[fic] Your Last Preparations 1/1
Mar. 2nd, 2010 12:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drcalvinTitle: Your Last Preparations
Characters: Prussia, Germany, a bit of Russia and some humans
Pairing: None
Rating: R due to subject matter
Warnings: Nazism, second-person POV, weird shit, probably a boatload of ignorance from the side of the author. Oh, and not beta-read - please do let me know of any mistakes.
Disclaimer: This is a piece of fiction. It is in no way meant to sanction or excuse any of the atrocities done by nazism.
Summary: The Third Reich is falling and everyone is drowning in lies. Gilbert tries to pick up the pieces, even if they can't be put back together again.
Your Last Preparations
"Now you just sit here, and listen to your big brother! I've lost wars before! Hell, I've lost my bloody land. And I'm still here, still awesome, ain't I? No damn reason you won't be!"
"But there's nothing left... No order! Nothing left, nothing that is right!"
His deep voice has cracked from too much screaming. He's drawn too many breaths of stinking fumes and acrid smoke. The uniform – his pride, once – hangs wrinkled and unwashed on a too thin body.
This isn't what your little brother is supposed to look like. He's the neat one. The one who hunts other nations into starvation, without one strand of his immaculately combed hair out of place. Messes or mercy aren't supposed to touch him.
As for yourself, ah, you've always been a bit of bohemian. Sure you can clean up decently when the situation demands it. But the thing is, you know how to work rugged hair, burnt sleeves and a blood-stained face; can make it fearsome. He? Looks like a ruin.
Though considering he's been in the two greatest wars the world has seen before he's a hundred years grown, you are inclined to be more lenient than usual. That kind of shit takes something out of a nation.
"We're all over. We won't have anything left!" There's a tinge of hysteria in his voice, which annoys you. He's shamed himself enough as it is and you are tempted to slap the whining out of him.
"It's been over for months, West," you explain. He just stares at you, wide, stunned eyes and a reddened cheek. No thanks required, little brother. "We're outnumbered, surrounded and worn down. Come on, you know we're not gonna win this shit."
It's always been your policy that hard truths are best served in small portions, preferably between big bites of appealing lies. But when the lies have been as whopping as during this war? Or when the truth isn't so much hard as a steely-cold Red Army tank? Even your awesome skills tend to be a bit stretched.
"Our army's a corpse that doesn't know it's dead yet. You gotta face that, West, or you'll become one too."
"But the Füh-"
"Don't fucking mention that fuck-up!"
All the disappointment and fear that's swirling beneath the surface, in the hidden fears of your shared people, break free. So much emotion, so much hope gone rotten... it threatens to overwhelm you. It's hard to swallow it down, but you're getting used to nausea. Something in the air, these days, beneath the constant smoke and ash that makes you feel sick. You think you know what it is, and it ain't just the stench of failure.
One way or another, the boss is done. You wouldn't mind getting a few minutes alone with him first. Hell, even if you wanted to make him into your awesome heir, your plans for little Germany never included your own hasty fall from grandness.
Unfortunately, his head isn't for you. The bastard's fate lies in mortal hands. You can only hope you'll get to see him wiped away. Fucking up all your great plans with his obsessions, his stupid conceit that he knows more about war than you or your chosen children. You are war. If only he'd let you, if he'd let his generals, if, if, if...
Pointless fucking shit, now. But you can't help feeling the vitriol eat at you whenever he is mentioned. So damned close to holding your own empire again. Such a fine army, such a fine brother at your side, the world at your feet. All gone to waste, due to stupidity and short-sightedness and now you're neck-deep in ashes and ruins. Again.
Fuck him. Right now you've got more shit to deal with than one uppity boss with a much inflated sense of his own tactical skills. Let the victors deal with him on their own. You'll be busy enough trying to make sure the brat doesn't go down with him.
You draw a breath. Two. Find something that looks close enough to calm to fool a casual observer. Or a lost nation, who stares at you as if you could pull a hundred ready battalions out of your ass.
"Forget him, West. He's the most finished of us all."
Oh, for... Did West's face have to go even more pasty-white? Why is he wearing such a pathetically hopeless expression? Didn't you raise him to be better than this? Hell take you, if you didn't – but then, he's never listened much to your lessons.
Still... it smarts a little, when you see that crushing disappointment in his face. Of course you knew he always loved the boss more than you did. Not when they had to talk face to face, no; the little toad was hard to embrace in your hearts, even for West. But when he spoke? Oh, to hear him speak, to see him wake the other children from their miserable trudge on the bottom of the world? Yeah. Course you both stood in the crowds, cheered and loved him. Still...
You can't help but wish that he'd have looked in your direction with such frantic devotion in his eyes. Couldn't you have given him a much greater war, one filled with awesome glory and lasting victories? Of course you could've! If only he'd given you the chance, you'd have made him into the finest empire the world had seen since old man Rome.
But the truth is, he's never been one to give people too many chances. Your? Oh yes, you both know that you had his trust and lost it ages ago. Even if you pretend not to remember how it went, when he was just a brat of a nation – small, adorable and wholly yours. That lie you share between you, because what is a little falsehood in families? Happens in the best of them, no? A lie, how you both pretend not to know, or care, about his lack of faith in your greatness.
"Bosses come, bosses go," you remind him. Even the best. Definitely the worst. "We're the ones who have to stay."
"How can I? I'm nothing." he says. He doesn't moan it, or whimper or anything sissy like that. He just states it in a cold, empty voice. Had more emotion when you were discussing the appalling lack of potatoes lately.
"The Russians, the Americans, they're everywhere... We've nothing left."
"Sure you do," you lie to him, gleefully. You've been lying like this to yourself for ages, so it's nice to spread the lies a little. Makes it taste fresher, somehow.
"We've still got our awesome selves, West... Just follow my lead! I'll fix it – hell, this is nothing! You should've seen me down in the desert, didn't even have any people..."
Babbling inane platitudes, you drag the half-catatonic brat along. Because you were looking, and the razed land still strives to answer your requests, you soon come upon a trio of enterprising soldiers. Between them, they have five legs and probably only two sets of dropped balls. Still, they're rooting through rubble and ruins with impressive speed. You suspect they're preparing for an an unofficial, and permanent, leave from the army.
Smart lot.
"Hey, you there!"
When you call out for them, two freeze. The third swirls your way, gun ready. Good. You like them trigger-happy.
"You bastards wanna get out?"
"Excuse me?" Suspicious says, not lowering his gun.
"Sir," the kid throws in quickly. One-leg just stares straight ahead. Ah; lost more than a bit of flesh below the knee, you suspect.
"I asked, do you want out? Before we're all up to our fucking necks in Yanks or Reds." You grin, no worries in your world, nope. "Gimme a hand and we may have a deal..."
Of course they want out. One-leg had a friend working in the camps; you can smell the fear rising off him. Retribution, he thinks. Nearly shits himself. He's been considering taking his gun and end it where he's standing, rather than face that. If the reds get too close, you suspect he may just find the guts to do it.
You grin a bit extra at him. Drag West just a tad closer, showing him off. Look at the Fatherland and succumb, you bastards.
Not that One-leg is wrong, no. Retribution is coming... and you fully intend to be prepared for it. That's the secret to surviving wars, after all. Win most of them, but if you're gonna lose? Don't let it be a fucking surprise.
The other two, the ones still nominally in service, are even simpler to manage. They want to live, desperately. When they see such surprisingly hale officers? When West snaps off a salute that can, still, inspire unquestionable loyalty? Oh, they waver alright. Then you show a bar of gold beneath their noses. And they're yours.
"We need some help," you tell them. "Gotta shift some sensitive material. Then I can send you ahead to some... friends of mine."
"Where do these friends live?" Suspicious asks.
"South America," you snap back. It's not altogether certain those guys will want to help out. But, what the hell - Spain owes you one from the old day. This may be your last chance to collect. Old bastard can ship them off to a kid or cousin or whatever they are to him nowadays.
"What are we to do, brother?" West finally asks when you stumble up to his house. It looks pretty shitty these days. And – you wince when you enter, it's even worse than you recalled – far too filled with red and black and white for his continued safety.
"Where's four-eyes?" you ask, ignoring his question for now. "Went home? Awesome. He'd just muck things up."
You've never wanted him around your little brother before. Can't see why the world falling (again) should make you change your mind. He's trouble, that one. Too old, too sneaky beneath the stuffy surface to agree to your plans. Fuck him anyway, he's never been much use to you on the battlefield.
"What is this place?" the kid asks. "It looks like a, a..."
"A Nazi parade that crashed into a bunker, then fell down on a cottage and exploded, puking swastikas everywhere? Yeah. Fuck. This is what we need help with. Everything connected to the party – pamphlets, flags, medals, every fucking little thing and I mean ALL of it – is to go into that room there. 'cept the uniforms, gimme those."
"What?" West just stares at you. Shit, his face really is too hollow for a kid. He's been digging out his own bones, he has, by following the ideas of the boss. Then the bombings. A nice, putrid icing on an already rotten cake. You told them this was going to happen. Just like you told him not to wake the sleeping bear of the east – at least not until you'd built a huge bear-trap. Did anyone listen? Hah, why the fuck would they? Not like you've been a great empire, not like you've met General Winter before, course they all knew better...
"Brother," West interrupts, "what did you want us to do?"
Shit. Can't get distracted now or the allies will be knocking on the door before you're done.
"We can't burn it all," you explain with false patience. "They'll know it was here, somewhere
in the house. If it's all gone, it'll be like writing a big fat 'I'm guilty' sign and hanging around your neck. And we certainly can't leave it, or they'll fucking crucify you."
"But I'm- I-"
You shoo the soldiers away, tell them they can keep anything of value they see. As long as they drag it out of the house, you don't care if they make off with golden statues of the boss or whatever. Before they wander off, you remind them to bring all uniforms they find to you. Then you lead West to the burnt-out kitchen, push him down on the lone remaining chair.
There's half an onion and some dry bread left, so you make onion sandwich. West just stares at you. You figure he's torn between hoping that big brother can fix everything and fearing that you've gone mad.
You probably have lost your marbles. Mislaid them a little, at the very least. Only much earlier than he ever suspected. Otherwise, why the hell haven't you run as far as your legs can carry you?
A mental glance reveals that the soldiers are working diligently. Shit, but you wish you could go with them. Hide for a few decades in the deepest jungle you could find. Maybe you could amuse yourself with spreading the word of God to the heathens. Just like in the old days. Although really, you'd do just about anything if you could avoid being here when the house of cards finally tumbles. Which it is likely to do in anything from half an hour to a few days time, so you'd better get a move on, eh?
"Look. We both know- I mean, West, you do know, don't you?" You look at him, trying to gauge his understanding, but you see only shock and weariness. Fuck. He can't have learned to lie to himself that well... Not yet, he's only a couple of decades into adulthood!
"West, tell me you knew what they were about?" Ah, there, his eyes flicker. "Yeah, of course I mean the fucking "work" camps!"
He can't hide his shudder, not when you prod a little. Just like you thought. He knew, played ignorant, pretended not to see that which he did not dare to face. Well. Well, well, well...
Alright, it makes the nausea rolling inside you grow, but really, it's good. You remind yourself that it's practically awesome; spares you a whole lot of fucking awkward explanations.
(when did we become something we have to lie to ourselves about?)
"And you know what we- I did, about what I did on the Eastern front?"
There's no time like the present to start building a cover story. West did spend most of his time fighting the Frenchies and the Brits and the damned, damned Yanks... but not all the time. Not in the beginning. Not in the end, when it all turned. But they haven't seen him, you hope.
Oh shit, what if Russia saw him while he was- No. Russia didn't see. Nobody saw, 'cause West wasn't even there. You'll make it so. Building lies is your specialty. You've become almost as skilled in crafting lies as in killing.
"Yes," he manages to say. "I've known everything. For more than..."
You shush him; the walls have ears, especially in this house.
"I think you only found out right now, when I told you," you state. The most bare-faced lies can be carried off with enough self-confidence, though few are awesome enough to manage. You are, without doubt, awesome enough. You hope West will be. Just this once.
"Why?"
You smirk, trying to ignore how he flinches when he sees the two missing teeth in your mouth. "You'll understand when you get older," you promise. That's seriously the most awesome sentence in your brotherly arsenal.
Even if he does open his mouth to point out the fallacy - if this goes on, neither of you are likely to get much older – he's listening. He wants to believe. So you smack him on the head again and explain the plan.
Soon as you're done, he'll go fight again. Back at the western front, crumbling as it is. You send him towards the Americans and the Brits. And fight them he will, with everything he's got. Until the cease-fire order comes. Until they've properly lost.
"The moment we're finished," you tell him in a voice that allows no opposition, "you will give up. But only to America! Remember?"
"Only to America," he mutters. "You think he'll be more lenient... Why, because he's younger?"
"No; because his cities still stand," you say. This is true. Feels good to lay off the bullshit for a few moments. "If you give up, he'll take you prisoner. I figure he'll be naive enough to do it properly. Then you're protected. Named in the paperwork and whatnot – you'll be okay."
"And you?"
You smirk. Back to the bullshit it is, then. Like you're supposed to, you cackle, slap his head and proclaim that you're too awesome to die.
"Brother, honestly... What about you?"
Shrugging, you answer him with as much of a truth as you can.
"I'll fix things here, first. If all goes well... I'll try to run."
His stare is suspicious and full of questions, but you only wave it off. You're too great to die, after all. Certainly not stupid enough to run straight into Russia's waiting embrace.
Aw, little West's worried about you. Touching, but completely unnecessary, you remind him. Awesome is your middle name, after all, and he'd do well to remember that.
Now you have to start cleaning up. As you do, you see him move with increasing sureness, a new purpose. That's your boy, hah, always looking ahead. It won't last. Not even you expect it to carry him through all the crap that's coming. But once he's raged and grieved, he'll remember that you had A Plan. When it all fucks up, he'll know that big brother was looking ahead.
The Allies will tear him down and probably chop off even more of his lands. They'll yell a good long time, curse him and grind him into the dust... But, hopefully sooner rather than later, they'll see that he's properly beaten. He'll be allowed to rise then. If he is still around.
The population would have stood up again any which way, of course, given enough time and effort. If there's one thing you've learned, it's that humans don't know what it means to give up. It can take generations, though. It can mean that they give birth to a new nation-child, if the old one has grown too weak. You hope that they'll let West, your own over-machoed West – your baby brother – bring them back to the top again. You must hope that and, even more important, he must. He needs to know who he is or he'll never make it.
Strangely enough, your conviction isn't a lie. You've almost forgotten what pure truths taste like on your tongue. It is a strangely bitter thing... But West will rise again. Remade, maybe renamed, but still himself in essence.
As for yourself...
The soldiers you found have a clear affinity for looting. You suspect they've rehearsed extensively. They've picked the house clean of Nazi paraphernalia (and valuables) and it's all stashed in your room. Ready to disgust any visiting American and help convince him of your guilt.
(at the end of things, lies and truths can become the same, without facts actually changing)
The soldiers return.
"Ah- did, did you know? In the back yard, there's an..." One-leg shuts up when you give him a proper blood-red glare.
"Yes," you say. "I know."
He keeps mum after that. The kid looks tired, but hopeful, and Suspicious lives up to his name. But he's still here and that means he's got more sense than paranoia. You approve.
West doesn't know what's in the garden, though. He used to know. He will again, later. But right now? No.
Together with the red-black-white crap, you made sure to pick his memories clean as well. You can't take them without his permission, of course, but just as he let you play around with the resistance before...
He lets you in, now, gives you almost free reign. Allows you to remove the knowledge of orders that shouldn't have been signed. Of death camps and trains that left full of children and returned empty and...
Whether West wanted to do any if it from the beginning or not, is a moot point as far as you're concerned. He did it, and that's what matters. Though you rummage through most everything else, shuffling memories and making lies into truths – if only temporarily - that is knowledge you will not even peek at.
(if he didn't agree, the truth must sear with pain beyond words)
Anyway, Nations do things they don't approve of all the time. It's even worse when they do shit because they actually want to, because they can be right assholes.
(if he did agree – but he is your little brother)
He followed his orders, he went along with everything... Who gives a fuck why? Now he's more than happy to forget about the whole mess. And you're splendidly glad to help him with that.
(West must not have approved, so he didn't – truth is what you make it)
The knowledge of the foul thing in your garden, the memory of the many atrocities you've both ignored, the weight of the Swastika that he hangs around your neck, so different from your old cross... Together, they settle into your bones with a fresh ache.
It is heavy, the knowledge and the guilt, but it also gives you things. Your smirk sports a different curve; sharper, hungrier. Much more false. Finally, your damned hair becomes that perfect Aryan blond which you never managed to achieve before.
You have always known yourself to be proud. Now, however, when you know to the depths of your endless hatred that you belong to the elite, that the world is yours to take or trample as you wish? Now, you know what pride truly means.
Übermensch, you think, silently tasting the word and finding it a lot less ridiculous than before.
There's be no need for you to change into a new uniform, either. You've always felt at home in the black of the tank troops. When it morphs subtly, into something more fitting your new essence the superb sense of self-confidence almost makes you swoon.
You've followed your orders, perfectly. As you are now, you've never had any doubts or fears. And it is so good! To finally have a place, to again be something well-defined and vital. You're only a little sorry that you're likely to lose it all in a few days.
"It won't be enough," West says, almost reaching out a hand to stop the change. Almost, but he doesn't. He knows, as well as you do, that the bastard caught in this uniform is toast.
"Nah, it never is." When you reach for nonchalance, you are somewhat surprised to find it. But then, you've just become an even liar, haven't you? For someone who can exterminate all the truths deemed unworthy of the new future, this ain't nothing. You look down at your glowed hands. Remember the flesh they've desecrated, remember the cool efficiency of being a part of a great machine of cruelty... For someone who can do this, a few lies to a foolish little brother are nothing.
You are nothing but lies, you realize. Your uniform is black as hatred, your eyes crimson like slaughtered meat and your hair blazing a false, healthy yellow. But it has no substance, your hate. What did they hate, those who painted the face you've just put on, but their own lies?
The flesh and blood of the fallen belongs not to enemies, but to scapegoats. Not even when you were just beaten down, uncertain if you could survive as a province, have you been so little.
You push away these insights, hide them in the depths of unasked questions and unvoiced doubts. They do not exist, you tell yourself sternly. In a flash of renewed confidence, you feel perfect again. In control, pure. All as it should be.
"It's better this way," you promise. "I'll be fine; we've just lost another war. So what? Wars come and go, nothing ever really changes."
You carefully taste the fresh lies. They still feel cloyingly sweet, but you think you can get used to them soon. "And hey, don't I look snappy?"
He had a few black uniforms too, but you bundle them up. They'll go into the oven, along with your own Wehrmacht equipment. A clear split, though the guilt will still be shared... but he'll be able to deny knowing the worst, now. He'll be able to appeal to their personal selves, now that he's gotten rid of the monster. Plead insanity, maybe. Or hope that they'll recognize the ties of blood and family; they bind all nations hard.
Whatever the outcome, you both know it will be a thousand times preferable to dealing with the Allies as righteous judges, entities armed only with the knowledge of what a nation can do in cold blood. Let them see West, that is all you ask, let them see him as something more than a nation.
"Time to go," you tell them some hours later when all has been set as right as it could possibly be. "Drop these bozos off in Spain, eh?"
"I thought you would-"
"No," you say, watching yourself in the mirror. You remember the old man, him with his flute and silly letters to sillier Frenchmen. He wouldn't have approved, you think, but perhaps he'll be able to understand? At least you hope he will, once you've explained in person.
"I think I need to say goodbye to my boss," you say, and the grin on your face broadens. "Never really liked me, he didn't." Too crazy, too egoistical – there's only room for one of those at the top, after all.
"Heh, is he in for a surprise visit, or what!?"
"Be careful," West says. "Avoid Russia. And don't..." He frowns, knowing that there is more to caution you about, but unable to recall exactly what.
Oh, you are good.
"Tell your elders how to crawl, eh? Remember who I am, brat!"
Once they're gone, you take the time to blow up that damned oven in the back yard. But not before you've destroyed all the material connected to the conspiracies against the boss that carries your name. The rest, the stuff you were sent, the scattered attempts at resistance... This you put beneath a loose floorboard. In West's room. By the time someone finds it, he'll remember it all as if he wrote it himself. Maybe it'll help him, maybe not. Can't hurt.
You leave the house with light steps. You've gone all the way now, after all. A complete monster... if nothing else, they'll remember this image of you for hundreds upon hundreds of years.
It's strange, but you think that you'll enjoy that. To be feared and never forgotten, even if you've been wiped out? Fuck yeah.
Then you have to adjust your cap and, shit, there's blood on your hands. No, there's blood coming from your hands, an awful lot of it. You must have hurt yourself, when you destroyed the evidence. You walk on. Smile, until your teeth hurt.
Oh, what a liar you can become. How did it happen so quickly? Have you always been one, only never admitting it before? The past and the now are getting awfully tangled up in your head. Can't fight it, you know, because if you really want to become, you must allow yourself to believe the lies completely.
A few times, you stay and wring out your gloves. You wonder why nobody ever told you how annoying it would be to bleed from the hands when they talked about the awesome of a proper stigmata. Silly knights, you think with grim fondness, they'd be appalled at the new forms of warfare. But the reasons, those never seemed to change. Only the methods of the madness.
(the blood is not true)
" I guess that was bit different," you mumble as the blood begins to soak into your sleeves. "Not much holy about this damned stuff..."
Idly, you wonder if West's had it like this for the last years. You never noticed. Not that you've ever been all that sensitive to other people's shit.
(are you the one bleeding?)
Perhaps, you muse, it's only now that you've kind of concentrated the whole thing in yourself that it began, really?
(maybe the answer is both a truth and a lie)
Even if you really only talk to the empty air and a king who can't answer these days, you're not entirely surprised to hear a childish laughter in reply.
"Red," he says from behind you, "you're very red."
(but that your hands are stained forever? that is not a lie)
You wave at him. The blood splatters, but it doesn't stain his coat. That's alright – he's got stains of his own to deal with. You've never noticed them before, but right now? Man, do you ever...
Soon the troops follow. Both his grim-faced army and the few desperate bastards who've had the misfortune to be drawn your way.
Before, you'd have at least tried a little before abandoning the men. Now, you run without hesitating, leaving a trail of blood behind. The smatter of Red Army guns sound like his mocking laughter, you think at first. Only to realize, a moment later, that they are actually his tears. Wimpy bastard; what does he have to cry about? He's about to win, fuck it all.
He doesn't follow just yet. Still busy, grinding down the people and the land. He is taking his own pride back, you know, and you can't fault him. You can hate him – you do – but would you have done different? He may even want you to feel it all, before he deals with you personally.
He'd be disappointed if he knew that, despite the red flowing off your arms, you barely feel any of what he does to the land behind you. West's bound to get some new scars, though.
You've lost the land, yes. But you haven't lost yourself. Instead you've become what they wanted both of you to be... No, that's not right, you realize.
Those foolish humans had it the wrong way around. They thought they could become you. Some of them even believed that they were West. What was good for the party was good for him. What was the party, what he was? It was the party, one and the same in their minds.
The half-choked cackle worries you, until you realize it is your own. No wonder the transformation was so easy for you... You only stepped into a hole that was in their heads, the hungry emptiness waiting for you, for anyone, to fill it.
West couldn't have become what they wanted. He was never wholly theirs. Not even you are, though you wear their clothes and colors.
(though your hands are now showing the truth of them)
Now, you have tied yourself to their fate so intimately that they could never comprehend it. Even though they believed they already had you and West both, bound... But then, is it so much of a surprise? They lied to themselves, more completely than you ever managed. That... that's quite the accomplishment.
West has more own land than he's ever had before, now. Not counting the recently acquired and even more recently lost lands of Poland, France and all the others. Anyway, those weren't really his. Not yet, it takes years to bind what is stolen, but only moments for that which is given away..
And you? You're free from the land again. As free as you were when you were a young knight, willing to take on the world, baptizing it in faith and pure blood.
This blood is filthy, according to all you have been taught. Hah, according to all you have been teaching! It won't do to forget what you are now...
It annoys you too. That it just won't stop weeping off your hands, a constant reminder that the freedom is but an illusion.
You should show it to the boss, you think. Perhaps if you choke him with your blood-stained hands, you'll get the opportunity to piss on his severed head afterward. Just a small token of your gratitude for this mess.
Then you can hole up somewhere, in the deepest cave you can find, and wait for the mills of paperwork to start working.
Because you're bound to something now, something that nobody will ever be able to sweep under the carpet and forget. And as long as you're not forgotten, you'll still be.
That's what you tell yourself, as the black uniform grows more and more stained. As your breath grows raspy while you run through bombed cities and burnt countryside, as the anguish of those dying by your hands howls in your soul with a sound that will never quieten down.
All the while, Russia's marching echoes louder and louder through the land. He's not in a hurry, is Russia. He can let his children go on ahead, let them reap the fruits of war.
Russia knows what to do, after. He's killed monsters before.
You don't want to die, even if you are a monster. That is the truth.
It's better to be a living reminder, than a dead monster, right? Even if you'll only be remembered for failure
(blood)
and hatred
(death)
and all the monstrous things that humans can do to each other in the name of ideals.
(LIES)
You're willing to be anything, wear any burden, as long as you are something.
You'll say that, and it will be part of a lie, until you've said it enough times that it becomes the truth.
Because you don't want to remember the ease you saw in West's painfully stiff back when he gave you his swastika-decorated medals. You wish you could close your ears to the accusing wails of a million restless souls who died for these – yours, now – ideals.
The truth beneath the lie? It's that you did it partly to see him smile at you, the relief in his eyes when big brother solved it all.
The lie beneath the truth? You've only borrowed this name, this self, this monstrous face for a short time.
Once you're writhing in the dust, broken and helpless, he'll get it all back. After that, the stains will never leave him again. Just like some flecks stay on anything they have touched, there are actions which can't be erased once you've committed them.
(The blood on your gloves leave no trace when you adjust your hat and enter Berlin. It doesn't make it any less true.)
You only hope that you'll be around to apologize for this last falsehood. At least, it was your own.
/End
Authors notes: I was feeling not so good a while ago and this thing came out. To me, this is an attempt to make coherent why I like Hetalia, what I find problematic in canon, how it all reflects on my feelings towards the events in WWII and other srz business. I don't expect it to make much sense for anyone else.
Anyway, I've recently almost had a stress-related break-down and yet I wanted to take part of the fandom that's given me so much good things. So it felt like a good idea to post this. I may yet change my mind on that.
Please feel free to give concrit; the lack of a beta probably makes the grammar errors even worse and, of course, the way a story is read is always different from the way it's been written. If I have said something horribly hurtful and offensive, do know that I am staunchly anti-nazist and that it is never my intention to cause harm.
Characters: Prussia, Germany, a bit of Russia and some humans
Pairing: None
Rating: R due to subject matter
Warnings: Nazism, second-person POV, weird shit, probably a boatload of ignorance from the side of the author. Oh, and not beta-read - please do let me know of any mistakes.
Disclaimer: This is a piece of fiction. It is in no way meant to sanction or excuse any of the atrocities done by nazism.
Summary: The Third Reich is falling and everyone is drowning in lies. Gilbert tries to pick up the pieces, even if they can't be put back together again.
Your Last Preparations
"Now you just sit here, and listen to your big brother! I've lost wars before! Hell, I've lost my bloody land. And I'm still here, still awesome, ain't I? No damn reason you won't be!"
"But there's nothing left... No order! Nothing left, nothing that is right!"
His deep voice has cracked from too much screaming. He's drawn too many breaths of stinking fumes and acrid smoke. The uniform – his pride, once – hangs wrinkled and unwashed on a too thin body.
This isn't what your little brother is supposed to look like. He's the neat one. The one who hunts other nations into starvation, without one strand of his immaculately combed hair out of place. Messes or mercy aren't supposed to touch him.
As for yourself, ah, you've always been a bit of bohemian. Sure you can clean up decently when the situation demands it. But the thing is, you know how to work rugged hair, burnt sleeves and a blood-stained face; can make it fearsome. He? Looks like a ruin.
Though considering he's been in the two greatest wars the world has seen before he's a hundred years grown, you are inclined to be more lenient than usual. That kind of shit takes something out of a nation.
"We're all over. We won't have anything left!" There's a tinge of hysteria in his voice, which annoys you. He's shamed himself enough as it is and you are tempted to slap the whining out of him.
"It's been over for months, West," you explain. He just stares at you, wide, stunned eyes and a reddened cheek. No thanks required, little brother. "We're outnumbered, surrounded and worn down. Come on, you know we're not gonna win this shit."
It's always been your policy that hard truths are best served in small portions, preferably between big bites of appealing lies. But when the lies have been as whopping as during this war? Or when the truth isn't so much hard as a steely-cold Red Army tank? Even your awesome skills tend to be a bit stretched.
"Our army's a corpse that doesn't know it's dead yet. You gotta face that, West, or you'll become one too."
"But the Füh-"
"Don't fucking mention that fuck-up!"
All the disappointment and fear that's swirling beneath the surface, in the hidden fears of your shared people, break free. So much emotion, so much hope gone rotten... it threatens to overwhelm you. It's hard to swallow it down, but you're getting used to nausea. Something in the air, these days, beneath the constant smoke and ash that makes you feel sick. You think you know what it is, and it ain't just the stench of failure.
One way or another, the boss is done. You wouldn't mind getting a few minutes alone with him first. Hell, even if you wanted to make him into your awesome heir, your plans for little Germany never included your own hasty fall from grandness.
Unfortunately, his head isn't for you. The bastard's fate lies in mortal hands. You can only hope you'll get to see him wiped away. Fucking up all your great plans with his obsessions, his stupid conceit that he knows more about war than you or your chosen children. You are war. If only he'd let you, if he'd let his generals, if, if, if...
Pointless fucking shit, now. But you can't help feeling the vitriol eat at you whenever he is mentioned. So damned close to holding your own empire again. Such a fine army, such a fine brother at your side, the world at your feet. All gone to waste, due to stupidity and short-sightedness and now you're neck-deep in ashes and ruins. Again.
Fuck him. Right now you've got more shit to deal with than one uppity boss with a much inflated sense of his own tactical skills. Let the victors deal with him on their own. You'll be busy enough trying to make sure the brat doesn't go down with him.
You draw a breath. Two. Find something that looks close enough to calm to fool a casual observer. Or a lost nation, who stares at you as if you could pull a hundred ready battalions out of your ass.
"Forget him, West. He's the most finished of us all."
Oh, for... Did West's face have to go even more pasty-white? Why is he wearing such a pathetically hopeless expression? Didn't you raise him to be better than this? Hell take you, if you didn't – but then, he's never listened much to your lessons.
Still... it smarts a little, when you see that crushing disappointment in his face. Of course you knew he always loved the boss more than you did. Not when they had to talk face to face, no; the little toad was hard to embrace in your hearts, even for West. But when he spoke? Oh, to hear him speak, to see him wake the other children from their miserable trudge on the bottom of the world? Yeah. Course you both stood in the crowds, cheered and loved him. Still...
You can't help but wish that he'd have looked in your direction with such frantic devotion in his eyes. Couldn't you have given him a much greater war, one filled with awesome glory and lasting victories? Of course you could've! If only he'd given you the chance, you'd have made him into the finest empire the world had seen since old man Rome.
But the truth is, he's never been one to give people too many chances. Your? Oh yes, you both know that you had his trust and lost it ages ago. Even if you pretend not to remember how it went, when he was just a brat of a nation – small, adorable and wholly yours. That lie you share between you, because what is a little falsehood in families? Happens in the best of them, no? A lie, how you both pretend not to know, or care, about his lack of faith in your greatness.
"Bosses come, bosses go," you remind him. Even the best. Definitely the worst. "We're the ones who have to stay."
"How can I? I'm nothing." he says. He doesn't moan it, or whimper or anything sissy like that. He just states it in a cold, empty voice. Had more emotion when you were discussing the appalling lack of potatoes lately.
"The Russians, the Americans, they're everywhere... We've nothing left."
"Sure you do," you lie to him, gleefully. You've been lying like this to yourself for ages, so it's nice to spread the lies a little. Makes it taste fresher, somehow.
"We've still got our awesome selves, West... Just follow my lead! I'll fix it – hell, this is nothing! You should've seen me down in the desert, didn't even have any people..."
Babbling inane platitudes, you drag the half-catatonic brat along. Because you were looking, and the razed land still strives to answer your requests, you soon come upon a trio of enterprising soldiers. Between them, they have five legs and probably only two sets of dropped balls. Still, they're rooting through rubble and ruins with impressive speed. You suspect they're preparing for an an unofficial, and permanent, leave from the army.
Smart lot.
"Hey, you there!"
When you call out for them, two freeze. The third swirls your way, gun ready. Good. You like them trigger-happy.
"You bastards wanna get out?"
"Excuse me?" Suspicious says, not lowering his gun.
"Sir," the kid throws in quickly. One-leg just stares straight ahead. Ah; lost more than a bit of flesh below the knee, you suspect.
"I asked, do you want out? Before we're all up to our fucking necks in Yanks or Reds." You grin, no worries in your world, nope. "Gimme a hand and we may have a deal..."
Of course they want out. One-leg had a friend working in the camps; you can smell the fear rising off him. Retribution, he thinks. Nearly shits himself. He's been considering taking his gun and end it where he's standing, rather than face that. If the reds get too close, you suspect he may just find the guts to do it.
You grin a bit extra at him. Drag West just a tad closer, showing him off. Look at the Fatherland and succumb, you bastards.
Not that One-leg is wrong, no. Retribution is coming... and you fully intend to be prepared for it. That's the secret to surviving wars, after all. Win most of them, but if you're gonna lose? Don't let it be a fucking surprise.
The other two, the ones still nominally in service, are even simpler to manage. They want to live, desperately. When they see such surprisingly hale officers? When West snaps off a salute that can, still, inspire unquestionable loyalty? Oh, they waver alright. Then you show a bar of gold beneath their noses. And they're yours.
"We need some help," you tell them. "Gotta shift some sensitive material. Then I can send you ahead to some... friends of mine."
"Where do these friends live?" Suspicious asks.
"South America," you snap back. It's not altogether certain those guys will want to help out. But, what the hell - Spain owes you one from the old day. This may be your last chance to collect. Old bastard can ship them off to a kid or cousin or whatever they are to him nowadays.
"What are we to do, brother?" West finally asks when you stumble up to his house. It looks pretty shitty these days. And – you wince when you enter, it's even worse than you recalled – far too filled with red and black and white for his continued safety.
"Where's four-eyes?" you ask, ignoring his question for now. "Went home? Awesome. He'd just muck things up."
You've never wanted him around your little brother before. Can't see why the world falling (again) should make you change your mind. He's trouble, that one. Too old, too sneaky beneath the stuffy surface to agree to your plans. Fuck him anyway, he's never been much use to you on the battlefield.
"What is this place?" the kid asks. "It looks like a, a..."
"A Nazi parade that crashed into a bunker, then fell down on a cottage and exploded, puking swastikas everywhere? Yeah. Fuck. This is what we need help with. Everything connected to the party – pamphlets, flags, medals, every fucking little thing and I mean ALL of it – is to go into that room there. 'cept the uniforms, gimme those."
"What?" West just stares at you. Shit, his face really is too hollow for a kid. He's been digging out his own bones, he has, by following the ideas of the boss. Then the bombings. A nice, putrid icing on an already rotten cake. You told them this was going to happen. Just like you told him not to wake the sleeping bear of the east – at least not until you'd built a huge bear-trap. Did anyone listen? Hah, why the fuck would they? Not like you've been a great empire, not like you've met General Winter before, course they all knew better...
"Brother," West interrupts, "what did you want us to do?"
Shit. Can't get distracted now or the allies will be knocking on the door before you're done.
"We can't burn it all," you explain with false patience. "They'll know it was here, somewhere
in the house. If it's all gone, it'll be like writing a big fat 'I'm guilty' sign and hanging around your neck. And we certainly can't leave it, or they'll fucking crucify you."
"But I'm- I-"
You shoo the soldiers away, tell them they can keep anything of value they see. As long as they drag it out of the house, you don't care if they make off with golden statues of the boss or whatever. Before they wander off, you remind them to bring all uniforms they find to you. Then you lead West to the burnt-out kitchen, push him down on the lone remaining chair.
There's half an onion and some dry bread left, so you make onion sandwich. West just stares at you. You figure he's torn between hoping that big brother can fix everything and fearing that you've gone mad.
You probably have lost your marbles. Mislaid them a little, at the very least. Only much earlier than he ever suspected. Otherwise, why the hell haven't you run as far as your legs can carry you?
A mental glance reveals that the soldiers are working diligently. Shit, but you wish you could go with them. Hide for a few decades in the deepest jungle you could find. Maybe you could amuse yourself with spreading the word of God to the heathens. Just like in the old days. Although really, you'd do just about anything if you could avoid being here when the house of cards finally tumbles. Which it is likely to do in anything from half an hour to a few days time, so you'd better get a move on, eh?
"Look. We both know- I mean, West, you do know, don't you?" You look at him, trying to gauge his understanding, but you see only shock and weariness. Fuck. He can't have learned to lie to himself that well... Not yet, he's only a couple of decades into adulthood!
"West, tell me you knew what they were about?" Ah, there, his eyes flicker. "Yeah, of course I mean the fucking "work" camps!"
He can't hide his shudder, not when you prod a little. Just like you thought. He knew, played ignorant, pretended not to see that which he did not dare to face. Well. Well, well, well...
Alright, it makes the nausea rolling inside you grow, but really, it's good. You remind yourself that it's practically awesome; spares you a whole lot of fucking awkward explanations.
(when did we become something we have to lie to ourselves about?)
"And you know what we- I did, about what I did on the Eastern front?"
There's no time like the present to start building a cover story. West did spend most of his time fighting the Frenchies and the Brits and the damned, damned Yanks... but not all the time. Not in the beginning. Not in the end, when it all turned. But they haven't seen him, you hope.
Oh shit, what if Russia saw him while he was- No. Russia didn't see. Nobody saw, 'cause West wasn't even there. You'll make it so. Building lies is your specialty. You've become almost as skilled in crafting lies as in killing.
"Yes," he manages to say. "I've known everything. For more than..."
You shush him; the walls have ears, especially in this house.
"I think you only found out right now, when I told you," you state. The most bare-faced lies can be carried off with enough self-confidence, though few are awesome enough to manage. You are, without doubt, awesome enough. You hope West will be. Just this once.
"Why?"
You smirk, trying to ignore how he flinches when he sees the two missing teeth in your mouth. "You'll understand when you get older," you promise. That's seriously the most awesome sentence in your brotherly arsenal.
Even if he does open his mouth to point out the fallacy - if this goes on, neither of you are likely to get much older – he's listening. He wants to believe. So you smack him on the head again and explain the plan.
Soon as you're done, he'll go fight again. Back at the western front, crumbling as it is. You send him towards the Americans and the Brits. And fight them he will, with everything he's got. Until the cease-fire order comes. Until they've properly lost.
"The moment we're finished," you tell him in a voice that allows no opposition, "you will give up. But only to America! Remember?"
"Only to America," he mutters. "You think he'll be more lenient... Why, because he's younger?"
"No; because his cities still stand," you say. This is true. Feels good to lay off the bullshit for a few moments. "If you give up, he'll take you prisoner. I figure he'll be naive enough to do it properly. Then you're protected. Named in the paperwork and whatnot – you'll be okay."
"And you?"
You smirk. Back to the bullshit it is, then. Like you're supposed to, you cackle, slap his head and proclaim that you're too awesome to die.
"Brother, honestly... What about you?"
Shrugging, you answer him with as much of a truth as you can.
"I'll fix things here, first. If all goes well... I'll try to run."
His stare is suspicious and full of questions, but you only wave it off. You're too great to die, after all. Certainly not stupid enough to run straight into Russia's waiting embrace.
Aw, little West's worried about you. Touching, but completely unnecessary, you remind him. Awesome is your middle name, after all, and he'd do well to remember that.
Now you have to start cleaning up. As you do, you see him move with increasing sureness, a new purpose. That's your boy, hah, always looking ahead. It won't last. Not even you expect it to carry him through all the crap that's coming. But once he's raged and grieved, he'll remember that you had A Plan. When it all fucks up, he'll know that big brother was looking ahead.
The Allies will tear him down and probably chop off even more of his lands. They'll yell a good long time, curse him and grind him into the dust... But, hopefully sooner rather than later, they'll see that he's properly beaten. He'll be allowed to rise then. If he is still around.
The population would have stood up again any which way, of course, given enough time and effort. If there's one thing you've learned, it's that humans don't know what it means to give up. It can take generations, though. It can mean that they give birth to a new nation-child, if the old one has grown too weak. You hope that they'll let West, your own over-machoed West – your baby brother – bring them back to the top again. You must hope that and, even more important, he must. He needs to know who he is or he'll never make it.
Strangely enough, your conviction isn't a lie. You've almost forgotten what pure truths taste like on your tongue. It is a strangely bitter thing... But West will rise again. Remade, maybe renamed, but still himself in essence.
As for yourself...
The soldiers you found have a clear affinity for looting. You suspect they've rehearsed extensively. They've picked the house clean of Nazi paraphernalia (and valuables) and it's all stashed in your room. Ready to disgust any visiting American and help convince him of your guilt.
(at the end of things, lies and truths can become the same, without facts actually changing)
The soldiers return.
"Ah- did, did you know? In the back yard, there's an..." One-leg shuts up when you give him a proper blood-red glare.
"Yes," you say. "I know."
He keeps mum after that. The kid looks tired, but hopeful, and Suspicious lives up to his name. But he's still here and that means he's got more sense than paranoia. You approve.
West doesn't know what's in the garden, though. He used to know. He will again, later. But right now? No.
Together with the red-black-white crap, you made sure to pick his memories clean as well. You can't take them without his permission, of course, but just as he let you play around with the resistance before...
He lets you in, now, gives you almost free reign. Allows you to remove the knowledge of orders that shouldn't have been signed. Of death camps and trains that left full of children and returned empty and...
Whether West wanted to do any if it from the beginning or not, is a moot point as far as you're concerned. He did it, and that's what matters. Though you rummage through most everything else, shuffling memories and making lies into truths – if only temporarily - that is knowledge you will not even peek at.
(if he didn't agree, the truth must sear with pain beyond words)
Anyway, Nations do things they don't approve of all the time. It's even worse when they do shit because they actually want to, because they can be right assholes.
(if he did agree – but he is your little brother)
He followed his orders, he went along with everything... Who gives a fuck why? Now he's more than happy to forget about the whole mess. And you're splendidly glad to help him with that.
(West must not have approved, so he didn't – truth is what you make it)
The knowledge of the foul thing in your garden, the memory of the many atrocities you've both ignored, the weight of the Swastika that he hangs around your neck, so different from your old cross... Together, they settle into your bones with a fresh ache.
It is heavy, the knowledge and the guilt, but it also gives you things. Your smirk sports a different curve; sharper, hungrier. Much more false. Finally, your damned hair becomes that perfect Aryan blond which you never managed to achieve before.
You have always known yourself to be proud. Now, however, when you know to the depths of your endless hatred that you belong to the elite, that the world is yours to take or trample as you wish? Now, you know what pride truly means.
Übermensch, you think, silently tasting the word and finding it a lot less ridiculous than before.
There's be no need for you to change into a new uniform, either. You've always felt at home in the black of the tank troops. When it morphs subtly, into something more fitting your new essence the superb sense of self-confidence almost makes you swoon.
You've followed your orders, perfectly. As you are now, you've never had any doubts or fears. And it is so good! To finally have a place, to again be something well-defined and vital. You're only a little sorry that you're likely to lose it all in a few days.
"It won't be enough," West says, almost reaching out a hand to stop the change. Almost, but he doesn't. He knows, as well as you do, that the bastard caught in this uniform is toast.
"Nah, it never is." When you reach for nonchalance, you are somewhat surprised to find it. But then, you've just become an even liar, haven't you? For someone who can exterminate all the truths deemed unworthy of the new future, this ain't nothing. You look down at your glowed hands. Remember the flesh they've desecrated, remember the cool efficiency of being a part of a great machine of cruelty... For someone who can do this, a few lies to a foolish little brother are nothing.
You are nothing but lies, you realize. Your uniform is black as hatred, your eyes crimson like slaughtered meat and your hair blazing a false, healthy yellow. But it has no substance, your hate. What did they hate, those who painted the face you've just put on, but their own lies?
The flesh and blood of the fallen belongs not to enemies, but to scapegoats. Not even when you were just beaten down, uncertain if you could survive as a province, have you been so little.
You push away these insights, hide them in the depths of unasked questions and unvoiced doubts. They do not exist, you tell yourself sternly. In a flash of renewed confidence, you feel perfect again. In control, pure. All as it should be.
"It's better this way," you promise. "I'll be fine; we've just lost another war. So what? Wars come and go, nothing ever really changes."
You carefully taste the fresh lies. They still feel cloyingly sweet, but you think you can get used to them soon. "And hey, don't I look snappy?"
He had a few black uniforms too, but you bundle them up. They'll go into the oven, along with your own Wehrmacht equipment. A clear split, though the guilt will still be shared... but he'll be able to deny knowing the worst, now. He'll be able to appeal to their personal selves, now that he's gotten rid of the monster. Plead insanity, maybe. Or hope that they'll recognize the ties of blood and family; they bind all nations hard.
Whatever the outcome, you both know it will be a thousand times preferable to dealing with the Allies as righteous judges, entities armed only with the knowledge of what a nation can do in cold blood. Let them see West, that is all you ask, let them see him as something more than a nation.
"Time to go," you tell them some hours later when all has been set as right as it could possibly be. "Drop these bozos off in Spain, eh?"
"I thought you would-"
"No," you say, watching yourself in the mirror. You remember the old man, him with his flute and silly letters to sillier Frenchmen. He wouldn't have approved, you think, but perhaps he'll be able to understand? At least you hope he will, once you've explained in person.
"I think I need to say goodbye to my boss," you say, and the grin on your face broadens. "Never really liked me, he didn't." Too crazy, too egoistical – there's only room for one of those at the top, after all.
"Heh, is he in for a surprise visit, or what!?"
"Be careful," West says. "Avoid Russia. And don't..." He frowns, knowing that there is more to caution you about, but unable to recall exactly what.
Oh, you are good.
"Tell your elders how to crawl, eh? Remember who I am, brat!"
Once they're gone, you take the time to blow up that damned oven in the back yard. But not before you've destroyed all the material connected to the conspiracies against the boss that carries your name. The rest, the stuff you were sent, the scattered attempts at resistance... This you put beneath a loose floorboard. In West's room. By the time someone finds it, he'll remember it all as if he wrote it himself. Maybe it'll help him, maybe not. Can't hurt.
You leave the house with light steps. You've gone all the way now, after all. A complete monster... if nothing else, they'll remember this image of you for hundreds upon hundreds of years.
It's strange, but you think that you'll enjoy that. To be feared and never forgotten, even if you've been wiped out? Fuck yeah.
Then you have to adjust your cap and, shit, there's blood on your hands. No, there's blood coming from your hands, an awful lot of it. You must have hurt yourself, when you destroyed the evidence. You walk on. Smile, until your teeth hurt.
Oh, what a liar you can become. How did it happen so quickly? Have you always been one, only never admitting it before? The past and the now are getting awfully tangled up in your head. Can't fight it, you know, because if you really want to become, you must allow yourself to believe the lies completely.
A few times, you stay and wring out your gloves. You wonder why nobody ever told you how annoying it would be to bleed from the hands when they talked about the awesome of a proper stigmata. Silly knights, you think with grim fondness, they'd be appalled at the new forms of warfare. But the reasons, those never seemed to change. Only the methods of the madness.
(the blood is not true)
" I guess that was bit different," you mumble as the blood begins to soak into your sleeves. "Not much holy about this damned stuff..."
Idly, you wonder if West's had it like this for the last years. You never noticed. Not that you've ever been all that sensitive to other people's shit.
(are you the one bleeding?)
Perhaps, you muse, it's only now that you've kind of concentrated the whole thing in yourself that it began, really?
(maybe the answer is both a truth and a lie)
Even if you really only talk to the empty air and a king who can't answer these days, you're not entirely surprised to hear a childish laughter in reply.
"Red," he says from behind you, "you're very red."
(but that your hands are stained forever? that is not a lie)
You wave at him. The blood splatters, but it doesn't stain his coat. That's alright – he's got stains of his own to deal with. You've never noticed them before, but right now? Man, do you ever...
Soon the troops follow. Both his grim-faced army and the few desperate bastards who've had the misfortune to be drawn your way.
Before, you'd have at least tried a little before abandoning the men. Now, you run without hesitating, leaving a trail of blood behind. The smatter of Red Army guns sound like his mocking laughter, you think at first. Only to realize, a moment later, that they are actually his tears. Wimpy bastard; what does he have to cry about? He's about to win, fuck it all.
He doesn't follow just yet. Still busy, grinding down the people and the land. He is taking his own pride back, you know, and you can't fault him. You can hate him – you do – but would you have done different? He may even want you to feel it all, before he deals with you personally.
He'd be disappointed if he knew that, despite the red flowing off your arms, you barely feel any of what he does to the land behind you. West's bound to get some new scars, though.
You've lost the land, yes. But you haven't lost yourself. Instead you've become what they wanted both of you to be... No, that's not right, you realize.
Those foolish humans had it the wrong way around. They thought they could become you. Some of them even believed that they were West. What was good for the party was good for him. What was the party, what he was? It was the party, one and the same in their minds.
The half-choked cackle worries you, until you realize it is your own. No wonder the transformation was so easy for you... You only stepped into a hole that was in their heads, the hungry emptiness waiting for you, for anyone, to fill it.
West couldn't have become what they wanted. He was never wholly theirs. Not even you are, though you wear their clothes and colors.
(though your hands are now showing the truth of them)
Now, you have tied yourself to their fate so intimately that they could never comprehend it. Even though they believed they already had you and West both, bound... But then, is it so much of a surprise? They lied to themselves, more completely than you ever managed. That... that's quite the accomplishment.
West has more own land than he's ever had before, now. Not counting the recently acquired and even more recently lost lands of Poland, France and all the others. Anyway, those weren't really his. Not yet, it takes years to bind what is stolen, but only moments for that which is given away..
And you? You're free from the land again. As free as you were when you were a young knight, willing to take on the world, baptizing it in faith and pure blood.
This blood is filthy, according to all you have been taught. Hah, according to all you have been teaching! It won't do to forget what you are now...
It annoys you too. That it just won't stop weeping off your hands, a constant reminder that the freedom is but an illusion.
You should show it to the boss, you think. Perhaps if you choke him with your blood-stained hands, you'll get the opportunity to piss on his severed head afterward. Just a small token of your gratitude for this mess.
Then you can hole up somewhere, in the deepest cave you can find, and wait for the mills of paperwork to start working.
Because you're bound to something now, something that nobody will ever be able to sweep under the carpet and forget. And as long as you're not forgotten, you'll still be.
That's what you tell yourself, as the black uniform grows more and more stained. As your breath grows raspy while you run through bombed cities and burnt countryside, as the anguish of those dying by your hands howls in your soul with a sound that will never quieten down.
All the while, Russia's marching echoes louder and louder through the land. He's not in a hurry, is Russia. He can let his children go on ahead, let them reap the fruits of war.
Russia knows what to do, after. He's killed monsters before.
You don't want to die, even if you are a monster. That is the truth.
It's better to be a living reminder, than a dead monster, right? Even if you'll only be remembered for failure
(blood)
and hatred
(death)
and all the monstrous things that humans can do to each other in the name of ideals.
(LIES)
You're willing to be anything, wear any burden, as long as you are something.
You'll say that, and it will be part of a lie, until you've said it enough times that it becomes the truth.
Because you don't want to remember the ease you saw in West's painfully stiff back when he gave you his swastika-decorated medals. You wish you could close your ears to the accusing wails of a million restless souls who died for these – yours, now – ideals.
The truth beneath the lie? It's that you did it partly to see him smile at you, the relief in his eyes when big brother solved it all.
The lie beneath the truth? You've only borrowed this name, this self, this monstrous face for a short time.
Once you're writhing in the dust, broken and helpless, he'll get it all back. After that, the stains will never leave him again. Just like some flecks stay on anything they have touched, there are actions which can't be erased once you've committed them.
(The blood on your gloves leave no trace when you adjust your hat and enter Berlin. It doesn't make it any less true.)
You only hope that you'll be around to apologize for this last falsehood. At least, it was your own.
/End
Authors notes: I was feeling not so good a while ago and this thing came out. To me, this is an attempt to make coherent why I like Hetalia, what I find problematic in canon, how it all reflects on my feelings towards the events in WWII and other srz business. I don't expect it to make much sense for anyone else.
Anyway, I've recently almost had a stress-related break-down and yet I wanted to take part of the fandom that's given me so much good things. So it felt like a good idea to post this. I may yet change my mind on that.
Please feel free to give concrit; the lack of a beta probably makes the grammar errors even worse and, of course, the way a story is read is always different from the way it's been written. If I have said something horribly hurtful and offensive, do know that I am staunchly anti-nazist and that it is never my intention to cause harm.
