Song-fic resulting from my love of Wicked and Prussia. I was royally pissed to find Prussia was erased from the textbooks because of WWII. It was a fickin providence! Not even a country! *I'm growing more upset with my wonderful country every day, as you can tell…*
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia…
No One Mourns The Wicked
It was cold.
So cold.
.
The sounds echoed across the valley, gunshots and cries and the impacts of bomb shells.
He couldn't really hear it.
.
He was facing the sky.
It was such a nice, clear blue.
The sky had no regards for human affairs.
.
A wind sent a chill up his spine.
Why was he dying again?
Oh... It was because of a war.
.
Hadn't he started the war?
No.
Who started the war?
Germany?
Austria?
.
He took a staggered breath.
It didn't really matter who started it.
He was suffering because if it.
He was dying because if it.
.
A ripple of pain bloomed across his chest.
Was that where the bullet wound was?
No, it was where he had been burned by the gas.
He closed his eyes.
.
It hurt.
.
Why was he dying because of the war?
The... The West thought it was his idea to fight to the death.
They thought he had been the one to instigate the violence in other countries.
Didn't they know anything?
.
But it didn't matter.
He was dying.
.
Why was no one here?
Hadn't he had one person on this planet who cared for him?
Wasn't there a brother?
A friend?
His lover?
.
Another pain bloomed in his stomach.
Blood welled up his esophagus, clogging his over strained larynx.
A weak cough sent the hot liquid across his face, trickling down his throat, staining his crystal white hair.
Cinnabar eyes began to dim.
.
He was dying, right?
And no one cared, right?
.
He smirked.
It didn't matter.
He was too awesome to care.
He knew they cared.
He knew they would mourn.
.
But what if they thought he was the wicked one?
.
The smallest surge of anger pulsed through him.
It wasn't his fault verdammt!
He didn't want this to happen.
He told his Bruder this would happen.
He knew something was really going to die- a country, not just millions of humans.
.
And he was the wicked.
His people were the wicked.
His country was the wicked.
.
So he died.
His heart beat its last, blood leaking out of his mouth yet again.
His final smirk was left etched on his face.
His uniform was burned and torn, exposed skin scarred and warped.
.
His body was never found.
His memory was branded as the wicked.
And goodness knows, no one mourns the wicked.