"Well," Elizaveta Héderváry grunts, hauling the last of her belongings onto her packhorse, "I guess this is goodbye, Gil."

Gilbert Beilschmidt shuffles his feet in the dirt beside her, refusing to make eye contact.

"Are you really going to marry that unawesome prick of an Austrian?" he asks.

She sighs. "Yes, Gil. We've gone over this many times. I must." She studies the face of her closest friend. He's still eyeing the floor intently, shoulders drooping, hand in pockets. He mutters something unintelligible.

When he fails to answer her in a coherent way, she hesitantly adds, "It… It's not like I want to, or anything."

His shoulders stiffen slightly, but he still doesn't look at her. He grunts in reply.

"Gil," Elizaveta says softly. "I…don't know when I'll ever see you again." She refrains from replacing the word 'when' with 'if.'

"Whatever, Liz," Gilbert mutters. The tip of his boot swirls around on the dirt floor, creating intricate patterns.

Elizaveta hoists herself up onto her horse, all set to head towards Austria. There is a pause as she waits for Gilbert to add more. Childhood memories they shared flash through her mind.

When it's clear that he isn't going to say anything, she clears her throat, snaps a last mental image of him, and says her final farewell.

Gilbert still won't make eye contact.

Elizaveta turns away dejectedly, sighing as she grasps her horse's reins, and prepares to start her long journey.

"Liz… Wait," Gilbert suddenly calls out to Elizaveta's back. She freezes, and turns around.

"Yes, Gil?"

Elizaveta stares into Gilbert's ruby eyes. Her heart picks up its pace.

Gilbert looks into her wide, jade-green, expectant eyes. His mouth goes dry.

"I…" He stops and flicks his tongue over his dry lips. "I… Never mind. Bye." Without another word, he spins around on his heels, and walks away.

To hell with Roderich. To hell with being an angelic little housewife.

Roderich would never notice, anyways. Frankly, he never noticed anything about Elizaveta. The mopey Austrian was always hammering away at his piano, or tinkering with some other instrument, composing music every second of the day, sparing time for no one. His wife was no exception. Elizaveta couldn't even remember if they ever had a proper conversation before. Probably not. They had never even been in the same room together alone.

Just one battle, she tells herself. It's just one battle.

She missed this. The feeling of the hot wind tangling itself into her hair, sweat pouring from every pore of her skin, and the sturdiness of not riding sidesaddle (like a 'proper lady') on a spirited young horse. Her rapier hangs by her side, reminding her of her younger days when she excelled at the intelligent art of swordplay. She missed that, too—the sound of metal clashing against metal, and the numb tingles she'd get in her arms as her opponent's weapon crashed against her own, as she sought to outwit them. In short, she missed all the hardships of being a fighter.

Elizaveta was glad that she still could pass for a male. A very young, baby-faced male with a scraggly ponytail of rather long hair, but still a perfectly eligible male who could serve his country. She trots towards a crowd of other young men seeking triumph, and blends in with them as they approach the campground.

It was risky, but she would be careful, even if she were joining the battle as a soldier. No, she would not let herself be cannon fodder so easily. She may be a girl, but she certainly wasn't weak or ignorant.

Her mare kicks up small clouds of dirt as she gallops towards an official. He regards her with suspicion. "You look a little young to be here," he growls.

Deepening her voice in what she hoped sounded masculine, she stands her ground. "I may be young, but I can fight as well as any."

The official snorts. "Here for the glory for your country or family and all, am I right, lad?"

She aims him a wry smile. "You could say that." She was actually here to escape the dullness of being an everyday housewife and to relive her past as a warrior-princess tomboy, but she wasn't going to be the one to correct him.

The official shakes his head, thinking of the many other foolish young soldiers who had sought enrollment in as a troop, but ended up regretting they had ever come. Either that, or they ended up never going home. He was sure he was looking at another in that category.

"Name, boy?" he asks bitterly. He cannot afford to get too attached to anyone.

"Toris Lorinaitis, sir," she promptly responds, borrowing the name of her Lithuanian friend. He was one of many friends that she had left behind when she moved to Austria. She hoped he wouldn't mind.

Scribbling something down on a scrap of parchment, he instructs her to report to her new division and quarters. She gives a rigid salute, and gently walks her horse and herself over.

She trains well over the months, proving herself able as any man preparing for the battle that lurked closer every day. There are no suspicions of her nature—she takes careful measures to speak as crude as the others, to dirty herself up appropriately, and to stay out of sight when tending to private necessities. Soon, she builds a powerful reputation as one of her division's best soldiers, and is even sought out to train newcomers once in a while. She plays her part well, not attracting too much attention to be made a lieutenant, but just enough to prove her worth. She was respected enough to join in on the conversations of some of her superior officers, and it was there that she first heard the news.

"GILBERT BEILSCHMIDT is transferring here?" her commander splutters in disbelief.

Elizaveta feels her blood turn to ice.

Another officer nods. "Aye, we're very lucky to have him come here, aren't we?"

"But-But," the commander stutters, still stunned, "he's one of the best lieutenants in all of history! Why would he choose to come here?"

"Well…" the officer intones in reply, "he may be a great lieutenant, but I heard he got in a spot of trouble over where he was stationed. Was being too cheeky with his superiors, or something like that. You know how youngsters are." He shoots a teasing glance at Elizaveta, who is still frozen in shock. "He's going to be assigned your division, you know."

"What'll become of me, then?"

"You're gonna get another division, I reckon. Ah, here he comes! Lorinaitis, where are you going?"

Mumbling an excuse, she rushes out of the tent and blindly runs, anywhere to get away from him. She finds herself panting up a hill, far enough away from everyone else, but close enough that she couldn't be accused of deserting the Service.

It's been years since she's heard that name. Years since she had said what she thought was her final goodbye.

She leans against the worn bark of the tree, and sits, lost in her thoughts.

When the sun starts to dip just a tad below the horizon, she trudges back slowly with leaden steps.

Her new commander greets her.

"Guten Tag, kid. Starting from today, I'm your new lieutenant. Suck it." He flashes a smirk at her. The rest of her division, having already been introduced to him, watches from aside.

She says nothing, just keeps her head down and dips her hat so that it shades half of her face.

"Did you hear me, kid?" He sounds exactly how she remembered him. Snarly, raspy. He was annoyed.

She acknowledges him with the slightest of nods.

She turns to leave, but a cruel, pointed boot catches her just as she tries to walk away. Elizaveta hits the floor hard, and she's helpless as she watches her hat flutter off her head, and onto the floor.

"When your awesome superior is talking to you," he sneers, "you should look at him, and answer him."

She cringes, waiting for Gil to expose her. Her eyes squeeze shut. Women weren't treated kindly, regardless of how adept they were. She started to pray that her only penalty would be to get sent home.

A flash of recognition passes Gilbert's face, but perhaps it was just Elizaveta's imagination, for he ended up showing no recognition in his words.

"I'm waiting, boy," he growls.

"Y-Yes, sir," she says, staring into his scarlet eyes.

Satisfied, Gilbert stomps off, leaving Elizaveta still lying in the dirt.

She collects her thoughts, dazed. It had been many years, after all. Maybe Gilbert really forgot. Maybe she looked too much like a boy to be recognizable. The hypotheses both relieved and saddened Elizaveta.

She picks herself up off the floor, flicks the dust and dirt off her uniform, and turns in for the night.

Days pass. She and Lieutenant Beilschmidt have gotten along, bearing no grudge towards each other from their first encounter at the camp. They're cordial, but not overly friendly. Elizaveta is training relentlessly again, trying to clear her mind. She just received the news that tomorrow would be the big day.

Tomorrow would be her last day of freedom from Roderich.

Tomorrow would also be the last day on Earth for many.

She's clearing her mind, trying not to think morbid, morose thoughts. She's trying not to think much of anything, really.

The sky starts to turn the fiery red-orange of sunset, and her entire body is drenched with perspiration. She decides to stop for the day.

Splashing ice-cold water on her face, making her skin crawl with pleasure after all that extensive training, she absentmindedly walks up to her hill that she's grown fond of, and plunks herself down, once again leaning against the old tree's scruffy bark.

It would've been a beautiful day, if it weren't for tomorrow.

You wanted this, she reprimands herself. You ran away yourself from Roderich's to do this.

Absentmindedly plucking at the grass surrounding her feet, she doesn't notice until they speak that someone has joined her.

"Hey," he greets with an egotistical smile, and plops himself next to her.

She addresses him with a fast salute, remembering her place after being startled by him. He was sitting so close to her, their shoulders were almost touching.

Her pulse quickens incomprehensively.

"It's finally tomorrow, huh?" he says after a quiet pause. He leans his head back, both arms on the floor behind him, looking up at the sky.

"Yes, sir."

He laughs a short bark. "'Sir.' That's not going to mean anything tomorrow." He stops again. "We're all just going to throw ourselves onto the battlefield, and people are going to die. Ranks mean nothing. Lieutenants die just like any other soldier," he adds on sorely.

Elizaveta doesn't know what to say. Gilbert has become quite the philosopher now. She chances a glance at his face. He glares at the sky with a sour expression. His eyes, once full of swagger and his own ego, now have a forlorn look to them.

She suppresses a smile. Gilbert has matured since she last saw him.

There is yet another discontinuance in conversation.

"Tell me, Lorinaitis," he starts. "Before we all march onto that accursed battlefield, risking our lives tomorrow, I want to know. Do you have any regrets in life?"

Struggling to keep her voice even and manly, which was difficult, considering that her heart was slamming itself against her ribcage, she goes with the shortest possible answer. "Don't think so, sir."

"Ha. Lucky," he muses darkly. "Wanna hear my one life regret?"

Not particularly. "Yes, sir?"

He looks at her. "My one regret in life is that I never told the girl I love that I love her."

Something inside of her unfathomably feels like it's being punctured and deflated. Before she can stop herself, the words plunge out of her mouth. "She must be a lucky girl, then, if she's being loved by someone like you," she says softly. The words sound hollow, even to herself. She coughs to relieve some tension.

"…Sir," she adds on, telling herself off for forgetting whom she was portraying.

"Perhaps you should confess when you return from this battle," she suggests, keeping the conversation flowing.

Gilbert emits another short, bark-like laugh. "No."

"Sorry, sir?"

"You see," he presses on, "she's married to another. Some Austrian douche. I mean, she said she didn't want to, but… I've never heard from her since she left me."

He stops talking again. "I've been waiting years for news from her," he adds on.

She can feel her deflated insides start to repair themselves a little.

"Perhaps she was waiting contact from you, sir? Perhaps she was unable to make contact?"

"Perhaps," he says, giving an empty smile. "Do you know why I even bother to serve, Lorinaitis?"

"For your country, sir? To add spice to your life?"

"Nein; I gamble with my life to forget about her." His tone grows bitterer with each word. "But every battle I've been in has proved that I'm too awesome to die."

They sit in silence for another moment, watching as the sun slowly descends down the horizon. When the sun is cut halfway by it, Gilbert speaks again.

"Will you do a favor for me, now?"

Well, it's not like she could've said 'no' to her lieutenant anyways. "Anything, sir."

Without warning, Gilbert swiftly raises his finger to the back of her head, breaking the thin piece of string holding her hair back in a passably masculine ponytail. For the first time in months, her hair freely spills out all over her shoulders.

Before she can protest, he holds her close to him.

"Ich liebe dich," he whispers.

Their lips meet. He tastes of sorrow, loneliness, and years of waiting.

She never wants him to relinquish his hold on her, but the need for air eventually pulled them apart. Foreheads still touching, tears start to drip down both of their faces.

"Danke, my good soldier," he whispers. "I have no more regrets in life."

"Promise me, Gil." Her voice cracks. "Promise me you'll survive."

"Of course," he tells her. "I already told you—I'm too awesome to die."

Without another word, he stands up, turns on his heels, and walks away, just as he did the same way he sent her off a lifetime ago.

Miraculously, she has survived. Bruised, bloody, and beaten, but alive. She walks in a dreamlike state amongst the row of honored dead that they had managed to salvage.

Before she can reach the end of the line, a fellow survivor of her division calls out to her.

"Lorinaitis! You're alive!"

Tentatively, she walks toward him.

"Lieutenant Beilschmidt," she says, her voice vacant. A small part of her, the part that managed to stay slightly sane, chastises herself for being rude. She shoves that part of herself away, and repeats, "Lieutenant Beilschmidt. Where is the lieutenant?"

He doesn't have to say anything. His eyes tell all.

"Never mind. I don't want to know."

"Lorinaitis! Stop!" another voice cries. In a different world, she would've recognized the voice.

Someone else stops her, presses a cold, circular metal object into her palm, drapes its ribbon around her neck, claps her on the back, and congratulates her for surviving.

Minutes later, she finds herself sitting on her hill, staring off into the sky. The cold medal, engraved with fancy words sugarcoating the abhorrence of war, bites into her palm. She hasn't realized until now that she is clenching it so hard, blood is trickling from her palm to her elbow.

She flings the repulsing thing away far away, lost in the expanse of tall grass growing at the foot of the hill.

Gilbert Beilschmidt does not join her.

The sun starts to sink.

You promised, Gil, you promised, she silently screams, for her voice has malfunctioned. She wonders if it'll ever work again.

She watches as the horizon engulfs the sun. Then slowly, she leads her horse back to Austria, back to where the bloodsheds of war and Gilbert Beilschmidt will haunt her for the rest of her life.