Sometime during WWI

Dear diary,

We just crossed over the lines into enemy territory. I don't know where I am, but I know I left Austria and Hungary somewhere behind me. Turkey will be there soon to back them up. I've gone ahead on my boss' demand. Usually, my boss' demands are on the bottom of my to-do list, but this is War. It's not really my choice anymore. There's something strange waiting for me here. They say I'm meant to be fighting a descendant of the greatest men ever to live. The man who conquered the entire Mediterranean. The man who gained all of the world's wealth. His name was Roman Empire.

He had everything. Fame fortune, kingdoms as far as the eye could see. He was a warrior. He had legions, loyal soldiers at his beck and call. He conquered, pillaged, and made a name that lasted well beyond his life. He truly had it all. But the man who had gained everything... one day disappeared. Of course, if this new opponent is truly the descendant of Rome, he must be worthy of fighting. After all, I hate fighting weak opponents. Hopefully, this isn't just another scheisser job to get me out of the way for a while. Well, we shall see...

Germany closed his field diary, slipping it into his jacket. He stood in a small clearing, the grass crunching quietly under his feet. He looked around, allowing his stiff frame to relax into a semi-slouch. His boss wasn't there, after all. A little break never hurt anyone. He carefully tugged at the collar of his uniform. It was so tight. On his own time, he preferred just wearing the undershirt, and maybe drape a jacket around his shoulders if he was out in public.

His eyes scanned the area for what had to be the fifth time. He had been walking on foot for maybe an hour, but he hadn't seen any people at all, let alone a mighty warrior. Then again, he hadn't been looking very hard. He frowned down at the stick clutched in his hand. It was about a foot and a half and divided at the top. This was Herr Stick, his field companion. It wasn't uncommon for traveling soldiers to have an inanimate object they would talk to when they were alone. Isolation would throw any soldier off their game, but just talking to anything made it easier to manage.

"We crossed that border with no issue, didn't we, Herr Stick?" He said to it. "Austria's probably showing them a card trick. And Hungary's too weak to fight anyone anyway." He chuckled. "And then there's Turkey. I bet he's tearing up the battlefield right now. If he wasn't there, I'd have soldiers on my tail right now."

His previous frown deepened, his hands wandering to his stomach, covered up by too many layers of fabric. "I didn't feed you, did I?" He muttered before slinging his pack off his shoulder and poking around inside. He pulled out a piece of Hartkeks. He unwrapped it and raised it to his little Sticky friend's upper branches, and tapped it against the bark a few times. The stick didn't bite. "Too nervous to eat?" Germany asked. "Me too."

He wrapped the Keks up again and put it back before tucking Herr Stick away in the pack and slinging it on his back again. It was time to be serious. "I can't let my guard down this time." He muttered to himself. "If I really do find the descendant of Rome, I should be expecting a fight." He pushed a tree branch out of the way before stepping into a small, grassy clearing. His mouth fell open, a small, shocked noise leaving his throat. In the center of the clearing sat a lone box of oranges. Italian oranges.

Sometime during the Fifth Century

Once upon a time, in a House called the Roman Empire, the newborn country of Italy lived with various other countries. Italy's early life was wonderful. Despite being such a small nation, he was surrounded by his big brothers France, Spain, and a small child known as the Holy Roman Empire.

But one day, Italy's grandfather, Rome, took him away from his friends and home to live with him...

Italy huffed at the sky, his red eyes lazily returning to the paper in his hands as Grandpa Rome sang an old Roman tune, "Pulchra Mea Terra" quietly in the background. Italy had been living with Rome for a few years now, and he was tiring of it. He loved Grandpa Rome, but he longed to go back home and see his friends again. He would much rather be there than here. Grandpa Rome always told him, "when you grow up, you will be a strong Empire just like me", but every attempt to teach Italy to fight had ended in disaster. Italy just wasn't all that strong as a child, but he vowed he would get stronger.

Rome sighed as his song ended, the last notes carried away by the soft Mediterranean breeze. Rome was a handsome man, to say the least, with dark brown hair and fierce red eyes. He always wore his golden battle armor and a long, draping red cape. A smile graced Rome's lips as he looked down at his grandson. He looked over the roughly scribbled art on the page, and his eyes grew wide.

"Italy, that is astonishing!" Rome exclaimed. Italy gasped, quickly covering up the page and throwing the handsome man a sharp glare.

Rome chuckled, rubbing Italy's hair through the big, loose hat he wore. "No need to be shy," he said. "It looks wonderful!"

Italy blinked. "Really?" He asked, hesitantly holding up his drawing. "You think so?"

Rome looked over the drawing fondly. It was a chaotic piece drawn in vivid reds and crisp golds and deep, ominous blacks. He recognized it as one of the battles he'd told Italy about. The sky was dark, and the Roman Army was charging across the battlefield, their golden armor gleaming with victory, the bodies of defeated enemies strewn on the ground, lying in puddles of their own blood.

Rome grinned, one calloused hand squeezing Italy's shoulder lightly. "It's wonderful!"

Italy felt pride well up in his chest. He may not have been that great a fighter, but he always had his pictures. Drawing always made him feel so... what was the word... Renaissance.

I can't wait to go home, so I can shove my talents down France's throat. That thought made him smile...

Unfortunately, when Italy returned home, all his brothers had become mean bullies. However, this only made Italy angry and prone to violent retaliation. This was especially bad for a boy called the Holy Roman Empire, a kind, gentle boy with seemingly no spine. He was always taking the blame for France's mean pranks, which only made Italy angrier.

Italy's feet pounded against the stone streets as he chased the pathetic excuse of an Empire, who was running as fast as he could while huge tears rolled down his pale cheeks.

Behind him, Italy pursued relentlessly, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Get back here, you coward!"

Holy Rome's form shook with fear as he ran faster. "I'm sorry!"

"Shut up! You are not Holy, not really Roman, and definitely not an Empire! Get back here!"

Now, Holy Rome, being the somewhat-lazy child he was, eventually tired out and tripped. What happened after that? Well, that's a story for another time.

Vocab

Scheisser - Germany once said in the anime "probably another 'scheisser job'". Scheisse is German for "sh*t", so you can probably guess what a "scheisser job" is.

Hartkeks - What the Germans called "Hardtack". It literally translates to "hard biscuit". (I didn't know whether to capitalize it. In English, "hardtack" wouldn't be capital, but Germans capitalize all nouns.

I hate century rules. So, the moment the year went from 1999 to 2000, we officially entered the 21st century, but it sounds more like it should be the 20th century. So, "Third century" just means the 400s.

Pulchra mea terra - (Latin) "My beautiful land". Word order might be wrong. I don't speak Latin.

I've seen headcanons saying 2p!Italy can't draw. I didn't like that, because what's the first thing you think of when you think of Italy (besides pasta), ART! So, I just made Italy's drawings depict death and violence. Seems legit.

I once heard Crash Course History describe the Holy Roman Empire as "Not Holy, not Roman, and not an Empire".

Stay tuned for chapter two!