Hey there! Thanks for all the follows. And this can sort of link to one of my other stories (Germany Never Really Forgot). Just to let you know. I hope you enjoy! :D

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Prussia blames himself.

He's always blamed himself.

Even to this day, he's not sure if he can forgive himself for what he's done.

He sits in another boring meeting, petting Gilbird idly along his feathery back. It's the same as any other World Meeting; France is trying to grope England, America is being loud and obnoxious and won't stop eating him hamburgers, Spain is rambling on about nothing in particular, Greece is sleeping with a cat perched on his head, and Italy is running around, waving a white flag in the air and singing "Why Can't We Be Friends". Just another normal day for the nations of the world.

And typically, Prussia would join them in their gallivanting, being the awesome Prussia. He'd be flirting with the fuzzy-browed country, getting into mischief with Spain, or teasing West about his relationship with Italy. But it's raining outside.

Prussia can hear the incessant dripping of the raindrops falling from the roof, landing in the rose bushes outside. He hears the occasional lighting strike a few miles off, wincing every time it fires. With every single raindrop that lands on the roof tiles of the building, Prussia sinks lower and lower into his seat. Prussia can't help but relive the awful memories, like he does every time the clouds decide to pour themselves out.

It was a rainy day, and the water mixed with the dry dust of the earth, making a mud that stuck to Prussia's shoes. He panted heavily, blood slowly seeping out of his wounds. Every inch of his body ached and stung with the bruises and gashes that littered his skin. His once-blue uniform was mostly red, having been long-since stained with his own blood and that of his enemy's. He glares at the horizon, knowing full well what lies beyond the distant hill: France and his army.

"Brother," a small voice calls to him. Prussia turns to find his smaller brother, Holy Roman Empire. The small blond has a wound that stretches from his left temple to his chin, creating a rough crater in his skin. His hair was tousled and mussed, sticking up at random angles and peeking out from under his ripped hat. "You need to eat." Holy Rome held up a metal tray with a small slice of bread and a steaming mug of…something.

"Are you kidding?" Prussia scoffed. "An awesome country like me doesn't need food! I can run for days on willpower alone!" He struck a heroic pose and stuck his nose in the air. "A lesser nation like you needs food, however. One day you might be awesome like me, but until then, you need to eat whatever you get your hands on." Prussia ruffled Holy Rome's hair a bit. "Or don't you want to become like your amazing older brother?"

Holy Rome's eyes widened in admiration, and he nodded his head vigorously. Prussia sat back and watched happily as Holy Rome devoured every single crumb on the tray, muttering things like "I'll be strong like you someday!"

Prussia smiled to himself. Even though Holy Rome claimed to be very mature, he was still a child. Children needed to keep up their strength. Prussia knew that it had been days since his last meal, but he also knew that Holy Rome needed it more. If it could possibly prolong his brother's life, he would gladly do anything.

"Hey Prussia," Spain says, breaking Prussia out of his thoughts. "Aren't you going to join us? France and I have this awesome idea for a game—"

"Not in the mood, Spain. Sorry." Prussia tries his best to give a comforting smile, but even he knows it's a weak attempt. Prussia breathes a sigh of relief when Spain merely shrugs his shoulders and walks off, probably to joke around with South Italy. Spain knows why his friend is in such a depressed state; today is the day that Holy Rome died at France's hand.

Prussia gives a shaky breath, laying his head down on the table. Gilbird senses his master's uneasiness and perches on top of Prussia's white mop of hair. "Thanks, little buddy," he mumbles to his pet, stroking the bird's head. The small animal tweets in happiness, snuggling further into his white nest. Once more, with his face obscured from everyone else by his arms, Prussia sinks back into his memories.

"They're here," he mutters lowly to Holy Rome, clutching the silver hilt of his sword. He grits his teeth with anger; there is no way that that idiot France is going to take his brother. Already, the French army is surrounding them on the plain, their swords glinting evilly in the clouded afternoon light. And France didn't even have the gall to show up. Probably hiding in the background.

Holy Rome puts his hand on Prussia's, looking up at him. "Fight your best," he says, flashing him a small smile.

Prussia nods seriously, unsheathing his blade. He thrusts it into the air, drawing a mighty cheer from the troops behind him. "Attack!" he shouts, charging forward with Holy Rome at his side. His soldiers roar behind him, their boots pounding into the mud and muck. Their weapons shine as both sides rush toward the other, both shouting words that none of them could understand.

Prussia can't really remember much past that. All he can seem to recall is shouting, killing, and a thick wall of red. He was solely focused on protecting his nation and his brother. He struggled to slash his way to the smaller boy whenever he was overwhelmed, swinging his sword to cut down Holy Rome's enemies. They fought back to back, slashing and stabbing, cutting and evading.

The next thing that Prussia remembers clearly is pain. He fell to the ground with a startled cry, clutching his chest, trying to stem the flow of red lifeblood. The wound hurt more than anything he'd ever experienced in all of his years of battle. The soldier who was responsible for the attack stood above him, ready to bring down his sword with a triumphant smirk. Prussia could make out a blue uniform and black hair, but the rest of his attacker's body was obscured by the dim light and the pouring rain. The soldier lowered his blade swiftly, ready to finish off the nation.

"Bruder, what's wrong?" Germany asks, leaning worriedly over his brother. "Are you feeling well?" He lifts a gloved hand to Prussia's forehead. "You're not running a fever…"

"It's just a headache, West," Prussia dismisses with a wave of his hand. "I just need to lie down for a while." With that, Prussia stands, careful to catch Gilbird as he tumbles off of the nation's head. He isn't in the mood to spout out about how awesome he is; though he mentally congratulates himself for being so amazing as to not show West the sadness he's feeling.

"Don't forget an umbrella, ve~!" Italy calls, waving friendly.

Prussia leaves the room without answering the redhead, shutting the tall doors behind him. The sounds of the Meeting are instantly muffled, but that doesn't chase the thoughts out of his head. He can still hear his baby brother shouting at everyone to "shut up and get down to business". Prussia smiles nostalgically as he recalls his brother from the past.

Holy Rome never did take kindly to lollygagging, even though he did his best to rein it in. He was always politely telling Prussia that he wasn't doing things fast enough, but congratulating him when he did something right. Holy Rome preferred to do things his way and got so irritated when Prussia slacked off on purpose. Kind of like Germany…

It was odd how much Germany reminded Prussia of Holy Rome. They weren't exactly the same by any stretch of the imagination; Holy Rome was quiet and polite when he wanted to be. West doesn't seem like he has a reserved bone in his body. If something is wrong, he will tell you without any hesitation. But still, they had their similarities. They both smile the same way (when Germany actually smiles) and their hair is the same exact color; flaxen locks with small highlights of brown near the base of the skull. They look and sound so similar that Prussia feels the urge to cry sometimes. Not that he gives into the urges, because crying would be so no awesome.

Nevertheless, he can feel the tears dripping down his cheeks silently, pouring from behind closed eyelids and staining his blue uniform even darker blue. He leans up against the wall, sliding down it and dropping his head into his hands, his whole body shaking with sobs.

Gilbird snuggles up underneath Prussia's chin, trying to comfort his master. He cheeps sadly, knowing full well the moods that Prussia gets in this time of year. And in the bird's opinion, it's much better when he flings things around the room in anger rather than breaking down and crying. He hates to see his friend in pain.

The man stood above Prussia, his sword at the ready, when the man's grin was replaced by a look of mixed confusion and horror as a blade sprouted from his chest.

Holy Rome crouched over his older brother, yanking his weapon out of the man. The soldier fell to the ground, a waterfall of blood gushing from his body. "Get to the infirmary!" Holy Rome shouted to Prussia as he rose, clashing swords with another enemy soldier.

Prussia struggled to protest, to say that he'll never leave Holy Rome by himself, but the smaller boy beat him to it. "I can take care of myself!" As if to prove his point, he took out a dagger from beneath his cloak and stuck it into the enemy's stomach. "I'll fight them off! You get out of here and get some help!" He slashed at one man's arm with the knife while sticking his sword through another's neck.

"But—"

"I swear on the cross we both bear that I'll be okay! You need help!" Holy Rome screamed in frustration and desperation, taking a moment to finger the black and silver cross that Prussia gave him so long ago. "Go! Please!"

Prussia nodded slowly, even though he knew that Holy Rome couldn't see. He rose from the mud, wincing badly as he moved his body. He pushed his way through the crowd of fighting men and women, stumbling and tripping over bodies with every step. He winced with pain every time he looked into a dead face and saw one he recognized.

His blue uniform was wholly stained with red by the time he reached the medical tent. The scent of iron was thick, even here. He could hear the moans of half-conscious injured, listening to the sounds of pain and agony.

Sweat began to bead on Prussia's forehead, dripping into his eyes and mingling with the blood on his chest. He was in so much pain that he was half-tempted to just collapse and get life over with. He would be content with dying, anything to stop the pain. But the face of his brother burst into his mind, strengthening his resolve. It was his fault that Holy Rome got dragged into this war. He shouldn't be able to die and leave his precious brother to deal with all this tragedy.

Prussia made his way, slowly but surely, toward the tent bearing a red cross on the front door. He was about to push aside the tent flaps when his body froze. His legs refused to move, and it seemed like the world had stopped. He felt the metal cross on his necklace slip off of the broken chain, clinking to the ground. He stared at it, bending over painfully to retrieve it. Prussia had never believed in omens, but he had believed in gut feelings. And right now, he could tell that something awful was happening. His brother was in danger…

He limped weakly back towards the battlefield, blood pouring faster from his wounds. One of the nurses from the medical tent yelled at him to stop, but he refused to listen to her. Holy Rome was in danger, he needed Prussia's help, Prussia just couldn't leave him, Holy Rome was in danger… These thoughts ran rampant in Prussia's mind as he struggled back to where he knew Holy Rome was.

He pulled away at a sharp feeling in his arm. The nurse stood behind him, flourishing a now-empty needle with a sympathetic smile. His eyes started to drip closed, and he could feel his limbs grow even weaker. He collapsed into her arms, far too feeble to do anything. "Let me go…" he protested faintly, but the drugs were too strong. He could already feel them pulling him under, clearing his mind of anything.

As the black took over his vision, he had one last thought. 'You promised, Holy Rome. You promised…' Then he felt the cross slip out of his limp hand, and everything went black.

Prussia rises from against the wall, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Gilbird looks up at him, not quite sure if Prussia is out of his depression. "Don't worry buddy, I'm fine." Prussia comforts the small bird, rubbing the crown of his feathered head. He starts back off down the hall, resuming his cheerful attitude. He even goes so far as to whistle a cheerful tune.

Prussia tells himself that everything will be better tomorrow, that everything will be better tomorrow. But he knows, deep down, that it's not tomorrow that scares him. It's next year, and the year after that, and all the years that follow. Every year, he mourns his brother, blames himself for what happened on the battlefield. And the years keep passing, despite his protests and mournful cries. He knows that the future won't stop coming…

He just finds himself wishing that the past would disappear.