Author's Notes: Angsty little one-shot about a Prussian defeat. Poor Prussia. :( The title means "In the Moonlight" in German.
As it's my first story published on FF, please let me know if anything looks funny or needs work. Reviews are much appreciated and each will be responded to. Pinky swear.
Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Himaruya. I do not own Prussia, sadly.
Im Mondchein
x
He's cold and shivering and bathed in moonlight, pale skin glowing ethereally, chapped lips parted as ragged clouds of breath curl upwards towards the dark sky. He's numb except for the sting of the cut on his cheek and warmth of the blood that trickles from it, a subtle reminder that he hasn't frozen to death, not yet. Feeling drained, he stops his march through the powdery snow to lean against a tree, a hacking cough wracking his body. He takes a deep breath to recover, the cold air searing his throat and making his eyes water in protest. Squinting through a thicket of trees into the distance he sees it, his destination, the purpose of this long journey.
The field is wide and silent and covered in snow, everything bleached in the light of the moon except for the dark red blood staining the ground. He shivers again when he realizes how perfectly he reflects this night, with his white hair and skin and crimson eyes. Like bloodstained snow, crow his kings, his leaders, his fellow nations, over and over, year after year. He resents it, resents them for making him remember the countless number of times he's seen this before.
The wind picks up and he spots it, flapping halfheartedly in the breeze, its ends frayed and tattered. He stumbles toward it, the sole object of his focus, tripping over the guns and bodies of the fallen men, his men, until he reaches it. He stares at it, the proud eagle swaying in its familiar dance, a dance he's seen a million times in a million places but never here, never like this, and feels his throat clench in anger and humiliation and worst of all, defeat.
Then he feels it. It starts a dull ache at the center of his chest but spreads outwards through his veins like fire, a burning, unbearable despair, and he remembers, oh, this is what heartbreak feels like. And suddenly his hands are covered in blood, red and sticky and hot, and he feels the blood of his people, his blood, staining through his uniform. With a strangled sob he falls to his knees, clutching at his chest as he finally allows the tears to flow, his heart bleeding the pain of centuries full of war and struggle and bloodshed.
Above, the Prussian flag waves on.