Apologies for the lateness of this part, I had to type the whole thing up since I finally caught up to my writing and by the time I finished it, it was extremely late. But no more!

The final part is here and with it pain~

Why his enemies never pursued him past the Muhlberg Frederick would never truly understand. It seemed once they got into the forests the army pursuing them figured that they had been bloodied enough and let them flee. If they had kept up the chase then they might have wiped out the entire army altogether, but Saltikov was too exhausted to push his tired army into a hunt and Loudon refused to send his corps forward without adequate reinforcements from his ally so he was forced to stay behind. The Prussians were allowed to run quite free, bloodied and in a panic, but no worse off.

Of course at the time no one knew this and the men simply ran for their lives thinking that the Austrians might come charging after them any moment from their horses and cut them down. Frederick was among them, catching up to the rearguard after a quarter mile and gasping as he had to avoid the cannons that were left in the middle of the roads. Artillery men abandoning their cannons! The shame of it! They had neither the time nor desire to force the guns through the sandy terrain yet again so they simply left the cannons where they were stuck, all one hundred and sixty of them. Frederick had to slow to a canter as he darted around and between the pieces and the men swarming them, but the moment the roads were clear again he pushed into a gallop once more.

It was like when he had fled his very first battle, so many years ago. This time he was not in near of a state of panic as he had been before, but the same urgency remained that sent him flying past. Some men called out to him as he passed and others, lost adjutants and guards, rejoined him from the masses. He paid them no attention and kept his pace steady, rushing by faceless blurs and moaning clumps of men with hardly a second glance. Regiments mixed and intermingled, infantry was seen with cuirassiers, all of them fleeing and taking refuge with their comrades who they knew they could trust, the only semblance of order that remained among the army.

Frederick moved among them like a ghost, men catching only the briefest glimpse of him before he was gone. Everyone was heading for the bridges that crossed the Oder River, back the way they had come days earlier. He finally started to slow down as he approached the bridge near Göritz, where many of their own men had huddled together like frightened cattle as others crossed over to the west bank. He ignored the calls of his name and crossed with them, listening only to the constant thunder overhead. And sometimes, when the stillness of the air was broken by a sudden gust of wind and the surrounding soldiers were silent, he could hear tortured screams far in the distance, coming from Kunersdorf. From the dying that had been left behind being butchered by their enemies who prowled the remains of the battle, plundering their bodies and then slaughtering them.

My fault.

He moved without being truly aware that he was doing so, his body working automatically while his mind was frozen. Rittwein, he needed to get to Rittwein. His thoughts were no more complex than that, the rest filled with emotions that tumbled by until they all meshed together, despair and grief and hopelessness weighing down his heart. It was like he had fallen into a pool of water that had at first looked deceptively shallow and he was now drowning in it, unable to swim back to the surface no matter how hard he tried. Something black and large yawned open in his chest and it was swallowing him whole.

The sun was setting as he moved on, past Göritz and heading to Rittwein, he knew he would be safe there. The light had already disappeared behind the trees and the clouds overhead blocked out the rest of it, leaving the party to find their way in the semidarkness by lanterns and riding past tiny fires that some of the soldiers were trying to coax to life when they settled down. Frederick stared on ahead, knowing the village was not that far and that many of the injured would be taken there. He could not banish Gilbert from his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried. The way he had smiled right before the wound struck him, the blood everywhere, so much of it…who knew a body could hold so much? He had not taken off his gloves and he looked down at them, the darkness hiding their color and turning the stains into black patches. Gilbert's blood in his hands, streaming through his fingers as he tried the press the wound closed and pooling in the grass, soaking his boots and breeches as he knelt by his lover's side.

The wounds on him! How could he ever forget them? They came back to him, hazy and disjointed. He remembered the side wound the most vividly, how the ribs glistened in the light like teeth from a grinning mouth and how some of them looked to be broken. But cutting open Gilbert's shirt had revealed other injuries, the slashes in his stomach and waist from a messy butcher, and the stabs wounds in his chest. Frederick remembered seeing it occur right in front of his eyes and a brief flicker of rage burned in his chest, but only a few of them had been frenzied and haphazard. The rest had been in a neat little row, precise and done with care. Care! The word screamed in his mind and he had to close his eyes and fight the rising wave of nausea in him.

Only Russia could have put such care into a hideous act. Frederick used to think that his father was the greatest monster the world had ever unleashed on him but now he could see that he was wrong. Russia was something else entirely, something that was insane and inhuman. His father had a trace of it as well but only from the bouts of extraordinary pain brought on by his gout and may other illnesses—which Frederick could now sympathize with—that inflamed his enormous temper. Russia…Russia knew what he was doing, he was no anger-maddened beast, he knew exactly how much pain and suffering he was inflicting but he did not care and he enjoyed it. Frederick had seen that in his eyes and heard it in his tone, he liked hurting things and that formed a stone of terror that sat in his gut and surrounded itself in ice.

What had the nation done to Gilbert? Where had he taken him and what did he do to him? Frederick was not entirely sure that he wanted to know but the question still burned in his mind. He had always been too curious for his own good. He would never ask Gilbert, though, or force him to tell. That would be cruel.

If he is actually alive, the voice said gleefully. If he can still talk. If he isn't crippled for life because of the pain you've caused him.

He drew further inside of himself, wrapping himself inside of his shock and dulled senses. A blanket to hide from the world in. My fault. With a start he noticed that they had finally come upon Rittwein, the moans of the wounded heavy in the air as he rode by the filthy huts. Cossacks had already been through the area days before, stealing everything that wasn't nailed down and burning huts and leaving behind a mess of hollowed-out huts where surgeons rushed back and forth and peasants peered at them as they went by. More men staggered into the village in clumps, the unhurt and lightly wounded falling into any open ground they could get and resting there, some starting fires while others fell asleep right away and even more stared off into the distance in the same shell shocked state of blankness that Frederick himself had descended into.

Where to go now? All of the huts were filled, no doubt, and he refused to push anyone out to make room for himself. He stopped his horse by a fallen tree that looked to have been ripped away from its trunk rather than falling naturally. The wood did not look to be rotten, had a cannonball gone through it? No matter, it was not important. He dismounted slowly and had to hold the saddle before he fell; after riding for so long and in the state he was in now standing on his own feet felt strange. He felt too heavy to move, as if his despair had turned into actual weight that tried to drag him to the ground. He heard others dismounting around him and he sat down on the fallen tree, unseeing eyes fixated on the darkness in front of him.

His aides surrounded him, keeping a respectable distance, waiting. He knew they were waiting for orders, for some sort of command or assurance that everything would be fine. An order would mean that he was still with them and thinking and planning out how to make the best of their situation, as he had always done. It felt like he was thinking through honey. Thoughts would come to him and it would be an entire minute before he finally understood them and it would take even longer before he managed to burn away some of the ice inside of him so he could move and talk.

"Find General Fink," he said, his voice surprisingly calm. He felt like a poorly assembled house that rattled in every gust but he did nothing to show it outwardly. "Tell him to expect a message from me soon and that he is to report here. And find General Beilschmidt's location." He had to see Gilbert again. He had to see with his own eyes that he was awake and alive. "Search every hut and every campsite, go back over the bridge if you have to. I want to know where he is." His eyes flicked over to the men assembled, his gaze flat. "Take some others with you. Go as a team if you must."

They saluted him, murmuring their affirmations before turning and mounting again. He watched several of them riding off in different directions while only two men stayed behind, an aide and a guard. There were others standing around farther off but he did not know whether they were just passersby who stopped to stare curiously at the king or if they were other aides who were keeping a bigger distance than usual. He did not care and turned to look at the ground, away from all the suffering around him. The ice inside of him had returned and he shivered with it as it deadened his pain.

Frowning, he took off his gloves and pressed his hand to his face, jumping a little when it touched him. He was not shivering from shock, but cold! His hands were freezing and the feeling travelled all the way into his core, bringing another shudder from him. Only hours earlier he had sat in the full flower of August's heat, under a blazing sun and feeling like he was about to pass out from it, and now he was shivering! The air was still hot around him but it could not warm his chilled frame.

He sighed shakily and put both his hands on top of his cane and rested his chin on them, staring at the ground once more. Even that bit of effort to sound commanding had exhausted him and the hole returned. The void in his chest was growing again and it felt like he was spilling out with it, his emotions and care bleeding out of him and leaving him a shell of his former self. Everything is my fault. All of the disasters were his fault alone, he could blame no one but himself. Guilt ate at him like a ravenous beast, the only emotion unaffected by the hole and it happily paraded around his mind, whispering to him every single fault during the battle and showing him the memories of Gilbert dying, Gilbert being beaten, his soldiers screaming as they died in waves while uncaringly he pushed them on. His generals all telling him not to continue the assault, the fact they were all right and he had been too arrogant to see it.

And he had paid for his arrogance. He had lost everything, his love, his army, and soon his country would be next. The beast laughed and devoured him down to his very bones and then tried to suck the marrow out as well. He felt the world tilting again, like it had done in the Muhlberg, now that he was no longer running or doing anything to occupy himself his mind had free reign. He felt himself cracking further, those poorly assembled pieces of his sanity rattling like a broken carriage. All my fault.

And it was in that introspective, disparaging mood that Schenkendorf found him.

Frederick did not notice the man at all at first, his attention turned entirely inward. It was only when he heard the sound of a throat clearing did he jerk himself out of his thoughts and glance to where it came from, moving his head only a fraction. He recognized the figure and the uniform right away, despite that there was only lantern and fire light to see by. He had not ordered for Schenkendorf to come to him, so the General must have sought him out of his own desire. Words could not come to him, not yet, and he turned away. But even that had been enough for Schenkendorf who just stood there, waiting patiently and quietly for his monarch to sort out his thoughts, knowing that Frederick would not forget he was there.

The king was more grateful for that than he could ever express. How refreshing and perfect it was to have someone who never pushed, never prodded and yet understood everything without having it explained to him. Always polite and standing off to the side, but knowing he was not at all being ignored as some other men might and get offended as a result. A silent pillar of support like a Greek column that everyone thought nothing of while not realizing how vital he was.

His mere presence was enough to help calm Frederick somewhat. Just him standing there showed his unwavering loyalty and sympathy which Frederick needed more than anything at the moment. He had to say something to Schenkendorf, just like with his aides, and the calm aura Schenkendorf seemed to project everywhere he went was melting the ice inside of him and driving the beast away. Finally he heaved a sigh and felt like he could talk normally without breaking into a thousand pieces. "I am cold, Schenkendorf," he said, lifting his head. He had no idea why he said that but it was the first thing that came to mind. Perhaps he was reflecting his self-deprecating thoughts since he did not shove them away as well as he thought.

To his infinite surprise, he heard the sound of fabric swishing. Schenkendorf was then at his side and placing a coat around his shoulders carefully, enveloping his smaller frame in it. Warmth flooded across his body wherever it touched and made his breath pause from the sudden relief it brought. He had no idea he had been that cold. He turned to Schenkendorf again, observing the general who seemed entirely unperturbed at giving his coat away like that. "But that is your coat, Schenkendorf," he said with a frown. "Now you're going to be cold."

Schenkendorf shook his head slightly, the movement hardly noticeable. "I am not cold, Your Majesty," he responded, calm as ever.

He wanted to laugh, the insane desire springing out of nowhere and frightening him. Of course Schenkendorf was not cold, no one should be on this torrid night with its still air, but the king was. "You have hot blood, Schenkendorf," he said repressing another shudder. "Mine is frozen." It must have frozen in his veins, refusing to warm him like it should. He was silent for a long moment, staring in front of him as visions of the battle swam in front of his eyes. "Have you seen such a thing, Schenkendorf?" he asked softly without looking at him.

"What, Your Majesty?" Schenkendorf said in return.

"The Prussians were routed." It burned his tongue to say that. Yes, the army had retreated from battle before and some battalions had the dishonor of trying to flee, but the entire army routed!

"It was the left wing that broke and ran first," Schenkendorf replied, allowing scorn to creep into his voice as he did. It was harsh like the crack of the cane the officers used to beat their soldiers with to punish them.

Anger flickered inside of him again, but this time it did not die. The fog surrounding his feelings had lifted and he welcomed the change from the numbness that has seized his entire soul. He turned to pin Schenkendorf with a stare and he saw in the general's face that the coldness in them had returned. "But they are Prussians," he said sternly, his hands tightening around the head of his cane. "Aren't they, Schenkendorf?" His gaze slid down to the space next to him, staring at the bark of the tree as his mind flashed back to his wild ride through the forest. He was speaking again without realizing it. "I have seen wounds in the backs of the soldiers as I rode by. Back wounds!" He shook his head in defeat, wondering if the same wounds would appear on Gilbert's back to reflect it. "Those wounds did not exist in Prussia until today."

Schenkendorf chose wisely not to answer him. He did inch just a small step closer, leaning forward in what must have been the most subtle bow Frederick had ever seen in his life. "Your Majesty should get some rest," he entreated with only the slightest hint of anxiety coloring his tone.

This time Frederick really did laugh, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips. It seemed by letting that out the restraints on the rest of his body gave way and he shuddered from head to toe, nearly shrugging Schenkendorf's coat off. "I am shivering, Schenkendorf! The King of Prussia shivers!" Another mocking laugh, entirely self-aimed, rose from him. He couldn't help but give a self-deprecating smile as he hugged the coat closer around him, cuddling into the warmth. God he must have looked pathetic now. "Have you ever seen me do that?"

"It's very cold, Your Majesty," Schenkendorf replied evasively.

A pretty lie, they both knew it and knew the other did as well, but Frederick felt the gratitude washing over him again. Schenkendorf was as tactful in his words as he was on the battle. If only that tact could have saved them earlier! Despair came crashing back over him at full force and with it memory. "Kunersdorf…" he whispered, letting the word roll off his tongue. A simple village that the fate of a whole country could rest on. Thunder boomed as he said it, as if God himself was calling to the importance of the utterance. "When I heard that name for the first time I was here as a young man." Such a simple visit it had been, too, for the Crown Prince. He had thought nothing of it at the time, a simple village surrounded by hills and marshes that clogged the air with the smell of mud in the summer. "Kunersdorf. That this would be the name of my end?" The place where he would ultimately be crushed and buried, under hills and mud and the sweltering August heat. "Kunersdorf." He repeated the name again, each syllable branding itself into his memory forever, mental scars carved by iron and screams and the ping of a musket ball as it just barely missed going into his beating heart.

Schenkendorf's voice came again, its serious edge pulling his mind away from the abyss that the other man could sense his king was about to fall into. "And where to now, Your Majesty?"

"To hell, Schenkendorf," he said just as seriously, gripping his cane tighter. Where else to go but to their inevitable doom? The thought made him shiver and curl up on himself tightly, trembling all over. "It is warm there, I have to defrost." Another shudder and he pulled the coat over him tighter to hide in the warmth it provided. "I am unable to move any limb." He feared that he would be unable to stand, unable to move properly in his coldness. He had only felt this frozen once before, in an actual snowstorm in the dead middle of winter, but that had been another time and place.

He heard Schenkendorf hiss something and saw one of the aides come forward. The general's voice was too low to hear but the command in his tone was undeniable and moments later the aide saluted and strode off, his steps light and swift. Schenkendorf turned back to the king, concern pinching his brows. "The evening air is poison, Your Majesty," he said with a careful enunciation.

Frederick lifted his gaze up to him. "Poison?" he repeated with the smallest of smiles. Schenkendorf always had the most poetic ways of expressing his desires without saying them directly, and Frederick always saw right through them. He knew he had to get up and move, to take shelter, but he could not just yet. "Kunersdorf," he said again, staring back down at the dirt. The dirt that they would bury their dead in later. "A page in history. A small page, under two lines, perhaps. Under which Prussia lies buried." Something splintered inside of him to say that, something that sent cracks all the way from his heart to his fingertips. "Dust, Schenkendorf."

No doubt Schenkendorf heard the break in his voice. He glanced urgently around, for once his image of perfect serenity slipping as he listened to his monarch go on and dig himself deeper into his pit of misery. "Does your Majesty wish to stay here?" he asked, his voice only slightly curious tinged with a trace of a challenge. It was an echo of the aide's question on the Muhlberg so long ago.

Except this time the words had their desired effect, as the general hoped they would. Frederick's head snapped up again, eyes narrowing a little. "Do you think I am glued on here?" he demanded, digging his cane into the ground and rising slowly. "To turn into stone? To turn into a monument of my shame?" He rose to his full height and glared up at Schenkendorf, the latter did not flinch and there was even a smile in his eyes as he watched his king return to a small semblance of his normal self. Frederick turned to look behind him, feeling his limbs move sluggishly and painfully. He had sat still for too long and soon they would cramp up. "I have to write, it is the only thing I have left." Yes, to Finkenstein in Berlin and to General Fink, among many others. "Is there a hut somewhere that has some room in it? I promise that I am small enough to not take up too much space." He even managed to dredge up a sardonic smile somewhere from his soul.

Schenkendorf's sigh of relief was audible. "Ah, this way, Your Majesty. I ordered one of my aides to hold it and prevent anyone else from entering."

Frederick frowned as he followed where Schenkendorf was pointing, starting forward on protesting legs. "That was cruel. I will not sit in a hut while an injured soldier is forced to lie in the open air with the threat of rain overhead." He pulled the coat off of his shoulders and offered it to Schenkendorf, who had fallen into step just a little behind him.

The look in his eyes made Schenkendorf take it without protest. "There are many other houses and shelter, Your Majesty. Just this particular one happens to be one of the more noticeable places, so aides and orders may move freely among the army."

Thoughtful as ever. "What of the army do we have left?" Frederick asked even as his heart clenched.

"Three-thousand men, the last I had count of."

"Three-thousand!" Frederick exclaimed, shock breaking through him. He whipped his head around to stare at Schenkendorf, eyes huge. "Schenkendorf, this morning we had nearly sixty-thousand!"

"I know, but those that kept their sense of order and followed Your Majesty here to Rittwein number at about three-thousand. There are countless more still running circles in the forest and no doubt many of them are lost and unsure of where to go."

The words did not help. "The Russians will slaughter them all," Frederick moaned, nodding to the guard that stood next to the hut as he saluted. "All they need to do is sweep the woods and they will pick us all off like wolves."

"They have not done so yet, Your Majesty. There might still be hope."

He could only chuckle in response and give Schenkendorf a nod before he stepped into the hut. The man understood and saluted his king, watching him go and then turning away and vanishing into the night with his aides. Inside the hut was filthy, he did not expect anything less, but the sight of two moaning lieutenants on the floor surprised him. He turned to a man standing just inside the doorway, no doubt the owner of the house. "How long have these men been here?" he asked in German.

The man licked his lips a little. "Hours, Your Majesty, I do not know how many."

Frederick frowned more and knelt at one of the officers' sides, taking the man's hand gently. Warm, warmer than his own, but not hot. There was no fever there. "Alas, my children," he spoke to them, still speaking his German since the lower officers would never know French. "You two are badly wounded, then?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," one of them said although he managed to sit up on one elbow. "But how goes the battle?"

His gut twisted into little knots and he reached for the other man's hand, checking that for fever as well. "Are you bandaged, though? Have you been let blood?" he could not answer them yet and see their hopes crushed in front of him.

The other man groaned, a sound of frustration born of pain. "No, Your Majesty, not a devil of them would bandage us!" he said with a clench of his fist.

If Gilbert had been here then he would have skinned the surgeon alive that refused to treat them. Imagining his nation's face gave him the anger to stand and beckoned to one of his few remaining aides. "Go find a surgeon right away. There's plenty around that can be spared." The lad nodded and ran off.

He reappeared a few minutes later with a surgeon in tow and Frederick was immediately chiding the man, bringing him forward so he could look at the soldiers himself. When the surgeon tried to stammer out an excuse the king laughed. "They were desperate, you say? These are young men! Come here, feel this hand, and that one." He practically pulled the man to his knees along with him and lifted the liuetenants' hands for inspection, ignoring their astonished faces. "See? No fever there. Nature in such cases does wonders." He stood back up, listening to the surgeon mumble affirmations and start to busy himself with treating the men.

Satisfied, Frederick turned to the pile of straw that someone had gotten for him and sat in it, seated in a far corner of the hut that was thankfully angled away from the door. He did not want anyone barging in and disturbing his thoughts now that he could truly be alone with them. While the surgeon worked he picked up his writing desk that one of his aides had brought for him and rolled out a parchment and began writing. It would go to Finkenstein and he could barely remember the words after he wrote them, but he knew that he had put them into some sort of proper order and coherency and that the orders he wrote down were very clear. By the time he finished the surgeon had left and the officers had fallen asleep, both of them breathing deeply and their faces calm, no pain twisting their features. He handed the letter off to an aide with orders to send it with a courier to Count von Finkenstein in Berlin and started to work on his next letter to Fink.

He had barely put his pen to the paper when a chirp interrupted him.

His snapped his head up so quickly that he pulled a muscle in his neck, but the brief flash of pain was nothing compared to the joy that exploded in his chest at the soft fluttering of wings and the fluffy bird that landed on his desk. "Gilbird?" he whispered joyfully, holding out his hand for the chick.

The bird chirped again and hopped right into his palm, fluffing his feathers and staring at Frederick. He could have sworn the bird looked confused and he lifted Gilbird up to check his tiny feet. No letter. His heart sank. Gilbert would have undoubtedly sent him a letter if he woke up. But then why was Gilbird here at all, then? He should be keeping vigil at his master's bedside, as Fritz had seen him do in the past. He brought the bird up to his face. "Where is Gilbert?" he asked, feeling his heart start to race. Something terrible was forming in the corners of his mind that he dared not consider.

A distressed cheep was his answer and Gilbird fluttered to his shoulder, hopping around, then to the straw next to him. When he couldn't find what he was looking for Gilbird took off again to land on one of the officers with an inquisitive warble and a glance at Frederick.

"That's not him," Frederick replied, curling his hands into fists to stop their shaking. Shouldn't Gilbird have known that Gilbert was not there? "He isn't in here at all."

Gilbird chirped louder and flew to him, chirping frantically and flying in circles over his head until he grabbed him and shushed him quietly. One of the officers rolled over in his sleep but nothing happened. Those two black eyes were looking at him in fear, Frederick did not care that the owner of those eyes was a bird he knew that emotion when he saw it. It only magnified his own fear and he was shaking again, mouth dry and heart beating so loud it was a wonder the officers were not awoken by it. "You can't find him?" he whispered, barely having the breath to. "And you came to me instead?"

A despondent chirp was his answer and Gilbird flew up, resting in his hat. The same way he rested in Gilbert's hat all the time.

Oh please no—

Memory flashed in his mind, unbidden and unwanted, from many years ago. Gilbert laughing and petting Gilbird in his hand while the little chick grasped a letter firmly in its beak. "He can find anyone in the world," Gilbert was boasting, "he's awesome like that. All I have to do is give the person's name or describe them well enough and he'll eventually find them. It doesn't matter where they are in the world, he can do it. And he'll come back to me as well even if I moved, hell, I've woken up from dying before and have seen him right there on my bedside, waiting for me."

"What about people he has never met before?" Frederick had asked, amazement making his voice disbelieving.

"I just have to describe them. I've written small notes asking for whoever receiving it to write me back and I tell him random things, hair color, height, the eyes, anything I can think of and he'll fly off, be gone for days or weeks, but he returns. I've gotten letters written in every language across Europe, and even some weird script I've never seen before."

"Is there anyone he can't find?" Frederick had gasped, wanting to find some sort of fault in the bird's uncanny abilities.

He remembered how Gilbert had pondered that. "I don't know, really. I never sent him to go find a person sailing at sea, or a dead person for that matter." He laughed little. "I wonder if he would just fly around where he remembered the person last being or if he would actually go to their grave. He might be smart enough for it."

Gilbert had told Gilbird to come back to him after the battle, Frederick had seen it, so why could he not find him? Panic unlike anything he had even felt before tore him apart and his chest heaved in broken pants as the very real possibility crashed upon his head like the heavens themselves falling out of the sky. What if Gilbert truly had died for real and Gilbird could not find him because of it?

He came apart completely, with a crack that echoed in his heart and soul and sent the broken pieces of himself flying in all directions, slashing his chest to ribbons. He was amazed that he didn't start screaming from it all and he fell limply back into the straw and rolled onto his side, curling in on himself with his back to the world. The pressure had been building in him all day and now it was all unleashed in a flood that swept him away and now he had no wish to fight it at all. Something hot burned his eyes and trickled out of them and he pressed his hands against them hard, but that did not stop the tears. Deep, ugly sobs rose from his chest, coming from someplace deep inside of his heart that was raw and bleeding, and he kept them quiet with only the greatest difficulty. He could not stop the way his body heaved with each of them, though, trembling all over like a terrified animal.

There was a concerned cheep and he felt cottony soft feathers brushing against his hair and that set him off even more, even Gilbert's pet was worried about him and looking out for him. He cured up into a tight ball, hiding his face in his hands and then in his knees and crying. Broken noises whimpered out of him occasionally, drowned out by the thunder overhead and no one was any wiser to their king's breakdown and his utter despair. Life continued on for the men outside as they picked themselves up and kept moving, telling each other that yes the situation was bad, but there was always some good that could come of it. They just had to keep on believing and their beloved King would guide them through these harsh times. All they had to do was live and report for duty once the storm passed.

Frederick did not think he could do the same.

A/N: I bet you all forgot about Gilbird, didn't you? I know I did and when I was trying to figure out how too end the story way back in Part 3 he came back to me and the idea pretty much shattered my heart into a billion pieces. Ah Frederick I hate hurting you like that, I'm sorry ;_;

I will admit freely that Schenkendorf and Fritz's conversation is pretty much ripped entirely from the movie Der Grosse Koenig which is one of my favorite movies ever and he scene with the both of them in the beginning is one of my favorite parts. There was no way I could resist including it and I only changed the bits of dialogue to fit better with the story and be more historically accurate. And Frederick with the two Lieutenants in the hut also really happened, and him bringing a surgeon for them.

And so ends this prompt and man was it fun to write! It was a ride for me as well and I already found a prompt to make a fitting and heartbreaking sequel out of. Next time I'll try to make fluff, though, I promise.