Author: Cyhirae
Notes: Dark/AU & dream inspired fic here folks. Post Apocalyptic Hetalia fics have been popping up all over and I decided "hell with it" and jumped aboard that ship. It's always a fun setting to write in. Now a warning: I have no idea how long this fic will be, who all will be in it beyond Gilbert/Prussia and so forth. There is also character death, starting right here in this chapter. Not a cheery, happy story. Updates will happen as they happen- might be daily, might be weekly; could even be monthly depending on when inspiration/further dream segments decide to say hi, so don't hold your breath on updates. Now then~ -I also need a better name for this story.
Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine. Good thing too; I like silly fun crack. I just can't write it.
The days this figure had worn white with a black cross emblazoned on it had been long ago; since the attendance of Old Fritz to the throne, he hadn't even uttered so much as a prayer to the Lord in Heaven. Now he was praying and cursing at that long ignored figure in equal parts as he knelt by his brother in the ruins of Berlin.
"Please, they need him; that's reason enough ain't it?" Shaking hands rested on the still blonde's chest, pressing down in a futile attempt to rouse the heart beat again. "God, please, damn you! Do something- help him!"
Tears have made the form indistinct to the man 'praying' and turned red-violet eyes a pale pinkish hue before they trace down a soot and filth covered cheek to reveal the too-pallid skin beneath. The man on the ground looked to be the healthier one by far, but his eyes were closed, his chest unmoving when the kneeling man pulled his hands up so he could listen for a heart beat.
I know it's hopeless…. Gilbert closed his eyes to deny more tears as he set his hands to his brother's chest once more. I know it's hopeless…but damn you, God- if this is why you didn't take me when the Wall fell, then to Hell with you!
Old Fritz would be appalled to have heard he even thought such things; Old Fritz would be appalled at a lot of the things that had happened in the past few years. To see Berlin reduced to an empty, toxic shell like so many other nations' capitals in this idiotic war; to know how many people died in each strike when they weren't even able to call on anyone to help them.
Gilbert raised his hands from his brother's corpse at last; the body had cooled now…he could feel the death-chill beneath the clothes, mocking all of his efforts and prayers. Ludwig was gone; Deutschland was gone.
America, England, France, Spain and now Germany; and those were just the ones he knew about. What about in South America? Or Africa or Asia? Was anywhere safe from this massacre?
"Probably not Asia…" It had all started there, after all. If there was a single surviving nation there, it was probably China; Yao had already survived through things just as bad in their own way and his 'children' were all over the world. He had to give the Chinese credit- they were incredibly good at staying 'themselves' no matter where they went. No damned wonder Yao was all but immortal.
If only West had done the same… Gilbert shook those thoughts away and picked his brother's body up with an unnecessary gentleness. He was dead, after all. What was he going to feel? Gilbert had gathered hundreds of corpses from the field and tossed them into their communal graves before. But this one particular body he couldn't be so careless about. He wandered through the ruins of the city, moving toward where he sensed life still holding on.
Ludwig was gone; and now his people were Gilbert's to sense and care for once again. All things had come full cycle, apparently…what Gilbert had once given to his brother to save him now came back to him on Ludwig's death.
If this was what it had taken to become a proper nation again, Gilbert would have happily remained in that little corner of Ludwig's house for all eternity. His hands tightened on the still form, the blonde head tucked briefly under his chin as Gilbert did all he could to stifle down a sob. He hadn't felt this empty since Old Fritz had died…but Old Fritz hadn't left this kind of painful legacy to remind him, either.
Every breath these people took of this poisoned air that seared his lungs, every beat of their hearts that he could feel in his own chest again; he could never escape that. He had longed for it again for so long; well. Be careful what you wish for all right…look what it took to grant it.
"Halt! Identifizieren Sie sich!" Gilbert drew up short at that shout and the sound of guns being readied; he had found the survivors he'd been looking for, evidently; none of their attackers could speak German with that distinct snap. And there were even military among them if the grade of those weapons ad the fact they were holding them right was anything to go by; even better.
"Gilbert Beilschmidt; you don't know me but any surviving high ranked officer or governmental elite will know the man I am carrying." Reluctantly, he settled Ludwig down on the ground between them and backed away; he had to get to whomever was now in charge. "Take him to be identified and tell whoever identifies him that his brother is here."
These people couldn't stay here; they were all going to die if they did. He could feel it in every inch of his being, on a level that reminded him of the old horrors of the Black Plague. It would take them too long to figure this out through their typical means; this was why beings like them existed. Or so Ludwig had kept saying over and over again when faced with Gilbert's absolute lack of interest in being the local population barometer back when Prussia had still existed.
'Not the way I live, West~' , he'd always so cheerfully stated to his brother's frustration. 'That's what the bosses are for; the only reason I'm here is to fight!' And that's precisely what he'd done for centuries. He'd never thought he'd regret it…but watching the men collect Ludwig's body and carry it off into the camp to be identified, he was suddenly finding new room for regrets.
Gilbert sat in the ruins of the street, under the watchful eye of the remaining guards and their guns. He took a mental step back from himself and regarded the scene; he wasn't exactly an inspiring sight in an inspiring place, was he? No building was whole along this avenue; probably why the refugees had hidden here. The place was already bombed to hell and back, the skies a permanent shade of charcoal grey from all the smoke and dust from the attacks. They were probably still busily tearing apart the side of Berlin that still looked inhabitable while the people hid in these unstable ruins to avoid being caught. And then there was him; ragged, faded jeans covered in blood and dirt, an equally ragged tank top of now indeterminable color- the only thing that stood out was the iron cross hanging around his neck.
Bet they think it's one of those cheap goth store knock offs. Gilbert closed his hand over the cross, feeling the sharp edges and engravings press against his palm. But where it had once given him some sense of stability…now there was nothing. God had let him down; Ludwig was dead. Heh…not that I was much of a holy knight but was I bad enough to deserve this, God?
"Beilschmidt!" That sudden bark rose over the ruins as a uniformed figure ran up between the guards that kept watch. Guns were quickly raised as the General waved them back, then stared hard at the ragged albino as he pulled himself to his feet. "Are you-"
"Yeah, you're stuck with me now. I know; it's not givin' me a whole lot of hope either." A try is made for the usual devil may care grin; it doesn't last long on Gilbert's face as no chastising comment comes from the usual corner for him to take things more seriously. That particular scolding would never happen again. "I'm out of practice but we'll see what happens- not like it can get any worse."
The General frowned deeply for a moment, looking the other over again before he waved a hand for Gilbert to follow him. He didn't know a lot about these 'incarnate' nations; only that the now acting President had all but leapt to hear that while 'special officer' Ludwig had died, his brother was apparently alive and well. He didn't see a bit of Ludwig's discipline in this sickly, pale figure, however. He walked with his hands tucked in his pockets and head and shoulders slouched in exhaustion; something that seemed to be getting that much worse the closer they got to the encampment proper.
"Damn…oh damn; you guys don't even have any real food supplies, do you?" That comment came as the albino staggered abruptly, catching his arm to steady himself. "Shit, this is gonna be bad…" The General blinked and paused to let the man get his bearings again as he rambled on. "That's it, we need to leave yesterday. The west side still has some intact basements; the bombings didn't do more than some surface damage. Should be some stuff in there, yeah?"
The albino rambled on as they neared the half-intact structure the acting-President was holding council in; unlike the General, pure relief was all that showed when he laid eyes on Gilbert. Then his eyes snapped to the General.
"Has he been making any suggestions, General?"
"He was talking about intact basements on the west side but how could he-" The acting-President stared at him for a long moment, then slammed a fist down onto the rickety table between them.
"Send people out right now then; if anyone would know there's a chance, he would! Hurry; we don't have long before they discover this place!" The General stiffened and glowered at the acting-President, then roughly saluted and left the shell of a building at a rigid pace. Gilbert frowned at that sudden stab of pain; these were two influential men who were either going to tear these people in two or save them. Right now, it was looking to be the former.
"Not really a good time for in fighting; why don't you save the sweet nothings for when you're not about to die?" The acting-President gave a start at those words, then blinked at the albino as he walked to the side. Ludwig was there, though thankfully now covered in something- probably curtains from this building -to act as a burial shroud. Not that it would be needed much longer; nations didn't leave corpses that lingered long.
"Pardon? At any rate, Beilschmidt; can you-"
"I can tell you that everyone's gonna die if we stay here. You need to get supplies, arms and any kind of transportation you can get your hands on and get the hell out of here. Trucks, cars, bicycles, horses- if it moves and can carry someone, use it! Everything's poisoned here; they don't have to find you now. They just have to keep you pinned down until you die. And that's not gonna take very long."
The acting-President took a long, bewildered look at the incarnate nation kneeling by the shrouded body. He had dealt with Ludwig plenty of times, but he had never met the 'brother' the nation had occasionally mentioned. They couldn't have been more different; Ludwig was never one to act like he was giving the commands for one thing.
'Well? What're you going to do- try to feed yourself by catching flies with your mouth hanging open?" Gilbert didn't bother to turn to face the man as he watched that shroud…finally, it was sinking down. Ludwig was well and truly gone. "…Sleep well, West; might be seeing you real soon if these idiots can't get their acts together. And they call themselves German!"
The scorn in the tone dug deep as the acting-President stood straighter, glowering at the albino nation. Undaunted, Gilbert stood from the now empty shroud and turned to face the man with an even glare right back, head tilted back slightly as he crossed his arms. He could feel the people now; they were dying but they weren't going down without a fight.
If he could just get this guy and the General to stop fighting each other, they just might have a chance.
"All right, listen up 'Mr. President'; I'm Gilbert Beilschmidt, Ludwig's older brother. Like it or not, you're stuck with me and I'm going to keep this country going even if it kills you. Until you decide which one of you's really in charge, I'm giving the orders and you damned well better listen!" Two potential leaders arguing meant there wasn't a leader; and a vacuum of authority was something Gilbert couldn't let stand. He never answered to two leaders before, he wasn't about to start now.
It's a flurry of activity from that point on; orders drawn up for reconnaissance and salvaging, preparations being made for a full scale retreat with refugees of the civilian kind in tow. Gilbert ground his teeth in frustration at the process, but kept up the confident exterior as he barked out each order to the equally offended acting-President and General both.
Good, let 'em be offended. Gilbert didn't bother to keep his smirk down at the thought. At least they're agreeing on something. He turned his attention back to the evacuation and march preparations, a frown trying to wipe the smirk away.
Damn you, God, for taking West…and damn you, West, for not telling me a damned thing about this! All he knew was the attacks were coming from the west; the United States had been hit first, then it had gone eastward from there. He had no idea if Canada or any of the South American countries were intact. All he knew was which way the attacks were coming from and that the original problem had started in everyone's favorite problem-child country, North Korea. Wonder if they're even still around after kicking over this can of worms.
Gilbert stared at the map for a long moment; if they had hit France and Spain…damn it, Francis, Antonio…not you, too…Then Italy was no safe haven even temporarily. He'd be amazed if it was even still standing. So south was out; that left north and east, with the attacks coming out of the west.
"…No time to get ships ready; east it is." Apparently it was time to pay Europe's cross dressing Slavic a visit. Not something he was looking forward to; getting Feliks to take anything seriously was like asking Ludwig to not- Gilbert shook his head abruptly to break that line of thought as the treacherous sting of tears strikes at his eyes again. No time for that and it just wasn't something men should do anyway, right?
With one last glance to the empty shroud, Gilbert picked up the orders he had written out and went to find the acting-President and General. He'd get the low down from them on the way about just who was against them right now. Even he couldn't fight an enemy without some information.
Old Fritz, I've bothered you for some pretty silly stuff but seriously- help me out here. -And kick West for leaving me to deal with this. I lead armies, not civilians! Well…no help immediately manifested so Gilbert took a deep breath, steadied his shoulders to something like his usual confidence and gave the orders to the disbelief of General and acting-President alike.
A hard march from Germany to Poland, picking up any survivors they found along the way while fleeing an enemy he knew nothing about. He might start believing in God again if they make it; it was going to take a miracle to do it.
~To be continued, eventually.
Afterward: Just a note; human characters will never have names in this. True to Hetalia form, if they're not historical figures, they're just sorta there and occasionally make commentary without ever having an actual identity or detailed description pinned to them. Fairly sure the one line of (probably grammatically mauled) German was fairly obvious, but for those who really want to know? "Halt! Identify yourself!".