Author's note: Hello! This is my first fanfiction on this website and I'd like to thank you for happening upon it and giving it a chance.

**Also, many thanks to Maplevogel for allowing me to use her lovely art as the cover photo for this story.

She creates AMAZING art for Hetalia among other things and is proudly Canadian which works out well for this story, as it were! If you love unique art (especially for Canada and Prussia or just PruCan in general) you can find her at .com where you can find her work and all other social media platforms!***

WARNINGS/DISCLAIMERS:

*there will be violence (and course language) in this chapter as well as some future chapters but mostly only in flashbacks of the past.

*this is a work of fiction but borrows certain themes based loosely off of real events regarding the chapters which do contain events or content about the war although bent and sometimes tweaked for the stories sake but heavily inspired by truth

*human names will be used (most of which are canon)

*I DO NOT OWN HETALIA OR ITS CHARACTERS AND ANY RELATION TO CHARACTERS LIVING OR DEAD (OR FICTIONAL) IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL!

Enjoy!

A warning to the people,
The good and the evil,
This is war.

~30 Seconds to Mars

May 10th, 1940

0355 hrs

Nazi Germany invades the Netherlands.

The distant roar of the approaching German Luftwaffe's plane engines is the only warning the citizens of Rotterdam have of what is to come; the start of a hellish occupation that would last for almost half a decade and bring about the deaths of over 200,000 Dutch natives. What brings about this horror is a blitzkrieg with its sights already locked on its latest target of the Waalhaven airfield just south of the doomed city. Though the Dutch troops who manned the base put up a fierce resistance, it was an effort made in vain. With the element of surprise serving to aid the Germans' cause, the Dutch citizens were easily overpowered by the German forces that sought to conquer.

May 14th, 1940

1330 hrs

The attack on Rotterdam begins.

German troops parachuted from air crafts onto the Dutch lands by the tons. All communications and transportation are the first to go, effectively cutting off all ties to the world and crippling the natives' chances for any outer assistance. The Netherlands—an irritation for the German army's great conquest of France and the world. Ah, yes, with its key ports and waterways would be useful indeed.

Six days is all it takes for Rotterdam to fall into Nazi Germany's hands utterly and completely—six days is all it takes to occupy the Third Reich's newest prize.

Netherlands felt the threat of his unwelcome guests before they even set foot on his land. It is a phenomenon usually experienced by old and oftentimes powerful countries to feel imminent danger before crisis even strikes. This sixth sense of sorts was often acquired by old or even ancient countries that had been in direct conflict with other countries multiple times in memory to feel the looming threat of invasion long before said invasion took place. It was on a spring day that this warning bell within the Dutch nation rang true. Holland had been going about his business in his daily routine, running his everyday errands. It had been a rather lovely spring day and with his groceries purchased and soon to be delivered to his home, he continued his leisurely walk through the marketplace stopping to smell the roses (or tulips as it were), for he halted to enjoy a fine arrangement of his national flower from a florist's stall. The friendly elderly woman who ran the stall offered him a free bouquet which he gracefully accepted, nodding politely in thanks and at the good wishes she offered. He made it a habit to have his favourite flower present in his surroundings as much as possible. Using his beloved tulips as a centerpiece in his home would certainly serve to brighten up his house.

He had been strolling through the picturesque streets of Rotterdam he loved so much when he felt it—a twinge in his gut like a wave of numbed pain rolling beneath his skin, a vicious pull from within. Netherlands slowed in his normally brisk gait, eventually stopping to turn his scrutinizing green gaze to the sky. Something was not right. Not in the slightest. With narrowed eyes, he scanned the skies when he felt it again—the twinge—this time strong enough make him stagger back a step. Turning once again to the skies, he searched the empty airspace frantically. He waited. Something was coming. No, something was…here?

Rocketing through the narrow streets of the town, Netherlands earned the curious stares of his people as he sped by, bouquet of fresh tulips clutched firmly in hand. His boots pounded off the cobblestone streets as he ran, weaving his way through the city block to the main square where rooftops did not obscure his view of the skies. Coming to a skidding stop a few blocks before the city center, Netherlands once more scanned the empty blue skies—still nothing. He waited, continuing to search the sky above, frustration close to driving him mad. There seemed to be nothing, nothing at all. But then he heard it and ice filled his veins.

The hum of numerous fighter planes was muffled but thunderous as it echoed the distance. Of those citizens of Rotterdam who had only moments ago sent questioning glances at the seemingly frantic nation, they too now turned their attentions to the skies. The whole populace seemed to take pause when more and more citizens shuffled into the slowly crowding square to join their nation as he gazed up at the skies with a look that could only be described as alarm. The surprised gasps around him were lost in the low growing murmur of the crowds that filled the city center. The sound of the roaring engines increased in volume as the moments passed by as did the sound of panic in the Dutch people.

He should have known. How could he have been so blind? It had been only days before he had felt a similar twinge. Nothing at all as intense as it was now but an inward warning nonetheless. He had been in the middle of housework when he felt a sudden burst of anxiety. The unexplained feeling was simply brushed off as one of his O.C.D as he cleaned. There had been a few murmurs German planes passing over Dutch airspace bound for Britain that settled quickly but those had seemed harmless enough days ago what with the Waalhaven Airfield beyond the outskirts of the peaceful city. Suddenly, the events of days passed did not seem so strange in now as it did as an isolated incident—suddenly, all the pieces of a puzzle he wasn't even aware he was piecing together fell into place. Yes, he could understand it now; the anxiousness he felt was from struggle of his own countrymen, his troops on a base, only mere miles away. He could feel the fear, the anguish…the defeat. The airfield, the lands surrounding the city…it had to be. If the enemy had secured Waalhaven, then he could expect the planes approaching were not piloted by anybody friendly.

His face darkened. Tearing his gaze away from the sky, he cast a glance around him. It was only then that the Dutch nation realized his people had all indeed followed his lead and had their fright filled eyes glued to the endless expanse of blue above them.

If his gut feelings were right and his reasoning true, he didn't have much time.

"Officer." He barked at an idle constable standing to his right. The young man also tore his concerned stare away from the sky and nodded at the living embodiment of his nation. Taking a few long strides, he stalked over to the young man in uniform, Netherlands pulled the young man in suddenly by the shoulder, talking in hushed and urgent tones as he ordered, "You are to round up your men and have them clear the streets immediately—am I understood?" He all but hissed in his urgency. The frightened looking officer merely gave a shaky nod of his head, thoroughly intimidated by the nation in front of him and the commands he gave. "Give them order to have the people evacuate the streets now, now!" He ordered, shoving the constable forward who in turn ran off to carry out his mission.

Spotting two guards who regularly patrolled the city square and in turn the city hall, Netherlands motioned them over, taking measured steps towards them as they hurried over. "I need you to call on the Colonel—tell him to rally the troops and double all guards," he ordered to one, "and you, you are to report to the mayor immediately. Am I clear? You are to tell him to cable the Queen that we are being invaded. Tell him to sound the alarm, do you hear me? Sound the ala—!" the sound of gunfire and the thundering of a shell in the distance colliding into the earth echoed streets over and all hell broke loose in the city. Crowds scrambled, women screamed and the once bright bouquet of tulips the Dutch nation held lay crumpled and trampled in the dust like the hopes of escaping Nazi invasion unscathed. Netherlands looked on in horror at what appeared to be the beginning of the end as the roar of war planes drowned out all sound.

"GO!" he roared, putting his seldom used voice to use, snapping the two guards out of their terrified daze to do as he told. A stampede of people fled the square in the midst of the chaos unfolding, tripping in their haste, trampling in their terror.

They were under attack—it had to be the Germans. Netherlands cursed under his breath. The whole city was already thrown into a pandemonium. Although he knew he had to keep a level head for his people, keeping calm would only get him so far in a situation escalating so rapidly into terror. He needed to alert the Queen of the coming air raid—if the Germans were attacking here, he could be damn well sure that it was only a matter of time before they opened fire upon the rest of his land. He needed to get to the city center where the mayor could reach the Queen and that was exactly what he would do. Netherlands pushed roughly through the crowds, against the wave of frightened city folk towards sounds of gunfire. Netherlands had been fighting his way to the direction of the city center that lay beyond the gunfire, when a small cry of distress reached his ears. His alert green eyes fell to a tiny child who had fallen to the ground and was about to be all but trampled on in a moments time. Immediately, he pushed through towards the little girl, crouching down from his full height to stand her up. The girl was about six, no doubt, and obviously distressed. She wore two bright blue bows in her pig tails and sobbed, tears streaking her chubby cheeks. Briefly, he brushed the dirt off her scraped knee. "Where is your moeder?" He asked, a little impatient.

The girl only cried harder, letting out a watery wail which made the Dutchman frown. Resigned, he scooped up the tiny child and hoisted her above his head to sit her on his broad shoulders. "Do you see her?" The little girl was quiet as he too scanned the crowds for the girl's would be mother. Spotting a distressed looking woman with blonde hair and brown eyes resembling the wayward child, he moved towards the woman no sooner than the child could let out a shout for the woman. The presumed mother spotted the child, her brown eyes filling with recognition and relief as she rushed towards the towering nation who handed over the frightened child to an equally fearful mother. "Thank you, sir!" She clutched the child close in her arms, the girl looking up at the nation with round and innocent eyes. To this he gave a brief nod. "Get to safety—now." He said simply, stalking off quickly without another word, disappearing into the crowds set on reaching his destination without any more distractions.

Hustling through the streets overflowing with his panicked and confused countrymen, he hurried to reach the square of the city center. He made his way determinedly with an urgency that did not escape the worried people of Rotterdam. Willem winced when another shell shook the earth violently, mingling with the surprised screams of some. Being what he was, every assault on his homeland took a toll on him physically; he could feel every shell that hit and he knew it would only be getting worse. He was but a city block away from the square but when he turned the corner, he was met with a strange sight.

The handful of the armed soldiers he had ordered dispatched was face to face with a team of French and Belgian soldiers. Netherlands watched as perplexed as his men who looked on in confusion at their foreign allied troops armed to the teeth with sub machine guns and assault rifles. One who appeared to be the leader of the small flock of soldiers (there were about six of them) in French and Belgium uniforms tried coaxing the hesitant Dutch troops to lower their weapons. Netherlands took to examining the foreigners' firearms. As the unfamiliar soldier demanded their weapons be lowered for their allies again, the Dutch soldiers seemed hesitant to comply. Netherlands looked on in confusion. Had his allies anticipated this attack and come to intervene? No, he reasoned with himself that there was no way France and Belgium could have possibly known. Once more the squadron leader ordered in Dutch, "Lower your arms against your allies!" The Dutch soldiers exchanged unsure glances but were ready to finally comply. However, Netherlands' sharp eyes scanned his allied troopers. It was then he noticed—the speaker held in his gloved hand an…FG 42? The Dutch nation felt his blood run cold.

It was a German assault rifle. These were German soldiers.

"NO! DON'T DO IT!" He roared jolting forward but he it was already too late. No sooner had the Dutch troops reluctantly lowered their weapons did their "allies" open fire, shooting them dead at point blank range. Shrieks of terror filled the streets and Holland's vision went as red as the blood pooling from his fallen men who lay in a heap on the ground that painted the cobblestone streets a ghastly crimson.

"NAZI BARSTAARD!" Netherlands bellowed with a rage that seemed to shake him from within. Behind him, enemy hands apprehended him but the nation was having none of it. Rounding on the Nazi offender, he struck out violently, sending him crashing onto the ground. Having snatched up his attacker's fallen weapon, without hesitation fired a bullet straight into his head. Then he returned his "allies'" favour, turning and opening fire on the enemy squadron. In two shots their leader went down first, blood arching as he hit the ground. A savagery Holland hadn't quite felt in recent memory born of unadulterated rage erupted in him, spurring him forward to kill without mercy. He picked off another three at a lightning speed with ease, never ceasing fire as he stalked forward; bullet shells clinking on the ground at his feet.

He was ready for numbers five and six of his "allied" group when he got hit. More enemy soldiers were pouring into the street and this one shot him in the left shoulder. He had taken many a bullet before and it never got any less painful. He staggered back as the bullet burned and seared beneath his skin. Oh, how he hated bullets. Willem preferred the honour once present in hand to hand combat. Any idiot could fire a pistol. Good thing too, he was right handed after all. With deadly accuracy, he shot at his most recent target and watched him go down.

Another shot was fired at the Dutch nation, one that hit the mark on his abdomen. Netherlands grit his teeth, tasting blood but advanced, picking off yet another of the "French" troopers in one clean shot. Only one was left and he wasted no time in opening fire on Willem. Three more bullets entered his frame. He stumbled back from the force of each blow but trudged closer and closer to the last shooter who, quite frankly, looked horrified that the nation still staggered forward with fire in his green eyes. Willem knew the gunmen had a few more bullets left but it would take more than that to stop him. The fool fired relentlessly, clearly unaware that his shots had done him no good. Humans couldn't harm nations the way they could harm another human by simply firing at them. To think, this mortal thought he could kill him with such a trivial thing as a clip of bullets, he who had survived hand to hand combat a hundred times over, he who was practically ancient in his own right. It was insulting and frankly, this only served to piss off said nation more.

So, with his gun out of ammo and his countrymen lying dead mere feet away, Holland decided this one would be personal. Spitting blood, Netherlands dropped his empty gun and stalked right up to the soldier and with the speed of a cobra's strike, disarmed the man, snatching the gun out of the soldier's hand, aimed right between his eyes and without giving the soldier a chance to say his prayers, fired point blank. Blood splattered across his face but he reveled in his success.

The Dutch nation felt another shell hit the city, wincing at the growing pains that tore through his body. His blood stained scarf billowed behind him as he stared down at the scene of carnage before him when a rifle's gunshot echoed through the streets. Netherlands' eyes widened, looking down at the blood pooling from his belly. The shot had come from behind and the bullet ran him through, rocketing out the other side. A choked gasp left his lips as his knees buckling before he hit the ground. Blood sprayed from his lips as he coughed, agonizing pain tearing through him. That shot was different—it actually wounded him which could only mean one thing—Netherlands strained his neck, but with a surprisingly controlled countenance, looked back to finally meet his enemy in the flesh.

Germany stared down at him, his piercing blue eyes boring holes into Holland's very soul.

"That's quite enough, I think." He said callously; his thick accent clung tightly to his words. Netherlands glared up at the Germanic nation whose government was responsible for the widespread terror and death around the entire world. Germany returned his sneer generously. Netherlands noticed the nation's rifle was pointed at the ground so he gathered that Germany wanted him alive or at the very least wasn't going to shoot him again any time soon. However, a very slight derision laced his icy tone, "It is time to be civil, wouldn't you say?" he said—as if his paratroopers hadn't massacred his men in cold blood under the cruel guise of their allies moments earlier.

Netherlands spat at the German's shiny black boots which he had no doubt polished meticulously. "Nazi swine." He hissed venomously.

A flicker passed through Germany's eyes that told Holland he had hit some exposed nerve that the Dutchman had been unaware of within the nation. Germany's frown seemed to deepen and his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. Netherlands reveled in the tiny victory but could not quite savor the satisfaction entirely under this crushing weight of his defeat.

Netherlands looked around with little surprise to find that he was completely surrounded by Germany's men. One of which approached the nation and, clicking his heels together to sieg heil in the Nazi salute before addressing the country with his seldom heard given name, "Herr Bielschidmt, all is secured as ordered," the man Holland assumed was a captain reported dutifully. Germany merely nodded at his subordinate who turned on his heel and stalked off in the disciplined manner that was strictly the Nazi way. During the exchange, Netherlands eyed the scarlet swastika armband on the German nation's black trench coat sleeve in disgust before meeting his eyes again. This was not something that Germany had missed nor remarked upon. "Well now," he murmured, tilting his head back ever so slightly, "let us get down to business, ja?" said Germany a little stonily, indicating that there would be very little of the aforementioned "civility" in supply.

A bitter chuckle, "I am loath to imagine what sort of business you might have on my land, terrorizing my city, Nazi." Holland said indignantly, making no efforts to mask the bite in his words. With an apathetic frown still in place, Germany nodded at two soldiers who stood idly by. Without words the two roughly plucked Netherlands off the ground without any care for the wounds he had been suffering from. God knows, had he been human he would have been dead several times over. Although in no foreseeable danger of fatality from Germany's affliction, he was greatly weakened.

Holland could feel his strength steadily draining from his body just as his brutal wounds seeped with blood. He gritted his teeth to suppress the wince that threatened to tug at his features. Though the pain was outstanding, Netherlands sought to maintain dignity within the ruins of defeat. He was then unceremoniously escorted (rather, dragged) to the square outside of town hall where many of the citizens of Rotterdam remain trapped with the rest of the paratroopers who were armed at the ready. The heated flames of anger ignited in his chest once more; for them to hold arms against a civilian population…how despicable. This was not war; this was complete domination without honour. Strengthening his resolve, he stood a little taller, walked with more purpose despite the pain it caused him. His people would not watch him crumble. No, his strength was their strength and he would not let these Nazi vermin disgrace him in front of them.

Outside of the town hall, Holland spotted the city's mayor being shoved along into the square into the square looking understandably anxious. Mayor Müller, while escorted down the hall steps to and into the cobblestone square to stand beside Netherlands made eye contact with the nation sending looks of underlying fear. The mayor and Netherlands had been pulled past the previously called upon Colonel who was frowning in contempt (and was pulled outside of the city center and into the square along with the other evacuees of the city hall). Another Nazi waffen SS officer stood before them both, Germany taking his place dutifully by his side like the ever faithful lapdog.

"Goede kleine marionet." The Dutch nation mumbled backhandedly beneath his breath just loud enough for the Germanic nation to hear as he had passed. Though what had been said was in Dutch, Germany had very well comprehended the insult given, of this Netherlands had no doubt; Germany's bright blue eyes had settled on him with an icy glare.

Dutch was quite similar to German—they came from the same Germanic bloodline, after all.

The Gestapo, one by the name of J. Schultz, with a high forehead beneath his hat beside Germany began, "Now that everyone is present, perhaps we can begin. For convenience sake, I will speak in English. You do understand, don't you?" He waggled his gloved finger between the two of them. Netherlands only narrowed his eyes.

"What is it you want? You have no business being here." The mayor spoke in Holland's stead with ire.

The Nazi officer was not fazed by this, "We have business everywhere we wish to have business, mein freund," the Gestapo said a little too cavalierly as he lit a cigarette, his arrogance all but thickening the air itself. Taking a drag before continuing, "And we have some rather pressing business to discuss with you." He pointed at Netherlands with the cigarette tucked between his fingers. A beat had not yet passed before Netherlands gave his reply. "If only nations could be seized by premature Nazi arrogance," he deadpanned, "the Fuhrer would have no need for cowardly open warfare on innocent civilians."

There was a flash in Germany's eyes that might have been akin to guilt, there and gone in an instant; replaced once more by stony indifference. Meanwhile, his superior did not seem to share his seemingly unaffected sentiment and looked on Netherlands, livid. His remark had done exactly what it had set out to do and earned him a punch in the gut (one ordered by the Gestapo with a brief nod at one of his men) for good measure.

"Perhaps it would serve you well to remember that the safety of your people relies solely on your cooperation, Holländer." It was Germany now who hissed under his breath to Willem who was doubled over in pain, "If I were you, I would choose my words very carefully from now on." The underlying threat was clear but beneath the gruffness of Germany's steely tone of voice, the Netherlands somehow felt he was simply coaxing him to stop the wisecracks for the benefits of himself and his people. Netherlands, his head hanging low, glared up at the Nazi nation with indignation and defiance but refrained from making any more smart remarks.

"Now, on to negotiate the terms of Rotterdam's surrender…" Schultz said calmly but with a steely expectancy in his tone. Netherlands bristled while the mayor stiffened.

"We will do no such thing!" Mayor Müller exclaimed aghast.

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice." Germany chimed in, his riffle pointed safely to the ground but still an invaluable means of menace and threat. "Your forces are outmatched and we will have the entire city under our control in hours." He said bluntly, straight to the point as per usual. "The only choice you have is whether you would like to go willingly or not and I can assure you, it is in your best interest to relieve us of any extra hassle." He rumbled darkly, his tone dropping to a sinister murmur as he stared down the shorter man with a clear warning meant to intimidate.

The threat was clear—go without a fight and be conquered or invoke the brutal wrath of Germany by refusing and only piss them off further. Get slammed into the ground or get slammed into the ground harder. Obviously, the latter option was unthinkable as it was clear the Nazi party would win. Rotterdam's options were to bare a wound or one with salt rubbed in it. There were more important things at stake than pride of even freedom right now and everyone knew it.

The mayor frowned grimly, consulting the Netherlands with a grave stare at the Germanic "out of frying pan and into the fire" approach. It was obvious to Holland that the man was intimidated and slowly caving under the pressure. Netherlands, however, did not tear his eyes off the Germans in front of him for a second; his jaw ticked as he finally slid his gaze to the shorter man beside him in a side glance. Contrary to belief, nations did not have much say in what when on in their lands. Only certain times of great desperation did the country's wishes tend to pull through. It was difficult to explain to someone who wasn't a nation themselves that they both had a mind of their government, a mind of their people and a mind of their own. The people's wishes, dreams and life force spurred him on in what he felt and his governments controlled just how much he could actually do.

Müller wasn't so much asking his permission as he was hesitant to make his decision which he was sure the nation would resent. It was doubtless that Müller did not want to surrender any more than Holland did but it had to be done. Nevertheless, Netherlands inclined his chin ever so slightly as if he bid the mayor to come out and say it and that it indeed was all they could do; his final decision was needed now. The mayor saw this and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Sensing the crack in the mayor's demeanor, the SS officer spoke up once more in his usual slimy tone, "You and your people…or your nation," he paused to send a meaningful glare at Netherlands who sneered back, "will not face our wrath if you surrender now."

Sweat beading on his forehead, the mayor of Rotterdam wrung his hands nervously before casting one glance out into the square where countless German soldiers and his people held at gunpoint in the streets. A beat had passed before he sent one last pitiful glance at the wounded nation by his side and condoned his agreement. "I, on behalf of the city of Rotterdam, do so accept these terms." With the shake of the Gestapo's hand, and the mention of terms of surrender to be read and broadcasted over Rotterdam, the deed had been done and Rotterdam's surrender was final. The two were once again unceremoniously dragged down the city center steps and out into the square. Germany having already marched himself down the steps and further into the square where his waiting troops stood and briefly spoke to a few soldiers, undoubtedly making sure everything was in order.

The mayor had been shoved out with a gun at his back and the same went double for Netherlands who followed after in contempt. The Gestapo, flicking his cigarette to the ground as he ambled down the steps and into the square, passing the Germanic nation and paused in his stride to stand in front of Germany before ordering the stoic country, "Bomb it." Germany himself was taken aback by Schultz's orders but snapped out of his surprised dazed quickly, nodding his head to his superior although the Gestapo had stridden away. Netherlands felt the ground drop from under his feet, acid in his veins. His heart thundered with an unstoppable rage and desperation, his vision turned red, his entire being pulsing with fury and he felt all the anger inside of him swell and sing in a dissonant chorus of hatred. He himself could not hear his wordless fierce and earth trembling roar over the thundering heart beats in his head as he surged forward intent on breaking free of those who restrained him to tear every Nazi scum's throat out when Germany, the stony nation reared back and with one devastating blow from the butt of his rifle, plunged Netherlands into blackness.

"Bloody hell!" hissed Britain, slamming a fist tightly curled around a telegram onto the polished wooden table in his outrage, his hand narrowly missing the tea cup that rattled at the sudden brutish impact.

The United Kingdom's outburst had successfully garnered the Allies' attention as they stared in mild confusion at the unexpected display of his admittedly horrid temper. Even so, such an outlandish explosion from Arthur was a spectacle that was by no means indicative of good news.

"Mon Dieu, what now Arthur—more hate-mail for your scones?" came France's elegantly snooty quip which was more exasperated than it was downright annoyed and was followed by an obnoxiously loud laugh from America who sat beside said Frenchman.

For once, Arthur was above getting even with France although there was a flash of irritation in his narrowed jade eyes and an undeniable urge to do so if the furrowing of his overly thick brows was any indication. However, his failure to call France a "frog" or snap at America to "shut his Yankee mouth" was telling and did not go unnoticed by the rest of the Allies. This was a rather awful warning of just how bad the news was and it the feeling of foreboding was felt acutely around the room.

Without as much as a word, Britain tossed piece of parchment (rather crumpled from the crushing grip of his pale fist) onto the conference table. All allies seemed to lean in around the telegram which America had picked up and smoothed out in his gloved hands; reading a line aloud, "Germans have invaded STOP. Dutch city of Rotterdam in ruins STOP," he paused, his brow furrowing in pity, "Oh man—sucks to be Denmark."

France snatched the paper out from under the American's nose impatiently. "Dutch, not Danish! Netherlands has been invaded, you fool!" America seemed to blink when the drawn out "oh" left his lips was followed by another boisterous laugh of his. He had the decency to look sheepish as he chuckled nervously and rubbed the back of his neck.

Then, China's proud and annoyed voice chimed in, "America is barely literate; who even let him read in the first place?" he nagged, getting his two cents in as he always did. However, the nation to the right of Yao, Russia, smiled his ominous little smile and let out a tight-lipped giggle as if he were merely enjoying himself by simply being in the company of the group. It was an unnerving sight so to say the least.

"Well, my copyrighting friend, you can blame his education on Arthur. I would not allow such idiocy to have reigned through one of my beloved colonies." France replied conversationally to China, as if the eldest nation had been asking him personally. He had not. Despite this glaring fact, France continued chattily, "Nor would I have fed him the tasteless British food like he did which contributed a long history of America's bad eating habits or diabetes in his nation or—…"

"Oh shut it, frog!" Britain finally snapped, tearing the telegram away from said "frog" and slapped it across his face with a sharp whapping sound. France glared, aghast at the Brit's actions and was ready to fire off a few surly retorts but Britain cut him short. "Focus, you wankers!" he growled in annoyance, casting a glare around the table.

"This is no laughing matter!" Slapping the paper onto the table once more he grounded out, "Netherlands was an invaluable asset to our war effort! He provides us with momentous shipments of needed supplies through his ideal estuaries and ports." The British nation braced both hands on the desk and tapped his finger on the paper to further emphasize his point while he spoke. "If Netherlands and his ports are compromised we face a serious blockade in the German defense and a great shortage in supplies, therefore a great weakening in the offense of the Allied forces! Not only this, but the Nazis will have conquered perhaps one of the key trade roots of the world!" He slapped his palm on the blasted telegram with vigor.

A grave silence settled over the room as each nation digested the gravity of the situations and just exactly what the repercussions of Germany's occupation of Netherlands meant for the rest of the world's hopes of conquering the nightmarish monster that was Hitler's Third Reich.

"Uh, right…" the silence was broken however by an unsure America who idly scratched at his head in thought. "Um…but Britain, dude—what's an estuary?"

The atmosphere got a lot more pitiful only this time for America's often limited mental facilities. Britain looked like he was moments away from thrashing him (probably because he knew the other nations would somehow blame Britain as a bad educator for his former colony's lack of intelligence) as he let out a string of colourful British insults aimed at the nation that not even the English speaking America could comprehend while France sighed in his spot between the two English speakers, looking more and more like the exhausted "big brother" of the group as the meeting dragged on. China, arms crossed, stared at the western nations; his barely contained frustration escaping in muttered curses of his displeasure at the "immaturity of western nations, void of adequate teaching facilities" and that to reeducate America all it would take was "swift beatings". Meanwhile Russia's childlike smile grew all the more terrifying and otherworldly as each moment passed between the group and their fruitless arguing. One could practically feel an eerie aura swell around the violet eyed nation.

"Britain, leave him be. You know he won't learn anything." France muttered, pushing back his long golden locks out of his handsome face; for once playing big brother and mediator.

"Stay out of this, wine sniffer; he's not your responsibility!" snapped Britain.

France's eyes then narrowed dangerously. "He's not your responsibility either, Britain, or did you forget a little something called the American Revolution?"

That did it. Whatever good favour Britain and France had been holding throughout the meeting shattered and Britain, quick as a cobra's strike, grabbed a handful of France's expensive shirt collar and throttled him while America sighed, quite used to his former so called "guardians" brawling; reclining back in his chair, once again totally at ease since he was no longer the exclusive target for Britain's rampage. The sight was quite honestly an eyesore and didn't exactly inspire hope for the world's defense in the war against Hitler's armies when the very allies who banded together to stop the Nazi party from spreading were at war with each other.

"Isn't there anything we can do to help?" a soft and often unheard voice spoke up from the very end of the table before the sudden altercation could excel any further.

All at once the room seemed to halt in a listening silence.

"Who said that?" Britain demanded, ears perking up as he paused in his thrashing of the Franco nation to look around the room. "I thought I heard someone." He muttered, his thick brows furrowing pensively.

America, leaning back in his chair with his legs kicked up on the table, was well-adjusted to the scenario at hand and simply rolled his eyes, "Dude, you need to talk to someone about these hallucinations," muttered Alfred as he sipped on a bottle of coke he had cracked open around the time Britain began throttling France.

And France, who was still held firmly in Britain's grasp, pushed off the thick-browed nation with a hefty shove; smoothing out his now wrinkled shirt with distaste, "No, I heard it too. For once her Majesty is right." Casting a glance back to Russia, he raised an accusing brow at said nation, "It isn't another one of those vengeful spirits hovering around you again is it, Russia?" He asked with an air of annoyance laced suspicion.

Ivan blinked his eyes in a way that was all too innocent of the unpredictably sinister nation but seemed genuinely perplexed. "No. I do not think so. I have taken care of General Winter's restless spirit long ago." He answered easily, but his casual speech had the opposite effect of reassuring the room of nations; leaving them to wonder what sort atrocities took place for Ivan to put such a troublesome and, bluntly put, outrageously creepy problem to rest. It wasn't hard to be unnerved by one's imagination and Russia's sickeningly cheerful smile.

Russia…so creepy, the whole room seemed to think at once as they eyed the Russian nation warily.

"…It was me," came the voice, thoroughly startling the room once more before they all seemed to start again at finally taking notice to her petite form sitting at the very end of the table. The phantom speaker, with Russia and America on either side sat patiently, waiting to be acknowledged.

"Isn't there anything we can do?" said that soft voice once again, this time a little more insistently and much firmer than before.

Britain seemed to recover first and his expression of surprise faded into that of guarded annoyance. "Not to be rude, but who in bloody hell are you and who let you into our meeting?"

Canada tried hard to hide her disappointed and the frown that threatened to tug at her lips. "I'm Canada," said she.

"Canada? I don't know a…" he had trailed off before realization struck him. "Oh, Canada!" he said in surprise" It's you! I almost didn't recognize you." Britain murmured, rubbing at the back of his neck nervously at his own folly.

"Of course it is Canada, Britain!" France exclaimed upstarting, throwing his hands into the air as if it should have been obvious (and it should have; Britain had owned Canada for a couple centuries after all). "I think those monstrous brows of yours are interfering with your vision." He continued jovially under the guise that he had actually noticed Canada was present the whole time (he had not). Cooing, he stretched across the table, readying himself to hold his "Cherie" in his arms when, with a swift kick to France's unbalanced chair leg, Britain sent the Franco nation falling in a haphazard heap onto the floor with gusto; seemingly without missing a beat though, Britain politely inquired, "Beg your pardon, Canada but could you repeat that?"

The youngest nation at the table stifled a sigh, ignoring France's grumbling curses as he lifted himself up off the floor with no help from America who watched idly as he sucked back on a good old bottle of cola. She did not favour seeing meetings progress so fruitlessly this way when, with the time spent bickering, the allies could be planning on just exactly what they would do to save lives and relieve the world's sufferings. Still, she remained as patient as ever and carefully readjusted her glasses as she spoke, "Netherlands," she re-informed, "What can we do to help him?"

Britain hesitated briefly, giving her a look that spoke volumes on his discomfort of her attending their meetings this way. He had never truly agreed with Canada herself joining him in World War I but during the Great War, Canada's political ties to Britain were even stronger then than now and had served to bond her fate in the war to his. Canada, ever the loyalist nation to Britain and his monarchs, followed wherever he led. If he went to war, she went to war. It was as simple as that. If Great Britain bore arms, so did she and if he should charge into battle, crying out, "The game's afoot:Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!" she would be there, crying out along with him.

Yes, Britain never cared much for her personally following him on the European front but he, however, wanted and needed her man power. She was a female nation and a young one at that. She had not yet celebrated her 50th anniversary as an independent nation before she was called to the frontlines of the Great War. Britain felt it would be bothersome having to babysit and train such an amateur. It was her first real war after all and a nasty one at that. Whenever Britain didn't notice her, which was more often than not, she sat through the meetings without being singled out as "too young" to attend meetings. Britain eventually stopped complaining about her presence on the battle front once he quickly came to the shinning realization that Canada, despite her docile and mild mannered appearance, was an extremely desirable asset and underdog in the Allied war effort. Her men and herself included were resilient, resourceful and loyal to a fault which put them at Britain's happy disposal. She might have been proud of this at the time but she couldn't remember her brief joy at being useful to Britain's cause lasting very long for he thrusted her and her men onto the battle as a chess player might shuttle off a pawn across the board.

She decidedly repressed her memories of those days not so many years ago. She was practically still a child then and now, she was still just barely a young woman but duty called. She was more than willing to be Britain's gambit in this game of war before but was much less enthusiastic about it now. But what was she to do? The world was at war—what her sacrifices earned her where more important than what they cost her. She had hardened considerably as a nation since the Great War and the Great Depression that followed and was somber but determined in returning to her post.

Due to the stress of war, Canada had become bolder in speaking up at meetings. Her strength increased in times of crisis and she had no time to be comfortably silent. After Arthur's questionable pause, she repeated her question, "We are going to help them aren't we?" The Anglo nation frowned, clearly a mulling over something with careful consideration. Sighing, he finally sat in his chair. "I'm not so sure."

Canada's lips tugged down into a frown. "But since he has been captured it's likely that the German's have already overtaken their ports and no doubt sabotaged or stolen our shipments. This is vital, is it not? Besides all of that, the Netherlands has been nothing but a bother to the Third Reich's progression. I'm afraid to think of what they might do to retaliate—like mistreating him and his people more strongly than most…" she trailed off, loathe to imagine that she might be (and was) right.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, thinking. After another moment of thought, he shook his head, "No good, I'm afraid." said he, "We have more pressing issues to worry about than a few supplies amiss." He muttered, passing a hand through his blonde bedhead. He looked beyond tired and frustrated.

Meanwhile, the younger nation's brow furrowed at the contradiction of his words, "but you yourself stressed how important this is…" She paused, looking around at her fellow nations sitting around the table, silently entreating them with her eyes. "Besides, he's been nothing but good to us in his aid. We can manage it, right?" She said hopefully.

He nodded in exasperation, "Yes, yes. I'm aware. But there's nothing we can do about it at present. Our plate is already full." He murmured and waved his hand dismissively, idling over a few maps and papers of German munitions reports smuggled in from a spy of his.

France, leaning in, placed his hand over hers and patted it comfortingly, "Well, look at it this way, ma cherie," he said, coaxing her simply, "he knew the risk of aiding the allies" he said patiently then added lowly with distaste, "Although, knowing the stingy bastard, it was less out of the goodness of his heart and more so for the goodness in our wallets and loyal customer service from us."

But does that make a difference? thought she to herself, he is still in need of our help.

"Yeah," Canada's brother Alfred chirped, pausing to let out a loud belch (a direct side effect from the carbonated drink he had drained). The sound unsurprisingly making Yao sigh in disgust and surprisingly was enough to cause Ivan's firmly plastered smile to falter in distaste. "Chill, Maddy—dude's a beast, I'm sure he can handle a couple o' goose-stepping krauts by himself. We'll get to him later." Suddenly swung his legs down from the table and rocking back onto his chair legs, clutched at his stomach. "Which reminds me, Britain—is this meeting done? I'm starving, man."

Canada was a little affronted by the nonchalance around the room. She herself had not yet the pleasure (or displeasure judging by the way that the allies spoke of him just now) of ever meeting Netherlands personally before but she was sure he deserved to be saved just as much as anyone else in the room did. She knew they meant well and that the Allies indeed did have their metaphorical plates full (what with word of Belgium and Luxembourg facing Nazi invasion as well) but freeing the Netherlands—it could be done, right? The longer they waited to strike back at the German frontier there, the harder it would be to break through their defenses they would undoubtedly build with the rock solid foundations of time. Her caring nature didn't take well to just how easily the Dutch nation's fate was brushed aside—it made her feel a swell of frustration and pity for the situation at hand but she would say no more on forcing the topic when everyone else was in agreement that there were more pressing matters on their agendas to tend to.

Canada reasoned with herself that these were some of the greatest nations of old she had on her side and that they would handle things accordingly. She was simply a novice after all, right? It served to reason that these some ancient countries should know their way around battlefields and strategies better than her. Perhaps she was too hasty in wanting to jump in to help so fast? No matter, for she had faith in these nations that she looked up to. She trusted them to do the right thing and without a doubt, they would find a way to aid the Dutch nation in months and if they were really lucky, weeks!

But that was all bullshit and she knew it.

Although she had some faith that these nations could accomplish great things, she remembered the first war all too clearly and the careless and foolhardy mistakes they had made before. She herself could hardly move without Britain's approval, so she practically had her hands tied. Even if the Great War had finally distinguished herself as a nation and not a simple colony of Britain's, she was considered more of a tool rather than an ally. Canada had no plans of allowing this to remain any longer if too many lives were lost at the mistakes of Britain's insistence on holding back but for now there was nothing to do but follow orders. Hence, she decided she would bide her time but could only pray that Netherlands could hold on long enough for their aid to reach him because she had a truly bad feeling about this whole conundrum and when Canada had a gut feeling, she was hardly ever wrong.

After all, it wouldn't be long before they could help the Dutch nation out of his rut; not long at all.

But little did the hopeful nation know that she was wrong…very, very wrong.

September, 1944
Allied Report via Arthur Kirkland
900 hrs

Netherlands soon to enter fourth year under Nazi Germany's occupation. Allied armies have begun marching on South German occupied Netherlands via France and Belgium. First airborne strike attempt at breaching German defenses have failed. Until next Allied attempt at liberation in the foreseeable future, Netherlands remains in the hands of Germany.

Author's Note:

Well, I hope that was enjoyable for everyone!

I had originally planned to keep many more events in but I think that 20+ pages on the first chapter is pushing it, don't you? Therefore, I just saved it for the next coming chapter which will be set in the present day (for the most part).

I realize there were quite a few foreign languages/phrases in here so I've taken the liberty of translating them here for you (or rather google has so please correct me if these are wrong).

TRANSLATIONS/PHRASES:

*"moeder" translates from Dutch to "mother"

*When Netherlands yells, "NAZI BASTAARD!" it is meant to be said in Dutch which apparently is practically the same as English.

*"Ja" translates from German to "yes"

*"Goede kleine marionet" translates to, "Good little puppet"This was very purposefully meant to be a very low and sharp remark from Netherlands towards Germany's mindlessly obedient actions during that dark time in history.

*"Holländer" translates from German to "Dutchman"

*"Mein freund" translates from German as, "my friend"

*"The game's afoot:Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!" is a famous phrase from Shakespeare's play Henry V act iii scene i and is used as a encouraging war cry before rushing off into battle. I imagined Britain would say something like this to his troops before they ran into the jaws of death.

*"(ma) cherie" translates from French to "(my) dear" or "dearest" essentially.

Lastly, "Mon Dieu" translates from French to "My God"

And if you don't understand what Arthur means when he uses the word "wanker", I'll leave you to look that last one up at your own discretion.

Until next time!