Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters in the show. This is merely a work of fiction using the characters for the purpose of this plot-line.

Waltz of Crimson Drops

For Luke, the Las Vegas Norge.

Ch. 1~I loved you so…

He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, frozen in place by a fear so great it was eating him away even now. No, that couldn't be Norway's back turned to him as he walked away toward Sweden's outstretched hand. No, no, NO! It wasn't possible! There was no way that this was actually happening! It had to be another of his awful nightmares.
If it was a nightmare then why did it hurt so much…? He knew that sometimes pain in false visions seemed real, but it had never been this real. This was happening, and the love of his life was slipping away.
Tears stung his eyes and left hot trails of unbridled pain across his cheeks before falling to the cold ground. "Norge!" he called out, his voice shaky and broken as a hand was raised, as if trying to clasp at the other, but failing.
The cold eyed beauty turned to look at him, not a trace of emotion showing, even though Denmark was falling apart in front of him. "Don't go…" it was a plea, a broken, almost whispered plea, an act of a desperate fool, hopelessly in love.
No response was given, the cold Norwegian didn't even blink as he turned and kept walking, closing his ears to the now kneeling mans broken cries. He had made his choice and there was no going back now.
Denmark couldn't stop crying. Pain seared through him like a thousand arrow-wounds as the sound of a retreating carriage faded into the distance. Hadn't he been enough for the other? Hadn't he loved him, cared for him, and gave him the greatest pleasure known to man?
Was he really such a despicable man…? He stared down at his shaking hands through eyes blurred by warm, salty water that was beginning to burn. These hands, so scarred and calloused from years of fighting, were stained with the blood of foes he'd fought to protect his family…and his most precious someone.
He'd only ever done what he thought was right, what with Far Scandinavia leaving him in charge of the younger ones without even giving him a proper crash 'course on how to go about it. The Dane didn't actually have any experience in how to behave as more than a kid really.
It had all been too much but he'd tried, he really had, and in the process he'd fallen in love with Norway, the stoic, cold-hearted angel who loved his magical friends almost more than his little brother.
It was killing him inside that all his efforts had only chased away the people he cared for most. First Sweden, whom despite all their tussles, he respected beyond all else; the tall, intimidating man had taken Finland with him, the cheery boy who was always so innocent. And now, Norway had left him, choosing Sweden's stoic disinterest over his ever-faithful love and care.
He hissed, gripping the dirt as the pain turned into something much sourer. Denmark hadn't been this angry in such a long time, not since someone had hurt Norway. He stood; hand balled into trembling fists as he turned to the stone wall and slammed a fist into it.
The pain dulled the ache in his heart, so he did it again, but this time with the other hand. He continued this way for a good several minutes until his hands were a mess of blood and tattered skin.
He leaned against the blood-stained stones and slipped into a sitting position between two neatly trimmed bushed, and laughed. It was a harsh, bitter sound that caused any nearby creatures to flee. He was alone now.
Sure Iceland was up sleeping in his room right now, but he didn't count because he was a child, someone who needed protecting. Who knew how long he'd stick around now that his 'big brother' had left.
No one wanted the 'stupid, annoying, bastard Dane.' He didn't blame them, he despised himself to. He talked big but when it came down to it he was a lonely idiot with nothing but a large empty house and a boss who treated him like a pet.
He walked inside dejectedly and stared blankly around the entrance hall. His eyes caught the glint of a sword in a case full of old weapons, and suddenly something snapped. He broke the glass with his fist, ignoring the slashes on his face and the pieces buried in his already abused hand.
He grabbed the weapon and began destroying everything in sight, not even the curtains came out unscathed. When he was done with the hall he burst into the kitchen, startling the maids, and repeated the process in there.
Between broken cries of pure frustration, he could feel the steady flow of tears, but still he continued on, trying to ignore the whispering voice in the back of his mind telling him that this was all pointless, because Norway hated him, and Norway was never coming back.
Another scream. He couldn't accept it! No, he wouldn't accept it, there was no way Norway would choose Sweden over him! Just because the other was bigger, stronger, smarter, handsomer, cooler, and braver than him meant nothing!
The sword buried itself into the large oaken table, and after several angry attempts at dislodging it he gave up and fell to the floor sobbing once again. What was the point of all this? It was pretty obvious why both Norway and Finland chose Sweden over him.
He'd just named all the reasons, and still he'd been blinded by this tiny sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, Norway would actually come back, and more so, that perhaps he wanted to. But no, Norway was gone, he didn't want him, and he didn't want himself either.
"I loved you…" he hiccupped. "So…so very much…" he buried his in his lap as his shoulders shook with unrestrained tears. It was true, he had loved Norway, and even after all this, he still did.
That was the thing about love. Love was a horrible trap, easy to be ensnared, not so easy to escape. The worst of it was then Denmark wasn't sure he wanted to. Loving Norway had really been the most magical thing, even if the other was rather abusive…and cold…and unfeeling.
He whimpered pitifully at that thought. Norway must have been lying all that time when he said he loved the Dane, just so he could use him until he could run away with Sweden, his true love. That hurt, but it must be true.
"Who could love me…" he chuckled sadly. "Such an annoying and cheerful idiot who doesn't know the first thing about ruling is…just so lame." He leaned back, all his tears gone, leaving him numb and emotionally exhausted.

Now he was feeling sorry for himself. He sighed and stood. Really there was no point to all this pity, he was alone and that was that, nothing he could do to change the situation, so he might as well accept it like he always had, with a stupid smile on his face.
The trick was that the only person who'd really seen him smile was Norway, so to everyone else it seemed real, even if it didn't quite reach his eyes. He strode out of the kitchen and into the living room whistling as he ignored his still bleeding hands, which really should have been bandaged.
A maid ran in to check on him, and when she saw his hands, quickly fetched some bandages and gently began to wrap his hands. He smiled at her and thanked her as she scuttled back out and then sighed, turning to stare at the table.
He was in deep thought still as the sun slowly finished its accent into the sky, only snapping out of it when there was the soft creaking of a door opening and he looked up to spot Iceland, and he gave him a big grin.
"Where's Norway...?" he wondered absently before glaring at the Dane. "Not that I really care!" He huffed and Denmark just smiled. "He left…" No point in lying since Iceland would found out at some point anyway, and then he'd just hate the Dane for not telling him.
"Where…?" Iceland seemed to deflate and Denmark had to admit he felt bad for the poor boy. "He's staying with Sverige now…" he tried to keep the vicious tone out of his voice, but probably failed quite badly if he was honest.
"Oh…" Quiet and seemingly emotionless, but also sadly accepting. That was an 'oh'
Denmark had never wanted to hear from any of the others, and here he was, hearing it from the youngest of them all. "There's nothing we can do…" he said more to confirm it to himself than the silent boy before him.
He stood. "We should go eat breakfast…" he was stopped when Iceland called his name softly. "Yeah?" he wondered, turning to face him from where he stood. "What happened to your hands…?" Ah, of 'course he'd noticed.
The Dane sighed, and then grinned. "Oh I cut them while trying to do some whittling late last night! Now let's go eat!" It was an obvious lie and he could tell Iceland didn't believe it for a second, but he didn't push the subject, and with a shrug he followed him into the private dining hall.
It was smaller than the main dining hall which was used only for large parties and other special occasions. Only the Nordics had used this one, it was cozier and easier to talk to each other without all the echoing.
But with only two people it seemed big and empty, despite all the clutter. They ate in silence and servants fussed over them. Without Norway it didn't really feel like there was much reason for talking.
Denmark hated silence, but he was in so much pain over Norway leaving he couldn't bring himself to say anything. He felt like crying again, but refused to show such weakness in front of Iceland. The poor boy needed someone he could rely on to be strong right now, and that was him.
He supposed he could always see if he could convince Greenland to leave his 'hermit hut' on his island and join them in the city, just to keep his brother company, but Greenland was a wild man at heart, and refused to take any part in 'civilized society.'
Excusing himself he headed towards his room, hands itching to 'cause some form of destruction. That was how he dealt with the gaping holes of sorrow in his heart; he destroyed things, killed people. The adrenaline of pain and 'causing pain was exhilarating to him and he couldn't get enough of it. This was nothing he was proud of, and it was something he'd tried to change, but unlike what people believed, Denmark was awful with his emotions, and had the lowest self-esteem of all the Nordics combined.
Once behind the safety of his large wooden doors, now locked, he let himself come undone. He grabbed a knife from his bedside table and slashed at one of his already well-scarred wrists.
The cold metal burned as it slid across his skin, but it made the pain feel dull and distant, so he kept going, ignoring the pain in favor of the emptying feeling. There were now several ugly wounds littering the lower half of both arms.
He just sat there on the floor, soft light flitting across his pale and hopeless face as blood seeped onto the floor. Too much was being lost, but what did it matter, he couldn't really die. A nation couldn't permanently die until every last one of their people was gone.
As long as the Danish breed of humanity lived, so did he, even if he died now and then. He always came back gasping, as if he'd been drowning, and it hurt a lot usually, but this time it didn't.
It was comforting almost as he felt himself slowly slipping away into the darkness. He thought he heard a desperate banging on the door and Iceland calling his name as he slouched against the huge glass window that went from the floor to the ceiling and led to his balcony, but disregarded it as near-death delusions.
No one wanted him, so why would someone be calling for him? It didn't make any sense, and would almost seem laughable, if it weren't for the fact that Norway didn't want him either. Maybe, if that cold beauty had wanted him he would have been ok, but those were only the fantasies of a fool, and a dead fool at that.
He did laugh then as his vision blacked out just as a panicked Iceland burst into the room. He didn't hear or see anything else after that for a very long time, his broken heart having stopped in a momentary escape from all his suffering.

Denmark was dead…

AN: Oh hey look, I actually did kill off Denmark….sorry Luke! Don't say I didn't warn you though…but hey, he comes back! I mean, you can't really permanently kill a country…at least not to my knowledge.
Anyway, I am not the least bit sorry for all the depressing angst. Enjoy!