Lieutenant General Volkov was blind with rage.

He hated the term "failure." It was a disgusting label, cast upon him so many times by others and even himself that the mere mention of the word made him want to scream. He'd been called a failure for simple things; his bed not being made neat enough, not running as fast as he could, not working as hard as his father had, getting a lower grade on a test, even for just being half Polish. His father was especially adamant about calling Volkov a letdown, bringing "dishonour" and "shame" to their family. Volkov tried to block it all out at first, but as many things do, it eventually got to him.

Volkov slowly accepted the fact that he was a complete disappointment to his family. No matter what rank he'd ever reach, no matter how many medals were awarded to him, no matter how many lives he'd save, it would never be enough. Perfection was the only acceptable thing for his father. So, Volkov began writing down all of his failures in a little notebook that he kept in his pocket at all times. Every day he went through the little book, trying to find something he could perfect. This, in turn, created a large anger problem, growing with each little failure.

Today finally made him snap.

He'd failed the military, the president, and the country. By letting Toris kill Ivan, he'd made this whole elaborate mission a complete disaster. It was a waste of time. A waste of money. A waste of lives.

So what was there to possibly do to fix this enormous error? A normal man would've tried to clean up everything, to get the now free prisoners to hospitals and displacement camps, but Volkov was not normal right now.

His mind was entirely focused on the end of the mission – killing their remaining target, Feliks Łukasiewicz.

Volkov drew his pistol, throwing open the door to the building in the forest. His arm cried out in agony – probably a fracture. However, a simple thing like that wasn't going to stop him. Sevastian followed close behind the fuming lieutenant general, trying to get him to calm down and think rationally. He didn't realize that Volkov wasn't listening to anything.

"You, check upstairs. I'm going to start in the basement," Volkov snarled, giving Sevastian an overly encouraging nudge towards the stairs.

"Yes, sir. What do you want me to do if I find him?"

"Bring him to me, alive." Volkov accentuated the last word, making sure the small colonel remembered. He wanted to kill Feliks himself. He wanted to see the Pole beg for mercy and bleed. He wanted revenge; for the failure of everything, for the death of all of those innocent people, for the whole damned war.

Volkov went over to the door beneath the stairs, trying the handle. Of course, it was locked. Thankful he'd actually done something right today, Volkov pulled Toris' keys from his pocket, jamming the first in the lock and attempting to twist it open. Although stealing things from dead men was frowned upon by most of humanity, he had a good reason. And besides, he hadn't taken more than the keys and a strange black and white photo from the times when Volkov's grandparents were still young.

He finally found the right key, gently pushing open the door and stepping into the darkness. Holding out his pistol, he calmly walked down the stairs, taking extra care not to make much noise. Volkov could sense that there was someone down there with him – a sort of feral urge. He could almost hear the person's frantic heartbeat pounding in his ears, drawing closer and closer with every step.

And when he reached the bottom of the stairs, every single wild instinct of his went haywire, as there was a person tucked away in the dark corner of the room. Volkov could just barely see the faint silhouette of a smaller man, the glimmer of terrified green eyes, trembling hands pressed up against his chest as he backed as far as he could away from Volkov.

"Please, don't kill me. I didn't do any of this," the man pleaded, holding out a hand as if that was going to stop Volkov. "Talk to Raivis first! Please, sir, you have to talk to him."

"You're Feliks, aren't you?" Volkov intentionally made his voice gentle, like one would do when talking to a young child. He put his pistol down on a table pushed up against the wall, automatically losing the daunting appearance of a man in military uniform.

The blond seemed to loosen up, just a bit. "Yes, I am. So you must've talked to Raivis, right? The boy with curly blond hair and blue eyes?"

"I've certainly talked to him," Volkov said softly, keeping a reassuring smile as he came to Feliks' side. He did not care who this Raivis person was. He did not care that he was lying. He just wanted a stab at Feliks when he was unguarded.

"Oh, really? So he told you about me, right?"

"He told me everything. Even gave me exact instructions on what to do." Volkov watched on with murderous anticipation as Feliks got up.

"What did he say to do?" Feliks asked, still seeming a bit apprehensive.

"This."

Volkov couldn't help but grin when he heard the sound of bone snapping as his foot collided with Feliks' chest. Feliks fell back against the wall, gasping for air. He clutched his now broken ribs, backing away from Volkov. His olive eyes searched the Russian for some sort of explanation, praying that he wasn't going to kill him. This earned him a solid punch to the face.

"What are you doing?" Feliks cried, trying to block another blow to the face. "Please, stop!"

But Volkov was still furious.

Pulling a knife from its sheath on his hip, Volkov held Feliks to the wall with one hand and used the other to tear into the man. Again and again, he slashed and stabbed at Feliks, laughing when he cried out for help. He tore Feliks' chest up to the point where it was an unrecognizable bloody disaster, but that didn't stop him. Blood ran down his hand, making a red stain on the cuff of his once pristine uniform, dripping rusty pools onto the stone floor. With each stab Feliks screamed louder, begging for some sort of mercy.

Volkov grew quite tired of the man's cries rather quickly. Putting the knife in his other hand, he punched Feliks, beaming when the Pole's nose started to bleed. Giving Feliks another hit to the face, Volkov grabbed the knife again. He held Feliks' left arm up to the wall, ripping through it with the red blade. Feliks howled in pain, kicking at the Russian in a vague attempt at stopping him.

It was at this point that Volkov realized Feliks should've bled out long ago. And yet the man was still fully conscious, beating and screaming at his attacker. Figuring he would be dead in at least a minute, Volkov dropped Feliks, grabbed his pistol, and fired off three rounds into his bloody chest.

And yet, Feliks was still alive.

"Are you…done?" Feliks asked in a hoarse voice, slumping to the ground. He stayed there for a moment, coughing up blood before adding, "Please, say you're done."

"I'm not going to be done until you're dead!" Volkov slammed his foot down on Feliks' leg, smiling to himself as the bones shattered underfoot.

"Ringleader?!" A young voice, presumably a boy's, called from upstairs. "Are you down there?"

Blatantly ignoring the boy, Volkov picked up his knife from the pool of red, cutting into Feliks' legs this time. He cut rows of x's down the man's calf, unable to stop laughing when he saw Feliks was crying. Today certainly couldn't be recorded as a failure. Oh, no, it was so much better than that. He'd made up for the failure with this. Smiling to himself, he took the knife and dragged it all the way down Feliks' leg, from his hip to his ankle.

Volkov was so caught up in his anger that he didn't notice the door was slammed open and two people came running downstairs. Right as he was about to plunge the knife into Feliks again, a hand grabbed his wrist and held him back. Still intent on tearing Feliks open, Volkov struggled to swing the blade down. Finally, he glanced over his shoulder, startled to find who was holding him.

"What are you doing?!"

Sevastian had a hand on Volkov's wrist, his dark eyes full of fear. A young boy stood next to him, looking at the Russian lieutenant general like he was some sort of monster. The boy tore the knife from Volkov's bloody hands, throwing it into the abyssal darkness so he couldn't find it again.

"I was trying to finish the mission!" Volkov lunged at Sevastian, slamming him up against the wall. "And you're in my way!"

"I didn't think you were going to do this! I wouldn't have helped at all if I knew you were going to murder someone innocent!" Sevastian tried to push Volkov off of him, but it was useless. The lieutenant general was thousands of times stronger.

"That is our target, you fool. We are supposed to kill him. Or have you forgotten where your loyalties lie?" Volkov growled.

"Please, sir, let me go. I can explain," Sevastian said quietly, looking up at him pitifully. Volkov eased up, letting the colonel go. Only then did he notice that Sevastian was carrying a small box in his hand and a letter with Toris' name on the front.

The boy who came downstairs with Sevastian fell down by Feliks' side. "What d-d-did you do?" He stammered, putting a gentle hand to his face. "Are y-y-you okay?"

"Are you?" Feliks gasped, giving him a faint smile. "He…didn't hurt you…right?"

"Th-th-this isn't about me! I was s-s-supposed to protect you!" The boy looked over the broken, bloody man before him, tears spilling from his sea blue eyes.

"I'm…fine. It's just…a little…scratch." Feliks wiped at his bleeding nose, smearing crimson across his face.

"I f-f-failed," the boy sobbed, holding his head. "T-T-Toris said to protect y-y-you, and I failed! I failed a d-d-dead man!"

Feliks grabbed him by the shoulders, his green eyes wide. "What did you…say about Toris?"

"…He's dead. K-k-killed himself this morning."

Feliks looked at the boy for a moment, seeming completely empty. He pulled his hands back, clutching a hand to his bloody chest.

"I loved…him," he said softly. "I didn't even say goodbye. I didn't…say…goodbye." Feliks fell forward, sobbing into the boy's shoulder. "Oh, my God, I didn't…say goodbye."

"I'll explain this later. Right now, I'm taking Feliks to the field hospital. You can stay here, or you can come with us," Sevastian snapped, going over to Feliks. He helped the Pole up, bearing much of the man's weight to help him walk. He disappeared upstairs with Raivis, leaving the monster in the cellar.

It took a moment for what he'd just done to dawn on Volkov. He'd attempted to kill an innocent man. There was no greater dishonour than that. But he'd been so blind with rage that he couldn't even think straight. Volkov looked at his bloody hands and then at the trail of red going up the stairs.

He stayed in the basement for a long time crying.

The almost painfully sterile smell of antiseptics and the rhythmic beating of a machine slowly brought Ludwig back to reality. He couldn't see anything but a blurry disaster of colours. Everything hurt, especially his head for some odd reason. And someone – or perhaps two people – was talking in a fast language. Was it German? No, it couldn't be. Their words were meaningless to Ludwig, sounding quite angry and scared all at the same time. Eventually, he began to distinguish two voices, coming to the conclusion that there must be two people.

"Ist der Krieg zu Ende?" Ludwig asked, realizing he wasn't in Bolesność anymore.

"What? Ah…um, Guten Morgen, Herr Deutschland," one of the voices said, a new blurry shape appearing before Ludwig. This wasn't the cold voice of a guard, so already his day had become much better. "Sprechen Sie Englisch?"

For a moment, Ludwig couldn't even recognize his own language. Perhaps it was the headache. "Ja," he finally answered. "Is the war over?"

"For you, it is," the voice replied. "There's nothing to worry about anymore."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Colonel Sokoloff. You can call me Sevastian for the time being," the shape introduced itself. His accent was rather thick – maybe Russian? Slowly the man started to come into focus; Ludwig could now see that he had circle-rimmed glasses and a gentle smile. Sevastian also looked surprisingly young to be working in wherever this was. Surely he wasn't older than eighteen.

"Do I know you?

Sevastian shook his head. "No, this is our first time meeting."

"Where exactly am I?" Ludwig asked, his voice barely audible. He abruptly came to a horrible realization, one he hadn't thought of before. "This isn't an experiment lab, is it? Did I do something bad?" Quickly he checked for some sort of restraints, but there wasn't anything holding him down. Was this some sort of strange psychological torture?

"You're in a hospital, in Kaliningrad. Don't worry; we're not here to hurt you. Do you remember what happened?"

Ludwig closed his eyes, trying to force up his memories. He could recall everything that happened at Bolesność, right up to Christmas Day. All he could remember was that he used to be the Holy Roman Empire, and he was somehow okay with that. And there were a few fuzzy images, most of blood stained snow. Then there was a man with dark hair, a faded pink scarf, and saddening green eyes. But who was that man? Was he trying to save Ludwig?

"I can't remember much." Ludwig blinked a few times, finally clearing the blurring from his eyes. Now he could see the other man in the room, a tall, handsome looking fellow with a black and white blanket in his arms. He was dressed in full military uniform and had a cast on his left arm – quite an odd combination.

"Do you know what happened to me?" Ludwig asked, looking back at Sevastian.

Sevastian avoided his gaze, chewing on his bottom lip. "I don't really want to say."

"So it must've been bad?" Ludwig looked over himself, noticing an IV stuck in his left arm and one of those oxygen tubes in his nose. That question seemed rather redundant now, considering he looked like he let himself get torn up by the guard dogs.

"You've been in a coma for a little under two weeks, so yes, it was very bad," the man with the blanket answered. "Lieutenant General Volkov, by the way. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Germany, and I'm sorry it had to be this way."

"Can you explain what happened?" Ludwig asked, glancing over at Volkov.

"Try and make a fist with your right hand."

"Why?"

Volkov pinched the bridge of his nose, obviously a bit frustrated with Ludwig. He didn't seem like the kind of person to do well with children. Or people in general. So how was he so high up in military rank? "Just do it."

Ludwig tried to move his fingers, but they weren't responding to anything. They just lay there, perfectly still. He ordered them to move again and again, but the muscles weren't doing the right things.

"Do you know why your right arm is paralyzed?" Volkov asked, coming over to Ludwig's side. The harsh tone in his eyes had changed to a gentler feel, and his voice had lost its condescending edge. Perhaps he wasn't all that bad with people after all.

"No." Ludwig tried to make his hand move again, but it still wasn't doing anything. He could still feel his whole right arm, but it was unresponsive. Why wasn't his immortality complex fixing this?

"Sir, we really shouldn't be the ones to tell him this," Sevastian whispered, putting a hand on Volkov's arm. "Perhaps when the Austrian is ready. He's going to be released tomorrow, correct?"

"If he doesn't try and kill himself again tonight," Volkov sighed.

"Can someone please just tell me what's going on?" Ludwig asked, looking up at the two. He didn't intend to sound so pitiful and frightened, but the words just came out that way. After all, he'd awoken in a new place with very few recollections of what happened, two strangers, and a new paralysis – he was scared of everything right now.

"I don't really know if they want us talking to you. Sir, I'm going to go ask if we can talk," Sevastian, stepping out of the room. "Please, don't tell him anything."

"I promise I won't."

As soon as Sevastian was out of earshot, Volkov sat down next to Ludwig. From here, Ludwig could see that the man's white cast had several names scrawled on it in childish looking Russian. Volkov caught Ludwig staring, lifting up his cast for the man to see.

"Sevastian's kids wanted to sign it. This is the oldest, Akim," Volkov said, pointing to one of the names. "And Irina drew a little heart by her name because she said that I was a pretty man. She tried to give me their phone number. The littlest one, Benedikt, could barely sign his name." Volkov laughed half-heartedly, turning it over so Ludwig could see a name written in flowing cursive.

"This is my wife, Amaliya."

"It must be nice to have so much family," Ludwig said absently, wondering where his own could be. They'd mentioned Roderich being alive earlier, but what about everyone else?

"Oh, I don't really have all that much. Now, listen, I want to talk to you about serious things. Ludwig, you remember Toris, correct?"

"Ja, I do." Toris must've been the man in Ludwig's faint memories – it was not a savior. No, he was quite the opposite.

"Do you remember Christmas Day?"

"No. That's where I'm having troubles."

Volkov took a deep breath, clutching the blanket closer to his chest. "Toris shot you in the head. If he hadn't been shaking so badly and you weren't holding your brother the way you were, he probably could've killed you. The bullet clipped some nerves, causing the paralysis. We found you, and took you here."

"…What? I don't remember being shot." Ludwig racked his mind, trying to find any shred of evidence that this man wasn't lying. And bit by bit, he started to remember a few things.

He remembered the click of the gun being cocked.

He remembered someone crying out to be killed.

He remembered the words "I love you."

Suddenly everything flooded back to him like a huge and horrible wave. Now his mind was full of vivid details that he did not want – Ivan's crying, the sting of the radium, Gilbert's blood. He could see Toris' face when he asked about Holy Rome, the way he'd softened up for just a moment to tell him the truth. It was all so elaborate that it almost seemed like a horrible nightmare. Reality simply couldn't be this awful.

"Am I the only survivor?"

"You might be," Volkov explained. "Ivan probably won't live. His heart has stopped six times in the past few hours. His left eye's completely destroyed. See, it entered through his eye and somehow got to his heart, maybe ricochet or something.

"And that Austrian, he wasn't even hurt. The bullet knocked him unconscious for a few hours, but he was perfectly fine. For two weeks he's been trying to kill himself. His record is five attempts in one day – the psychiatric ward's having a fun time with him. They think he's calmed down now and plan to release him tomorrow."

"If I'm alive, then my brother has to be too, right? And what about Yao?" Ludwig asked excitedly, realizing there was a real hope for Gilbert.

Volkov looked away from Ludwig, one hand going to the back of his neck. "We found Toris dead – suicide. And that little boy, Raivis, he convinced us to save Feliks. The two are being taken care of by Basch and Ivan's sisters. I thought Feliks was just like Toris, but really, he seems to be a good guy. I wish I would've found that out sooner."

"You avoided my question."

"Yao…Yao died. We still haven't told Ivan directly what happened," Volkov admitted quietly. "The first thing Ivan said when he woke up was, 'Where's Yao?' Nobody had the heart to tell him, so we just gave him the Chinese flag."

"But what about Gilbert? You know the pale one with red eyes? My brother?" Ludwig snapped, glaring at Volkov.

No answer. For what seemed like centuries, the two sat there, listening to the beep of the heart monitor.

"This is yours," Volkov said quietly, handing him the black and white blanket.

Ludwig took it from him, wishing the man would just give him an answer. It was ridiculous to try and play games with someone who had just awoken from being shot in the head. He looked over the blanket, never remembering having one like this. And whoever had stitched the eagle on it obviously had never seen a real eagle.

And then he realized that it was not a blanket.

"This is just a joke, right?" Ludwig's voice unintentionally went higher as he held the Prussian flag tight to his chest. The heart monitor started beeping faster and faster. "Gilbert's in another room, isn't he? Listen, this isn't amusing at all! Drop the sick sense of humour and tell me where my brother is."

Volkov shuddered, almost like he was laughing. "No, it's not a joke."

"Look at me!" Ludwig roared, trying to get Volkov to look up.

Slowly, the man lifted his head to glance at Ludwig, tears trailing down his face. "It's not a joke. Your brother died. It was all my fault. I was too late, too cocky, and I got all of you injured! I failed as Ringleader! I failed in the whole mission! This is why they're taking me out of action; I know it! I got myself hurt, hundreds of people are dead because of me, the mission was a complete failure!"

"No, no, you didn't fail. Because he's still alive. Gilbert Beilschmidt does not die. He represents Prussia."

"Prussia is no longer a country. Gilbert wasn't needed anymore." Volkov looked away from Ludwig, swiping at his tears. "Just like me. I'm not going to be needed anymore. What's worthless should be thrown out."

"He was not worthless. And Gilbert was still needed," Ludwig said, his words choked out by sobs. "I needed him."

"Oh, my God, you're okay!"

Ludwig didn't even bother to look up from Vytautas. He kept stroking the dog's brown fur, praying that bubbly voice and the man who owned it would just leave. It brought up too many bad memories for him – all he wanted to do was lay there and pet his new dog, not start sobbing again. He'd begun to grow quite sick of crying, as it'd become a daily thing.

There was always something to remind him of Gilbert. From the subtle way people said something to the obvious flag in the corner of the room, a little hint of Gilbert was everywhere. He tried to forget about the Prussian, tried to erase the memory of his brother, but it was worthless. He'd tried reading through the few diaries of his brother that Volkov had brought to him in a sort of exposure therapy of his own, but that was even more heart wrenching than just thinking of the Prussian. So he'd sought his comfort in being withdrawn, spending his days staring out the window and petting Vytautas.

Occasionally, Roderich would come visit Ludwig, offering slightly more comfort than Vytautas could. Maybe it was because they understood each other on a much more emotional level – suicide was a common thought in Ludwig's mind. And Roderich was the only one Ludwig could talk to about things like that, mainly because he knew the Austrian wouldn't tell a soul.

It was rather ironic how things ended up for Roderich– he was the only one out of the two for sure survivors who wasn't affected at all by the radium, yet he wanted to die so badly. Now he spent his time comforting the two that were left.

Noticing that the person standing at the foot of his bed had not yet gone away, Ludwig finally looked up. Vytautas jumped out of the bed, walking over to Feliciano and circling around him to test if he was okay. Feliciano smiled nervously, giving Vytautas a few pats on the head. He'd never really been fond of large dogs, and Vytautas had size as well as a murderous reputation going for him.

"Hello," Ludwig said quietly, motioning for Vytautas to come back. Without hesitating, he climbed right back up and curled up beside Ludwig.

"Is that all I get? I haven't seen you for seven years, and all you have to say is hello?" Feliciano asked, coming over to Ludwig's side. In his hands was a crown of those little white daisy-looking flowers – edelweiss. Those same flowers from the meadow in the dream so long ago. The dreams all felt distant to Ludwig now like they really were dreams and not memories. Then again, everything felt like a dream now.

"How about this; I discovered a lot of things I never really knew about myself and it's all kind of mortifying and I really don't want to tell you, but looking at you brings up these bad memories again and at the same time I don't want you to go away but I don't want you to stay either?" Ludwig said in one big rush, looking up at Feliciano.

"Well, hello to you too," Feliciano laughed, sitting down. He hadn't changed since Ludwig saw him all those years ago – same auburn hair with that strange little curl, same bright eyes, same smile. Secretly, Ludwig was rather happy to see him. But at the same time, he didn't want to think of anything to do with the Italian. "I made this for you. I had a bouquet, but it was a long wait and I got really bored." Feliciano placed it on Ludwig's head, smiling. "So, what's new?"

"I'm paralyzed in my right arm."

Feliciano lost his joking tone almost immediately. "Really? Oh, Luddy, that's awful."

Ludwig tried to move his arm to prove his point. "Ja, it's completely paralyzed. They don't know if I'll be able to move it again – they have to wait until the radium wears off."

"Well, did anything else happen?" Feliciano asked. His eyes kept that hopeful gleam like there was still some good left in this revolting world. Why were people so hopeful?

"Yao died."

"…What?"

"Feliks is trying to recover from being stabbed by a madman and has a broken ankle."

"Seriously, Ludwig?"

"I got shot in the head."

Now Feliciano was becoming rather concerned, his eyebrows curved upwards. "Are you okay?"

"Ivan's in critical condition and is probably going to die as well."

"Ludwig, isn't there anything good that happened?"

"Toris died."

"Okay, there's a start," Feliciano said slowly. "That isn't really good, but I'll let it pass. So, what else happened?"

"I got a new dog. Evidently, he wouldn't leave my side. Name's Vytautas." At the mention of his name the German Shepherd's ears perked up and he glanced over at Ludwig with his dark eyes gleaming. "He used to be a guard dog. Supposedly killed twenty-something men."

"And they let him stay with you?" Feliciano asked quietly, edging away from the notorious killer.

"He passed all the tests. And he hasn't killed anyone yet. Besides, he's injured. Toris broke his ribs and his femur." Ludwig gestured to Vytautas' bandages covered in little music notes – Roderich came up with a composition themed perfectly for the dog and ever so carefully traced it onto the bandages. Ludwig rather liked the new pieces Roderich was inventing. He'd made one for Vytautas, one for Elizabeta, one for Gilbert, one for Yao and Ivan, one themed on the war, and one, surprisingly enough, for Toris.

And even more surprisingly, Ludwig loved Toris' piece the most. Roderich had brought Ludwig out to the lobby and played it on the piano there for him, actually smiling while he did so. Ludwig hadn't heard music in such a long time that it was an entirely foreign concept to him – but he loved it. The way the song jumped from flats and sharps and changed keys quickly to express the slow trip into madness, the gentle parts for Toris' love for Feliks, the parts where Roderich nearly slammed down on the keys to mimic gunshots; it all worked together to perfectly express their madman prison commandant.

"Well, that's good. So we have one positive thing on the list. Anything else?"

Ludwig took a deep breath. Did he really have the strength to say this? No, probably not, but he did anyway. "Gilbert died."

There was a long pause. "…Oh…oh, God. I'm sorry." The Italian's cheer shattered like a glass being dropped to a stone floor. "Are you…no, you're not joking. Oh, Luddy, I'm so sorry."

"No, you're not," Ludwig muttered, looking at Vytautas instead of Feliciano. Vytautas understood – he was there when it all happened. The dog knew exactly how Ludwig felt. Feliciano could only offer empty apologies. Although he wasn't able to show human emotions, Vytautas knew how to comfort Ludwig much better than anyone else.

"No, I really am. I just don't…I don't know how to say what I want to say," Feliciano said, his voice disappearing.

"You weren't there. You haven't seenhalf the things I have. You will never know what it's like to see someone you love die in your arms," Ludwig snarled, looking up for just a moment to glare at Feliciano. "Don't try and apologize to me."

"You're right. I don't know what that was like. But I do know that I'm here to help you. Maybe if you talked to me about these things, it'll help you," he suggested, putting a gentle hand on Ludwig's shoulder. What, was he trying to play psychiatrist? This wasn't some game. This was a real psychological problem – something that couldn't be undone with a little bit of talking.

"What can you help me with? The fact that my brother's dead? That can't be undone. My paralysis? I'll likely never use my right arm ever again." Ludwig began listing off his troubles on his good hand. "Can you erase memories? Can you give me back seven years of my life? Can you tear this number off my neck? Can you make me forget that I held my own dead brother? No! No, you can't do any of that! All you can do is remind me of what life used to be like! And I don't want to remember!"

Feliciano looked at Ludwig for a long time, his amber eyes looking Ludwig over for an explanation. Those same eyes had lit up so many times in his dreams, laughing along with the Holy Roman Empire. And now they were full of fear, trying to find that little shred of light in this dark world. "I…I don't know what to think of you anymore. I just thought you'd like to see me. But…I understand."

"No, you don't," Ludwig started, before realizing that it was quite the opposite.

Feliciano did understand what it was like to lose someone. Ludwig had never put two and two together, but at some point, Feliciano must've found out about Holy Rome's death. Even though all of Ludwig's brothers and Ivan tried to hide it from him, the truth had to have slipped out. The Italian knew this horrible, aching pain in his heart long before Ludwig did.

He'd lost his first love.

"Do you remember what it was like when you were a child?" Ludwig asked, dropping the edge to his voice. He abruptly felt horrible for lashing out, hoping Feliciano wasn't too upset to reply.

"Yes, I do," Feliciano answered. "But what does this have to do with anything?"

"I'm sorry I snapped at you like that a moment ago," Ludwig apologized, looking down at Vytautas ashamedly. "I was just frustrated."

"It's okay, we all get angry. If anyone has a right to be angry, it's you. But what does that have to do with my childhood?" Feliciano said. He obviously had an idea as to what Ludwig was going to say next but was denying it. Most of Holy Rome's life had been in denial – denial that he was going to war, denial that he was dying, denial that he existed.

"Do you remember when you made crowns like this," Ludwig tapped the edelweiss wreath on his head. "With a little blond boy in a big meadow?"

Feliciano looked up, eyes wide. "Stop it. I don't know who told you about this, but stop. It's not funny at all."

"No, tell me. Can you remember this little boy?"

"Is this some kind of joke? Are you still mad at me? Listen, I'm sorry if I pried too much!" Feliciano hid his face, running his fingers through his hair. "Just please, don't ask about that boy! Ask about anything else, please."

"It wasn't a nightmare, was it?" Ludwig asked quietly, reaching out for Feliciano's hand. The Italian took it, lacing his fingers in Ludwig's.

"It was just a nightmare. Everything was a nightmare. Everything is a nightmare," he whispered.

"I know who I am now."

Feliciano looked up at him. "Do you? Do you really know what happened?"

"It's all rather long and confusing to explain, but yes, I do know." Ludwig gave Feliciano a tiny smile. "I know we can be a happy family again."

Feliciano pulled Ludwig into a tight hug, crying into the man's chest. And soon Ludwig was in tears, holding the Italian with his one functioning arm. But this time, Ludwig wasn't crying for his brother or begging for a miracle. These were tears of joy.

Hundreds of years later, they were back to being their happy family.

And nothing was going to tear them apart ever again.

Ivan had never been considered an attractive man by anyone's standards, but now that he was seeing himself for the first time in ten years, he realized how much of a difference an eyepatch could make.

He held the mirror in one hand, reaching up to touch the gauze patch over his eye with the other. The flesh around the patch was an angry red, still not fully healed from the bullet. One tired lavender eye looked over all the little scratches and scars, bloodshot from all the crying. Ivan's blond hair was a disheveled mess, his lips were cracked and bloody, and the 2027 on his neck stuck out against his pale skin. His face was hollow, jaw bone much more prominent than Ivan remembered.

"Do you mind if I see what it looks like underneath?" Ivan asked quietly, looking over at Roderich.

"I don't care, just make it fast. The nurse that I talked to said you could go back into shock if you saw yourself," Roderich replied, crossing his arms. "And I do not want to continue to smuggle things in for you. I may not be as high up in society as I once was, but I'm not going to stoop to the levels of a lowly thief."

"I'm sorry." Ivan slowly pushed up the patch, barely revealing the torn up flesh and large bruise around his missing eye. Gently, he ran a finger over the marred disaster, nearly working himself to tears with the pain. But this was one of those things that he had to really experience to believe.

"Will you stop prolonging this?" Roderich asked, growing more impatient.

"Sorry," Ivan apologized, pushing the eyepatch all the way up.

Ivan was never one for horror movies – he hated to admit that he got scared easily. But now, he looked like he could be the main monster in one. He'd seen plenty of bloodshed and violence in his long lifetime but never had he seen an empty eye socket before. The Russian didn't really know what he was expecting with this – however, it was not a gaping, bloody hole in his face. Perhaps he was thinking that his eyelid would just be closed, but then he realized that the bullet must've torn through that. Just the sight of the disaster was enough to make him sick to his stomach.

"You look lovely, miracle boy," Roderich said with a hint of laughter in his voice. He'd taken to calling Ivan "miracle boy" because every doctor who came to see the Russian said the same thing. The chances that Ivan was actually here now were very slim.

Firstly, someone had tampered or merely made a mistake with the radium levels – they were much too low to kill Ivan immediately. The odds that Ivan would get that syringe were one in five, and the odds that a scientist would make a mistake were even smaller. Then, considering the radiation poisoning on his leg didn't kill him as his immortality complex shut down and he survived a gunshot to the head, that put the odds at a very, very, very tiny chance for survival. Adding a heart surgery on top of that where the odds of surviving were a mere fifteen percent made Ivan a walking miracle.

"It's disgusting," Ivan whispered, pulling the patch back down. "That's worse than the time Alfred showed me the man whose bone broke and came out of his leg at a basketball game."

"Oh, you had to see that too?"

"Didn't he show it to everyone?" Ivan handed the mirror back to Roderich, putting a hand over the eyepatch. He was suddenly rather self-conscious about his injuries, after realizing the severity of them.

"Are they going to sew it up or anything?"

"They're waiting until the radium wears off so if my eye regenerates it's not permanently sewn shut. So until then, I have to look like this."

"Don't worry about what you look like. If anything, you're much more unapproachable than before. Which should be a good thing, right?" Roderich asked, putting the little mirror back in his pocket. "If you don't want anyone else besides me talking to you, I mean."

"Right."

"Don't you want to see someone else yet? Or go home? I can't be all that exciting," Roderich said, raising an eyebrow.

"I…I don't really know what I want to do." Ivan looked down in his lap, avoiding Roderich's eyes. "I'm still trying to figure everything out."

"Right, well, you tell me when you've figured everything out. I'm sick of this little town. I want to go back to Vienna," Roderich huffed, standing up. "I have so many ideas for my return – especially with all these new pieces. It's rather humorous that such a tragedy can create all this beauty."

"You really don't need to stay."

"Without me, you and Ludwig would be a catastrophe. Admit it; I'm the one that's kept you from doing anything rash."

"Well yes," Ivan said softly, wringing his hands. Roderich had a certain way of making him feel guilty, even when he was trying to be polite. "But I think I can manage on my own."

"Don't get me wrong, I don't mind staying here. Truth to be told, I don't know how well things are going to go back home. It's going to be…" Roderich paused, trying to find the right words to use.

"Hard to adjust?" Ivan finished.

"Ja, that's what I was looking for. Hard to adjust. It'll be strange not having to wake up so early or do any work. And it'll be a bit odd actually having some privacy again." Roderich smiled, looking over at Ivan with sympathy in his dark eyes. "But I can't imagine what it'll be like for you."

"Quiet. Very, very quiet. And that's all I want."

"Wish I could say the same," Roderich sighed. "But now that Ludwig's figured it all out, I think I'll be getting several phone calls every day asking about the boy."

Ivan bit into the inside of his cheek, forcing the memories of Holy Rome's death from his mind. Even at just the mention of the name, the images of a dying boy appeared. He could see the slash running over the boy's stomach, the glassy look in his blue eyes, how he smiled when he finally fell into an eternal sleep – just like Yao had. Ivan shook his head like that would magically erase the memories. "I'm sorry, but I really did help him figure it out."

"Nonsense. It was bound to happen, just had to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. You didn't do much more than tell him bits of the name and encourage him." Roderich looked away from Ivan, his face growing red. "His own father should've done that."

"I guess we're both at fault, aren't we?"

"Don't blame yourself for anything," Roderich said, looking back at Ivan. "I have to go make sure Ludwig isn't being mauled to death by that damned dog. Don't die while I'm gone, alright?"

Ivan couldn't help but smile. "I'll try not to."

The day of the funeral was beautiful.

Rather fitting for the dead man.

Ludwig had never wanted to return to this country – he'd made the vow many, many years ago and was sworn to it. But some things are just too important. There's a certain loyalty, one that transcends all the boundaries, about a select few people for Ludwig. And unfortunately, the dead man was one of those people. Although a hundred years ago he would've laughed at the thought, times change quickly.

He couldn't help but smile as he watched Ivan thread the poppy stems into a crown. Ivan had been making the little wreaths for a few hours now, handing them out to the little children who went walking by. At first, the little ones were scared of Ivan – who wouldn't be afraid of a giant man with scars, a number on his neck, and an eyepatch? But once he held out the crowns, they suddenly trusted him.

Ludwig found it quite strange that little things like that could make you trust someone. And then he remembered that before the war he'd barely known Ivan, and now he would put his life in the Russian's hands. All because of how Ivan saved Basch when he escaped. It was a little thing, a simple kiss, and yet in that moment, Ludwig knew that Ivan was the most loyal person he'd ever met.

"Tutaj mała," Ivan said, placing a crown on a little girl's head. "Wyglądasz cudownie."

"Dziękuję!" The girl waved goodbye, returning Ivan's smile.

"Seven years and I still can't understand Polish," Ludwig sighed, watching the little girl run back to her mother and start talking animatedly.

"That's what you were speaking?" Roderich asked, completely confused. "You mean it wasn't Russian?"

"No, Russian sounds much different. It's a difficult language, Polish. But once you've figured out a few words, you can figure everything out," Ivan replied as he started another crown. "Wouldn't it be nice if everything was that way?"

"Excuse me," a man said, coming up to the two. A little boy followed close at his side, holding tight to the man's hand. "But can I ask you something a bit personal?"

Ivan looked over at Ludwig and Roderich, violet eye searching for their approval. Ludwig nodded, and Ivan turned back to the man. "Sure."

"You're from Bolesność, right?"

"Yes, sir, we are," Ludwig answered, trying to remember if he'd ever seen this man.

"Did you know a Toris? I don't know his last name, but he had dark hair and green eyes and a strange tattoo on his wrist reading '001?'" The man asked. "Is he here today?"

"How did you know him?" Roderich said without even looking up from his notebook. He drew another sixteenth note, looked at it for a moment, and then erased it. Feliks' piece was certainly giving him plenty of trouble, as he'd been repeating this process for most of the morning while Ivan and Ludwig talked.

"I had a store in Szczecin. He'd come in every four weeks and buy vodka. And then he told me to leave right before Christmas. I took my family to Sweden, and I hadn't heard anything about him in a long time. Sometimes he talked about Feliks, so I figured he'd be here."

"He's dead," Roderich sighed, finally making eye contact with the man. "December 25th, six forty-seven in the morning. Committed suicide."

"Roderich!" Ludwig snapped, giving the Austrian a shove. Roderich didn't even seem to care, like he did with most things.

"I am so sorry," Ivan said softly, looking up at the man before him. "I didn't know he ever talked to people in the outside world."

"Oh, no, it's fine. We weren't really close or anything, but I just wanted to thank him. He saved our lives." The man motioned to the little boy, who was currently hiding behind his father.

"I didn't catch your name," Ivan said.

"It's Moshe, but my name isn't important. Thank you for telling me, though." The man waved a little goodbye, saying something to his son in Polish as they left. The boy turned around, looking at Ivan excitedly.

"He just told the little boy I'm a real pirate," Ivan explained with a bit of a laugh.

"You know, Ludwig, you used to be cute like that," Roderich added, sounding a bit melancholy. "And then you had to grow up and get tattoos."

"I rather like mine. And the number wasn't going away, so I figured I'd make good use of it." Ludwig put his only functioning hand to his neck, where Prussia's motto – Gott mit uns – was written in cursive above his number.

"Oh, it's just me being a father. I don't approve of things like that, and you know it."

"What do you want me to call you now, anyway?" Ludwig asked, realizing that Roderich was now his father and brother. This quite certainly was a disturbing thought.

"Whatever makes you comfortable. That's one of the reasons that I never told you about Holy Rome. I didn't want you to think you were living some sort of double life or had an incestuous family," Roderich said, erasing another line of Feliks' piece.

"Well, that would've been better than lying to me for thousands of years."

"It was for your own good, okay? And can we not argue about this before…?" Roderich couldn't finish his sentence, going back to his notebook.

"Right. I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to instigate anything," Ludwig apologized, abruptly feeling horrible for almost starting a family fight before something as horrible as this.

"Who would've thought anything like this?" Ivan asked, twisting the stem of a corn poppy. "Of all people, it should've been me."

"Stop that," Ludwig shot back, although Ivan did have a valid point.

"But think about it. Really, I was least likely to survive."

"It was a choice, you fool," Roderich huffed. "He didn't just die."

"But why would he choose suicide? And after all, we've been through," Ivan said, putting a hand up to his number.

"He was all alone. I think Toris really got to him at the end," Ludwig sighed, listening to the church bells start ringing.

"We ought to go now," Roderich said gently, closing his notebook.

"Ja," Ludwig agreed. Suddenly he realized how much he was dreading Feliks' funeral. A lot more than anticipated. It really was like Ivan said – after they'd been through so much with Feliks, this was really how it had to end? Everything seemed so wrong now. Feliks was supposed to be there for the three of them and Raivis. And without him, it just didn't seem right.

This war had really ruined everyone.

A/N: And so, our story comes to a close.

Wow, there was a lot in this chapter. I'm so sorry, but I didn't feel like I could really split it all up. It would seem a bit awkward if the epilogue was in two pieces. So, sorry you had to go through a giant chapter.

This giant chapter is dedicated to my father. He had the wonderful job of proofreading this with me (it was really awkward trying to explain Feliks and Toris to him) and thus gave the chapter the name Ad Infinitum. For you non-Latin speakers, it means "To infinity". Or so my father says.

It physically pains me to mark this story as complete. I've spent almost a year on this. And now…it's all over. It's been one hell of a ride! I loved every minute of it, all because of you!

To think that this story really started out as a little 777 word chapter that no one bothered to read, and now it's evolved into a giant monstrosity that some people bother to read! Oh, God, this makes me so happy.

I'm sorry if some of you expected a different ending, but I really couldn't leave it so sad.

And thank you to the people I saw at Naka-Kon! It was really fun, especially when we started an escalator cult and got said cult banned. I met wonderful people, danced with my sister and Austria, and fell asleep on the ride back home. So, all in all, it was good. I hope some of the people I met there are reading this right now.

Thank you to harrietamidala1691, Fairestwarrior, wangca, TheSilentLiliac, Shadowmaster323, Red-Hot Habanero, FlamingFyre, and my darling Holy Trio who've supported this fanfiction for…well…awhile now, Seele Esser Deutsch, SoulEleri, and my dear Comix and Co! All of you really made this worth writing!

Do not fear; this isn't my last adventure into the writing world. I have thousands of stories planned, all in my head. You kids like stories about 1950's America and segregation? Or what about the Austrian Anschluss? I have plans for a story about a socially awkward hit man, the U.S.S.R, plenty about World War One and Two, a circus, a murder mystery, a few love stories for fun, a story about space, and a Revolutionary War fanfiction.

And you can expect all of my fics to be Hetalia based, because I really can't write for any other fandom. Except for maybe Hogan's Heroes.

So, unless I mysteriously die, you'll be hearing from me in a few months. Please, look for new things by me! I promise they won't be as out-there as this. It'll be a bit more tamed. Although, I will still use a random assortment of characters, because I really love having characters that never interact (i.e. Toris and Ludwig) and putting them together.

Many loving hugs and thanks,

Polski-Doodle~