A young boy looked around his surroundings. Blood everywhere. Dead bodies were flung around him. This war - on his side - was hopeless. The little boy fell to the ground in tears.
"Dammit," He hissed under his breath. "Dammit why. Why is this war going on? Why can't it just stop? I need it to end. My people need it to end. It's killing me slowly. Please lord, make it stop."
A man in shoulder length blonde hair walked forward. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the sword in his hands. The boy turned his head. His opponent gave a cruel smile.
"Bonjour Holy Rome," The Frenchman laughed. "Fancy seeing you out here. Are you ready to just give up? You can't carry on like this. Just hands over control of you're empire to me and no more damage will be done."
Holy Rome slowly stood up. He knew what he was doing was stupid. He knew he couldn't face the older nation. France was stronger than him. He had more allies. He had powers like the English, Scottish, and the Ottoman Empire. He was screwed.
"Over my dead body," He whispered. That's all he could manage. Holy Rome was taken aback by how quiet his voice had gotten.
France shrugged. "Have it your way than. I'll be sure to tell Italy about your untimely demise."
The sword came quick. It was so fast it was almost painless. Almost. Holy Rome fell to the ground in his own blood. He stared at the Frenchmen above him, cursing at him. He lost his ability to speak. He tried making words, but nothing, just air.
His eye sight got blurry. It became harder and harder for him to breathe. His life came flashing in quick little pictures. Most of them were filled with Italy.
'Italy,' He thought. 'I don't think I'll make it back to you.'
Holy Rome's breathing stopped. His body joined those around him. Cold and lifeless.
…
Some place in Austria
Italy skipped around his home. He had been waiting for Holy Rome to return to him. The war had finished and he should be returning anytime soon. What bothered him was that whenever he asked Austria or Hungary about him, they'd always tense up and would always say to him time will tell.
France entered the house. "Italy?" He called. "Can I see you for a second?"
The small child skipped towards the front door. "Yes big brother?"
The man took in a breathe. He had been debating on how he would tell him this. There was no going back now. "Holy Rome isn't going to return," He began. "He died in the war. I know you loved him and you're probably too young to understan-Hey now? Are you crying?"
The Italian sobbed into his brother's arm. He couldn't - wouldn't believe it. Holy Rome had been so strong. He'd been able to survive for so long. Why now? Why die now when they were so young? He should've gone with him. He should have, but he didn't.
"W-who killed him?" He finally chocked out.
France froze. Memories of him being the one to deliver the final blow to the young empire flashed in his mind. He couldn't tell Italy that. The young boy loved and looked up to him. He couldn't. He had to lie.
"England," He stated. "England killed him. I tried to stop him. Say it was only a child, but he's power hungry. I hope someday you'll be able to find forgiveness in him."
Italy shivered. England. That man seemed so cruel. It must be true. He didn't want England anywhere near him. He vowed to run away anytime that English fiend came near him. He knew someday he'd get revenge for Holy Rome. Someday when he was as big and strong as Big Brother.