A/N: Hey there guys! Look, it's a one-shot about not one, but TWO canon characters! :O I'm shocked at myself, too.
Okay. So… just a fic about Vietnam and America. It's real symbolic. And stuff. Anyway, that's all C:
Disclaimer: Vietnam would show up a whole lot more if I owned Hetalia.
Goodbye to White Ribbons and South Vietnam
"There is no doubt that the Capitalist class will blast and burn this world before it leaves the stage of history. But it is we the workers who built these palaces and cities, who toiled the fields and worked the factories, and we can build them again, better than before. We are not afraid of ruins." – Buenaventura Durruti
When America first saw it, it was hanging on the branch of a young tree barely standing, weakened and frayed from the fire. The flames had morphed the small tree, melting and bending it until it wilted quite sadly, almost touching the ground. It was really quite peculiar. Wood was supposed to burn straight away into ash, after all, not twist and deform like plastic would.
This war was supposed to go by quickly, without any complications, like a tree going ablaze to only to soon disintegrate into dust. All the same time, it was supposed to be a forest fire. This war should've paved the way to others like it, one of reds versus whites where democracy would win every time. After all, as the world's hero, it was his job to burn down all the terrible tress which had grown on the forest of the world, ones planted by union workers and prisoners, ones which grew leaves the deepest shade of red. Red like fire. Red like blood. Red like communism.
Instead, this wars flame was solitary, burning like plastic would, slow and almost tedious, beautiful and yet painful to watch all at once. This war hadn't gone the way America wanted it to at all. This war was serving as an example of what the other democratic powers should not do.
Vietnam… is she the back that bends? Was she once young and full or promise, but now deformed? Is Vietnam the red on these leaves, or is she the white of the ribbon?
When America first saw the white ribbon which hung on the branch of a young tree so abnormally deformed, one which had burnt but by some miracle managed to keep its scarlet leaves, America knew the answer.
America had given her the ribbon so that he could tell her apart from her sister.
She would wear it in her hair, of course. South Vietnam carefully took the strip of silk in her hands, rubbing it between her thumb and forefingers, relishing in how smooth and delicate it was. She then grinned at America, tilting her head up so that he may look at her face completely, her wide smile showing off straight white teeth which matched the white of the ribbon and complimented her dark skin tone. She thanked him before throwing her arms around his waist. Her face buried in his chest, she mumbled something about this being the first gift she'd ever received.
America told her that it was his pleasure, and that it was no big deal. After all, she was South Vietnam, wasn't she? She deserved the world.
They fought on the same battlefield, side by side, and America could've sworn that he hadn't seen a girl Nation fight with such vigor since Hungary. South Vietnam held a fire in her eyes that was almost terrifying, one which spoke of tradition and survival, a flame which could only be doused by the blood of her own twin.
But North Vietnam was equally as driven, and wouldn't go down without a fight. America knew this to be a fact.
South Vietnam knew, as well. She fought on.
The white ribbon in her hair swayed and danced with the wind, but never did slip off.
The first time he got a good look at North Vietnam, they were both inches away from the 17th parallel. Neither his charge nor her mentor was present. It was just the two of them.
Just like South Vietnam had her white ribbon, North Vietnam sported yellow flowers surrounded by red leaves in her own hair, which was as black as tar and the blood which ran through her veins.
And her eyes. North Vietnam's eyes were black, contrary to the honey color of her twin. It unnerved America, a little bit. He could see nothing but his own reflection when he gazed into them.
Nothing but his own reflection… the words resonated in his mind.
Vietnam was on fire. Not just North, nor just South, but as a whole. Young and full of promise, America would've left it alone if it had not sported red leaves. Once he saw that, being the hero that he was, he had to get involved. Thus was the story of Americas life: he invaded other countries for their own good.
If only he knew he was the terror of the world.
South Vietnam writhed where she laid, her back arching against the pain, tears rolling down her cheeks as she begged America to put an end to it. To put the gun to her head and just get it over with.
"Do it! Do it! Be a man for once and just do it!" she cried.
He could not.
And when she saw this, she began to scream at him in a different tone.
"Get out! Do you hear me? GET OUT! The last thing I need is some coward little boy playing the hero. I need a man! Do you hear me? I NEED A MAN!"
He could still hear her screaming at him from outside of her home as he boarded his plane to leave Vietnam.
Vietnam… is she the back that bends?
America walked over to the broken and forgotten tree.
Was she once young and full or promise, but now deformed?
He held out his hand, and a sudden gust of wind picked up and pushed the nearest branch just out of reach. It was almost as if the tree itself had been trying to get away from him. But that was ridiculous.
Is Vietnam the red on these leaves…
He reached out again and let his fingertips graze across the surface of the red leaves. It was true, then, they were as soft as they looked. Almost like velvet.
...or is she the white of the ribbon?
America then grabbed the white ribbon and yanked it away from the tree with all his might. He then let it go and flutter away into the wind, and he wondered idly if it was on its way to South Korea. It certainly would find a better home there.
The last time America saw South Vietnam, she was not South Vietnam anymore, but just Vietnam. Her eyes were no longer the soft honey he knew, but the perfect shade of brown. She didn't look as light hearted as she once did, but not nearly as stoic and serious as her sister had been. And that's when it hit him. They had finally been reunited. North and South Vietnam weren't twins; they were two sides of the same coin.
America grinned. He finally understood!
In her hair, Vietnam wore a red ribbon.
A/N: No historical notes this time. Just… literary notes o_o
The color white symbolizes America and his cause (capitalism/democracy), the color red is Russia's (communism). Trees symbolize imprisonment, as a tree is basically stuck where it is for all its life and can't run away, no matter what's going on in its environment. The leaves that grow on the trees are meant to represent the negative effects that come from such imprisonment. Ribbons represent freedom, since they're so light and easily carried off by the wind, and fire symbolizes the carnage of the Vietnam War. M'kay? M'kay.
Also, I'm not trying to advocate for any economic ideologies here (despite the quote... it just seemed to fit).
That's all. Please review :)