A/N: I do not own Hetalia.

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He's tired of fighting; you can see it on his face.

They way his eyes are glazed over (so dark and unwavering, like the deepest crevice of the Seine) make him seem distant, as if thinking of something beyond his time, as if he's seen it all before. That thought consumes him, making him blind to the frightened adrenaline hanging in the air.

He opens his mouth and slowly licks his cracked lips, hands clutched tightly around his gun. There is no rush of panic like with the men at his side. His movements are gentle and fluid, warding away fear with his even-toned voice.

"Just breathe." He says quietly, his voice a murmur under the cries of shells.

He's not sure who he's talking to; no one looks up.

Perhaps it's to his boy, Matthew, the young man watching bug-eyed as he stares endlessly into the eyes of a rotting soldier. Maybe it's to his ally, Arthur, who is attempting to keep his dwindling troops together with a string of harsh words. Or maybe it's even to Ludwig, the enemy, a friend who found himself on the other side of the battlefield.

It doesn't matter to him anymore, he isn't asking for an audience.

He doesn't want them to know the turbulence rattling in his brain, crawling under his skin like millions of tiny insects weaving into his sinews. He doesn't want them to hear his muffled screams as his wiry body is slowly eaten away by his captors. He doesn't want them to pray witness to his eventual decay.

It's because he loves them, isn't it?

He wants them to stay ignorant, to stay unfazed.

They need to worry about their own children before him.

To be strong for them.

Far away, a whistle blows, shrill into the chilly air.

He turns, nodding to the men on the left and right to him. They smile nervously as they rise from their spots, grim faces baring back ivory teeth hidden by mud.

For a minute, he's proud of them, proud of the men he's raised, like the many other men history has forgotten.

Then he remembers to climb out of the trenches, pulling himself up onto the soft earth churned by shells.

With his brothers, he runs across no-man's land; feet sinking into the dark, slippery mud; hands clenched numbly around blood-stained bayonets; eyes wildly skipping back and forth in their sockets.

He tries not to look at the corpses of the men who die first; the ones that prick underneath his skin like needles. His men, whom a few minutes ago he shared silence with, now littered across the field, caught in the snares of barbed wire and poised landmines.

As another one falls victim to the war, he can find himself slowing down, his pace now haggard and uneven. The pain is excruciating, running up and down his spine through his veins. Each man he passes is another invisible scar, tearing his insides.

Eventually, he finds himself falling, rolling into a small ditch.

What was a dull ache is now a roar of pain searing his body, causing his muscles to spasm and heave. They're dying, and he can feel it, each and every one.

He struggles to call out his brother's names, pushing the words from the raw muscle of his throat. Instead, a tear falls, leaving a clean streak down his muddied face.

He's so helpless, caught in the tide of his children's cries. Maybe it would be best if he stayed quiet, falling under his pain without a fight.

He's tired of fighting; he only wants peace.

--

So, quick notes:

-I based this story on The Battle of the Somme, which occured in 1916 during WWI.
-During this battle, the allies fighing this battle were France, and the British Empire [Which included Canada, Newfoundland, Australia, India, South Africa, and New Zealand].
-This was one of the bloodiest battles of WWI, with casualties [Including death, being captured, and M.I.A.] totalling over a million people together.
-Nobody really writes stories about France during this battle, so I thought that I'd be cool and write one. xD.

Thanks for reading!