Fanfic based off of fanart.
By lissomeyart on Tumblr. See the fanart at lissomeyart . tumblr . thecom /post/130311965621/war-doesnt-determine-who-is-right-only-who-is . Replace "thecom" with "com" and delete spaces, obvi.
Prussia was drenched in the blood of others. It ran down his front and soaked through his shirt, and he felt the way the cloth stuck to his skin as he fought. The smell was overpowering, but he had long since gotten used to the stench.
They had tried to fight. He thought. He had fought who his knights were fighting against, and he wasn't about to doubt their judgement.
The next one stepped up, and Prussia quickly assessed him. Large strong—stronger than him—but he could see the signs of fatigue, the way the man took a second before recognizing Prussia as an enemy and then heft his sword, the drag at his feet.
He was going to die here.
The man raised his sword, swung once, twice, but Prussia blocked both strikes. There was power there—undirected. Had the man not been dead on his feet, exhausted, he could have easily knocked the sword from Prussia's hand in one blow.
Prussia left his arm up, and the man saw his opening and came from the side, wide. Prussia knocked the sword down, and then his sword slid through the chain mail and the man gazed at Prussia with confused eyes.
Prussia smiled and twisted the sword, and the man fell to his knees, gurgling on the blood he was drowning in. He coughed, and blood splattered on Prussia's face, warm and stinking. Prussia twisted his sword again then withdrew.
Prussia flicked his sword, blood dripping off. He turned to the next man, and there was something like a reverence in his face. Prussia took a step towards him, grinning, breathing heavy. He stepped over the other fallen bodies.
This man was the last one around here.
He dropped his sword and raised his hands in surrender. Prussia stalked forward, and the enemy dropped to his knees.
"Demon," he breathed.
Prussia halted for a moment. "I'm doing God's work."
He slammed his sword down though the man's collarbone, into the heart. Prussia saw the light leave the man's eyes, and he tried to tug the sword out. It remained in the corpse, and Prussia had to put a foot on the man's shoulder and strain before it came loose.
Prussia switched the sword to his right hand and went in search for his knights. The daylight was creeping across the sky, but Prussia was still cautious of hidden men.
A house had caught fire, and Prussia peered through the foundation. A family was huddled in the corner, and they looked at him with wide eyes. Prussia paused for a moment, then moved off.
The adrenaline was wearing off, and Prussia felt a headache coming on. He grimaced. Finally caught sight of someone he recognized, raised a hand in greeting and jogged closer.
"Thought you were another one," Prussia said as he neared.
"Sir," the man greeted. "God has graced us with an easy defeat."
Prussia flexed his wrist. "Relatively speaking."
"Are you hurt?" the man asked.
Prussia frowned, then looked down at himself. He let out a quick laugh, glancing back at the knight. "No, I'm not. Got a bit carried away, I guess. Fucking fantastic work. And now half this town is ours." Prussia wrapped an arm around the man and whooped. "Now, let's go execute those bastards who killed our brothers."
…
Only half.
Prussia didn't like that.
So he fought.
And then it was all theirs.
…
Prussia took a drink from the bottle. The alcohol brought tears to his eyes, but it's a good kind of pain. The kind that's right before numbness. Prussia didn't mind the numbness. In fact, he only liked the rage of the battlefield and then feeling dead inside.
"Prussia."
Prussia's eyes flicked up. Poland stood there, arms crossed, anger so subtle, the slight curl of the lip.
Prussia smiled. "Poland. I trust God has—"
"Shut your face," Poland snapped. "Shut it before I stab your eye out with a dagger and feed it to my horse."
"Big words from a man who holds no power in this city." Prussia stood, and the surrounding knights quieted to watch. "What are you doing here?" he asked, voice loud but hoarse. He was tired. God, so tired.
Poland shook his head, ever so slightly. "What have you done?"
Prussia considered. "I've won, haven't I?"
"You've killed innocent people!" Poland hissed.
Prussia stepped forward. "And they would have killed my men, just as quickly, if we hadn't fought. We were asked to reclaim this city." Prussia throws an arm out. "And I have!"
"I know what you were supposed to do. You were to help overthrow the city. And you've taken all of it." Poland's shoulders shook. "And you've killed half of it. For what? Look at you, you're covered in blood! You're sick."
Prussia's arm ached. His hands curled into fists. "I won." Poland began to speak again, but Prussia shook his head, didn't listen, interrupted. "'For he is God's servant for your good. But if you do wrong—'"
"You're not right in the head!" Poland yelled.
"I don't have to be right," Prussia snarled, stepped forward again. "I'm the only one left!"
Prussia didn't realize how loud he had gotten, how quiet everyone else was. He gritted his teeth and took a quick step back. His men were watching him, curious, ready to question him.
"Leave, Poland."
Poland opened his mouth, anger making tears spring to his eyes, because Prussia had killed his people, killed and burned and raped and looted. But Prussia turned and walked away.
"Leave before I have to kill you, too."