[APH fanfiction] Pay In Blood
Title: Pay In Blood
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: Germany, Prussia, Poland, Italy, the Allies. No real pairings, though I suppose you could read it as Prussia/Germany if you wanted to. I meant it to be mildly GerIta.
Time Period: World War II
Rating: R for gore and blood
Summary: Someone has to pay for the crimes the Nazis committed. Hetalia canon seems to treat Germany in a remarkably innocent light. This leaves one other person to blame for the majority of World War II...
Warnings: Dark fic, death, lots of blood, and WWII. If you're sensitive, don't read. I meant no offense by this, and I did my best to stay historically accurate.
Notes: Inspired by the '悪ノ' series of songs, especially the Vocaloid versions. I had 'Servant of Evil' playing in the background for most of the time I was writing this. Also partially inspired by the heart-tearing video Cross. I tried to stay historically accurate, but of course a few things got shuffled around. Also, apologies for the present tense, I just thought it worked better than past.
Posted to hetalia and hetalia_uncrack.
~*~
When Germany finally wakes, it feels like he's been in a long dream. Or perhaps a long fever. Hitler is gone, and Berlin has been cut in half by a great stone wall.
He is alone.
He feels strange, and realizes that he isn't wearing his SS uniform, just fatigue pants and a tank top. He wonders when he last changed his clothes - he can't remember. He can only recall snatches of the past several years.
Poland, covered in blood.
Ordering bombs dropped on England and France.
Concentration camps.
Those hadn't been his idea, Germany is sure of that. He feels sick. Everything since 1937 is a blur. He feels like he'd been drugged since Adolph Hitler came to power. The only places in his memory that are clear at all are the bits with Italy in them. He seemed able to push back the fog, Germany thinks he was only ever himself when he was with Italy.
So perhaps finding Italy now is a good idea.
He looks around, only just now realizing he's in the middle of a crowded market, and the people around him are speaking German. It feels good to hear it, feels like it's clearing his head a little as he gets his bearings.
Nuremberg, this is Nuremberg.
He wonders why he is here, and then he listens to what the people around him are saying, and his eyes widen.
Nazi war crimes.
Trials.
Executions.
West, you idiot, go surrender. You'll get out of this yet.
Prussia's voice comes to him in another flash of memory, and Germany feels something like horror clench around his heart. No. They wouldn't. He wouldn't be that stupid and noble.
Germany pushes through the crowd, one hand coming up to habitually clutch around the iron cross at his throat. It seems like forever before he finally reaches the town square, which is packed with people. He pushes his way through, glad for the moment that no humans know exactly who he is. When he gets within sight of the clearing at the center of the square, he stops dead.
Prussia is tied to a stake in the center of the square, bound by thick ropes around his arms and chest that nearly obscure the schwatztika on his armband. (And his iron cross is missing, not at his throat in its normal place. Somehow Germany notices this amidst everything else, and it makes him angry that they would take even that from Prussia.)
England and France are standing in front of him, France looking much the worse for wear from the invasion of his land, and England with his arm in a sling from the bombing of London. Russia is standing a bit farther back, not as noticeable, smiling benignly while the other two nations look furious. Poland is here too, Germany notes dimly, and Lithuania and several other formerly occupied states. England and France are apparently the ringleaders of this... this whatever it's supposed to be. America isn't here, he's probably still too tied up sorting out the Pacific.
Germany wants to call out, to say something, to stop this, but his voice seems stuck in his throat. England glances over and meets his eyes, and Germany swallows thickly. They know he's here. But none of the Allies say anything, none of them call him out or demand that he join Prussia. Germany feels like his boots have been glued to the concrete, he can't seem to move or take his eyes off the scene unfolding in front of him.
Prussia is still smirking, that cocky, devil-doesn't-care grin of his that he's had for as long as Germany can remember. He doesn't seem to care that he's being tried for war crimes against humanity, he's too cool for that.
"Well Gilbert?" England asks, frowning at the white-haired nation. (Human names in front of humans, Germany notes this with faint approval in the small part of him not overcome with shock.)
Prussia snorts, shifting in his bonds. "What do you care what I say? You've already got this thing decided, haven't you?"
"Mais non," France objects. "This is a trial. You could be found innocent."
Prussia just snorts again, then smirks. "I'm not. You want a confession? Fine. It was me. I was the one manipulating things behind the scenes. With me whispering in one ear and Hitler in the other, West never really had a choice."
It wasn't like that, Germany thinks dimly. Yes, Hitler's propaganda had clouded his mind, but Prussia had been acting on his own a lot of the time, not manipulating Germany. But it's easy, so easy for the Allies to accept Prussia as the puppet master, and let Germany go free.
A sick, heavy feeling settles in Germany's stomach as he realizes what Prussia is doing, and he finally manages to speak up, just barely remembering to use his brother's human name. "Gil...."
His voice must be far too soft to hear, but Prussia looks over at him anyway, something strange in those red eyes. His voice is almost gentle. "Shut up, West."
Germany has to obey, his throat closing up and feeling himself start to shake a little. The Allies glance over at him again, but still none of them say anything. Can't they see how wrong this is? Prussia is far from innocent, but he doesn't deserve to pay for both his own crimes and Germany's.
Off to one side, Poland is starting to shake too, Germany notices. Lithuania has ahold of one of his arms and is speaking softly to him, but Poland shakes him off and stalks forward, snatching the surprised England's revolver out of its holster and swinging it up in a two-handed grip, pointing it toward Prussia. There are tears rolling down the small nation's cheeks, and even two-handed the gun shakes wildly.
Prussia blinks, then gives a little bark of a laugh. "Still have some life in you after all, little Poland?"
England curses under his breath, glancing around at the crowd of silently watching humans, and then exchanges glances with France. This might be getting a little out of hand. England starts to step forward to try and reclaim his gun, but Poland speaks up, voice surprisingly sharp and high.
"I, like, totally liked Germany before you decided to brainwash him! My people... how could you..." His shoulders shake, and maybe he meant to pull the trigger and maybe not, but the gunshot rings, sharp and surprising in the still air. Germany jerks with a soft cry, as though it's him who's been shot. Prussia coughs, blood spurting to splatter the dusty ground. But he only grins, a wide, manic grin, and Germany notices that his eyes are the same color as his blood splattering the ground, staining the ropes that bind him.
"Is that all, little Poland?"
And Germany remembers, distantly, that Prussia is old. He was an order of knights long ago, before he became a country. He took in Germany, raised him as brother, father, crazy uncle all at once. But now, now there's not much to Prussia anymore. His land is all but gone, his people scattered and mixed in across Germany. But he is still strong. One gunshot will not be enough, Germany realizes with relief.
Poland is shaking too much to aim well, but he's trying to anyway, and England quickly snatches his gun back before Poland can accidentally fire into the crowd. Lithuania pulls Poland back, and England looks at Prussia, still holding his gun and lips thin in displeasure. His thumb absently moves, spinning the revolver to a fresh chamber as France draws his own sidearm.
Germany feels sick again. They can't mean to... "No..."
"West," Prussia's voice is sharp, forcing Germany's eyes to snap to him, even though Prussia's not looking at him. "It's fine."
And he stares down his executioners as they take aim and fire.
Germany loses count of how many shots it takes, though France has to stop and reload once. He tries to shut out the sick, horrible wet thumping sounds the bullets make as they hit Prussia. All the wars he's been through, and Germany feels like this is the worst, but he can't tear his eyes away.
Prussia's eyes dim, but his smirk stays fixed in place, a ghoul's grin until one shot - France's or England's, by accident or on purpose, it really doesn't matter - hits him between the eyes.
Germany retches and turns away, shoving his way through the crowd as he flees, barely noticing the tears streaming down his face. He runs through the city, heedless of where he's going, unable to hear anything over the blood pounding in his ears.
He knows Prussia has done a lot of things that most people would consider wrong, especially during this war with the Nazis under his command and Hitler to egg him on. But he'd never thought... never imagined...
He'd thought Prussia would always be here.
Finally he stops, exhausted and out of breath. He's not sure how long he stands there, unseeing, in shock, before he feels a small hand on his arm. He jerks and looks down at Italy, who's peering at him in concern. "Germany..."
Germany tries to clear his throat, finds he can't speak. Italy just shakes his head, throwing his arms around Germany to hug him tight. Germany wonders if Italy was there to witness Prussia's execution, or if he only heard about it from someone who was. "Germany... he... wanted me to..."
Germany's eyes widen a bit, looking down at Italy. "He what?" As far as he knows, Italy and Prussia barely ever spoke to each other.
Italy sniffs a bit. "He wanted me to give you this."
When Germany holds out his hand, he doesn't have to look. He can feel the heavy, familiar shape of Prussia's iron cross settle into his palm.
He closes his fingers around it, and the tears come.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: Germany, Prussia, Poland, Italy, the Allies. No real pairings, though I suppose you could read it as Prussia/Germany if you wanted to. I meant it to be mildly GerIta.
Time Period: World War II
Rating: R for gore and blood
Summary: Someone has to pay for the crimes the Nazis committed. Hetalia canon seems to treat Germany in a remarkably innocent light. This leaves one other person to blame for the majority of World War II...
Warnings: Dark fic, death, lots of blood, and WWII. If you're sensitive, don't read. I meant no offense by this, and I did my best to stay historically accurate.
Notes: Inspired by the '悪ノ' series of songs, especially the Vocaloid versions. I had 'Servant of Evil' playing in the background for most of the time I was writing this. Also partially inspired by the heart-tearing video Cross. I tried to stay historically accurate, but of course a few things got shuffled around. Also, apologies for the present tense, I just thought it worked better than past.
Posted to hetalia and hetalia_uncrack.
~*~
When Germany finally wakes, it feels like he's been in a long dream. Or perhaps a long fever. Hitler is gone, and Berlin has been cut in half by a great stone wall.
He is alone.
He feels strange, and realizes that he isn't wearing his SS uniform, just fatigue pants and a tank top. He wonders when he last changed his clothes - he can't remember. He can only recall snatches of the past several years.
Poland, covered in blood.
Ordering bombs dropped on England and France.
Concentration camps.
Those hadn't been his idea, Germany is sure of that. He feels sick. Everything since 1937 is a blur. He feels like he'd been drugged since Adolph Hitler came to power. The only places in his memory that are clear at all are the bits with Italy in them. He seemed able to push back the fog, Germany thinks he was only ever himself when he was with Italy.
So perhaps finding Italy now is a good idea.
He looks around, only just now realizing he's in the middle of a crowded market, and the people around him are speaking German. It feels good to hear it, feels like it's clearing his head a little as he gets his bearings.
Nuremberg, this is Nuremberg.
He wonders why he is here, and then he listens to what the people around him are saying, and his eyes widen.
Nazi war crimes.
Trials.
Executions.
West, you idiot, go surrender. You'll get out of this yet.
Prussia's voice comes to him in another flash of memory, and Germany feels something like horror clench around his heart. No. They wouldn't. He wouldn't be that stupid and noble.
Germany pushes through the crowd, one hand coming up to habitually clutch around the iron cross at his throat. It seems like forever before he finally reaches the town square, which is packed with people. He pushes his way through, glad for the moment that no humans know exactly who he is. When he gets within sight of the clearing at the center of the square, he stops dead.
Prussia is tied to a stake in the center of the square, bound by thick ropes around his arms and chest that nearly obscure the schwatztika on his armband. (And his iron cross is missing, not at his throat in its normal place. Somehow Germany notices this amidst everything else, and it makes him angry that they would take even that from Prussia.)
England and France are standing in front of him, France looking much the worse for wear from the invasion of his land, and England with his arm in a sling from the bombing of London. Russia is standing a bit farther back, not as noticeable, smiling benignly while the other two nations look furious. Poland is here too, Germany notes dimly, and Lithuania and several other formerly occupied states. England and France are apparently the ringleaders of this... this whatever it's supposed to be. America isn't here, he's probably still too tied up sorting out the Pacific.
Germany wants to call out, to say something, to stop this, but his voice seems stuck in his throat. England glances over and meets his eyes, and Germany swallows thickly. They know he's here. But none of the Allies say anything, none of them call him out or demand that he join Prussia. Germany feels like his boots have been glued to the concrete, he can't seem to move or take his eyes off the scene unfolding in front of him.
Prussia is still smirking, that cocky, devil-doesn't-care grin of his that he's had for as long as Germany can remember. He doesn't seem to care that he's being tried for war crimes against humanity, he's too cool for that.
"Well Gilbert?" England asks, frowning at the white-haired nation. (Human names in front of humans, Germany notes this with faint approval in the small part of him not overcome with shock.)
Prussia snorts, shifting in his bonds. "What do you care what I say? You've already got this thing decided, haven't you?"
"Mais non," France objects. "This is a trial. You could be found innocent."
Prussia just snorts again, then smirks. "I'm not. You want a confession? Fine. It was me. I was the one manipulating things behind the scenes. With me whispering in one ear and Hitler in the other, West never really had a choice."
It wasn't like that, Germany thinks dimly. Yes, Hitler's propaganda had clouded his mind, but Prussia had been acting on his own a lot of the time, not manipulating Germany. But it's easy, so easy for the Allies to accept Prussia as the puppet master, and let Germany go free.
A sick, heavy feeling settles in Germany's stomach as he realizes what Prussia is doing, and he finally manages to speak up, just barely remembering to use his brother's human name. "Gil...."
His voice must be far too soft to hear, but Prussia looks over at him anyway, something strange in those red eyes. His voice is almost gentle. "Shut up, West."
Germany has to obey, his throat closing up and feeling himself start to shake a little. The Allies glance over at him again, but still none of them say anything. Can't they see how wrong this is? Prussia is far from innocent, but he doesn't deserve to pay for both his own crimes and Germany's.
Off to one side, Poland is starting to shake too, Germany notices. Lithuania has ahold of one of his arms and is speaking softly to him, but Poland shakes him off and stalks forward, snatching the surprised England's revolver out of its holster and swinging it up in a two-handed grip, pointing it toward Prussia. There are tears rolling down the small nation's cheeks, and even two-handed the gun shakes wildly.
Prussia blinks, then gives a little bark of a laugh. "Still have some life in you after all, little Poland?"
England curses under his breath, glancing around at the crowd of silently watching humans, and then exchanges glances with France. This might be getting a little out of hand. England starts to step forward to try and reclaim his gun, but Poland speaks up, voice surprisingly sharp and high.
"I, like, totally liked Germany before you decided to brainwash him! My people... how could you..." His shoulders shake, and maybe he meant to pull the trigger and maybe not, but the gunshot rings, sharp and surprising in the still air. Germany jerks with a soft cry, as though it's him who's been shot. Prussia coughs, blood spurting to splatter the dusty ground. But he only grins, a wide, manic grin, and Germany notices that his eyes are the same color as his blood splattering the ground, staining the ropes that bind him.
"Is that all, little Poland?"
And Germany remembers, distantly, that Prussia is old. He was an order of knights long ago, before he became a country. He took in Germany, raised him as brother, father, crazy uncle all at once. But now, now there's not much to Prussia anymore. His land is all but gone, his people scattered and mixed in across Germany. But he is still strong. One gunshot will not be enough, Germany realizes with relief.
Poland is shaking too much to aim well, but he's trying to anyway, and England quickly snatches his gun back before Poland can accidentally fire into the crowd. Lithuania pulls Poland back, and England looks at Prussia, still holding his gun and lips thin in displeasure. His thumb absently moves, spinning the revolver to a fresh chamber as France draws his own sidearm.
Germany feels sick again. They can't mean to... "No..."
"West," Prussia's voice is sharp, forcing Germany's eyes to snap to him, even though Prussia's not looking at him. "It's fine."
And he stares down his executioners as they take aim and fire.
Germany loses count of how many shots it takes, though France has to stop and reload once. He tries to shut out the sick, horrible wet thumping sounds the bullets make as they hit Prussia. All the wars he's been through, and Germany feels like this is the worst, but he can't tear his eyes away.
Prussia's eyes dim, but his smirk stays fixed in place, a ghoul's grin until one shot - France's or England's, by accident or on purpose, it really doesn't matter - hits him between the eyes.
Germany retches and turns away, shoving his way through the crowd as he flees, barely noticing the tears streaming down his face. He runs through the city, heedless of where he's going, unable to hear anything over the blood pounding in his ears.
He knows Prussia has done a lot of things that most people would consider wrong, especially during this war with the Nazis under his command and Hitler to egg him on. But he'd never thought... never imagined...
He'd thought Prussia would always be here.
Finally he stops, exhausted and out of breath. He's not sure how long he stands there, unseeing, in shock, before he feels a small hand on his arm. He jerks and looks down at Italy, who's peering at him in concern. "Germany..."
Germany tries to clear his throat, finds he can't speak. Italy just shakes his head, throwing his arms around Germany to hug him tight. Germany wonders if Italy was there to witness Prussia's execution, or if he only heard about it from someone who was. "Germany... he... wanted me to..."
Germany's eyes widen a bit, looking down at Italy. "He what?" As far as he knows, Italy and Prussia barely ever spoke to each other.
Italy sniffs a bit. "He wanted me to give you this."
When Germany holds out his hand, he doesn't have to look. He can feel the heavy, familiar shape of Prussia's iron cross settle into his palm.
He closes his fingers around it, and the tears come.