Prolonged || Axis Powers Hetalia Fanfiction
Chapter One.
Chaos. Suffering. Death. Agony.
These bitter concepts were all that filled the air of the land as one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse raged; war. Barbarically, unthinkingly, mercilessly these men fought, staining their hands, weapons, clothes, and everything around in hazy crimson, hoping in the very back of their minds that they would not fall to another of the Four Horsemen; death. Death, in all its bitter, cold, unforgiving glory, the reality at the end of everything, the thought of which many hoped, conceived alternative aftermath after aftermath with faith that was mindlessly followed and used to manipulate.
No one knew how it began, where it began, who angered who — no one noticed as they were all slowly dragged into this hell, the world falling as the carpet beneath it was pulled by an unknown force, by an all-too-careful hand that was impossible to see or distinguish.
Sitting down in the mud of the trench, the nation of Italy was once again pondering, for what else could he do? His weakness, his cowardice, made him something in need of protecting, which was why he found himself staring up at his ex-Axis Power allies. Not many had allied up, and it was indistinguishable who was fighting who in this bloodbath. Perhaps out of instinct, however, the fight was fought with trench warfare — of course, they had machine guns and grenades and helicopters, but at least no one was insolent enough to use something nuclear.
Of course, one nation had drawn close to such resorts in an attempt to maintain his neutrality, and protect his sister, but the younger of the two had convinced him not to, and thus all neutralities also fell victim to this whirling tornado of hate that had consumed the world. Like echoes, bombs exploded everywhere the eye could see, and the ear could reach, and guns of all kinds fired relentlessly, everyone desperate to live, to protect, to give themselves hope that there was a way out of this.
How naïve humans could be, but even some cursed with the life of a nation were the same. Take, for example, the Roman Empire; his arrogance, his greed, his blind hope, had caused a sudden downfall that anyone with a brain could have perhaps predicted, maybe even prevented somewhat.
That only further proved just how vulnerable they were; even after endless centuries of seeing and hearing death, agony, famine and suffering, most still had to turn their heads and look away, cover their ears and look at anything but the truth as it stared them in the face and made itself present, made itself real. They were so close to being human, yet so far; they felt agony, they felt love, they felt grief, they felt joy and triumph, they felt hope and defeat. But, unlike humans, they didn't give up; they couldn't give up. It wasn't an option. They had their people to worry about, their landmass, their friends and family, who now they couldn't be sure we're alive.
Having not heard from either South Italy or Prussia in a long time, the Axis assumed, with heavy hearts, that they were dead. Many others in the war had suffered this bitter conclusion; having not seen Sealand, Latvia, England, Sweden and Finland assumed the worst, and continued fighting with the knowing that their son, friend, loved one, was gone, sucked up and spat out by this blind, red, boiling emotion, this instinct, and the inevitable end.
Not even his oil rig was found.
As was for most things in war, there was no hope.
However, the Principality of Seborga had been found, with the remainder of the micronations except for Ladonia in tow, and now they were lost amongst faceless soldiers somewhere in the trench, the younger ones laying low while Molossia, Hutt River and Seborga worked together to use a big machine gun, arguing frantically and stupidly as they worked, Kugelmugel and Wy shaking in fear and cold against the muddy wall behind them.
A yell rang out, a soldier fell back into the trench, blood spreading on his uniform, and everyone retreated behind the mud, a wave of grenades and bullets raining down on them. It seemed they were, of all things, using slingshot mechanisms and catapults to launch grenades — however, it was effective. One of them even landed in the trench, everyone scurrying or jumping away from it as it went off, going up in smoke and scorching flame.
"Big brüder!" A feminine scream pierced the air, and a familiar girl came running (the ex-Axis had not even been aware that other nations were using this trench with them, or that they had found themselves fighting on their side against this army they couldn't identify). Her short blonde hair was swept back by the breeze, a purple ribbon sticking out at the side, and her uniform was green, and easily identifiable. Italy looked away as he realised what was going on, but most others watched. They watched as she ran, collapsing next to someone who'd been caught in the blast, watched as she clutched his uniform, observed his wound, watched as the tears began to spill, watched as he spoke quietly to her, followed by her looking directly up to the German, who caught her gaze and ran to her, unable to bring himself to glance at the man in her arms — he already knew, and he didn't need this to be any more real.
Rather hesitantly, Japan followed soon after, leaving the petrified, dead-eyed Italian who couldn't move, couldn't stand up, and couldn't bare to even think about what he knew was happening, what he figured had happened to his own brother, whom he hadn't even been there for.
"Vash! Hang in there! Stay with me!" Ludwig called harshly to the Swiss in his sister's arms, who looked on weakly up to the sky, seemingly resigned to his fate, seemingly reminiscing. No. It's not the end yet. "Kiku, call for the emergency medical unit!" The Japanese man nodded, instantly taking the phone from a soldier as the young stranger wondered bitterly why this one man was so important when all his friends weren't. More shouting, more chaos, and the wave was still not over. As soon as they realised it, most men jumped back to their feet, some still glancing back at the scene as little Lili hyperventilated, cried, held her brother, as Ludwig kept yelling, sternly commanding his fellow Germanic to stay awake and telling him it wasn't the end, as Kiku kept speaking, kept explaining and getting help... As Feliciano still couldn't move, was still paralysed, was still afraid to think, to remember.
He had always hated and feared war, but was it right to avoid it? He wasn't sure of anything anymore; the sounds of the chaos seemed muffled, the sky seemed blurry, unfocused, he could hear his pulsing, oddly calm heart in his ears. He could feel the heat around him, in the red of the sky and feel the mud on his back and below him, he could feel the stone cold gun in his hand, unused and completely loaded, clean to the point of shining. He couldn't kill; he hated death, he resented the way it took people from him, and from others, he despised the way it killed hope, took away smiles. Most of all, he hated it's inevitability. He hated how he was blessed and cursed with the fact that it may never happen to him, and because of that he had to suffer centuries of pain with no escape. He hated to think that if it did happen, his people would be lost in their masses, all because of him. He hated how he couldn't prevent it, or help it, and he hated how he couldn't get up and console Lili as she cried for her brother, who could easily have been blown to bits until his body couldn't regenerate.
Never in his many hundreds, even thousands, of years of Renaissance, resistance, freedom, love, growing and suffering, had Feliciano Vargas, Italy Veneziano, ever felt so lost in a sea of blood and billowing smoke and screams and hate, drowning but still awfully immune to its hold on his lungs that had once bubbled in endless hours of laughter and song and conversation that made memories to last even a lifetime as long as his. Nothing was to ever be the same; his grandfather had once told him that change was exciting, and his childhood lover had greatly encouraged it, but he himself had found that change just hurt. Lots of things hurt; bullet wounds, grieving, cold so extreme that you can't feel a thing, torture, lying, and so much more.
But this time, he wasn't so sure that he could put on a smile. His masks were crumbling like his resolve, breaking more and more with each sob that escaped Liechtenstein as she continued to cry out against the unfairness of life.
Switzerland smiles for her; he tells her it's alright. He moves his one arm that was not blown half off of his shoulder and places it on her cheek, comforting her as she cries. He keeps snapping back when he almost slips into sleep, because he knows he must protect her, and promised himself that he would. She tells him that Roderich would be sad if he died, and he smiles at that thought; even if the Austrian will never love him back, he will keep fighting, keep protecting him. Italy wished he had that resolve. He wished he was strong like Germany, brave and big like his grandpa, stubborn and strong-willed like his brother, and kind like Vash, and like Holy Roman Empire.
With word that medical help was on its way, Kiku began to talk to the Swiss as well, pulling some bandages out of his pack, as well as a rag and a bottle of water and some pain killers, attempting to give help before they arrived so that he could hold out. All the while, Feliciano sat, his amber eyes directed to the swirling red sky, his body numb and his gun falling from his stiff grasp.
The wave ended, but he didn't notice. No mind was paid as another soldier — German, he thought — approached him, sat beside him, offered him water and extra ammunition, and walked away empty-handed when the Italian said nothing.
This was only the beginning, but already Feliciano was unsure how much more he could take, how long this would last.