A/N: Hi there, guys ^_^ Good God, did I put a lot of effort into this one.

This is the first part of "Good.", a fic focusing on the relationship between Iraq and Kurdistan. Never heard of Kurdistan? Most people haven't. A little history lesson: the Kurdish people, who are an estimated 25 million strong, are the largest ethnic group in the world without a home state. They mostly inhabit southern Turkey, northern Iraq, western Iran and eastern Syria, with some inhabitants also living in Armenia and Azerbaijan. The Kurds were supposed to have their own country after WWI, following the collapse of the Ottoman Empire; but the League of Nations, not wanting to destabilize the budding governments in Turkey, Iraq and Syria, really just turned their backs on the Kurds. In the countries in which they inhabit, they are treated as second class citizens with very few rights. But what makes Iraq's relationship with Kurdistan different is that in Iraq, the Kurds were given some level of autonomy in the pre-Saddam era, something that had never been seen before considering how they've always been mistreated. During Saddam's reign, however, the Kurds were systematically hunted and killed for apparently plotting against the government in Baghdad (bullshit allegations, obviously). Many label what happened to the Kurds in Iraq during the late 80's and early 90's as genocide.

This will not be going in chronological order: in this part alone I jump from 1969 to the early 1940's to 1993 to 1979. Despite this, however, because it isn't based strictly on history it's shouldn't be too hard to follow. Historical explanations, as always, will be in the closing note. Any questions? Ask me, I'll always answer in the next chapter! Or, if there's something that I got completely wrong, tell me about it; I'll be sure to change it.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, least of all Hetalia.

Good (Part 1)

They had tied his hands together, and blindfolded him, but Kurdistan could still feel them drop the noose around his neck. They consigned him to hell, and then the floor opened up. He fell for a short moment before the rope caught him and he sprang back up. He choked, a vein burst and blood poured from his mouth. His feet swung widely in the open space below him; he kicked the air like a drowning child would kick against the water around him in a desperate attempt to pull himself up. He clenched his eyes shut and gasped for air, but all he took in was blood. The boss and his officials laughed at him, cheering on his death.

"Are you going to die?'

"Yes. Someday, everyone will."

"And where will you go?"

"To heaven, silly."

Iraq looked on with soulless eyes.

"Do you think that heaven really exists, Kurdistan?"

This was what Iraq asked the should've-been Nation in the early morning hours of September 28, 1969. The room was made of the pure darkness that surrounded them both, the only source of brightness coming from the light of the moon and the stars, and Iraq's lit cigarette. Neither could sleep, it seemed, which was usual for Kurdistan but very unusual of Iraq. After spending so many years with him, Kurdistan knew who and how Iraq was. He was usually quite upbeat in character, loud and obnoxious with a slight hint of charismatic charm which made it impossible for anyone to stay angry with him for long. He always wore a smile, always laughed the loudest at the (usually serious) world meetings. Iraq always looked on the brighter side of things.

And knowing this, Kurdistan immediately noticed how Iraq's mood had taken a sudden dark turn over the past few weeks. Not even his approaching birthday seemed to lift his spirits, and frankly, Kurdistan was beginning to grow worried.

After getting over his initial shock, he quickly responded, in full confidence, "Of course heaven exists."

Iraq narrowed his eyes at his semi-autonomous state, though the look he bore couldn't be constituted as a glare, as it wasn't angry or sharp at all. He seemed withdrawn for once, his face sullen, his eyes holding this quiet kind of sadness that Kurdistan hadn't seen in Iraq since the death of his grandmother, Mesopotamia. "How do you know?"

"The book says so."

Of course, by 'the book' he meant the Qur'an.

Iraq nodded slowly. "I see." An odd air of contemplation came over Iraq's face, his eyes clouded, deep in thought. He was worrying Kurdistan more and more with each gesture he made, with each word he said. A few long moments passed by before he asked, "Do you think that heaven… is nice?"

Where in the world were these questions coming from? "I suppose so."

"Do you think, when they all die, our people will be happy there?"

'When they all die?' Iraq was speaking as if they would all be going up there at once. "Yes, of course. How could they not be happy to be in Allah's presence?"

Iraq laughed in this bitter way that sounded vile to Kurdistan's ears. "Do you think they'll miss us?"

"What do you mean?"

"When they go up to heaven, do you think they'll miss us at all?"

The Kurd shrugged helplessly. "Maybe? I don't know, I doubt it. In heaven, there is no wanting. But…" he paused, trying to find the right words. "…but even in the off chance that they do miss us, even a little bit, it won't be for long. We'll be reunited in the end, when we die and go to heaven ourselves."

A dark, dark look came over Iraq's face. "You speak as if we'd actually be allowed up there."

A moment of pure silence passed between the two, one that was suffocating underneath the weight of Iraq's words. Iraq's eyes were on the floor, while Kurdistan seemed frozen where he was, absolutely unmoving, his face blank and unresponsive, until finally, finally, he broke the silence by quietly stating, with a humble kind of certainty:

"I'm going to heaven, Iraq."

"Really?" Iraq smiled, one that was as aged and world weary as Kurdistan should've been. He turned his head to look out the window, upon Baghdad below, a capital as dangerous and unpredictable as it was dear to Iraq's heart, because that is what it was.

Kurdistan's voice rose in volume and confidence when he added, "And you're going to heaven, too!"

Iraq turned back to look at him, eyes wide, genuinely astonished. "But," Kurdistan rubbed the back of his head, a sheepish grin coming over his face. "Hopefully, that won't happen for a long while. Life is beautiful, you know? Heaven will be better, but life is still good. Let's hope that we can stay here for as long as we can."

Iraq opened his mouth to respond, but quickly shut it after thinking it over. He couldn't tell Kurdistan the truth. That was his burden, and his alone.

Iraq took a drag of his cigarette, and the two spoke no more.

He would someday be their worst boss, the most violent and destructive, one of the few humans that would be able to truthfully say that he had almost killed not one, but three Nations, and a semi autonomous region to boot. But when they first met, Saddam Hussein was only a small child running through the streets of Tikrit, dirty and malnourished and obviously abused. Kurdistan had felt sorry for him; he coerced Iraq into buying him a treat, and then he himself gave the child a few dinars. Kurdistan then told him that if he grew up to be a good man, a strong man, one who would not repeat the mistakes of those past, then he would definitely get see them again someday.

But the boy had taken him seriously. He only grew up to be strong; perhaps he was also good at one point, but that goodness died, suffocated under the weight of his immense power. He would invade, he would rape, and he would bring the very region who had first given him hope within an inch of his life, more than once. Kurdistan never knew (thank Allah, he never knew) but Iraq one day realized that his boss was the same little boy from all those years ago, at the very end. Only when Saddam Hussein once again became dirty, malnourished and obviously abused did Iraq finally know who he was.

"Kurdistan; you never seem to want to talk about the other Nations that you live with. Why not?"

Armenia had asked him this, sometime in the summer of 1993. Kurdistan nearly choked on his tea when she asked him this out-of-the-blue question. He set down his cup, and lightly ran his finger over the edge of the rim, round in a circle once, twice, three times. Then he answered with a simple:

"There is nothing you need to know about them."

But she would not accept that as an answer. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean exactly what I say," he replied, not lifting his head to face her.

"Well," she began, "perhaps it is true that there is no immediate need for me to know about them. However… I want to know, especially now that you have made it clear that you don't want to speak about them. Are they really that bad?"

Kurdistan stood quiet for a few moments, his eyes glued on the cup of tea before him. He could feel Armenia's gaze on him, her dull and endless eyes unwavering, and he felt them like daggers. Daggers thrust into his back, twisted, and then dragged down, through flimsy muscle and brittle bone, destroying his spinal cord and paralyzing him completely. His eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them back.

"You know what they're like," he murmured, almost too softly to be heard. But Armenia caught it.

"Yes, yes, I do. I know that Iran thinks too highly of himself and must make you wait on him hand and foot. I know of Syria's negligence and indifference towards you. I know that Turkey is the devil incarnate… you know that I've experienced his cruelty firsthand…"

The Armenian Genocide, Kurdistan quickly reminded himself in-between her words. He had forgotten that she'd been a victim of it, too.

"…and I know of Iraq's violent temper. Big deal; everyone knows about those things. No one knows what you know, though."

For a brief moment, the possibility of Armenia acting as a spy for Russia flashed through his mind, but once again, he had to remind himself that the Soviet Union was gone. Armenia had no reason to act as a spy for that terrible man up north anymore. "You got everything just about right," he began; it was clear now that she was not about to give up on this until he told her something. "Iran doesn't really make me wait on him, though. He orders me around, yes, but he's too self-sufficient to just keep me as a servant. I think he just keeps me around as a whipping boy; whenever something goes wrong, something within him that he cannot blame on Israel or America, then he blames it on me, and everything is alright for him. Syria is negligent, and indifferent, and she mostly ignores me, but I don't really have to spend that much time with her, so it doesn't matter. Turkey really likes to keep me down, probably just to satisfy himself. I know there's still a little bit of the Ottoman Empire within him, a part of himself that he still isn't ready to let go of. He just wants to be in charge of someone, I think. He has been getting better lately, though."

Kurdistan finished there. He had given her information on three of the four, a decent amount. Maybe she wouldn't notice how he left out...

"But what about Iraq?"

Just the name of that country sent a chill up his spine, and without thinking he brought his hand up to touch the white ribbons of gauze and bandage that were wrapped around his neck. It was summer, but he was dressed in layers, to hide his scars, to conceal just how thin he had become and to pull attention away from his neck and the tell-tale bandages. Armenia hadn't seen anything. Only when he touched them did she notice they were there.

She did not apologize. She did not say anything, but only acted. She got up, rounded the table and wrapped her arms around his thin shoulders, pulling him in so that his face rested on the crook of her neck. And it was only when he noticed how wet her shirt was did he realize he was crying.

She'd done it on purpose. He never knew.

"So! I hear you've had a revolution. How'd that go?"

Iran glared at Iraq, half-heartedly. He knew that the other Nation was teasing him. Iraq had a reputation for kicking other countries when they were down. "Yeah, I had a revolution. What's it to you?"

Iraq scrunched his nose as if he smelled something awful. (Perhaps, it was the stench of theocracy?) "Islamic Republics are icky."

"Y-You're icky!" Iran sputtered.

Iraq turned and began to walk away, but not before taking a look over his shoulder and sneering, "Whatever you say, Islamic Republic of Iran."

Iran picked up a nearby stone and threw it at him, though his aim was so bad that he missed him by a few good inches.

Kurdistan was the first to notice America's rather strong feelings for Iraq.

He noticed it when he first studied the way the two hugged. Iraq was never one much for physical contact, but during those days he allowed America to do anything he wanted to him. The Western Nation wrapped his arms around Iraq slowly, constricting them around the other Nation with a gentleness that was almost hesitant. He placed one hand in between his shoulder blades, and the other on his lower back, bringing Iraq close enough so that their pelvises were touching. America closed his eyes, buried his face in Iraq's neck, and took a few deep breaths, almost as if he were relishing in breathing in Iraq's scent (which consisted of cigarette smoke and gunpowder). He tilted his head a bit, and kissed Iraq's neck, once, twice, before letting him go and holding him at arm's length. Iraq had his back turned to Kurdistan, so the semi-autonomous region could not see his facial expression, whether it was one of numbed shock (much as his own was) or of congenial understanding, or perhaps even one of mutual desire. But Kurdistan could see America's face, saw the gentle smile that it held, and he knew at once that the Westerner felt something much deeper than friendship for Iraq.

After that, he began to pick up on other things. The slight blush that would appear on America's face whenever Iraq grinned at him. How America always praised everything that Iraq did with genuine sincerity. How America always helped him with everything, from ammunition to aid to low-interest loans. How America always acted as if he were gazing at something beautiful whenever he watched over Iraq as he slept…

And especially in the way America always defended all of Iraq's actions, even when he was dead wrong.

"You still love me, right, Iraq?"

Kurdistan was looking on from afar when America asked this, sometime in 1987. The Land of the Free was staring down at his shoes, not wanting to look up and see a whole new Iraq. His only ally in the Middle East was losing the war against Iran, being beaten by a country with only two major allies. America had been the one who instigated Iraq's rage towards his neighbor, the one who encouraged him to beat the egotistical Persian and put him in his place once and for all. America had been his biggest supporter, the one who always whispered in his ear that he was right and good, even when Iraq himself knew that he wasn't. America had been the one who brought him to this place, and Iraq had every right to be angry with him.

But he wasn't. "Of course I still love you, America!"

The Westerner's head shot up, and he saw the grey bags under Iraq's eyes, saw how thin he had become, saw the cuts and burses that now desecrated the once blemish-free Nation. But he also saw the smile on Iraq's face, one that was as wide and bright as always, almost painful to look at in conjunction with his battered state. He continued, "Did you know… did you know that when I first allied myself with you, all the countries that I had grown up with and called my family suddenly turned their backs on me? They all abandoned me, because if I was friends with you, then I couldn't be with any of them. But I didn't mind. I always figured that as long as I had you, then everything would turn out okay in the end. I knew that with you, I'd never go without, and I'd always have a friend there to back me up. So what, you gave me some bad advice once or twice? Nobody's perfect, not even the hero of the story. I do love you, America. I always have, and I don't think I could ever stop, even if I wanted to."

America seemed stunned after Iraq finished, as was Kurdistan. Iraq never revealed those deep-hearted feelings of his, not to anyone, not ever. Kurdistan had the irking suspicion that he had just witnessed Iraq do it for the first time. The Middle Eastern Nation stood there, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, blushing deep scarlet as he waited for the other to respond.

And America did respond, though not by words. He pinned Iraq to the wall behind him, and finally did what he'd always wanted to do to Iraq: he kissed him. All the while, America's hands roamed Iraq's body freely, caressing shoulders, his arms, his sides, his ass; and Iraq kept on blushing, making no such explicit gestures in return. He was still not completely used to America's obvious affection towards him; however, he did not deny him by any means. When America finally let him go, Iraq chuckled, a little breathlessly. "You'll always be there for me, right? You'll always be on my side?"

"Of course," America assured Iraq, holding him close. "Of course."

Kurdistan smiled, one that was small, a ghost of what would have otherwise been a grin, if he hadn't been so disillusioned by life at that point. But through it all, he did feel a spark of genuine happiness for Iraq. He knew that America would always be on his side, no matter what. Iraq could feel free to do what he wanted, always knowing that he'd have the world's leading superpower as his biggest supporter, and—

Kurdistan didn't know if that was a good thing or not, but through all his anger and sadness, he was still good. He still felt happy for Iraq and his good fortune.

A few weeks later, Kurdistan went up in flames.

In March of 1975, Kurdistan woke in the middle of the night to screaming and sobbing, cries only he could hear. His eyes shot open and he jumped out of bed almost immediately, any drowsiness that he may have felt effaced by the obvious harm to his people that was going on somewhere in his region. He sprinted down the stairs two at a time, and ran out the door with a frightening kind of ferocity. He dashed out of his urban district and into the rural area of Iraqi-Kurdistan. With an innate compass within him, he instinctively knew where the screams of terror were coming from: the farms owned by the Barzani tribespeople. He ran with all his might, as fast as his bare feet would carry him, because even though he wasn't an independent Nation, he knew that he still had to protect his people.

And when he finally got there, he saw just what it was that had woken him up that night, and despite his history, he could not believe his eyes.

Iraqi troops—Iraq's troops—were rounding up his people, mostly his men, by the truckload. His women were screaming, begging the soldiers not to take away their husbands, their father's, their sons. Children clung desperately to their fathers, sisters to their brothers. The soldiers tore them away from each other without a second thought, grabbing the men and shoving the women and children away, kicking them when they fell so they wouldn't be able to get back up. The only thing that Kurdistan could make sense of in the midst of the chaos was that, for whatever reason, the only males that were being left behind were the little boys.

Kurdistan ran up in front of the first truck that was set to leave. He held his arms out and planted his feet into a firm stance. The driver honked his horn at him, and when he did not budge, the driver stuck his head out the window and hollered out, "Get out of the way, kid!"

But the embodiment of the Kurdish people silently refused, making no other physical gesture than slightly narrowing his eyes. The driver then pulled his upper body back inside the truck, and slammed his foot on the gas pedal.

Though, to be honest, Kurdistan was expecting nothing less. In fact, he ran straight towards the oncoming truck.

Just as they were to collide, Kurdistan jumped up and landed on the front hood of the car. He held onto the rear-view mirror with one hand and to one of the window wipers with the other as the driver swerved from left to right, desperate to get the obviously-insane kid off of his hood and out of his field of vision. But he wouldn't budge.

Kurdistan pulled himself up until he was close enough to the drivers open window to get a good shot at him. More preoccupied with the oncoming Kurd approaching his window than with his driving, he crashed into one of the modest homes that made up the Barzani village. Kurdistan was thrown to the side in recoil, rear-view mirror in one hand and windshield wiper in the other. The should've-been Nation groaned, while behind him, the driver of the now ruined vehicle jumped out of the car and staggered towards him.

"YOU!" he roared. "Do you realize what you've done?"

His rage renewed, Kurdistan got up in one fluid movement and asked the man before him, "I should be asking you the same thing! You traitor!"

The man scoffed indignantly. "Traitor? To whom? I'm Iraqi!"

"You've betrayed your own people! We're Kurds, but we're still just as Iraqi as you! How dare you?"

"No." The man said, shaking his head. "No. We—my men and I—we're the true people of this land. You wastes of life shouldn't be here. I say, Iraq for Iraqi's! And you know who else think that way?" The man smiled cruelly at Kurdistan. "Our soon-to-be-President, Saddam Hussein."

Kurdistan took a step back, eyes growing wide. The man continued, "Someday, this world will be free of the Kurds, spawns of worthlessness not worthy of Allah's grace! You will all see what our creator truly thinks of you on judgment day, when he damns you and your wrenched race to hell!"

"Really?" Kurdistan smiled bitterly. "I was born in hell. And it's people like you who will have to someday answer to Allah, not me. But perhaps you won't have to wait, after all."

Kurdistan looked past the driver, and the other man followed his gaze and looked back—and there stood the people he'd been about to take away, all looking as angry as their region, if not more so. Kurdistan would've liked to have stood around to see what they did to that hateful man, but he knew that he was not finished. He had only saved but few dozen men out of Barzani's eight thousand. He still had a long way to go. He ran back into the chaos.

The rest of that fateful night was a blur to Kurdistan. He fought tooth and nail to save the Barzani Kurds, with the help of all of his people but mostly his women. They chased trucks and tackled soldiers and sacrificed their bodies for the sake of protecting the small clan from becoming a band of widows and orphaned children. But in the end, the soldiers opened fire on them all, and had Kurdistan been human he would've died that night along with so many other people.

He woke up in a hospital bed a few days later, where some doctor who was not aware of what he was told him that it was a miracle that he'd survived three bullet wounds to the head with no outstanding long-term effects. His first visitor was Iraq, soon followed by Saddam Hussein and some of his officials. Iraq scolded him for his actions.

"What were you thinking? Are you insane? You got so many people killed the other night! None of them would have died if you hadn't intervened!"

And perhaps Kurdistan would've agreed with him, had it not been for what that man had told him.

You wastes of life shouldn't be here… and you know who else thinks that way? Our son-to-be-President, Saddam Hussein.

"Mr. Saddam," Kurdistan began in his hoarse voice, "where are they?"

"Who's 'they'?"

The man was unbelievable. "My people. The Barzani men. Where did you take them?"

Saddam Hussein smiled. "'The male is born to be slaughtered.' That's one of your proverbs, isn't it? It fits this situation strikingly well."

Iraq jumped away from his future boss as if the man had some sort of contagious disease. "You did what?"

Kurdistan began to shake, his hands trembling terribly as the gravity of those words pressed down on him, squeezed life out of him. Eight thousand gone. Before he could suppress it, he let out a chocked sob. "No!" he cried out, shaking his head wildly. He clutched his chest, his very heart in pain. Kurdistan heaved out another sob, a wrenched sound that somehow did not belong on his lips.

As Iraq futilely tried to comfort his grief-stricken region, Saddam and his men left Kurdistan's hospital room as calmly as they had entered. Neither noticed their leave, and Iraq soon realized that Kurdistan could not be comforted. But even so, it wouldn't have felt right to just sit there and do nothing. So he sat at the edge of the other's hospital bed and just held the should've-been Nation as he cried for what seemed like hours.

Later, when the sky was dark and Kurdistan was physically unable to continue crying, Iraq, eyes glazed as he stared at the ceiling, asked, "Are you going to die?"

"Yes," Kurdistan mumbled. "Someday, everyone will."

"And where will you go?" Iraq prompted, waiting for the desired answer.

A ghost of a smile graced the Kurd's lips as he replied, "To heaven, silly."

At the very least, it was something to look forward to.

A/N: Notes time! C:

Saddam Hussein was born in 1937, and raised in Tikrit, Iraq. By most accounts, he was mistreated as a child, and was beat often at the hands of his step-father. I just couldn't get the idea out of my mind, him meeting Kurdistan and Iraq as a child… and they Iraq only realizing it once his old boss was put on trial.

Unlike in the countries where they have major inhabitants (Iraq, Iran, Syria, and Turkey), the Kurds were always treated fairly well in Armenia and Azerbaijan. As for the way I had Kurdistan describe his relationships with the four countries he usually hangs out with… I tried to keep them accurate.

Iran's revolution was in 1979… it's one of the reasons (a smaller reason, but still a reason) why Iraq went to war with Iran. Iraq also acts all disgusted around Iran because Iraq has always been more of the more secular Nations in the Middle East (meaning that, politics and religion have never mixed as much as they have in other Middle Eastern Nations).

As for America's relationship with Iraq… um, UST? America/Iraq, anyone? I know that plenty of you probably disagree with me, but to me, when I've looked at America and Iraq's history together (yes, it does go before 1991), their relationship has always seemed sort of… star-crossed, really. (But things aren't good between them, not by a long shot, as we all know. Things for them take a turn for the worst next chapter…)

As for what happened in Barzani… it was the first attack in Saddam Hussein's campaign against the Kurdish people. He had Iraqi troops attack the village for no reason, basically destroy it, and round up about 8,000 men and boys for interrogation, accusing them of "crimes against the government". This was in response to Kurdish insurgents who's main goal was (still is, actually) to succeed from Iraq (and Turkey and Iran and Syria) and form their own country, Kurdistan. However, the majority of these people had nothing to do with the insurgency, and this wouldn't be the last time such an event occurred. It would happen again and again, with more frequency towards the late 80's and early 90's, and such senseless killing is just about the prime example of "genocide".

As for Iraq and Kurdistan's relationship… make of it what you will. All I'm going to say is that Kurdistan probably suffers from some major Stockholm Syndrome (when a person feels inexplicitly feels sympathy towards someone who's hurt them immensely).

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