A/N: Because I had to have an outlet for my Prussia feels ever since Hima updated his blog with his not-so-subtle hints about Prussia's death... This is my first ever fic for Hetalia, so please be kind. And do please tell me what you liked or did not like about it. Happy reading! :)

Prussia teetered about a hundred feet above the air, his feet placed on the very edge of the roof of an abandoned apartment block. Night had fallen. Little specks of light sped past in flashes of yellow and red on the roads beneath his feet, and when he raised his head, he could see the glittering stars in the clear, cloudless sky. He felt no fear when he watched the tiny ant-like figures a hundred feet below him scurry here and there.

Lucky them, he thought. They had a purpose in life, somewhere to go, something to do, unlike him. His thoughts turned bitter, and he kicked a loose bit of cement down onto the streets. It didn't matter, not really, because he wouldn't exist anymore after tonight.

He'd chosen this particular rooftop for various reasons. Firstly, it was high enough that his fall would absolutely be fatal. Secondly, it was far from all the hospitals in the area, and at this time of the evening, with the rush hour traffic, it would be too late for the emergency services to arrive here and get him to a hospital in time. And finally, it was empty, so he could come and go as he pleased, without anyone suddenly popping up to bother him.

Many years ago, when he was asked about how he would die, he had thought that he would die fighting on the battlefield, stoic till the end. But even the great Prussia has moments of weakness, to give up and stop trying to fight against fate. He was tired of fighting. All his life he was fighting, fighting, fighting. From his birth to his abolition, he was a nation of war. There was no rest for him.

Since his abolition, he's begun to lose his superhuman powers as a nation. He caught his first ever cold some time ago, and cuts and bruises on his body never seemed to fade or heal. The accumulated damage has made him tired and slow and weak. If he doesn't die now, he'll die anyways from infection or whatever sickness it is called when your wounds simply refuses to heal. He feels useless and powerless. All the other nations look at him with varying degrees of contempt. Pity has long since crept into West's face and voice whenever he's with Prussia, and he thinks he doesn't notice, but Prussia notices all too well. He pretends he doesn't know anything, of course, like the insufferable idiot he's supposed to be. But alone in his bed at night, he washes his pillow with silent tears. Nobody understands, and those who might have an inkling of what he's going through are long since dead.

He stared off into the distance, the wind whipping his hair about wildly and stinging his eyes so that they prickled uncomfortably. He might have cried, if he wasn't already out of tears.

Maybe, a long time ago, he could have jumped down from a cliff twice as high as this rooftop, and not even get a scratch on his body. But with this frail, weak, human body, a tiny fall like this would shatter it completely. It was pathetic to be reduced to such weakness.

He ran through his list of people he would miss. West, Hungary, Austria, France, Spain, the Italies… He wondered if they would notice he wasn't there anymore, or if they would forget all about him like they did for Holy Rome.

The bird sitting atop his shoulder chirped weakly. His bird, his faithful companion through the years, was also affected by his gradual deterioration of health. Its plumage was grey and patchy, and its eye dulled by old age. The bird hopped off his shoulder and hovered in mid-air when Prussia moved his arms.

He put his head through the chain of his iron cross on his neck, taking it off, and tied it with shaking fingers on the bird's leg. Once he was satisfied that it was secure, he patted the bird, who nuzzled his neck for the very last time before flying away.

And, he too, followed the bird into the air, and fell.

It was not until two days later that Germany came home to find the corpse of a familiar bird with an iron cross tied firmly to its leg on his desk.