A/N: Alright, so... I've decided to try something else besides humor. I was playing this game a few weeks ago called "theresia: Dear Emile", and it was... Well... It sort of gave me nightmares. I couldn't help but think that it would be good to base this off of... So, yeah. This is a fic based on the game Theresia, just because. I may do the rest of the chapters differently, or I may alternate between different character's points of view, but I don't know yet. Since this might get a bit gruesome the further into it it gets, I'll try to put warnings at the beginning of each chapter. Also, the events of this fic may not exactly follow the story line of Theresia exactly... But it should be quite close. Unless I get soft and decide to change a few things. And this is only the prologue, I'll try to make the next chapter longer. Also, feel free to correct me on any spelling or grammatical errors, I don't mind at all. ANYWAYS. I'll end this here, before it gets too long. :D

WARNINGS: Some violence, mentions of torture, blood, mentions of war... I think that's it for this one.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, and I don't own Theresia. They're not mine... And stuff.


Prologue: I can still remember that day

"Stop crying, child."

Skin pale as alabaster...

"Child... You are now..."

Those blood red eyes...

"Child... My brother."

Hair as white as clean, new snow...

I was born into a country ravaged by a fierce and ongoing war. The fighting was violent and bloody, and not even civilians were shown mercy. To this day I do not know the cause or details of the conflict between those two countries, as I had never even thought to ask. Not even as a small child, when I began to ask question after question (as most young children do), did I ask the reason for the terrible and destructive war. However, I do know that many lives were lost, many homes destroyed, and many families were torn apart before all was said and done. After all, my family was one of those that were fatally affected...

A battle between the two opposing forces broke out in the city in which I lived when I was barely a year old, before I had even learned things as simple as talking and walking... Tiny, defenseless, weak, helpless... And left alone to die in the pile of rubble that was once my home, along with the corpses of my ill fated parents. I don't remember anything before that time, there, in the ruins of that house. My first memory was of the smell of blood and smoke, the sounds of explosions and agonized screams... And the thick darkness that surrounded me like a blanket of ink.

And then... And then someone grabbed hold of my leg, and pulled. Suddenly, there was light. It was everywhere, everything was so bright! It was absolutely blinding, and completely shocking. Slowly, very slowly, my eyes adjusted to this new sensation... And I saw color. My field of vision was filled with blotches of bright white and piercing red. As my eyes adjusted more, I realized that the shapeless colors did have a shape after all... The shape of a young man. His skin and hair were almost the same pale white, and his eyes matched the color of the dark blood that covered most of his skin and clothes. I remember it all in clear, sharp detail... The smell of blood... The sound of people screaming... And that face... The face of my brother.

He simply stood there, holding me by the leg, staring at me with an almost completely blank expression, as if examining the worth of his new find, rather than contemplating the fate of a helpless child. After a short while of this he apparently reached his decision, turned me upright, cradled me to his chest, and began to walk. Not once did his face betray emotion besides the faintest hint of curiosity. Remembering that day, all these years later, I realize... My life was saved by the whim of a man who could barely pass as human. He may have been cold... But he saved me. Just a baby, still in diapers... I shouldn't have been able to remember such a thing. And yet, to this very moment, I can remember that day perfectly...

That was the day I was born.


That young man... He was... He was my mother, my father, my savior, my protector, my... My brother. My brother, the head of the torture division for a mercenary unit, from the enemy nation... Gilbert Beilschmidt. My brother...

The city in which I lived had lost the battle into which I was "born" and was under enemy control from then on. My brotherbelonged to the mercenary unit that had jurisdiction over the city. The mercenaries had taught my brother the ways of torture his whole life, from the day he could walk until the day he became skilled enough to torture and torment on his own. He had no friends, no family... All that he ever did, all day... Was hurt people, physically, mentally, and emotionally. That was the only life my brother, Gilbert, had ever known. He was never shown care, never coddled when he cried, never held, never sang to, never loved...

Because of this, my brother never learned to feel pain or guilt when he hurt others. Instead, he felt joy at the sight of his victim's blood welling from a particularly deep gash, happiness from the sound of pained screams as they begged for mercy from one who knew not what mercy was, and lovingly watched as their blood pooled around their still, cold form. It seemed that he was only truly content when inflicting torment on others... He was, and always had been, completely cold-blooded and devoid of "normal" human emotions. So much so, in fact, that people began to call him "the Devil". So when the news spread that the Devil had brought back a child, everyone was shocked.

"That monster adopted a child...?"

"Has he finally lost his mind? It was only a matter of time, you know..."

"As if such a creature could have paternal instincts... He shouldn't even be allowed near children."

My brother carried me from the battlefield that was once my hometown to the church at the edge of the near-ruined city, and officially made me his son... His son, yes... But to me... He would always be my "big brother", as he insisted I call him. I can still remember the church. It stood in the middle of a massive field, watched over by a quiet, somewhat nervous priest with shoulder-length brown hair and kind, green eyes. He didn't say anything at first, just looked at us sadly with those compassionate emeralds of his.

"Please... Give the child a name. And please say a prayer... Pray for the child's divine protection..."

It was so, so warm... So warm in the arms of my beloved brotheras we stood there, him holding me against his chest, hands working the knots out of my light hair absentmindedly. And as he stood there, holding me like that, I noticed an odd smell that seemed to seep out of his every pore... Years later, I would be able to put a name to that strange, discomforting smell... Blood. My brother, the mercenary, who smelled of blood and death and never smiled. After a little while, my brotherlooked at the fidgety priest and spoke in a scratchy voice that sounded as if it were seldom used. He had finally decided on my name...

"... Ludwig."


Edit: Replaced "bruder" with "brother", fixed a few other things.