Another kind of spur of the moment hetalia fic. As usual, I own nothing. Not Hetalia, or the picture used as the cover of this story. It is used just to represent the story, and I claim no ownership over it. All characters and materials belong to their respective owners.

It was raining. Somehow, in the back of his mind, he found it to be a terrible cliché. And yet, he also found it fit the situation. The situation…What a horrible one it was. His home, his land, his people. All of it. Ripped away from him. Placed under fascist rule. It made his stomach turn, all the while setting alight a flame of rebellion in him. Maybe it was from his own anger. Maybe it was just what he wanted.

But deep down he knew. It was what his people wanted. No, not wanted. What they were preparing. He was regarded as weak. A coward. But that wasn't the truth at all.

He was terrified beyond belief, yes. He'd seen what the German's had done to their enemies. How they'd torn through them like wild beasts. Yet the fear wasn't just for himself. Self-preservation had a spot in his mind, yes, but another instinct completely over powered it.

The instinct to protect. His people. They needed him. He could feel the pain of the wounded and the dying, feel the heart ache and loss of all the casualties. It was as though every wound inflicted upon the body of his citizens was a stab or a shot to his own visage.

He was terrified. But he would not back down.

"Its over, Francis. Just give up now before anyone else has to suffer." Cold blue eyes, so much like ice, bored into his own. His fingers were shaky on the gun he held, and he thought that should he loosen his grip even in the slightest it would fall from his grip.

Just like his country would. He was the only thing remaining. The only piece of the puzzle the German's required before they completely had his beautiful country in their filthy hands. As long as the representation was free, the country was not fully conquered.

Yet it was only a matter of a few minutes before that last piece fell into their fascist hands. He knew he couldn't escape. He was surrounded, along with the few men left standing after the last gruesome battle. Bodies littered the ground about them, and Francis' forced himself not to look. He could feel his stomach tighten as the scent of blood reached his nostrils. Their blood. The blood of his people. His children. The fear was snuffed out as rage coursed through his blood.

His grip on the gun, so shaky and unsure before, suddenly grew vice like as his azure eyes narrowed in anger. He could see the German's eyes widened somewhat in surprise, and he vaguely wondered just how furious he looked. But he pushed that thought away. It wasn't important. What was important was the Nazi filth before him. What was important was inflicting as much damage to him before his capture as possible. Not just for the sake of revenge, or for his own anger. But for his people.

He had to give them hope somehow.

With a primal yell, he charged forward, shattering every belief of his cowardice and weakness. He knew he was no match for the German, but it mattered not. He aimed as he ran, his finger quickly flying to the trigger. The shot rang out over his cries, and a German curse greeted his ears. He gave a self-satisfied smirk as he saw the bullet lodge itself into the blonde's shoulder.

It was quickly wiped away.

As he approached the German and prepared another shot, the larger blonde's foot connected solidly with his stomach. The air left him in a rush, and he teetered forward; Right into another kick from Ludwig. It met with his face, and sent him stumbling back before he crashed to the ground. Blood trickled from his busted lip and surely broken nose. His hand scrambled for the gun that had fallen at his side, but the relentless boot slammed down onto his wrist. He wasn't sure which sound was louder, the snap of the bone, or his cries of pain.

Cold eyes glared down upon him, and he knew in that moment he'd lost the battle. Slowly, a smile spread over his features, and he saw the German hesitate, eyeing him warily.

The battle, but not the war.

In surprising spurt of strength, Francis flipped onto his side, shoulder slamming into the side of the German's leg and sending him reeling somewhat. In the time it took him to right himself, the Frenchman had found his weapon once more. He fired without hesitation, and Ludwig let loose a flurry of German curses as he quickly placed a hand to the second wound he'd received, much deeper then the first.

The German troops that had been closing in on the few soldiers of Francis' that remained turned from to see the blonde clutching his wounds, and Francis' seized the opportunity.

"Run! Vivre et combattre un autre jour!" He could see their hesitation, and he quickly snapped his order once more. He could see the despair in their eyes. Their leader had fallen. He could not allow this. He had to be a symbol of strength in this time of need, not one of grief and despair.

His hand lifted into the air, fingers clenching tightly into a fist. The blood on his face and the fierce look in his normally light and docile eyes made him look almost savage as he looked to his men. His people.

"Vive la résistance!" Their eyes widened, fire burning within them at his words. With just a simple cry of rebellion, he had started the spark that he knew would turn into a raging fire. Slowly at first, they began to back away, the German's to distracted over Ludwig's wounds to stop them. Finally, they began running, shouts and cries of rebellion floating from their lips. The cries began echoing form miles around, the few remaining rebels in the area taking up the call.

Once he was sure they could no longer see him, the Frenchman collapsed back to the ground, his eyes growing lidded as he felt himself blacking out. He'd sustained far to many injuries that day, and he knew that now their would be many more to come. His capture by the German's was now assured, and he was to exhausted to attempt to flee. But it didn't matter.

They had lost this battle. However, a smile still graced his features as he slowly slipped into the welcoming embrace of unconsciousness.

The battle, yes. But the war, no. It was just beginning.

Run! Vivre et combattre un autre jour!= Run! Live now and fight another day!

Vive la résistance!= Long live the resistence!