If you has sad, turn back now.

Warning: Gore, sadness, a little bit of tripping out.

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

ATTENTION! I POSTED PART OF THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER LATE, SO IF YOU HAVEN'T READ IT THEN YOU MISSED SOME BIG FEELS!

Aeternum vale

He was standing in the foyer of his home. He could smell the unique dank of the place that he could never seem to scrub away, the stench of a century past. The dusty old chandelier, with a few missing branches of lights, hung overhead, the chain making the distinct creak he knew so well as the faulty overhead window allowed a draft to snake in. The house was relatively warm, heated primarily by the hearth located in the adjacent den. The red light that the fire usually threw against the walls was absent, but he could smell wood burning. Outside, the sky was slate gray with snow clouds, and the hill beyond was glittering white from the lights the other houses' windows projected onto the ground. It was that time just after sunrise, when all of the birds had quieted after their early morning songs and when the bright silence was bringing the world to life.

He lifted his hands. He was wearing his green army greatcoat, ironed, spotless, and the color as vibrant as the day he had received it. His gaze continued downward, marveling, but something like dread grew and grew in the pit of his stomach with every inch his eyes traversed. By the time he reached his waist, a hesitance had settled over him that seemed unfounded but undeniably real.

His stomach dropped like a weight at the sight of his legs. Gone was flesh and meat and blood—bone was all that was left, glowing like they were reflecting all the light of the moon. Every little joint was defined, twisting downward, down, down, until he was staring at a pool of red swirling around his ankles, so dark it was almost black. Little islands of bloody flesh swam through it—all that was left of his legs.

As disgusted and horrified as he was, he bent down, something beckoning him. He urged his legs to have him stand again, to move and run away, but it was as if his body was its own entity, and he could do nothing but watch, struggling to smother the panic rising up inside of him. He arrived at the blood, watching the chunks of flesh swirl in the dark currents for a few minutes until his mind was at ease. He could feel his joints begin to move, meaning to bring him upright again. But then something bubbled in the blood below, and he stopped rising. He stared. His heart was beating so fast he thought it would rip out of his chest.

Soon the surface of the pool was bubbling so much it appeared to be boiling. Although he felt no heat emanate from it, he did feel like something was coming.

Before he could convince his skeleton legs to lift him, a hand shot out of the blood and grabbed him about the throat, pulling him in. He could feel his mouth open, but nothing came out, even when a head burst from the blood and a nose was pressed against his own. Blue eyes bore into him. The fingers squeezing him were icy.

"You said you would protect me," Alfred told him. As he spoke, the skin began to slide off his face to join the swirling gore below. "You weren't there." Alfred's flesh made sickening plops as pieces sluiced off. Soon, all that was left was bone, just like his own legs. "You weren't there," Alfred's skull continued. The pulls got stronger. "Where were you, Ivan? Where were you?"

The next thing he knew, he was keeling forward as Alfred yanked him. Alfred's shoulders disappeared into the mess, then his neck. Alfred was sinking into the pool, taking him with him, pulling him so close that his lips pressed against the bare bone of Alfred's jaw, were forced to kiss his naked teeth and taste the guilt that came with death triumphant—

Voices rushed to his ears as if an incoming tidal wave. They were slow and muffled, like he was submerged underwater and they were coming from above the surface. The blood, he thought dazedly. I'm in the blood…

Lights as bright as stars hung over him, bathing his vision in white. There were blurred shadows moving across them, and he wanted to beg them to just stop moving, he was so dizzy and something dreadful was bubbling in his stomach…

His throat contracted and he gagged, and then someone was rolling him onto his side. Everything shifted, and something rushed up his throat and spilled from his mouth. The shadows beside him scattered. He lay there, panting and gripping the edge of whatever he was lying on. It took him a few seconds to realize that he had just vomited. Pain shot through his stomach and he groaned.

He was rolled onto his back again just as he made out, "Too much morphine, you dumbass! What did I tell you? He's puking his guts up now."

"I'm sorry!" a younger voice squeaked.

The other tched. "Get outta the way."

The blurred shapes that were now beginning to resemble human forms jostled around him, one shoving another out of his scope of vision. Hands cupped both sides of his face and turned his head so that he was staring blearily up at a pair of eyes and nothing else.

"Hey, can you hear me?"

Ivan was too dizzy to form words.

"Lift a finger if you can hear me."

It took a few moments for his brain to remember how to make the movement, but he managed to do it. The stranger's head dipped in relief, and only then did Ivan realize that the rest of the man's face was hidden behind a white surgical mask. "Okay," the man breathed. "Ivan, you're in safe hands. We've just finished sewing up your leg… there was a lot of dead tissue to clean up, but nothing too severe. You'll make a full recovery."

His leg. His eyes wandered down his torso until he could see his stump, bandaged tightly. He also saw that he was lying on a cot beneath a slope of gray nylon. Ahead of him was a slit in the material, sealed with thick plastic, zipped up securely. More figures moved around him, clad in white—masks and caps included. He could hear the low buzz of voices, some weaker or more desperate than others. There was the sound of clinking instruments, rolling carts, shuffling feet, rustling fabric. A tent. A tent full of broken things.

A younger man fluttered at his other side, the one who had given him too much morphine and made him ill. He was meek and twiggy, with big brown eyes that were swimming. He reminded Ivan of the youngest of the three brothers who used to live with him… who were they again? He could see their faces, but he couldn't remember their names. His head throbbed and he lifted a hand to press against it. He placed the other one flat against the crisp sheets and began to push himself up.

"Sir," the assistant tittered. He shuffled toward him, arms outstretched, intending to seize him and lower him back down. "Sir, you really shouldn't—"

Ivan jerked away from him, his head throbbing again from the quick movement. The man squeaked and back away. Ivan grunted, forced to use his other arm to hold himself up as the one already doing so almost gave out. He had a better view of what was left of his leg. He had known that it was gone shortly after waking, but seeing it again after what felt like so long was just as disheartening as his first observation. He hunched over and extended one of his hands to feel it. Reality struck him as his fingers traced over the bandaged stump. It was gone. It was really gone. Gordon was right. He was a cripple.

The older man stood and watched, understanding in his eyes. The younger stepped closer. "Sir—"

His superior held out an arm, and the assistant stopped his advances. They watched him for a little longer, then the older said, "We're needed elsewhere, but we'll be close if you need anything. I have informed Red of your condition. She will speak with you shortly. Just…" his eyes darted down to Ivan's stump and the fingers trailing over them, "try to get some rest for the time being. And mind that shoulder of yours." They left, the younger giving Ivan an apologetic look as he went.

As soon as they had disappeared between the milling forms of medics and rolling gurneys, Ivan's hand immediately went to his shoulder. His fingertips met heavy bandages, and an ache shot up his arm as he pressed against it. "Ебать," he grunted, and he peered around. No one was near him—he had been allocated his own part of the tent. Only a few spared him glances, and often they were curt and almost fearful. Sometimes, they were glazed with pity. It made Ivan swell with frustration.

A minute passed. Then five. Ivan was in the act of shuffling on his cot so that his remaining leg hung off the side when he heard, "Whoa, there, ruski. Doesn't it seem a bit early for you to be hobbling off anywhere?"

It was Red. She was still smeared with soot, and blood was still oozing from her wounds. "You say that and yet you stand here looking like you need a bed more than I do," Ivan retorted irritably.

Red scoffed. Annoyance twinged in Ivan's temples. Before she could mention his lack of a leg, he said, "Where is everyone?"

Red raised an eyebrow. "You mean, 'where is Alfred', right? Look, I may not like the idea of you porking my dad, but you'll only make it worse if you act like he's not your first priority. Shit like that doesn't get by me easily anyway."

This would be the point in a conversation when Ivan would just walk away—or punch the person speaking in the teeth. As if he could do either. So he just gave her an exasperated look and said, "Where is everyone—especially Alfred?" He almost said 'Fredka', but that would have been embarrassing, and Red didn't need anything else in her arsenal of insults for him.

His fingers itched to slap the wisp of a smirk off her smug face. "He's… resting. As for everyone else, well…"

Ivan sensed something off. "What do you mean?"

"About Alfred? He was found and brought back to camp. He was a bit… hysterical, so we gave him something to let him sleep for a while."

Ivan stiffened and narrowed his eyes. "You drugged him?"

Red didn't even blink an eye at his change in attitude. She merely said, "He had a lot on his mind, and it was too much for him to take in his physical state. If we just let him ride it out, he would have gone into shock. It was in his best interest that he be made unconscious.

"Why didn't you bring him to me?" Ivan demanded. "Why didn't you let him see that I was okay? It could have eased his mind."

"You were still being patched up, and we were afraid that if he saw you being operated on with one of your legs missing, it might tip him over the edge."

As angry as Ivan was that Alfred couldn't be here, he knew deep down that Red's argument was logical. He huffed and said, "Is he hurt?"

Red was studying her boots. "Yeah. His head got banged up really bad, one of his fingers is broken, he has some nasty-looking bruises, and someone shanked him in the gut. He's all patched up now and the bleeding has more or less stopped, but…"

"But?" Ivan urged.

Red sighed. "He's experienced substantial emotional distress."

Ivan's patience was wearing entirely too thin. "Stop with all this cryptic bullshit. Tell me outright, or I will find out myself!" he snapped. He didn't want to quell his anger, because that would mean contemplating the very likely possibility that his conversation with Arthur had been the last he would ever have with the man. And, for some reason, he couldn't except that.

Red didn't look up at him, and the next time she spoke her voice seemed… heavy. Then she lifted her head, and she couldn't hide the emotion behind her eyes—not completely, at least, but there was something there, something he couldn't identify. It scared him more than it rightfully should. "What happened?" he said more quietly, encouragingly.

Red was silent for a long moment, all the while Ivan's heart in his throat. Then she said, talking to the floor, "I… when Alfred wakes up and everyone's gathered, we can talk. Right now, though… I think it'll be best if we can all talk together." She stopped leaning on his cot and straightened. "Get some rest in the mean time. I will come and get you when the time comes."

Ivan wanted to strangle her out of sheer desperation to hear an explanation as much as he wanted to get up and run through the camp and see what was going on himself. But he did neither. All he could do was watch her walk away. Afterward, he lowered himself back down onto the cot and stared at the sloping ceiling of the tent. He didn't know how long he stared, but all he could think about was how helpless he was, how he had to take orders from someone as young as Red to stay put, because he could do nothing else.

It's true, he thought, Arthur's face swimming in his mind's eye. The bastard really did it. He's… he's…

Concern gradually exhausted him. Sleep came over Ivan without him knowing he had surrendered to it.

Embryonic. That was the closest thing he could think of to describe his situation. He was an embryo, curled and helpless, cocooned by sloping walls that made every noise outside sound muffled and distorted. Occasionally, something broke off and skipped down past him on the other side, and he would clench his hand around the locket that was burned into his palm in anticipation of a rockslide. Time trickled on, unbearably slow. It was so dark that he couldn't make out if it was day or night. Soon, the wind he heard licking the rocks and the tumbling pebbles formed a kind of lullaby, making him drowsy. Or perhaps it was because he had been tense for so long that he simply couldn't convince his muscles to react anymore. He felt terribly cramped, scrunched up into a ball and afraid to move out of fear of disrupting the delicate balance of the pile. A jag of rock was sticking out beneath him, and he had to remind himself to remain in a ball as to avoid being jabbed painfully in his injured back. Everything in him ached; it felt like someone had taken a meat tenderizer to all of his muscles and spared him no mercy. His arms were folded up against him, and his neck was in an awkward position where it was perpetually cricked. Every once in a while, a jolt of pain would course down his spine.

He didn't know how long he waited. For death or for rescue, he wasn't sure. But as minutes turned into hours and hours seemed to stretch into days, he was sure that death would be the one to find him. He began to get terribly claustrophobic, and, at one point, in his desire to get out—just get out, get out—he came close to kicking out so that the rocks would pile in on him and crush the life out of him. But then he remembered his wrists, still wrapped in tatters of bandages, and knew he wouldn't have the strength to off himself. So he waited.

Soon, the pain began to ebb into a sort of floating numbness, and then he couldn't feel anything. His mind had also become fuzzy, and he found it quite difficult to remember his thoughts. But instead of worrying him, these developments put him at ease. No more pain. No more worry. His eyes were getting heavier and heavier… he could finally sleep…

He drifted off to follow the voices he heard in what he thought were his dreams in his semi-conscious state, but as soon as he shut his eyes, he forgot all about them and time and everything else that had slowly lost importance…

The voices came back to him first. It seemed like they had only been gone for five minutes. He lay there and listened for a moment. He still felt numb and drowsy, but as the sounds grew louder and clearer, his senses returned.

Was he dead? He couldn't be alive—he shouldn't be—

He peeled his eyes open; it was as if he was looking through wax paper. Then there was a shout close by, and someone flitted into his view, giving him enough focus to clear his vision.

"Mattie—Mattie!"

Matthew struggled to identify the person wrapping their arms around him, but then someone across the room called, "Alfred! You should not be moving!"

The weight that was Alfred lifted from Matthew's chest to crane his neck around and cry, his voice thick with emotion, "Ivan, look, he's awake. Mattie's awake, come and see!"

There was a distinct step, clunk, step, clunk, step, clunk, and then another figure was leaning over him. Matthew shifted his gaze, and Ivan came into focus, bedraggled and paler than usual, but wearing a wisp of a smile. "So he is," he said, his voice scratchy. "Welcome back, Matvey."

Matthew blinked a few times and shifted on the bed he was laying in. Ivan extended a hand and gripped Alfred's shoulder, tugging him back to give the Canadian room. Matthew took advantage and sat up, swaying a bit as his vision erupted with black spots, and his head suddenly felt full of air. Alfred moved to steady him, but Ivan still had a hold of him and forced him to remain in place, though a tiny gasp escaped him. Matthew grabbed the side of the cot and found his balance again, his vision clearing and weight returning to his head like a block of lead. It pounded, and a hand shot to his temple. He gritted his teeth and groaned, rubbing the spot, then slid the hand down to his neck, which had begun to exhibit that familiar ache he had felt while caught under the rockslide. Only then did Matthew have the chance to examine where he was.

A white tent. After having been in the dark for so long, it was startlingly bright, and he had to squint for a while before getting used to it. He was laying in a cot under crisp linens. A line led from his wrist to an IV stand beside him. A small fold-up table next to him held a canteen of water and some saltines. Matthew went for the canteen and drank until there was nothing left, then stuffed a cracker into his mouth. He had never tasted anything so good in his life.

"Whoa, whoa, there," Alfred reasoned, taking hold of Matthew's wrist to prevent him from going for another cracker. "Anymore of that, and you'll make yourself sick."

Matthew took his hand back and set it in his lap, realizing that he had been so obsessed with quenching his thirst and sating his hunger, he had neglected to breathe properly. He took the opportunity to do so, the others watching him intently.

Then he said, "Where—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Where am I?"

"Safe," Alfred said with a warm look.

"You are in the Resistance camp," Ivan told him, ignoring the look Alfred flashed him that judged his blunt response. "The medics have tended to you. They found you passed out cold."

"Found me?" Matthew grunted, pushing back his hair and finding it clean and soft. "How long was I unconscious?"

"Four hours," Alfred replied. "A team was sent out to search for you, and one of them just happened to see the light glinting off of that locket you had in your hand. Twenty minutes longer, and you might not have been alive."

"The locket," Matthew murmured, knowing that it was significant but not knowing how. "Do you have it?"

Alfred reached into his pocket and pulled it out, presenting it to him. Matthew took the misshapen heart locket into his hand to study it. "Ollie," he recalled.

"What?" Alfred asked.

"Nothing," Matthew said. He wrapped the chain of the locket around his wrist for safekeeping and noticed the bandage on his palm. He unwrapped it, not knowing exactly why, hearing Alfred begin to urge him not to and Ivan hush him in return. Matthew discarded the gauze, stained brown with dried blood, and stared at the mark on his palm.

Silence persisted for a long minute. "That burn," Alfred said at last, "it's pretty nasty. And deep. They said it will never fully heal. You'll have a scar."

Matthew thought of the scars on his wrists and found his lips lifting a bit at the corners. A new scar. For a new life. "I won't mind," Matthew said, his fingers brushing over the heart-shaped burn, not regretting the way it stung, "having this for the rest of my life."

Alfred looked as if he was prepared to get up and hug him when the sound of a zipper being pulled redirected their attentions to the flap of the tent. Red was standing there.

"Uncle Matt," she greeted. "Nice to see you breathing."

"Likewise," Matthew replied with a feeble wave.

"That is everyone," Ivan stated without preamble. "Shall we begin?"

Red sighed deeply. "Yeah, I s'ppose. I'll get them." And she left, pulling the zipper up behind her.

Matthew eyed Ivan in question, and the Russian said. "We agreed that all of the surviving nations would meet when everyone was in fit enough condition. You were the last one we had to wait for."

Matthew's heart dropped like a stone. Surviving? But continuing his interrogation at this time would be foolish, considering that a meeting would soon be held to answer all of the questions he had burning within him. He swallowed and said, "Sorry to keep you waiting."

Alfred smiled and laughed a little, though it was a weak, feathery laugh. "Always apologizing. It's good to know that you haven't changed, little bro."

I'm older than you, you know, Matthew wanted to remind him, but at that moment he found that he considered the name as more of an endearment than anything else. He, after all, could have easily not heard it said at all if something unfortunate had befallen either one of them. Even little things like that meant the world to him. So he answered with a smile.

Step, clunk, step, clunk—Ivan was on the move again, pacing with impatience, and Matthew's eyes were drawn to the source of his strange, uneven footsteps. What he saw made his mouth go dry.

"H-his leg," he squeaked, intending the words for Alfred's ears only, but Ivan heard them nonetheless. The Russian stopped and turned to look at him, his violet eyes reflecting a man trying to piece his pride back together. His gaze made Matthew hold his breath.

"My leg," he said simply, "is nothing compared to my life." But as much as his tone supported his statement, the same assurance did not reach his eyes.

Ivan turned away after that, and continued his pacing, balanced on a crutch—step, clunk, step, clunk, step, clunk. Matthew tried his best not to look at Alfred, whom he was sure would be ashamed if caught wiping away tears. The Canadian swallowed again. He wished he hadn't drunk all of that water in one go.

The sound of rapid footsteps made them all lift their heads. The flap was unzipped again and Francis came rushing in. Within moments, Matthew was being crushed in a watery embrace.

"You're awake," Francis said, half-sobbing. "You're alive. My Matthieu, oh mon coeur…"

Matthew couldn't help it. At the feel of Francis's arms around him, he began to bawl like a child. "Papa," was all he could get out. "Papa."

Francis rubbed his back and held the Canadian's head to his shoulder, letting him muffle his sobs. "Mon chou, mon petit chou… I thought you—you were missing, and I—"

"I'm here," Matthew croaked. "Papa, I'm here."

"Oui, merci Dieu, you are."

"Ve, Matthew's awake! Look, Luddy!"

"Ja, Feli, I see."

Matthew and Francis pulled apart to watch the parade of nations hobbling in. Some were limping, some were supported by others, and Yao was being pushed in a dilapidated wheelchair, guiding Kiku with his words. Matthew sat and counted everyone present, running the names through his head. He got to the end of the line and went through all the names again and found one missing. At first, it was nothing significant; he could be standing behind someone or somewhere that Matthew couldn't see him, or perhaps Matthew had simply skipped over him. Such a possibility wouldn't be out of the question, seeing as he had suffered some trauma to his head and had also just woken up. But as he went over them again and again—Francis, Ludwig, Feliciano, Yao, Kiku, Alfred—his chest tightened with doubt. He anxiously fixed his gaze to the open flap of the tent, expecting to see Arthur come marching in, looking all moody and ruffled as usual. But the person he saw enter was Red, and without hesitation she zipped the flap up. The harsh eeeeeek sound that zipper made sealing off all entry to the tent was enough to get Matthew's heart hammering.

Alfred made an odd sound in his throat that had Matthew tearing his gaze away from the group gathered, but he couldn't see his brother's face. He was hiding it in a hand. His ragged breathing, however, was enough to confirm his distress. Ivan took notice immediately and walked over to stand beside him. He didn't extend a hand of comfort nor mutter condolences. He just stood there, close enough for his side to brush against Alfred's shoulder. Alfred became quieter in response, but the sounds were still there and he kept his hand in place. Matthew wanted so much to comfort the man himself, but he was afraid of the repercussions—what he might hear about the source of his misery.

Red situated herself at the center of the circle they had formed.

"All right. Time to lay some shit out."

No one spoke for a while after that. Eyes wandered until they met with counterparts, then turned downward. There were a few shuffles of feet and an occasional cough. All of the noise coming from outside seemed to lessen, the silence pervading the tent was so terribly deafening. Red had lost her usual defiant spark and was merely standing with her arms loosely crossed, staring at a point that seemed far beyond the opposite wall of the tent.

Ludwig cleared his throat. The sound reverberated like a gong and sent hearts racing and heads shooting up.

All of the eyes on him made Ludwig shift his gaze to the floor. "Um… we should begin by announcing our current status."

Red sighed; she knew that, at one point or another, she would have to speak. "We—" Her voice broke. She coughed and continued, "We have achieved our goal. Operation Checkmate has been carried out successfully. Our objective has been met. The Organization has been toppled and the Overlord destroyed. Our artillery took out the Board and the Council. All members that managed to escape have been located and are awaiting questioning. Resistance scouts have been ordered to execute all remaining enemy soldiers. It is a mercy that the Overlord would not grant them."

"And the captives?" Kiku croaked.

"Safe," Red replied. "All of those who could escape the battle, that is. Some are critically injured and the medics are tending to them to the best of their abilities. We have begun taking requests from the captives to search for friends or family members who may be missing or dead. Scouts have been sent out. All bodies found will be identified and put to rest according to their living friends' or family members' wishes."

"How is your team?" Ivan asked. While Red may be a nuisance, he held most of the men who were closest to her in great respect, possibly because they had been the only people he had met in a long while who seemed truly determined to right the world.

Red ran a hand through her messy hair, somehow making it even more mussed. "Well, Dan is alive. He's getting a steady stream of drugs to help him calm down. Other than him, everyone else is gone."

"Everyone?" Ivan exclaimed, astonished.

Red nodded sadly. "Afraid so. Bernard suffocated under the rubble of the Washington Monument when that helicopter hit it, Todd was shot at the Database Facility, Shawn was found with his head bashed in, and Evans was taken captive shortly after succeeding in cutting off communication lines. Apparently, the opposition meant to interrogate him. I sent men to fetch him back, but instead of giving him up, the Organization had him executed. As far as I was told by those who had taken out his executioners, one of the Organization's men had admitted before he was killed that he nor any of the others had managed to wring any information out of Evans. He was a good man. They all were. I was hoping to put them in charge of the reconstruction, but…" She trailed off with a shake of her head.

Ever since he had heard Red say Shawn's name, Ludwig hadn't been able to stop himself from fidgeting. Once he had noticed that he was wringing his hands, he promptly held them behind his back, only to find out that he was chewing rather violently at his lip. He felt a hand brush against his side and turned his head to see Feliciano staring at him worriedly.

"Luddy…?" he murmured in question.

And, of course, that made everyone look at them.

Ludwig chafed under the pressure. Although he was nervous about how his explanation would be received, he didn't know how well Red would take it. He straightened and said, "I… Shawn attacked me while I was in the tunnels."

There was suspicious and surprised muttering all around. Red raised her eyebrows. "I never took Shawn to be the traitor type." Yet, even as she said this her expression remained prompting, as if knowing that Ludwig didn't mean to accuse Shawn of such a thing.

"He isn't," Ludwig said quickly. "I mean, he wasn't… at the time I believe he was being controlled by the Overlord."

"You believe?"

"Ja, well… he told me. He pursued me and tried to kill me… but then there was an explosion, and he became trapped beneath some debris. He told me his legs were crushed… he seemed to be back to himself at the time. I tried everything I could do to save him, but he was stuck." Here, Ludwig's voice went quiet. "I-I was going to find help, but he told me to… to kill him, that there was no time and he was in pain and…" Ludwig held a hand to his face, willing himself not to recall the helpless, desperate look in Shawn's eyes as the man asked him to finish him off. "I… did it."

Feliciano tried to take his hand, but Ludwig moved his hand away, not wanting any of the taint that came with killing a comrade to touch the Italian. He could almost feel Red's eyes burning into him. Then she said, "I'm grateful that you did so. Shawn was a smart man and knew his limits. If I had been asked to grant him such a wish, I would have done so without hesitation. He deserved to have that right, seeing how much hard work he put into building the Resistance." Ludwig took his hand from his face to meet Red's eyes in astonishment. The woman cleared her throat rather thickly, as if trying to swallow her grief, then continued, with a respectful nod in Ludwig's direction, "You did what was right, and for that I thank you."

Ludwig's fingers uncurled from a stiff fist, leaving them dangling with relief at his side. Feliciano took hold of his hand this time and held it just tight enough to communicate that he knew what Ludwig was going through.

It must have been hard, Feliciano thought as he tried to seem like he didn't notice that Ludwig was trying to stop the tremors running through him, to do something like that. Ludwig was not in the least bit soft and did not hesitate when it came to killing those who sought to kill him or anything else he cared about, but to be confronted with an ally begging him for death—it had made him stop long enough to truly contemplate the idea. It wasn't as if he had a choice. It was either leave Shawn to die a slow, painful death or grant his wish and finish him off quickly. Ludwig had been trapped by camaraderie and pity and had done what he thought most merciful. Now, it was obvious that the man was unsure of whether or not doing something that extreme could be considered mercy. Feliciano appreciated Red's response, but at the same time he felt no less settled than when Ludwig had first opened up to him about the incident.

If only I'd had the strength, Feliciano thought, anger roiling inside him, I would have given Tony the death he deserved. But then he wouldn't have stopped the message from being sent. He ground his teeth in frustration. Lovino said I should have been this angry when he first found me, Feliciano recalled. Their conversation on the flight to the United States had been short and tense, but he remembered those words clearly, how he could never fathom possessing even a hint of rage. Back then he had been soft. Now, he knew. He would never again be the person he once was, and, while the fact served to further ignite his outrage at the Overlord for changing him, it also gave him a small sense of satisfaction. You were doomed to fail from the start, he mused, picturing Tony's twisted laugh and greedy eyes. You sought to make us weak, but now we know how truly strong we are. And they would get stronger. Feliciano's hand tightened around Ludwig's own.

Yao wet his lips. "The Overlord," he said quietly. "Did we find out who he was?"

Alfred let out a feathery hiccup and Red said, "Tony. The alien." Alfred's breath hitched. Red noted his shock at her knowing such information and explained, "There was a code needed to get into the Women's Sector. It was the date of Tony's landing on Earth."

"An alien?" Ivan parroted incredulously. "An alien?"

"I never thought much about him," Matthew admitted. "Honestly, I viewed him as just another one of Alfred's weird pets. I never thought he was capable…" His voice trailed off into contemplative silence.

"The purpose of his landing was to take over this planet in the name of his race," Feliciano explained. All gazes shifted to him, his professional tone foreign to their ears. "Jeanne captured me and took me to HQ and made me watch her give birth to an alien-human hybrid she had been carrying ever since we met her. I killed her and the hybrid and then stopped the message from being sent to Tony's employers stating that the planet was ready for habitation. Alfred fended off the guards and got us out."

"Who killed Tony, then?" Matthew asked, everything in him stiffening suspiciously when he was met with silence and averted eyes. "Alfred?"

The man beside him let out a sob, hiding his face in both of his hands, his fingers pulling almost mercilessly at his own hair as if in self-flagellation. "I couldn't… save him…" he ground out through gritted teeth, his voice shivery.

Matthew couldn't breathe for a moment. "What… what do you mean? Al…"

"He's dead!" Alfred shouted so suddenly that everyone jumped. He lifted his head and fixed his brother with wet, bloodshot eyes. "Artie—that alien bastard killed him… if I didn't have those fucking guards on my ass then I could have ripped the fucker's head off like he fucking deserved… Artie, you dumb fuck, if only you'd w-waited a little longer… I could have helped… Artie, goddammit…"

Matthew's heart seemed to stop beating for a moment. "Arthur…?"

Alfred's only reply was another sob.

Ivan moved to put a comforting hand on Alfred's shoulder. Matthew caught the Russian's gaze, his eyes wide and pleading for another answer—any other answer—but Ivan only lowered his eyes and continued running his hand up and down Alfred's hunched, quivering back. All Matthew could do was stare, not entirely comprehending what was happening.

Beside him, Francis seized him, meaning to console him, and cursing himself when he instead broke down in tears. Someone had reached into his chest and scooped out his heart. He was hollow. As long as he lived, no one would ever fill the emptiness inside him. No one except Arthur, who was now lost to him forever.

"He's gone," Matthew breathed. He was in such a state of shock that he felt detached from himself, to the extent that he couldn't move, couldn't even feel grief. He just sat there, with Francis holding him and Alfred's cries ringing in his ears.

Red allowed everyone a few minutes of mourning before clearing her through rather shakily. Alfred manage to subdue his sobs long enough to look up at her, seeing her scratch at the side of her nose, but knowing that she was really wiping her eyes before anyone would notice. "We will bury Arthur tonight. Arlington is just across the river. There's a cherry blossom tree there that still blooms each spring—one of the only ones left in the district; rioters burned all they could. It's a beautiful tree. I think it would be fitting."

Alfred offered her a sad smile, tears swimming in his eyes. "Yeah… yeah, that's perfect. He liked to visit when the trees were in bloom."

Red's eyes moved to meet her father's, but she quickly looked away, feeling tears of her own building up. Dammit, Dad. Why do you have to look like that? She pretended to scratch her nose again and used wiped the wetness from beneath her eyes with a knuckle.

A hand warmed Alfred's knee and he peered down to see Ivan kneeling next to him and studying him worriedly. "Do you need more medicine?" he asked, and by the tone in his voice Alfred knew that Ivan wouldn't be bringing up medicine unless he thought Alfred would sincerely need it, he despised the stuff so much.

Alfred covered the hand with his own and tried to give Ivan a reassuring smile. The Russian's concerned expression, however, only became all the more lined. "No, Ivan. Thank you."

A few minutes passed in which all that could be heard were the all-too-familiar sounds of grief. Then Kiku said, "We must start over now." He stared blindly down at Yao's bandages, his hands tightening around the handles of the wheelchair he had come to hate with a passion. "Have we heard anything about the rest of the world?" What about the Golden Temple, Kinkaku-ji? Kiku mused. We are supposed to stand there someday, just Yao-chan and I.

"I checked as soon as I returned with Feli and everyone else," Ludwig reported. His face was pale and he seemed to stiffen with every whimper or half-sob Alfred or Francis made. "There is evidence from the Organization's files that they have kept in communication with 'overseas associates', but ever since the takedown all channels have been quiet."

Red nodded. "I have people listening. They'll be sure to inform us should they hear anything."

"It is strange. It's like we are all alone in the world…" Yao muttered, half to himself.

"Maybe they're scared," Feliciano suggested, recalling the time before he had been rescued by Lovino and how scared he himself had been.

"Da," Ivan said, although his tone was doubtful, "maybe."

Matthew came back to himself. Francis had settled into soft, feathery gasps, still clinging to him but not as tightly as before. The Canadian sat back and held Francis by his shoulders. The man looked a wreck. His eyes were red and puffy, his hair was soiled and unkempt, he wasn't making any attempt to stem his streaming nose—this wasn't the Francis he knew or wanted to see. The Frenchman sat there, hunched and swaying, as if he had been crying long before he had entered the tent and the last stint had exhausted him completely. Matthew pulled him down onto his cot and laid the sheets over him.

"I think… I think that we should rest a bit before the funeral," Matthew said quietly, laying down beside Francis. He held the man like Francis once held him after he'd lost someone he loved. The tent went silent again as he felt Francis's breath even out and deepen. He submitted to the worry-free peace of sleep before he heard everyone take their leave, Ivan's step, thunk, step, thunk as he guided a distraught Alfred out. It was so much to take in, too much. Matthew would fall asleep and see them. Carlos, Sadiq, Arthur, the others who had lost their lives to such a vicious cause—he would see them all. And so would Francis.

No scars this time, he thought as he watched Francis's sides rise and fall with breath. I won't let you do something as stupid as I did back in those woods where we buried Sadiq. It's my turn now, Papa. I'll take care of you.

Translations:

Ебать-Fuck

mon coeur-my heart

mon petit chou-my dear

Aeternum vale-Farewell forever

A Word From the Writer: Wanna huggle Canada so hard! ;_;

Yup, so... not really very many excuses aside from Netflix and Pewdiepie... I just pulled into procrastination station and decided to hang around for a while. But the train is approaching its last stop! The next chapter will be the last (I think) and be prepared for more feels, because you just can't have enough feels with this fic. Again, dunno when I will post it (only just got this chapter finished yesterday, eheh), but this fic WILL be finished. And after all of this drama and action I figured I should follow up with a smut series. Not really any plot, just pure smut. I'll tell you more about it next chapter.

Now, back to brofisting and bullshitting. :D