a/n: On August 06, 1806, the Holy Roman Empire was dissolved.
If you're looking for really sad HRE/Italy that's much better than my pathetic attempts, I recommend you check out Flag on the Marble Arch. Link: http:/ /www. fanfiction. net/ s/7044278/ 1/Flag_on_the_Marble_Arch You know the deal with spaces, I think.
These wonderful characters are not mine. The title is actually supposed to be Stained-Glass Window, but ffnet doesn't like hyphens.
I hope you enjoy this. Feedback is appreciated but not required.
Light from the stained-glass windows filtered onto the stone floor, leaving patches of color and whirling dust motes. The tiny chapel was silent, peaceful, the echoes of footsteps long since faded away.
Outside, the sun shone warmly and the city hummed with chatter, the rumble of engines, the rustle of wind in the trees. Inside was a little bubble of quiet, of peace, of pause. The world held its breath, inside, and tiptoed past the the figure kneeling in a pew, hands clasped before him and eyes closed. Now and again one of the tears glimmering on his eyelashes would break away and slide down his cheek.
Every year, on this day, Italy's world stopped for a moment. When the sun next rose, he would pick himself up again and keep going, smile tacked to his face as usual, but for this one day, he stopped, and remembered his first love. Remembered the shining blue eyes, the short blonde hair, the shyness. Remembered the way his hand felt under Italy's as together they guided a paintbrush. Remembered their first and only kiss, before Holy Rome went away to war.
Remembered waiting by the window, staring out into the distance as though that would make him come home sooner. Remembered France, bringing the news that had shattered his heart and world like a stained-glass window, pieces splintering and falling until it was impossible to tell what the picture had been.
The Holy Roman Empire is dead.
Italy hadn't wanted to believe it, at first. Holy Rome had promised to return! He would keep his promise, right?
Right?
But France had not laughed, had not said, "Just kidding!" and slowly, Italy had realised that it was true, and the stained-glass window had cracked and broken.
That day had been over two centuries ago, now, and Italy was starting to pick up the pieces and put the picture back together. It was hard—the memory of the picture was unclear, and the little fragments of world-glass, of heart-glass, cut his fingers—but he tried. Only on this one day did he allow himself to stop working, just for a day, and remember Holy Rome, and cry.
His breath caught in a sob, and the sound was like the crack of glass breaking in the silent chapel. Brought back to the present, Italy glanced up. From the angle of the light through the stained-glass windows, it was getting on towards evening. He should probably leave soon.
He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and breathed out slowly. No one else, not even his brother, knew where he went on this day, or why he disappeared so suddenly, and he intended to keep it that way. This day belonged to him and the memory of Holy Rome alone.
Italy got to his feet, wincing as his calves and feet tingled, asleep from staying in the same position all day. He made himself focus on getting the blood flowing in his legs, deliberately and carefully not thinking of anything else. Once he was back in working order, he spoke for the first time since he had entered the chapel this morning.
"Until next year, Holy Rome. Even after all these centuries, I still love you."
He turned and left the chapel, leaving the whirling dust motes and the patches of color behind. In the silence and the stillness, the last evening light shone through the stained-glass windows.