what did lithuania see?

[wingborne]

There were those stories where Horatio Alger pulled himself up from the slums by his bootstraps, depending on nothing but goodness of heart and always stopping to lend a helping hand to those in need, by golly, and he made it big, really big, corporation big! To the Big Apple, where those who had their eyes to the skies and holding hope in their hearts couldn’t fail, no way, José.

Those stories.

There were those stories where a little girl grew up, unknown, one of the many, but by talent and skill and a winner smile, she pulled herself up to the big screen, her picture on the front of every magazine, awards glittering like the teeth in her smile, and she’d call herself Marilyn Monroe and she’d be successful, and anyone who wanted to be someone could, abso-tootin’-lutely.

Those stories.

There were those stories where Mickey Mouse whistled along on a steamboat, and could beat any of his selfish enemies because he was good and kind and caring, and he always had time to feed the dog, and in the end, he was surrounded by his good friends, and that was happiness, and anyone, regardless of race, age, gender, could be happy.

Those stories.

But there were also stories about fallen fiction, about white powdery drugs and the too-bright lights of Hollywood, about every Oswald that had been tossed along the way. There were those Willy Lomans who tried their very best to escape the dime-a-dozen, there were those Walter Youngers, there were those Alfred Prufrocks who lived in their waste land world. There was the American Dream, and there was nothing to it.

Nothing to it at all.

--

Lithuania had been first, and it shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it had, all the same. It had been such a bright day. That was the most surprising part. It had been such a bright day. The sun had popped out from the clouds, children laughing distantly on the streets, flowers thriving and growing.

To America, these sorts of things didn’t happen on happy days. If it had to happen, it would happen on a dark and rainy day, but not happy ones. And he had been happy, coming home after a fun day at the carnival, and eating a hamburger while sipping soda. Or sipping soda while eating a hamburger. That had always been a problem, because sometimes he was thirsty, and sometimes he was hungry, but those moods alternated abruptly within seconds. He’d decided on inventing an invention—one that would allow him to eat and drink at the same time.

He’d already decided on calling it the Slurpinator when he spotted England on his doorstep, looking dark and unhappy, as if he had brought the rain from London just to drizzle on America’s sun.

“Oh, it’s you.” He took another bite from his hamburger, wiping the pickle juice from the side of his mouth with his sleeve.

“Don’t go in.”

America stopped mid-slurp in his Coca-Cola.

“What?” He bit into the tip of the straw as he talked. “You mean, into my own house? Seriously?”

“He didn’t mean it,” England said abruptly, “He wasn’t thinking properly. You have to understand, America. I can’t let you go in.”

“It’s… my own house.” He finished the last of his McDouble with a vicious bite, and crumpled the greasy wrapper in his hand. “Seriously, I knew you were stuffy and weird and boring, but this is going way too far.”

“No, it’s—“

“Is it like a surprise party for me? But nothing’s special is going on today,” America said, setting the empty wrapper onto his bench. England hesitantly moved to block his way to the door. He stared at him as he slurped the last droplets of his coke, loudly sucking in the air so the container collapsed into itself, broken and crunched.

“Who do you mean, anyway?”

“Who?”

“’He’ didn’t mean it.” America stepped to the left, and England mirrored him.

“He didn’t,” he insisted. “I’m sure he was just thinking about Poland.”

“Poland?” The name sounded familiar, though he couldn’t quite place it. He took a step to the right, and England followed again. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I just stopped by to talk about… about something, and since you never lock your door, I went in, and—“ He stopped abruptly and looked away, a look of terrible consternation suddenly spreading on his face. America used the opportunity to step past him and open the door quickly, and stomped into his dark house. If the ‘he’ had apparently messed with his house, he would sure let him have it. He had just gotten Lithuania to clean the tables, too, and—

There was a note pinned to the door of the guest room.

He tore it down, leaving shreds still clinging to the tape, as he scanned the neat handwriting. England had followed close behind, but only hovered near the door.

“Dear Mr. America”

(The handwriting had been very neat, and without any trembling.)

“I’m sorry to have done this in your house. It was very disrespectful of me, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I did not understand, but I see now. I’m still very sorry to do this in your house.

You are a very strong person, so I think you could handle it better than Poland. But just in case, I will call Mr. England. I have made you a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Please remember to microwave it so you don’t drink it cold. This is surprisingly forward of me, but do I dare? But I think I must.

Please do not open the door, Mr. America.

Sincerely,

Toris”

He dropped the letter to the floor and then he tried to push open the door, because the letter had said he shouldn’t, and the door slightly opened into the darkness of the guest room and there was a chair (the carving on the back was a rising sun, right, Ben?) and there was darkness and through the sunshine filtering in through the wispy white curtains a figure swung back and forth and back and forth and back and forth the pendulum of time and the chair was on the ground and the door was slammed shut, nearly biting into his fingers as England pulled the doorknob to the room.

“It said not to open the door, you idiot!” he snapped, face a ghastly white. America suddenly felt his lunch in his mouth, stomach tossing and turning, and he took a step back and another step back and another, but his shoulders hit the wall.

That wasn’t right, he thought.

It was a sunny day, and people weren’t supposed to kill themselves on sunny days.

--

When he closed his eyes, the body swung and faltered in the air, hanging from the thin noose.

The snow piled into heavy drifts outside Russia’s house. (April was the cruelest month.) General Winter’s frigid claws clutched at the roof of the warm house, and once inside, America had to rub his ears and nose. He didn’t like going to Russia’s house because it smelled and had all this weird stuff, which England would slap his hand if he tried to touch. But while England was talking quietly to someone else, he took a nesting doll and sat on the weird green sofa that smelled like borscht, the one beside the struggling fireplace.

The first doll, glazed in red, stared demurely at him.

It wasn’t cool, like his action figures of superheroes, because it was all round and wooden. But he turned it over in his hands and then pried it open, though the stiff wood gave a creak, and there was a distinct scent of Russian wood in there, of the evergreens standing dark and black as endless night against the furious winds and the cold white snow.

It still wasn’t as cool as Superman.

“Like, oh my God, oh my God,” a soft voice repeated mechanically behind him. He turned over the smaller doll in his hand; this time the modest lady was dyed in plastic blue. He placed the parts of the first doll onto the table.

“No, like, he wouldn’t do that. He was the Commonwealth, we were the Commonwealth,” the voice continued. The second doll was a little stuck, and he heard a sickening crack when he pried her open. But when he looked around hesitantly, nobody had paid him any attention, so he placed the broken bits next to the first red lady, and looked down at the green decorous girl.

“He wouldn’t, like, leave me behind. Because I’d, like, know if he was in trouble. Wouldn’t I know? I was his friend, right? He’d tell me because I was his friend, right?”

The green lady parted shyly to reveal the red little girl, her little black eyes and little black eyelashes blurred by the necessity of size. A bad paint job made it look like she was crying.

“Poland,” a soft voice said, “Please don’t cry. Brother is taking this hard as—“

“No, like, he doesn’t understand. He, like, can’t understand. He wasn’t friends with him. I mean, of course Liet wouldn’t tell him, it was him, but he’d tell me, right?” And a surprised sob. “Why wouldn’t he tell me?”

And the red little red girl opened to show a blue, and then the last, a green little wooden girl who was barely the size of his thumb. He turned her over and over again in the fire, the blurry paint making it look like she had holes for eyes, staring endlessly at nothing.

“It wasn’t a suicide.”

He didn’t realize he had been talking until he realized that the voices behind him had fallen silent, and when he turned around, he could see Poland and Ukraine watching him for their doorway.

“It couldn’t have been,” he said, almost confidently. “I mean, there’s no reason for him to do—to do that, so I mean, it must have been murder.”

“America,” someone was saying to him sharply, and he quickly covered the broken bits of nesting dolls when the door opened. A large figure slowly walked into the room, followed by a smaller one. America stood up because he’d recognize those cold, blank eyes, that faint smile, the long trailing scarf. And that smell of black Russian forests and empty stone cathedrals.

“The funeral,” Russia said slowly, in his childish voice that echoed in the silence, “will be held in few weeks. Will fit into schedules, Да? Short ceremony. Very respectful.”

“Like, oh my God!” Poland broke free of Ukraine’s grasp and stood in front of him, hands firmly planted to his hips. “What, like, the hell, Russia? ‘Fit into schedules’? You’re not the one in charge of planning his funeral, my God!”

“Bad child.”

America’s fingers tightened, wrapping tightly around the small green doll.

“… Like, what?” Poland was the first to break the silence.

“Left without telling Russia,” the large country said simply. “Should not have done so.”

Poland choked, and even America took a step forward to threaten Russia, to show that no-good fat idiot what he thought of him and his stupid statements, wallop him a good one. But someone held him back by the edge of his jacket, and the moment passed.

“Can you get any more selfish? Oh, my, God.” Poland buried his head into his hands, but Belarus took the moment to step out from the shadows, hands placed demurely on her dress. Something complicated showed on her face for a moment, before her face was quickly smoothed over into a slab of cold stone once more.

“If had really liked bastard,” she said, “Would have told before killing.”

There was a brief moment of silence, and then Poland abruptly lurched at her. Ukraine caught him quickly, and America found himself already pushing him back by the chest, but Russia had not moved an inch, and Belarus had not blinked. She turned back to her brother.

“Would not kill self before brother,” she said. “So brother will never be alone.” And then she left, her blue dress swishing into the black darkness of Russia’s yellow wall-papered house, with the snow howling outside. America broke free of Poland’s struggle and chased after her, even though the candles flickered erratically as the house trembled under General Winter’s shaking claws.

“Belgium,” he said, catching at her arm. She slowed and turned back, her face set and unhappy. He had known her for a while, while she lived with him for a while (and the image of Lithuania’s happy face floated up at him, and a fresh pot of coffee that made his stomach toss and turn), so he could see that something was—wrong.

The structure of her nose had always been the most beautiful, dainty but strong, a high arch. She was beautiful; her skin the color of unbroken snow, her eyes floating in a dark stony stare that he couldn’t quite meet. Even through the thick material of her dress, he could feel that she was frigid, her very being carved from unfeeling ice.

But she trembled, slightly, as if she was melting. “Let go,” she demanded curtly.

“Look,” he said. “That was… That was really wrong, you know?” He tried to give a smile to show that he wasn’t that mad anymore, but it felt like his face was broken. “Lithuania probably didn’t—didn’t think this thing through.”

“Would not leave brother like that,” she said firmly.

“Yeah, but Poland was feeling really bad, you know. So that wasn’t right.” He hesitated. “We’re all feeling bad.” There was a gnawing darkness in the bottom of his gut that he couldn’t quite identify.

Her silence lingered in the darkness.

“’cuz… it’s not like how we’re used to going,” he said, trying to look cool. “Being countries, and all.”

“Is not Lithuania who—“ She clamped her mouth tightly, icicles clawing her mouth shut. But she just glared at him, and she shook him off abruptly, turning away and continuing walking down the hallway where only the melting candles showed glimmers of yellow peeling wallpaper.

He watched her drift down the hallway, floating like a ghost, the whiteness of her hair blinding into his eyes even when he knew she had disappeared. But for a moment, he thought he saw another ghost around the corner, caught only by a momentary flicker, and he shivered at the thought of Russia’s house, forever haunted by his ghosts.

Is not Lithuania who—

--

He’d been having a nice dream with Mickey and Donald and Goofy when he was suddenly woken up by loud banging on the door, meaty fists the size of ham smashing into the bending chipping wood. After a moment of struggling, he sat up in bed in time for the door to be smashed away from the opening, and Russia stood there, fists covered in dripping blood as his knuckles were in open wounds.

A half-tilted smile cocked on his face above his scarf, and his eyes seemed empty.

“Where is little sister,” he said, and in three steps he was at America’s bedside, and he could feel the blood seep through his thin pajamas as Russia gripped his front.

“Is this a surprise attack? I always knew you were no-good, but this is a new low, even for you, Ru—“

“Where is little sister?” And Russia slammed him against the wall, so hard that he saw white.

“I don’t know! I haven’t seen Belgium after she left, you maniac!” he said, struggling to pry Russia’s bloody hands from his cowboy pajamas.

“Belarus.” Russia had barely the time to say it before there was a high-pitched female scream. Instantly, America was dropped back to his own bed, and Russia stormed out, his scarf whipping against the door frame violently before disappearing into the darkness. Determined not to let that whale get the best of him, America ran after him, not even bothering to put on his slippers, so he could feel the chill of the floorboards on his bare feet.

Russia stopped abruptly in front of the doorway of the kitchen, where Ukraine stood in her nightgown, looking wispy and pale, holding a candle in a shaking hand. America peered over her shoulder to see—

A tea party.

It had been a tea party, and there were two tea cups, and two empty plates, and two forks and two spoons and one knife, because the other one was embedded into Belarus’s heart as she leaned back in her chair, eyes closed. The blood meticulously dripped down onto the floor. The candle in the corner continued to flicker, in and out, in and out, illuminating her dark form.

She had been carved from slabs of ice, but the sun seemed to have finally risen over her (it’s a rising sun, not a setting sun), because in her eyes, there was ice melting.

Russia was the first to move, taking an awkward step towards her, even as Ukraine tried to tug him back, and she was saying words, the older sister, taking action, but it was worthless to fight a man who spanned the width of eleven time zones.

A sound emitted from him, some choked version of kolkolkol, which might have been mistaken for sobs if America hadn’t known better.

“It… It had to be a murder,” he blurted out, and then he took a few steps towards the other end of the table—avoiding the seeping puddle of blood that stained the cold floor—and picking up the small paper on the other chair. “The murderer—she was waiting for him, so then he stabbed her—“

“Was suicide, America,” Ukraine said softly. She held her candle closer to the table, where someone had written, in a calm hand, something in Russian. When she saw his inquisitive look, Ukraine translated it softly. “Says, I am sorry, brother.”

Russia’s head was bent too low and too close to Belarus to see his reaction.

“But she said!” he insisted. “She said, she said she wouldn’t kill herself before Russia offed himself, and Russia’s still alive, so—“

“Little comrade will say no more,” Russia said, his voice elongated and strange.

“No, but, see, it makes sense. So the murderer was stupid and didn’t hear her say that, and she planned a meeting with him, and he was too stupid to clean up, so—“ His fingers trembled as he tried to open the piece of paper, prying it open, but to his horror, he accidentally dropped it.

Instinctively, he stepped back. The paper had slipped into a rivulet of blood, so the sides quickly became stained. But the paper only held one word, in the same handwriting as the writing on the table.

Toris.

--

He found England talking to Latvia in the yard, and when he approached, Latvia quickly took his trembling leave, nearly tripping over a sheep in his stuttering hurry. America didn’t pay him any attention, hurrying towards them as his boots crunched through the thin layer of ice.

“I have it,” he said, and his breaths came out as frosty puffs. “It has to be murder, but now I can explain. Are you listening?”

“I am,” England said curtly, crossing his arms over his chest, obviously irritated that the conversation had been interrupted. His nose was bright red.

“So, I thought something was weird about Lith… Lithuania’s note,” he said, fingers fumbling to unfold his paper. “So I wrote down what I remembered, and it’s just way too typical. Like, I see now and stuff like that. I mean, what did he see? It doesn’t make sense. And his wording was all weird. And he made me coffee.”

“I’m not here to judge his last moments,” England said dryly. He didn’t seem particularly invested in the conversation, his eyes occasionally watching Latvia as he wandered through the sheep field beyond.

“And then, Belg… Belarus. She wrote down Lithuania’s name. It means she was waiting for him—or waiting for his murderer. And then the murderer came and got mad. And then he killed her.” He puffed on his fingers, though the thick brown gloves prevented most feeling.

“Don’t make it sound so simple.”

“… I’m not.” America slipped the paper back into his coat. And he really meant it, too, because his stomach did somersaults at the very thought of bright smiles and green coats and sunken eyes and blue dresses. “But I don’t want this to happen to anyone else.”

“America—“

“And she said. She said that she didn’t want to leave Russia first. And as much as I don’t like him or anything,” and here the memories of the Cold War embedded like rocks into him resonated sorely, “I know he wouldn’t go off and die even if we wanted him to or anything like that. So—so, so—“

Bang.

America flinched at the single shot that rang throughout the cold winter forest. No life stirred in the dark woods, with the black trees standing quietly. Even England didn’t move, staring stolidly at Latvia suddenly standing up from his crowd of sheep, his red coat stark against the snow. The small house quieted again, and the silence swept away the gunshot neatly under its blanket.

“What was that?” America reached into his own pocket for his own gun, every nerve ringing.

“Russia,” England said simply. He rubbed at his nose. “He must have locked himself in his room and shot himself through the head.”

America dropped his hand.

“He never was mentally stable,” England continued conversationally. Latvia, some feet away, still stood amongst the clouds of dirty sheep, dirt sticking to their gray wool. He watched the yellow house with an expression that America couldn’t quite identify.

“Why didn’t you stop him?”

“Because I wasn’t sure.” England turned away, and hesitated. “I hate him,” he said, “but I really hoped he wouldn’t.” And then he was striding away towards Latvia, where the small boy didn’t move, even as the sheep began to amble away.

America never actually saw the crime scene, but he realized in his ensuing nightmares, Russia’s body would be lying in the middle of the room and there wouldn’t be blood on the sides, but straw, golden flaxen straw that stuck and dripped from his head and pooled on the floor.

--

The next two deaths fell neatly in a line, and America traveled through them as if he was in a dream. He was on his flight home, because he didn’t want to stay anymore, and England insisted, and Russia didn’t just die, when his cell phone rang and he picked it up without thinking, staring at the drifting clouds where the sun wasn’t quite rising yet, but the orange and red blood tinged the cotton wisps. His head hurt. It must have been the air pressure.

“I have failed,” the soft voice said mournfully.

“Austria?”

“Was her turn so soon?” The melody of his voice rose, quavered, and fell into another crashing crescendo. “Did she see it so quickly that she did not have time for parting?”

“Hey, Austria, what’s wrong?” He sat up in his cramped airplane seat, his magazine with Marilyn Monroe on the cover slipping to the floor.

“Elizabeta. She has passed away.” There was a short pause. “I will spare you the details.”

“… Hungary?”

There was the beep of a call waiting.

“Yes,” Austria said simply. “That will be all.” The sharp click of the phone smashed into his ear. He winced and clicked to receive his second call, though he thought he knew what was coming, and he didn’t want to listen, but his finger had already pressed the small button and he was holding up the phone to his ear and he was listening to a British voice saying softly Latvia has passed away, suffocation, bag across his face, I’m sorry, but, meeting, come to, America, listening, America.

--

The Saturday morning cartoons played on his television as he sat in bed, still in his pajamas. He was eating Cheerios. No, he scooped some soggy Cheerios and then placed his spoon back into the milk. A rerun of a Superman episode was flickering across his television, and his curtains were drawn and his laptop buzzing quietly beside him where the world meeting was still continuing, though he had muted it.

He had watched all the Superman episodes, so he could mouth the words even as the criminals were trying to run away, but Superman would come, swooping down with his red cape billowing behind him. And that’s what heroes did, face the enemy. And he had proof, written down in his little notebook that he had put in his coat that he had tossed onto the sofa because the coat closer was too close to where Lithuania had—

The sunlight spilled in, even though he had clamped the curtains shut firmly.

Did Superman feel like this when Lois Lane was taken away? Like there was a rotting feeling in his stomach, a dark pitted hole that would never go away? Because they were all different so he didn’t feel the same because Russia shouldn’t have died, that bastard, he hated him for so many years and now he just went and did whatever he wanted, and he had known Belarus and Latvia and

Lithuania.

He looked up at the door, as if he was expecting Lithuania to come into the room with a fresh pot of coffee, even though he knew the smiling young man wouldn’t return and all he had were his scratchy sheets and a flickering television and the sun was too bright.

A beep on his laptop showed that Japan requested a video feed, separate from the meeting. He deftly minimized the screen and maximized Japan’s screen.

“America-san,” he said politely, bowing his head. America gave an absent-minded nod, eating his soggy Cheerios.

“Did you want something?”

“Forgive my impudence,” Japan continued softly, “but I wished to only affirm your well-being. These times have been very stressful upon all of us. I understand that you were personally affected by many of the… unfortunate events.”

“Yeah,” America said, “But I’m a hero, so I’m fine. And I can’t just sit here and cry all day, I have to go find the murderer.”

“Rivers know this. There is no hurry.”

“That’s a nice haiku and all, but there is a hurry,” America said, slamming his fist down onto the table and nearly spilling his cereal. “Because I don’t want to lose anyone again. I mean, if this guy is smart enough to kill Russia—“

“Yes,” Japan said quietly, “I understand. But, America-san, it was not murder.”

“Of course it was. I mean, Lithuania’s note was all strange, and Belarus even said she wouldn’t, and… and they didn’t tell anyone beforehand. I mean, and it’s all happening at once. So it’s weird.”

“If you do not mind me prying, I am curious to know who you would consider to possessing motive.”

“I…” He floundered for a moment. “… Maybe one of us? I mean, it had to be one of us. To have the power to kill us. I mean, if it was just a normal person—“

“Do not underestimate the power of people.” Japan sighed softly. “But I assure you, this is not the case.”

“Was there any world news?” He flipped to the newspaper webpage that he had bookmarked once, where the world news scrolled down the page. But there was nothing out of the ordinary about any of the countries—not even Lithuania, Belarus, Russia, Hungary, or Latvia. He frowned slightly until he heard Japan’s soft throat-clearing, and clicked to open the video window again.

“I don’t get it,” America said. “Why is everyone just so assured that it was—it was suicide? They don’t even think about anything else.”

“There are matters that we are not able to discern.” Japan looked distant for a moment. “The older countries might know, America-san, and will tell you, if you ask.”

“I can figure it out on my own.” He plopped his spoon forcefully back into the milk, so that it spilled onto his table. “But maybe I’ll listen to what they have to say, since I’m a hero and everything.”

“Yes.” Japan hesitated, and then bowed his head. “I am glad that you are doing well, but perhaps it is best for the both of us to return our attention to the world conference. It is vastly disrespectful to do otherwise.”

“Oh, right.” He paused before he clicked back to the window. “Hey, Japan?”

“Yes, America-san?”

“You’ll tell me if anything’s wrong, right?”

“You would be my first confidante.” Japan bowed as his video feed switched off. The world conference was continuing, and he pressed the volume back on, watching the windows. Ukraine’s soft voice echoed in her office, her eyes infinitely sad, small hands pressed against her throat.

“It is difficult,” she was saying, “as the oldest sister, to watch my youngest siblings pass away first. I have watched them struggle, and I have been helpless. I should have acted when sister said… I should have stopped her from… I should have…”

America stopped paying attention to scan the windows again. Most of the other countries were watching Ukraine with focus, but England’s eyes caught his, as if he had been staring into America’s feed for a long while. He quickly swiveled to watch Ukraine again, but America stared intensely at England for another moment. Creepy old man. But the meeting passed uneventfully, and they parted with understanding that the next meetings may prove more progressive.

America shut off the window feeling slightly more optimistic, and it must have been so optimistic that Japan, the land of the rising sun, went home and quietly committed seppuku.

--

Ukraine locked herself in a room with a gas stove, Finland drowned, and England called him over for a cup of tea.

--

England’s house was a tombstone, dedicated to the holiness of time. Fading gray ivy crawled along the stubborn brick walls, and hefty ancient maple doors parted way to reveal hallways entombed with history. Knights in fading armor stood alongside the paintings of kings and queens throughout the ages. The deceased royalty smiled crookedly, and their cold eyes stared longingly at America. He shivered until he reached the end of the hallway, where he opened the backdoor to let himself into the back garden.

The garden was a castle, a stone coffin where the browning graying blackening grass stretching hollowly to the skies. Stone walls surrounded the massive greenery. The rose bushes with its voracious red petals bared its swords, a moat of walkway surrounding it. In the center, there was a small gazebo, whitened, though the colors shifted darker and darker as the gray clouds turned from near-white to pale gray to dark gray and the blackness threatened to tumble off the horizon.

For Thine is the Kingdom.

“It looks like it’s going to rain,” America said, sitting on the edge of the wicket chair.

“Hong Kong killed himself this morning.” England folded his newspaper neatly in half, setting it aside to pick up his white-gilded teacup. “Jumped off one of his banks.” He said it matter-of-factly, in the same tone that America had discussed the weather.

“… Damnit.” America sagged back into his chair.

“It’s coming.” England heaved a great sigh, as if the “it” was a great inconvenience to his schedule. “We can’t escape.”

“You mean—“ America suddenly sat forward, dredges of the despair clinging to his back. No, he was a hero, he couldn’t think about nooses or knives or guns. “You mean, the murderer’s coming for us next? How do you know? What do you mean?”

“… I don’t know.”

“Don’t give me that.” He had forgotten his own strength for a moment, and with the slam of his fist against the table, a chunk of the wood smashed away, the wood splinters smashing down into the gazebo. The remaining bits stuck out like jagged parts of the coast.

“You idiot!” England was there in a moment, examining his hand first from the side, and then turning it over to face the palm, where his lifelines and loveliness and handlines stretched on and on and on and on. “Keep your temper in check,” he scolded.

“How can anyone keep a damned level head in this?” America balled his other hand into a fist, and pushed it against his forehead, supporting himself on the table. “It’s… They’re all dying. All my friends are dying, and I don’t know who it is! I mean, if I could see the guy—if I could see him, then I could get him, but everybody’s just been saying it’s a suicide, it’s a suicide, but it doesn’t make sense.”

“I know,” England chided, and America felt the swill of anger boil up again. He wasn’t a child, he didn’t need consolation, and he hated himself for not saying anything and wanting to hear England’s lies all over again.

“But let’s think this out thoroughly.” Seeing there were no injuries, England released his hand and sat back down on his chair, and picked up his tea again as if a part of his table wasn’t missing. America rubbed his own hand absently.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“That these were murders, yes.” England paused. “But let’s say that we were operating under the notion that these actually were suicides.”

“But they weren’t—“

“America.” England sounded exasperated, his thick eyebrows drawing together in consternation. “There would still be a question of why. Now, I’m not suggesting that we’ll ever find out, because there’s no use trying to pry out the words of the dead. You need to stop moping and start thinking, acting. If—if—you could find out what Lithuania ‘saw,’ then it might ease some of your suffering.”

“I’m not suffering.”

“We’re all suffering,” England scoffed. He picked up a digestive idly, staring at the surface before nibbling lightly on the corner. “We’re all acting positively like children. Nobody really wants to know the reason why because they’re too busy being afraid. But blaming them would be like blaming children.” And here his face softened.

“I’m not a child.”

They talked in circles. They always talked in circles, never talking directly about his revolution, but it annoyed him, because they always talked about it, treading the same route around the same bush. They’d never say it, no, because England’s face would look suddenly and abruptly wounded, and America would feel heavy, not guilty, but heavy, and he didn’t look backwards, he looked ahead. But that day, England chose a direct answer that America had always thought, but never heard. “You’ll always be a child in my eyes,” he said softly. “It can’t be helped.”

The beaten circle broke.

“What?”

“I know you’re annoyed,” England said, though his voice was obviously more annoyed than America’s shock, “But it’s not like I can help it. It’s not like… like I care about you now or anything, because we fought together and that’s something in itself. But I can’t help it, so don’t be so cruel and ask me to stop it.” His face flushed unhappily, and he stared down into his murky teacup, as if expecting his tea leaves to have the answer to his statement.

America started to nervously laugh, but stopped when he realized that England was being serious. “But I’m not a kid anymore,” he said, suddenly.

“I know it must be hard on you.” England set the teacup down again, a reflective look on his face. “You always did have such a wide circle of companions.”

“I don’t get what you’re saying, but it’s wrong.” America crossed his arms over his chest. “Look, I get it. It’s sad. But I can’t be sad. I won’t let myself be sad, because I have to keep on fighting and trying to find out what’s going on. Because it’s weird, right? It’s really weird. So I’ll go and try to find out what… what Lithuania saw that made… I’ll find the meaning behind the note.”

England let out a short laugh, but quieted down again as the clouds rumbled unhappily above him. He finally sighed, and relaxed against the wicket chair.

“All right,” he merely said. “You should be all right for a little while longer. I can grant you that much, then.” He gazed at his dying garden with the same nostalgia that America would imagine he would gaze upon the paintings of his dead royalty.

“… You’re doing all right, too, right?” America asked awkwardly. He didn’t want to know what he was implying, or what he was trying to ask, because it was stupid. Of course England was fine. England was always fine, always.

“I’m more used to this than you are.”

“To the—deaths?”

“… No.” England didn’t say anything more, and they spent the rest of their time silently respecting the deceased.

--

He found Poland in a field of golden wheat, even as the skies had turned shades of charcoal gray. The country had a woven basket under one arm, golden fluff sticking from the brim. Today, he wore a traditional, subtle costume, the wind blowing his loose shirt into billows so it appeared that he was a sail over the sea of fading gold.

“Poland!” America patted the flecks of yellow dust from his jacket as he approached. “There you are. You weren’t at your house.”

“Like, what do you want.” Poland sounded dull. His movements were slow and heavy, and his eyes strayed to everywhere but America.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Well, yeah.” Poland pushed back his hat. “Or else, like, you wouldn’t be here, right? Come on, I’m not stupid. I just can’t change a lightbulb anymore.”

America wasn’t very sure what lightbulbs had to do with the conversation, but he decided that it was better not to ask. “Listen, did Lithuania—say—anything to you, before he—“

“No.”

“You didn’t even hear the whole—“

“I know what you’re going to ask,” Poland snapped, yanking at a plant and shaking the tufts at America’s face. “You’re going to ask if I knew what Lithuania was thinking, or if there was something that I heard, or something like that. But I don’t, okay? I really don’t. If he had said anything weird, I would have known, but he didn’t. He looked exactly the same as he always did. And he would have told me.”

He dropped his hand listlessly. “I mean,” he said. “I hope he would.”

“Well, you might be overlooking something,” America persisted. “In his note, he said he ‘saw’ something. The day before, did you guys go anywhere?”

“Just our normal places. To my house and we talked and… and I don’t know, I told him to do my hair next time, and he said okay, so I was like, okay, and then he left, and I didn’t really think about it because I thought he’d come back tomorrow, but instead he went to your house.” There was a heavy silence after the last sentence, at the implication of the swaying body.

“Maybe he talked to Russia, or something,” America said awkwardly, trying to hide the silence.

“Even if Russia killed him, he wouldn’t disguise it as a suicide.”

“We can’t overlook that possibility, not with Russia.”

“Like, you only know Russia from one side, but I know Russia.” Poland pushed up his hat again with the tips of his gloved fingers, some yellow dust flaking to his nose. “I’m not saying he’d never do it, but you saw that look in his face that day. He was as hurt as you were. Just not as much as me, and he shouldn’t have pretended that he was.”

“Was there anything weird happening in the house that day?” America hesitated. “I mean, it was snowing really hard that day, so it would have been really hard for anyone else to come in or out, right?”

“No, not really.” Poland shrugged. “It’s not a lot of snow to, like, Liet. Or, like, Russia. I bet if it was one of our citizens, they wouldn’t even have that much trouble.”

“Was Russia acting strangely?”

Poland paused. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I mean, he was always weird, so I couldn’t really… you know… tell the difference. Not like with Liet. But, like, I guess… it was weird that he… No, never mind.”

“No, tell me,” America insisted, and he felt a glimmer of hope. This wasn’t an invisible menace, it was something he could see—

And if he saw it, he could beat it.

“It was weird that he didn’t follow Belarus,” Poland said slowly, gripping his basket. “I mean, it’s not weird that he didn’t follow her, but I thought it was weird that I thought it was weird. I mean… like, I don’t know. It’s nothing.” He gave another long pause as he stared into the sky.

“Haven’t seen the sun for a long time,” he said finally, and bowing his head, he walked away.

--

“Mon cher,” the voice said from his doorway, “Big brother is growing worried. What are you doing with that rope?” Though there was certainly a jovial tone to his voice, there was an edge of worry as America sat on his sofa, a rope with a noose in front of him.

“I’m thinking,” America said, “And I’m going to save everyone.”

“You should put that rope away. It is—unpleasant.” France sat uneasily on the other end of the couch, but America ignored him. He felt more hopeful than he felt in days, and he didn’t even question France’s presence as he reached for his notebook.

“So Lithuania left Poland’s house the day before, and he was probably going back to his own house. And I asked England and everything, and he said that my house wasn’t even on the way to his own house. So he must have saw something over there, not here. And the rope he used, it isn’t mine, so he must have brought it over. That’s where I need to be.” America tapped at the map. “Russia’s house.”

“So you are not planning on using the rope?”

“What?”

“The rope, you are not planning on using her—“

“What?” America was startled.

“Around your neck, she is not a good necklace, and take it from big brother France, I know fashion—“

“Wait, wait, wait!” America held up his hands and backed away into the end of his couch. “What the heck, France? Geez, that’s so weird! Of course I’m not going to—I’m going to save all you guys! I’m going to find the murderer! So calm down!”

France smoothed the front of his jacket and shrugged, a movement like a panther seamlessly settling back into his fur. “Forgive me, I think too many things. That tea bastard made it sound like you were at your wit’s end, ready to end it all, dramatic as you go.”

“England?”

Again, the shrug of a casual predator. It was no concern of him. “Said he had business to do, wanted me to keep you company. I feared the worst with your deadly mistress.” He eyed the rope with obvious discomfort, crossing his legs and leaning back gingerly into America’s faded green sofa. America didn’t touch the rope, not between a layer of a towel, but he penciled in something else in the notebook.