Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, or any of the characters; I love messing around with 'em, though. (I don't own the cover image, either).
Author's note: Before I get to this one-shot, I just want to say that if you think it's a bit all-over-the-place, it's because I wasn't exactly at my best when I wrote it. It's a vent writing, you could say. I received some bad news which I don't wish to talk about, and this was the only way I could think of in order to let it out. You can perceive this one-shot however you want, it's an open-minded scenario sort of thing.
Also, that's the reason I'm publishing this before the FrUK one my profile says I'm supposed to publish.
With that said, here you go.
Death.
It's always around them; has always been.
It lightly treads in the darkest of nights, it slithers in during the brightest of days.
No white-out and no heat wave can stop it.
No battering winds, no merciless storms.
No pleas for mercy, no beseeches for another chance.
No matter the season, no matter the time, no matter the condition—it will be there and it will take and take and take and they can't do anything about it.
The first time they saw it happen, they couldn't make any sense of it. Where was that soul going? Why was it floating away? Why was that person going limp? Why weren't they speaking anymore?
Why was everyone crying?
"It's called Death," someone had told them when the time was right, "it's what happens when a human reaches the end of their days, and it comes in various forms. No one knows when it will happen, or how. It just does, and we have to cope."
They'd asked, "Will I also die one day?"
"No."
"Why?"
"You're not like them."
Initially, they simply hadn't understood. None of them ever do. It'd felt so…inconceivable. It just hadn't made sense. How come that person wasn't coming back? They were awake just a moment ago…breathing just a moment ago…
How come?
And despite that, slowly yet surely, they'd learnt that they were to be immortal; everlasting; never-ending.
Including the fact that it came with the worst kind of torture, because the world was never fair. If there was peace, there was war; if there was light, there was darkness; if there was life, there was Death.
And they saw it numerous times after that. It stomped on the flame of the bravest; faded away the love of the most compassionate; flicked away the spark of the most ambitious. Men, women, children…all ghosts that aimlessly floated about, their life left behind.
But they couldn't leave anything behind—not while their people fought for them, not while their cities flourished and prospered, not while they were never forgotten.
"But there are humans who die, and yet they are never forgotten."
"So it seems."
"Why don't they come back, then?"
"They're not like you."
For they have died more than enough—so much so that they've become numb to it. They've been stabbed deep, in every place imaginable; dismembered; poisoned; decapitated; electrocuted; hanged; burned alive; drowned; frozen into the even colder hands of Death…yet they've always come back. Resurrected; revived—whatever the people chose to call it, they could never experience it, and because of that, envy plagued those humans to no end.
But it was them that the green-eyed monster gnawed on, because these mortals had no idea what it was like, growing attached and then having to let go. They couldn't help it; they loved their people. They knew each one by name, by age, and by looks. They conversed with them, aided them, provided them with that glimmer of hope when they needed it.
However, there were always those who would outshine the rest. The persistent ones, the patriots, the rebels, the fighters. They'd become so close to them that sometimes they could feel that they were them. They'd make those humans a part of their history; their culture; their soul.
"So naïve…"
"I…I can't help it!"
"They will disappear one day. You'll have to let go."
"…I know…"
"Then why are you making it harder on yourself?"
"I'm like them."
No matter who they were, where they came from, or what they stood for, humans always grew attached to things and people. They would become a part of their identity, often something that they would be represented by.
And they wanted to be just like those mortals.
So they would befriend them, they would love them, they would protect them…
only to be forced to hand them over to Death, who'd ruthlessly snatch the spirit and vanish from sight.
And then they would be in distress. They would cry, they would scream, they would punch and kick and yell and then they would crumple to the ground like a useless heap of broken bones.
What can they do? They can't save their people, they can't save anyone. But Death is there every day, everywhere.
So why are they still not used to it? Why don't they feel mere numbness when it happens? Why are they always affected, always hurt, always broken, always helpless?
The answer has occurred to most of them in a short, simple form: it is their punishment.
A torture for a path they never chose. Balance must continue in this world, and that applies to especially them. A reminder that, just because they are meant to be eternal, it does not mean they are meant to be happy. Sometimes they long for Death to carry them away for good.
The ancient ones have been lucky; empires that have long passed their glorious days, that have seen despair and hopelessness and lived it until it destroyed them completely.
Others are waiting their turn.
A few are clinging onto what is left of the thread, despite the countless times they are crushed because of it, in fear of leaving those who need them the most behind.
And yet, in the end…will anything remain? Even their immortality has limits; does that mean there is a little hope peeking in, somewhere, out there? After all, all they have to do is be forgotten…
Forgotten.
"Do you know what this word means? It means you are never mourned, never remembered. No one will even bother to think about you."
"That's…i-is that really what happens…? But if I die in the end…won't I finally find peace?"
"You will not go where the humans go."
"But…why…?"
"You're not like them."
How? How can they be so different, yet so similar? How can they be tied to a fate so merciless, yet still share their emotions?
Why can't they let go?
Maybe it's their people. Maybe it's their sense of responsibility. Maybe it's their legacy, their history.
Perhaps if they smile…if they act normal…if they push past every adversity, every day, every minute, every second…perhaps they'll make it.
That's how they've been doing it for the past innumerable centuries, after all, haven't they? Even at the expense of their own sanity…even when they've had to see it, Death, every day.
They still don't know who, or what, they're fighting for. They're yet to figure out why they're still standing.
But they'll do it if they have to, and they'll rely on each other, confide in one another, weep on their shoulders and spill their suffering to them.
They'll rub their back, they'll whisper soothing words, they'll pull them back up on their feet and they'll give them a smile.
That's how their cycle goes; it is their own balance.
"We are like them; and at the same time, we are not. And yet, we'll keep fighting for them…be it the last thing we do, and we'll do it with pride."
They are cultures, histories, traditions, legacies.
And they fight for us.
As usual, if you take your time to read this, thank you. Reviews are appreciated.
~D.J.