Scars and struggles on the way
But with joy our hearts can say
Never once did we ever walk alone
- Matt Redman, 'Never Once'
Disclaimer: I can only wish I owned Hetalia.
I wouldn't have pegged France as the type to have many ghosts. It doesn't fit his personality. And yet, there they are, surrounding him. One in particular, a pretty young woman in armor, hovers by his side, her expression a strange mix of disapproval and love.
There is another of his ghosts that stands out - a figure in military regalia, whose stance indicates he had risen and fallen out of power too quickly for his liking.
The rest of France's ghosts appear as common folk of varying ages, both men and women. They whisper something, a word I have to strain to catch. "La guillotine." It sends a little shiver down my spine, prompting Lithuania to send me a concerned glance.
There are two ghosts behind him and Poland, a man and a woman. Their dress is refined, and their fingers are twined together. It strikes me that they seem slightly apathetic towards each other, much like Poland and Lithuania try to be.
I turn my gaze back to France, but find no more distinct ghosts, so I move on to England. He is an interesting case, as well.
He has but one ghost: a woman whose expression shows me how much she has devoted herself to her country. The way her hand falls on his shoulder, silver band glinting on her finger, somehow draws my eyes to the little bulge in England's glove, suggestive of a ring.
America, on the other hand, is predictable. A small group of old men mostly in flaxen white wigs share the forefront with a woman wearing a jacket similar to his. The men stand dignified, their features stoic. The woman has a bright smile, and stands relaxed at America's side.
In the background, I can see two distinct groups: military and civilian.
The military men - I can now see a few civilians among them - radiate fear and shock, and the edges of their clothes are singed, their faces blackened by ash.
The civilians have the same feel to them, but the main difference is in the way they stand. They cower, while the military men stand tall.
I don't want to look at them anymore; for some reason, it makes me uncomfortable.
I turn to Prussia, who shouldn't be here, since he doesn't even have a country to represent anymore. Like England, he has only one ghost, but his is an old man with white hair and a kind face. He stands to Prussia's right, his hand resting lightly on the former nation's shoulder. I see how his attire resembles the old outfit Prussia once decided to wear to yet another World Meeting he shouldn't have attended.
I move on from the irritating albino, finding that Austria also has a single ghost. But she doesn't interest me much, so I skip over to the America lookalike. What's his name? Canadia? No, it's Canada. I think.
He has no ghosts. This piques my interest. In all of his history, he hasn't grown attached to someone or had anything happen to give him a ghost? I will have to investigate that at a later time, though, because I find my eyes drawn to Finland, who, for someone with such a sweet appearance, bears an impressive number of ghosts.
Almost every one of them has a rifle slung across his back, and all of them are dressed for extremely cold weather. Their expressions are determined, with just enough fear to make one wonder what they were up against.
I can't stand to look at them any longer for the same reason I had to look away from America's ghosts. It makes me feel strangely uncomfortable.
China catches my brief attention. His ghost - for he has only one - is clearly of a high status. His face gives nothing away. Neither do his stance or position in relation to the Asian country. It's almost as if he's trying to tell me that there's nothing worth examining him about.
I nod to myself and move on.
Japan has ghosts in spades. Every one of them is tainted, poisoned, just like all of sister's ghosts. When I look at them too long, I fancy I can hear the echoes of their screams - horror, pain, anguish, and shock all in one blood-chilling sound.
And just like sister's ghosts, Japan's are a mix of men and women of all ages, some too young to leave their mothers. My heart clenches at the realization. The little ones do not deserve to be poisoned that way; I can still see the light of innocence shining in their glassy eyes.
But then again, it's better they were able to keep that innocence. The world would soon have beaten it out of them had they lived.
Another interesting case. Italy and Romano have a ghost standing between them. The brothers might be sensitive to the other kind, because they unconsciously shift away as their ghost drifts closer. One of his hands is on Italy's shoulder, the other, on Romano's. Italy stops lulling himself half to sleep with his mumblings of pasta to shift further away from his ghost and latch onto Germany. Romano's perpetual scowl flickers into an expression of genuine fear as he is forced to move closer to his ghost to angrily - and with much shouting - detach his brother from the other nation.
I decide that I've observed them long enough and turn to Germany, surprised to see that he has ghosts enough to rival brother. One stands out in his military attire. He looms over the nation, and for a fleeting moment, Germany cowers as though he can sense it. There is an unmistakable air of authority surrounding him, but there is also a certain set to his stern face that tells me it was built on others' desperation.
The rest of his ghosts are deathly thin, with tattered clothes and terrified expressions. They cling to each other, each struggling to get away from the ghost nearest Germany. But they can't get too far. They are bound here by Germany's presence.
Where he goes, so do his ghosts. Such is the law of the afterlife.
I can no longer look at his ghosts, though for a different reason than my looking away from America's and Finland's. If I look at them any longer, I will do more than shiver.
I will cry.
Onto brother, whose ghosts I can name in my sleep. I know them all. I don't even need to glance to know who stands where and how they gaze at him.
She is at his right shoulder in her elegant dress. She's a very pretty young woman, unmarked except for a scar on her forehead, mostly hidden by her bangs. Her fingers toy desperately with his scarf, but she is intangible, so they pass right through and he feels nothing. She does not like me. We never met during her lifetime, but she does not like me. I understand why.
I can give him what she couldn't.
But brother wants her. And brother can't have her, so he takes out his affection on Lithuania instead.
Then there's the boy, who can barely stand and needs to be supported by three other pretty young women. They are behind brother, wanting to call for him but unable to.
Off to their left are a man and a woman. Their stance is noble, as are their clothes. They bear more than a passing resemblance to the boy and four young women, but their manner is much more aloof, as if it would be below them to call for brother even though they want to deep inside.
Directly behind the boy is a man with a crooked stance to match his crooked grin. He is not dressed wealthily, but he is not dressed humbly either. One of his hands is outstretched towards the boy, and the other is outstretched towards the woman. Both are held higher than normal, like those of a Puppetmaster playing with his marionettes.
Two more men are at brother's left shoulder. They set him on edge despite his blindness to the other kind, but still they stand where an advisor would and appear for all intents and purposes perfectly harmless.
The rest of brother's ghosts are divided into two groups, one consisting of just a few people, the other, of seemingly thousands.
The first group have their hands raised in protest against brother. They are angry. It's obvious in their faces, but behind that there's just a twinge of fear and doubt.
The second group is much harder to describe. Some are broken and hollow, others are proud and defiant. But all are drawn in on themselves to be protected from a wind that does not blow in these parts. Fear of General Winter is written into the folds of their thick clothes and painted in their eyes. They huddle together for warmth they do not need here, but seem to draw comfort from doing so anyway.
I still have not looked at brother. I want to. I want to more than anything else. But if I look at brother, I'll start begging him for marriage, and then he'll cry and run away from me, and then I'll be forced to chase him and we'll have wasted hours by the time all's said and done.
No, better not to look at brother so he lets me stay close to him.
I take in the ghosts of the world again, knowing it is the only thing that will keep me from caving and looking at brother.
At times like these, I wish the other nations could see ghosts.
Because I would love to know my own.