Slowly but surely... getting there!

Warning: Gore, Nichu, GerIta, character death, sad stuff.

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

ALERT! FORGOT TO ADD 1ST PART TO THIS SO YOU MIGHT WANT TO READ FOR SOME EXTRA FEELS.

"Never doubt that a small group of committed people can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."

—Margaret Mead

Dulce et Decorum est

"Now… there's a smile."

Alfred watched Arthur's grin weaken. Watched his eyes close. Watched his chest fall and still.

The Briton's grip slackened in Alfred's hand.

"Artie?" Alfred stared hopefully at the man's pale face. "Artie." He squeezed Arthur's hand as his heart thudded against his ribs. There was no squeeze back.

Alfred's eyes blurred and he began to shake. No, no… "W-what… my smile. You were talking about my sm-smile, Artie. My smile… remember? Remember, Artie?" He removed his hand from Arthur's and shook him, muttering his name, then shouting his name. His lungs began to contract painfully. "T-tell me a s-story, Artie… s-something about C-Camelot… the R-Round T-Table…" He gave a feathery laugh. "I-I always imagined King A-Arthur as you… how s-stupid is that?" He shook him again. "C'mon. Laugh, Artie. Th-that f-fucking snooty laugh." Alfred's face was hot, and it felt like a stone had been jammed down his throat. He began to sob. "G-goddammit, Artie. Why did you have to come h-here? W-why c-couldn't… I c-could have dealt with him. It was my job! I-it was my j-job… dammit… please…" He pulled Arthur up to him. Buried his face in his chest. His heart felt like it was being squeezed over and over again. "If o-only I'd've… th-then maybe… you wouldn't be… wouldn't—shit!" He broke down into sobs and agonized wails, muffled as he hid his face in the blood-stained ruffles of Arthur's vest, but even then they seemed much, much louder.

"Don't leave," Alfred begged, his voice reduced to whimpery breaths. "You p-promised you would alw-ways be there… remember, you b-bastard? Promised!"

"MASTER NOT DETECTED. MASTER NOT DETECTED," the AI bellowed. The red lights flashed and the ground began to quake. "SYSTEM TO SELF-DESTRUCT IN 3 MINUTES AND 0 SECONDS. 2 MINUTES AND 59 SECONDS… 58… 57… 56…"

Suddenly, a hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. "Alfred, Alfred. We have to leave."

Alfred wrenched his shoulder from Feliciano's grip. All he wanted right now was to be with Arthur. He didn't want to move, didn't want to do anything but stay with him in the place where the spirit of who Arthur was still lingered, so close it was as if the Briton had never left. Alfred remained hunched, clinging to Arthur's cooling body, rocking and crying and hiding his face in Arthur's neck. He wouldn't care if he died there. As long as he would be beside Arthur.

The ticking seemed to grow louder, rattling Feliciano's skull. He grabbed Alfred. Shook him again. "We have to go! It's going to explode!"

"Don't care," Alfred grumbled between breathy sobs. He got another painful stitch in his chest and held Arthur all the tighter, as if having him close would make all his discomfort go away. "Please, leave me alone."

Feliciano was desperate. It was everything he could do not to pass out from all the heart-stopping things that had happened, and now he was once again frozen. He was desperate to escape, the shaking beneath his feet and the booms of the clock growing louder and louder with every second, but he just couldn't leave Alfred there. He knew he couldn't drag Alfred out, all the more so if the man would be holding onto Arthur. But what else could he do?

"Alfred," Feliciano said, thinking of how badly he wanted to see Ludwig and confirm that he was all right. "Please don't make me go back and tell Ivan that you didn't come with me. I-I don't think I could do it. Please, Alfred. Please."

Alfred's breath caught, and he swallowed a sob. His eyes filled with heat again, and he screwed them shut, letting his grief soak into the bloody remnants of Arthur's shirt. Then he took a breath. "Let's get out of here."

Relief flooded through Feliciano, but he was just as soon agonized by the sight of Arthur's limp body as Alfred stood and lifted it into his arms. At first, all he could do was stare. The form looked so foreign that Feliciano could barely recognize it. Arthur. He looked so weak, so lifeless… Arthur would never allow anyone to see him in such a state. Only then did Arthur's death hit home. His eyes flooded with tears and he let out a sob, clapping a hand to his mouth.

"C'mon," Alfred said. His voice was curiously monotone. "You got me up, so let's go."

Feliciano hiccupped and took a quivering breath, wiping away the wetness on his face. "S-si."

Arthur's head lolled against Alfred, finding a place in the niche of his neck. A memory surfaced then, of Alfred having fallen asleep on the floor, his toys scattered around him. He had woken for just a moment, bleary-eyed and fuzzy. Arthur had been carrying him, had carried him all the way to his bed. He was gingerly tucked in and he heard Arthur mumble something he was too sleepy to make out. Then he felt lips against his forehead and heard a door shut. When Alfred had risen next he had thought it only a dream, that somehow he had managed to make it to bed by himself before falling asleep. After that, he never thought about it—until now, and now he knew it hadn't been a dream.

Arthur felt so light in his arms, so deathly light. Yet the sensation of having Arthur so close, curled into him, almost childlike, comforted somehow. Was this how Arthur had felt when he had carried Alfred? Had he felt the same comfort? What had he mumbled that day while tucking him in? Alfred, now, would never know.

There were still so many things I wanted to ask you. I wish I'd had the sense to do so.

"2 MINUTES AND 0 SECONDS. 1 MINUTE AND 59 SECONDS. 58… 57… 56…"

I won't let this place be your burial site. The clock boomed its countdown, and Feliciano whimpered beside him, clutching further at his shoulder and staggering as the ground shook all the more violently. Alfred pressed his lips to Arthur's forehead.

"I love you. You wouldn't let me say it before, so I can say it now. I love you, Artie, and you can be damn sure I'm not gonna give up. Ever. For you."

And, together, they ran.

Black. Black, black—that was all he could see. His eyes were open. Was it nightfall?

Then it all came rushing back to him: the explosion, the fire, the gas, his vision…

Something jostled him at his left side, followed by fingers on his bare leg, brushing over something raw. He flinched, and that was when he could hear the voices.

"He's awake!" someone close yelled. He only then realized that there was something over his mouth, some sort of mask. It was snatched off.

He could hear another person rush over to stand beside him. "Awake?" Fingers traced over his face, pulling his eyelids up. "Motion… Kiku? Kiku, can you hear me? Say something, or if you can't speak move your fingers."

"Yao," he croaked.

"What?"

"Yao."

"I don—"

"Sir," the assistant interjected. "I think he's talking about that guy in tent three."

"Oh." Kiku didn't like the man's sympathetic tone.

"Alive?" Kiku asked, his throat raw from the smoke and gas. He wasn't entirely sure if he was asking about Yao or himself.

He was met with silence. Kiku's heart dropped.

Then the man said, "Why don't you wheel him over there. He seems stable for now. Just monitor those dressings. They should have to be changed within the hour."

"Yes, sir."

There was a push and a creak of wheels—Kiku was laying on a stretcher. Was he dreaming? Was he alive? He was breathing and he could feel his heart beating in his chest. He couldn't understand. He was sure that he had felt it stop. Why wasn't he dead? He had so many questions to ask, but all he could do was hold his breath as he rolled through what he perceived as a sort of camp—through people, voices, smells—waiting and hoping to hear Yao. Please, please.

What he heard, however, was a very different but very familiar voice. It sounded a few yards away, rising and lowering in pitch as the speaker picked their way through the crowd.

"Hey! … Ki—move! … Tch, move out of the way! … Kiku! Kiku!"

There was the sound of running footsteps, and then the stretcher stopped rolling. "I've got it from here." An assenting mumble. Receding footsteps. A hand on his arm. "Kiku. Feeling better?"

Red. The state's presence was comforting, but not as comforting as Yao's would be at the moment. "Hai. Better."

"Well," Red continued, retracting her hand and pushing the stretcher into an uneven roll, "where're you headed to?"

Kiku's mind was still spinning. It was hard to recall his destination. "Tent… tent three. Yao."

"They've got Yao here, eh?" Red said conversationally. She suddenly jerked the stretcher sharply to the right and shouted, "Hey, watch where you're running, asshole! Wounded here!" Boot soles scraped on gravel, followed by a hastily muttered apology. Red huffed and resumed her pushing. "It's been mass chaos around here ever since those bastards decided to gas the tunnels. Been getting a lot of people in. Medics running every which way trying to figure out how the hell to treat 'em." She sighed, and Kiku hoped she didn't realize that he was blind. That he was useless. He didn't want to be another statistic. "Vicious. But I was expecting nothing less. I knew the Overlord was packing some pretty dangerous stuff, I just didn't know what. If Yao's in tent three, that doesn't put him in with the guys who got the gas, but it doesn't exactly mean he's out of the woods either."

Kiku made a concerned sound in his throat. He decided to steer the conversation away from Yao's current condition. Just hearing the man's name made his stomach turn over with doubt. "Where… everyone?" Kiku choked out. His throat felt raw and his mouth still tasted of that deplorable gas residue.

"Can't give you the details on all of 'em," Red began. She turned the stretcher, and voices rose around Kiku as he rolled through a throng of medics scrambling to gather supplies. "A rockfall separated me from my group not long after someone reported that Feliciano had wandered off somewhere… predictably. After that, I decided to pick my way through the women's sector till another explosion provided an escape route to the outside. But I needed to find Feliciano, so I made my way around, looking for another entryway that wasn't blocked or gassed to shit or crawling with Organization rats. That was when I found Danny. He said that he'd lost you and Matthew after your tunnel was blown up. We paired up and tore our way through what was left of the Organization's reserves and came across Ludwig. He was in some deep shit, but we managed to pull him out of it."

Kiku's heart lurched. "Ludwig… alive?"

"Yeah. Not all that surprising, really. I can assure you that I'll hang the fact that I saved his ass over his head for a long time after this. I won't let him forget it."

"Where?"

"Hm? Ludwig? Oh, he took off to what's left of HQ with Dan. Seemed to think Feliciano was in the vicinity when the whole thing blew to hell…"

Kiku's breath caught. "Blew?"

"Yeah, didn't you hear it? The Overlord set the fucker to blow, apparently. Were you passed out or something? Must have been. I thought we were getting nuked for sure."

"Hm," Kiku grunted dazedly.

"As for the others… sad to say I dunno. Just got here. Trying to round up the gang. Or what's left of it at least. Ah—here we are. Tent three."

Kiku was relieved that they had finally arrived at their destination; Red wasn't exactly the most optimistic person to talk to. The stretcher creaked to a halt as Red pushed the flap aside. Then the stretcher jerked into motion again.

It was slightly warmer inside. Out of the wind. The air smelled of a rotting sweetness, some-thing he had never smelled before. Or rather had never been able to, before his blindness enhanced his other senses. The silence in the tent unnerved him. He could hear shoes shuffling, instruments tinkling, the rustle of what he assumed was gauze. The soft moans of the wounded. Kiku's stomach turned over again.

"Now," Red said, "where'd they put him? Should be somewhere near the front, if the bastards listened to anything I said about the importance of nations…"

Someone approached. "Another one?" a female voice asked.

"Oh no," Red replied, "this one's stable. We're just looking for a Yao. Heard he was in here."

The medic was quiet for a moment, just long enough to have Kiku chewing at his lip. Then she said, "Yes, he's here. He's just… w-why don't I take you to him?"

Kiku heard Red's fingers drum disconcertedly against the bar of the stretcher. Kiku, similarly, bit through his bottom lip. The wheels creaked into motion again, rolling past moaning cots, some deathly silent cots. He found his breath growing shallower and shallower with every second that ticked by. Then the stretcher slowed and, finally, stopped. Kiku was holding his breath.

A cot creaked and there was a rustle of fabric. Then there was a voice. "K-Kiku."

Kiku's heart nearly stopped. "Yao?"

"Kiku!" Yao's voice broke. God, Kiku wished he could see the man's face. But he was alive and here, with him. His eyes grew hot and filled with tears that he couldn't stop from spilling. He opened his mouth to ask Yao how he was doing, to tell him how relieved he was that he had survived. All that came out was a hiccuping sob.

Yao couldn't believe his eyes. Kiku was in front of him, breathing and relatively intact. The man's face was red where fire had licked him, his arms and hands bandaged from the elbows down, and his eyes were wide and blotchy with broken blood vessels, but he was alive. Yao wanted more than anything to run over and throw his arms around Kiku, but he was bound to his cot by his injuries. One of his legs was broken, his hip was shattered, his right arm was shot, his thigh and pelvis had been gouged, his nose was broken. And, suddenly, he could no longer feel how broken he was. "My yīnghuā."

Red rolled the stretcher to Yao's cot, close enough for the man to reach out and grab Kiku's hand. It felt so small, the grip so light. He bent down and pressed his lips to the bandaged knuckles. "Gǎnxiè shàngdì."

"Yao…" Kiku began, but the rest caught in his throat. He ducked his head and sniffed.

"Yao," Red spoke for him, clearly a bit uncomfortable with the outpouring of emotion, "you look like you got run over by a truck. What the hell happened?"

Yao sighed, not taking his eyes off Kiku as he replied, "It's a long story."

Red scoffed. "Don't give me any of that bullshit. If you haven't noticed, you're both unable to move. If there's any time to tell long stories, it's now."

Yao wished that Red could leave so he and Kiku could be alone, but the more people he told about his part in the conflict the less he'd have to repeat himself. He swallowed. He could still taste dust in his throat. "I was in position and Alfred disappear. The plan was to go into HQ together with combined forces, but he nowhere to be found. I took men and went down to the street, but we were ambushed. I was taken to helicopter and tied up. We took off, and I stabbed a soldier. Then door was pushed open and he fell out. The pilot shot himself and I kill the co-pilot. Then we crash into monument and the helicopter fell. I jumped out into the pool and pulled myself out of the water. I must have pass out, because next time I wake up I see soldiers staring down at me. They said they were Resisters looking for others who live. They said crows picking on me, but someone had sense to check. Then I was here."

"Sounds like quite an adventure," Red said.

"Shì. I have pretty bad broken leg and hip, but doctors say I can walk when I heal."

"Shit, really? Must've been one helluva fall. Lemme see it." Fabric rustled again and the cot creaked. Red sucked air through her teeth. "Yowch. Yeah, that's gonna take some time."

There was silence, then Yao said, "Um… Kiku? What are you looking at?"

Kiku started. "N-nani?"

"My leg over here. You looking at floor." Yao laughed a bit. "You hit your head in fall, too?"

Kiku's throat became scratchy and his eyes became moist again. Red stopped drumming her fingers against the bar on the stretcher, and Kiku knew that she was aware of his vision loss, had been aware since she had first seen him and had had the courtesy not to comment on it. Yao was so happy at the moment, with them together, making jokes… guilt churned within Kiku. He didn't want to spoil that joy after all that had just happened. He wanted things to be normal.

"Kiku?" Yao asked again, nonplussed.

Kiku wrung his bandaged hands and chewed his tongue. Red shifted where she stood before saying, "Welp, sounds like they've got another flood of people in. Better go see if anymore nations have turned up."

As soon as he heard Red's footsteps fade, Kiku took a deep breath. "Yao…"

"Yīnghuā, what's wrong?"

The concern in Yao's voice made Kiku pull his hand away from the other man's, wiping his eyes. "I-I was," he cleared his throat, "hit by the gas."

"The gas?" Yao parroted, unable to follow. "The gas…? What does… but doctors… they don't even know…" Realization hit Yao like a sledgehammer. He had been doped up on morphine and only half awake, but he did recall hearing the medics talking frantically about soldiers who had been exposed to the gas, their symptoms…

It felt like a stone had just dropped into Yao's stomach. "You're…"

Kiku just stared his empty stare, wetness running down his face. Yao took his hand again, held it against his cheek, and cried.

Red leaned against a stretcher and sighed as she listened to Yao's sobs. She looked down. "Reckon I'll find anyone with worse damage?"

The burlap-covered corpse did not answer.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry."

She stood to her full height and stuck her hands in her pockets, walking through a milling crowd of shouting medics, crying soldiers, and moaning wounded. She strolled past more burlap, seven bundles of it, all lined up in a row. As she passed the last, another was lifted from a nearby stretcher and laid out beside its fellows. Red reached for her vest pocket, fingers searching around inside before coming away with nothing. Tch, damn. She could really do with a smoke right now.

She bumped into a medic rushing the other way.

"Shit," he said. "Sorry, ma'am." Then he peered up at her. He was young, so terribly young, with big round glasses, a crack winding down one lens. "Ma'am… are you okay? You're bleeding…"

"I'm walking, ain't I?" Red snapped and pushed him aside. "Now go take care of soldiers who actually need help." And she started at a brisk walk toward the front of the camp. Even at such a distance, she could see the large amount of soldiers leaning on their comrades, being hefted onto stretchers, being maneuvered limply into burlap sacks.

If I see you in one of those goddamn sacks, Alfred, I'll kick your ass.

"Ivan… Ivan, look." Francis shook the Russian's shoulder. "Ivan. They're here."

The man didn't respond. Alarmed, Francis sat up and Ivan's head lolled to the side. "Ivan? Ivan." I told you to stay awake. Why didn't you stay awake? He seized Ivan firmly by the shoulder and shook him once again. "Ivan, allez au diable, I will not let you go now. Not after,"—Francis's eyes trailed down to the stump that was Ivan's leg, blackened and peeling at the end from the cauterization—"everything." Another shake. Still nothing. Francis's eyes began to burn and he lifted Ivan's head off of his lap, turning around and laying him in a dry patch of dirt as gently as his trembling hands would allow. The Russian's face, despite being filth-smeared and bloody, was paler than Francis had ever seen it, barely contrasting with the dusting of snow that had settled on the ground since the tank was hit. His eyes were purple with exhaustion, closed, and his chest was rising almost inconspicuously. Francis jerked his head around to study the dark forms approaching in the distance. They were moving far too slowly.

"Ici!" Francis shouted, pushing himself to his feet and struggling to keep his legs from giving out completely. He waved his arms over his head. "Here! Here! Hurry! He's dying!"

A flicker of movement out of the corner of Francis's eye made him whip his head around. Both of Ivan's eyes were still closed, his face was still deathly pale, his chest was still rising shallowly, but he had managed to regain enough strength to move his head just enough so that it fell to his other side. "Not—dying—" Ivan croaked, expelling each word on weak, individual gusts of breath. "Just—resting—"

"Do not speak," Francis told him, placing a hand lightly on Ivan's chest. He wanted Ivan to know that he wasn't alone—and he wanted to be able to feel when Ivan was no longer breathing. "Save your breath. Can you open your eyes? –Ivan, I need you to open them." One of the Russian's eyelids quivered, and only that. Francis jerked his head around, his hair, damp with mud and blood, plastering to his face. "Vite! He is a nation—help him!"

The men were running, but they seemed to be no closer than they had been a minute before. Exasperated and desperate, Francis jumped to his feet, grabbed Ivan beneath his arms, and pulled. The cold mud sucked at his feet and swallowed around Ivan's lower half. Francis's muscles quivered under the strain, and he dug in his heels, gritting his teeth and growling. But his strength had fled him. His legs gave out and he was sent down into the cold, consuming sea of snow-dusted mud and ash.

"Ivan!" Francis yelled. The man didn't even flinch. "Ivan!"

Suddenly the men were beside them, leaning over and throwing useless questions at him like, "Is he responding?" and "How long has his leg been like that?", but Francis snapped, "Just help me lift him!" After that, they didn't ask anything else.

They carried Ivan, supporting him with one of the Russian's arms over each of their shoulders. Ivan's head continued to loll. Francis followed along in the channel Ivan's dragging foot left in the cold mud, catching his occasional mumbles, some in Russian, some in English, and all breathless.

On and on, the desolate patch of scorched and cratered land seemed to continue forever. The soldiers did not slow and Francis struggled to keep up, chewing his lip as, for five long minutes, Ivan was completely silent. Out of that silence, he heard the rattling rumble of an engine. Their heads shot up. Ivan's remained hanging. Francis squinted through the smoke and swirling snow to see an oddly-shaped figure approaching at inhuman speed. Francis would have tried to further identify it if doing so didn't make his head throb.

Luckily, he didn't need to. "It's a bike—someone on a bike!" one of the soldiers exclaimed.

Francis raised his arms and waved at them as best he could. "Over here! Over here! We have wounded!"

The bike materialized out of the haze, rocketing from it in a swirl of smoke. It sped across the wet earth, kicking up clods of mud and ash along the way. It puttered to a halt beside them, painting them with flecks of dirt, but Francis could hardly care. There was a sidecar open and waiting, and the two soldiers carrying Ivan laid him inside it while Francis tucked the Russian's leg in, being sure to mind his stump, and secured him in place. The man was listless, head hanging back. Francis shrugged off his vest and rolled it up, sliding it beneath Ivan's neck to give him some sort of comfort. As he did so, he saw one of the man's violet eyes open a crack and study him gratefully. Francis took his hand. "We will get you help," he promised before swinging a leg over the bike and gripping the driver around the waist. He still had a tight hold of Ivan's hand.

"How far away are the nearest medics?" Francis asked.

The driver nudged back his kickstand. "It took me ten minutes to get here."

Francis's stomach twisted and he peered down at Ivan. He was as motionless as before. He turned back to the driver, his arm tightening around him. "Let's make it in five."

The driver shrugged. "It has enough juice."

And they tore off across the moonscape.

"A man, reddish brown hair, a sort of curly cowlick, looks a bit wimpy, says 've' a lot for no reason at all?"

The soldier shook his head, his friend, who had a bandage over his eye, shrugging. Ludwig's shoulders slumped. "No, haven't seen him."

He watched the men walk away, leaning against each other for support. He would have liked to volunteer to help them to the camp, but he couldn't afford to divert from his search. All he could think about was Feliciano and how he could be lying somewhere right now, slowly bleeding out. He lurched onward, gritting his teeth against the pain shooting up his injured legs and icy wind stinging his eyes.

"Um, s-sir?" Danny asked hesitantly. "We've been walking around for half an hour and you're losing your strength. Do you think we should—"

"I am finding Feli," Ludwig insisted. He would have liked to leave Danny at the camp as well, but Red had to check in with her troops and had ordered Danny to keep Ludwig company due to his hindering wounds. And the man's girth was almost as hindering as Ludwig's injuries; he had been puffing for the past fifteen minutes, and Ludwig was having to drag him around like some ball and chain.

"Where haven't we looked yet?" Danny thought aloud, and, as much as Ludwig knew he was trying to be helpful, it was quite annoying. "M-maybe along Constitution Avenue? He could be hiding in what's left of the buildings…"

No, Ludwig wanted to snap at him. Feli would run and keep running until he saw someone he knew. Danny was absolutely clueless, and it was pissing Ludwig off. He knew he shouldn't be so short with the man, as Danny was helping him as best he could manage (his area of expertise, after all, was computer systems), but he couldn't help feeling that he could have found Feliciano by now if he were alone. Every second that passed without a glimpse of the Italian gnawed more and more at his resolve. I knew I should have never agreed that Feli be put on a different team. Anger coiled in his gut for Red. She's as irresponsible as her father. I should have known this would happen, I should have known…

But if Feliciano wasn't at the camp and hadn't somehow found Ludwig already, like he always seemed to do, then where the hell was he?

They had examined the fallen monument and the reflecting pool, where surviving troops were scooping victims out of the wreckage. They had crossed the killing fields at the mouths of the crumbling tunnels, where there were so many bodies that one could walk across it without touching the ground. They had checked the ruined museums, looted stores, had even sifted through the pits where Ludwig had been rescued from. And, while at those times he was hoping with all his heart to not see Feliciano, something inside him wanted to hear that distinctive 've' or else receive closure by finding the Italian among the dead. But no. Instead of being allowed to rejoice or grieve, he was caught in a type of limbo that had him walking around in a haze of paranoid uncertainty.

Only after they had checked up and down the avenue as Danny had suggested did Ludwig come to the agonizing realization that there was just one other place Feliciano could be.

Headquarters.

Danny seemed to realize this as well, as he had stopped making suggestions and didn't need direction, taking Ludwig obediently to the site. Even before they rounded the corner, it was obvious that the explosion had been much more catastrophic than Ludwig had observed from far away. Debris was scattered as far as a mile away from the detonation site, everything from wood to cement to marble to twisted and melted metal. Once they turned the corner, all that could be seen was a stretch of scorched earth and blackened rubble, in the center of which was a deep grove wherein the surviving marble columns, charred beyond recognition, were standing haphazardly—the last of what was once the Archives. It was clear by the colossal damage of it all that the explosion had gone off from within. Ludwig knew that Alfred and Yao had been posted here and, while he had not yet seen or heard anything from them, the only one he was concerned about at the moment was Feliciano. Please, let him have run, Ludwig prayed to no one in particular as he studied the smoking crater that could very well be Feliciano's grave.

Not a word was exchanged between them. They picked their way through the wreckage, Ludwig struggling to navigate through the remnants of the building; once, his foot caught on a gnarled bit of what used to be a hand rail and he was forced to grab Danny to keep his balance. Several times, he had to stop because something had jabbed him in one of his wounds. Eventually, he shoved the man away. "Let's split up."

Danny agreed and lumbered off somewhere to search, while Ludwig commenced sifting through the mess around him, half of him hoping he didn't see that distinct reddish-brown hair among the destruction and the other half wishing that he could just find Feliciano.

They seemed to search for hours. The snow had stopped falling and the gray clouds had parted just a bit to reveal a wink of sun setting over the crest of crumbling buildings in the distance when Danny picked his way over to Ludwig, who was so busy that he hadn't heard his approach. He jumped when the man put a hand on his shoulder and said, "We'd better get back to camp and have those wounds checked."

Ludwig was inclined to tell him off, but having been interrupted from his daze of searching, his mind had cleared enough for him to conclude that it was probably best if he conceded. His hands were black with soot and bloody from having been scraped on all the debris he'd had to move. He flexed them, a sting shooting up his palms that petered into a dull ache as Danny offered his arm and helped Ludwig out of the little runnel he had dug through the wreckage. They left the destroyed Archives behind and made their way up the avenue again, Ludwig's heart dropping down into his stomach and churning it up. They had looked everywhere. There was nowhere else Feliciano could possibly be.

Ludwig felt his lungs constricting, but not in grief. Instead of a sob, he let out a scream. "Feli!"

Danny nearly jumped out of his skin, staring at Ludwig half in concern, half in pity. Ludwig stood there, hunched, clutching his scarred hands, listening to his voice echo off of what was left of the buildings around them. A minute passed. Then two.

Danny gave him a little tug. "Your wounds," was all he could say, and Ludwig knew he was right. The German gave a frustrated sigh and followed, his eyes stinging as he kicked aside a sizable stone in his grief. Pain rattled up his leg, but it was nothing compared to the pain that came with the loss of Feliciano. Why didn't you run, you idiot? His chest hurt, like someone had just shoved a steel rod through his ribcage. It hurt to breathe, and the breath he did manage to catch was shallow and quivery.

"Luddy!"

Both stopped dead. Ludwig's head jerked around to the direction of the voice, his heart hammering. "Was? Nein." He was just hearing things, yes, that's what it was. He was mourning Feliciano's death and now he could hear the man's voice, because he wanted to hear it—

And was he seeing him as well?

Because Feliciano was running toward them in his usual, awkward fashion, waving his arms so fast they seemed a blur. "Luddy! It's me!"

"Feliciano," Ludwig breathed and wrenched out of Danny's grasp to begin limping toward the Italian. He knew he wasn't in his right mind now, but somehow that didn't matter. Feliciano was there, covered with soot and blood and dirt. But his appearance didn't matter either. To Ludwig, Feliciano had never looked more beautiful a sight than he did then. Warmth spilled from his eyes. "Feli!"

"Luddy! Luddy!" Feliciano called and ran as fast as he could toward him until, in mere moments, Ludwig had his arms full of sobbing Italian. "Luddy" was all he could say for a while, arms wrapped around Ludwig's neck and squeezing him as strongly as he could. And, Ludwig had to admit, it was pretty strong.

Ludwig returned his embrace, holding Feliciano as if afraid he would be taken away. "You idiot," he said softly, cupping the back of the Italian's head and burying his face in his shoulder, appreciating the way Feliciano's hair ticked his nose. "You idiot."

"L-Ludd-dy," Feliciano cried, his face hidden in the German's broad chest. "I'm sorry, ve, I'm s-sorry…"

"Nein, Feli, I'm sorry," Ludwig said. Now that they were reunited, he began to notice features of the Italian he had never noticed before: like the two moles on Feliciano's neck, how his ears stuck out just enough to be endearing, how, when Ludwig finally pulled Feliciano back to see his face, the Italian's irises contained flecks of copper that glimmered whenever the light hit them. "I'm sorry you were alone. I should have been with you. I should have looked harder for you—"

Feliciano blinked his wide, swimming eyes up at him and took his hand. "I wasn't alone, Luddy."

"Was?"

Feliciano's body left his and Ludwig shivered from the loss of his warmth, his heart pounding and muscles tensing like he wanted nothing more than to scoop Feliciano up and protect him from anything and everything—do all that he hadn't been able to do before. But before he could move or question further, Feliciano pulled him toward one of the ruined museums. Danny seemed to sense the importance of Feliciano's intent and Ludwig could hear his footsteps draw up behind them.

"We went down 9th street and hid out in the National Mall," Feliciano explained, as if he had read Ludwig's mind. They rounded a corner and there it was, the street. Feliciano's tugs became harder, more insistent. "We were going to go find help, but—"

"We?" Ludwig repeated, aghast. He couldn't believe there could be anything more extraordinary at the moment than finally finding Feliciano.

The Italian answered his question was a brisk nod. They entered a large field, desolate but for scattered bones and the remains of what Ludwig assumed was a helicopter. And, surprisingly, the Italian led them toward it.

It was an old, rusted thing, probably dating back to the first riots of the Uprising. It lay hunched like a fallen beast, moaning as the wind blew through its twisted metal. Ludwig's boots crunched, and he looked down to see that he was walking over a stretch of bone shards. There were more the closer they got to the helicopter, and very soon Ludwig could feel nothing but bones beneath his feet. He was determined not to look down, but once he did out of curiosity. His eyes locked onto a detached mandible, every single tooth still visible and untarnished—as if they were still capable of chewing. As he walked past it, he imagined it launching itself at him and sinking those teeth into his ankle. His stomach turned over, and he looked away.

He caught the scent of rot and saw that the seats of the helicopter, decayed and blackened, were covered in a thick blanket of furry green mold. He held his arm over his face and coughed as the odor became stronger, and still Feliciano led him further into the wreckage.

"Feli," Ludwig mumbled through his sleeve, "we shouldn't—mein Gott."

Ludwig wrenched himself out of Feliciano's grasp and bolted past him until he was standing over the ones Feliciano had referred to. He stared for a moment, trying to determine if the sight before him was real or just a result of the blood loss from his wounds. Then he crouched down and said quietly, "Alfred…" and could say nothing else.

The man didn't even look up at him. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, Arthur's listless form draped across his lap. Upon hearing Ludwig's approach, even his voice, he hadn't moved or shown any sign that he knew the German was there. He was so still that, at first, Ludwig thought him unconscious or worse.

Then Alfred said, "I wanted to get help… but I couldn't carry him any further."

Ludwig was unsure of what to say. Danny came up behind him and said, "Oh God… is he…?"

The German winced, wishing that the man had chosen to say nothing, and if he'd had to speak to say anything but that. But Alfred, again, didn't react. Ludwig swallowed.

"We have to get them back to camp, Luddy," Feliciano urged. "Alfred's bleeding…"

"I know, Feli. Alfred, can you walk?"

Alfred nodded, his face hidden by his bloody fringe.

Ludwig didn't know how to handle Alfred in this state. He had never encountered a quiet, resigned Alfred before. He flexed his hands, intent upon taking Arthur from his grasp, but he couldn't bring himself to, not when he saw the white-knuckled way Alfred clutched the Briton to him.

Something crackled behind him, and they all jumped. Ludwig spun around and saw Danny's hand shoot down to the radio at his waist. Red had given it to him just before they'd left the camp, claiming that it was for them to keep in contact with so that they wouldn't get lost, but more than once Ludwig had thought he'd heard Danny muttering into it while they were searching through the remnants of the Archives. He had overheard his name multiple times and knew Red was monitoring his condition.

Nosy, Ludwig mused. Just like her father. He saw Alfred shift out of the corner of his eye and, suddenly, the words he had just thought made his head ache.

A hiss of static redirected his attention. Danny was holding the radio, Red's voice grating out of it.

"Dan, do you copy?"

"Y-yeah, I copy."

"Have you found Feliciano? Over."

Danny spared a glance at the rest of the group, as if he was seeking permission to answer in the affirmative. He only received stares back, however, and said, "Yes. We found him and… some others. Over."

"Others? Over."

"Yes, um… Alfred an-and Arthur." He bit his lip like he expected Red to pick up that Arthur was… unwell. Over.

Silence stretched on the other end, and Danny bit down harder. Then Red sighed and said, "Good. Then I won't have to send out more scouts. Over."

"Scouts? Why—"

"You get everyone back to camp," Red interrupted. "And, Alfred, don't you even think of running off. I know how you are. Over."

Ludwig pushed himself to his feet and walked over. "If you need another scout, I'll—"

"No," Red snapped. "You heard what I said. Get your asses back to camp ASAP. I have enough on my plate without worrying about you guys. Dan, what's your ETA? Over."

"Uh…" Danny screwed up his face in thought and then replied, "About… we're about fifteen minutes out. Over."

"Virgnia."

Everyone jumped and whipped their heads around to stare at Alfred. He had lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot and bleary, and his face was caked with blood and dirt. He was as pale as bone. "Tell me," he croaked, and his voice was just desperate enough to prompt a straight answer.

"Get your ass to camp, Alfred," Red ordered, but there was no disguising the anxious quaver in her voice. "Matt's missing, and I don't wanna have to send out more scouts to look for your dumb ass, too… Over and out."

Translations:

yīnghuā-cherry blossom

Gǎnxiè shàngdì-Thank God

allez au diable-damn you (This I'm a bit suspicious about. Please correct me if I'm wrong).

Shì-Yes

Nani?-What?

Ici!-Here!

Vite!-Quickly!

A Word From the Writer: Holy balls! It's been a longer wait than last time and I didn't write nearly as much! Well, there was a lot of shit going on and school and whatever. Plus the internet distracts me. I barely watch any t.v. Now it's just YouTube and Netflix. Aside from that, yay, this chapter is finally out! I never knew going through different POVs could be so strenuous. Maybe it's because it's almost the end and I'm... purposefully procrastinating because this fic has been my heart and soul since March of 2013. Damn, it's been a long ride, and I've loved every minute of it.

Now, to the content! So, you have all of the nations verified as alive (or dead) except for Canada, since he's been buried twice under rocks because my ideas are so original. Anyway, Japan is blind, China's fucked up big time, Russia needs a peg leg (and maybe some oxygen), and England's dead. Yes, I was serious about me not bringing him back. He's definitely gone, folks, and there will be more sad feels coming up surrounding that, so stay tuned!

I dunno if the next chapter will be the last chapter, seeing as I have yet to start it. Lol, I plan so well. You can't deny these skills. The good news is that all of my family is moved out of the house (no more screaming babies, hooray!), so I'll have more time to devote to finishing this... if, that is, I can lengthen my attention span. To give you an example, once I was on an hour-long Wiki spree because I decided to look up common names of European royal families (because the Duchess of Cambridge is preggers again. Damn, they are getting it done) I somehow ended up reading about the maîtresse-en-titre and looking up the shit-ton there were over the years (France, it's not surprising that your kings were manwhores). So... that said...

See ya whenever!