Summary: He had never expected to fall so far.
AN: In light of the recent purge of fanfics, I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little scared off of this website, even though I don't write M rated fiction. I'm sorry I haven't been around lately, but I've been swamped with work.
DISCLAIMER: Hetalia is not my property
The curtains are drawn, blocking any ray of the sun wishes to brighten the room with. It is barely past noon, but he doesn't care.
Or rather, he has lost all sense of time, alone in the dimly lit room. It's not something he needs to remember, not right now, not while he is in this state.
He's drowning. Not in the blood red liquid in the bottle before him, but falling through fragments of time in his own mind.
How did it happen? How had it come to this?
He used to... no. It is never helpful to think of 'used to' and 'if only', for the past is painful, and there is nothing he can do about the things he has already done.
If he were to look in to a mirror, he knows he would see the same youthful face, that deceitfully youthful face, looking back at him, the same way it has been for decades. It is his face, yet, it is not his at all. He is the face of his people, for they are what keep him living, have kept him alive for so long.
Sometimes he resents them.
He reaches out to grab the bottle by its neck, wrapping his fingers in a tight grip around the cold glass. He's holding on to it so he can feel something real, so that the sea of memories doesn't force him down, until he chokes and splutters out of existence.
Oh, but he knows he is asking too much of a simple bottle of wine. In fact, he would not be here, be acting like this if in some way, he didn't feel compelled to remember.
Every May, it happens.
Every year, he smiles, and laughs, puts on a mask of joy, only for the mask to crack. For just one night in May, he allows himself to abandon his carefree masquerade and mourn. He is old (no matter what the face in the mirror appears to be) and he has seen too much. Sometimes it surprises him how others do not easily remove his mask.
But then he remembers that they are all wearing masks of their own, even those who do not have the centuries of sorrow he has.
It has been so, so many years and he has not forgotten, can never forget what he has lost.
Protect her keep her safe you promised you would keep her safe and now look at this your country is burning burning burning to the ground and Marie is gone they are all gone
Violet eyes, gemstones in their hard coldness, glare at him from the recesses of his memory, along with the confused pleas of a King and Queen who were but children, just children.
He tells himself it was the best for his country, the best for his people.
But still they scream.
I hate you I hate you leave me alone this country is mine I wish you would just leave please leave I don't love you I will never love you
He can almost smell the flames from 1066 as he treads across the green grass, a colour that dulls in comparison to the green eyes that glower at him. His face is twisted in anger and he is gone too fast.
That was so long ago... and it was all for the best.
It was the start of something... not the end, wasn't it?
Papa papa who is this man please let me stay with you Ne me faites pas aller s'il vous plait s'il vous plait
There were tears, as there always are. Too many tears as he turned away, and let him with the green eyes take his own child away.
For the best, he tells himself. For the best.
I will fight for you I have seen God and he has told me to fight
She with the fire that burned so brightly in her soul, she who fought for him, gave him everything. His beautiful angel, who saved him when he could not save himself.
Yet he could not save her. He did not save her.
He let her burn at the hands of that same jaded man.
He had never expected to fall so far. He had never expected to lose so many.
His grasp on the bottle slips as he lets himself remember.
It smashes into the ground, shattering into jagged pieces on impact.
He is too numb to do anything but stare as the wine seeps into the carpet, becoming nothing but a stain.
I'm a little surprised at myself for writing this. This is... a little melodramatic to say the least. If you are confused (it's kind of a confusing piece...) feel free to ask what on earth I was trying to get at. Review? :)