Chapter 21
Your head leans into his shoulders as you both watch the large Christmas tree.
Ludwig's arm pulls you close as his eyes seem to fill with conflict.
"What you want to say, you can say it now. I'll listen. It won't hurt anything," you mutter, half asleep.
"My mother," he begins slowly, "died when I was younger. Not in personification years, but when I was younger. When Prussia was still a country."
"Before the first World War?"
He nods his head.
"There were other personifications on the boat too. They lost their family as well."
You tighten slightly.
"My father, when we had gotten onto a barely full lifeboat he wanted to try and save the people who were trapped in the end of the ship..."
"He wanted to save your mother..." you whisper.
His hands curl slightly as he tries to force the words out of his mouth, "They stopped him. Canada and England's personifications. They came running. They begged. They groveled. The told my father that their brother and youngest sister had fallen overboard. They said that they promised themselves that they would save them, help them, rescue them." He takes a deep shuddering breath as your body seems to have gone cold.
This is what happened.
This is the promise my brothers had kept.
And yet, I'm refusing to keep mine.
"My father made that promise too, he promised himself he would save my mother. But they begged, and groveled, and cried. He let them have their way. That's when I realized how human a personification really is." He pauses as his eyes turn to you. "Y/n, never, in my entire life, did I expect the person I would so helplessly fall in love with I would only know for about a month. My brother always pinned me for someone who wouldn't take the next step until I knew the girl for years."
"Yeah, I thought life was going to be like that for me too."
Your eyes turned back to the Christmas tree, they seem to soften slightly.
"It's sort of sad, how there were so many personifications on that boat, and they didn't lose their lives, but the ones they loved did."
And just like the Titanic, people had claimed the ship was unsinkable.
Ludwig froze, his eyes bore into you, a secret you haven't realized yet burning in his eyes. "What was the cause of the disaster again? Engine failure?"
There was a pause before you answered honestly. "I don't remember."
His brows furrowed, a look of confusion on his face that was slowly, slowly, giving way to shock.
"Y/n, I need to talk to Gilbert."
You hold back the annoyance that was surfacing. "Now?"
"Yes. Now."
He has you scooped up into his arms, running quickly back the way you came.
"Ludwig," you whine, trying to get out of arms by flailing random limbs.
"Shh," he whispers and keeps going. He knocks into a cloaked man. He doesn't utter an apology.
"Sorry!" you shout after the cloaked man. He turns suddenly, an emerald set of eyes widen.
Ludwig keeps running though you're telling him to stop. The cloaked man started to turn, but Ludwig picked up the speed, the cloaked man vanishing into the shadows.
You couldn't see his face as the darkness enveloped him. You're uncomfortable but you leaned your head into Ludwig's chest and took a deep breath.
The Christmas lights blurred as your eyes grew heavy.
.
.
.
You hear people arguing, a light chatter worming its way into your thoughts.
The pillow press harder against your head, trying to drive out the sound.
You didn't know if it was the brothers, with Ludwig so strangely distant after your return, or if it was just some guilty conscience in your head.
You thought about your UFO clock and your headphones with their American flag designs on them.
You thought of Alfred and how much you wanted to have a good ol' sibling brawl.
Of Matthew and how you wished that he was there to give you more advice. He said that falling was okay. He said that caring was okay.
I'm hopeless.
But now you weren't sure you were really in love with Ludwig. Sure, you like him, you like him a lot. But it has only been a month. You scoff. Like look what happened to Romeo and Juliet.
You flipped onto your back, two pillows squished against your head, one on each ear.
Was it three days? Did they fall in love in three days?
Or was it a month...
You shiver. Three days. You were certain. Besides Juliet was thirteen, how could it be your fault she was so stupid?
Wait.
Your lips thinned as you realized how out of hand the conversation with yourself had gotten.
An item is thrown against a wall with a bang. The yelling was getting louder.
You crawl from under your covers. The closet door is dragged open as you grab a flashlight.
"The Awesome Prussia," you grit.
The door opens and you sneak on through. Slowly going up the ladder, crossing over the hall between the two rooms, going back down the ladder. You press your ear up against the other door, your breath shallow, invisible.
The roar is loud.
"West, this isn't that serious," Gilbert soothed.
"It was to be. People are after us brother. They want the personifications dead. It explains all the attacks."
"They've been reckless though."
"They want it to look like an accident. We're not on the front lines so a sniper just can't take us out. They want to make us look mortal."
"We aren't mortal."
"But father was," Ludwig hissed. "Y/n is."
"Woah, woah, hold it West. Y/n is a lot of things, but she is definitely not mortal. She tries to pretend she is, but she's been injured so many times it is obvious she is not."
"I don't want to talk about it," Ludwig grumbled.
"Well you were shouting," Gilbert snapped back.
"Was not."
"Ludwig, you were. It isn't like people haven't been after us before."
"Like the ship that went down on mysterious engine failure resulting in a hull breach which lead to the entire thing sinking."
"Not that again," Gilbert moaned.
"America was on the ship. So was England. So was Canada."
"Now you're jumping to conclusions."
"We need to leave, Gilbert."
"No, we don't. Y/n will leave for home after Christmas. Besides, did you see her fighting the other day? She can hold her own."
"That isn't what I'm worried about."
"You won't lose me Ludwig, you won't lose me like you lost father and mother...okay?"
Ludwig is silent.
You shift.
You slowly go back the way you came.
You don't cry because you no longer want to.
You don't feel empty because you no longer want to.
You don't want to curl up and hide because you no longer want to.
You come out of your closet, shutting the secret door and tossing the flashlight on your desk.
The bed creaks beneath you as you sit down on it, your head in your hands. Your fingers brush softly through your h/c hair. They fiddle with separate strands.
The yelling has stopped.
Your hands fall from your face. They trace down your neck to a scar near your left shoulder that was easily hidden. A web from a lead bullet.
Hidden.
Everything had to be hidden.
You curl on top of the sheets. The cold pressing through the windows onto your skin.
You close your eyes.
That night you dream of fire.
.
.
.
"Mrs. Madison, you need to flee."
"In due time dear, due time."
"No." Your voice is firm. "You need to go now. The British will be here any second."
"Then help me get this painting of our first father down."
"LEAVE IT!" you screech. "JUST LEAVE IT BEFORE MY BROTHERS ARRIVE! LEAVE IT BEFORE ARTHUR AND MATTHEW COME TO KILL YOU!"
"They don't want me dear."
"You're the president's wife. Of course they want you."
"You're wrong. They want you dear. As America's capitol, they want you."
The servants manage to get the painting of George Washington down, rushing it safely out of the building. Dolley Madison follows them.
You run out of the building, a rifle gripped tightly in your hands.
She makes a motion for you to join her.
You shake your head.
You need to stay.
You needed to stay.
This was the center of America. And you were to defend it.
The blue cloth clinged to you, sweat from trying to usher everyone out of the city still fresh.
Your breaths calm as you catch the first glimpse of red in the swamp. You scoop up a handfuls of gravel to fill your pockets. Your feet quickly retreat back into the mansion, hurriedly scaling the steps to the second story. You watch from a second story window as the men draw nearer.
Then nearer.
You see him at the lead. His blonde hair clings to him, his emerald eyes clouded. They weren't visible currently, but you knew they were there.
Along with his caterpillar eyebrows.
A man clings to his side, blonde hair and violet eyes.
Your breath catches.
Matthew.
He actually did join Arthur.
Alfred was a fool. The words are thick in your head, clouding your judgement.
We should never had gone into Canada.
We should never had done this to ourselves.
ALFRED SHOULD NEVER HAD LISTENED TO HIS BOSS.
WE SHOULDN'T BE FALLING APART AGAIN.
You swallow, the lump thick in your throat.
You stand silently, watching as the men laughed at how Washington, D.C. had become a ghost town.
I'm still here you bastards. You won't take my brother's capitol. You won't take Alfred's capitol.
You hear the door knocked down with the men's bayonets.
You hear them run into the dining room, eyes hungrily taking in the feast that had been laid out.
You hear men runninh up the stairs. Towards you. Towards the valuables left behind.
The door creaks. You stand next to it, flat against the wall.
Two sets of footsteps.
Two men.
Knock out one. Shoot the other.
Your bayonet is firmly attached to your rifle.
The door opens.
You gut the man in a swift move, spinning the rifle so the butt of it winds the second man.
You didn't shoot. The gun comes back up, cracking into the man's head.
He slumps to the ground unconscious. The other is slowly bleeding into darkness. You stare at the puddle of blood.
"You won't take me down without a fight," you spat before dashing out the the room. Your boots click softly, hidden by the parading of the British troops. You make it to a corner just as two men round it.
They go down faster than the others did.
There is no shooting to alert other men. You ignore the bodies. No time to hide them.
Only time to fight, fight, fight.
You couldn't stop. You would fight until they took you down. A bayonet to the heart. A bullet to the head.
Another duo meets you. You knock the first one down quickly, the gun spinning so the bayonet stabbed the other.
The metal of the gun pressed into your head.
You hold back your annoyance. People seem to forget that the point of a gun was not to engage in close combat.
Your body drops swiftly, your feet curling under you before spinning out. The rifle goes off as the man falls to the ground. You knock him in with the butt of your rifle before running. Everyone would draw like flies to the shot.
You wait quietly, eyes narrowed as you hid in one of the rooms.
Men run to the sound of the shot.
They look around.
The gravel from earlier comes out of its place in your pocket. It scatters across the ground. A few more guns go off in shock.
You move into another room through a connecting door. The door silently opens as more gravel falls to the ground.
You watch as the men are on their knees reloading. Only a few have their weapons ready. You aim your rifle at the one who looks like he was a leader. The way he stood, like he owned this place. Like he owned your home.
It goes off in a swirl of smoke.
You lunge forward your bayonet connecting with flesh as blood sprayed across your face. You grab the man's rifle, turn and let the shot fly at another current threat. Your rifle is back in your hand as the bayonet connects with a man who had finished reloading.
You spin and parry and stab, stab, stab.
Iron touches your lips.
Your arms are coated with tiny cuts from other bayonets. You grab rifle after loaded rifle and let them loose.
More men come.
They see a girl fighting.
And they freeze.
He comes. With his violet eyes and blonde hair. The twin of Alfred.
He tells them to not hurt you.
They pile on top of you, dragging you to the floor kicking and screaming.
They drag you down the hall. Spitting curses and other bile.
Telling them to go and dig their own graves.
Telling them that you would rather die.
And die you will.
You could feel it in the air. The blood that fills your mouth from their strikes. The bruises that doubt your body from their kicks.
You were going to die.
But your pride was going to be intact when it happened.
You've always been ready to die.
Ready to leave this world.
It just went down to when.
A soldier twisted your hair as they dragged you down the jagged steps.
You spit more curses, the pain a dull thrum in your head. Ignorable.
You writhe as they drag you into the dining hall.
He looks at you. With his hollow emerald eyes.
You stare back.
His mouth moves. He gestures at the food his men are wolfing down.
He gestures at the pitcher of water. Matthew presses a goblet into your hand.
You throw the contents at his face. The water dripping down his blonde hair.
You scream more.
His emerald eyes are vacant.
A man picks up a rifle and tosses it to Arthur.
He holds it loosely in his hands, the barrel points at you.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "But I have to."
Your mouth is empty. Your throat unable to form the words. So you look at him. And you close your eyes.
The rifle goes off. The burn digs into your left shoulder and you slip away.
You wake to flames.
Flames consuming your home.
Flames consuming the drapes and the table and the chairs and any remains that had been left, smashed under foot.
You hear his cry. His blue eyes stare longingly down at you. Alfred wraps you tightly, pulling your wounded body off the ground and out the door.
Into the brisk air.
To watch the glow of flames lighting the dark sky.
He buries his face into your stomach and sobs. Heavy heaves.
He bandages your arm quickly before leaning down and sobbing again.
"It's my fault, it's my fault, it's my fault. I made a mistake. You don't deserve this!"
You touch his hair, messing it up even more.
"Thank you Alfie."
Thank you big brother.
.
.
.
A hand muffles your gasp of pain. Your eyes flicker open. You could hear it. The crackle of flames. The hiss of the snow outside melting.
You smelled the smoke chewing away at the wooden pub.
Your eyes catch flickering specks of orange and yellow in the corner of your room. The hand holds a piece of wet cloth against your nose and mouth.
Your eyes look up, fingers grasping the wrist that has shoved the cloth over your mouth.
The cloaked man brings a finger to his lips.
His emerald eyes glistening with relief.