A/N: Umm...ummm...ummmm...
Blood?
I really don't know.
Nations are notorious for not agreeing with each other.
They spend whole meetings fighting, weeks arguing, and, hell, they've all killed so many it makes no difference any more.
There is one thing that nations can agree on.
In quiet rooms and dark alleys where there is no one to hear but God and the wind.
War is a terrible, horrible, wonderful thing.
The blood that nations have spilled stains them.
It covers them, drowns them, til all they see is red.
Hundreds die for petty disputes and mild anger, their souls pass and their bodies decay, but the blood remains.
Aching, burning, stinging, drowning, blood.
Romano smells it on Spain's clothes when doing the wash, that acrid tang that still remains.
Canada sees it in France's smile, that terrible guilt that never leaves, the broken pain inside.
Hungry hears it in Prussia's laugh, that brave facade to hide the pain, hide the hurt.
Demons don't bleed, but neither do Gods.
It's in Germany's hands, the way they shake when no one's looking.
In America's eyes, when he claims to be the hero he wishes he could be.
In England's curses, evidence of his days as a pirate, when debts were payed in blood and gold and killing was a sport.
They all agree, even the young nations.
Liechtenstein and Sealand too have been touched by blood, by greed.
Red, red everywhere.
Gold, gold never gone.
Spain cries at night when he thinks Romano isn't listening, the crucifix on his chest burning as evidence of what he's done.
England stares into space for hours at a time and comes back screaming, thinking of the people who were felled by his hand.
In Denmark's smile and in Norway's frown.
In Turkey's mask, the one that covers evidence of his damnation, and Greece's eyes.
In Poland's walk and Lithuania's tremble.
The blood that stains, that never goes away.
Demons don't bleed, but neither do Gods.
So what can they do, to even the odds?
Nations are notorious for not agreeing with each other.
But there is one thing that they can agree on.
Blood stains, memories stay, scars remain, souls are torn.
But they never can it wash off, never remove it.
The smell, the pain, the color
The blood that never goes away.