If I Die Young || Axis Powers Hetalia Fanfiction
Silence engulfed the room, save for the music wafting in the heavy, morbid air, it's heartbreaking lyrics sinking deeply into everyone there, sitting in pews and listening silently.
If I die young, bury me in satin...
All four fallen soldiers were decked in the official clothing of their respective nation or empire, the material fine and beautiful under the warm light of the sun that sifted through the chapel's grand Windows, the only light in the large hall except for candles dotted around elegantly, respectfully.
Three particular people sat in the pews at the very front, each of their heads hung low, and one of them was even sobbing silently, the losses he had suffered weighing down upon him like a heavy steel.
Lay me down on a bed of roses...
Fourvarieties of flower were littered gracefully around the corpses where they lay peacefully, unaware. The solemn atmosphere surrounded them like a dark cloak or cloud, but did not touch their peaceful faces, eyelashes tickling their pale cheeks, soft and serene as if only in sleep.
How wrong — and definitely bittersweet — that was.
Sink me in the river at dawn...
The heavy silence did not falter, and those who were close to — or were — breaking down, did it silently, respectfully, the situation and it's suffocating reality crushing many of those in the room; to know someone for an extremely long time, and to even fall hopelessly in love in them, and then never be able to see them, or their smile, again, it's bitterly unfair, and it makes living so long as a landmass stands ever harder.
Send me away with the words of a love song...
Already breaking down, the sobbing boy in the front of the room let out a strangled cry as the lyrics tore into him and his resolve like a knife, becoming overwhelmed by the words of the song as it dragged on mercilessly. They were so young, so full of hope and smiles, neither deserved any of this — no one deserved any of this, but this was their existence. This was their reality. They were all born specially for this life, for this pain.
Lord make me a rainbow, I'll shine down on my mother...
In perfect synchronisation, the four regal flags in all their glory were raised to full mast; colours and eagles of strength and pride that no longer existed, of happiness and goals stained in blood on the event of their downfall. Seeing those flags made those now taking hold of what was left behind unsure if they could really do it justice, make the fallen proud. After all, it was true that they went to a better place; one of the three in the front pew, his before-combed back blond hair fallen in front of his blue eyes, had seen more than enough evidence of that. But, however selfish it may be, it still hurt. After all, they were still somewhat human — they still had hearts and hopes and dreams and... Love.
She'll know I'm safe with you when she stands under my colours and oh...
How ironic. This world was never safe for them; they suffered and endured wars, and famine, and had people and the environment to worry about. There was so much on their shoulders, and even in the afterlife, because they had to watch over, and, even worse, there was nothing they could do to help in times of need, not even guide them.
Life ain't always what you think it aught to be, no...
How painfully true that was. None of the wanted war, dispute, famine, or death of their families and siblings and lovers, or the ones like them; the only ones who understood. As naïve little children, they saw a future filled with peace, and love, and happiness, but everything was slapped in their faces as time passed them by.
Ain't even great, but she buries her baby...
That was why they were here; why this chapel in Rome was filled with everyone like them — everyone with their strange abilities, their curse of long life, their level of responsibility — and why such sad, but true music played from the speakers at the front. Finally, the fallen soldiers' bodies had completely faded away, one of which had not even been discovered until recently. That only made it more painful. From somewhere in the crowd, a blue cornflower was tossed onto one of the fallen; the elegant way it was thrown and the composed lack of a sob to accompany it made it unmistakable who had thrown the flower, and the atmosphere grew ever heavier.
The sharp knife of a short life...
It seemed so. Human lives were short, yes, but to them a century passed easily in a second, or slowly and painfully, and for the sobbing man in the front, his childhood had passed him by far too quickly to be fair — how were those distant memories meant to last a lifetime? It would be more painful than the Revolutionary War had been for both blond nations somewhere further back in the room, or the attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki had been for the small, black-haired man sitting in the second pew as emotional support for two of those in the front, or the Battle of the Somme had been for everyone, because somehow, psychological pain always hurt more.
Well, I've had just enough time...
"Holy Rome..." There had never been enough time; the Italian wanted to scream that so badly to his fallen childhood lover where he lay, and to his grandfather in the coffin next to him, with his own lover, Germania, on his other side, and on the other end of the row of decorated coffins was Prussia, his face painfully absent of his usual arrogant, "I'm awesome," grin. What was worse was that the body of the Holy Roman Empire was still that of a small child, making it all the more painful to gaze upon his little body in the long box in which his body would lay forever.
Everything hurt; emotions, truth, reality, the physical pain of having gained more land mass, the physical pain of the wars over the land, the scars racked up over the years. Nothing was ever going to be the same, even if nations had died before — almost every nation in Europe was related to either Roman Empire or Germania, and deep down everyone had liked Prussia, at least a little bit. As for Holy Rome, everyone worried deeply for Italy Veneziano, who continued to sob in his seat, Germany's arm slowly slinking around his shoulders and rubbing them comfortingly, hopelessly trying to console the boy for both of his losses. He doubted that the boy would ever smile so light-heartedly and carelessly ever again, and deep down inside him that hurt so desperately bad.
In truth, the boy's smiles always lit up his mood, and even Japan's; even through war, and struggle, and having to watch him leave became less painful so long as he got to see or remember that smile. Come Hell or high water, it seemed the little Italian would always be optimistic... But now, that couldn't be guaranteed; who knew how he was really taking all of this, deep down inside. Who knew if his smiles had ever been real, or just a mask to keep everyone thinking he was okay. And, although he hated to say it, the German worried for Romano, too; he never received as much attention from his grandfather, and Germany worried if perhaps that was causing him to have regrets.
He, himself had regrets; for not giving Prussia enough land to maintain himself, for considering his own power over family. But now, what did it matter? What was done, was done, and they were nations; death had crossed their gazes too many times, agonised screaming and moaning had graced their ears on infinite occasions. Suffering was shown to them in every shape and form, but even so, life went on.
If I die young, bury me in satin,
Lay me down on a bed of roses,
Sink me in the river at dawn,
Send me away with the words of a love song...
A lone tear slipped down Germany's cheek.