Author's Note: Hi, guys! Z The Intellectual, here! I know it's been a while since I've written anything, but after a few months of writer's block and a whole year in American History, I decided to try to write a historical fanfic. I want to apologize in advance for any historical inaccuracies-I'm no historian, after all. But I am willing to take suggestions and corrections on my historical knowledge. Enjoy~!

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia Axis Powers.

Chapter 1: The War to End All Wars (1919)

"The worst guilt is to accept an unearned guilt." ~ Ayn Rand

Berlin, Germany

January 1919

Scheiße! The boy mentally cursed as he clung to the loaf of bread hidden under his coat. He tugged his scarf tighter around his neck as he stood against the wall between two buildings, cautiously watching the snow-packed street as the icy flakes continued to fall, blown in swirling torrents through the air. The grey sky blotted out the sun and any warmth that could've been provided, condemning the German nation to the full brutality of winter, despite the dim, late afternoon light. The air was bitter and dry, he noticed as his breath fogged up in misty clouds before him, and the chilliness of the day made it no easier to breathe—even for someone as out of breath as he was. 14-year-old Gilbert Beilschmidt was on the run.

A strike being held at the artillery factory near where he had swiped the bread had escalated to violence, and estranged, embittered shouts of anarchy had erupted all around the building. The strikers were infuriated at the inflation of their wages, and many of them who had returned from a humiliating loss in the Great War were too discontent to tolerate any ignorance from the government. Germany was a mess. A mixed drink of broken politics and squashed ambitions, the once-great nation was reduced to little more than a belligerent slave to its European enemies to the West, and its people felt cheated. Things needed to change.

When the war ended, the politics of the nation transformed almost completely overnight with ideologies dividing the people among various solid lines. A civil war was almost inevitable—no, it was already happening. An uprising. A rebellion. A revolution. The government would likely not stand for much longer like it was. The people were distraught, and Germany couldn't take anymore of the insubordination being thrown at it.

Gilbert hid in an alleyway as an assemblage of heavily armed, green-clad soldiers rushed towards the commotion going on further down the street. Freikorps… He could hear glass shattering and what sounded like hundreds of voices screaming and shouting in angst and lawlessness. Outcries of socialism, communism, and anarchy echoed in the streets—a feat that would do nothing more than draw negative attention. The boy watched from his hiding place as the soldiers confronted the angry workers, citizens, and veterans who were standing around blockades they had made. Even from this distance nearly a block away, Gilbert could see the frustrations of the people, could feel their betrayal, and though he didn't entirely understand the scale of the situation, he felt as though there was no quenching their thirst—their demands—for change.

The soldiers blocked off the strikers, restricting them from any means of escape so that they didn't spread their disorderly conduct to the other parts of the city. They tried everything. Negotiating with the people was absolutely futile. They just wouldn't listen. Gilbert watched as the workers, some of them familiar to him, lashed out at the Freikorps and beat them with anything they had—fists, feet, foreheads—making political and economic demands of the soldiers who could not comply with their wishes. The Freikorps had one purpose and one purpose only.

Pow! Pow-pow-pow!

The gunfire rang loud in Gilbert's ears as he watched the militant mercenaries brutally and mercilessly gun down hard-working and dedicated Germans. The boy turned his head away, wide-eyed and shaking as he tried to digest what he had seen. Never before had he witnessed something so ruthless, despite all of the war stories he had learned in the past and heard from his father. This was nothing like that. The war was over! It should have ended—in the trenches, on the fields! But here it was, plain as day, resurrected right before his eyes on the home front, in the cities, among the citizens.

The bullets didn't stop firing as he had expected. After the first few gunshots sounded, they continued to go off, and screams resounded endlessly through the air. Viewing this as his cue to leave, Gilbert clutched the loaf of bread tightly to his chest and dashed out of the alley. Despite the snow and the biting wind that tore at his skin, he ran as fast as he could. The 14-year-old sprinted seemingly non-stop for four kilometers before turning a corner onto another road and slowing to a fast-paced walk. This street was much busier and the people there seemed completely oblivious to the commotion that had occurred behind Gilbert. People were leisurely walking dogs, others sitting in coffee shops and various other stores—and though they seemed worriless, it was impossible to hide the fact that to some degree everyone, every German within these shrunken borders was concerned with what would become of them now that the war had come to an "end."

Gilbert wandered the street, trying not to appear suspicious with the loaf of bread he still had hidden in his coat. He brushed past people milling around, and politely pushed his way through and around various others who blocked the sidewalks by standing in lines. Germany had always been a busy place, its people the hardest workers he ever knew since he'd lived there his whole life, but seeing lines so overcrowded and slow like this was something he wasn't familiar with. I guess that comes with being a loser, too… he thought.

He was hardly ever one to admit to being a pessimist. Gilbert had always been a die-hard nationalist when it came to his country, and he was unwaveringly proud of it, never even doubting that it would lose a war as great as this one…but it did.

After walking through the crowded street for a little longer, he finally found himself safely within the walls of a dual-apartment building. He closed the door quickly behind him and sighed before removing the bread from the safety of his coat. "Finally… Who would've guessed that bread is more expensive this week than last week?" he asked no one in particular as he chuckled to himself, mostly just glad that he'd gotten away from the bread shop without being caught for stealing—and without catching any bullets himself.

The boy loosened his scarf and swallowed hard. His throat was parched and he coughed as he went down the hall to the apartment flat in which he and his family resided. He opened the door easily—given it wasn't locked—and stepped inside, removing his coat and scarf and hanging it on a stand beside the door. As expected when he entered, the house was spotless and orderly, and the floors, though old and wooden, shined as if it had just been swept, mopped and polished. Gilbert removed his shoes and proceeded to the living room with the still perfect loaf of bread carefully cradled in his grasp. The albino glanced at his reflection in the mirror, frowning slightly at his messy, disheveled white hair and shook his head before running a hand through it. It was still cold from the snowflakes that had pelted him while he was outside.

"Gilbert?" a small timid voice asked from up the stairs. "Gilbert, you're home already?" Looking up towards the voice, Gilbert spotted his little 6-year-old brother, Ludwig Beilschmidt. He had light blonde hair, sky blue eyes and healthily fair skin, unlike Gilbert's skin, which looked ghostly pale paired with his unnaturally red eyes. His little brother was an angel compared to him. He was wearing brown shorts with white suspenders and little yellow buttons that had been painted to imitate brass or gold like the ones on Gilbert's own clothing. The younger German also wore knee-high white socks that still left his knees exposed when paired with the shorts—a somewhat newer fashion that Gilbert wasn't accustomed to.

Ludwig rubbed his eyes sleepily as he held a wooden toy train in his hand and Gilbert smiled. "Ja! The awesome me has returned from his daring adventure through the city!" he said excitedly. At this, a smile appeared on Ludwig's face and the little boy ran downstairs to his brother as fast as he could without slipping and hugged his knees.

"You brought back bread?" Ludwig asked.

Chuckling, the albino nodded and ruffled his brother's hair before making his way to the kitchen to put the bread on a plate. "You probably wouldn't believe me, but it nearly cost me an arm and a leg to get this bread," he added.

The younger blonde narrowed his sky blue orbs skeptically as he looked up at his brother. "Really, Gilbert?"

He didn't want to end up admitting everything to his little brother—especially the fact that the bread had been stolen. That would be a horrible example to set for him. But he played it off just as smoothly as the words had left his mouth. "Ja, absolutely. Bread isn't as cheap as it used to be. I think something's wrong with the economy…" he said, mumbling the last part. When Ludwig questioned it, he simply replied, "It's just how the government is managing our money. It costs more marks to pay for bread now… But it's not that bad, okay? Nothing that the awesome me can't handle." Gilbert gave an assuring grin and Ludwig nodded. He took a knife from the drawer and cut the bread into thin but generous slices before handing one to Ludwig who took it gratefully and took a slow savory bite out of it.

"It's good, isn't it, Lutz?" Gilbert inquired, rustling his brother's hair as he followed him to the living room. He smiled when he saw that Ludwig was so indulgent in the bread that all he could muster was simply a nod of his head and a sheepish grin. "Well, then," the albino continued, "Let's celebrate with a little music then, hm?" He walked over to the old wooden phonograph that was cozily tucked in a corner by the window. He picked a record and placed it carefully on the device before placing the stylus on it while it spun, producing calming classical music by Beethoven. Gilbert sat on the settee and listened quietly as he sank back into the chair and let his thoughts overtake him.

Despite how much he wished to hide it from Ludwig, there was no denying that the Germany they had once knew was changing, faster than they could comprehend. Germany used to be a relatively peaceful place as far as Gilbert was concerned. The Germany he was born into was nothing less than a strong, indestructible nation, even if it was divided. He believed so strongly in his country that when the Great War ended and he found that Germany had lost, he was devastated. Of course, he didn't let Ludwig see that side of him, for he felt it was best to remain resilient in times like these. That's what his father would have done…

Gilbert and Ludwig's father, Hermann Beilschmidt, had left in the autumn of 1914, a month before Ludwig was born that October, to serve for the German military on the Western Front. He hadn't volunteered to go fight on the front lines, but because the integrity of their beloved country was on the line, he decided to go along with the draft. The whole war had seemed so complicated and confusing to Gilbert at that time. He just couldn't fathom why his father had to leave.

"Vati, why do you have to go?" Gilbert had inquired, grabbing onto his father's backpack before he left for the trains. "I don't get it! It's not fair! How could you just leave the awesome me to take care of Mutti on my own?!" He had been enraged, frustrated and unforgiving. He remembered seeing his father packing his bags, but he had never discussed the reason behind it with him.

Hermann had turned around and looked at his wife who stood a meter or so behind Gilbert after having said her goodbyes already. Her son, however, wasn't keen to let go so easily. "Gilbert… I have to go."

"What for?" Gilbert exclaimed. He was crying now, the grip of his 9-year-old hands growing weak as he tried to maintain his composure. "You can't just leave!" His father sighed and looked at his son sympathetically. As much as it hurt him to leave his family behind, he didn't believe Gilbert was old enough to actually understand the stakes of going to war. After all, how would he react if he didn't return?

Gilbert looked up at his father with his red-rimmed eyes, glaring at him, demanding an answer as his father's fellow soldiers had brushed past them to board the train. Hermann knelt down and put his hands on his son's shoulders. "Gilbert. Gilbert, stop crying and look at me…"

After sniffling for a bit longer, Gilbert managed to suppress his hiccupping just long enough to listen to what his father had to say. Hermann looked at him sternly, "Don't cry, okay…? I know that this is a lot of pressure to put on you to take care of Mutti and dein bruder, but you are a strong boy, Gilbert. You can do anything—you know that, don't you?"

"J-Ja, Vati. I know, but I—!"

"No buts. You are my son, and you are capable of anything and everything. Not because I said so, but because you are you, my boy. Now, I have to leave to do something very important, okay? Something very important for our country, understand? I don't know how long I'll be gone, but while I'm away, I need you to watch over Mutti for me… I have complete faith in you that you will take good care of Mutti and dein bruder no matter what happens. I know you will. Can I trust you with that?"

Gilbert gulped and nodded, wiping his eyes. "Ja, Vati. You can trust me."

"Do you promise you'll look out for them no matter what?" his father prompted, raising an eyebrow and looking at his son's absurd red eyes.

Once again, the boy nodded, "Ja, Vati. I promise. As long as you promise to come back, okay? Mutti, Ludwig and I will be waiting for you here."

This time, it was Hermann's turn to nod. "Don't worry. I will write to you every day until I return." He smiled—a rare sight to see because he was so strict—and kissed his son gently on his forehead before wiping away the tears from his eyes with his thumbs. His piercing blue eyes locked on his son's red orbs and in that very moment, Gilbert could've sworn he'd seen the glint of liquid trails left by tears on his father's cheeks. He'd never seen his father cry—and even that day, he had never seen the tears fall.

Hermann released Gilbert and kissed his wife goodbye one more time before going to board the train with the rest of his fellow soldiers. "All aboard!" the conductor called loudly over the whistle of the train, and Gilbert watched as his father disappeared into the boxcar and took a seat beside the window.

"Vati…" he whispered almost inaudibly. When the train started moving, Hermann looked back at the boy and his mother with a smile and a subtle wink as if to tell them not to worry. That he would be back… That there was nothing to fret about because the war would be over before they knew it…

Gilbert inhaled sharply and followed the train, running alongside it as it progressed along the tracks. "Vati! Vati!" he called as he shoved past other people who stood in the station waving languidly to their loved ones who had boarded the train. Gilbert could feel his eyes turn wet again. Why? Why did his father have to leave him so soon? Why like this? "Vati, wait!" he cried. He followed the train car as far as he could in the station until he ran out of room to chase it. "I love you, Vati! Ich liebe dich!"

Hermann turned just in time to hear his son cry out to him and smiled back. "Ich liebe dich, mein sohn." But Gilbert couldn't hear it. The train was too loud. And he was already gone.

When he'd left, Gilbert's father had never told him about the war. Gilbert knew he was in the army, but it had never occurred to him that he would have to fight on the front lines with other soldiers in the trenches. The boy had barely registered what his father meant when he said he was going to do something important for their country. Gilbert had never imagined it would mean taking six heavy artillery bullets to the chest while trying to cross No Man's Land during the Battle of Verdun, after only two years of being at war with France.

Gilbert had received the news of his father's death in 1916, and if anyone took it hard, it was his mother. She had already fallen ill with some sort of flu or pneumonia, and no matter what medicines she had taken, she didn't get any better—and the news of her husband's death didn't help either. She drank and smoked despite her sickness, and passed away, herself, a year later. Ludwig was only two. Explaining such a tragedy to a boy his age would be heart wrenching, so Gilbert had no choice but to keep it from him. He was still too young to know the truth. The two boys lived alone in the apartment for now, but it was only a matter of time before they would be evicted with nowhere else to go…

"Gilbert?"

Gilbert was startled out of his thoughts and painful memories by Ludwig, who had somehow climbed up into the couch with him to look out the window. The little boy frowned slightly at the sight outside and bit his lip. "Ja? What is it, kleiner bruder?" he asked, following the younger German's blue-eyed gaze out the window. Soldiers—the Freikorps—were making their rounds again, supposedly "preserving order" and "squashing rebellion," as was their purpose, but based off of what Gilbert had seen earlier, there seemed to be an ulterior motive.

"What are those soldiers doing?" he inquired.

"Hm? Oh, nothing, they're just monitoring people, Ludwig. It's nothing to be worried about," Gilbert assured him. It actually is worth worrying about…

"But why do they have guns? Do they need them?"

Gilbert licked his lips, which he found had suddenly become dry. "Just in case people don't listen, I suppose. I think they use it just to scare people, but they wouldn't use them, so you don't have to worry, okay?"

Ludwig said nothing and nodded as he continued to watch the commotion outside. The armed men guided people indoors, many issuing warnings to stay inside and that any rebelliousness would be extinguished immediately. So everyone complied and the streets cleared rather quickly. "Gilbert…"

"Hm?"

"I don't get it…"

"Don't get what, Ludwig?"

"I thought the soldiers should be fighting the war…on the battlefield—not here. Why are they doing this?"

The albino sighed and looked at his younger brother, a boy still untouched, untainted by the vicious reality of war. "Well… I'm not entirely sure," he replied. "But it might have to do with the fact that we lost…"

The younger German paused briefly from looking out the window and turned to his brother. "What?" he asked, "What do you mean, Gilbert?"

Sighing again, Gilbert took his little brother into his arms and went to get him ready for bed since it was getting late. "Ludwig…I mean, well… It might be hard for you to understand right now, but… We—Germany—lost the war…The Great War. Lots of people are upset about that right now, and that's why the soldiers are out and about." The older German took his brother into the bathroom and filled the basin with warm water before pulling the little boy's shirt over his head.

"But how? How did we lose? Germany is the best…" Ludwig responded, looking up at his brother for concurrence. Germany was, to them, the greatest nation on earth. A powerful, industrialized, modern country that worked hard for everything it had and everything it was worth. And suddenly, it isn't that great anymore? Ludwig just couldn't comprehend it.

"Ja, Germany is still great, but it's just… not as strong anymore. France, the country to the southwest, wants a lot of money from us that we can't afford to pay."

"J-Ja, we can! We can do anything, Gilbert… You said that yourself, didn't you?"

"Well, ja… but you see, Lutz, those other countries think that it's Germany's fault that the war started and that's why so many Germans are upset—because it's not their fault. We have to pay a lot of money to France and England now, so lots of people don't have enough marks to pay for their food and stuff… You…understand that, right?" Gilbert said, hoping he wasn't befuddling his little 6-year-old brother. After all, there's only so much information that young children can handle at such a young age.

Thankfully, Ludwig nodded, and Gilbert breathed a sigh of relief as he began to wash his brother's small body in the tub. Granted, Gilbert felt just as strongly about the impending economic crisis as much as other people did. He'd been taking care of Ludwig on his own for years, and had been surviving off of other people's scraps and food he'd stolen. It was truly a wonder the two boys were even alive! But he knew that if things kept getting progressively worse like they were, with the threat of political upheaval and economic failure, everything would spiral out of control, and the likelihood of him and Ludwig keeping their apartment would go with it. They'd be homeless, and because Gilbert was still underage, he couldn't work to provide for the both of them.

He quickly shook those thoughts from clouding his mind as he took a towel and dried off his sibling. He didn't want to think about the guilt he would feel if that had ever happened. No… He wouldn't let that happen. I'm too awesome to let something like that get in the way of me protecting my brother…

After getting his brother into his pajamas and tucked into bed, Gilbert sighed before sitting back on the couch in the living room, listening to the soft piano music play on from the record player. He folded his hands behind his head and sighed, staring at the sky through the window.

Guilt.

That's what this feeling was. The one that kept gnawing away at his insides ever since his father had been killed in France three years ago, and the same one that tore at his heart after his mother had never woken up after passing out sick and drunk in her bedroom. It was the same feeling that poked his stomach with pins and sewing needles every time he found himself stealing food, or—dare he say it—lying to Ludwig.

Guilt.

None of it was his fault, though, right? After all, Gilbert couldn't have protected his father while he went to France and took 6 bullets—and maybe more—to his body. He couldn't have stopped the heartbreak from completely swallowing his mother after the news of his father's death. There was nothing he could do. Gilbert stole food out of necessity because he had no other options… So he shouldn't feel guilty about that right? Of course not… He should feel guilty because of all these things that happened and all the things he'd done, not once had he told Ludwig the whole truth.

Guilty.

It was one thing to feel guilty for something he'd done, but feeling guilty for something he didn't do was a completely different sensation. It gnawed at him from all sides, especially in his mind and in the pit of his stomach. I shouldn't be feeling this guilty… he tried to convince himself. It's not even my fault. I'm too awesome to let this consume me like it's my fault! But despite how much he didn't want to believe it, Gilbert was in the same position as a majority of the German population. He was not directly at fault for a majority of the situation, but the fact that most of the blame fell on him anyway was what made him angry and frustrated—not only with himself, but with his country and the world.

How could Germany have lost the Great War?

How could his father break his promise to him and not return?

How could his mother have been so selfish as to leave him when he needed her most?

It was all so unbearable, this guilt. It was unfair. Germany didn't deserve to be punished this way, and neither did Gilbert and Ludwig have to suffer like this. But what was there that Gilbert could do? He was just one person. And if he did anything more than what he was told, the likelihood of him taking bullets just like his father was very high—the only difference would be that he wouldn't be on the battlefield.

But one thing was for certain—he wasn't going to just sit there and accept that guilt and the fault of the war. It wasn't over. It would never be over—not until he made them pay.

A/N:

(1) Freikorps (Free Corps) were any of several private paramilitary groups that first appeared in December 1918 following Germany's defeat in World War I. Composed of ex-soldiers, unemployed youth, and other discontents and led by ex-officers and other former military personnel, most of them were nationalistic and radically conservative, employed unofficially but effectively to put down left-wing (usually communistic) revolts and uprisings in Berlin, Bremen, Brunswick, Hamburg, and other places throughout Germany. They fought miniature wars and sometimes resorted to plunder and terror; their members were involved in several political assassinations as well. The Freikorps eventually came to be viewed as a nuisance and a threat, and were later replaced by regular army/police work once the Nazis came to power.

(2) The German Revolution (during which this chapter takes place) was a civil conflict within the German Empire at the end of the First World War that resulted in the replacement of Germany's imperial government with a republic. The revolutionary period lasted from November 1918 until the establishment in August 1919 of a republic that later became known as the Weimar Republic.

(3) Hermann was a more modern German name that I decided to use in reference to Germania (Gilbert and Ludwig's father) just in case there was any confusion about that.

(4) Feel free to leave a review, commentary, or suggestions for pairings and other historical events I should write about to include in the story leading up to WWII. I appreciate constructive criticism, just please don't bash it for historical inaccuracies. Thank you! I hope you enjoyed reading it, and I'll do my best to try and post again as soon as possible. (Thankfully it's summer break!) Until next time! ^^