Fanfiction: Hetalia: Another Year
This fic was written for my friend prussiasgilbert and I put it up on the hetalia comm, but I never put it here so I thought I would. Just a short little angsty gen fic.
Another Year
Baby I've been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
Gilbert Beilschmidt’s footsteps echo down the marble floored halls of Sanssouci. It is August 17th, and he is here to visit a dead man. For over two hundred years he has made this journey, and he is willing to make it for another two hundred. This man, his king, deserves no less. The palace is completely empty in a way it only ever is this one time of year, no staff or visitors walk the grounds, he is utterly alone here. Gilbert prefers it this way, and is glad that his government gives him this one indulgence. He stops in the Marmosaal for a moment, leaving a bouquet of lilies behind in the empty space. He then slowly walks through the rooms and as he does, he sees them, not as they are now, with the velvet ropes and plaques, the explanations and displays, but as they were so long ago.
A maid bows to him, recognizing that he is someone respected, men nod or bow (no women though, for as Fritz wanted Sanssouci to be sans souci, without cares, so he also wanted it to be sans femmes, without women) and from somewhere he hears strains of piano music. Some of the ghosts he acknowledges, some he does not. For a moment he feels the weight of a cape he has not worn for decades and feels the movement of a sword at his side, before they fade away like the ghosts that inhabit not a place, but his own mind. He continues walking, past more ghosts, more memories that refuse to fade until he reaches the king’s study. He pushes the door open and sees the desk and chair. It almost seems to whisper to him, ghostly echoes of times long past. Laughter twines around his ears, his own and Fritz’s, whispers of intimate conversations long since done and over, yet repeated here for one set of ears. He smiles, bowing to the now empty chair, the forever empty chair. Before Fritz’s body had been moved here, this had been his destination, but now it is merely a stop before he goes to the gardens. He had never liked it when they changed the style of the room anyway, it had all been perfect just the way it was.
He looks out the window in Fritz’s study and feels a touch, light as a feather and as cold as ice on his neck. He smiles, thinking sadly that this touch is now more familiar than his living king’s touch was. All the same, he closes his eyes, leaning where a hand had at one time been as the touch moved up to his cheek. He opens the study door, walking down the hall and feels his king walk with him, the touch leaving, but he knew Fritz was still there. When Gilbert came here, he always was. Back down the halls now, past more apparitions, almost as clear as reality now, the piano music and laughter louder and more real and he knew that if he were to open this door or walk in that room that he would truly believe he was back then, back with his king and his king’s closest friends. He does not, knowing in his head that no matter how much he wishes it, he can not turn back time, no matter how much his heart cried for it. He pauses again, taking the lilies with him before crossing the hall. He reaches the door to the gardens, and Gilbert throws them wide, striding out onto the wide expanse and down to a simple stone marker. It reads “Friedrich der Grosse” nothing else. Nothing else is needed, the three simple words all that is required.
Gilbert sits before the marker, placing the bouquet on a corner, his head bowed as he waits. The touch returns, this time resting on top of his head before tracing down to his chin. He looks up, and his king stands before him. Not Fritz as he was at his death, old and wrinkled, but Fritz as Gilbert loved to remember him, vibrant and young, intelligent and beautiful. The wind sighs through the grass I have missed you my friend, he hears Friedrich say, the pale hand reaching out to touch on his shoulder. “I have missed you too Fritz. I always miss you.” A bird trills in the fruit trees Will you stay here with me beautiful one? Gilbert feels tears start in his eyes, but he keeps them in, he always does. “You know I can't do that Fritz.” The ghostly hand touches his cheek, floats down lips and chin and then to his neck and shoulder. A voice, low and distinct, yet so far away whispers into his ear. And how have you fared while I slept? Speak to me of the time you spent away from me my friend, my love, my country. And Gilbert does as he does every year, he lays his head next to his king’s grave and he tells the ghost of a dead man everything that has happened to him, triumphs and defeats, quiet days and busy days, loves and hates and everything in between. All too soon he runs out of days, every event from the past year recited. He feels the touch again, a cold caress down his jaw. I will see you next year Gilbert. And the year after, and the year after. You will always return to me, won’t you? Gilbert can only reply with a nod. Then I look forward to next year mine. For the barest of moments Gilbert feels the ghost of a kiss, the slightest of touches across his lips.
And then his king, his Fritz, his love is gone for another year. Gilbert bows his head again, letting silent tears fall onto the granite slab. When everything is gone, tears and words both he wipes his eyes and stands. As Gilbert turns from the grave he sees a cluster of centaurea growing at the corner of the stone, miraculously unmolested by gardeners. He smiles and plucks it, a silent thank you is given and he strides back to Sanssouci, empty of anything for another year. And for another year Gilbert Beilschmidt chooses the land of the living over the embrace of his king. Because Friedrich is still and will always be his king, and his king deserves no less.
Another Year
Baby I've been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
Gilbert Beilschmidt’s footsteps echo down the marble floored halls of Sanssouci. It is August 17th, and he is here to visit a dead man. For over two hundred years he has made this journey, and he is willing to make it for another two hundred. This man, his king, deserves no less. The palace is completely empty in a way it only ever is this one time of year, no staff or visitors walk the grounds, he is utterly alone here. Gilbert prefers it this way, and is glad that his government gives him this one indulgence. He stops in the Marmosaal for a moment, leaving a bouquet of lilies behind in the empty space. He then slowly walks through the rooms and as he does, he sees them, not as they are now, with the velvet ropes and plaques, the explanations and displays, but as they were so long ago.
A maid bows to him, recognizing that he is someone respected, men nod or bow (no women though, for as Fritz wanted Sanssouci to be sans souci, without cares, so he also wanted it to be sans femmes, without women) and from somewhere he hears strains of piano music. Some of the ghosts he acknowledges, some he does not. For a moment he feels the weight of a cape he has not worn for decades and feels the movement of a sword at his side, before they fade away like the ghosts that inhabit not a place, but his own mind. He continues walking, past more ghosts, more memories that refuse to fade until he reaches the king’s study. He pushes the door open and sees the desk and chair. It almost seems to whisper to him, ghostly echoes of times long past. Laughter twines around his ears, his own and Fritz’s, whispers of intimate conversations long since done and over, yet repeated here for one set of ears. He smiles, bowing to the now empty chair, the forever empty chair. Before Fritz’s body had been moved here, this had been his destination, but now it is merely a stop before he goes to the gardens. He had never liked it when they changed the style of the room anyway, it had all been perfect just the way it was.
He looks out the window in Fritz’s study and feels a touch, light as a feather and as cold as ice on his neck. He smiles, thinking sadly that this touch is now more familiar than his living king’s touch was. All the same, he closes his eyes, leaning where a hand had at one time been as the touch moved up to his cheek. He opens the study door, walking down the hall and feels his king walk with him, the touch leaving, but he knew Fritz was still there. When Gilbert came here, he always was. Back down the halls now, past more apparitions, almost as clear as reality now, the piano music and laughter louder and more real and he knew that if he were to open this door or walk in that room that he would truly believe he was back then, back with his king and his king’s closest friends. He does not, knowing in his head that no matter how much he wishes it, he can not turn back time, no matter how much his heart cried for it. He pauses again, taking the lilies with him before crossing the hall. He reaches the door to the gardens, and Gilbert throws them wide, striding out onto the wide expanse and down to a simple stone marker. It reads “Friedrich der Grosse” nothing else. Nothing else is needed, the three simple words all that is required.
Gilbert sits before the marker, placing the bouquet on a corner, his head bowed as he waits. The touch returns, this time resting on top of his head before tracing down to his chin. He looks up, and his king stands before him. Not Fritz as he was at his death, old and wrinkled, but Fritz as Gilbert loved to remember him, vibrant and young, intelligent and beautiful. The wind sighs through the grass I have missed you my friend, he hears Friedrich say, the pale hand reaching out to touch on his shoulder. “I have missed you too Fritz. I always miss you.” A bird trills in the fruit trees Will you stay here with me beautiful one? Gilbert feels tears start in his eyes, but he keeps them in, he always does. “You know I can't do that Fritz.” The ghostly hand touches his cheek, floats down lips and chin and then to his neck and shoulder. A voice, low and distinct, yet so far away whispers into his ear. And how have you fared while I slept? Speak to me of the time you spent away from me my friend, my love, my country. And Gilbert does as he does every year, he lays his head next to his king’s grave and he tells the ghost of a dead man everything that has happened to him, triumphs and defeats, quiet days and busy days, loves and hates and everything in between. All too soon he runs out of days, every event from the past year recited. He feels the touch again, a cold caress down his jaw. I will see you next year Gilbert. And the year after, and the year after. You will always return to me, won’t you? Gilbert can only reply with a nod. Then I look forward to next year mine. For the barest of moments Gilbert feels the ghost of a kiss, the slightest of touches across his lips.
And then his king, his Fritz, his love is gone for another year. Gilbert bows his head again, letting silent tears fall onto the granite slab. When everything is gone, tears and words both he wipes his eyes and stands. As Gilbert turns from the grave he sees a cluster of centaurea growing at the corner of the stone, miraculously unmolested by gardeners. He smiles and plucks it, a silent thank you is given and he strides back to Sanssouci, empty of anything for another year. And for another year Gilbert Beilschmidt chooses the land of the living over the embrace of his king. Because Friedrich is still and will always be his king, and his king deserves no less.