Hi Everyone!

So, in this fic…

Jk, almost nobody reads the AN. For those of you tuning in, R&R and F&F, see ya on the other side, and let's get crackin.

More on this story if you want some background and clarification at the end of this chapter.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or Chinese history.

Scars Last an Eternity

~First Scar~

Chapter 1: A Death March for Four Hundred and Sixty Souls

"Hey, Yao, what's that little scar on your temple from?" Yao's friend, Chen, asked curiously, wide eyes innocent and inquisitive. He always seemed to act like a child, but at this point Yao really couldn't tell if it was because Chen actually acted like a child, or rather if Yao just saw him as such.

Even though they were both 'the same age,' according to every current legal document, at least, Chen always acted like Yao was older, wiser, and asked him questions like this surprisingly often. Though, sometimes Yao would actually answer with the truth, and then all he would get was a wide eyed glance, a brief thoughtful moment, followed by a flash of 'realization,' and topped off with an incredulous laugh and a fervent eye roll. Occasionally accompanied by a "Yao, your jokes are so creative!" or "Really, Yao, your tall tales get out of hand" sometimes even "Look, Yao, I know you study history and everything, but you're taking things too far" and more recently "Seriously, Yao, you need to stop. This is getting old. I asked you a real question."

At which point Yao would just lie, and that always ended up sounding like the truth, so he rolled with it. But he would be lying if he didn't like messing with humans, especially ones he knew well.

He grinned, a mischievous glint coming to his eyes that made Chen visibly slump and sigh in what may be the universal sign for "oh no here we go."

"Well, Chen, I am so glad you asked, see I got this little bastard all the way back in…"

~ 212 BC ~

Under the Reign of Emperor Qin Shi Huang

The scholar was silent, awaiting his fate. He knew what was coming, had heard the whispers. He had whispered a few himself. It did not help, not one bit, when death brushed it's rough, coarse lips across his ear and murmured to him.

The end approaches.

You cannot stop it.

Footsteps pounded outside his door. He heard a thunder in his ears, some sort of roar that would haunt his nightmares, however many he had left.

They are here.

You cannot run.

They surrounded him, the soldiers. They seized him roughly, hauling him from his seat, dragging him from his home. They left scattered papers and splattered ink in their wake, splintered wood and broken dishes.

This is the end.

See it?

You will soon.

The scholar was numb as he was hauled onto a cart, with others like him, those scholars who dared a word against their perfect emperor.

He was surrounded by those who dared to whisper.

And he would die among them.

If the scholar had not anticipated one thing, when imagining the grueling journey to the capital, to his imminent doom, it would be the loudly complaining man beside him. The loudly complaining man who, at the moment, seemed to have no grasp of how ominous there situation was, and instead was in the risky process of pestering one of the soldiers for some water, or a bite to eat.

The scholar couldn't help but wonder if this man was insane. And, at least for a brief moment, what it meant that he was riding alongside him, obviously of the same kind, assuming this death march of theirs wasn't taking any pit stops to drop off psychotic passengers.

Two hours and what felt like a lifetime or a second later, the scholar couldn't tell, the Insane Scholar, as he had dubbed the man (because he was obviously a man of the same learning despite his, er, presumed mental state), turned to the scholar and decided to strike up a friendly, casual conversation.

You know, as if they weren't going to their deaths.

"So, what's your name, my friend?" the Insane Scholar asked, as nonchalant as if they were discussing the weather or the latest harvest.

The scholar barely even responded, he was so taken aback by the direct interaction. "Yin Chen," he said, apprehension lacing his voice. "And yours?" Internally, Yin Chen cringed. Now he would have to keep up a conversation with this man.

"Wang Yao," the man said happily. "And I'll assume we both came to be riding this wonderful caravan by the same relative means, yes?" he inquired rather loudly. A soldier glared in their direction, eyes narrowing in warning.

"Sush," Yin Chen hissed, focusing on the floor, "or you'll earn yourself, and perhaps me, an early death."

"Hmm, I mean, is it not true that we will die anyway? What's the harm?" the man, Wang Yao, asked. There may have been a grain of truth in his words, but that did not mean Yin Chen was ready for death. Not in the least.

"How so?" Chen asked, attempting to sound disinterested as he willed the soldier away.

"My friend, even if we die early, is it not true that whatever we would face here would seem to be soft cherry blossoms compared to what the emperor has awaiting us?" Wan Yao asked again, in that absurd, insane way of his. That absurd way, which, as Chen was starting to realize, held a vast amount of knowledge behind its ludicrous exterior.

If Chen were not in such a terrifying situation at the moment, he may have even called it worrying. Far too sharp, far too accurate, cutting straight to the truth. Dangerous.

"Just," Chen struggled to keep his voice low as anger and fear surged through him, mutating into some mute form of raging panic. He took a deep breath. "Just, please, don't provoke them. If not for your sake, for mine." He had meant the last statement to be strong, urgent even, but it barely escaped his mouth, emerging as a strangled whisper.

Surprisingly enough, Wang Yao was silent for the remainder of the trip.

Each statement hit Yin Chen like an arrow, thudding into him with deadly accuracy, with force enough to knock him to his knees ten times over.

"The entirety of 460 scholars were found guilty of treason against the emperor."

This is where whispers have lead you.

"In accordance with this atrocious act, all those involved shall be executed."

This is your doom. Your oblivion. You see it, finally?

"On this day, 460 scholars will be buried alive."

And your whispers will finally be smothered.

Die among the earth you came from.

"Wow, tough crowd," Wang Yao muttered under his breath, leaning close to Chen's ear. Yin Chen hurriedly jabbed his heel into Wang Yao's toe, silencing him at the cost of a minute yelp. Wang Yao, wise, what had he been thinking earlier? It must have been exhaustion, or shock. The man before him now, making joking, not to mention highly treasonous, comments as they were being herded to their very graves, was simply and absolutely a lunatic!

The next few minutes were all of a blur, something that his mind likely filtered out due to the unreality of the moments leading up to one's death. Was it like this, for the others? The next things Yin Chen's mind registered were warm bodies, grating soil, and the constant scrape of hundreds of shovels.

He was being buried alive.

No matter what he may have said before then, no matter what defiance or acceptance had fleeted through his mind prior to this moment, Yin Chen was terrified. So terrified that, as he was being covered in dirt, packed in shoulder to shoulder and over top and under other scholars, that all traces of sanity left him. He began to struggle, thrashing so fruitlessly and violently that a grunt of pain, startlingly familiar, sounded from the body above him. Yin Chen stilled.

"Wang Yao…?" he asked hesitantly.

"Ow…" came the reply. "Did you really have to kick me? Your knees are bony."

"Uh…" Yin Chen didn't know how to respond. They were currently in the process of dying, the shovels persistently working to ensure that, but what else should Yin Chen have expected from Wang Yao?

"Hey, you!" a gruff voice barked from above, "await your death mutely, like a man."

Clang!

Wang Yao had been closer to the surface of their soon-to-be mass grave than Yin Chen had thought.

Oh well, at least he would be spared the horror of a slow, suffocating death by that shovel that had knocked him out. Yin Chen only wished that could have been him.

As it was, Yin Chen's head soon grew fuzzy, and his consciousness faded to whispers of shovels and earth.

For y'all lovely souls who read the top, or maybe you just read the story, are confused, and want some more info on the subject matter. Good for you! Welcome to my little explaining corner, where I will inform you on exactly what the hell is going on in my fic.

Basis: This refers to the reign of emperor Qin Shi Huang Di, specifically the event called "burning of books and burying of scholars," where- you guessed it!- books were burned and scholars were buried. 460 scholars to be exact, because the emperor caught wind that they were speaking treasonously. This fic is based loosely around a few tumblr posts I absolutely loved, by stirringwind, I believe, which features immortal china and his many attempted assassinations.

My personal flair: Okay guys, this is where I tell you some things that I changed up with this story. In this sorta-kinda AU, all nations go by their human names and attempt to blend in with human society as best as possible. I imagine China as being one of, if not the first nation to actually work directly for their ruler.

Bit of a warning: I haven't really watched much of Hetalia, I just really love historical hetalia (with a dash of dark hetalia) and wanted to try my hand at it, so China may be a bit OOC. (y'all readers know Wang Yao=China, right?)

Okay, that's all. To anyone who made it through that lengthy AN, congrats! I will now request some feedback in the form of reviews, and also follows and favorites. Let me know if I'm getting anything wrong. And, now I will tell you thank you.

Thank you guys!

Lot's of love,

~TheFullmetalSociopath