Series: Hetalia
Title: Scorched-Earth Drabbles: The Basilica Pt. 1
Author: Fictatious
Character(s): Germany, Prussia, N. Italy
Rating: 15
Warnings: RELIGION! RUN!
Summary: In Rome for the first time since the 16th century, Gilbert decides to visit Saint Peter's Basilica.
…
BIG OL' PRE-FIC NOTE: THE RELIGIOUS VIEWS AND SHIT WRITTEN IN HERE DO NOT REFLECT THE BELIEFS OF THE AUTHOR OR THE CONTEMPORARY BELIEFS OF ANYONE. THIS IS ME ATTEMPTING TO EXPLORE A CHARACTER AND A PARTICULAR TIME IN HISTORY. I AM SO TOTALLY NOT ATTACKING OR AGREEING WITH ANY OF THIS.
I'm placing this one in the early 1930s, so it's before "Revolutions," making it the earliest of the drabbles yet.
…
Filiciano was buzzing around excitedly, commenting how nice it was that Gilbert had come along to Rome this time and that they would have to have lunch together and had he met Romano before? and maybe they would get along well because they both seemed to like sarcasm. Gilbert attempted to ignore the demi-country as Ludwig patted his head and tried to calm him down. Gilbert's eyes slid over the scenery of the Eternal City, scrutinizing it in detail. Aspects of the architecture, the skyline, occasional monuments would stick out to him, stir a feeling of familiarity, or he would recognize them outright. It made him unsettled and anxious. Filiciano was babbling about sightseeing to him, and the most important historical monuments to see.
"I know," Gilbert snapped. "This isn't my first time in Rome." He was practically born here. He was born here. Under that cross, under that black eagle, in the shadow of His Holiness and the city of God, this was what he'd been born to serve.
"Oh, right!" the spaz giggled. "Of course it's not! I forgot. It's just that Ludwig was so-"
"Yeah, well I cut those ties before he came along," Gilbert said a bit too quickly, waving his hand dismissively.
"Oh... I see..." the little Italian sounded slightly hurt and confused, but the latter was somewhat of a perpetual state for him anyway.
"Gil?" Ludwig asked behind him as Gilbert turned and started walking west. "Where are you going?"
"The Basilica," Gilbert replied in a successfully casual voice. "I'll catch ya later."
He had walked twelve steps before he heard Ludwig slowly respond, sounding just as confused as Filiciano, "Okay..."
...
The Basilica was much larger than its previous incarnation. Raphael's designs, Michelangelo's improvements, the paintings, the reliefs, the statues, the altarpieces, the paint and gold leaf everywhere... In the end, maybe it was worth it, Gilbert thought for a moment. This was a place that renewed the faithful heart with its awe-inspiring grandeur. But how many of the saints in the paintings had been made to resemble Medici benefactors? How many names and brands and tons of ill-gained wealth were buried in the glorious details? How much corruption did the colorful frescos cover? How many indulgences had it cost to build the fantastic alter over Saint Peter's tomb?
He couldn't decide if the new Basilica was beautiful or disgusting.
But even under a different roof, on different tiles, surrounded by different walls and statuary, he was standing on the same spot where he'd found so much comfort in his younger days. The marker was different but the grave was the same. The Rock upon which the Church was built.
There were people wandering around, some praying, some looking at the artwork, some looking at him with suspicious eyes. A German uniform, and the implications and ludicrous ideals it now symbolized, couldn't help but stand out here. Gilbert ignored them and the evidences of the corruption and greed of a troubled past and walked toward the alter.
He stared at it for a long time, standing motionless and feeling blank, before finally he crossed himself and knelt. "I believe in God, Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth..."
He was on his second Ave Maria before he noticed what he was doing. He paused, staring at the steps, his mind buzzing with static for several minutes.
"... and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus," he continued.
By the twelfth recitation of Ave Maria, he wished he had a rosary to count on.
After fifty-three Ave Marias and seven Lord's Prayers, Gilbert opened his eyes again and saw that they were blurred. He blinked and felt tears fall from them. He noticed that his breath was ragged and that he was shaking. He sat back on his heels and stared at the altar again. It should never have been built. It was an insult to the Lord and his Church. It was a mistake.
But it was beautiful.
