The Little Bird, a hetalia - axis powers fanfic

He sat with his back against the wall- posture betraying his fears. Like a cornered animal, he would now fight. There was nowhere he could run, no chance to hide- after all, where could one hide from one's own creation? His mind whirled with memories- distant sights, sounds and scents. The feel of the babe he once had held in his arms, the baby that had taken the place of weapons and war and blood. That baby, that sweet baby that had returned hope to him. The warmth of the child's skin as he rushed into his arms and the resounding reverberating warmth of his laughter, the memories of a lake, dancing and playing, the water had been cold but he had felt warm, so warm too warm. The smell of the rain, the freshly wet garden, flowers and all, and the young man- all grown now-pulling him into the rain with a youthful, evil grin. The memory of the boy placing a crown of flowers on his head, flushing slightly as if afraid he'd be told to grow up.

Gilbert remembered all too clearly the loneliness before that child had entered his war-torn life. The crushing pain of having no one who related to him who understood him, who he could hold, who he could love. He'd thought the boy would be that someone, but the child had grown up now. The boy's warm smiled replaced by cruel smirks, bright eyes frosted over with ice that seemed to cut whoever tried to look into him. The worst were the hands, the gentle warm, soft hands, they were cold now, cold as his eyes, and hard, and forever covered in leather gloves. He once held flowers, and now his only company was his gun. Gilbert hated it. He didn't know this man, he didn't! This man did things Gilbert could never support, never stand by and let happen. He loved the boy, really he did, but this was something beyond love. So he started sneaking around, asking questions in the right places, getting relevant answers. He stared helping people escape the new regime, helped the enemies of said regime get a hold of weaponry. Anything that let the people be safe. He'd even tried to kill the bastard of a man that had started this mess (unsuccessfully unfortunately) several times. Now he'd been caught and his back was to the wall, and he'd probably never see the kid again and… "Goodbye, Lutz." He said softly, almost surprised his voice had managed to get any words out, "Take care." It was the last he managed before he was led away, and- for a moment- he could swear he saw a glimmer of anguish in those blue eyes, and then it was gone. Then Gilbert was gone.

Wenn ich ein Vöglein war,

Und auch zwei Flüglein hatt

Flög ich zu dir

He sighed softly, since he'd arrived, he'd been beaten, shot, gassed, burned, beaten again—and the bastards still hadn't realized he wasn't going to die. Instead they were looking at him as an interesting experiment and practice machine, and he was scared. He knew being a nation was both a blessing and a curse, he'd known right from the start- but laying there, nearly dissolved, bleeding and in pain in so many fucking ways, the curse half was weighing heavily on him. He wished, in those torturous lonely hours, for death. He knew that he'd never get it, he knew he had to live for Ludwig anyway. Live till the end of the war, live so when Ludwig lost it, he could stand up and take the blame instead. He knew that was why the higher ups hadn't wanted him dead, regardless of their opinion on his 'freaky' look, with silver hair and red eyes. To them he was probably devil incarnate. Still, protecting Ludwig was one part of their plan he agreed with completely, and he would gladly take the fall for the kid. He was, after all, the man who had raised him.

Weils aber nicht kann sein,

bleib ich all hier.

Finally, after a week of torture, they allowed Gilbert into the main camp. They said it was a work camp, and many other men were also working there. So, injured battered and helpless, gilbert followed his ever-so-kind captors to the bunk he'd be staying in, and then they left, and gilbert could breathe again. The men were nice enough, their haunted eyes and gaunt faces told Gilbert exactly what things would be like there and gilbert was somehow thankful for the few he'd saved from this hell, or the hell he'd left behind in the oven-room. The men had questioned Gilbert on his sudden and solitary arrival, his reply of getting people out and conspiring to kill the bastard had won him their respect within an instant. On the whole, this group was well balanced, the old and the young. The youngest was fourteen and looked eighteen- or did when he was brought in- now he looked like a walking corpse, as did all the others. That night, for the first time in the longest time, Gilbert prayed for them all, and for himself. He knew now there would be no escape for him, no survival, whichever way the war turned.

He worked through the day diligently, even the guards were beginning to respect that, and ate as little as he could, sharing the rest with his bunk-mates. The distant fear of the war and the more immediate fear of the guards kept the men cowed and careful. Everyday, people died and new ones took their place, always dying always suffering. Gilbert tried his hardest not to get attached.

Sometimes in the dark nights he'd think of Ludwig, wonder if he knew of this camp, of the others like it. Wonder if Ludwig had had a part in their conception or implementation. Some nights he'd dream of the past and some nights he'd dream of Ludwig handing him over to the camp with those icy eyes… then he'd wake.

Bin ich Gleich Weit von dir

Bin ich am in träum bei dir

Und red mit dir

Some times Gilbert would cry for the child he lost, but only in the safety of his bed, in the cruel hands of sleep. The days were getting colder, people died more and more, sickness took hold, but still, day on day more people died in the oven-room, more people fed the never-ending spire of smoke that rose from the chimneys. Day after day Gilbert hoped that somehow the war would end, that Arthur or Ivan or anyone at all would come and save them all. The tears dried by dawn, and Gilbert, despite his best efforts, knew he'd become attached. Attached to the fourteen-year-old corpse that walked beside him, attached to the stubborn old bastard, who was barely thirty, who was working himself to the bone. Attached to all the men in the camp- to all of the people in the camps. Somehow the loneliness that Gilbert had felt for a long time was causing him to connect to these desperate, lonely people who believed they were nobody's.

Some days, Gilbert almost believed them. Then he forced himself to stand up and carry on as before. If they had no one he would be strong enough to be their crutch, and if it cost him his sanity, his body and his life, then so be it.

Wenn ich erwachen tu

Bin ich allein.

There was a guard in the camp, Pieter was his name, who was Prussian. He had long known Gilbert's identity as a nation, but in the face of Gilbert's 'betrayal' he had kept silent. Over time, this guard had come to realize that the people they were destroying were human. As human as himself. He began to sneak Gilbert extra food, to give him extra time for things and to permit him contact with POW's. Through these meetings, Gilbert learned of the Blitz on London, and of the suffering of the British. He also learned of America's upcoming entrance to the war. He heard of Russia's advances on the eastern front, of Japan's foolhardiness. One fine day he had snuck into the POW camp and run into Japan himself. They had talked for awhile, and Japan told Gilbert all about how he had planned to force America to shed the blanket of neutrality. The words still rang in Gilbert's ears, "Arthur was dying. The man who raised him lay dying, and he cowered behind his policies with nary a care. I could think of no other way to force the fool to his feet." Eventually, Gilbert had to agree that it had been the only way to act in the circumstances. He could clearly hear the desperation in Kiku's voice while speaking of Arthur, and silently hoped that Arthur survived this war without too much of a grudge. With the knowledge of America's upcoming entry sealing Gilbert's death, life in camp seemed much more bearable somehow.

He had long since accepted the prisoners of the camp as his own people, and perhaps it was the knowledge of their upcoming freedom that danced in Gilberts veins, like an unending symphony of hope, he spread the news he had heard to all he could, and if he was a little pale, then that was normal given where he was residing.

In a silent movement the people began fighting again. They fought for their lives by following their commands. They refused to die in captivity.

Despite Gilbert's best efforts, many died before 1945 when they were liberated. By some twist of fate, it was Ivan who led the liberation of the camp, and, when he first caught sight of Gilbert, he believed he was facing the enemy and raised his weapon. This was followed by prompt and loud protests and pleas from all in the camp, who could not have comprehended Ivan's fears. Gilbert listened and watched, exhausted and barely conscious. As Ivan lifted him up, he spoke just one word, a word that nearly caused Ivan to drop him in shock, "Spasiba." Thank you, thank you said with honest feeling to his oldest and greatest enemy. Ivan was terrified, what could have broken Gilbert to such an extent? Luckily, he had with him one of the leading experts in all things Gilbert, Arthur. He laid Gilbert down carefully while he ordered his men to bring Arthur to him. Gilbert drifted, mind a million miles away with Ludwig, he knew that he would soon die.

Gilbert was patched up and left in Sanssoucci. He wandered the hallways, ending up in his old King's room more often than not. He was begging forgiveness in his own way, and this was going to be a final farewell.

Kein Stunde in die Nacht,

in der mein Hertz nicht wacht,

und dein gedenkt,

When Gilbert met Ludwig again, the ice had gone from Ludwig's eyes. It had been replaced by shame and defeat, neither were expressions Gilbert particularly liked, but both were better than the ice. Ludwig sat down and proceeded to confess that he planned to blame the war on Gilbert, and would Gilbert please please not hate him? They would probably fine Gilbert and levy restrictions, but Ludwig was sure that Gilbert would work it out.

Tears pricked at Gilbert's eyes, Ludwig had no idea of what he was sentencing Gilbert to, did he? So with a gentle sigh, Gilbert accepted. He had always given himself freely to Ludwig whenever he was needed. He had lived for Ludwig and had known he would be dying for him. So gilbert closed his eyes (refusing to acknowledge the pricking behind them), steadied his heart (ignoring how every beat begged him to fight, to live) and smiled at Ludwig, "Don't worry, Lutz, I'm too awesome to be held down by something like this." The lie burned in his mouth, the scar burned on his arm, and his heart ached. He was going to be punished for a crime he was the victim of. He was going to be killed under a label he hated. He was betraying all the people from the camps, every one of them. He was betraying his dead Kings, all his people. He was betraying himself. All for Ludwig. He suppressed a shiver and moved forward for the sentencing.

The room was stilted. There were the allies sitting judgment, Russia and England both looked sick. They knew that he had suffered. France looked so tired, and America looked as arrogant as ever. China looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, preferably at home. Gilbert wanted to go home too, except that he no longer had one. Then gilbert noticed them. Them from the camps. Little Tomas, sitting tall on a seat lining the wall, so many others with him as well… He wanted to run away, he couldn't face this. Not this.

They started the sentencing, conferred upon him the dubious honor of being responsible for the mess. He spoke not one word, silently accepting the blows as they fell (metaphorically of course). He heard Tomas rise in protest, saw the others shudder at the thought of him being one of them. The sentence was passed, dissolution as expected. That meant execution… tears welled up in his eyes, but he fought them fiercely. They all turned to watch him die, in horror and in wonder. The gun was handed to Ludwig, and Gilbert held his shuddering hands in his own, whispering gentle words of love in his ears. Then there was a shot. Then there was silence. Gilberts eyes fluttered open. He was in Russia. He was alive. They had saved him. For now, he was East. He was half of the boy he'd raised, and no matter the distance, he'd always love him.

The years passed and the people in the East suffered, a wall was built. The wall fell. They were together. They were separate. Gilbert knew this death, this slow death. He knew it, and gently, as time went on, he accepted it.

Daß du mir viel Tausend mal

Dein Herz geschenkt.

A/N: Little oneshot/songfic. Mostly my weird headcannon-

The song is Wenn ich ein Völglein wär- it's a kid's song!

It goes like this:

If i were a little bird

and had two tiny wings

I'd fly to you

Since that's not possible

I'll stay here

I am so far from you

In my dreams I am beside you

And Speak to you

When I awake (wake up)

When I awake

I am alone.

There is no moment in the night

In which my heart isn't awake

And thinking of you

That more than a thousand Miles

You give me your heart.

P.S: I DISCLAIM ;)