Yes, I know I should be working on my other fics. I just got into a real Hetalia-mood. I studied WW1 and WW2 three years in a row in History Class. Never learned so much about it until Hetalia though. Uh. Any inaccuracies I blame oooon... uh... being tired.
The title is supposed to mean 'For faith and honor'. But what do I know? I only studied German for three years.
Für Glauben und Ehre
Germany wondered if he'd make it out alive this time. If his people could take yet another setback. He had only wanted to help them, but instead he ended up hurting them even worse. Germany was bleeding, to the point of where he was clinging onto a thin thread of life with a grip that was faltering. Italy once commented on how he sounded so much like Russia. Germany didn't have the heart to tell him he was wrong.
Because no matter how much blood had stained Russia's snow, Russia did it for his people. And at a point in this entire mess Germany had too, but in the end it was all about power. His boss was mad with it, and even though he had so much he still thirsted for more. More and more and more until there was nothing left to take. All he did was demand, order and bark until Germany was numb with it all. So he did what his führer wanted, he did as he was told. And he did so with honor because that's what any good soldier would do.
But there was really no honor to it, was there?
Even though he beat France, and despite how good it felt to break that smug face of his, it was all so pointless. Even though Sweden did nothing but stand by the sidelines and watch, indifferently, as he exploited him, used him for his own personal gain, even though Sweden tried to save his people his pride was still damaged. It didn't mean much in the end. No matter how many houses he conquered, or how many places he ruined, the lives he devastated, the blood Germany bathed in could never wash him clean.
When Italy, his now long time ally tried to occupy Greece and failed, it was up to Germany to clean up his mess. Doing what his comrade never could, the blond man still got no satisfaction from his actions. And he always lay awake at night, wondering, how Italy could smile so wide when he was nothing but a fool. A fool that couldn't do what Germany asked of him, that failed and cowered under mighty forces. He was constantly pushed around, especially by Germany even though he acted as if the opposite. Even though Germany knew that maybe one day, there would come a time for him to stab Italy in the back, Italy never doubted.
Instead he kept living as if the days were not filled with naval warfare, a sky that had blackened from smoke and earth tarnished by blood. Even though Poland couldn't sleep because of the screams, because of the endless, ruthless deaths that occurred in his very own house, Italy's smile did not falter. When other countries cowered before Germany's heartless force, Italy never feared. He used to say that Germany couldn't be heartless, after all his cause was good. And sometimes, the ends did justify the means.
But Germany knew he was wrong. How could any cause ever justify what he had done? What he was doing? His own people had been suffering for so long, his own soul felt as if it was being torn apart. They starved and they cried and they writhed in the dirt, shrinking, smaller and smaller under the judging gazes of the world. That smug England and his damn planes. Wherever Germany went he was there. Wherever he turned, wherever he looked, wherever Germany tried to get in England was always there to push back. And even though America refused to admit it, even though he was too stubborn or too stupid or too proud to say out loud what everyone knew, he was always there to back his brother up.
Germany wanted to squash them both. He wanted to prove to all of them that he was not to be ridiculed. He was not to be mocked. They had been laughing at him for far too long and it was time that he showed what he was capable of. This joke had suddenly turned deadly serious but no one would die laughing. No one dared even smile, except for Italy. Stupid, silly, moronic little Italy. Everyone used to say he was the greatest coward of them all. Slow as years when he was needed, but faster than a thought when he was not. Yet sometimes, Germany thought he was the bravest of them all.
Italy used to say he admired Germany. His courage and his authority, it was something he himself aspired to reach someday. Germany wanted to tell him how lonely it was to be like him. That sometimes he wanted nothing more than to just take off the suit and leave. But he couldn't leave. He had a responsibility, a purpose, a duty to oblige because his people needed him now, more than ever. Even if his boss was too demanding, taking it too far with every step, moving the line a little bit further every time he crossed it. Even if his boss demanded Germany to do unspeakable things, to ruin families, to ruin kingdoms, nations and even an entire world, it did not matter. Because Germany would go through with it, for that was his duty. And if he did not do it for the sake of his honor, then at least he could do it for the honor of his people.
But sometimes that honor felt so very far away. He wondered if Italy could see it as well, how vain it all was when one looked at it from another perspective. Sometimes it was hard to keep the faith, yet Italy never seemed to lose hope. He never doubted Germany, even when said man turned his back on Russia, the ally he had once promised so many things. Not even when he raised the knife and stabbed Russia, over and over again until the sickle could not be seen beneath all that blood, Italy stayed by his side.
Germany wondered, on one occasion, if it was perhaps for the power. After all he was rather powerful and a great ally, but your worst nightmare as an enemy. He wondered if maybe Italy did it because of fear, or perhaps greed. Or maybe Italy just shrugged and did whatever his boss told him, and decided to make nothing more of it. Germany didn't know and he never asked either. What their bosses did and what their agreements and ambitions were, was best to leave untouched. It was simply for the best if he just took the orders he was given, like a good soldier, and headed out into the seemingly endless war that shocked the world.
And for whatever reason, Italy stayed with him. And for that Germany was thankful.
White was said to stand for purity, while green was life and well being. Germany thought this suited his ally very well, since Italy seemed so carefree and happy it was hurtful to look at him. Still, he couldn't take his eyes off him for too long because it felt so empty then. In a sense, he was empty. No matter the victories or the conquers, the power or the fact that he was doing what no one had dreamed of doing, it didn't change the hollowness. It didn't matter what he did because once one reaches the top, one realizes how lonely it really is up there.
Red was for action and confidence, along with courage and vitality. Germany didn't think vitality suited him much, but it was one of Italy's most prominent traits. He was the little spark of hope that made it easier to crawl through the smog that covered the Earth, like a giant veil of death. Death, that was one of the things black stood for. Death and stability. Germany scoffed when he thought about it. At least one of those claims was true.
Germany knew he would never be forgiven. After all, how could he be? When he had covered the world with the stench of horror, death, loss and defeat. So many years, so many lives, so much pain just because one person wanted to be the one to stand above all. In an attempt to redeem his people, what he had done instead was push them further into the mud. Germany didn't think it was fair that he should be despised, even if it was silently, for the sins of his leader. But it didn't matter. Even after his leader's death, the world would still leer at him. Whisper and point. It wasn't fair, but that didn't matter, Germany shouldered it anyway. Not because it was the right thing to do, but because it was the most honorable. And that was what it all came down to in the end.
Even though no one else was proud, Germany would always be. If he didn't, no one would. Everyone had gotten hurt because of him, directly or indirectly didn't matter. Japan had suffered great losses, the stench of Hiroshima still permeating the air. Russia's bleeding limbs after all the sieges and cuts. America's harbors overflowing with the tears from their lost ones. Finland's tattered freedom and Sweden's wounded pride. The Baltic Lion instead turned into the cowardly lion. France's territory breached. China clawing at himself, tearing his house apart from the inside out. And every other country that had suffered.
No, no one would shed a tear for Germany. They had already shed so many for the things he did. But he didn't need them, somehow he would climb up from his defeat and rise again. Shine anew because after all, yellow stood for wisdom, happiness and even joy. He would learn from his mistakes and he would grow stronger, more powerful. He would bring wealth and prosperity to his people and so he would see to it that no one would ever speak badly of his home again. He had failed this time, but Germany had not only the pact of steel, but also an iron will.
Perhaps it was for the best that he never reached the top. Because even though he reached the bottom, Italy was still there to smile for him. Even when everyone else doubted, Italy never lost hope.