Nanjing.
His capital city Nanjing.
China stumbled through his dark house, blindly navigating with his hands. He grabbed onto his bedpost and sank wearily into the mattress. He tried to keep his eyes open, he knew what he would see if they closed. But the night was pitch dark, causing flashes of carnage to jump into the sides of his eyes anyway.
His people had fought to the death and Nanjing was still destroyed.
He pulled the blankets up to his chin and drew his knees to his chest.
So many deaths, taking the capital was not enough. Japanese soldiers had saw fit to commit mass murder, three hundered-thousand dead.
In Hong Kong, people were being thrown into the streets and shot in cold blood.
In Taiwan, young men were being dressed in Japanese uniforms and forced to fight against their Chinese brothers.
His dear siblings, there was nothing he could do for them; not when he could barely defend himself.
A sharp ache started in his throat that took his breath away. He had felt this feeling before, more times then he cared to remember, along with the lead weight settling into his stomach, he felt shame. A deep rooted shame that had been festering in him since the Age of Imperialism. He clenched his jaw, trying desperately to force down the regret, but it refused to be crushed down.
China covered his face with his hands, and he cried. Tears escaped his fingers and ran down his face, down his neck, and into his unbound hair.
But this too was nothing new, throughout his long life he had shed more bitter tears than he could ever count. But he also had learned to not break and to preserve his composure.
He hadn't shed a single tear at Nanjing as he saw the bodies of the dead piled up by the Yangtze river, instead he calmly ordering that the new capital would be Beijing.
His eyes had been dry when Japan betrayed him and sliced open his back, he had just lain quietly in a pool of his own blood.
He had stood silently by as dynastic cycle after dynastic cycle passed him by, as great generals fell. As Cao Cao was branded a cruel murder and as Sun Tzu disappeared into history. As power struggles continuously split and reunited his land.
The opium had numbed his senses enough to keep him from weeping during the Opium Wars, weeping for all the families destroyed because of that accursed drug.
But did he cry now.
Sobs racked his body as he cried for the state of the world. In all cultures it was an honor to fight and to die for your country. Thousands-no, hundreds of thousands of soldiers had died for him, where was their honor? All they got were dead family and dead friends.
He lay in bed, hands over his face, crying quietly. Hate and anguish alternately lashed out at him until his hands closed into fists. China curled up into a tighter ball and tried to catch his breath, he had lost to much to let himself drown in his sorrow. His pillow was soaked through and his breath came in shuddering gasps. Slowly an odd dry smile forced its way onto his face, he pressed his fists hard into his forehead, what the hell was he grinning about? But what else could he do?
If he didn't smile then he might keep on crying, and he was nearly out of tears.
After a few minutes his uncontrollable sobbing stopped and he sighed, relaxing his entire body. Soon, a deep primal anger began to overpower the ache of sadness. Five thousand years of history; he has lived too long to be destroyed now. Sitting up, he wiped his eyes and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stripped off his traditional robe and folded it away, taking care not to crease the collar.
His bare skin felt strange in the open air; his only protection against the chill of the night were the bandages wrapped across his torso. The wounds were still burning but he had learned long ago that all injuries-if allowed to-would heal with time, no matter how deep.
In place of the delicate silk, he thrust his arms thorugh the Chinese military uniform. The cloth was much heavier but China barely noticed the difference, there were enough burdens weighing down on his heart to worry about his body. He buckled on his belt and tied back his hair with a fresh binding.
He took up his qiang from where it sat on a carved laquer shelf and tested the spear point against his hand. The steel held countless memories, it seemed to have been ages since when his hands weren't tied and he was allowed to tear down his enemies.
He picked up his gun and kissed the cold black metal before slinging it over his shoulder. Here's to the future.
China's pale skin was bathed in moonlight as he stepped outside, the night breeze whipping his black hair about his face.
Japan had killed his people, Taiwan's people, Hong Kong's people, and left his capital in ruins.
Never again.
Beyond his vision to the west, China knew there were three countries fighting in central Europe. Looking to the north he could just make out a tall broad figure, scarf blowing in the wind.
A cold expression fell over China's face, wiping off the placid aura that it was so accustomed to. His eyes froze over and he scowled. He walked swiftly through the bamboo forest, walking towards the gunshots, towards the suffering.
Never again.
A/N: Qiang-A chinese spear, I don't think they were actually used during the Battle of Nanjing but in my opinion it is analogous to China as the katana is to Japan.
Being Chinese, the history of Nanjing hit me particularly hard, especially since they don't really teach it at school. It's difficult to understand the intense hatred that the Chinese felt during the war until you find out what really happened. The Nanjing Massacre did kill about 300,000 disarmed soldiers and civilians.