Ludwig stood before the burning ashes of Rome. "ITALY!" he yelled as loudly as he could. No answer returned. The radicals had torn through the entire country in less than a week. Feliciano had told him that he could handle the matters of his own country himself. He couldn't have been more wrong. "ITALY! ANSWER ME!" tears began to streak down the great country's face. "YOU DUNKOFF!"
"What's a dunkoff?" a small voice asked. Ludwig turned around to see a child, about thirteen years old, standing, covered in soot, in the holy clothes of a newborn nation. "Who are you?" Ludwig asked, looking over the child again. "My people call me Fiabesco, but he called me Uccello di Fuoco."
"You're a country?" Ludwig asked. Fiabesco nodded, "That's what he told me."
"Who's 'He'?" The child looked up with round amber eyes, eyes that Ludwig had only seen a handful of times but knew anywhere. "The man whose heart was burned to the ground."
