Sadness. Sadness everywhere.

Warning: Violence, weapons, gore, disturbing/graphic scenes/events, references to FrUK, possible character deaths.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

"It is not tolerable, it is not possible, that from so much death, so much sacrifice and ruin, so much heroism, a greater and better humanity shall not emerge."

—Charles de Gaulle

Promises

Francis stared at Todd's body, sprawled over the control board, eyes following a finger of blood as it extended down the man's back.

No, Francis thought, mind frantically buzzing. He was deaf to the pounding on the large double doors at his back, numb to the pain flaring from the bullet embedded in his shoulder. No, no, no. His gaze traveled up to the large screen that spanned the entire wall, heart lurching with every explosion icon that flashed among the 3D reproduction of passageways beneath his feet. Onscreen he saw a defense go off, mere seconds later feeling the ground rock with its resonating roar. He stared and tried to recreate the map Red had pointed to in his mind, tried to place her finger where she had said Matthew would be, Arthur. But he was too frazzled to keep his thoughts in order and someone was tapping him, calling to him.

"Sir, sir," a Resister was saying, and Francis finally snapped to. Francis saw Todd's injuries once again, was suddenly hit with the weight of reality, of what he had facilitated.

Todd was dead and the defenses would kill without his expertise. Francis had failed.

My God, my God, he's dead, dead—oh, I'm sorry, my friend. I am so weak I couldn't save you, Francis wanted to shout. He had one responsibility and now he might as well be the one detonating the defenses himself, killing his companions. He had dug their graves and now he would bury them in dust and rubble. Todd is dead and they're coming.

"Please, sir," the Resister begged and Francis turned to him. He was so young, barely out of his teens. Still a child. Francis had led children to war and had trapped them. His stomach churned. "What do we do?"

"We do what we have to," Francis told him after a deep breath and promptly marched over to Todd's seat, wrenched him out of it, tried not to be sick at the sound the man's body made when it hit the floor. He had to make up for it. He didn't know the password nor was he affiliated with this kind of work, but he needed to take over when no one else could. Because he didn't want to stand over the graves of those he held dear, knowing that he had been the one who had held the shovel.

Francis's fingers were stretched over the control board, itching to do something but not knowing how. And then he paused, feeling something move in the back of his mind.

"Francis," someone said, "you must calm down."

Francis was stunned. Earlier he had heard static erupt almost blindingly through his earpiece while fighting flying glass projectiles and burning white light before gaining entry into HQ, had thought it had been an echo of Ivan's death. Surely the man's earpiece should have been destroyed, surely he should be nothing more than smoke and ash?

Or Francis could just be suffering from a cruel hallucination.

Ivan? How—

"Never mind that. Todd is dead?"

Francis realized that he could very well be answering himself, but he didn't care. Hearing a voice he knew, especially one he hadn't managed to silence with his blundering, served well to focus him. Yes. Not all the defenses are decommissioned and I do not have the code. Francis struggled to keep his voice firm and confident, like the leader he was supposed to be. But in the end he cracked, just like he had all those times before. What do I do?

He was even more ashamed that, even after a scrape with death, Ivan was still directing, still in control. "I… I have the code." He was even more prepared. Francis was useless, but he was there, leaning over the control board, fingers trembling but eager. He could fix this if he wasn't already too late.

You do?

Francis's heart was pounding now, listening only for Ivan's voice. Those struggling to hold the door and the gunshots resounding on the other side barely reached him. Nothing else mattered outside of saving everyone he'd promised to protect, not even his own life. As long as he stopped all of the defenses, then death would be no great challenge. The longer he waited for Ivan's response, the harder and more painful his heartbeat became, the more he thought he might deserve it, to die, for being unable to complete the one task he was assigned. The longer he waited, the more images came to him of crushed bodies, burned flesh, hands peeking out from rubble, dead, empty eyes that were lifeless but which held such accusation. Why, why? they asked. I thought you would save me, I thought you loved me. Why did you let me die?

Seconds passed, then minutes, minutes seemed to turn to hours. And all the while Francis stood hunched over the control board, waiting, waiting. He bit down on his lip, peeling back layers of skin until blood dripped down his chin, onto his hand.

What is it? Francis sent out frantically. What is it? What, goddammit? Tell me!

The images kept coming no matter how hard he tried to keep collected. Tears welled in his eyes, making the starburst icons onscreen swell in proportion in Francis's blurred vision. Then all of his confidence left him again with the deafening sound of a blast and splintering wood.

Francis turned but was met with clouds of thick, choking smoke. He could see figures moving through the shifting billows, saw less with every roll of smoke. Gunshots lit up the hazy room, echoing along with screams, shouts, gags, coughs, until everything just… stopped. Dust and flecks of soot got into his eyes, soaking up his tears even as they caused more to flow. Francis bent double, coughing and scrubbing at his eyes, not knowing he was in trouble until he saw a boot swinging toward him. The force of the explosion had melted the muscles in Francis's legs, and he couldn't move before he was caught in the gut. He was sent onto his back, sprawled in debris and shards of wood. He'd landed on his injured shoulder, crying out when pain spiked up his arm. He was paralyzed for a moment, unable to do anything more than hold his shoulder and gasp, and then a form was manifesting out of the smoke, leaning over him. The man had a weapon in his hand, aiming it straight at him, but his eyes were what scared Francis most of all.

Dark, blank, unfeeling. The eyes of the corpse Francis might become.

It made Francis all the more frightened when the thought crossed his mind that perhaps putting an end to it all would be what was best. And then Ivan's voice was back, splitting through his mind like a flash of lightning illuminating the roiling gray.

"Francis, the password is… is…"

And suddenly Francis saw an opportunity. He forgot his pain and he rolled to his knees, getting his feet under him. The soldier before him shot once, missed, allowing Francis the time to wrap his arms around his legs and pull him off his feet. The gun went off as the man went down, bullets disappearing into swirls of smoke and floating ash until one found Francis's upper chest. Francis bit his lip and howled as lead burned through him, shattering bone and tearing muscle. But his arms still held tight, determined even as the man continued to empty his clip into the open air. Adrenaline turned his blood to boiling and the pressure he would have felt in his chest was gone in a matter of minutes.

What is it, ami? What is it? Francis urged, hands busy trying to subdue the soldier he had managed to drag to the floor while his mind was far away. Francis crawled over to the soldier, hand groping for the knife at his side. He was so distracted that he got a jarring kick to the jaw that made stars burst behind his eyes. He gave up on his knife, instead seeking to subdue the soldier's flailing legs. The gun was nowhere in sight, having disappeared into the smoke when it had slipped from the man's hand. But that made Francis's challenge no less difficult, receiving several more kicks before managing to sit on the soldier's legs. Then came the punches.

And Ivan's voice. "It's… 'He will die.' "

A punch to the lip. Blood in his teeth. … What? Maybe he was just hallucinating. Maybe it was an omen tied to his mistake. Francis tried his best not to dwell on it, but his worry seemed to affect him even worse than the soldier's punishing blows.

But Ivan's voice returned in confirmation. " 'He will die.' "

Francis's resignation took flight, determination mounting within him even as one of his eyes began to swell shut from abuse. But he had to know that it was right. It was his only chance. Are you sure, ami? Did you hear correctly? Ivan didn't answer, but Francis took his words for truth anyway. It was all he had.

The man was persistent, as emotionless as he was. Just a few minutes in and Francis felt like he'd rolled down a rocky slope. No matter what he did the soldier's hands were always slipping from him, and Francis was quickly losing energy, already unable to breathe properly with the amount of smoke that clogged the air. He was near collapse, and then a fist connected with his injured shoulder.

Pain awakened his instincts, pushing Francis to find any way possible to stop the hits or he just might die. Although his depth perception was compromised from his black eye, he snatched up the soldier's wrists, muscles straining to hold them. Francis needed to get to the control board, but this man was making that an ever shrinking possibility with every minute that ticked by during which Francis was engaged in what was gradually becoming an unacceptable stalemate. Every time Francis adjusted, tried to shove the man's hand to the floor, his other hand escaped Francis's grip and lashed out at his face. Then Francis would have to start all over again, all the while staring into those eyes that were so black they seemed to swallow his resolve. He kept repeating the password in his mind—if it was legitimate and not just a mental fabrication—He will die, He will die, and suddenly it became a mantra, something to achieve, directed at the soldier writhing so defiantly beneath him.

He will die. Francis could do it. One good blow and he could escape, he could do what he needed to do, what had promised. Maybe, Arthur's voice cut in, playing over the password. More push, more drive. It hadn't been a proper answer, but it was something. It was reassurance. It was hope. It was a promise that they would see each other again, because Francis couldn't die without knowing all the possibilities that word held and he wouldn't allow Arthur to die before he could expand upon it, at least not if he could help it. Maybe was Francis's knuckles against the soldier's temple in a reckless blow, was the shard of wood he found as the soldier knocked him over, was the force that drove the splintered projectile into the soldier's neck as he attempted to climb on top of Francis, to subdue him. Blood arched from the wound, spilling over the floor, turning the ash black and making Francis's black uniform even blacker. The most unnerving part of it all wasn't being doused in blood. It was how silent the soldier was, apart from some expected gurgles, as if he had accepted death a long time ago. Inhuman, Francis thought, because how could he be human if he didn't have the capacity to regret, to be frightened, to be angry? Those eyes conveyed nothing as he tumbled to the ashy floor, a heart that should by rights not even exist directing the blood streaming from him with rhythmic pulses. The defiance Francis thought the man to possess fostered guilt within him. This man couldn't be defiant. He couldn't be anything at all, not even human.

Francis pushed himself up from the floor, slipping in blood and soot. The smoke was still swirling around him, making his one good eye water, but he could see the long board of flashing buttons as clear as beacons. His legs moved without him feeling them, stumbling over bodies and wood, dodging isolated flickers of fire. Francis's hands groped for the board, fingers finally gripping the edge, aching from his struggle with the soldier. His rush of adrenaline was wearing off, slowly giving way to a burning pain in his shoulder and a heavy stitch in his chest. Nonetheless, Francis ran his fingers over the buttons and switches, trembling and clammy, trying to remember which ones Todd had pressed or flicked. Francis tried one, then another, striking luck when a decommission screen popped up along with a female voice that boomed, "DEFENSES TO BE DEACTIVATED. CODE NEEDED."

"He will die," Francis whispered, fingers working at the keypad. Maybe, Francis thought. Maybe.

The screen flashed and the 3D model of the tunnels appeared once more. All of the flashing red dots turned white. "DEFENSES DEACTIVATED. TO REACTIVATE—"

But Francis was already headed toward the door, his mission complete. The smoke was gone now and he could see everything clearly.

His entire squad was gone, whether burned to death or suffocated or shot. Their bodies lay strewn over the floor, covered in ash and debris, among the corpses of Organization soldiers. Only then did Francis realize what had happened. Someone had fired an RPG through the doors, now hanging on their hinges, a hole made jagged by splinters having been blasted through them. The heat of the projectile had melted the marble on the far wall, scorching the veined stone with black. Cracks extended from where the RPG had embedded itself into it, the wall dented but otherwise unharmed. Francis was careful to step over all of the damage, nearly slipping on a stray shell. He made it to the massacred entrance and peered out. No one was in the hall and, as far as he could tell, in the building. But then again Francis's ears had been shot, still ringing from the blast and feeling stuffed with layers of cotton. Not knowing what to do now that everyone around him was gone, Francis decided that he'd had enough of that oppressing room and commenced staggering to the entrance.

When cold air hit his face, blown by wind flecked with snow, Francis gulped down lungfuls of it, leaning on what was left of the door frame and willing his legs not to give out. Finally Francis gained the capacity to examine his surroundings. Buildings blackened, crumbling, windows shattered, a fresh dusting of snow failing to hide the debris, soot, and bodies. It was so unnaturally quiet that Francis knew the Organization's troops were near, watching. But the silence was so welcoming, lulling, and Francis would have been content to lean on the frame and submit to sleep if he didn't hear hysterical laughing.

"The Overlord's power," the voice said, groping at sanity. "He can make blind men see."

Francis's eyes snapped open, convinced that he would see someone standing before him, mocking him. But he saw nothing, was absolutely alone, and then he gathered that no one else could have a voice like this. Not one that could endure through centuries.

"Ivan?" Francis breathed, a mist forming before his mouth. Maybe he wasn't crazy. Maybe he wasn't just hearing things. Maybe. "Ivan?" And before Francis knew it he was walking through the barren mess, staggering. He could feel eyes watching him, knew that soldiers were watching through the glassless windows, aiming at him, fingers on their triggers. But not one of them shot. Not one of them, even as Francis continued on, even as he began to run, the pressure in his chest and the dizziness in his head growing and growing until they just disappeared, numbed with the cold. Francis's heartbeat kept rhythm, reminded him that he still had time, he still had time, to make one thing right. And the Organization soldiers let him go, knowing that he would soon die with his wounds and the chilling wind. He wasn't even worth a bullet.

The buildings peeled back, grew small behind him, and Francis was still running, still unhindered. He saw what must be the black husk of a tank come into view, passed bodies burned and smeared with blood. He saw a helicopter wheel out of control and hit the Washington Monument, but that hardly mattered. He kept running. Here and there he saw limbs, detached, the fire having eaten down to bone. Everything was black and dry, lifeless. But Francis kept running because Ivan may be alive, may be the only thing he had left of what used to be. Maybe.

Francis slowed, looked around, was forced to pick through soot, shards of partially melted metal, scraps of displaced flesh. He turned over bodies slowly being claimed by the icy mud, examined their faces for any sign of familiarity, dropped them and searched on. Then his eyes caught a shock of fresh red blood a few feet away, hobbled over, was soon staring down into face that was a soup of blood and flesh and bone. Every inch of the dead man was covered with mud, hiding his hair, his skin. For a moment Francis stood over the corpse, his eyes blurring with tears, his throat convulsing with a cry of despair. He lifted his gaze to verify how this man could have died, this man who could very well be Ivan. He followed a bloody trail through the mud, carved by a damaged body, and saw the wind stirring strands of hair, silver beneath slimy black. Heart pounding, Francis rushed over, dropping to his knees. Shaking hands scooped the man's head out of the filth.

"Ivan?"

It was. It had to be. The more Francis wiped away the dirt, the more he resembled the Russian. His nose was broken, skewed and bloody, but it was still Ivan's nose. "Ivan," Francis muttered. Ivan's skin was pale as frost, cold beneath his fingers. But as Francis heaved him onto his back and fingers found his pulse, weak as it was, he knew he had a chance. Maybe.

He hooked his hands beneath Ivan's armpits and dragging him through the sucking mud to the tank, almost losing his boot along the way. Francis planted himself before a charred tread, leaning on it for support as he pulled Ivan's head onto his lap. He slapped Ivan's cheeks gently, mumbling his name, pulled an eyelid up, saw only white. "Ivan, Ivan," Francis said. Don't leave me alone, please. I've only just found you. A sob worked its way up his throat, manifesting in a growl. Francis slapped Ivan's face with all the might he could muster. "Wake up, you cold bastard! It will take more than this to kill you. Answer me."

Ivan's eyelids contracted a little, lips quivering as they regained function. It took another few minutes, Francis watching with bated breath, for Ivan to crack open an eye. Violet met blue, and Francis could breathe again.

"Are you okay, ami?"

Ivan gave a wheeze meant to be a laugh. It hurt to laugh. Ivan hurt all over, and he had never been colder in his life. "I am burned, bruised… freezing to death… missing a limb. Da, I am okay."

Francis's eyes went wide, traveling down Ivan's body to where one of his legs should be. He had been so caught up in watching Ivan's face for any sign of life that he hadn't even noticed a part of him was missing. The subject of their mortality hit him harder than it ever had and he took Ivan's hands, rubbing them to warm them up. "I am sorry."

"Is not your fault," Ivan said before coughing up a glut of black phlegm. The glob slid down his chin and Ivan made no move to wipe it away. "Did you—"

"Oui," Francis replied, cleaning Ivan's face further. "You shouldn't speak."

Ivan smiled. It was such a sad smile. "What, I don't get any last words?"

"Don't talk like that," Francis told him. "You will live."

"Da, right."

Francis's eyes were still trained on Ivan's stub, saw red trickling down to swirl in the mud. "You are bleeding." Ivan didn't respond, as if ashamed at Francis pointing out his weaknesses. "You need a tourniquet." And Francis shifted him on his lap, grabbing at his own clothing.

Ivan's hand shooting up to wrap around his wrist scared the shit out of him. "Nyet. You are cold. Need all the warmth you can get." He coughed again, wet. Swallowed. "I will be fine."

"No, you won't." Francis went back to tearing his sleeve, but Ivan's grip increased, made him gasp.

"I will break your wrist," Ivan threatened. Violet slits bore into Francis's conscience.

"You would not."

"I would," Ivan told him, twisting. Francis grunted.

"Fine," Francis said and, satisfied, Ivan let go. The Frenchman rubbed his wrist for a short minute before his eyes caught a flicker of yellow a few feet away.

"Francis," Ivan said, and Francis could fill in the rest.

"I am not leaving," he promised and went back to the faceless corpse nearby, tore off a scrap of fabric, walked over to the flicker of flame, dipped it in. As he returned to Ivan, he couldn't look the man in the eyes. He didn't want to do this, but Ivan had given him no other choice. He knelt before Ivan's missing leg, burning fabric in hand. "I am sorry, ami." It was all he could say before he pressed the fire to Ivan's bleeding stub.

Ivan's scream was terrible. Francis could hardly bear to look at him, the Russian's body arching, writhing, fingers digging up fistfuls of mud. Teeth pierced into Ivan's lower lip and a trickle of blood reddened his chin. And Ivan kept screaming, the scream of a dying animal. Francis blinked away his tears and swallowed his sobs, pressing the fire to Ivan until the stub was blackened at the end. The bleeding stopped.

When Francis finished, he threw the torch as far away as he could, feeling utterly despicable no matter how much he told himself that what had done had been the right thing. He took his place at Ivan's head again, fingers stroking through the man's soiled hair. Ivan was still moaning, eyes screwed shut. Tears had made clean streaks through the dirt and blood on his face and Ivan's eyes were swimming when he opened them. He blinked up at Francis, stared, and Francis felt ashamed that he himself was crying when he wasn't the one who'd had to suffer.

"Arthur," Ivan mumbled.

Concern filled Francis, and he took Ivan's chilled hand. "Non, ami. It's—"

"Nyet." Ivan shook Francis's hand away and stared ahead, almost myopic. "Arthur. He's…" Ivan seemed to come back to himself then and paused, eyes floating up to Francis again, who had stopped breathing upon hearing Arthur's name. Ivan hesitated and Francis sensed that something was off. Ivan never hesitated.

Francis was about to ask what it was that Ivan wasn't saying when the Russian grabbed his hand. "Спасибо, Francis." He stared up at Francis and suddenly he didn't need to say anything for Francis to understand. "I am not leaving."

Five minutes later, HQ filled the sky with fire and smoke and rocked the earth with its explosion. Francis watched through wet eyes, a stitch returning to his chest that had nothing to do with the bullet inside him.

Translations:

Спасибо-Thank you

A Word From the Writer: So this was sorta depressing, but considering the circumstances it kinda had to be. And don't be fooled by France's and Russia's closeness. Pure camaraderie, no lovey-dovey stuff here. And then everything blows up. Yay for explosions, the ultimate cop out!

So, I'm sorry I missed the post date... again. But I was doing a bunch of shit this week and trying to catch my ass. I dunno how things will turn out but I might reduce it down to one chapter a week if things get too busy. Exams are closing in and college and shit and my aunt and her two young children are coming to stay with us for a while so that means a lot of babysitting for me. I'll write when I have time but for now this fic has been pushed to the back burner, at least until after graduation in another month. As for this chapter, I would have had it up sooner if the internet hadn't distracted me like it always does. I started watching some shit on YT, then somehow got into watching Disney songs in Russian. It began with "Hellfire" and ended... somewhere. I don't remember. I was in such a daze (it had been two hours, HURR). The Tarzan tracks were the best by far. So passionate~ And the Nightmare Before Christmas ones were... let's just say the subs were very Russian and I was scared. Anyway, apart from my very short attention span there's a lot of shit going on. Just a warning.

Next are China and Japan~! Prepare for more doom and gloom, as always.