This is, for now, the first in a line of one-shots with Switzerland, that portrays his changes and developments through time. I'll put them in order from earliest to last, and I have a few other ideas, but I won't promise that I'll make any more of these than the three I'll put up today. Most likely I won't have time to make them, as I'm also making a lot of other things and I will start on writing my book in a moment.

Warnings: A lot of blood and fighting, hence the rating.

This story is able to go on anywhere from about 1480s-1530s, which is the height of the their mercenary time as well as makes the presence of handguns greater. They were mercenaries from about 1420, though, after beating up the surrounding nations enough to acknowledge their military proficiency and give up sending this 'bunch of peasants' back in its place.

Bloody Tips

The smallest bit of adrenaline had already been unleashed in his veins as he stood in front of his people, holding on to the pike loosely in one hand. Further up the line, to his right and his men's left, the King of France was doing exactly the same as he. Talking to the troops. Getting them ready for battle.

If he turned his head he would have seen France standing beside his king, as he was standing beside the leader of his band. But unlike France, he wasn't silent, and both he and the leader of the Swiss mercenary band took turns in yelling to their troops.

"The battle is on!" the human screamed, raising his pike. The men were listening, waiting for their moods to flare at the words of their captains. They wore clothes, and they were shining red compared to the blue coats of the rest of the Frenchmen. But they had no armor.

"The enemy is in front of us!" the nation himself yelled, standing as tall as he could with his small stature. A wave came through the crowd with growing excitement, yet he didn't lift his pike to greet them back.

"Look at them," the human continued, gesturing to the other side of the battlefield. They were facing the flank, and their task was to not fall behind the middle of the army to make sure it wouldn't get exposed. At the same time they had to not get too far in front and make their own situation vulnerable – unless it should prove the right choice for victory.

"They're petty!" the nation added to the human's words, seemingly mixing in to his words so naturally and easily. Like they fulfilled one another as they stood in front of their men. And said men gave a roar, distinguishing themselves from the rest of the army in a feral growl.

"Unimportant!" the human yelled. Under loud cries farmers and workers dressed in red clothes raised halberds, pikes and the occasional crossbow or a very rare handgun. Handguns… ugh, he hated those handguns.

"They're our targets!" the nation finished, an eerie undertone in his voice. A new roar, even louder, yet not a single one made a move to break the line and charge unthinkingly. Only a few, young people very silent, too worried for their first, second or third battle to roar along with their elders.

"Have you understood your role in this battle?" the French Constable asked two Swiss men, and both gave curt nods in agreement. The French King and his nation were not far away, and they were sent blue eyed looks every once in a while. "Magnifique," the Constable continued, nearly dismissing them before he lifted his hand, getting attention to his small form.

"Who will be our direct opponents?" he asked, and there were no emotions in his voice. "Who are we placed against?" As the French human met his eyes he couldn't suppress a shiver. There was more life in the eye of a corpse, and as a soldier he had seen many of those. The green eyes of what to him was an apprentice captain, a mere child, were empty.

Still he forced himself to continue. "We thought to fight fire with fire," he explained, seeing a small realization in the eyes of the Swiss captain as the man's eyes slightly widened. "You're against-"

"Thieves!" the human captain yelled. Beside them the French were beginning to get excited as well, but if it were the reactions from the Swiss mercenaries beside them or the words from their own leader you could not know.

"Liars!" The Swiss were ready to fight, though.

"Cowards!" Their weapons were raised again.

"Germans!" The nation spat it like filth contaminating his mouth. Pikes and halberds were slammed into the ground, growls following.

"That's what our enemy is!" A new howl as the older men realized who they were up against.

"They're Landsknechte!" The roars changed from excitement to anger at the sound of the name of the bitter and hated rivals. It got so violent even the more nervous couldn't keep silent, driven by the collective atmosphere of the soldiers. The collective readiness to kill, fight, stab. Their want for blood, or the money that blood brought.

"If we are up against them," the supposedly young man with dead eyes said, "then I expect you to cover us. At least a little bit. Or you cannot enjoy our services to the fullest." The man's voice grew darker at those words, like magic creating an atmosphere of shadows.

Even the French Constable moved in uncertainty. The man's size didn't make the effect lesser. There was something about him, a lacking care, an emptiness, like Death hung around him with black arms draped around his shoulders. "You are responsible for yourselves. It's your duty to be the most effective force on the market, even as warfare changes."

The green eyes shot lightning at him after those words. It seemed half a threat to make them unemployed, and the Swiss captain developed a worried glint in his eyes. "It's your choice to hire us," the green eyed nation just said, still sounding empty as his voice was venomous. The battle was just about to start and they had a struggle going on amongst themselves. On the side France was watching closely, ready to break them apart. "We have found the way to fight which serves us best, and we will try to keep it until it serves us no more."

The captain's eyes moved to the side and found the Frenchmen, getting the sign he needed to show that they were ready to engage in combat. "Remember!" he continued, this time to his own men. "If you break line, you die! Keep order!"

"Keep discipline!" the nation beside him bellowed, finally gripping the pike with both hands.

"No running!" the human said.

"No hiding!" the nation continued.

"No fleeing!"

"No cowering!"

"Every man makes the army!"

"You keep fighting until something different is told!"

"And even then you keep order! Do not break the line!"

"Understood?!"

"Yeah!" the men yelled, each and every one, raising their weapons a last time before collectively letting them fall into their hands, readying for battle. Keep order. Keep discipline. No breaking the line. That was what they were always told, in training, in combat, everywhere. No one should flee. When the first one fled the others might follow.

And then, despite the wish to engage in bloodbath, they started walking forward slowly while their pikes fell into a horizontal position, making sure none would run mindlessly into death.

"I would rather see that as stubbornness than anything," the Constable dared continue his line of words, making the smaller nation simply stare at him. Just stare, with empty, lifeless eyes, not truly showing that he had become offended by his words.

Then, slowly, he turned his head no, turning away from the man, breaking eye contact. "It's not. It's specialization. We are the strongest line of infantry, specialized in fast, close range attacks. We do not run, keep our contracts, take our place in your armies and fight your battles where you want us to, and we do so with precise tactics developed over more years than you have breathed." He walked towards the entrance of the tent only to wait for his captain to join him.

Then, with a final, damning and frightening look a sickening smile passed by his lips, making it the first expression his face made since entering. And it wasn't a comforting smile – not even close. "It's not stubbornness. We are simply a tool of precision made for another's use. Whether we get success or failure is all about the hand using us." The smile disappeared and the Swiss nation gave the French one a glare before moving outside to get ready for battle.

Bullets from handguns flew past them, some of them hitting the unprotected men and making them fall. Still there were no wavering, no hesitation in the line even as the man beside you fell. The two formations of pikemen slammed together, blood splattering as soon as they met. Still the formation stayed as the casualties slowly mounted.

Switzerland himself swung the pike and sent it through another man, an enemy, piercing his unprotected chest. Not a single movement implied anything as he stepped over the fallen and coughing man, knowing he was as good as dead. He didn't give him a look as blood erupted between visible ribs, flooding over in a red ocean.

"Forward!" he yelled, and they made the push forward, trying to drive away the enemy. Along the line there were yells telling them to 'keep in line', ordering them to 'stay together', but there was only one word passing over Switzerland's lips. "Forward!" Another enemy came along, aiming his pike at him, but the nation was both smaller and faster. Once more they fell, blood splattering over the ground. And also he got the gracious reward of being used as a rug.

That was when the line came to a halt, the furious onslaught caught by their German counterparts and imitators. "Forward!" the Swiss nation yelled again, demanding them to hold their own against their fiercest enemies. Blood and bodies littered the ground within minutes, the yelling, growling and screaming showing exactly where the case of 'bad war' played out.

A stray bullet flew closely by the nation's face and hit his neighbor instead, hitting the other man's chest and sending him to the ground as well. "Stupid guns!" the young nation yelled, jumping forward and beneath a halberd to send a new man tumbling. The spray of that man's blood hit his clothes and skin, touching his face with the hot, red liquid. It hit his eyes, blinding him, and the first flash of a real emotion penetrated his barriers.

Fear.

He could not see and wanted to run until his sight was back. He wanted to, for panic was arising, angst poking at him to do the only sensible thing in any form of fighting and run. Yet it took him just a moment of hearing his people groan, growl, yell and moan in pain to know he could not abandon them, and he used his dirtied hand to dry away the blood on his face.

Except for smearing it out to fill even more of his face he managed to do a quite good job in removing it from his eyes, getting his vision back just in time to see the new, cursed enemy get in front of him and send a halberd right at him. The next thing he registered was falling, a groan going through his men at the sight of him disappearing and a hesitation in the men around him.

His vision was black even if he knew his eyes were open. He was on his knees, muddy earth slowly swallowing his shins, a mixture of blood and water seeping in to his clothes. Blood bubbled through his skin by his collarbone at the left side of his neck and the whole of his left shoulder and chest felt numb in his open eyed darkness. Tryingly he blinked, tryingly he breathed, attempting to figure out if he was still alive. The hesitation in the column continued even as the enemy still moved, trying to drive them back.

They were losing.

Losing.

They were losing.

They couldn't lose!

He got to his feet again. Or tried. He had to. They couldn't lose – it would cost them money. If their reputation got damaged they would lose money. And that they couldn't! "Forward!" he yelled, still unable to properly see, but that was all they needed to focus and believe in victory again. "Forward!" he repeated, getting a roar as an answer as they moved again, hope coming back to them. The enemy had gotten close enough to nearly trample him, had it not been for his men protecting him. Had he been a normal foot soldier he would have been dead, if not by the hit then the feet of men passing over him.

One of his feet got into the ground, pushing the rest of his body upwards. Still his left arm felt oddly limp, and when he stood once more and tried to lift his hand to hold on to his weapon with both again it failed him. But he couldn't stop now, couldn't let them down and lose their employer no matter what.

"Forward!" he once more yelled even if he still had trouble with taking even a single step. The halberd had pierced his shoulder a little above the heart, blood streamed down his shirt and made it stick to his skin. "Kill them!" he croaked, and somehow managed to get a new roar out of his soon exhausted men. The right hand grabbed the pike firmer and he pushed forward, determination growing in his eyes.

"Kill them!"

Somehow the yell flew over the whole of the battlefield with the power of a voice used to scream in angry tantrums, and the singing French could be understood by all the people on the right side. Despite blood and pain his vision was back, though a little blurred, and he lifted the pike in one hand. It was clumsy, yet better than no weapon. Another problem was just that there were no power behind it now.

Yet he could do only one thing. "Forward, all!" Once more yells of encouragement sounded all through the line, trying to make them forget dead friends and the danger of their own lives as they attempted to finish this – and finish it now, for the sake of money and family and lives waiting back home. "Kill them!"

Another enemy among the many went for him, trying to get around the clumsily handled pike and use the nation's injury to his advantage. Gritting his teeth he redirected his pike in the last second and let it rest against the ground for support. It hit the man on the soft flesh beneath his chin, piercing all the way through and sliding all the way through his skull. The man's eyes turned the white out, blood falling from the corner of his mouth when he fell to the ground.

At this point in time Switzerland was seeing red. The stench of blood and death clung to his nostrils and touched his tongue, and his injury made him vulnerable. The others had to die. All die. It was either that or death for him. If he turned and ran it would be the death of all of them. So now the enemy had to die, die, fall and die. "Kill them! Forward and KILL THEM!" And he swung the pike forward again, remnants of flesh and blood dripping from its tip.

He sat leaning against the wall, eyes closed after the long hours of gripping and stabbing with the pike. At his side a man was attending his injury, ignoring the occasional muffled protest of pain as he got a bandage around the shoulder. As always he had told people to keep out, allowing only high ranking people near – and for now, also a doctor.

Yet the situation of people coming in was an unexpected thing. The nation might look young, small and a little weak, seemingly just 15 or 16 years of age, but the soldiers, his people, had learned to respect his skills in leading and fighting by seeing their leaders react to him and seeing his determination. His presence gave hope in battle, even if he isolated himself from… everyone. Even if he was cold. So for someone to get inside… it was unexpected. Unusual.

Unwanted.

Yet the entrance was moved to the side so suddenly. With a sound of annoyance the Swiss nation opened his eyes, only to be silent at the sight of the arriver. Expecting a normal, Swiss human he was now watching the noble, French nation.

Francis stood there, giving a trying smile as Switzerland stood from his place, his face unmoving as he straightened like a soldier. The doctor kept his curses silent for now, knowing the newcomer to be important even if the fewest of people were aware of his special status. And so the human followed the lesser nation, straightening, throwing his attention to the supposed nobleman even if he had a wound to take care of.

"Is it possible I can borrow Zwingli for a while?" the French nation asked, noticing his fellow nation winch at the use of the human name. He even tried to keep it formal then, referring to him by last name. Yet the Swiss seemed unamused.

"I was just finishing bandagi-"

"Actually, you were just leaving," the Swiss fixed the sentence for the other, knowing he would need to keep attention on the Frenchman. Even before the human was out Switzerland continued, referring to the Frenchman in his cold, dead voice. "What do you want from me, my lord?" It was said as though there were nothing but demands from the other person, and the green eyes didn't show even the smallest glint of interest as they met the blue ones.

"I simply have a request for your opinion in a tactical matter. Would you mind following me?" The taller blond gestured for him to follow, and he did without a sound, not caring for the fact that his face and clothes were still dirty from the battling. He didn't even ask as they moved through the camp, and left it to Francis to stir any conversation.

"So… how are you doing?" the older vaguely tried. The younger just gave him a sarcastic look, his gaze raised upwards to be on level with that of the physically about 22-year-old. He didn't answer as they got past group after group of soldiers sitting down and enjoying a break after their victory. "I mean it," the older still continued, and had you been a little more open, a little more alive, you would have seen the slight flash of concern. Switzerland just… didn't want to see it. "I have known of your existence since you were very small. Is it not natural for me to consider your well-being?" They neared the main tent, getting inside while the older still spoke. "There are not many like you and me, and I do remember you as an angry little boy with an occasional hint of a smile. Where is that hint now a days?"

"Gone," the Swiss simply answered, not interested in that kind of conversation. "You wouldn't care anyway, my lord," he continued, looking around the room. He knew for a fact that nations did not care for nations, he had felt that on his own body and mind. Most likely Francis was checking him to see if he had any weaknesses, trying to figure out the best way to break his defenses so he could invade him. "Why am I here?"

"As said, I want your opinion, if you don't mind helping me." The King was there, along with French noblemen and soldiers. Not a place for a small, poor mercenary like him. Nor a small, unimportant country. They all had formed a circle about a place or game. "I know for a fact that you are good at maneuvering in the terrain, and that you have used it to your advantage in the past. How about telling us what would be our next move in this war?" The Frenchmen's looks were filled with varying degrees of disdain, in no way encouraging Switzerland to open up his thoughts.

"I am more accustomed to mountains and fighting in mountainous terrain, my lord," he explained, causing some of the humans to give a snorting laugh. Of course a Swiss would know of mountains, it was a joke in and of itself, but could that even be used to anything?

"Why are we even asking a common soldier such tricky questions," one of the noblemen said. Even with the insult the Swiss kept his ground, his wounded shoulder sagging slightly as he coldly regarded the French nation. In the room was the very same Constable that had doubted him earlier, and he was among the smirking men. But he didn't allow them to be anything to him – as long as he got their money he would make sure to manage them. Unless they decided to threaten his own country.

"He is no common man," Francis simply said, defending him as clearly the man wouldn't defend himself. Though he looked young in this company with his physical 20-some years they all knew who he was, and as such they had to respect him. Yet their smirks didn't falter, and though Switzerland didn't look at them their looks were stored in his memory. Laughing… disregarding him… not taking him seriously. "The man here threw out Habsburgs from his land even before any of you were born – with an army of peasants." Slowly the humans understood just what they were dealing with. "And he kept them out despite two hundred years of fighting."

Yes, the understanding had reached them, and most smirks were traded for either confusion or interest. One whispered 'Switzerland', and even though he hated to have his identity known by outsiders a part of him couldn't help but be smug at their reaction. That would teach them to judge him. Even if it couldn't matter.

"I cannot help you, my lord," he repeated even as he neared a map upon the table. "The only reason I was able to throw the idiot out was because of the terrain. I used the forests and the mountains and the mobility and swiftness of an army used to the landscape." His eyes moved over the map, understanding it even though he hadn't been on the tactical side of the table for years. And even though he had been a very different person when he had been deciding there.

A child. Filled with hurt and anger about the Austrian's actions. He had gone from 7 to 13 in the period of their fighting, and his mood had only gone downhill from there. His beliefs. His whole being had slipped away into a dark void as he and his people gained fighting as a habit, a profession first to protect their country, then make money for the country, instead of a burden.

On the map were forests and rivers, like there were in the real world outside. Drawn out neatly as markers told where to go and what to do. His eyes scanned it, automatically seeing the opportunities the landscape gave them even without the presence of cliffs and mountains.

"If you are Switzerland," one of the higher nobles asked, and for a moment he moved his dead, green eyes to him before back to the map. "Then how come you are here? There are Swiss troops many places. Why choose to place your… mighty presence among us rather than, say, Spain, who whose army holds nearly as many of your troops?"

The unwillingness to answer the questions struck him hard. His eyes still graced the map – otherwise he would have been staring angrily. Francis simply watched him with interest while they waited for him to answer, not realizing the apparently 16-year-old child was stubborn and bold, refusing to answer a personal question from someone far over his rank.

Finally, attempting to save the situation, the French nation spoke again. A part of him knew it would be hard to communicate with the younger nation – another part him hadn't expected him to be that cold. "You have absolutely no thoughts on our situation?" There was the smallest shake of the head from the younger, and the Frenchman gave a crooked smile in return. "And if we raise your pay?" There were a few movements of disdain at those words from the humans, but it got Switzerland's attention and the green eyes pierced at the blue ones.

The interest you could see in them couldn't really be described as an interest. Interest was a feeling too alive to be in those dead pools. It was rather a hunger, a thirst that was to be found, as though money and payment was the most valuable thing. The only way to keep going in the pitiful existence he had right now… for France realized, suddenly and harshly, that he couldn't call what the Swiss was going through a life. It was an existence. And somehow that thought, that new information, made him sad.

Finally there was the sign of approval as the Swiss let his eyes fall to the map again without denying the new deal, getting closer. "There are the rivers," he said, pointing down and trailing it over the imaginary land. "With a clever tactic you'd be able to drive your enemy down into the stream, and if they are heavily armored it would be certain death, but it would require great mobility and force. The battle should be beside the river, not with it behind you, as the enemy would be able to strike you down the same way as you plan on striking them. The slowest soldiers should be at the flank nearest the river bank so the faster can curl around them – both because the speed is needed in the movement to drive the enemy and because the ground on the riverbank can be soft and thereby render horses useless. My own men would be the best to have on the flank by the river, as the tactic needed would be to stand firm – among our specialty." At this his eyes hit the Constable, challenging him on their previous argument. "Either that or you place your own armored infantry at the river, since they are the least mobile, with my men in the middle and the cavalry furthest from the river, using our mobility and the mobility of the horses to drive them down." His eyes were still boring themselves into the Constable's hesitant glance.

And then he continued speaking. "But it is a risky move and you should only engage in battle by the river if you are sure you have control over the situation or you are deeply desperate. One wrong move and it will be you, not the enemy, who struggles in water to your stomach while the enemy tries to slaughter you and your own friends push you out even deeper." His hand moved to the area of the forest, drawing lines over the paper with his fingertips. "The forest is a good place for infantry to move and ambush – this accounts for both the enemy and you. But horses cannot travel here or keep the necessary silence to hold an element of surprise, and the tactic of my own soldiers do not work in combat within the vegetation. If we attack people on the road it is possible to start from the forest, but otherwise no, the formation won't work. The trees scatters us, but with time I'll be able to teach the new people how to fight despite those odds - it's an old specialty I've laid behind for a while."

Once more his eyes fell upon the Constable before his hands left the paper. "In short, unless you are ready to take unnecessary risks I cannot help you. Mountains would be a different matter, but even so your army is not made for movement in troublesome areas – if wars were fought there my men would make that a specialty, but the only time the forest and mountains help you is if you don't have any horses or are greatly outnumbered. You experience neither, so if you want anything to be easier or better, train your men and keep to open terrain."

Then he glared towards the French nation, his face still untouched by true emotion. "That is all I have to say, my lord."

Around him people were exchanging glances, shaking their heads or nodding. Francis simply smiled at him. "Thank you, Vash," he uttered, coming closer. At first the Swiss thought it was to see the map a little more closely, then the hand reached to touch his healthy shoulder. "I cannot explain how much I appreciate it."

The moment the hand met his clothes his whole mind flinched, everything momentarily flickering as his heart moved up towards his throat, beating more rapidly. He barely understood what happened other than fear, barely saw his healthy hand grip and twist the assaulting one of the Frenchman. Even if he had simply dared to lay a friendly hand on his shoulder. Barely did he notice the others threaten him with knives and swords as France yelped, falling to one knee in pain.

"Don't underestimate me," the Swiss growled even before he properly managed to think again, getting his mind out of a panicking emptiness. Still he clenched the man's arm and twisted it to hold him in place. Still the men were standing ready with their weapons, afraid for the health of their nation.

As France looked up at him he would have been scared for his life if he hadn't been so sure he couldn't die that easily. A little bit of horror clenched his heart as he looked up at the Swiss for the first time in his life, and he knew this child, this person not even a man, did not play around. Then he blinked, finally letting his eyes fall. "Apologies," he said, hoping to calm the younger nation with words. They needed him. "It was not my intention."

Within Switzerland was still fighting with panic and anxiety about the control of his mind. Outwardly he looked cold and secure, not fazed by the amount of weapons point at him even if he simply didn't have any excess energy to realize he was being threatened. "Yet you still did it," he managed to say, acting like nothing was wrong. He didn't note the worry in the humans' eyes as they stood ready to kill him in attempt to protect their own nation.

France moved his gaze upwards, not showing how scared he actually was because he knew it would make the humans act unwanted. Still he made sure to stay slightly humble, hoping it would make the Swiss calm down. "I did," he agreed, even if he believed he had just attempted to be friendly with him. "But it won't repeat itself, I promise."

Finally Switzerland let him go, his other hand not moving enough. Obviously something bad had happened. The moment he could France stood up again, once more becoming the taller of the two. "Don't underestimate me," the Swiss repeated, then added, "or I won't come back here. If you dare insult my people, my country or me I will leave and never help you to your victories. If I get the feeling you are planning on invading me I will call back my men and you will be without them and they wait within my borders." The Frenchmen were still standing ready while they kept their weapons up, just like France believing his intentions.

"I do not work for people who dare to underestimate me… my lords." His eyes moved while France soundlessly ordered them to stand back and lower their blades. "And so, I do not work for the Habsburgs in that cursed country Spain." Even if his men did. But they did what brought most in their pockets, and for that he couldn't hate them. As long as they continued coming home to his mountains, he couldn't hate them.

"I did what you asked of me," he then continued, looking up at the French nation while knowing he would have attempted to kill him, had his other shoulder not been seriously injured. That would have caused trouble, as he would have been stopped and harmed and most likely lost his employer, one way or the other. "So can I leave, my lord?" As all the times before he disregarded most of their titles, and the humans were beginning to wonder whether it was of ignorance or actual disrespect.

"You can," France said, rubbing his hand painfully after the hard grip.

"Thank you, my lord," he finished before moving out, leaving the tent still without showing any real emotion. And despite the cruel treatment, the softer side of France couldn't help but stare after him, wondering where the temperamental child had went. For even if the child had rarely smiled, smiles you had still seen, and sometimes even a laughter in the presence of the Austrian. But that child… It wasn't to be seen in this cold being so close to be a man.

A part of the Frenchman knew something was wrong, horribly wrong, with the man. Yet he had no chance of knowing what. Instead of getting angry he decided… if he could just do it a little bit… to protect the young man. A part of him felt he had to and he tried to rub the blood back into the tips of the fingers which had formerly been subjected to the Swiss' hard treatment.

Thanks for reading! I would like for you to take into account that the story is centered on aph Switzerland as a person, not as a country. That he doesn't flourish doesn't mean his country is in trouble. Also this is mainly personal headcanons - if you don't agree, keep a kind tone if you want to discuss it or keep silent. I won't respond to criticism that holds no other purpose than insulting. Other than that:

Enjoy in joy!