Intro: Hi, and welcome to In Our Solemn Hour, a really long story that's going to go all the way through World War II, looking at it from the different Nation's perspectives. You'll get to see how they react to both the historical events and their own personal interactions. This is the first in a planned trilogy, to be followed by An Iron Curtain (about the Cold-War-and-the-Soviet-Union era) and a prequel, To End All Wars (about World War I). First of all, this is written by two authors (Warsaw and Vilnius, if you couldn't guess), and the story is divided up into chapters consisting of a number of scenes. The scenes are divided so that Warsaw writes some and Vilnius others, so there will be some variation in writing styles, but we're working hard to make sure it's not too drastic a change. Secondly, we're going to warn you now that this story is going to get kind of dark later on. It is World War II, after all, but you should know that we have the goal of keeping all the characters reasonably sympathetic, with their own motivations and issues and understandings of events. Thirdly, we're updating once a week, so stay tuned!

Disclaimer: Himaruya is the genius here, creator of this vast frontier. This story he'd for sure disown; suffice to say: WE DO NOT OWN.

In Our Solemn Hour

Chapter One: To War

September 1, 1939
Approaching the German-Polish Border

"Uuuuuuuugh…"

Germany's fingers tightened around the steering wheel. "Stop it, Prussia."

"Uuuuuuuugh…"

This earned the older Nation a whap on the back of the head, courtesy of his highly irritated brother. "Stop complaining." If you make one more dying cow sound, I swear, I will break you in half.

"It's not even five in the morning yet," Prussia protested, converting the majority, if not all, of the audience members to his side of the argument and giving Germany what most people would judge to be a well-deserved scowl. "I can complain if I want to. Nobody should have to be awake this early." A valid point, dying cow sounds or no. He shot a glare towards the back seat. "Austria's not awake this early."

"What do you mean?" the blond asked, not taking his eyes off the road. "He was up before you were." He has been louder than Prussia had, too, in retrospect.

"He fell asleep ten minutes ago," Prussia snorted, with more than a hint of jealousy. The twisted love child of a smirk and a scowl formed on his face and he perked up as a thought occurred to him. This couldn't possibly end well. "You got something I can throw at him to wake him up?"

"No, I do not," Germany rolled his eyes, silently resenting his brother for having the maturity level of toddler after a half hour in the doctor's waiting room with only boring health magazines for company. Why would they put those out? Nobody ever read them…

While it was possible that Prussia had registered what his brother had said, it was almost certain that he didn't care. Immediately after asking his question, he had begun to rummage around in the already-open glove box of previously well-ordered car crap, searching out something suitable for throwing while being careful not to disturb the sleeping yellow chick that had claimed the compartment as his temporary bed and nestled into the yellowing pages of the owner's manual, a tiny, adorable bundle of gently breathing fluff. Prussia would've thrown the owner's manual, but one did not disturb a sleeping bird if one did not want to get pecked. He found his ammo in the form of a small notebook that Germany usually used for writing down directions or other important information that needed remembering, twisted around in his chair, and lobbed the projectile at Austria's head before Germany realized what his brother was doing. The constantly freeloading and previously sleeping noble woke with a start, staring in sleepy confusion at the notebook in his lap for a few moments as though he couldn't quite figure out what it was. He yawned, rubbed his eyes, and then looked up at Prussia, the expression on his face best translated as "They will never find your body because there will be nothing left to find, you insolent worm. Grr."

"Prussia!" Germany barely resisted the urge to beat his head on the window until he was unconscious. He even more narrowly avoided doing the same to his brother. It had been a long ride.

The same pained expression instantly appeared on both Germany and Austria's faces as Prussia burst out into a bout of his loud, obnoxious, unholy laughter. Time for some audience participation: take a pencil. Now drill it into your brain until you can pull it out the other side. Congratulations, you now have an approximate replication of Germany's headache at that moment. "Wake up," the silver-haired Nation barked belatedly. "It's not fair that you get to sleep and I don't."

"And why don't you?" Austria growled dangerously, the "insolent worm" look retaking its rightful place on his face. Germany sighed. He had long since learned not to get between Austria and his beauty sleep. Of course, so had Prussia, but the nut-job of a Nation had insisted on ignoring his survival instinct once again. No surprises there.

Prussia yawned theatrically before gracing Austria with an answer. "I would," he explained in that special voice people used when explaining to kindergarteners that, no, they can't eat the crayons and, both more commonly and more relevantly, talking to blithering idiots. "But in case you haven't noticed, you're taking up the backseat and Germany won't let me put my feet on the dashboard." The look he gave his brother suggested that, in Prussia's mind, this was the worst crime against humanity a person could possibly commit. Oh, Germany, vilest of villains and lover of his new car. "He kept moving them."

"Oh, the horror," Austria rolled his eyes and directed his attention to Germany. "How long before we get rid of him?"

"It won't be much longer," Germany said, reassuring more himself than the man in the backseat.

The brunette groaned. "I'm going back to sleep," he announced loudly, this time utilizing a tone suggesting that interference would be dealt with swiftly and without mercy.

"Like hell you are!" Prussia cackled maniacally, taking up the imaginary challenge with gusto and reaching over the back of his seat to swat enthusiastically at Austria. "Just try and sleep now, you spoiled brat!"

Austria pressed his back up against his seat, leaning out of Prussia's reach with a disgusted frown, a visual "ugh," if you will. "Keep your filthy hands away from me." So much for "without mercy", then.

Prussia's grin promptly doubled in size. "Make me!" he crowed, giving Mariazell a vicious yank.

"Germany, Prussia's touching me," Austria complained expectantly, swiping at the noisy menace like a cat at the loose threads on a pair of cheap shorts. Without the claws or the pounce, anyway.

"Prussia, stop touching him," Germany dutifully ordered, mimicking Austria's over-the-top tone of voice in a way that was for too accurate not to have been learned from experience. Prussia inevitably laughed harder and Germany treated him to a death glare. "Really, Prussia, just go to sleep if you're so tired. Can't you just-?"

Prussia groaned loudly, cutting the blond off and switching back to his crayon-eater-slash-blithering-idiot voice. "I told you. You won't let me put my feet up and you won't let me sit in the back." He punctuated this irritated reminder by roughly poking his brother repeatedly on the side of his head as he added, "Why does he get the back all to himself, huh?"

Germany removed his brother's finger from his person and grouchily countered, "Because you would touch him, Prussia, and then I would have to deal with it." Cough-he's-whiny-enough-as-it-is-cough.

"Oh, so it's his fault!" Prussia turned back to the understandably grumpy Austria and resumed his hair-pulling antics.

Germany sighed and resigned himself to the hellish fate of driving with Austria and Prussia, neither of whom had gotten much sleep recently, and made a conscious decision to simply ignore whatever chaos they happened to create, despite the superhuman tolerance it would require. Sure, it was annoying, and the time would take to reach their destination seemed to have mysteriously tripled (minimum) that morning, but in a few more minutes, he would be rid of Prussia and, at that point, he would be able to focus on the approaching invasion. Austria would probably go back to sleep or something, and then everything would be okay…

That was when Germany remembered the notebook. And the reason he remembered the notebook was that it came flying past his head and collided with the windshield, landing on the dashboard with a thunk. "Argh!"

"Argh?" Austria repeated, mildly amused. Prussia snickered.

Germany glanced into the back seat. "Did you throw that?" he demanded angrily, scowling at Austria, who answered the question by pointing at Prussia's hand, which was wrapped once again around Mariazell. "You missed," Germany said dryly, rolling his eyes as he turned back to face the road and wondering how much trouble he would get in if he left Austria on the side of the street. Tied him up and threw him in the trunk. Shot him. "Don't throw things in my car." Sicced France on him, maybe. Ick, that would be a bit much.

"He started it," Austria protested haughtily as Prussia finally turned and sat back in his seat. Perhaps "kindergartener" was as valid a description for him, too, if you ignored the crayon-eating clause. God help Austria if he ever ate a crayon.

"You're not four years old, so don't even try that argument." Germany snapped. "Besides, I don't care who started, I'm ending it. Now, behave, both of you." What was he now, their father or something? For goodness' sake, they were both older than him.

Both of his passengers seemed to realize this as well, and they managed a blissful…oh, ten minutes of silence. Not bad, considering who was in the car and how early it was. Germany made a mental note to tell all of his future bosses that invasions planned for 4:45 in the morning were completely out of the question, end of story.

Prussia stretched his arms and legs out as far as possible, purposefully hitting his brother upside the head in the process, and then pulled the limbs into a messy ball on the car seat. Germany hated to say it, but... "Prussia, don't go to sleep now, we're almost here." He received an mmmmm in response. "Prussia-."

"Who invades at five in the morning, anyway?" the older Nation grumbled, turning away from his brother. Given his tone of voice, he could have just said, "Sleepy now; go 'way," and successfully achieved the same effect.

"Prussia, we can't be more than five minutes away, so…" Germany's older brother ignored him, choosing instead to pretend to snore. Loudly. The sound was more reminiscent of an old push lawnmower or perhaps a chainsaw starting up than it was an actual snore, but you had to give Prussia points for effort, mostly because he might "snore" at you if you didn't.

"Take his bird. That should wake him up," Austria suggested helpfully. Germany figured it was worth a shot and reached for the glove box, only to have Prussia slap his hand away, suddenly wide awake.

"Leave him alone, he's sleeping." he ordered in the no-nonsense tone that he rarely bothered to break out. Germany semi-contentedly sat back against his chair. That was one less problem he had to deal with, even if it would likely create another.

"That makes one of us," Austria grumbled from the backseat.

Oh well, Germany thought. The peace had been nice while it…oh, who did he think he was fooling?

Prussia glared at the brunette over his shoulder before grabbing the notebook from where it had fallen on the floor and hurling it as if it were a dodgeball at the poncy whiner behind him. It hit Austria square in the head, effectively proving that the poor thing would've been utterly slaughtered in a middle school gym class.

"Ow," Austria protested unhappily, glaring daggers at Prussia as though would somehow be able to put an end to their centuries-old feud.

"I just said-!" Germany slammed on the brakes, jerking his passengers forward against their seatbelts. "You know what? We're close enough, Prussia, you can walk from here."

"What?" Prussia turned to face his brother. "That's so not fair!"

"It's my car; I don't have to be fair. The driver makes the rules." Shotgun shuts his cakehole. "Now take your bird and go," The blond snapped, ignoring Prussia's too-hurt-to-be-true expression in favor of a few minutes of peace and quiet. Be honest, who wouldn't have done the same by that point?

"You suck." Pouting, Prussia got out of the car, slamming the door behind him as Gilbird blinked awake in his hand, slowly coming to terms with the fact that someone had moved him. The chick flapped his wings a few times before taking off to fly circles around his owner's head while Prussia retrieved his gear from the trunk, stopping to make a grotesque face at Austria through the car window. The corners of Austria's mouth twitched and he shooed Prussia away, getting the finger in return.

Germany rolled his eyes again, banged his head on the steering wheel a few times, and drove away.

-o-

September 1, 1939
Near the German-Polish Border

"It's cute!" was the first thing Prussia said upon seeing the Stuka he was going to pilot. He'd seen the planes before, of course, but he'd been looking at them in a military context then, evaluating their potential for raining destruction down on the enemy. This time he was just waiting for the other member of the crew to get there, so he had a chance to get a proper look at the airplane. And the conclusion that Prussia immediately came to was that the Stuka was probably the cutest dive-bombing aircraft ever made, and there was no way anybody would ever convince him otherwise.

Prussia poked the wheel of the airplane a few times. There was no conceivable reason for him to do this, but a lack of reason for doing something had never stopped him before and it sure didn't stop him now. "So what do you think?" he asked Gilbird after completing his poking session. "Is it awesome enough for the great Prussia?" The little yellow bird fluttered from its position on Prussia's shoulder onto the wheel, hopped around a few times, then chirped its approval. Prussia's grin widened. "Yeah, it's definitely awesome," he agreed. "I can't wait to get going. When's the other guy supposed to get here? Is he late?"

Gilbird cheeped again, as if to say "I don't know," then flew back to Prussia's shoulder and settled down to go back to sleep. Prussia continued his inspection of the airplane, making sure that his first impression had been correct and that it was indeed sufficiently awesome for his awesome self. After a few minutes, the sound of approaching footsteps signaled the other crew member's arrival.

"Are you Gilbert Beilschmidt?" the man asked. Prussia vaguely remembered that his name was something-or-another Rothstein.

"That's me," Prussia confirmed. He looked the man over. Blond hair, blue eyes, seemed reasonably fit. Overall, he looked like the ideal German soldier, exactly the type of person the propaganda would love to show bravely fighting for the country. Prussia, meanwhile, was quite aware that he did not look the part. Red eyes, nearly white hair, a bird asleep on his shoulder…not exactly the image of the perfect German as defined by the Nazi party.

Rothstein studied him and appeared to come to the same conclusion, but didn't seem to mind that much. He looked more confused than disapproving, looking as if a question he'd expected to have answered had remained unresolved. His lips moved as he tried to find a way to form this question without sounding rude or looking like an idiot if the answer was actually something obvious that he'd missed. "I'm sorry, I…well, I was never informed of your rank," he finally said.

"Meh, neither was I," Prussia responded. "All I know is that it's low enough that I can get yelled at, but high enough that I can yell back." The other man stared at him in confusion. Prussia just shrugged. "All that matters is that you know that I'm awesome."

"Er…okay…but shouldn't you—"

Prussia sighed, vaguely wishing that someone along the line would have thought to give him a specific rank, even if it was just for show, so that he wouldn't have to explain why he didn't have one every time he met someone new. He'd never been able to come up with a decent explanation that didn't end with him getting fed up and just telling the truth, so after a while, he'd stopped trying to lie in the first place. Fortunately for him, he didn't have to work at getting people to believe him; any time a Nation told a human exactly what they were, there was never any need to spend time explaining. The same magic (or whatever it was) that made them essentially immortal, allowed them to heal from anything at a (usually) advanced rate, and caused all kinds of unpleasant physical reactions whenever something bad happened to their country, also had the convenient effect of making people believe them when they said they were a Nation. Even if the so-called explanation consisted of Prussia saying "blah blah blah, I'm the personification of the awesome Prussia. Now let's go; we've got a war to fight."

Laughing awesomely (or, as most would describe it, obnoxiously), Prussia boarded the plane. Rothstein followed, looking thoroughly confused and shocked and awed (but mostly confused) by Prussia's revelation, despite the fact that it had begun with the phrase "blah blah blah." Suddenly finding out about the existence of national personifications tended to have that effect on people.

Prussia had always liked that part of explaining what he was to others. They always looked at him like he was the coolest thing ever. Although to be fair, he was the coolest thing ever (at least in his mind), so this was only natural. The moment was sort of ruined a minute later, however, when Rothstein said "uh…Mr. Beilschmidt…or is it Prussia, or…?"

"Prussia."

"Mr. Prussia, sir, there's a bird in the plane."

"Huh?" Prussia looked around. "Where?"

"It's on your shoulder, sir."

"Oh. That's Gilbird," Prussia said, strapping himself into the pilot's seat. "He's with me." There was a very long moment of silence as Rothstein absorbed this new piece of information before Prussia decided to speed up the process. "First rule of dealing with national personifications: we're weird. All of us, even the ones who try to pretend that they're not."

"We? So…there are more people like you?"

"One of us for every country in existence," Prussia said. "But just so you know, I'm the awesomest."

"Um…right. Got it."

Prussia checked the instruments one last time. "We ready to go?"

Ahead of them, the first dive-bomber took off, followed by another, then another.

"Ready, sir."

Prussia grinned like the maniac he was as they started forward, gaining speed and altitude as the plane rose up into the sky. He wished that there would be a sunrise to properly illuminate the moment as the twenty-nine dive-bombers headed off to war. Unfortunately, however, it was five in the morning, or something disgustingly close to it, so he had to make do without.

Prussia had hoped for some action along the way. Not a major aerial battle; something on that scale could cause problems by throwing the attack way off schedule or maybe even forcing it to get called off entirely. But something small-scale would have been nice; a quick preview of the Stuka's capabilities before the big show would make the trip a bit more fun.

Unfortunately for Prussia and his love of combat, however, nothing happened. The dive-bombers made their way to the battle unhindered, Prussia and Rothstein made the trip in silence, although Prussia knew that Rothstein had a small army of questions he was dying to ask, and Gilbird remained asleep on Prussia's shoulder.

It wasn't until they reached their target, the town of Wieluń where reconnaissance had located a Polish cavalry brigade and a Polish infantry division in need of destruction the day before, that Prussia realized he had a problem: Gilbird may have been perfectly fine sleeping on his shoulder during the flight to Wieluń, but he sure wasn't going to appreciate being thrown around when Prussia went into a vertical dive. Maybe he should have left Gilbird with Germany, at least until he was done with the dive-bombing part of the invasion.

Oops.

But thinking about what he should have done wasn't going to help now, so Prussia did the next best thing: he gently scooped the little bird up off his shoulder and deposited him inside his shirt. Gilbird made an irritated chirping sound, annoyed at being suddenly awoken and stuffed in a shirt, and pecked at Prussia's stomach a time or two before settling down to go back to sleep.

Now that the problem of securing the bird was out of the way, it was time to dive. Unfortunately, there was heavy fog down below, which seriously restricted visibility, but it was too late to worry about that now. He was still pretty sure that his aim was right. Well, mostly sure. Or something close to mostly sure. Good enough.

"HERE WE GO!" Prussia yelled, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He pulled the dive lever and closed the coolant flaps, then laughed louder and harder than ever before as the plane began to dive straight down. Red tabs extended from the upper surface of the wings to indicate that the automatic dive recovery system would activate in case Prussia blacked out from the g-force. The plane sped downward, Prussia laughing the entire way.

A light came on, letting Prussia know that he had reached the bomb-release point. "BOMBS AWAY!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. Blame the adrenaline. He released the bomb, then pressed a knob on the control column. The plane automatically began pulling out of the dive, and Prussia's laughing abruptly ceased as things went darker and lost their colors. Blackness began creeping in on the sides of Prussia's vision until the g-force began to lessen somewhat and his vision went back to normal. Prussia opened the coolant flaps and took control of the airplane again, his insane laughter returning with a vengeance.

"That was AWESOME!" he yelled, wishing very much that he could turn around and do it again. Maybe a few more times. Maybe all day. But alas, he could not, and would have to be content with going to meet up with Germany and continuing the invasion from the ground. Germany had agreed to let him be part of the first bombing raid of the war because he knew that Prussia had wanted to try out the new dive-bombers since he'd first heard of them, but once would have to be enough because Prussia was needed with the army more.

Still, Prussia thought, just because he wouldn't get to do any more with the Luftwaffe right now didn't mean he couldn't convince Germany to let him try out the Stukas again in a later part of the war. Heck, maybe dive-bombing could become his new thing…

Within the hour, Prussia was back where he'd begun, standing outside the (still cute) plane. Rothstein got out after him. "Uh, where's your bird?" he asked.

"I put him in my shirt before we dived," Prussia said. He reached into his shirt and pulled Gilbird out. Gilbird promptly pecked his hand and flew onto the wheel of the plane. "I think he's sort of mad at me."

Rothstein appeared to be trying quite hard not to laugh or point out that this really shouldn't be a surprise.

"Anyway," Prussia continued, oblivious to this. "I've got to go. I'm supposed to meet up with Germany now. See you around." He started to walk off. Gilbird followed him, just out of reach in case Prussia decided to go dive-bombing again.

"Uh…Mr. Prussia?"

Prussia stopped and turned to face the other man. "Yeah?"

"I…it was an honor meeting you," Rothstein said.

Prussia grinned and saluted. "Thanks. Cool meeting you too," he said, then turned and jogged off in the direction of the car that was waiting for him. Time to go find Germany. Well, Germany or Austria, but finding Germany was preferable.

Prussia exits stage left.

-o-

September 1, 1939
Warsaw, Poland

If you ever find yourself in the position to ask the personification of a country a question, "What's the worst part about being invaded?" will probably not be the first thing that comes to mind. But, if you ever do mosey your way on over to asking it, most Nations will give you the same answer. There are, naturally, the sane few who'll tell you it's being occupied, or worse, conquered, or that it's the fighting or the death. You know, the icky, horrible, depressing things like that. Most Nations, however, will give you a certain, less serious answer: that the worst part of being invaded is the three-hot-dogs-and-a-roller-coaster feeling in the pit of your stomach that warns you of the attack.

It went away after a while, of course, because the first priority of a Nation's body was to get them battle-ready—a fact which alternated between totally awesome and totally awful—but those first few minutes of nausea were excruciating, and the lingering queasiness was no fun, either. That was why, when Poland was jolted awake in the wee hours of that fateful Friday morning, the first thing he did was bolt for the bathroom and gag, gasping in mouthfuls of putrid over-the-toilet air in between dry heaves.

Ew.

Poland shook his head to clear it and pushed off the cold white tank, getting back onto his feet with a slight groan as the security alarms going off in his stomach, going off in his head, faded out of existence to let normalcy regain its hold. Turning to the sink, he gave the faucet's right knob a harsh twist and splashed the resulting stream of cold water onto his face. "What the heck is, like, going on?" he mumbled to no one in particular, drying his eyes on his pink pajama sleeve. There was no one around to answer his frustrated question, but, fortunately, no answer was necessary. Poland knew exactly what the heck was, like, going on. He needed no "Nation's intuition" or built-in alert system in the form of nausea to tell him, though. Poland wasn't stupid. A bit childish at times? Yes. Quirky? Oh, of course. A few sandwiches short of a picnic, so to speak? Honestly, do you even have to ask? Yes, Poland was all of these things and more, but stupid he was not.

He had known that something had been brewing over at Germany's place for a while now. Everyone had. It had hardly been some big secret, after all. And there had been so many long, boring phone calls, and even longer, boring-er meetings, filled with arguing and cleverly-worded sentences that would seem mostly innocuous if both parties hadn't been looking for the double meanings in every line. There had been lots deep, calming breaths taken, plenty of obviously angry faces that were supposed to be noncommittal smiles, a good number of "I don't think you quite understand"s exchanged through clenched teeth, and at least one employment of England's patented smile-and-abruptly-offer-them-tea distraction, about which there were some rumors traveling the Nation gossip circuit. (Okay, you have to promise not to tell anyone, but it was claimed that the island nation in question had stolen it from another certain island nation. You didn't hear that from me, got it?) England loudly denied it whenever asked, and Japan just looked disappointedly at the inquisitor and politely declined comment. But I digress; Poland had technically offered hot chocolate, because it had been just the sort of wet-chilly morning that was simply begging for liquid chocolate, and he'd acquired a fondness for the drink from Lithuania, who may or may not have been addicted to it. Germany had objected to neither the mug of delicious warmth that Poland had stalked off to make without waiting for an answer, nor to the puffy white marshmallows that had been floating in the top, and had allowed himself to be distracted for a few refills. Poland had taken that as a sign that his normally no-nonsense neighbor was not entirely irredeemable.

Apparently, he decided grimly, trying to force a comb through his messy morning blond bird's nest, he had been totally wrong. After all, it was basically five in the morning. Who invaded this early? Poland had just known Germany would try something—you could call it a gut feeling if you wanted, but human decency frowned upon the idea, because human decency frowned upon puns. Even before the meetings had gotten to the point of irritating frequency, there had been plenty of signs. And not like those darn speed limit signs that are oh-so conveniently blocked by a tree and inevitably get you pulled over and ticketed, either, but like a great big, twenty-five foot "Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas" sign all done up in neon and flashing lights. The kind of thing that was hard to miss, you know? England and France's policy of appeasement evidently hadn't done the Continent any good. If you have a mouse a cookie, after all, you're going to have to hand over the milk to go with it. Germany had, among other things, occupied Czechoslovakia, declared "screw this" to the Treaty of Versailles, and annexed Austria. Poland questioned his sanity on that last part. The freeloading noble was hardly the ideal house guest, especially in the long term. Poland stuck his vibrant orange toothbrush in his mouth and cheerfully wished Germany many fun-filled years of hand-patched dirty underwear and expired food. Germany hadn't exactly been shouting his love of the Treaty from the rooftops, but… The Treaty of Versailles, Poland mused as he hopped into his uniform pants, was rather like dog poo. Nobody really liked it—too greedy, too harsh, too useless, "Aw, you guys don't like my plan?"—and it inevitably got walked right over. And tracked through the living room? Would that be Europe? Poland paused. Blinked.

"Ew."

Not one of his best analogies, then. Even if it did make sense.

Poland, now fully dressed, lingered in his doorway for a minute, staring down at the pistol in his hands. Poland didn't like war. There were very few Nations who did, and that was usually just a phase—hard not to have fun when you're winning battle after battle and forging yourself an empire, after all. But eventually, the heck, yeah! and the pride swelling in your chest gave way to the death, pain, destruction that was going on around you, no matter who it was that was suffering. Eventually, every Nation figured out that war sucked, and the phase would end. Of course, Prussia had never really grown out of that stage, and America, kid that he was, didn't seem to have figured out how badly war sucked, whether you were winning or not. His revolution had been too important to break him, which made reasonable sense, but nobody quite understood how the Civil War had come and gone without teaching him a lesson or two. Poland, as did the rest of the world, kind of wished the North American Nation would just…lose something, for goodness sake, if only to shut him up for a little while. World War I had been icky and not fun, and there couldn't have been anyone in Europe hoping for a repeat performance, Germany included. Sure, Poland had confidence in his soldiers, in his people, but there was still a nasty feeling in his stomach warning him that Germany wouldn't let himself be defeated so easily.

Poland tightened his grip on the pistol, took a deep breath, and headed out into the sunrise. To war, then.

-o-

September 3, 1939
The Tuchola Forest, Poland

To tell the truth (not that it really needed to be told; it was fairly obvious by itself), Austria had never particularly liked any kind of warfare. If he had to choose, however, he much preferred war before guns got involved. Back when combat was a test of skill rather than luck, when victory required more than just the ability to pull a trigger. And no, he didn't just say that because he didn't want to agree with Switzerland. Well, that may have been a little part of it, but even beyond that, he really did prefer old-fashioned warfare to modern warfare. Luck was less of a factor back then, and more importantly, swords were just more elegant weapons. However, although swords may have been more elegant than guns, that didn't mean he actually liked fighting with either.

It should really go without saying, then, that Austria was very much not pleased to be taking part in this invasion. Sure, if someone else invaded him, he would fight back (despite what Prussia said to the contrary.) Self-defense, however, was completely different from starting a fight. Border expansion may have been a pretty standard objective for a Nation, but that didn't mean Austria had to like it. Germany, of course, had completely ignored his objections and dragged him along on the invasion anyway. And that was how Austria had ended up with an infantry unit in the Tuchola forest when Poland arrived on the evening of the first day of the invasion.

Joy.

To say that Austria did not particularly like Poland would be an understatement. Poland was, in Austria's mind, the single most annoying Nation in existence (after Prussia.) Austria had rather hoped that after he, Prussia, and Russia had partitioned Poland back in the late eighteenth century, he wouldn't have to deal with him as often. And, more importantly, he wouldn't have to hear that endlessly annoying speech pattern. But alas, not only had Poland managed to continue to pop up from time to time and annoy him back then, not only had Poland managed to get himself back on the map after the last war, but Poland was also apparently going to continue to annoy him by putting in another appearance right now, alongside his cavalry.

At first glance, it looked like he was riding a pony. Austria blinked and looked again. Yes, that was definitely a pony, the only pony among the full-sized horses of the cavalry. Austria did not want to know the story behind this, and in fact did not even want to think about the story behind this because acknowledging that there was a story would mean acknowledging that it was actually happening. Fortunately, the fact that he and his unit were under attack made a good distraction.

They had been resting in a clearing when Poland and his cavalry had announced their presence in the form of a charge. After Austria finished double-checking that Poland was, in fact, riding a pony (why was he riding a pony? Why?), the rational part of his mind caught up with him and he realized that he was being attacked and should therefore do something about this situation.

Retreat seemed like a good option. And by retreat, I mean running like heck, because that's what you do when you see a whole bunch of people on horseback (and one on ponyback) charging at you. You freak out and run, because the alternative is either getting killed or getting trampled, which is like getting killed, only more specific.

Retreat was definitely the logical course of action, and it was exactly what Austria did, along with everyone else in the clearing. They weighed the options and decided that retreat was the wisest choice at the moment. And by that, I mean they freaked out, decided that it was better to flee like Italians than die, then promptly ran like heck, scattering in the woods in a shining example of utter chaos and panic, leaving Poland the proud owner of a clearing in the woods. Congratulations, Poland. Enjoy your new clearing.

It took Austria a minute of retreating (read: running like Italy) to realize that Poland was occupying the clearing that Austria had just deserted, rather than pursuing him through the forest, and that, consequently, he could stop running and breathe. He did so. It then occurred to him that he might, might, have a chance at mounting a surprise counterattack if he could reorganize the scattered infantry unit and somehow locate reinforcements. There were supposed to be other German forces nearby. Maybe he could summon them to help.

Maybe he should check out whether this idea of his had even a remote possibility of working before he tried to summon anyone. He crept through the forest, back toward the clearing he'd just left. As he neared the clearing, sounds of conversation in Polish met his ears, as did the sound of a very loud and rather painful-sounding coughing fit. He peered through the trees.

It would appear that Poland wasn't enjoying his little victory as much as he could have been. Instead, he was coughing like a cat with a hairball, only instead of coughing up hair, he was coughing up blood. One of the men noticed, and ran to him, asking what was wrong. Between coughs, Poland told the man that he was, like, totally fine, and that it was just a Nation thing, which was half true. Coughing up blood was a Nation thing, but that didn't mean Poland was, like, totally fine. He may not have had any physical injuries, but something had happened somewhere in his country that his body did not like. Thus the blood.

This distraction could work in Austria's favor. Poland's forces would definitely be distracted for quite a while by the fact that the personification of their country was coughing up blood. If he could get reinforcements in time and get the unit back in order quickly and quietly enough, this idea just might work. The problem was going to be getting everything together in time. Plus, he didn't even know where to look for the reinforcements. It was possible that the officers officially in charge of the unit knew, but if they didn't know where reinforcements could be found, this whole plan was shot.

Austria mentally checked how long it had taken him to get back to the clearing. Several minutes, walking, since running was too loud. Several minutes to get back, plus however long it took to reorganize things, plus time to find reinforcements and get them there, plus the walk back to the clearing. He mentally sighed. Way too long. Poland's coughing fit wasn't going to keep everyone distracted for that long and by the time he got the whole thing ready, Poland would have time to start expecting something like that.

In short, unless there were some seriously powerful reinforcements lurking nearby, he probably wasn't going to be able to retake the clearing without a major struggle, which could mean a significant number of casualties, which was not what he'd been hoping for at all.

Fortunately, the entire problem of retaking the clearing without major casualties was solved by the sudden arrival of armored personnel carriers with machine guns that just happened to have been nearby. They had apparently found out about Poland's cavalry charge and Austria's retreat, and had come to partake of the violence, taking Poland completely by surprise and causing him and his forces to retreat to a nearby hill for cover.

This sounds absolutely ridiculous, totally unbelievable, and completely contrived, but it actually happened that way. The Germans really did have armored personnel carriers with machine guns, which just so happened to have been stationed nearby, conveniently show up to win the battle for them. It's not a deus ex machina, it's history! (Well, actually, it's still a deus ex machina, but that can't be helped without changing historical facts around, which is an even less valid way to deal with the problem than allowing a deus ex machina, which is at least fun to mock.)

After witnessing this ridiculously contrived plot device, Austria entered the clearing. The driver of the nearest deus ex machina went for his gun, but upon noticing Austria's uniform, stopped and saluted. (Unlike Prussia, Austria insisted on wearing an officer's uniform on the battlefield so he would only have to explain what he was to officers, rather than dealing with awkward rank questions from every soldier he met, an idea he had never bothered to share with Prussia, and which Prussia had somehow never caught on to.) Austria saluted back, and thanked the man for showing up out of nowhere and damaging the authors' credibility with the readers…I mean for retaking the clearing.

"By the way, one of the Polish men was on a pony," Austria added. "Chin length blond hair, looked about eighteen or nineteen. Do you know if he got away?"

The driver shook his head. "I wasn't paying attention to individuals," he said. He looked at the dead bodies of the Polish soldiers and horses who hadn't gotten away from the machine gun fire in time. "I don't see any ponies here, though."

Austria looked around the clearing and came to the same conclusion. No ponies, and no Poland. "He's not here." He sighed. "Great. I lost him."

"Who is this guy?"

"Much more important than his age would indicate. Potential leverage against the Polish government, dead or alive." It wasn't technically a lie. "I don't know all the details. All I know is that I'm supposed to capture him alive if possible, although dead is acceptable if not," Austria added.

"Does your guy know you're after him? If he does, and he doesn't have to stay with the cavalry, he might be making a run for it."

"He knows I'm after him, and I'm pretty sure he saw me earlier." Or at least that he could tell that there was an enemy Nation present. "We've met a few times before, so if he did see me, he'd recognize me. Now that he knows I know his position, he's probably not going to stay there. And while I can see him charging an armored car on a pony, armed with a sword, I doubt that would be his first choice of battle plans. He's not completely stupid." He looked around. "It does look like that's what all the soldiers here were trying to do, though."

The driver looked at the bodies and laughed. "It does, now that you mention it."

"In any case, you're probably right about Feliks getting out of here. He isn't going to stay when the battle's as good as over. I should be able to catch him, if I commandeer a spare horse. I already have a pretty good idea of where he's going anyway." Technically not true. He didn't really know where Poland was going, but the sixth sense that caused Nations to be drawn to each other on the battlefield would take care of that.

"Good luck, then."

"Thank you," Austria said. He started to leave, then froze. "Wait, you don't have a man named Gilbert Beilschmidt with you, do you?"

"No."

Austria breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. I was worried that he might have salvaged the situation after I lost a battle, and I don't think I could deal with him if he had. His ego is overinflated enough as it is."

-o-

September 3, 1939
Rome, Italy

Austria wasn't the only one who didn't like warfare. Italy was not a particularly big fan of it either. When he'd first heard that Germany had invaded Poland, he had been worried that his boss would make him fight, but fortunately, his boss had wanted to stay out of the war almost as much as he had. His boss had said something about not being prepared for war and something about the economy, whereas Italy had just wanted to stay out of the war and not fight either of his friends, but it all boiled down to the same thing: Italy got to sit this one out. Now he just had to tell Germany. Or rather, leave a message for Germany, since Germany didn't exactly carry a phone around with him during the invasion.

The problem with war was that it was always hard to know how to contact people, something that was especially problematic when the war first began and everyone else had to jump in and announce which side they were on or if they weren't going to be on a side at all. Well, there was that problem, and there was also the shooting, and the bombing, and the fact that keeping up a steady supply of pasta could be anywhere from difficult to impossible. And pasta was Italy's fuel. He couldn't do anything without pasta. Some might argue that Italy couldn't do anything with pasta either, but that was another story. The important problem here was communication.

Fortunately, after several disasters had arisen in the last war that could have been easily prevented had the Nations been better able to keep in contact with each other, they had all agreed that things would probably be simpler if they made a rule that allowed Nations at war to leave messages with anyone neutral who was willing to keep track of communications for both sides impartially. This basically meant Switzerland, since he was the first permanently neutral country everybody thought of (which was also the reason that the Nations' permanent meeting room was located in Switzerland's country). Admittedly, he wasn't the only permanently neutral country, but he made the biggest deal about it, so it was a safe bet that everyone would think to call him.

Switzerland didn't even bother with a greeting when he answered the phone. "Are you declaring war on Germany or declaring yourself neutral?" he demanded the instant he picked up the phone.

"Hi, Switzerland! It's Italy! I knew you'd be neutral because you're always neutral, so if Germany calls, can you tell him that I'm going to be neutral too this time?" Italy said.

"Italy, didn't you already declare neutrality?"

Italy didn't appear to notice that Switzerland had spoken, and picked up where he'd left off. "I'm friends with Germany, but I'm also friends with Poland. And I'm afraid that if I pick a side, whoever I don't pick will get mad at me, and I don't want my friends to be mad! So I'm going to be neutral. That way after the war we can still all be friends and eat pasta together because that's what friends do."

"That's exactly what you said yesterday! Why are you declaring yourself neutral again? You just did it!"

"But that was yesterday," Italy said innocently, completely oblivious to Switzerland's irritation.

There was a long silence. "Yes it was," Switzerland finally said, sounding like he was trying very hard to be patient for once. "And declarations of neutrality don't expire. After you've declared neutrality once, your declaration stays in effect until you change it. You don't have to call me every day to tell me that you're neutral."

"Okay, thanks! That's a lot easier! Bye, Switzerland!"

There was a click as Switzerland hung up. Italy put the phone back on the hook and looked at the clock. It was a little early for lunch, but it was close enough. Besides, it was always a good time for pasta. He was halfway done cooking when the phone rang. He wiped the flour off his hands and answered it. "Hello, this is Italy!"

Spain's voice came from the other end. "Hola, Italy! Do you know where Romano is?"

"Hi there, Spain! Romano's not here right now. He left yesterday to go somewhere and he wouldn't tell me where it was."

"Do you know when he's getting back?" Spain asked hopefully.

"No. He's been doing this a lot lately. He leaves and goes somewhere for a day or two, then comes back and won't tell me where he went. I've figured it out, though. I think I know where he's going." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "He's going to meet a girl."

"WHAT?!" Spain demanded at a volume that was downright earsplitting. There was more, but the only intelligible words were Romano's name and the word never, and Italy couldn't even be completely sure that he was hearing that right every time.

"He always tells me to
mind my own business when I ask, but where else would he be going?" Italy
continued, apparently not noticing the fact that Spain was rapidly devolving into incoherent hysterics. "He leaves and won't say where he's going, so he must be going to meet his secret girlfriend! I wonder what she's like. Do you think she's pretty?" Italy asked. Spain responded with further unintelligible blubbering, but Italy didn't appear to realize that this wasn't an answer. "I bet she is. I hope I can meet her soon. Anyway, do you want me to tell him that you called when he gets back?"

Spain said something that sounded almost like the word yes.

"Okay! Bye, Spain!"

Spain responded by returning to his previous hysterical state, and Italy, again, somehow managed to remain oblivious in that wonderful Italy way of his.

-o-

September 3, 1939
Paris, France

There was an art to having successful meetings with people that you wanted to punch in the face.

It was a simple fact. This was something you learned when you were in politics, and being the personification of a country meant that you were most definitely in politics. Unfortunately, this delicate skill was not something so easily mastered, and not all of the Nations were as good at it as they probably would've liked to be. Even less were as good at it as their bosses wished they were.

There were some countries who were exceptions to the rule, of course. The ones that you didn't need to master anything to be able to keep yourself from punching. Russia, for example, was just too creepy, and America would probably hit back, and hard—curse his super strength. Switzerland would put a bullet in your brain before you'd so much as begun to curl your fingers, and what sort of a jerk would attack sweet little Liechtenstein, anyway?

That said, most Nations had at least one fellow personification who sent them spiraling into the dark, violent part of their brains. The part filled with guns and swords and battle tactics like, "I'll hit him, and then I'll run away really fast!" and "Maybe, when I go to shake his hand, I can make it look like an accident…" So as a result, they learned to keep their meetings short, or have someone else there, or do them over the phone. Mostly, though, they just avoided each other.

And then there were France and England.

Somehow, someway, the two of them had been managing almost-monthly meetings for years. Decades. Centuries, even. Since the Norman Conquest, too—of all the times to start. And sure, they had plenty of fights, but the thing was that they didn't fight about stuff like, "I hate you; why don't you go stick your head in the sand like an ostrich and die," which was good, because ostriches didn't actually bury their heads in the sand. They also didn't fight about stuff like, "Hey, the big boss at my place doesn't like the big boss at your place, so politics demands that I slap you silly." That was good too, because if Nations hit each other just because some big-shot politician didn't like somebody else's big-shot politician, the countries of the world would've had permanent, matching hand prints all over their faces. That would've hurt and made them look foolish. The things England and France fought over were instead more along the lines of, "Oi! Pervert! Get your hand off my arse," which was always a valid cause, and "You're short and stupid and can't cook!" which was decidedly less valid, except for the last bit. Sometimes there was violence, but if you put two Nations in a room, there would almost inevitably be violence. It went without saying, really.

The point was, England and France, despite their (shall we call it "turbulent"?) relationship shared an impressive track record of meeting with someone they hated and not having to resort to the usual tricks for leaving early, like claiming you thought you were coming down with something (cough, cough), or that you might have left the stove on, or that you had to go iron your dog and water your mongoose. This skill could be attributed to several things, the most prominent of which were practice (centuries, remember?) and location.

They weren't the only ones who had worked out that a meeting between Nations went better when it wasn't held in a stuffy office with stiff business suits and tiresome multimedia presentations and papers that had to be shuffled at least once every five minutes, minimum. While most countries preferred a formal, safer environment, there were some who opted for more interesting locales. Hungary and Austria, for example, had been known to appreciate the occasional picnic in the park. America had insisted on taking poor Canada on the Cyclone at Coney Island once upon a time. Infamously, France had gone a bit bike-happy after the first Tour de France and refused to get off his shiny red cycle; as a result, his meeting with England had taken place, after much arguing, with the latter riding on the handlebars, shuffling papers on his legs, and France leaning over his shoulder whenever he needed to sign something. They'd crashed. Repeatedly. Spectacularly. Hilariously.

Normally, however, Nations held their meetings in more proper settings, such as their offices and homes or nice restaurants. After all, the folks at work may have learned to ignore the frequent attempts at strangulation, but restaurant staff and patrons had certainly not.

Despite that fact, as France absentmindedly swirled his glass of wine, he contemplated an attempt at strangulation. He roughly shoved the sleeve of his jacket up into a rumpled lump and checked his watch yet again. France, like most people, did not like to be kept waiting and, like most people, he really did not like to be kept waiting for an hour. Especially not by England.

Eventually, the tardy Nation in question appeared, strolling up to the table and sliding into a chair across from France, an I Am Not Late and I Dare You To Say Otherwise look plastered across his face. France ignored the warning expression, wordlessly tapping his wristwatch, eyebrow raised, scolding. Do you know what time it is, mister?

"Oh, be quiet. You're lucky I came at all, frog." England propped his elbows up on the tabletop and unceremoniously dropped his chin into his hands, ignoring the fact that France had not yet ceased being quiet and therefore could not resume such a practice, although that was a fact that would soon be subject to change. Ooh, fancy words.

"You know, if you really had to be late," France pouted, "you could've at least called me instead of making me sit here with a bottle of a wine looking like some loser who's been stood up on a date."

"This isn't a date, France." England asserted immediately on pure instinct, just in case his companion needed a reminder.

France smirked. "Never said it was, mon petit prince."

England bristled, gave him a murderous glare, and opted to apply the age-old strategy of "if I ignore it, it'll go away," "it" being the use of his hated nickname. Or possibly France. He would've accepted either. "Besides, if I were going to…" he grimaced. "Stand you up, you would know, because we'd be on the verge of war. With each other, I mean."

France groaned. "Ugh. I think I've heard enough about war today, thank you very much," he moped and for once, his neighbor across the Channel had to agree.

England rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it. I have had the worst day. My office was in chaos, my place is in chaos, my boss-,"

"Is in chaos?" France suggested helpfully.

England ignored him. "And I am at war. Again, France. God, I'm not ready for another one. My country isn't ready for another one. We're…I mean, in Europe, nobody…" He sighed for the hundredth, thousandth, who-knows-how-many-eth time that day as France shooed away the badly timed waitress.

"I know how you feel, England," he scowled. "Hasn't Germany had enough yet? Didn't he get the message last time?" He slammed down his glass, still full, splashing a few drops on his napkin. Despite his visible frustration and show of force, the blond Nation looked wearier than anything, except perhaps, in that brief moment, old. "I'm…"

"Tired." England knowingly finished for him, absently tapping his fingers on the table. "And I have a splitting headache."

"Aw, want me to kiss it, make it better?" France smiled, abruptly regaining his cheer.

England leaned forward. "You want to know how you can really make it better?"

France cocked an eyebrow, unable to resist. "Hmmm?"

England snatched his ally's wine glass from his hand with a grin and took a sip. "Thank you for being so very clueless."

France gasped. With most people, the word "theatrically" could have been applied, but that would imply that he wasn't entirely serious. "There is a bottle right there!" he snapped, gesturing…again, the word theatrically implied something less than one hundred percent genuine.

England shrugged. "And there is another glass right here," He graciously held it out to France. "Knock yourself out. It's your own fault for trying to kiss me."

"I wasn't trying, I just kindly offered." France grabbed the glass being presented and filled it up, glaring all the while. "You'll pay for that," he assured England, looking about an inch and a quarter away from declaring war for the second time that day. England rolled his eyes again—he was hanging out with America too much, France decided—and sat back against his chair, a slight smile creeping onto his face as he took a slow sip.

"Enjoying that indirect kiss?" France asked suddenly, cocking his head to the side.

England choked violently, causing the vast majority of occupants of the room to cease whatever they were doing and stare at him. His loud, "Oh, you sick bastard!" did not help matters either. France merely sighed and shook his head, glancing around in an unspoken, "For goodness sake, dear, you're embarrassing us." England, meanwhile, grabbed his napkin, silverware clattering nosily onto the table, and attacked the sides of the glass he'd stolen from France. He gripped the emancipated fork until his knuckles began to whiten, obviously ready to start the Battle of France a few months early.

France clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "Put the fork down, England. Unless you want to get us arrested again."

England scowled but released his weapon, however reluctantly. "You started that one, too." By somehow managing to get his hand somewhere it shouldn't have been from across the table, no less.

"That one, yes," France admitted. Not this one. "But I think our bosses have enough on their plates right now, don't you?"

England made a face. "They were furious."

"You Britannia forked me in a crowded restaurant."

"You tried to strangle me. In a crowded restaurant."

"Ah, but you tried to cut the Union Jack into my forehead with a steak knife." France reminded him. The taller Nation smiled. Top that.

"And then the police showed up." England gave an ungentlemanly snort, which should be attributed to the stress of the day and certainly not the fact that he had sort of been sneaking alcohol all day when nobody was looking. It had been of those days. "I think my boss wanted to kill me, or at the very least resign."

"And we weren't even drunk." France noted wistfully, refilling both his glass and England's.

England shook his head. "That's because if we were drunk, you would've done the same thing, but naked." He shot a scolding frown at his newly-declared ally.

"That's why I like it more when we're drunk." France grinned broadly.

England heaved a little sigh, having expected as much, and turned his attention back to the wine. "Please, at least have the decency to save the 'naked fun time' for after the war, France."

"Is that you agreeing to naked fun time?" France asked innocently as England turned tomato red.

"No, it is not," the embarrassed island empire answered slowly, clearly, and very insistently. France didn't seem to notice.

"Well, then…" he raised his glass, "to the quick end of the war, hmm?"

"France, there will be no nudity. I mean that. Are you listening? Ugh." England tapped his glass against France's anyway. "We beat Germany up last time, and we'll do it again," he added confidently.

"Bad example," France scoffed after taking the obligatory sip. "I'd like to resolve this without getting the whole world involved. How does that sound to you?"

"I'll drink to that," was England's heartfelt answer.

"And I'll drink to just about anything." France pointed out enthusiastically, really liking the way this dinner not-a-date was heading.

"Why don't we get started on that, then?"

Clink.

-o-

September 3, 1939
Near Krakow, Poland

Poland had absolutely no idea where he was riding to; just that he was riding there as fast as his pony, Twilight Sparkle, could go. It wasn't especially surprising that he didn't know where he was going. Nations traveling between battles rarely did know specifically where they were headed. They were attracted to each other and to major battles by a sort of sixth sense, but that sixth sense didn't tell them their destination ahead of time, so as Poland traveled to the next battle he knew which way he needed to go, but not where he was going to. He'd find out the destination when he got there.

Put like that, the Nation version of war looked a bit Zen. Put into practice, it ranged from interesting and occasionally nicer than the alternative (moving from battle to battle was, after all, a bit more appealing than spending three weeks taking and retaking the same only-barely-significant hill) to thoroughly miserable (after all, the battles that get splattered across history books do have a tendency to be particularly traumatic for one reason or another, usually the same reason that got them into the books in the first place). At the moment, the situation was leaning more toward the thoroughly miserable end of the spectrum. Tolerable was the kindest word Poland could use to describe it. Not because the act of traveling between battles was unpleasant but because he kept being interrupted by violent coughing fits that always ended with him spitting up blood. This had been happening off and on since the invasion began, but having several days of experience at it didn't make it any more fun or any less worrying.

Poland internally groaned as he started coughing again, even harder than the last few times. After an especially violent cough made his entire body jerk hard enough to almost knock him out of the saddle, he decided that it was better to stop and dismount now and just wait for the coughing fit to pass, rather than falling on his face halfway through it.

A splatter of blood stained the grass at his feet as he dismounted, followed by a second splatter. Poland absently wondered what had caused this particular coughing fit. He knew Germany and company had been dropping incendiary bombs on major cities. That was probably it. He wondered which city it was this time.

The coughing grew more violent, until Poland was on his knees, doubled over in pain and hoping that this wouldn't end with a broken rib. He spat out a glob of blood that had accumulated behind his bottom teeth as the coughing continued, getting worse and worse, until it abruptly stopped altogether.

Poland spat out another glob of blood and waited, expecting another fit to take over where the last one had left off, but nothing came. After a minute more of waiting, he stood up and went back to where Twilight Sparkle waited. "Guess we should, like, get going," he said, maybe to himself, maybe to the pony. A sudden wave of nausea hit him as he went to mount up, and he stopped. "Or maybe not just yet," he mumbled, turning away to find somewhere to sit until this new torment passed. "I feel like total—"

Poland suddenly stumbled forward a step, then vomited.

"Uuuuuuuugh," he groaned, his vision fuzzy. He didn't feel any better after throwing up, which didn't surprise him much. Nations rarely got sick, and even when they did, it didn't usually come on this suddenly. This wasn't an ordinary sickness; it was his body reacting to something that had happened to his people. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, and forced his eyes to focus on the puddle of vomit on the ground.

There was blood in it. A lot of blood. Probably at least as much blood as stomach content. This wasn't just a bombs-as-terror-weapons reaction. This was something much bigger. A massacre, at least. This would require looking into; he needed to know what was happening to his people. Poland waited a few more minutes until he was mostly sure that he wasn't going to throw up again, then went back to Twilight Sparkle. Time to get moving. The sooner he got where he was going, wherever that was, the sooner he could do something about whatever was causing this.

Authors' Note:

Historical Stuff:
- So, on September 1, 1939, at Way Too Early in the morning, Germany (and company) invaded Poland, thus beginning the Second World War. But you already knew that, so let's move on.
- Everyone already knows why Austria's there, right? The whole thing where Germany's boss made Germany annex Austria, and Austria was like "meh, whatever" (only stuffier) and meanwhile Italy and Hungary were hanging onto Germany and trying to make him leave Austria alone...yeah, there was kinda an episode/strip about that, so if you don't know, go find out about it.
- The first thing in the war that happened was the bombing of Wieluń, which is what Prussia's doing. Germany and Poland disagreed over whether the bombers were attacking military targets or not, and the fact that visibility sucked only made things more complicated. Regardless of who's telling the truth, things didn't work out very happily for the city, which got a little bit destroyed.
- After WW1, France and England and America made up the Treaty of Versailles, which slapped Germany with ridiculously huge debt and blamed him for the war that Austria started because his guy got assassinated. Germany got no say in the treaty, and it was (in Warsaw's oh-so-elegant words) stupid and unfair. England thought France was being greedy, Germany thought it was way too harsh, France was like "well, that's an armistice for twenty years, max", and America was all upset because everyone else ignored all of his ideas. Except the League of Nations, which was an epic fail anyway because America's congress wouldn't let him join.
- England and France had a policy of appeasement with Germany when he started acting up again because they really didn't want another war. Basically, it was "okay, we'll let you have this, but nothing else." Repeatedly. If you give a mouse a cookie, he's gonna want some milk to go with it. (Spoilers: Europe is milk.)
- About that deus ex machina: yeah, I (Vilnius) could have mentioned the armored cars ahead of time, but really, try to find a single source that mentions them before they show up in the clearing. Every source I looked at made it seem like a deus ex machina, so I couldn't resist. Oh, and just so you know, this is where the stories about Polish cavalry charging tanks came from.
- Italy declared neutrality. Yep. He was neutral. He didn't actually come into the war until Germany invaded France.
- France and England, meanwhile, declared war on Germany. They had a treaty with Poland saying that they'd back him up if Germany invaded. Don't expect to see them doing much fighting yet, though.
- The reason Poland is vomiting up blood in the last scene is the Częstochowa massacre: after rounding up civilians in the city of Częstochowa, the Germans shot anyone found with any kind of pocket knife or razor in their pockets, then opened fire on the other civilians with machine guns. More than a thousand people were killed.

Authory Stuff:
Vilnius's Note: Um, hi, I'm Vilnius. I'm a history major, hopefully eventually a history professor. I'm a total World War Two geek, and a Prussian history geek. The name comes from me having a similar personality to Lithuania. Only, you know, with less trauma. I'm smiling at you now, because I'm always smiling. Like Russia, but not creepy. (For the record, Warsaw added that last bit, not me.)

Warsaw's Note: Hi, guys, I'm Warsaw, author number two. I'm what happens if you cross Death the Kid with Poland with Switzerland with Pinkie Pie with...I don't know, the Saw franchise or something...if that tells you anything. The name comes, if you hadn't guessed from my sister's note, the fact that I do (under normal circumstances) remind one of Poland, except with less ditzy and more gore.

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