Disclaimer: If I owned Hetalia, world war three would have long erupted.

Courage is a hard thing to come by. And by courage, I mean pure acts of bravery, things not prompted by anything else. Because what most people think is brave, could've really just been stupid, or lucky.

Some people do things out of spite and hatred, making them appear brave. Others do things out of love or compassion.

And still, people go on label such acts as "valiant".

But someone who is truly bold, needs no encouragement . They do things simply because they feel the need to. Their moral compass does not work like the rest of us.

While our needle spins around us, a truly brave person's needle would fly towards the thing. It has no restraints. Petty things like forethought and selfishness.

Yes, that is a true hero.

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o0o0o0

America dashed around the battle field, scooping up the injured. Many think he's crazy for trying such things, but he had to do it. Somehow carrying three people with him, he ran to the medic tent.

Through the thin fabric came the screams of the damned and dying. To most, that is all they hear.

But America could hear the faint whispers of thanks and hope, the beautiful words that produced beautiful light in what surely must be a pit of darkness.

Two nurses stood outside, waiting for him. He laid each person down on a stretcher, and just before the nurses were about to turn into the tent, one of them turned, pecked America on the cheek and whispered: "It's a wonderful thing, you're doing."

And though America did not need the encouragement, those simple words spurred him on the rest of the day, as still more people fell wounded.

0o0o0o

o0o0o0

England had always been a good fighter. Whether he be the soldier or the pirate, it didn't matter. He could be the upstart of a mob, or the policeman that stops him. That is the true mark of a good fighter, no moral compass. Someone dare point their gun at me? Then die he shall.

Bombs and death surrounded him, but he didn't care. He was England. The man without a heart.

Try and strike me down! I'll never fall! I've already died once, I can't die again!

0o0o0o

0o0o0o

Before either country knew it, the war was over. Not that it went by fast. No, quite the contrary. It was slow and painful. But all the same, it was over, and the two countries were lucky enough to be on the winning side. There were parties, thrown by different countries. All who were on the winning side were invited.

And all who were well enough to go, went.

Long nights of drinking and dancing blurred the memories of death and war long enough for the countries to bask in their victory.

"England!" One drunken night America called out, and through the haze of alcohol received a reply.

"Huh? Git, what?'

"Sorry!"

"Huh? Git!"

Though neither country could say that America had meant what he said, it was a start. The start of an end. The closure.

If America, intoxicated or otherwise, was able to admit wrongdoing of some sort, it was enough to seal the wound that had been bleeding far to long.

I don't have much to say, except thanks for the support! And since you've all been so kind as to review, I'll update again tonight! It's only nine thirty, better start typing!