HOLY SHIT I HAVE JUST REALIZED IT'S MARCOXACE WEEK FUCK I AM SO FUCKED THERE'S NO WAY I HAVE TO LEAVE FOR A SERVICE TRIP ON THURSDAY HOW IN HELL AM I GOING TO BE MISSING TWO DAYS OF THIS GLORIOUS HOLIDAY? NOT TO MENTION MY WRITING TAKES LIKE A FUCKING WEEK EACH CHAPTER MINIMUM WHAT THE SHIT I AM FUCKED OH GOD HELP HELP SEND AN AMBULANCE I'VE FALLEN AND I CANNOT GET UP.

But in other news. You know. Besides me panicking. Have the first of seven (hahahaha we'll see if we, like, even get to 3. And I seriously doubt they will be on time. This one is already late) one-shots only tied together due to the existence of this week. Some will be AU. Some will be canonverse. Specific warnings at the top of each. Most will probably be me just fucking barfing on the page because oh God I thought I'd have more time to prepare and actually think this shit out but holy shit this snuck up on me and it's going to kick my ass.

K so the theme is fire and if you think I'm going to be stereotypical about this you are very, very deceived, dear reader. I make it my life's goal to be unique. You will find no clichés about how "their flames melded, twirling and twining like rose stems" here. So if that is what you are looking for, I advise you to not read this. It is not like that at all. I have read too many stories about the fascination of how their fires compliment each other.

So I'm going to spin that on its head.

You guessed it. This one's tragic as fuck. Sorry I really suck but what can I say tragic plotbunnies maul me while fluffy ones just kind of softly approach so it's generally the tragic ones that get there first and end up destroying my (and yours now) emotions. This is a WWII AU. Please brace your heart.

This One-Shot contains IMPLIED/INDIRECTLY REFERENCED SEVERE VIOLENCE, SWEARING (There are some derogatory terms in German. I don't speak German so I don't actually know how strong or how offensive they are in that language, but you have been advised), HISTORICALLY ACCURATE ANTISEMITISM (not done to offend, just to accurately portray the time period and setting. I ACTUALLY DID RESEARCH, PEOPLE. However, I understand that this is a sensitive topic for legitimate and unquestionable reasons and as such I put a strong warning here about it) and EVEN MORE REASONS FOR YOU GUYS TO HATE ME.

Just going to take a minute to interject here that being surrounded by a certain mindset is a form of brainwashing and will eventually have an effect on your own world views and change your perspective if you are steeped in it thoroughly enough and for a long enough time. Just saying. So you might…maybe hate me less.

I actually don't think I can apologize enough for this. I don't think there exists a word in any language to apologize for this. So I'll just be under a rock for the remainder of my life seeking forgiveness.

Marco remembers the first time he'd ever held a bird in his hands. A dove. It had cooed and regarded him warily, his hands wrapped clumsily around its wings and keel bone. He'd been a child, and, being more terrified of it than was anywhere near rational, had held it too tightly. Its coos had become strained, alarmed, pained, its neck writhing as it struggled to free itself of his grasp. Realizing the extent of its entrapment, it had stared at him, and he had stared back. Blind terror clashed against blind terror, both silently begging the other to stop the torment they were causing.

He hadn't meant to hurt the bird. Not at all. He was terrified of hurting it and that, that was the stinging irony.

His grandmother, soft, warm, had taken the bird from him, smoothing its feathers back into place, soothing it, and explaining to him in her melodic, dialect-bent German that other life was fragile, and as a larger creature it was his duty to always be conscious of his effect on the other creatures around him.

Life was fragile, she'd said. And that made it precious.

She'd returned the dove – now more anxious and ruffled than pained or terrified – to its coop, among its companions. It had instantly inserted itself among the others, a ruckus of disgruntled and harmonic cooing erupting from the enclosure. Marco had watched her, his heart still pounding frantically. He felt his wide, childish eyes grow warm and fill, the first fat, wet tear sliding down his six-year-old face.

But I don't want to be big, he'd said, sobs beginning to break his words to stutters.

His situation now was very, very different from what it'd been then.

His grandmother, the doves, the quiet, rural village where she'd lived, all were gone. Scorched away in the fury and furnace of World War I. He'd been ten years too young to serve then, but he felt the pangs of the war just as much as anyone else.

He'd fallen just as hard as the rest of Germany.

The so-called "Treaty" of Versailles – if it could even be given that title, the German ambassadors, too-weak men sent by their too-weak government, threatened into silence and acquiescence to unfair suppression and debts they'd be paying off for the remainder of the millennia – had nearly starved him, had starved thousands of others like him. Inflation destroyed food availability, and work was impossible to find.

It was easy to see that there was a better option. And that the other countries had been cruel, unfair, and were unfit to wield such power as they did if they were only going to use it to suppress a nation so harshly its people were fighting not to starve in the streets.

But they'd needed a stronger government.

Their old government had betrayed them. It hadn't protected them from the Western Nations who were too sympathetic to France's bitching and too ready to shuck off blame and be done with it. It hadn't fought hard enough in the war. It had abandoned its people to economic meltdown and militaristic defenselessness.

A new, charismatic leader was quick to rise out of extremist right-wing politics.

Marco hadn't been involved in the Fuhrer's rise to power, but as he watched it from afar he saw a man who meant to bring Germany out of desolation and suffering and that was enough for him. Germany deserved better than what the Western powers had heaped upon it. Germany deserved its former power, the might and ingenuity of its people was made for nothing but success.

Germany was better. Better than any of them.

Eager to see his nation succeed to its position of deserved dominance, Marco hadn't hesitated to join the new, Nationalsozialismus army.

The Swastika seemed fitting on his sleeve.

He'd risen through the ranks quickly, his cool, collected demeanor and analytical, tactical mind accelerating him upwards since his first days. He did his work thoroughly, completely, and precisely, and by his third year in the military he'd risen to the rank of Stützpunktleiter. He'd been accordingly re-stationed, given command over a limited region in Poland, and put in charge of a small concentration camp there.

They'd said his impassive nature would be perfect for subduing the lesser races.

It was how he'd gotten to his current situation.

As usual, a fresh dump of Polacken, Juden, and other Unarische had arrived, and as usual they were being surveyed, sorted, counted, and divided among the containment areas. After submitting a report on their exact numbers and condition, Marco would be given orders on what percentage was to be put to work and what percentage was to be executed.

To Marco, it was no different than weeding a garden.

The other races had proven to be truly inferior in many ways. They were less than even animals. At least animals could serve a functional purpose. These races did nothing but gobble up resources and oppose Germany in her rightful position. There was no use for all of them. At least some of them could be used for temporary, manual labor Marco wouldn't submit his men to. Those chosen should be honored to be able to serve the Aryan race.

Marco walked the grounds methodically. The Unarische had been divided into groups of a hundred, penned in and away from other groups by soldiers. Some of the younger children were wailing, even some of the adults faintly weeping. Marco tuned out the sound, uncaring for the whimpers of animals. He skirted between the groups slowly, casting his eyes vaguely over each group in turn, picking out those he thought might be good candidates for service.

As it traveled over the faces of the next group, his eyes stuck on one face in particular.

One face that was staring right back at him.

This was an interesting development. The Unarische always avoided his eyes like frightened rabbits, cowering, pathetic, sniveling. But not this young man, no older than twenty. He stared straight back.

His eyes weren't frightened, either. He didn't look scared or even displaced. His gaze was hard, borderline glaring, a dark fire of resolution sharpening his eyes. This was one who hadn't surrendered yet. By the time of their arrival, the Unarische were generally already docile, terrified into submission or resigned to their fate. Not this one. This one was singular among the rest, fascinating, different, a more elite strain, perhaps.

Their eyes hung for a moment more, outraged fury against dispassionate study.

And then Marco moved onto the next group.

As it turned out, the large majority of the selection was unfit for heavy labor, either too young, too old, or too weak. Marco reported as much to his superiors, settling back to await further instruction. The cataloguing had taken the majority of two days, and now evening had fully settled into night.

The moon was almost full, casting the camp in harsh contrast against the shadows. Stars twinkled absently, distant, remote, uncaring. Summer was only just beginning to fade into fall, and though the wind was cool, it didn't come close to comparing to German winters.

Marco set a leisurely pace, for tonight's walk. It was a habit of his, to take at least a short walk outside every night before sleep. The air helped keep his head clear, and the light physical exertion ridded him of any excess energy. The Unarische were all long asleep by now, the hulking barracks they were kept in silent as tombs, only the wind crying slightly as it glanced off of them. Marco paced out to the far end, letting the wind tear itself through the barbed wire fence to caress against his skin.

The world was still, all as it should be. Silence and sterile order reigned. Marco inhaled deeply, allowing his eyes to fall closed for a moment, his whole world seated comfortably and unshakably on its foundations.

A sound, its own defiance against the reign of silence, broke Marco's reverie.

Quiet speech, in one of the foreign, native tongues. Two voices, whispering to each other quietly enough not to wake those who already slept. One sounded young, couldn't have been over 10. The other was also young, but older than the other. Marco aged it between late teens and early twenties, but it was difficult to discern. The older voice hushed the younger, which had spoken first. The younger seemed to protest, Marco even hearing the edge of tears in the voice. For a long moment, the other was silent and Marco wondered if he'd respond at all.

The answer was different than he expected.

"Numi, numi yaldati,
Numi, numi, nim.
Numi, numi k'tanati,
Numi, numi, nim.

Aba halach la'avoda–
Halach, halach Aba.
Yashuv im tzeit halevana-
Yavi lach matana." The song was quiet, almost sad, but soothing. A lullaby, Marco dimly registered. The melody was haunting.

"Numi, numi yaldati,
Numi, numi, nim.
Numi, numi k'tanati,
Numi, numi, nim.

Aba halach el hakramim-
Halach, halach Aba.
Yashuv im tzeit ha cochavim-
Yavi lach anavim." As the melody - soft, tragic, expressive, human - reigned, Marco felt something settle into his chest, something uncomfortable. Something he wasn't familiar with. Something he'd never encountered before.

Self-doubt.

"Numi, numi yaldati,
Numi, numi, nim.
Numi, numi k'tanati,
Numi, numi, nim…" As the last chorus slipped back into wind-tousled silence, Marco found himself almost rooted to the spot. The chill in the wind seemed to have multiplied, settling into his very bones. He found himself staring at nothing, the melody spinning in his head, the foreign, poetic speech bouncing against his ears as he tried to remember the exact pronunciations.

He wasn't sure why he was trying.

When he found himself moving, it wasn't back towards the main building, where he should logically be going. It was towards one of the low enclosures the Unarische were kept in, the one the song had come from. The low, hulking mass seemed darker than he remembered. He drew up beside one of the grungy, stained, tiny windows, peering carefully inside, not sure what exactly he was hoping to see.

The interior was almost pitch black, save for the long stripes of moonlight floating through the windows. The particular ray of moonlight falling through the window Marco was currently looking through revealed the crowded, packed, undoubtedly uncomfortable nature of the interior, the bunk beds crammed to nearly breaking, others forced to the floor. Everyone seemed to be either asleep, unconscious, or dead.

Directly across from the window Marco was standing by were two figures. One was very small, no older than six. He was being held by the other, cradled against his chest protectively. As Marco's shadow interrupted the light falling on the pair, the larger, older one looked up, eyes snapping up to Marco, arms tightening instinctively around the child. Surprise painted his expression for a moment, and Marco was sure, despite his own stoicism, his own surprise showed in some way.

It was the young man from the sorting, the one with the fighter's eyes.

Once again they stared at each other silently, the other's expression morphing from surprise to a smoldering, long-burning kind of righteous fury. Marco, too unfamiliar with anything even close to this, found himself unsure of what exactly he felt in response to discovering the identity of the singer.

Time itself seemed to evaporate in that moment, everything uninvolved in this silent meeting falling into unimportance. Marco stared at the indomitable one, the unbroken one, and was stared right back at in return. Now, it seemed, there was so much less dividing them, somehow. Even if Marco couldn't understand his words, even if the figure before him had been deemed less than human, even if Marco was wearing a uniform, the crimson, black, and white swastika on his arm, and the other wore the thin, striped uniform of an Unarische in its rightful place.

In that moment, they were equals.

And in that moment, Marco desperately, entirely despised reality.

He wanted to know this fascinating and beautiful creature before him. He wanted to learn the mannerisms, learn the reactions, the laughter, the tears, the rage, the calm. He wanted to understand. He wanted to see what differences – if any – actually stood between them. He wanted to know why he'd been told to hate something this magnificent, this fascinating, this wonderful.

But reality was as cruel as it was inescapable, and Marco's orders came in the next morning.

Marco read the words, words he'd read before without emotional response, and for the first time felt something close to physical illness rise in his stomach. He felt dizzy. If he hadn't been sitting down, he might have actually slumped to the ground. He swallowed thickly, rising from his chair, crossing his office, and descending. The movements were automatic, and Marco felt a kind of painful numbness swallowing his mind.

No new workers required from this sample. Eliminate at earliest possible convenience.

His secretary would have already read the order and passed on the news to the lower ranking officers on site, as he was supposed to. Anything that wasn't listed as top secret was treated as such.

As Marco expected, they'd already been corralled into smaller groups, the first being led out to the hills behind the camp. Marco's stomach felt like it was made of stone, but his legs were automatically carrying him in that direction, as they always had in the past. This was his duty. This was his service to his country. This was what his country needed.

…Right?

Marco hated this doubt, this new, parasitic worm twisting in his brain. Everything used to be so simple. All of this used to be so easy. But now Marco wasn't even sure he could get enough air in his lungs to give the order.

The Unarische had been herded into a thin, fairly wide strip against a near cliff, impossible to climb, nowhere to run. Many wept openly, children and adults alike.

For the first time, Marco felt like he could hear them.

The terror was plain in their faces, in their voices, in their tears. Children clutched desperately to parents, siblings, and family members who clutched them back just as desperately, unspoken grief and despair twisting their expressions and body language. The terror and despair was almost overpowering, seeming to waft from the crowd like a plague.

They didn't want to die.

For the first time, Marco felt like that actually meant something.

"Numi, numi yaldati,
Numi, numi, nim.
Numi, numi k'tanati,
Numi, numi, nim." It started off so faint Marco barely caught it, the melody carried to him by the breeze. He felt sick.

"Aba halach la'avoda-
Halach, halach Aba.
Yashuv im tzeit halevana-
Yavi lach matana.

Numi, numi yaldati,
Numi, numi, nim.
Numi, numi k'tanati,
Numi, numi, nim." The voices around the singer had begun to grow dimmer, whether from shock or from listening was unclear. As other noise dimmed, the melody rose, becoming more audible and distinct.

"Aba halach et hakramim-
Halach, halach Aba.
Yashuv im tzeit ha cochavim-
Yavi lach anavim!" The whole crowd was not only silent by now, but one or two other voices had joined in. They wavered slightly more than the other voice, still fragile with their previous terrified tears, but they sang palpable terror had subsided, not to tranquility, but it wasn't a blind, all-consuming might anymore.

"Numi, numi yaldati,
Numi, numi, nim.
Numi, numi k'tanati,
Numi, numi nim.

Aba halach el hapardes-
Halach, halach Aba.
Yashuv ba'erev im haruach-
Yavi, yavi tabuach!" Marco saw the soldiers raise their guns. He wished they were pointing at him instead. He felt tears fighting to rise to his face from somewhere in his chest, but forced them back. If there are more like you in the world, there is no way in hell Germany will ever win this war.

"Numi, numi yaldati,
Numi, numi, nim.
Numi, numi k'tanati,
Numi, numi, nim."

Life is fragile, Marco. That's why it's precious. As a larger, powerful creature, its your responsibility to always be conscious of life around you, since you're strong enough to break it – intentionally or not. Marco took a deep breath.

"Aba halach el hasadeh-
Halach, halach Aba."

But I don't want to be big, granny!

"Yushuv ba'erev im-"

"Fire."

I guess I'll just do myself a favor and kick myself out of the fandom. Bye. It was nice knowing you all. Sorry for this. Sorry for breaking your hearts during MarcoAce week. Sorry it's a few hours late. Bye guys. Maybe someone can come by and visit my rock sometime. You know. The one I'll be under until the end of the earth.

Lullaby (Dumi, Dumi, a traditional Hebrew lullaby): youtube dot com /watch?v=hnTr6Niq-Ss but I like this recording better, it just doesn't have the full lyrics: youtube dot com /watch?v=F1m09f8u4Xk

Unarische translates to non-Aryan according to my research. Polacken translates to Polish person. Juden translates to Jew. But my research says all of these terms are kind of derogatory in nature, so allow me to say I didn't put them in to offend anyone. They were for contextual accuracy.

So yeah. Bye. I'll go under that rock now. I bet I'm the only one who wrote something this fucking sad for MarcoAce week. Whoopee. Well…have fun with your feelings I guess. Oh, this is unbetad and unreread because it's almost 2 in the morning and I need to go to sleep. Sorry. I might go through it tomorrow to check for errors, but right now sleep is more important. Bye. Come find my rock sometime if you ever need, like, target practice for mud-throwing. I deserve it. Bye.