A proud man is always looking down on things and people; and, of course, as long as you're looking down, you can't see something that's above you.

C.S. Lewis quotes


"You fear me."

It's not a question, it's the plain truth. It's what brought him to his death. Is the reason why everything is happening.

He's smiling. His white teeth are bright in the dark, his whole complexion makes him look like a ghost wandering above them, and his eyes are brightly red, the color of blood and victory.

He knows what real victory feels like and that's why he thinks the color red fits perfectly. He can handle defeat. He can create and destroy. He can do everything. He is great and no one can even touch his level. They are jealous of him. Hungary too was jealous. Its reason they didn't work out. Loneliness is just the price to pay.

The nations look down at him but they don't know that they should look up. But, they want him gone, after all, he thinks, so they must already know what they should do. They are just too proud to do it.

"You may kill me…" he smirks, "But I will be always remembered. People may forget sooner or later, but nations can't…", he turns to look at the blond nation, standing there, fear visible on his face, "…can we, little brother?", his tongue runs over his teeth and his canine is so sharp that it draws blood. "I wonder…", his voice drawls, "…how you'll be able to sleep peacefully when I'll be gone… we'll you be happy seeing everything you took from me scattered around you? Do you really think that you all can become like me?", he snickers. His brother is at loss with words.

You signed my death sentence.

"Enough with this!" is America who speaks and points his gun at his forehead. "Are you proud of all the things you done?"

"Hell, yes!" is what he shouts and starts to laugh when Russia grabs his arm and drags him away and even when the last gunshot is heard, his laughter will be still echoing inside the other nations' heads.

And it would take a while for it to fade away.