Authors Note: This is the companion backstory for Ivan and Alfred that accompanies my full fic: Its Just Business, a multi pairing mafia fic set in 1920. (Rus/Ame, - starting in ch 3ish, Ger/Ita – from beginning throughout, Pru/Can –beginning somewhere in the 4th or 5th chapter)
Note: I took quite a lot of liberties with history to get these two on the same battlefield, so ya know, oh well, haha!
This is the WW1 story of how the American pilot met the Russian Captain,, before they met again as the Agent and the Boshevik in 1920, After the Great war ended, during the Russian civil war, after the Russian Revolution. This first, chance encounter would have an impact on their lives that neither man could foresee.
To find Its Just Business, go to my profile, its ongoing (as of today -5/4/2011)
I don't own hetalia, etc
Rated M for depictions of war. (and because Its Just Business is rated M for violence, smut, language, and drug use and if you like this chances are you might go check out the continuation…I hope you do!)
Going Down and Looking Up
October 1917, The Eastern front.
"Shit. Shit. Shit!"
The pilot swore as his plane spiraled downward toward the battlefield below. His foot was wedged in the wrecked floor of the cockpit. Alfred Jones had evaded the enemy as usual with his ace skills, but the German's gunner had really fucked up his front end and he was now spiraling headfirst toward the ground unable to jump out and pull his parachute.
Of course what with the battle raging below between the allied forces and the Austro-Hungarians on the eastern front, the blonde was pretty sure he was screwed anyway.
As he nose-dived close enough to hear the whinnying of horses, the blasts of grenades, and the rat-a-tat of bullets, the flyboy tucked low into a crouching position and prayed for a miracle.
The battlefield on the ground echoed the turbulent skies as the dogfight raged on above, every once in a while, a bright explosion lit up against the grey afternoon sky as one more pilot met his maker, while on the ground, The Russian forces swelled forward against the Austrians.
Suddenly, hearing the whir of a plane coming down, the violet eyed captain turned in the saddle and pulled the reigns of his stallion to yell to his lieutenant. "Dmitri, oto'eeditye nazad!" He saw his friend already pulling the soldiers nearest him back out of the way. Ivan did the same just in time for the plane to crash to the ground; He covered his face as shards of splintered wood sprayed the area.
As the dust settled, the Russian was just able to make out the American flag on the side of the wrecked plane. Dermo. It had been one of their allies.
He was just about to signal for his command to rush back into the fray when he gasped in shock. The American pilot was getting up, and staggering out of the wreckage. The blonde man had one hand to his head, blood pouring down the right side of his face down his neck into the leather jacket. He swayed on his feet as Captain Braginski rode forward.
The pilot staggered, unable to see much through his cracked glasses. He brought one hand to his aching head as he stepped away from what used to be his plane.
Was that blood? Damn, it was blood. He swayed as he stepped forward. Alfred squinted toward the grouping of soldiers in front of him. Dear God, let me have landed on the allied side, the pilot though to himself. If so, it'd be the Russians and not the Austrians facing him.
He tried to find the pistol in his jacket as one of the unknown soldiers rode forward, the sound and resonance of the hooves sent shocks up through his legs to his stomach which was suddenly queasy.
As the man on horseback got closer and dismounted from his saddle, Alfred squinted and could just make out the double sided buttons on the man's long dark coat, a bright off white scarf and, oh thank god, was that a furry hat?
The words the man asked him didn't matter, even if he had been able to stay conscious, the pilot didn't speak Russian or German and therefore the blurry uniform was all he could count on. In any case, the captain wouldn't get an answer; Alfred was suddenly out, having fallen directly into Ivan's arms.
The Russian lifted the American flyboy into the saddle in front of him; He carefully held the unconscious man steady as he turned, searching for the nearest medics tent.
"Ivan!" The Captain turned toward his friend and lieutenant's voice to see the other man pointing to the white flag with the red cross fluttering in the distance. "Angleeski blizhye!" Dmitri yelled to him across the fray that the English were closest.
Hollering back for his lieutenant to take command while he took their wounded ally to the medics, Ivan was glad to see his friend nod and wave the men forward as they surged to join their fellows.
Ivan's sole mission now was to ride diagonally through the battle toward the British tent. He had instantly been impressed with the pilot who could walk out of that wreck, and Ivan made an oath to do all he could to see to it that the American was able to get back into the skies.
Ivan rode through the battle to the British tent, holding the pilot steady. The Russian slid from his saddle as he arrived. Ivan carefully lifted the American into his arms and carried him into the tent.
"This man needs attention!" He yelled out in English as he parted the tent flaps, walking sideways to be as careful as possible with the man in his arms.
A shorter blonde rushed to them first and clearing a nearby cot the British doctor spoke up as he motioned for Ivan to lay the American down. "Right, lay him down here – what happened to the poor bloke? He looks a bloody mess!"
Laying the wounded American down, Ivan turned to the doctor. "He walked out of a plane wreck. He went down in nose dive right in front of me. He will be lucky to live, da?" The captain's violet eyes looked intensely into the Brit's emerald ones.
"Bloody hell, he walked out of a nosedive?" The doctor removed the pilot's cracked glasses and was washing the blood from Alfred's head; he lifted his torso for a nurse to remove the jacket and unbutton the blood soaked shirt beneath. He tsked. "That's a wound."
Ivan's heart raced, he just had to make sure the pilot got back into the skies. He'd never seen anyone step away from that kind of wreckage. The Russian watched the American as his chest rose and fell in an odd rhythm. "You can save him, da?" He asked leaning over to the shorter man who was now filling a syringe with a clear liquid.
"Well, I certainly hope so, or what good were all those years in medical school?"
Ivan stood frozen watching the doctor work, as the pilot lay unresponsive on the cot. Finally the Brit looked back up to the Russian. "Don't you have Austrians to fight?"
"Da…" Ivan agreed slowly. Meeting the doctor's eyes again, he said, "Tell me as soon as he wakes up, My name is Ivan Braginski. I am a captain, so you should have no trouble finding me."
"Dr. Arthur Kirkland," The doctor said nodding. "I'll let you know. You two, close mates then?" the shorter blonde asked as he took Alfred's pulse with one gloved hand and was handed a roll of gauze in the other.
"Nyet, I met him just today." The Russian missed the Brit's raised eyebrows as he left the tent and rode back into the battle.
Alfred had been unconscious for three days. He woke groggily from the stupor and blinked in his surroundings. He was in a medical tent. He strained his eyes as he looked around. A British medical tent. Weird…I could have sworn I saw Russians…
The pilot struggled to sit upright. His whole body felt fatigued and bruised all over. As the American moved to a more upright position, his head swam as dizziness overcame him, his stomach turned and he heaved stomach acid painfully over the side of the cot. He had had nothing to eat for three days, so nothing more came out and Alfred wiped a hand across his mouth just as the doctor came back into the room.
"Lay back down, you've survived a wreck like no else, and right now you need to rest."
Arthur made to push his patient back down to the cot, but Alfred disagreed. "No way, I gotta find my friends, I gotta get back up there!"
The doctor scoffed as the Pilot swayed on his feet and fell back to the cot. "You're not going anywhere you daft wanker!"
Just as Alfred stood again and staggered toward his jacket, one hand on his bandaged head, hoof beats were heard coming to a stop outside and a pair of booted feet landed just outside the open tent flaps.
Arthur was readying a syringe to sedate his determined patient just as Ivan stuck his head in asking, "Is he still not awa-" Violet eyes landed on the swaying pilot beside the cot. "Ah." The Russian entered the tent, stooping under the low ceiling, as he was just a touch taller than the American. "You are awake. Feeling better, da?"
"Yeah, I feel great!" The American made to put his jacket on and fell back to the cot, "Oh damnit, who pushed me?" He glared pointedly at the doctor, holding the syringe at the ready.
Arthur rolled his eyes.
Ivan pulled up a stool next to the pilot, and lifted the American's legs onto the cot. "I do not think you are ready to leave yet, Americanski."
Alfred looked away from the doctor now and reached for his glasses on the table; he blinked as he put them on, the crack was still there but they'd been cleaned and were better than nothing. "Wait…" He began to recognize the Russian, "Fuzzy hat, scarf, dark coat…" He recited the things he's noticed about Ivan three days ago while pointing to them in the moment.
Ivan laughed lightly. "Da. Fuzzy hat." He smiled a small smile at the American flyboy. "You remember your crash, da?"
"Um…sort of..." Alfred scrunched his brow as he recalled broken bits of images, scents, and sounds.
"I was impressed by your ability to walk out of such a wreck, I think you are not accustomed to things keeping you down, da?"
Alfred was still sorting through his memories. "You brought me here, right?" He grinned and Ivan felt his heart jump.
"Da." He spoke softly, enraptured by the American's radiant smile.
The pilot laughed. "That's Russian for 'Yes', right?" He held out a hand and introduced himself, "Well, thanks! I'm Alfred F. Jones."
The pilot felt lightheaded as the Russian captain took his hand and shook it back, "Ivan Braginski."
A sudden thought seemed to have occurred to the American. "Hey, Ivan – how long have I been out?"
The answer came from the Englishmen still beside the bed to the other side. He grumpily huffed, "Three days. You almost died you know." Arthur waved the syringe at him.
"Oh, right, thank you too, I mean, you're the doctor, right? Thanks a bunch!" The American then turned back to the Russian, "So, we won, right? We sent 'em running back home, right?"
Violet eyes looked steadily into blue. "We won the battle da, but we are currently at a stale mate. They are camped just beyond the battlefield."
Alfred sat up again, too fast. "I've got to get back out there! I've got to get a new plane!" He jumped up and took a step to the door. "I've got to, to, huh…" The blonde brought a hand to his head and through the hair that he could touch apart from the bandage. "I've got to…" But he'd stood up too fast and too soon, and for the second time since they'd met, he had fallen backward into Ivan's arms.
"Really! The daft 'apeth!" The doctor took the American's legs as the Russian lay him down on the cot.
"I-Ivan?" The pilot looked up with cloudy eyes. "You'll come get me if we start fighting again, right?"
Ivan couldn't believe the American's determination; he smiled down at the other man. Alfred had a serious head wound, was lying on the cot, shirtless, bruises evident all over his body, or at least the part that was visible. The Russian blushed and cleared his throat.
"Da." He agreed while the British doctor selected a second syringe, putting down the other. Arthur took Alfred's left arm and injected the sedating pain killer.
Blue eyes blinked heavily. "You…better…" He slurred sleepily, poking the Russian in the chest with a finger weakly and smiling as his eyes closed.
Alfred's last image was of the pale off white scarf and violet eyes as Ivan took his outstretched hand and folded it against the American's chest as he stood and leaned over him.
"I will be back later." The Russian soldier spoke to the British doctor, but kept his eyes on the American. He watched the other man breathe, marveled at how peaceful he looked as he slept; how the cowlick in his golden hair stuck out and moved slightly as Alfred breathed.
Ivan knew what he was feeling. Knew he was more than impressed by the American pilot. This was why he should not be back. He turned away from the man below him on the cot and walked from the tent without another look.
But he was back. It seemed Ivan couldn't stop himself. As the opposing armies continued their stand off, neither making a move, the Russian found himself wandering by the British medical tent more and more.
Most times he stopped by, the American was asleep, other times he was in a state of near dream like consciousness. Each time it was as though he was meeting Ivan for the first time. After the fourth time this happened in a row Ivan stood with his arms crossed glaring at the British doctor.
"You give him too much of that. I do not think he is in as much pain as you say."
"What do you know, Russian?" The Brit mirrored the taller man's stance.
"I think you give him extra when I come by." Ivan stepped closer to Arthur who was still holding the empty syringe.
"Preposterous!" Arthur tossed the syringe away behind him and glared back at the taller man. They faced eachother across the cot the American was currently asleep on, his arms and legs hanging off the edges.
"I do not think so." Ivan's eyes were slits as he leaned over Alfred, the Russian's ever present scarf brushing the pilot's face.
"Well, why do you come by so often? I thought you said you two weren't chummy or anything." Arthur stood back, his arms still crossed, his face haughty and challenging with the words he hadn't spoken hanging in the air.
Ivan countered evenly, his small smile never wavering, though his eyes glowed with suspicion. "Why do you not want me too?"
Arthur spluttered and threw his hands up in the air. "Barmy Russian! I have other patients!" Ivan's smile widened as Arthur left. He sat down on the stool beside the cot and looked down at the sleeping American. If the Brit was going to be a problem, he'd simply have to wait for Alfred to wake up. Since there were no active battles at the moment that he was required to be a part of, Ivan had all the time he needed.
The Russian propped his long legs up on the side of the cot after placing the American's sprawling limbs back in place. He waited.
Many times Alfred moved in his sleep, muttering half formed words and sounds. Once he thrashed around, throwing an arm into Ivan's lap. His blue eyes flashed open. The Pilot sat up, and looking straight ahead he mumbled, "Russian?"
Ivan sat up, "Da?" Surely Alfred could only be referring to him.
But the pilot simply smiled lightly and fell back against his pillow. "Mmm." Ivan watched the blonde curl on his side and slip back into a deep sleep.
Ivan stayed there until the sun began to rise. Yawning he realized maybe he should be getting back to the Russian camp. It was more than suspect that he was spending so much time with the American Flyboy and he could only pass his interest off as simple concern so long.
The Russian stood and bent close to the American. "I will return tomorrow, Alfred Jones. I will wait for you to wake up."
But Ivan didn't come back tomorrow. The next day his superior officer came to him with news from home. Ivan spent the next few days in the Russian camp discussing the second revolution occurring that very moment across Russia as the provisional government fell to the Bolshevik revolt led by Vladimir Lenin.
Ivan's heart was with the Bolshevik soviets. He had been raised an aristocrat, he had even inherited his parent's estate and title when they died. However, he had immediately freed his serfs, paying them each as much as he could to start their lives. His sisters now lived in the estate his parents had left them with a handful of servants.
Ivan worried about his sisters. What would they do?
While he worried for his sisters, he rejoiced that the people were standing up against oppression, the Duma led provisional government following the tsar's abdication had not been enough. Now the new government could right the wrongs in the motherland.
In the days that he did not go back to the medical tent to visit Alfred, Ivan saw friends become enemies as they insisted on joining the counter revolution bent on reinstating the monarchy. Whole hosts of soldiers left what had been the tsar's imperial army at the start of the war for home. The army Ivan was now a part of had been deteriorating since February and now that it was October he saw it disintegrating into pockets of mutiny and chaos.
He watched as his military became ineffectual and disorganized.
While Ivan dealt with the troubles at home, Alfred slowly woke from his stupor. He had a splitting headache and strange half recalled dreams of the Russian who had brought him to the medic's tent. What was reality and what ad been dreams? The pilot didn't know, but he hoped he'd see the Russian again so he could ask him.
Ivan wanted to go back to check on the American, but each time he got near the British medical tent someone would call him away, there was so much to do. Would they be staying in the war or would they be returning back to Russia?
This was all unknown to Alfred as the pilot recovered.
The American passed his time playing cards and becoming fast friends with the British doctor, who had stopped giving Alfred medicine all together, saying he only needed rest now.
Alfred laid a card down on top of Arthur's. "HA! Ace! Take that!" He laughed loudly and pulled all the cards toward his side of the floor.
"Bleeding Yank." The doctor complained half heartedly.
Suddenly a voice called from outside the tent and several shadows fell over the cards and the two blonde men seated cross legged on the floor of the tent.
The pilot and the doctor looked up.
"Hey guys!" The American lit up and beamed seeing four of his fellow pilots at the tent's entrance.
The other Americans crowded into the tent, ignoring the protests from the Brit, who had jumped up in just enough time to get out of the way of the four men who were lifting their friend high, slapping him on the back and ruffling the gold locks that stuck out from the bandage around Alfred's temples, across his forehead.
Arthur grumbled, "He has a head wound you know," As the Americans cheered on their buddy for his death defying crash landing.
A few yards from the tent, the Russian sat in the saddle. He could hear the Americans inside rejoicing and was suddenly hesitant to interrupt.
Ivan sat unsure what to do, clearly the pilot was awake now, but he was surrounded by friends and Ivan was unsure he would even remember him…would it be like each time before, as though they had not met and the crash had jut occurred?
While the Russian Captain sat immobile in the saddle, the late October wind blowing his scarf back across his chest and over his shoulder, the tent flaps opened and the crowd of jubilant Americans spilled out, Alfred Jones, in the midst of his friends.
Violet eyes met those of sky blue as the American noticed the Russian and stopped. His friends were all chatting and lifting their packs over their shoulders and arguing over who would get to take their ace friend to the next base. Alfred still didn't know if he'd even spoken one word to the Russian…Ivan? He could have sworn he had heard the name for sure, or if it had all been a dream.
The pilot started toward the captain when suddenly a friend stopped him and grinning told Alfred he'd be flying back with him. As his friend took his bag from Alfred's shoulder and made toward his plane the wounded pilot stood still meeting the Russian's eyes.
Alfred smiled widely, aware that his heart had sped in his chest and his face was suddenly hot. He raised a hand to wave to the other man in thanks. He tried to put all his gratitude into the wave and his smile.
The Russian returned his small smile and raised a hand to wave to the American in response. Alfred's heart quickened further and felt as though it had taken up residence in his throat. What's the matter with me? Alfred asked himself, lowering his hand. Part of his mind tried to answer his question but was silenced by the whir of the plane's engine behind him.
The blonde was definitely sorry to turn away from the Russian still gazing at him from the saddle, though he didn't spare any thoughts to why he felt that way. Alfred simply knew it felt as though he had heartburn as he turned toward the waiting airplane and his friend and that he wished he had more time to get to know Ivan better; to find out the moments in his dreams had been real…
Was there something more in the American's eyes? Nyet. Surely not. Surely the American was only trying to convey his gratitude. But, it had seemed as though there was something there; as though the American felt what the Russian recognized in his heart.
Ivan waved back, his slight smile in place. The Russian watched the American turn, run toward his friend's plane and hop into the cockpit behind the other pilot.
The captain shielded his eyes from the clear autumn light as he looked up at the four planes now lifting over the battlefield, turning in the air and heading west.
As Alfred's plane disappeared with the others on the horizon, Ivan sighed lost in his thoughts, but the Russian would soon find his time for quiet moments of reflection drastically cut.
The sound of approaching hooves broke through his daydream and the violet eyed man turned in the saddle to see his friend riding toward him.
When the other man spoke and told Ivan what he had feared, all thoughts of Alfred and what might have been had they been able to speak flew from his mind to be replaced with worry for his sisters and the need to get home as fast as possible.
Riots. More peasants rising against the land owning elite. Natalya…Katyusha…
Ivan had acquiesced to his youngest sister and not given their family estate to the provisional government at the time. This now made his sisters a target for the very movement he believed in.
With no command left over him or the other troops there was no reason to stay. The thought pulled at his heart, he would be leaving the battlefield undefended. Austrians he had fought so hard against would overrun the eastern front.
If his choice was to leave the battlefield or his sisters undefended, he would always choice his sisters.
Ivan joined his friend and raced back to the Russian camp and then home.
November 1917, the Western front.
As the American pilot was once again in the skies, this time over France, he found his mind wandering back to the Russian he had met in October.
Alfred had been told that he shouldn't be flying again so soon, but he had flatly refused the offered desk job. No, as long as he was able, he'd fly. This was a simple reconnaissance mission. The pilot flew low threw the fog in the cool November weather. He scouted out the trenches below and circled back through the sky to his home base.
Alfred had heard what was happening in Russia and he couldn't help but wonder what said the violet eyed man he so remembered had been on, was on…
What had he decided to do, when so many left the war to tend to things at home? If he had gone home, what were the conditions, and why did Alfred's mind keep returning to these questions for which he would get no answers?
He didn't want to admit to himself how the tall Russian had made him feel. So he didn't.
November 1917, St. Petersburg, Russia. (at the time: Petrograd)
While the American wondered about him in the skies so far to the west, Ivan stood in the empty parlor of his family's estate.
His sisters had already left. He was at once relieved that they lived when so many had died, and at the same time he had been away so long that coming home to an empty building, just a building with no one inside had had more of an impact that Ivan had expected.
Ivan held the letter his older sister had left him in his hand as he stood in the empty space. He didn't mourn the loss of the material possessions, family heirlooms or not, in fact that they had been taken by those in more need of them than he was exactly what he wanted.
But he had lost his sisters.
Natalya, he knew she had disagreed with the revolution in February, but he had hoped she would have come to understand his views….
Katyusha, always so restrained, always kind and gentle, careful not to voice her opinions when they would bother him, eneigmatic. Ivan had hoped she would stay…
But his older sister had taken what she could and had gone to America. Her letter said she hoped to build a life there for herself, that she hoped he would be able to come and visit, but that she understood he was committed to the soviet cause. Katyusha's letter also spoke of his younger sister. Natalya had taken all the heirlooms she could get into a carriage. She had driven for Belarus where she was staying with extended family still loyal to the monarchy.
He was alone. Completely and utterly alone.
The broad Russian folded the letter from his sister and tucked it into his coat pocket. Ivan walked to the shadowed hearth in the corner of the room. After dusting the remnants of ash from the stone he sat and folded his head in his arms.
Holding back the tears that wanted to come, the soldier took command over his heart and cooled it. He would go on with his plan; he would give his childhood home and all it's lands to the state. This would show his loyalty and rid himself of the weight that was his old home; the site of births, and happy childhood moments, but also of deaths, responsibility, serfdom, and now long halls of empty rooms. A large empty home that brought nothing but sadness to his heart.
Still sitting at the hearth, his elbows resting on his knees, Ivan ran his hands through silvery hair and then dropped them to toy with the ends of his scarf. His mind flew back west to the battlefield. To a radiant smile, eyes as blue as the summer sky; to the seemingly indomitable pilot.
Ivan wondered where Alfred Jones was now and if there was a chance he was thinking of him.
Over the next year as the Great War raged on, the American pilot would think often of the Russian soldier. As he fought in the skies above France and the northern edge of Italy, as he returned to French skies to be shot down for the second time. This time he was able to eject, but sustained heavy injuries none the less, as his good fortune to land on the allied side did not repeat itself.
The dauntless blonde fought well and managed to make it through enemy lines and onto the allied side with only two bullet wounds. Alfred tore his parachute to make tourniquets for his wounds and staggered into the tent with the red cross emblazoned on the side.
His old head wound plagued him and throbbed from the rapid change in air pressure he had sustained, but the American maintained that it was no big deal, nothing he couldn't handle! Alfred grinned as he recognized his British friend from the eastern front.
"Alright there? Managed to undo all my hard work then have you?" The doctor asked sarcastically as he pushed the pilot onto the cot and slid the syringe of numbing pain killer in to the American's arm.
As Alfred slipped into unconsciousness and Arthur dug in after the bullets, the American slipped in and out of strange dreams, half remembered memories of the last time he lay on a cot beneath the British doctor's ministrations.
"I-Ivan, you, you had better…" Alfred mumbled, "better come get me if we start…fighting again."
Arthur rolled his eyes and scowled as he pulled the first bullet from the pilot's shoulder to drop in the tin with a ding
After the War…
This time the American would be told he couldn't fly again. He was instead given an honorable discharge from the air force and offered a position in the newly formed bureau of investigation, He was needed to fight a different battle now; this one against organized crime which had only grown in power with the advent of prohibition. Alfred delved into his responsibilities with zeal. But everyone once in a while, in the morning, when things were slow and he sat at his desk with a coffee, the American agent found himself drifting back to his dreamlike memories of that autumn in 1917.
The Russian would invest himself fully into the soviet cause as part of the Red Army as he fought against old friends in the civil war ravaging his beloved Russia. Ivan lost himself in work for the burgeoning Soviet Union, he didn't think he would see the American again anywhere but in his dreams.
What turns befell the British doctor would prompt him to travel as he built a reputation quite different than he ever thought he would in his medical school days, Arthur would prove to be adept at looking after himself best, as he lost friends, gained enemies, and entered into a life far removed from London.
When the three men would meet again, it would be under much different circumstances on a cold, windy, Chicago night…
The end of the beginning! Their story continues in 'Its Just Business' my full length ongoing mafia fic set in 1920 Chicago. As of today (5/4/2011) its up to 80,000 odd words and growing. Find it in my stories.
Dmitri, oto'eeditye nazad!= Dmitri, pull back
Dermo = Shit
Angleeski blizhye! = The English are closest
Da/Nyet = Russian for yes and No
daft 'apeth = supposedly an old slang term for a half wit
Pazhaloosta, review! (please , please, please) You can also find the Ger/Ita backstory to Its Just Business called 'The Mafia and the Militär' which is on my profile under my stories.
I hope this has been an enjoyable read and that you might be intrigued as to what happens to Ivan and Alfred when they finally meet again in 1920...
See a beautiful video my sis (username: AbbyGreenEyes) created inspired by a line Ivan says to Alfred in ch 10 of Its Just Business:
http: / www . youtube . com / watch ?v= iqN8pt4galg
(and don't stress over the ending, its her artistic take with the song, and is not a spoiler in anyway for the story!)