It was the eve of December 2nd, 1805 and Holy Rome sat propped up against a barrel of supplies. He had been ill for months and marching for days had done that little good. He could not even stand without feeling lightheaded. He felt as though he were dying, not so much in his body, which had never been strong, but in his mind. He was very near to simply giving up inside. He was certain that he would not live through the next day on the battlefield.

It seemed that many of his soldiers had the same idea. They were passing around expensive bottles of wine and talking quietly around small fires. They looked as tired as Holy Rome felt.

He could not abandon them, he owed them his presence at the very least. They did not deserve to die for such a futile cause. They deserved long, happy, peaceful lives. He was simply not worth all of this bloodshed. He would gladly sacrifice himself before he saw all of them die in vain.

Holy Rome sighed. His entire body ached unpleasantly. He liked to think that he was prepared to die; it was his time. And yet how could he die now? He had lived a thousand years and yet he didn't feel like he had lived at all. The months had come and gone so quickly. How had he wasted so much precious time on idiotic wars?

Who would remember him when he was dead? Not his people. Who knows what would become of them? Not his brothers, he was sure. They didn't really care about him. Their failure to agree on anything was the cause of his constant weakness. Although he could hardly blame them with a clear conscience when the only one who was truly to blame was himself.

He had let his heart distract him for far too many years. Trying to convince Italy to permanently join his empire was clearly a wasted effort. He had let time pass him by as his house fell into ruin. Even so, that was the only period of his life that he could recall being truly happy.

Surely Italy would remember him. Surely Italy would mourn his death. Even if everyone else forgot that he had ever existed, the fact that Italy would remember him as more than another failed empire was a comfort in the face of death.

But if he died tomorrow, he would never see Italy again. He had been waiting centuries for the day when at last he would be reunited with her but now that day would never come. He would never get to look into her beautiful eyes again and tell her that he loved her.

He always imagined that somehow everything would work out and he and Italy would spend the rest of their lives together. At this point, he wouldn't mind if they only met again when he was on his deathbed so long as they could be together one last time. But somehow, he felt that he wouldn't make it that far.

He couldn't die now. What would the point of all these years apart be if he only broke his promise in the end? He didn't want to die even if Italy was all he had to live for.

Holy Rome felt tears slipping slowly down his face. He didn't want his soldiers to see him in such a state but they appeared to be preoccupied with their own sorrows. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed silently.

This wasn't fair, it just wasn't fair.

He wept for what felt like hours before he felt a hand grip his shoulder. He lifted his tearstained face to see his brother, Prussia, kneeling before him.

"You don't have to march into battle tomorrow. No one will be angry if you stay behind." Prussia said, in an uncharacteristically comforting tone.

"I have to." Holy Rome responded shakily but surely, "I cannot abandon my people now."

"Are you going to be okay?" Prussia asked softly.

"I don't know but… Please stay with me." Holy Rome pleaded, his voice cracking as he began to cry once again.

Prussia hugged his brother gently as he sobbed into Prussia's shoulder. He rubbed Holy Rome's back and murmured to him soothingly.

How could he let his little brother go into battle in such a state? He was just a child really, much too young to die. He could barely stand up as it was, how was he expected to fight?

"I'm going to protect you. You aren't going to die tomorrow, I promise." Prussia whispered to his brother who was beginning to drift off. "Just rest now. You're going to be fine."

At last, Holy Rome fell asleep against his brother's shoulder. Prussia made a makeshift bed for him on the ground and covered him with a blanket.

Prussia ran his hand through his brother's hair tenderly. He looked so peaceful when he slept.

"You aren't going to die." Prussia murmured, praying silently that this was true.