This was written for just the fun of it. If it sucks, I apologize halfheartedly, but I was feeling obligated to make something, and I hear that fluff is perennially appreciated. That, and my Parody-Well be dry. Yargh.

Once Upon a Time.

Next to the phrase were a thousand ancient scribbles in ink and a dirty gray indentation where generations of pencils had left their mark. You could still see remnants of what the instruments had tried to create before "becoming one" with ink and eraser: A knight, a princess, a lady knight among others had tried to make their pilgrimage from their creator's rough, soldier mind to paper. But there had always been roadblocks. After all, a soldier's mind was cut out to achieve outward greatness, visible glory, never soft, personal expression. Not that he wasn't capable of that, he just didn't have the time.

Now there was nothing but time.

He hadn't caused a scene when they told him. Nothing was broken when he was dissolved, no fuss when he learned he didn't exist. Just a curt nod before walking out the open door at a reasonable pace. No one followed him when he walked (yes, walked) all the way to what had once been his house, and then, well past six o'clock, sat on the ground of what had once been a chicken yard (now there was just grass and a rotting shack; The gruesome remains of what had once been a coop). He had been completely alone, and no one called or came for him.

At first, he didn't know why he had taken the book and pen from the house, but when he sat, he had begun to write. It had all been a fairy tale, so it would be appropriate to begin as such. Then what? The pauper, the knight, the dragon had met a princess, a fey, a chicken girl, a lady knight, and everything had fallen apart.

Now, all this time later, the extinct country sat in the same spot, with the same notebook and a mechanical pencil, completely alone except for the lady just sitting in the corner of his mind's eye.

"You're not still trying to write that, are you?"

"Someone's got to, and I'd rather have it be done by me than by one of West's historians."

"I think they do a fine job…"

'But they'd take all the awesome out of us. If I let them have their way, we'd be no better than those paintings or jewels that Rod and Francis keep tucked away."

"Nothing wrong there. They're kept in fine condition."

"Words are a better preservative for actions."

In his mind's ear, she laughs. He smiles as he pulls out his dogtags: two metal rectangles with his name, two small gold rings, and an oval shaped locket. Inside that is the face of the voice- a portrait of a madonna's face framed with cropped hair. Capping her shoulders is a blue dress, the same hue as her eyes.

This is the face of Hilda Fleischer.

The March of Brandenburg.

My wife.

Before, the thought would send either tears to his eyes or a sad smile to his lips. Either way, his body would be weighed with ennui. Now, the thought left him empty.

"Hilda, we need to talk."

There was immediate quiet. Not silence, never silence with her, but a full, warm quiet that was always his duty to fill.

"I know you said you wanted me to move on, and I told you I wouldn't, but…"

"Have you changed your mind?"

A steady inhale of breath.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure. But I want your blessing."

A pause, then a giggle.

"A blessing? That's never stopped you before!"

"I know, I know. But I never wanted their blessing. They can go fuck themselves as far as I'm concerned. But this would affect you the most, so I want your approval, your blessing."

The laugh kept ringing in his ears.

"And you'll get it! But you won't until I know who it is."

"That's what's worrying me," he confessed. "You might not approve."

"Why not? You (generally) have good taste…"

He was tempted to tackle her, but to do so would be to wrestle with the air.

"Now, dear, tell me who it is."

"… His name's Matthew."

"Pardon me, but I thought I heard you say 'he'."

"Matthew. Yeah."

Her airy laugh again.

As he stared at the page in his lap, face a brilliant pink, he could almost feel her head on his shoulder.

"Did you honestly think I'd be angry? With all the men around, it was practically inevitable! Matthew, hm? I don't think it rings any bells…"

"Of course it wouldn't. He's young, and not very noticeable."

"Haha! My Gilbert and a wallflower?"

"He's not a wallflower! He's not boring, he's just… well, in comparison to everyone else, he's just…"

"… a wallflower?"

"FOR THE LOVE HILDA HE IS NOT A DAMN… GRRR!"

In his frustration, he flung himself backwards onto the grass. He could sense her laying beside him, still giggling.

"Darling? I don't think you're doing him justice."

A dry laugh. "Thanks for pointing it out."

"Tell you what: there's another one of those ridiculous meeting coming up tomorrow, jawhol?"

"Jawhol."

"I'll come along and judge him myself. How will that be?"

Closing his eyes, he smiles.

"Suits me fine."

"It's getting dark, and if I recall properly, West made a curfew for you."

"Gott," he groans, "He's the incarnation of you, I swear…"

"Better hope not! If he is, you know very well what you'll get for this…"

Covering his humor with mock terror, Prussia leapt up, and ran to the car, while in his mind, Brandenburg smiled and waved.

… yeah. Prussia was married. Go figure. Seriously, if you doubt it, look it up: March of Brandenburg. In my opinion, basically, she was the brains of the outfit. If Gilbert is being remarkably OOC, I apologize. I know I'd be a dork if I was talking to my dead spouse.