Welcome to my collection of Hetalia historical one-shots. Featuring lots of OCs alongside canon characters. I will warn readers now that there will be some very dark and often disturbing elements and themes to this collection – I will tag as needed – and I just want everyone to be aware that nothing contained herein is meant to cause offence, but to provide an artistic depiction of historical events as I have interpreted them according to documentation and the worldviews of the characters portrayed.

Updates may be sporadic as I have a number of other fics going.

I have decided to start off with a particularly potent moment from history. Inclusion of Austria/Hungary pairing.

Warning: Depictions of violence and death.

Ignite

Austria fanned himself with his hat as he waited in the lobby of the town hall, listening to the furious shouts of the archduke from the other room.

"This visit is not going nearly as well as I hoped," he thought aloud.

"At least the worst appears to be over," Hungary said, resting a gloved hand comfortingly on his arm. "The police have taken the bomber into custody."

It had been a very near thing. A young Bosnian had decided to protest the authority of Austria and Hungary over his nation by throwing a bomb at the car of the archduke and his wife while they were making an official visit to Sarajevo. By sheer chance, the bomb had bounced off the front of the car and under the car behind them, sparing the lives of the imperial couple but leaving over a dozen onlookers and additional members of the motorcade badly injured. The attempted assassin had then tried to commit suicide by consuming a cyanide pill and jumping into the river – again, the man's fortunes appeared to be off as the pill merely caused him to vomit and the river was shallow due to the summer heat, leaving him alive and exposed to the furious crowd, which proceeded to beat him until the authorities arrived.

Overall, it was not the welcome that Austria had anticipated when he and Hungary decided to visit. Bosnia and Herzegovina both insisted they had no idea that anything like this was going to happen and had practically begged Austria and Hungary not to take this isolated incident as a sign of their disloyalty. The two had been strangely furtive, as of late, and Herzegovina had even stopped her normal spate of criticisms of Austria and Hungary; it was suspicious, but not enough to accuse the couple of treason. Even if they were complicit in the attack, Austria doubted that they were the masterminds behind it.

No, if there was anyone plotting to harm the archduke, it would be that snake Serbia. Only about a decade ago, the deranged Slavic country had joined in a coup with Dragutin Dimitrijević and brutally murdered his own king and queen in order to install a ruler who favored Slavic nationalism. And even further still, hidden in the shadows, Russia was undoubtedly pulling the strings and sowing discontent. Serbia was many things, but 'subtle' was not one of them. And, as terrifyingly direct as Russia could be, the frost-bitten behemoth could be infuriatingly devious to the point that Serbia and other Russia-sympathizers likely didn't realize they were being manipulated.

"I don't like this," Austria continued, taking Hungary's hand in his and savoring the quiet strength her presence always provided. "I will feel safer once we return home."

Hungary kissed him on the cheek, causing him to blush at the public display of affection (though, thankfully, there were not that many people around to witness it).

"You are such a worrier, Roderich," she said. "And, besides, if anything does happen, I'll protect you."

"Why did we even have to come here?" Austria muttered. "It's not like the people outside even want to see us. I doubt a single one of them is genuinely happy that they answer to us, now."

"We're protecting Bosnia and Herzegovina. You know what would happen if someone doesn't step in on their behalf. Serbia would walk all over them the first chance he got."

Whatever Austria was about to reply was cut off as the archduke and his wife reappeared, accompanied by the small security force. Austria was absolutely disgusted by the lack of proper security measures. They had been promised an escort of six specially-trained officers; instead, they had one such officer and a couple of Bosnian policemen. It seemed the government was more concerned with organizing the dinner menus for the trip than ensuring the safety of the heir to the throne. Austria just wanted the trip to be over with so he could go home to his piano, but life and incompetent underlings kept providing more and more obstacles for him.

"We are changing the schedule," the archduke said, slapping Austria's shoulder in a companionable way, making the rather delicate nation wince. "Sophie has suggested we go to the hospital to visit the people who were injured in the attack."

"What a wonderful idea," said Hungary, giving a friendly smile to the duchess. "Of course we should offer our sympathies to the injured."

Duchess Sophie smiled back, thankful that someone other than her husband appreciated her ideas. Hungary was one of the few people who did not make her feel like an outsider. Ever since Sophie's marriage to Archduke Franz Ferdinand, she had been snubbed and criticized by many members of the aristocracy due to her being from an obscure Czech family of lesser nobility. Hungary, at least, was willing to be respectful to the woman, and Sophie always appreciated having someone in her corner.

Perhaps that was what Austria loved most about Hungary. She was always so willing to see the best in people and stand up for those who are treated unfairly. She was one of the few good things in Austria's life and had stood by him even in some of his darkest times. She had a way of endearing herself to almost anyone. Even the archduke was fond of her despite his deep dislike of the Hungarian people – and hadn't that been an awkward moment to overhear the archduke call all Hungarians 'scheming' and 'untrustworthy.'

The ladies adjusted their hats and the men straightened their ties as they returned to the cars. Austria held the door open for Hungary and offered her his hand to help her into their vehicle. She gave him an amused look at his officiousness. Many times, Hungary had said she was perfectly capable of seating herself in a car without assistance, but Austria's gentlemanly sense of etiquette demanded that he do little things like hold doors for her, pull out her chair for her at supper, find the glove she misplaced at the opera, and even throw his jacket over a puddle for her so she wouldn't get her feet wet – no matter how much he liked said jacket.

Hungary leaned slightly against Austria's shoulder, causing him to blush at yet another small public display of affection. Austria could honestly say that his time with Hungary was the happiest he had ever been. Despite their past history of war with each other and the fact that their marriage had originally been ordered by their bosses for political reasons, Austria truly did care deeply for his wife. He wasn't sure if he would label it as 'love.' Austria had never had much experience with actual love.

At least, not in his memory, he didn't. There was a vague recollection from his childhood. A kind female presence who had held the young Austria in her arms and told him everything would be all right. But, she was a phantom, an enigmatic vision of a time lost to history and her very name unknown. That had been the first time Austria had ever known the feeling of love, only for it to be ripped away from him as he was flung into a world of backstabbing, power-plays, lies, and manipulations. Austria had tried to settle problems as peaceably as possible, and with each marriage alliance he made he held onto a hope that, maybe this time, a political union could turn into a loving one – he lost that foolish hope after Spain abandoned him.

Austria was shaken from his contemplation as the driver turned rather sharply up a side street to follow the car carrying the imperial couple in front of them.

"What is going on?" Austria exclaimed. "This isn't right. Driver, we're going the wrong way!"

The car pulled to a stop at the same moment that the archduke and duchess's car did, only a short way from the Latin Bridge. There was a sudden tension in the air. Austria might not be the warrior that he had been as a child, but even he could detect that something was wrong. A tangible threat hung all around them and Austria's instincts were screaming at him to get out of there as fast as he could.

Then, from out of the crowd of onlookers, a figure charged towards the imperial car. The light of the sun glinted off the metal case of a gun clutched in the man's hand. It all happened so fast that Austria barely had time to register what was going on before a shot was heard.

The sound of Duchess Sophie screaming before being cut off by the second gunshot spurred Austria to try to rush to their aid. Hungary was already on her feet and about to make a break from the car when the driver put the vehicle in motion, backed up, and sped off. Hungary was knocked back in her seat from the impact and Austria clutched at the side of the car to steady himself.

"Driver, what is the meaning of this?!" Austria demanded, his temper flaring. "Stop! I order you! Stop!"

The car screeched to a halt and the driver rose to his feet and slowly turned to face them. At once, Austria recognized the arrogant smirk of Serbia, whose dark eyes glinted with a viciousness which chilled Austria to the core. Serbia reached into his jacket and, like the assassin, pulled out a gun.

"You folks came to the wrong neighborhood," he said, taking aim at Austria.

Click.

Every sound was muffled and every shape blurred.

Austria couldn't connect his mind to what was going on around him. Time had seemed to slow to a snail's pace and he could feel nothing but the frantic thump, thump of his heart in his chest. Austria blinked a few times and, though things began to come back into focus, his vision was dotted with spots. He fumbled as he tried to hoist himself to his feet, but his brain seemed unable to link to his flesh, leaving him with the feeling that he was watching the world through someone else's eyes.

Suddenly, everything was too loud, too bright. He could hear the shrill ring of sirens as if they were right beside his head. He felt a pain blooming in his stomach and clutched his hand to it, only to touch something wet. Pulling back his hand, he found it seeped with a vibrant red. The vividness of the substance and the rusty, metallic tang in the air made him realize it was blood. His own blood. Austria braced himself against the side of the car and tried to stay calm despite the panic building up inside of him as he remembered what happened.

Serbia had hijacked the car. Serbia had pulled out a gun and fired it. Hungary had screamed "No!"

Wait, Hungary!

Austria turned sharply, his head swimming from the sudden motion. There, lying slumped in her seat, was his wife of over fifty years – though, Austria would admit, he had wanted to marry her long before 1867. Austria had never had to witness Hungary go through a death before, and doing so now left him trembling. Hungary had always seemed an unbreakable and undefeatable force of nature. Even Prussia had cowered in the face of her anger. But, now…

She was so still, so pale, so…broken. She must have jerked her head back at some point, because her long, light brown hair now hung loose and disheveled around her face, having come free from the hat she had worn that day. Her beautiful green eyes were now dark and glassy, without a hint of their usual warmth. And there, blossoming thick and red across the white of her dress, were several gunshot wounds in her chest.

Austria finally collapsed back onto the seat beside her and, without even thinking, he pulled Hungary's lifeless body to him and began to shake. He wasn't even fully conscious of what he was doing; he merely followed his natural impulses, forgetting every social sensibility he had, as he cradled her still, cold body and muttered, "No, no, no" to himself as tears became to pour, unbidden, from his eyes.

In that instant, he was no longer Austria. He was Roderich Edelstein. He was a man who had awoken to find that his wife had been gunned down by a terrorist. Logically, he knew that Elizabeta would be fine and would come back, as nations were not so easily gotten rid of. But logic is difficult to grasp when one possesses human emotions and feelings. All Roderich knew was that his wife had been killed for no reason. She had done nothing wrong. If Serbia wanted to hurt someone, why couldn't he have just gone for him and left Elizabeta alone?

It should've been me that died, Austria thought. Not her. Never her.

He was still holding her when the ambulance arrived. Even when the medics treated him for the wound to his abdomen – which had, miraculously, not caused significant damage – he insisted on staying with Hungary. When he said quietly to the medics that he wanted to be with her when she woke up, the humans looked at him pityingly, clearly believing him deluded or in extreme denial.

Austria would not be removed from Hungary's side. Not when the doctors told him he needed to rest and that there was nothing they could do for her. Not when the government officials arrived to inform him that both Archduke Franz Ferdinand and Duchess Sophie were killed in the attack by the gunman. Not when Bosnia and Herzegovina came to plead with him not to hold them responsible for the horrific events.

No. Austria stayed at Hungary's side until she finally took a breath and opened her eyes. And, even after that, he remained. And, in Austria's heart, despite his reserved temperament and delicate disposition, the warrior nature he'd had long ago once again flared to life, kindled by anger and hatred towards Serbia for doing something so needless and cruel. It wasn't his attack on Austria, himself, that started this. It wasn't the unrest Serbia was stirring up in the Serb population in Bosnia. It wasn't the fact that Austria's future leader was now dead. It wasn't even the fact that Austria now had to go back to his country and tell three children that their parents were never coming home.

It was because of Serbia's unwarranted attack against the woman Austria loved. For that reason, and that reason alone, Austria would neither forget nor forgive.

"What were you thinking, Vasilije?!" Bosnia demanded as he barged into an old warehouse to find Serbia casually cleaning weapons. "For the love of Allah, answer me!"

"Don't invoke your false version of God, Enis," Serbia said idly. "I never could understand why you and Albania still follow that vile religion which Turkey forced you to convert to."

"Turkey never forced us to convert to Islam," Bosnia said angrily. "Bekim and I simply chose a different path to God than you. As has my Lejla and your dear little Arjana."

"Don't you dare bring my sister into this discussion, Enis. Kosovo will learn soon enough that I won't tolerate her foolish devotion to that old wind-bag Turkey. You and Herzegovina would do well to understand that, too."

"Oh, so now you seek to threaten us? Vasilije, I put up with you staying here in my lands because you promised me you had nothing to do with the madness going on in your home. Now, you've gone and aided in the murder of the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, in my capital. Worse still, you went and attacked Austria and Hungary, themselves! Why?! Why would you do something so stupid?!"

"Why?!" Serbia snarled, jumping to his feet and stalking towards Bosnia, who began to cower from his neighbor. "You want to know why?! Because they were never going to stop! They already had control of you and Lejla, and you two were just dancing for them like puppets on strings. Where would it end, Enis?! Tell me! Where would it end?! Russia has promised to protect us once we officially ally with him-"

"Ally with that cold-hearted maniac?" Bosnia said incredulously. "Serbia, are you blind?! He only claims he wants to help you because he wants control over everyone and everything! You've traded one oppressive regime for another. Even worse, you have sold me and Lejla out for your own selfish gain. Never once did you ask if we wanted any part in this. You simply decided you knew what was best, like – like a tyrant! You don't care about me, or Lejla, or any of us!"

"Shut up, Enis! Everything I do, I do to protect us. I do care about you and Lejla and the rest of the Balkans. All I want is for us to be able to live together as a family so I can protect us all."

"But we're not a family, Vasilije," Bosnia insisted furiously. "Our cultures and beliefs and goals are too different. It's not your responsibility to take care of us. What you have done…this…this insanity…it will only ignite a conflict you cannot hope to stop. So many lives are going to be changed forever because of this, and not in the way you hoped. The blood of thousands of men, women, and children will be on your hands when all is said and done."

"Enis…" Serbia said in quiet surprise. He tried to reach out to Bosnia, but Bosnia swatted his hand away.

"No, Serbia. Nothing you say will justify what has happened. You have begun something here, today, which will never be forgotten, because it will destroy so much. I hope you can live with yourself after you see what your foolishness causes. But don't expect me to join you in this mad venture of yours. If you want me in your corner, you will have to drag me kicking and screaming into it. And, even then, I will leap at the first chance to escape."

Serbia stared at Bosnia as if he was seeing him for the first time. To him, Bosnia was always the slow, not particularly intelligent member of the Balkans, which was why other nations took advantage of him so easily. And to hear such a vehement rejection of Serbia's plans and an insistence that something terrible would result from Serbia's assassination plot from someone like Bosnia…Serbia wasn't sure how he should feel.

He was angry at Bosnia's words and his refusal to join in Serbia's grand vision for the Balkans, that went without saying. But the outright accusation that what he'd done would have him marked with shame and guilt for years to come…to be honest, it frightened him. Serbia would never admit it, but he did have a twinge of fear at that.

And time alone would tell what would rise from the ashes of the fire he had started that fateful day.

Author's Note: And, thus, the First World War was begun. And it's really all Serbia's fault, not that anyone but Austria remembered that when it was all over. Everyone, even today, still thinks it was Germany's fault – which I feel is unfair, as Germany was just following through on his promise to help his neighbor.

Anyway, I hope you all liked my first Historical Hetalia one-shot. Please let me know if there are any events or periods in history you'd like me to focus on. I've got quite a few ideas for Roman Empire segments.