bladensburg, the last-ditch effort by the only soldiers left to assemble outside the fields of Washington, had fallen. The disaster made an absolute mockery of everything the patriots of old had fought and died for, as the battle had lasted little more than an hour before turning into a chaotic retreat. While he was screaming his case to his heads of state in Washington he felt the echoes of Bladensburg, and knew all hope was lost. His knees had given out, and for the first time since arriving in his capital he had lapsed into silence.

It was the silence that had finally convinced his leaders of what his words could not, but rather than fighting for him an evacuation was ordered…but Alfred could no more run away than he could rip his own heart out.

He had been taken kicking and screaming from the Presidential Mansion, and loaded into a carriage bound as far away from Washington as possible. The coach had only made it so far before Alfred had become uncontrollable and disarmed his retainers, seized a horse from the caravan, and began riding as quickly as possible back for the capital.

Running. He had to run faster. Not away from the terrors invading him, but towards them at full speed. His commanders had failed him, his own President had failed him; his people had tried to save him and proved no match for the British war machine proceeding towards his heart, hellbent on making an example of America's impudence. He didn't know what he would do when he got there or even what he could do; he didn't know if his pleas to spare Washington would be any more effectual than his failed petitions to defend it, but even alone as he knew he had to try.

He had to; he was too afraid of the consequences if he didn't. Beyond wanting to protect the people and city at the core of his nation, he had felt the pain of invasion before during the Revolution – how each colony taken had caused him so much agony it had brought him the closest in life he'd ever been left thinking death might have been merciful. He had no desire to endure the suffering wrought from his own heart being gutted and bled from within by British guns and bayonets, again.

But he was too late.

Bolting over the last hill between him and Washington, the first spark was struck and Alfred felt as if he'd been kicked by a Clydesdale, causing him to lurch and nearly pitch from the saddle. The horse beneath him swerved in its course and started slowing, but Alfred knew he couldn't afford to lose any more time, and righted the beast as soon as he could breathe again. Panic was beginning to swell in him as the first echoes of pain from the attack on the town surrounding Washington began, and the tightness in his chest was steadily increasing. He needed to go faster!

He no sooner made it to the outskirts of the city, his horse no more than a moment's gallop away from the perimeter, before a second kick from within threw him from his mount. Alfred never felt his impact with the ground or remembered how many times he tumbled, as nothing registered over the blaring pain in his chest.

He was gasping, but all he breathed was fire. Flames seared his mouth and throat, setting his lungs ablaze and his whole body seized as the British made a pyre inside of him. His heart was racing but couldn't escape; his ribs had formed a prison in which the precious organ burned alive within him, and all he could hear was its screams – screams that he so badly wanted to echo but couldn't past the inferno choking him.

He could only taste fire as smoke filled his nose and sinuses. The orders for more torches deafened him as much as the pleas from the steadfast citizens remaining in the city. His skin was melting from his burning bones, he was sure of it. The heat from his body was impossible to contain and he thought the earth around him might burst into flames along with him.

When a sound did escape him, it was a strained, half-choked whine as his body thrummed with the marching of British soldiers through his veins. He couldn't stop them from coming any more than he could reverse the clock of this war. Red-clad soldiers flooded him and began invading the center of his being, ransacking his congressional chambers, and throwing tinder and torches on the arteries leading in and out of his nation's core. He wanted to scream, to fight back against the seizure and subsequent torture of his heart, but he could no more find the strength to stand up through the pain than take on the might of the British Army by himself.

He felt burning behind his eyes, but couldn't tell if it was from tears or the fire consuming what was left of him.

The night was filled with the red brilliance of Washington burning. Though Alfred remained on the ground, tightly holding himself as if it might keep the rest of him from falling to ashes, he didn't need to look up to know what the sight of his nation's capital being consumed looked like. He saw and felt it in every fiber of his being…and wished, for the first time in his life, that the men in power who had condemned him to this could feel it too.

"Hit the deck!"

Before Walker even had time to react to the soldier up ahead yelling out the command, Alfred had dropped them both and was half-covering the Australian as the screeching whistling above them ended in an explosion. The earth shook from the impact of the mortar round near their position and a tidal wave of dirt crested the now nearly depleted protective wall crashing down over them. Neither man could move for several moments before Alfred burst forth from the earthen flood and dragged Walker up along with him.

He would have asked if the man was alright, but knew there wasn't time as another whistle in the distance signaled that another round was coming.

Running through the bombarded area was like racing through mud. The ground beneath them was saturated with a mixture of retained rainwater, chemicals and bloody gore. Each time another bomb exploded a new layer of soft earth and flesh was added to the thoroughfare, and where they weren't dying from it, the men were dropping from the sheer exhaustion of trying to get through it. The numbers of the pack had lessened considerably, but there were still enough soldiers pushing on to make a unit – Walker and Alfred among them.

Neither man had so much as made a comment or looked at each other until the path up ahead became hugely obscured – but this time by living, breathing men jumping down from an incline and disappearing beneath the earth. Alfred faltered at the sight, but Walker seemed reinvigorated and in a burst of energy he took the lead, pulling Alfred along until they were both over the edge.

The Australian landed on his feet and soon collapsed to his knees under the weight of his gear while Alfred, who hadn't been expecting the jump, fell painfully on his side. Both men were out of breath, muscles feeling viscous and unable to take any more abuse. Alfred felt his heart pounding in his head and his blood felt thicker than his veins could handle. Looking over at Walker, who was slowly getting to his feet and stumbling until he was able to lean against the trench wall, Alfred guessed he wasn't much better.

"Look alive, mates! We wait here ten more minutes and then get as far down this trench as bloomin' possible," someone shouted from the front of the group. "You oughta keep your heads down and keep going north; don't slow for anything! We're already late, so I'm pretty sure the Canadians must think they're waiting on a bunch of bloody Americans."

The comment got a few chuckles from the men who could spare them but none from Alfred, who scowled deeply as he pushed himself back to his feet but was half-stopped by Walker grabbing him.

The Australian gave him a look reminding him to keep his cool, but Alfred really didn't need it. He was too wired and exhausted all at the same time to be biting back at a British soldier making smart-ass comments. Besides, it wasn't as if anyone here knew he was the lone American in the group.

More troops gradually trickled into the trench, and after the designated wait, the man at the head of the group ordered everyone who could to move out. With the belief that the survivors still to come would eventually follow, everyone picked up whatever gear they had dropped and mustered on. Walker and Alfred stuck close to each other, not just because of their familiarity with one another, but also because it became increasingly obvious from the uniforms and accents around them that they were the only non-British soldiers in the lot. There was a sense of isolation even among allies, and the pair kept quiet and shoulder-to-shoulder when they could, and as front to back as possible when they couldn't.

The trench was a winding and uneven beast; the ground rose and fell in height, as did the dirt walls lining it. Sometimes it was easy enough for two to three men to run abreast, but at other points it narrowed to barely accommodate a single soldier and his gear pack. It was a trial for everyone to keep going, given how tiring and harrowing the journey just to get to the trench had been and how some people were now noticing that comrades were missing. Even Alfred was still feeling the painful weight of not knowing where Arthur was, but he had to keep going and just be grateful Arthur was a damn hard man to kill.

He was out here somewhere and he'd find him, but first he had to survive fulfilling his obligation to Matthew and the Field Marshall.

Suddenly, something hard knocked against the back of his helmet and nearly sent him stumbling into the man in front of him. The shock of it had him paling and searching around for the source in a panic, one hand trying to fix his skewed helmet as the other tried to balance him.

"I warned you not to look back or I'd knock your block off. Best not forget I'm a man of my word."

Alfred whipped his head around and stared at Walker in absolute shock while the Australian only returned a stern look to the American. Alfred looked absolutely indignant, but knew arguing the point was moot. The current situation aside, Alfred knew his expressions always gave everything away and Walker had already made it known how easily he could read them. He couldn't deny that in a roundabout way he really had been looking back, but he hadn't thought Walker's threat had been as figurative as it had been literal. As much as he'd have loved to return the smack, he left his protest at a grimace and mumbled a flippant obscenity before turning away.

It didn't look like the company was stopping any time soon, so energy would be best spent on moving rather than arguing.

After a while, the momentary break in tensions made Alfred miss conversation and need interaction beyond the accidental push or shove, or jab with a bayonet. Time passed and he eventually fell back a little more to be even with Walker, and leaned in like an adolescent scandalously conversing in church. He felt a little silly about it, but he didn't feel all that comfortable speaking out loud when the somber atmosphere surrounding the group was so oppressing.

"So, the goal was to get to these trenches, right? And these should take us all the way to where the other units are?"

The Australian gave Alfred a brief sidelong look before staring ahead again and nodding. "The Canadians and Anzac – the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps where I come from – built these trenches during the first two phases of the campaign. They were supposed to remain open as permanent supply lines once the defensive lines of the front were more solid, but as you can see that's hardly the case," he began, keeping his voice low enough for just Alfred to hear over the distant chaos beyond them. "The front is constantly moving, and the line where the bulk of the fighting is is more snakelike than anything. Where we started the line was closer to us, hence the difficulty encountered in getting this far…but soon it should curve away before we reach the northern units where they're getting ready to spearhead the German hold in this area right on."

Alfred thought about this for a while and remembered the maps he had been looking over with Arthur before the abrupt meeting with the Field Marshal. It seemed incredible to him how so many people were out here fighting in these horrendous conditions for what seemed like feet and inches of ground, but here he was joining the ranks ordered to do just that. This had been going on for…three, four years now?

By God…

"How long do you think it'll take to oust the Germans from the village?"

There was a sudden jolt in Walker next to him before the man turned to stare. "What did you say?"

Alfred blinked and looked confused. He didn't think he'd said anything inappropriate… "How long do you think the operation will be to take the village?"

It seemed incredibly out of place to him, but Alfred watched as an odd sort of scrutiny crossed Walker's features before the man grunted, shrugged his shoulders to adjust his gear pack and looked away.

"As long as it takes."

Sometimes, Alfred just didn't get this guy.

As time dragged on it became clear that Walker's prediction about the line curving away was right. The sounds of the battle beyond were more distant than they had been in what felt like ages, and many breathed a sigh of relief. The pace slowed to something less frantic and more manageable; some men were even able to fall back and rest for a bit or take time to sip at their canteens. Alfred hadn't taken a headcount before the company had moved from where they entered the trench to where they were now, but he could still tell their numbers had lessened even further from the initial mad dash to the rally point.

All around there were sounds of men coughing and labored breaths of exhaustion; he could hear someone further back moving quickly through the lines calling out names and asking others if they'd seen his friends. Someone close by was chanting something under his breath, either a psalm or prayer he guessed, and someone, who had to be a medic, had a man's arm slung over his shoulder as he continuously triaged the soldier as they walked. The entire experience heading northward made his stomach twist, but for fear of another smack to the head by Walker he kept his face and thoughts focused on the destination up ahead.

Further down the trench Alfred heard something heavy collapse, and while the line never stopped moving, it split to accommodate the only soldier who stopped to aid a man who had crumpled from exhaustion. Alfred saw the struggle the men were having, and against Walker's grab at his shoulder to halt him he jogged forward and tapped the assisting Brit's shoulder, and motioned him on. The man didn't seem to notice or care about Alfred's uniform in his gratefulness, and stepped back to let the American take over.

Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Alfred crouched down and pulled the fallen man's arm behind his neck, holding it steady as he used his other hand to grab the soldier's belt at his hip, hauling him to his feet. Given how tired he was it had taken more effort than usual, but he knew he could still support the man's weight and his own and keep going. The man was burning hot to the touch and his skin was an angry red; his breaths were fast and shallow, and his eyes were near closed and unfocused. He was sweating profusely, and as Alfred moved forward he noted that he was more dragging the man than helping him walk. It seemed the soldier's strength had completely given out…it made Alfred wonder how many more were in this condition and not getting any help at all.

"Hey, stay with me," Alfred coaxed the man. "I can do all the walking, but you gotta hang in there for me, okay?"

The man seemed too far gone to even be listening to him, but he kept breathing so Alfred felt that that was at least a good sign. Alfred felt someone stepping in closer to him and knew it was Walker, but it didn't stop him from continuing to whisper words of encouragement to the man he was carrying.

The soldier lived over the next few miles it took for the company to finally arrive at the last leg of the journey. Considering the strife involved in reaching their goal there should have been celebration, but no one so much as uttered a sound while drawing up to weary attention upon reaching the Canadian units waiting to commence the final assault on Passchendaele.

The sight at the end of the road wasn't much better than the road itself.

In a widely dug-out section of the trench, packed into the near-circular enclosure of mud and sandbags, were close to a hundred Canadian soldiers. Men were unrecognizable beneath the dirt and grime of their surroundings that covered them from head to toe, but scattered Dominion insignias were unmistakable in their identification. Steel-helmed heads seemed to turn up all at once in the direction of the incoming Brits, but whatever hope there had been upon the initial thought of reinforcements died upon beholding the sight of the battle-weary soldiers trudging forward.

Alfred watched as faces and hearts sank, and those who had given up on standing lowered themselves to the ground to hang their heads in defeat. Older men with harder faces put on stone masks and rooted themselves to the spot as the British company came to a halt, and the Brits looked on to those they had come to back up with equally disheartened expressions.

This was all the commanders had sent to reclaim Passchendaele from the Germans? Dead, dying and disconsolate men…?

A sharp breath from the man he'd been supporting brought Alfred back to the present, and he quickly began tending to the soldier he'd promised to help.

"Is there a medic?" Alfred called out, breaking the thickness of the atmosphere and gaining the attention of many who watched him lower the exhausted British soldier to the ground. The American removed the man's gear as quickly as he could before he finally looked up again, but felt his ire rising when he saw no one responding. "Is there a medic!"

He couldn't believe how long it took for people to begin moving. A few senior Canadian soldiers began issuing commands for others to bring water canteens and med kits, and rail off lists of names of people they wanted front and center. The British soldiers who were still well enough to remain mobile aided by pairing up with Dominion soldiers to help move equipment and stabilize men overcome by their injuries and fatigue. A Dominion soldier came to Alfred far too slow for his liking, but began working on hydrating the weakened Briton as the American continued supporting him. Alfred was more than relieved that the man seemed to be responding, but as he looked beyond the situation before him he saw that the majority of the men in both units were stationary.

Damn near frozen in time.

Men were standing still or huddled against the trench wall, heads hanging and gazes lost. Others seemed to be watching those who were moving with oddly detached expressions, as though the entire world were an out-of-body experience. Alfred looked from one seemingly lifeless form to the next and found himself wondering if he was in a trench or a grave. It was like looking at the empty shells of men whose souls had been spirited away, and the bodies left behind were in varied states of confusion, woe, or acceptance. The very atmosphere of the place seemed to drain energy from everyone trapped within it, and Alfred felt the immediate instinct to counter it with quick-tempered emotions and action. Part of him knew how irrational his anger-fueled frustration was; that it was no more the fault of these men for their dispirited states than it was for them to be succumbing to this unnatural place. But rationality did nothing to relax his tensed muscles, his clenched fists, or his shaking body.

He couldn't figure out who he was angrier at, the men doing nothing or the men in charge who had sent them all to this hellhole in the first place.

A heavy hand falling on his shoulder broke the American's thoughts, and he looked up to find Walker standing above him and silently motioning for Alfred to follow him. Alfred watched the Australian heading away as he carefully transferred the British soldier to the Canadian's care. He neither expected nor received a 'thank you' from the man, but quickly got to his feet before jogging after Walker as he headed away from the crowded center of the trench.

The sounds of men asking others who was in charge, followed by others asking seniors to run down the list of officers who weren't dead, began to fade the further they travelled. Alfred obediently continued following Walker and passed by several Canadian soldiers stationed on guard along the trench, but never once earned their gazes. Soldiers were staring into the nothingness of the countless stagnant pools speckled in the mud; only they could see the reflections of the horrors forever replaying in their minds, while others were sprawled along the trench walls…eyes closed…with others too afraid to see if they were only sleeping.

Alfred's eyes kept trailing over the men sporadically positioned along the line, and more than once he saw large rats move amongst them without raising any alarm. He swallowed hard and looked ahead to find Walker by a wooden ladder leading up, and Alfred slowed his approach as he eyed the Australian and the slope wearily.

"What are we doing here?"

Walker's eyes were locked on Alfred's. "Showing you what men out here fight and die for," he began, and then stretched out his hand to Alfred. "Give me your rifle."

The American immediately bristled and his grip on his weapon tightened. He hadn't realized it until being confronted with the thought of losing it, but he was highly uncomfortable with the idea of being without his most relied-upon weapon. Not to mention he wasn't too keen on giving up his primary firearm to someone looking at him with such an expression of enigmatic resentment.

But his trust of Walker ultimately won, and he reluctantly thrust the rifle into the man's waiting hand. He watched as Walker removed something from one of the multiple pouches on his belt and finally attached a scope to the top of the weapon.

Alfred eyed it curiously before Walker returned the rifle, and then motioned for him to go up the ladder. The wide-eyed question on Alfred's face finally drew a response from the stoic Australian, "Just look east."

Nothing more passed between them until Alfred grasped the first rung and ascended the ladder. It took a lot not to stop and ask one more time if this was really a good idea to be popping his head over the top of a trench like this, but eventually he made it to the last rungs and carefully positioned the rifle over the edge first. As nothing happened, he carefully drew himself up the last few inches and graced the lip of the trench, then peered through the scope…

He had once walked through a section of forest in Tennessee that had been burnt to the ground by lightning after months of drought. The trees had looked like sable pillars of ash that could crumbled at a touch, and the earth looked like molten tar where the wind wasn't scattering the remains of the foliage that had settled there. The streams had dried to nothing and the rolling hills had been leveled. The only life to be seen came from the wisps of smoke curling up from the spiteful embers that still smoldered beneath the earth. The beauty of one of his nation's greatest natural havens had been reduced to a nightmarescape not even Edgar Allen Poe himself could have conjured.

And even that horrible memory…was like a captured shadow of a moment of paradise compared to what he saw in the scope.

Devoid of color – even the black of tar or the crimson of embers – the world beyond his scope was burning under the torment of invisible fire. Clouds too heavy to be fog and too old to be smoke obscured the endless countryside, as though a parade of ghosts were forever wandering the perpetually grey world. Monochromatic pikes stuck out of the ground like half-finished grave markers, and twisted coils of barbed wire rose from the earth like tangled serpents frozen in time. Every now and then the haze clinging to the intangible phantoms patrolling the grounds would thicken into pure white where it pooled in the craters and trenches left abandoned after the last engagements. There was no telling what lay hidden beneath the white…except maybe the portals to the deeper circles of hell lying beneath this Purgatory.

In the dead silence, shaking both from the sight and the cold, Alfred withdrew the rifle from its perch and looked at the world beyond without its aid. Beholding the sight on a larger scale did nothing to lessen its impact and Alfred felt terrible dread seeping into his soul, as if he knew it too would be departing him to join eternity in this place in the coming offensive.

This place…this terrible place…by God, what had humanity done?

A hand on his ankle and a sudden jerk wrested his stare from the horribly transfixing scene, and unable to bring himself to his senses in time, he hit the trench floor hard on his back and looked up at the man above him, breathless and in shock.

He was cold, pale and shaking. His eyes were wide and unable to focus until his companion crouched down and leveled his gaze at him. The American and Australian continued to lock eyes in silence until Walker finally gave voice to the world again.

"No man is ever saved out here. No man we delay death for will ever escape this place. Remember that the next time you're about to lose your temper, remember it still the next time you risk the safety and sanity of others to prolong the suffering of just one soul."

The words hit home and hurt him more than the fall had. Walker wrenched Alfred's rifle from him and stood, removing the scope before dropping the weapon next to the American's prone body. He left without another word, heading back to the group clustered further down the trench as Alfred remained where he lay and stared up at the charcoal sky.

Night was falling, but all the evening seemed to do was add an ominously darker tint to the nightmarish grey, and the sky might as well have been a reflection of the Purgatorial earth below it.

Alfred recognized the tears slipping down his face only too late.

He was dying and being carried deeper into hell. Vice-like hands gripped him tightly as the demons drug him lower into one of the horrid circles. The agony consuming him never once ebbed, and all essence of time was lost in the flames of the inferno raging inside his body. He was past the point of recognizing anything happening around him; he couldn't differentiate between the screams inside or out, nor could he tell which flames were more painful – those under his skin or licking it.

Still, he recognized hands upon him – but was powerless to fight them.

Before long, or an eternity later, he was dropped on the ground that neither brought relief nor managed to give him a new pain to focus on. He wished he could be numb to it all already, but he was granted no such mercy as he weakly curled in on himself again – too exhausted to writhe any longer.

And then he was there…even through the pain there was no mistaking the shadow of that presence that invaded his shores and his being.

He was closer now, somewhere above him, and it made his stomach roll.

"This is what happens when you allow humans to dictate the sole rule of your country…and then turn human, yourself."

His body spasmed and something within him seized…and broke. Whatever inside of him that wanted to fight was extinguished, and all he could do was let out a stifled sob. He couldn't deny how much he hated those who had allowed this to happen, how much he wished they could share in this suffering and truly understand the depth of what their poor decisions had wrought. Yet at the same time he still felt shame – terrible shame for having allowed things to progress this far, for having failed the citizens of the city here and ultimately for being reduced to a crumbled mass at the feet of the British Empire. He had sworn at the start of the Revolution to never kneel at the feet of another master ever again…yet here he was, prone lower than even his knees beneath his last colonizer.

If ever there were a moment he truly wished for death, it would be now.

Hands were upon him again, but this time they were gentler and softer. A hand cradled his head, providing a cushion against the hard floor, as the other rested on his upturned cheek and strangely began wiping the tears away beneath his eye. For the first time since being thrown from his horse, Alfred managed to partially regain his vision and settle his unfocused gaze on the reddened outline of Arthur Kirkland, crouched above him and set against the backdrop of the burning Presidential Manor.

He couldn't make out the details of his face…but he knew enough to see that there was no smile there. There was neither victory nor triumph, no satisfaction for having avenged Canada and York painted on his expression. There was something akin to understanding, and worst…beneath it all…there was sadness.

"I knew you weren't ready for this…" He whispered so low Alfred could barely hear it over the crackling of the flames. "My heart burns with you."

The beginning of the day and the assault began with the heralding of cannon fire, rather than the sun. Through the haze and smoke it was impossible to see the morning star presiding over the battlefield, and the putrid stench of the trench mixed with the heated stink of iron and gunpowder ensured no one had an appetite. The recommencement of the Passchendaele offensive after the seven-day pause had begun and the new mix of British and Dominion troops lined the trench, the first rows of each column of men with their hands positioned on the first rungs of the ladders leading into No Man's Land.

Alfred was among them, body listless where he stood in the third row in the sea preparing to crest the walls of the last Allied sanctuary between Ypres and Passchendaele.

His sky-blue eyes were grayed-over and dull. His face was ashen and dirty, and his hands looked as though they were clothed in brown gloves from having spent the past three days helping to reinforce the trench supports. He held his rifle in his hands, barrel and bayonet pointed at the ground, as he and the other soldiers waited.

Everyone would have a turn to ascend the ladder and take his first steps on ground level, and then pray he didn't end up six feet under again. It was a race to get to the first cover, the first dugout or mortar hole to take aim, fire and reload before racing forward again. The barrage of cannon fire behind them would have hopefully taken out as many enemy guns and Germans as possible, but whatever lay hidden in those pillboxes they all knew would remain untouched. Rifles, grenades, side arms, bayonets and combat knives were all any of them had to help them advance once artillery support ended…

Every shot had to count, and God help the man who went hands on with a bigger, faster opponent than himself.

"INFANTRY AT THE READY!"

Every head looked up at once, eyes front; no one dared to look back at the group selected to stay behind and shoot anyone who refused to pull himself out of the trench.

"GOD BE WITH YOU, LADS!"

God had nothing to do with this. Man had everything to do with this.

But the men who had nothing to do with this were the ones suffering for it, and Alfred's last thought before the signal was given was that Arthur had been right...

He let humanity get away with murder.

"CHARGE!"

And the screaming began.

To Be Continued…

Notes from the Author:

Howdy again, ladies and gents! I had been promising action for a while, and I sincerely hope I have delivered. This chapter is a little shorter than the norm for this story, but given the heavy content of it and themes involved I hope you can forgive me for that. A lot of work went into putting this chapter together, and I want to thank my wonderful Beta editor, Acqua-Toffana; my British-History/British-Language consultant, WrathoftheElite; and PapaJack1 for having aided me in finding Ypres historical documentaries. I also want to thank Zombie4Pie for all of her amazing fanart and motivating me through a serious writer's block (THANK YOU, DARLIN'!). Last but not least, I wanted to thank KitakLaw for bringing out the right emotions I needed at the right time to finish the hardest part of this chapter – and she has likely no idea she even did it. ;)

With credit given where credit is due…ON WITH THE NOTES!

-By the end of this chapter we have kicked off the final Battle of Passchendaele, which concludes the Third Battle of Ypres and "Act III" of this story. I have made the executive decision to cut the actual descriptions of the battle itself due to a number of reasons, but first and foremost being the intensity of the fighting having been so heavy and graphic in nature. While its not as though things haven't been rough, violent, and down right frightening up to this point already…there are some lines even I won't cross, and this is a pretty good example of one of them. I hope you can all forgive me for this, but I promise that even without the battle described in full the next chapter will not disappoint! As for the present, know that when the British reinforcements arrived at the Canadian's rally point it was during a 7-day break in the battle. The fighting on both sides had ceased for approximately a week to allow for regrouping, tending to the wounded and the dead, and finally for the British, Anzac and Canadian divisions to get into position for the final push for Passchendaele. The Canadians spearheaded the attack, flanked by French army units conducting strategic missions to the north, and secondary British units to the south. The aftermath of this battle will be detailed more so in the next chapter.

-Trenches. The trenches of WWI have been detailed a lot throughout this story, as trenches are one if not the most iconic images of the war. In this chapter the challenge was to describe actually being in a real working trench rather than the training trenches from chapter 7. Other than reading eye-witness accounts of the trenches, soldier journals and watching documentaries to get a true feel of what it would be like to make the made dash Alfred and Walker made, I also made a trip to Halloween Horror Nights October 2011 for the Nightingale House they had. It may sound reeeeeally silly, but I will honestly say that the whole reason I swallowed my fear (I'm a HUGE chicken with it comes to horror themes) and braved the terrors of HHN was to experience this WWI themed horror house where guests would run through a maze of trenches besieged by Banshees, undead soldiers, and ghosts, all in the middle of a battle between British and German soldiers. It was INTENSE! The sights, sounds and smells made the experience so utterly overwhelming, and the constant gunfire, bombs exploding and either demons popping out to grab you or British soldiers trying to save you was mind-blowing! Running through that trench was heart-pounding and scared the beegeezus out of all of us, and though it felt like an eternity trying to find our way out, it had really taken less than three minutes…And I was taking notes on my note pad right after.

How's that for fanfiction research? XD

-Edgar Allen Poe was an American writer and poet in the 19th century. His works were based in the horror, macabre, and (ironically enough) romantic genres. He is widely argued as one of the greatest writers who ever lived, and is known for works such as "The Raven", "Annabell Lee", "The Fall of the House of Usher" and many more. His life was about as tragic as his tales, and his masterful use of words to create the most terrifying and darkly-beautiful imagery really was something. To be frank, his stuff tends to edge on the freakishly dark even for me... :) but I respect a master of the craft.

-Maryland, 1814 – The second time in American history the nation's capital was invaded by the British (the first time during the Revolution), and the first and only time Washington was invaded and its government buildings burned were to the ground. During the beginning stages of the War of 1812, Americans had stormed the city of York in Canada, looting and burning the city. In retaliation for this, and once the Napoleonic Wars had been dealt with in Europe, the British crashed over American shores and were dead-set on acquiescing America's demands for attention. While intense fighting was concentrated to the west and south of the capital, mainly consisting of naval battles fought around the Chesapeake area, the bulk of the American ground forces were being moved further north towards Baltimore where everyone expected the British to concentrate their efforts. However, the British instead made landfall far south of this location and began a march on the undefended capital. A small group of fighters hastily formed a defensive position between the oncoming British and the town outside the city perimeter. Needless to say…the Battle of Bladensburg ended terribly, with unprepared and mostly untested American soldiers against hardened veterans from the Napoleonic Wars in Europe the Americans really stood no chance. The fall of Bladensburg paved the way for the British to move without resistance into Washington, where the city was seized and burned. In almost every American history book I have read this is considered one of the greatest military blunders in American history to date, and one of the most humiliating acts ever committed against the U.S. on the continental U.S. The burning of Washington was to demoralize Americans and make a point about how the British Empire dealt with those who threatened its interests and…well, to be frank America was really politically and socially pissing it off. To go into all the details of the War of 1812 could take up an entire fanfiction of its own, so I shall leave this summary as is for the time being and encourage all to research more on this often forgotten war on your own. :) It's worth doing!

-Shellshock/what we call PTSD today, like the trenches have been introduced before story…but like my divulging deeper into the trenches, I wanted to go deeper into what was mentally happening to the soldiers here. Once again turning to war diaries, soldier journals and documentaries, it became a working puzzle fitting the pieces of this dreadful picture. I also combined all of this research with having lived with my veteran father who had severe PTSD for the entirety of my life knowing him. To give the most detailed and realistic pictures I can, I try to add as much real life experience to my research, and weave it together with as much imagination as possible. I hope this has all translated well, in this example and others throughout the fic.

I've kept the notes brief this chapter and am happy to say that chapter 22 has been started. I'm working on it little by little in between a few short fic projects, school papers and the chaos of my life – but it's slowly, but surely happening. :) I want to thank you all so, so much for all of your continued support in reading, subscribing, and reviewing this and all my works; it really is inspiring to see so many enjoying my stories, and I cannot express my happiness enough, or how much it means to me. Thank you all again, and until next time!

Sincerely,

General Kitty Girl