Chapter Thirty-Seven: Family

Canada had taken to wandering further and far more frequently in recent days, as France grew less and less responsive. The less responsive Franc e was, the less likely it was that the man would slip from the house while he was away. At least, he hoped that was the case. He only knew that he couldn't stay in the house every moment with France, who would either lie there, saying nothing, or shout at him.

And sometimes France just cried, and that was worst of all. So Canada did not stay in the house, but fled to the forests, staying just out of sight of the road that would lead him home.

And so, on this day, he was close enough to the road to hear the soldiers. He did not realize that they were soldiers at first, but then, creeping through the grass toward the sounds of people talking, he saw men in Panem's army uniforms standing in a group around some vehicles - army vehicles - and a girl in their midst. He would have recognized her anywhere, and it was when he saw her that he knew what the soldiers had come for.

"They're here for us. For me and…and Francis!"

He turned, running off through the trees, hoping that Panem and her soldiers would take a long time in planning their attack. He did not know if he could beat them to the house on foot, when they were in trucks, but when he reached the back door of the cabin in the woods, there was no one in sight.

He entered the house quickly, shouting for France, and the older man was still alive enough to hear urgency in his child's voice, for Canada found him on his feet, starting toward the doorway from which Canada had entered.

"It's the soldiers," Canada said breathlessly, before France could ask. "They're coming. Panem's with them, too. We need to get out of here, Francis!"

France stared at him for a long moment, and then, there was a faint spark of something in his eyes, and he smiled. It was a smile that Canada could not understand - he did not want to understand - but it was a smile nonetheless.

"Francis…?"

"You should run, Mathieu," France said. "But I am staying here."

"Of course. You knew he would say that, you knew… I can't leave him here. I have to take care of him."

"You can't stay here," Canada said. "You'll die. The soldiers will kill you, or…or take you away like they took Arthur and Alfred, you don't want to be tortured, do you…?"

"Did I say I was going to let them catch me?" France asked. "Listen, Mathieu. They are coming up the road now - I can hear them. Soon they will surround this house, and I…I am not strong enough anymore to run away. But I can - I will - set a trap for them. I may not be able to take them all out at once, but I will try, and if I succeed, I will find you in the city. But whether or not I join you, do not come back to this house. If you do, Panem will find you and she will have you killed."

"I'm not leaving," Canada said. "I'm n-not…going. You can't make me."

"I think I can," France informed him. "Mathieu, look at this."

He couldn't breathe anymore. He might not ever be able to breathe again. France was holding a gun.

"W-where did you…? Put it down, Francis."

"No," said France. "I will not. Out the back door you go, Mathieu, or I will shoot myself."

And if he had said he was going to shoot Canada, Canada would have stayed, but France really was smart enough to know what it was that would get him out the door, and France was lifting the gun to his head, and Canada had no doubt that the older man would pull the trigger if provoked.

He wasn't sure why France hadn't already killed himself, if he had had the gun with him all along.

"I… Francis, please, we can…"

"Out, Mathieu!"

He hadn't heard France's voice so strong since before the world had collapsed; he wasn't sure he liked hearing France strong again.

"Not now. If it had been before, I would have been so glad, but now…"

"You'll meet me in the city?" he whispered. "How will you find me?"

"I will find you," France said simply. "Now go, or I will shoot."

"Papa…"

"Go! Are you stupid? I told you to go!"

"But I don't want to! I said I would take care of you, I'm going to take care of you, I'm not going to leave, Papa, please, put the gun down!"

"No," France said. "I am sorry, but I cannot do it. I am also sorry to threaten you like this, but the fact of the matter is, I do not want you to die. It would make me sad if you died, too, after Arthur and Alfred…"

"And how will I feel if you die? How will I feel, Papa?"

A trace of doubt flickered across France's face, but then, he pressed the gun closer against his head, and although his hands were shaking, he still held the gun firmly in place.

"Please go, Mathieu. If I…if I can, I will find you in the city."

"You're lying," Canada said. "You're not going to come."

"Perhaps not," France said. "But if you do not go now, then I shall certainly never come."

He was going to cry; there was nothing else he could do, not with the soldiers coming and France refusing to go, and all he had wanted to do was protect his family, what was so hard about that?

"Do you even love me, Francis?" he asked, and France very nearly dropped the gun.

"W-what?"

"Do you love me? Because you're not doing a very good job of showing it, if you do."

It was cruel of him to say, he knew that, but it was the only thing he could think of that might possibly make France put the gun down.

France looked as if he were about to cry, to drop the gun, to agree to try and run away, but then he laughed and Canada knew, even before France spoke, that the other man would not come with him now.

"You know I love you," France said. "But you also know that I am very bad at taking care of you, despite loving you. So you should go and find someone else who can love you and take care of you. You are still a child, Mathieu. I am sorry for forgetting that. But now I have remembered, although I will soon forget again if I stay with you. So, I want you to go and find somewhere you can be a child."

"In a world where nations are being hunted and tortured and murdered? How can I be a child in that world, Francis?"

"I do not say that you will be safe or innocent," France said. "Although you should be both safe and innocent, that is not the lot of nations. You should not, however, have to take care of me. So go away and stop trying to be my parent. You are not a parent, Mathieu. I am your father - although, I admit, I have done a very bad job of parenting you. So, as your father, I am telling you to go look for safety and happiness, however distant it may seem."

"But I've been the adult here for how long now and I was doing as good of a job as I could. I have to take care of you, or else you'll die, and the soldiers are coming… I don't want you to die, Francis."

He could have said it, could have protested, but he had been protesting for so long and it had done no good. France was not going to leave with him, and, if France really was planning to set a trap for the soldiers - although Canada doubted this was really the case - he was preventing the older man from setting his trap.

"Mathieu? Mathieu, don't cry…"

And for a moment he was a child again and France was his father, holding him in a protective embrace, and for just a moment, Canada felt safe. But then he remembered the soldiers were coming, and France released his hold and pushed him, not unkindly, toward the door.

And he stood on the doorstep, ready to flee into the woods, and France, behind him, was turning back into the house, and then Canada spoke.

"Papa."

France turned back, and Canada had never seen more worry or pain anywhere than what he beheld now on the face of his father.

"Try not to die."

France nodded, and then the door was closed, and Canada, who was not really very brave or strong, who felt powerless to save anyone, and only wished that he was not running away alone, ran.

France almost expected Canada to come back, to pound on the door and demand to be let in. But, of course, the boy did not, because things France expected to happen never did.

In this case, it was a mercy that he had been wrong. He did not want to have to see Canada die. He had already seen his child driven to tears over his own stupidity and he would not allow any more harm to come to him.

He only hoped Canada could reach the city alive and find one of the other nations, someone who could protect him. The part of him that was utterly depressed told him that, of course, Canada would not find anyone else, for all the others were probably dead.

But there was a part of France, however small, that always tried to make the best out of the darkest things, and that part said that Canada would find another nation, and that that nation, whoever he might be, would surely keep Canada safe from harm. And France held onto the belief that the dreamer in him entertained, even as he raised the gun once more, with shaking fingers, to his head.

"I will not be taken alive," he said. "That would be very cruel to Mathieu, were he to be captured and find that I had suffered because he left me behind. And it would be cruel to Alfred, and to Arthur too, if they are still alive, for me to be brought to that prison."

He laughed morbidly, softly, and he heard the crunch of tires coming up the gravel road.

"And it would be cruel to me, as a person, were I to willingly prolong such a pointless suffering. All nations save one must die in this time when that one nation has finally achieved the goal of all nations, when one nation has dominated the world. All nations except for her must die, and even she may meet a violent death, may she not? Time will tell. But I do not like to wait for slight hopes and distant dreams, not anymore. Now, at the end of the world, when I have the ability to choose between life and death, I would rather live in this single moment…or die in it."

He had seen many people die in his long lifetime, had seen heads roll severed from their owners' bodies, and had also seen other heads blown near to bits by gunshots. He had seen this; the memory of those deaths was still in his mind, and he knew exactly where to aim.

He did not miss.

Canada heard the gunshot from far away, beyond the soldiers' perimeter but still within hearing range, and he did not know what had happened, but he only heard one gunshot, and he stopped dead in the middle of the woods and turned to stare back in the direction of the cabin, waiting. But there was no second gunshot, and he thought that France would have had more bullets than that, that if he had gotten the first shot, he would have kept shooting.

So Panem, he thought, had gotten the first shot, or else France had killed himself after Canada had left him alone. However France had died, it did not change Canada's mistake. He had run away like a frightened child, and he had let the closest thing he had to a parent die. But the reality of it did not quite hit him, and what little of the pain of losing his father he did understand, at that moment, merely beat the memory of France's apologies and pleas into his mind, and he went on, through the woods, not really caring whether or not the soldiers could follow his trail, but only knowing that he would fight them when they came, because France had told him to live, and he would listen to France, although he had fought and tried to be an adult so that France could live, and France had ignored his struggles, so it was not really fair of France to ask anything of him. But France was dead, or worse, wounded and imprisoned, and it felt like his last request, this plea that Canada would go on and live. So he trudged on, carrying the weight of the request, not yet realizing fully that that request was the last thing he would ever remember his father saying to him.

He stopped in the woods and lay down to sleep, expecting the soldiers to find and kill him as he slept. But he woke to darkness and quiet in the woodlands, and he walked on all through the night and into the dawn, alone.

And when he came out of the trees and saw the city in the distance, then he knew that he had nearly reached the place France had told him to go. And his tired steps quickened just a little, for he was a faithful child, who would always obey his father when he could.

He would honor the last request of the only father he had ever known, and try to find safety if he could. But he could never be a child again.

Panem came in at what America thought must be sunset, dragging Belarus by the hair, and America thought that his heart was going to stop, he was so afraid of what she might do.

"Don't, don't, I was telling the truth," he whispered as Panem let go of Belarus' hair and sent her tumbling to the ground. "I promise I was telling the truth…"

"Oh, you were telling the truth, all right," Panem said. "You didn't tell me, though, that France was smart enough to kill himself rather than be captured. It's a pity really. I had plans for him, and for Canada too."

"Francis is dead?"

Death and dying barely even surprised him at this point, but he had expected France to be brought back a prisoner, along with Canada. But it seemed that neither of them were here, and France was dead, and that was something he had not expected.

"He shot himself in the head," Panem said. "Just before we arrived, in fact. He must have realized we were coming and gotten scared."

"France doesn't get scared like that." He sounded like a kid, like a tiny, stupid kid, denying the facts, denying everything that he knew must be true. Panem did not lie about matters of murder and death. If she said France had killed himself, he had.

"France isn't…"

"I don't care what France was or wasn't," Panem said. "I'm interested in knowing where Canada might have gone, though. You don't know, do you, Alfred?"

"No, I don't. You know I don't, Perri."

"Francis wasn't the kind of person who'd kill himself. He wasn't sad like Lithuania was, or if he was he… Would he have been able to hide being sad was that why he was so weird? Did he do it on purpose so he'd seem happy even though he wasn't? I'm so confused confused confused... Francis is dead? Arthur is also dead? Where is Matthew where's my baby brother I don't know where he is where is he?"

"I know," Panem said. "Nonetheless, my mission was a total failure, and that makes me pretty angry, you know. I was planning to have you watch France and Canada be tortured, but that won't be possible now. So, instead, why don't you talk to Belarus here? I think she has something to say to you."

"Y-you're not going to hurt her?" America asked, staring at Panem.

"This time, I don't have to," Panem said with a laugh. "You two have ten minutes." She swept from the cell, leaving America and Belarus alone.

America glanced at Belarus, saw her sitting still and rigid on the floor next to him and thought that that was wrong, that Belarus of all people should not be so stiff and unmoving. Her knees were tucked up close to her chest; her head was bent and he could not see her face, and he thought that every time he saw her, she looked less like Belarus and more like an abused little girl.

"Nat, you okay?"

She whimpered and shook her head, seeming to grow smaller as she hugged her knees closer to her chest.

"Hey, it's okay. What's the matter? Maybe I can fix it."

"Shut up, stupid, you know you can't save anyone. You're no hero. Why would you even try anymore?"

She shuddered, tremors rocking her body, and a strangled sob escaped as she raised her head to look at him. She was crying, she shouldn't be crying, and he took hold of her as gently as he could, and for a moment he wondered if she had mistaken him for Lithuania, because she collapsed into his arms, whispering apologies.

"Nat? It's Alfred, you know that, right?"

She nodded, her face turned away so he could not see her expression.

"Then why are you apologizing to me?"

"What do you think you could have done wrong now? What did Panem…? No, Panem said she didn't hurt her, but…what happened, then?"

"You're stupid," Belarus informed him, and it was something the old Belarus would say, except the old Belarus would not have let herself cry like this. "You're s-stupid but it's my fault for being weak and making you p-pity me…"

"Ssh, Nat, ssh… Nothing's your fault, okay?"

He was incredibly confused, uncertain of how his pity for her could possibly be something that would result in her tears. He did pity her, true, but he would have pitied her whether or not she had been broken like this, and she had to realize that.

"If I hadn't been weak and a woman, you wouldn't have gotten attached, a-and you wouldn't have betrayed your f-family to Panem."

She managed to keep her voice almost perfectly steady for the few seconds it took to utter those words, and it was as if she was trying to prove her own weakness wrong by keeping her voice steady. But after she delivered her message, her voice broke, and she was sobbing once again.

"It's not your fault," America said. "And it has nothing to do with you being a girl, okay?"

"Actually it does and I want to protect you, not just because of that but because you need it and because that is what Lithuania would do, but I can only protect you for so long, and I'm not ready for you to die right now. You and Estonia are basically the only ones I have left, with Arthur gone…"

"It's just, well, you know I like being a hero, Nat. And you also know…y-you know that this is starting to hurt, being locked up like this, watching people suffer. It's getting to me, I think. I…I sold the others out because no one would die today if I did. At least, that's what I thought. But France did die, and I should've known that was a possibility. S-so… I think I did it because, really…because I want to end my suffering faster. Panem's not going to kill me until everyone else dies, and thinking about everybody else having to keep hurting and hurting, and me having to watch…"

"You are crying," Belarus told him.

And he was, but he hadn't really noticed it, he was so used to crying at everything like the emotional teenager his physical form resembled.

"Yeah. Cause it hurts."

"Do you want to die?"

"No."

"Yes yes, please let me die. I'm very tired of living, and this isn't really living anyways, this is just suffering, and I really, really hate it. It'd be better to die than to live like this. If I was dead…maybe she wouldn't have a reason to hurt the others, then."

"I want to die," Belarus informed him. "I don't…trust myself. I might hurt someone else."

"You're not hurting anyone, Nat. It's okay, I promise. I don't blame you for anything, and I'm sure no one else does either. It's gonna be okay. And you're not weak. You're my friend, and you need someone to talk to, and it's okay. I'll talk to you, and I'll protect you if I can." He smiled weakly. "Because that's what friends do."

Belarus was silent for a long time, silver-blonde hair falling into her eyes.

"They play recordings in my cell," she said at last. "Of Toris, screaming. Can you hear it from here?"

"Sometimes," America said. Truthfully, he heard Belarus screaming more than he heard the recordings. Belarus cried louder than any recorded torture could sound.

"I wish it would stop. It hurts. I don't want to hear it anymore."

"I know," America said. "I don't wanna hear it either, Nat. And I don't want to hear you so sad. So, someday, we'll get out of here, right?"

"When we die. How long until we die?"

"And when we get out, you'll be all better, okay? I'll fix you."

"Only in death, but what if when we die there's nothing after? What if I can't fix her?"

"Are you lying?" Belarus asked bluntly. "You sound as if you are lying."

He shook his head mutely, and, hesitantly, gripped her hand. He knew he should not, that she was Lithuania's love and that, since Lithuania was dead, he should honor his memory. But Belarus was frightened, and his friend, and he wanted her to feel safe. He did not know how to make her feel safe, how to comfort her, without at least holding her hand.

They stayed like that until Panem came to take Belarus away. And, maybe because she didn't want to hurt America, Belarus left quietly. But America stayed alone in his cell, and he thought about the afterlife and what it must be like to die.

"I wonder what kind of afterlife the others think about? I think…I just want everyone to be saved, but it's too late to safe everyone. So, the details don't matter, as long as it's an afterlife where everyone is safe."

*throws chapter in your face* Here, I have righted my weird scheduling blunder! Yay. Also I cannot write Canada. Or France. Or dramatic scenes that don't drag out for a ridiculous number of pages. The end. *literally falls down and sleeps for a thousand years*