All right... so my ideas for this changed and, so yeah, this will now be a bunch of drabbles on sibling relationships in Hetalia... Enjoy :)

The battle field was a mess. There was a head, a leg there, a screaming boy laying in agony, the stoic man preparing to die, and the departed sitting and listening. The air smelt of death, burning powder, rust and salt, and burning flesh. The birds were circling the sky and the bravest were on the ground eating their fill.

The end of this battle, no matter how destructive and devastating, was not enough for the earth to notice though. The sun was high in the sky burning like another day, the clouds were still fluffy and white as cream. The wind was the only one who seemed to notice the despair of the men and tried to cool them with cool light gust.

A young man ran through the field of death. His clothes bloody and torn, his whole body covered in bullet holes and saber wounds. His silver hair was caked in blood and muds, making it look a russet-like color. Running from body to body, giving drink to the parched and praying over the dead, calling out for one person in hope that he wasn't one of the departed, as he ran through the morgue of thousands.

Reaching the spot that was the enemy's line, his heart fell as he picked up a small black hat. Frantic he started to a mass grave a few semi-whole stragglers were digging for their friends.

"Have you seen a boy, about this tall…? Blonde hair…? Blue eyes…?" the half insane man asked the Frenchmen.

They looked at him with dead eyes as they shook their head. The man left them and ran even faster to find him.

Finally he found him. His body was crushed and almost no pulse. The silver haired man picked up the child and carried him back to the camp, his head down looking at his brother.

Mein Gott… That bastard will die!

~.~/~`~

"How could you allow this to happen?" The silver-haired man shouted at a golden haired man that stood in front of him.

"Gilbert, mon ami, what could you possibly mean?" The other man asked, completely oblivious of what the other was speaking.

Gilbert glared at the man, his blood red eyes shooting daggers. "Don't fuck with me, Francis! You know fucking well what that bastard did!" Taking out his sword, he pointed it at Francis's heart. "If he dies, I swear you will follow him within minutes."

"Mon ami, how can this be my fault? Napoleon hasn't told me anything since he became emperor." Francis relied, dodging the insane/murderous look in his friend's eyes.

Gilbert let out a growl of frustration, "And? Mein kleiner bruder* is lying on a bed dying and that bastard took away his nation." Bringing the sword to the Frenchman's face, he added angrily, "It's only because you were oust that I don't drop you right now."

A look of pure terror spread across Francis's face, even before the red blade was before his eyes. "Frederick… Is…?"

Gilbert scoffed. "Yeah, like you didn't know."

"Mon ami, honestly I thought you were talking about Roderich or Antonio…"

"Like I would go through this trouble for them; trust me, for them I would destroy a town or two and be done with it… But for Frederick, nothing would satisfy me but your blood."

The venom coming from his voice sent a shiver down the Frenchman's spine as he took a step back from the near homicidal man. Before he could reply, Gilbert was walking out with his sword in its sheath and pistol in hand.

Stopping before the tent's door, he looked the gun over before saying, "Oh, yeah; I, Roderich and Liz decided that you can tell the kid about this. You know, since it is your fault." A shot rang out as the silver demon disappeared, the only trace of his visit, a tiny hole, 5 millimeters from Francis's head.

Gilbert: Yay! A story bout the awesome me! Review so the crazy chick won't hurt me!