Title: Theatre of War
Author: sithmarauder
Pairing(s): Prussia/Austria
Disclaimer: Hetalia and all affiliated characters do not (and will never) belong to me.
I might have a small obsession with Prince Caspian. With Peter. Very with Peter.
Either way, I had the idea for this while watching, yes, Prince Caspian, though I will admit to having fostered the idea for awhile – particular after reading KleineVogel's Proposal.
Note: Prussia refers, of course, to Frederick II/IV/the Great ("Old Fritz"). Maybe if I write enough someone will call me "A.J. the Great".
Honestly, I'm not too proud of this one. It felt really awkward the whole time I was writing it (and no, I don't know why), and I'm currently sitting in the corner of my room panicking because of it (I'm absolute petrified of the prospect of not being able to write). Apologies in advance.
-x-
It's such a treat to see him fight. The little master, the Austrian superpower, descending from his palace all dressed in white, holding his gleaming sword out in front of him with an air of superiority and defiance. To the assembled men, he looks out of place with his clean, neat clothing and his unmistakable poise; not like an angel, no, but not like a soldier, either. Not like them, not like his men, with their dark clothing and their postures of aggression and readiness.
The Prussians must match their nation absolutely, after all.
"Ready to lose, little master?"
The calm façade of the other nation morphs into a mask of anger as Austria stares him down, the distance between them great, as it always has been. Even from here, though, Prussia can see violet eyes flashing, and it makes his blood sing. He's ready for this. He's been ready for this for a long, long time. Austria has been in power for a prolonged amount of time, and finally his arrogance, his misplaced sense of surety, will be crushed under the sheer might of Prussia. Austria has had his chance to avoid it; he and that woman would have agreed to the proposal, if they had truly wanted to avoid it. But Austria had turned him down, a disdainful look on his face as he had done so. And so Silesia will remain his, he swears; it will remain his, and he will never return it.
"How does it feel, little master?" Prussia taunts again. "How does it feel, knowing how weak you are? Why, I bet you haven't fought a real battle in years!"
"You will return what you have occupied, Prussia! What you have done is an acute violation of the Pragmatic Sanction!" Austria hisses back, his posture never faltering. "Is your word worth so little that you're willing to go back on what you agreed to not even fifty years ago?"
"Stuff happens, little master; we don't want a woman on the throne!"
Austria's demeanour shifts again, and he smiles at Prussia – a smile not born of kindness, but of aloof superciliousness and, to Prussia's rage, pity. He snarls at the Austrian, his eyes narrowing as he draws his sword and repeats the same words he had shouted earlier, this time with more anger behind them – anger and sheer determination.
He will not lose. He will make Austria beg and plead for a mercy he will not show.
"Ready to lose, little master?"
"I will never lose to one such as you!"
Prussia smirks then, and violet meets red head-on.
"I can't wait to hear you begging for your life."
That does it. Men shout then, rushing forward, the beasts they ride screaming their own deaths as they charge towards the awaiting Austrian forces, but Prussia doesn't see it at all. No. Instead, all he sees is the way his sword clashes against Austria's, steel meeting steel with a resonating clang that seems to rise above all other sounds; all he hears is the way Austria grunts as he struggles to avoid Prussia's attacks, his breath coming in short pants; all he feels is Austria's lips against his own as he drags the other nation towards him, a firm arm around the waist preventing Austria from drawing back.
Even then it is only later, when Austria lies panting and weak beneath him, that Prussia actually allows himself to bask in the pleasure.
"Haha! How shockingly weak!"
"Let go of me!"
But he doesn't.
"Painter! Come immortalize the face of Austria the loser, so that I may look upon it whenever I so chose!"
"E-England!" Austria shouts, and Prussia suppresses a snort of satisfaction as they both read the note England has left behind.
"It appears you have no one left to turn to, little master. Where are all your precious allies now?"
He leaves Austria there on the battlefield then; leaves him there to realize just how far he has fallen, and just how much he has lost to Prussia – how much he will continue to lose to others as they come to pick him apart. It's strangely… fitting.
Adjusting his hat on his head, Prussia looks back only once, and the look on Austria's face when he does – one of pure hatred and brazen anger – is well worth it.
"See you later, Austria," he says lowly as he continues to walk away, Victory covering him with her powerful shroud.
But next time we meet, little master, I won't be letting you off so easily.