Big Brother's Duty

They say the silence before battle is the most troubling of all. But France would have to disagree. He found the silence following the hours of ballistic gunfire to be the most unnerving thing he had ever heard. The air was clogged with gun smoke and it was near impossible to see a foot in front of your face. The fog that had persisted all day was just beginning to evanesce. His heartbeat sounded like cannon fire in his ears. Slowly, he raised himself out of the trench. The ground all around was littered with bodies wearing both Allied and Axis uniforms. It seemed that everything within five miles was dead. Not a moan or cry penetrated the air. Just silence and death. A lone figure approached through the mist.

France raised his gun and fired. The figure screamed and something fell to the ground. A sharp wind blew across the battlefield and the figure came into view. It was Italy. France froze. Italy. The country stared back at him with massive, fearful eyes. His uniform was torn and dirty and France could see several scratches and nicks on his face. No doubt he looked ten times worse, but still. Italy was so innocent and cheerful…he didn't belong here. Not in war.

But he was the enemy, regardless. France tightened his grip on the gun and reached for the trigger. Just one shot. Italy was now unarmed, having dropped his gun. One shot and it would be over for today. Until what? Until Germany could regroup and launch another attack? How long? France asked himself. How long could he hold out? Already England had been forced to flee back to defend his own land.

The world seemed strangely silent aside from France's pounding heartbeat and Italy's frightened panting. France's mind was assailed with images: A young Italy running to hide behind his legs as Holy Rome chased after him, Italy asking him about sex, Italy smiling up and showing him one of his beautiful paintings…the reel went on and on and on, accompanied by a single phrase, like a broken record:

"Big brother France!"

"Big brother France."

"Big brother! France!"

"Big brother France!"

"Vee! Big brother France!"

"Big brother France…"

"Big brother France…"

"Big brother France?"

"Big brother France?"

The gun shook in France's hands. He fought to hold it steady, but found it a Sisyphean task. He couldn't take his eyes off of Italy's face. Italy was his brother. His naive baby brother. How could he shoot him? How could it have come to this? They were brothers, for God's sake! What were they doing trying to kill each other? The ground around them was littered with bodies; all their soldiers were dead and gone.

If he didn't shoot now, he would die. That much was for certain. Germany and Japan would return with fervor, with Italian soldiers in tow and France would fall. Die, perhaps. What was so hard about it? England had mercilessly killed his siblings' people. He had subjugated them for hundreds of years without guilt. He had tried to do the same to America. China and Japan's violent quarrels were legendary. And didn't Canada always get beaten up because of America? Why should this be any different?

How long would France be responsible for Italy? How long would he defend him against the jeers of the other nations? At what point did Italy have to assume his own defense? France had suffered too and it had been caused by Italy and his army. Italy was the reason for the bullet wounds that bleed through France's uniform, the reason his people lay like so many corpses around him, the reason his cities burned. Why should he give when Italy had not? Italy followed Germany like a dog, obeying his every order-he had made his choice. Now France had to make his.

France flicked his great blue eyes around the battlefield, a knife being driven into his chest with the sight of every motionless French soldier. The pain, physical and mental, crashed over him in a great wave, threatening to overwhelm him. France swallowed hard, forcing hysteria back and felt his resolve harden. He would not see any more of his soldiers, his precious people, his women and children slaughtered for Germany and Japan's insane dream. Italy was caught up in the wrong crowd, but that wasn't France's fault. Italy was old enough to make his own decisions and reap the consequences. His finger wrapped around the trigger. Italy had to die.

A soft whimper came from the Italian. He was too frightened to even move, the only clear sign of his terror a single tear slid down his cheek. Then the tremors stared. His brother was really going to shoot him.

"Big brother…?" His words were too soft for France to hear, but he saw the way Italy's lips moved and guessed what he was saying. He shut his ears, trying to block out Italy's voice. This wasn't his brother-this was an enemy who would destroy him if France let him get away. So why didn't the gun fire? Why didn't the bullet strike Italy's forehead, right where France's gun was aimed? Why?

You're weak! Just like everyone says! Weak, pathetic, cowardly! You call yourself a man? Shoot him, dammit! France gritted his teeth. He straightened the gun out again. Italy hadn't moved a step. He seemed as unsure as France, as if he didn't quite believe it had come to this. As if France would suddenly toss the gun aside, throw an arm around his shoulders and invite him out for drinks. But he couldn't.

France was sure his heart was being cleaved in two. If he shot Italy, he'd never forgive himself. He'd be a monster. It didn't matter what other countries had done-he could never justify shooting his little brother. If he didn't shoot, hundreds more of his civilians would die in the siege that was sure to follow. His capitol would fly the Nazi flag and he himself would be bound as a prisoner. The way things were going, Germany might just kill him. The French people would be lost. They would be under Nazi control. France, as their mascot, had a duty to protect them. But I also have a duty to protect Italy, he argued with himself. It's my job! It's my job to keep my little brother safe! He hesitated another moment. I won't do it. I won't be England or Japan or anyone else. I won't shoot my brother. My people will have to forgive me.

France's arms, feeling like lead from incessant fighting, moved infinitesimally to lower the gun. At that moment, a gun cracked. France gasped, blood exploding from the back of his ribcage. The gun clattered to the ground. His mouth tried to form a word.

"Petit frère…"

He fell heavily to his knees and then tumbled forward onto his face. It was done.

"Big brother France!" Italy's shock was as great as France's had been.

Standing several yards away in a cloud of gun smoke still clearing, was Germany. His gun was poised, aimed right at France. He'd come at him from the flank; France had been too absorbed in his mental dilemma to notice.

Italy's horrified expression didn't even seem to register with Germany. The blonde nation strode over, holstered his gun and grabbed France's limp body, throwing it over his shoulder. He turned to Italy with a hard look on his face.

"That's how you do it."

Petit frere: Little brother