A present for my lovely Narroch's birthday, which was on Saturday. She asked for a Hetalia/War Horse mash-up, if I was so inclined - but I only got to see it yesterday evening so this took a little while.

Narroch, I really hope you like it. It's more Hetalia than it is War Horse so I actually didn't put it in a crossover category - but I tried my best! Ah, Hetalia, is there anything you can't be crossed with? XD

As a massive cockblock, there are no pairings in this fic. This fact itself is part of the story but... yeah, just throwing that out there.

Title comes from the line spoken by Benedict Cumberbatch's character just before that amazing cavalry charge. Well, really, that whole film was just spectacular cinematically. I hope it wins some Oscars, it really deserves it! It's a shame the horse can't win one, though. :C

(Yes, Benedict Cumberbatch. We all noticed you.)

Be Brave

"You are not going with them?"

"What, to charge on horseback towards a line of machine-guns?" England shot France a sceptical look as he lit a cigarette beneath a cupped hand. "Please do revise your opinion of me - I am not that stupid."

France shrugged.

"What is a bullet to you?" he drawled. "What is ten?"

"Well, it makes all the difference in the world when your horse is cut out from under you." England snapped his lighter shut and pocketed it. "No thank you, old boy. We'll all be up to our balls in mud sooner rather than later - forgive me for trying to keep my only uniform clean as long as I can."

"French mud," France said bitterly.

"And Belgian." England waved his hand irritably at him. "Look, don't start this bollocks again, France. I could've kept my nose out of this well enough if I'd wanted. I didn't have to bring my men and my food and my weapons and my horses and my goodwill."

"Oui - so you can throw their corpses all over my lands." France kneaded at his forehead. "I like very much that this is all down to Austria and Germany - yes, and the devious Hungary, too - and yet they can find no better place to settle the score than here."

England gave a shrug.

"It's convenient," he said with a wry grin. "Walking distance, one might say."

"A fair distance to make men and horses walk, at least," France replied.

England inhaled on his cigarette for a moment, thoughtful; his breathed out the smoke with deliberance.

"What do you care about horses?" he asked at length. His tone was petulant. "You eat the poor buggers, shrapnel and all."

"Well," said France, a sigh in the word; and he fanned his fingers against one another, cracking his scraped knuckles. "At least, after today, I shan't go hungry."

Germany rolled the bullets in his palm. They were old ones, spent, dented, dirty. He pushed back his platinum hair with a filthy hand and looked at Austria, who sat opposite him with his nose firmly in a tattered book.

Hungary sang, low and sweet and lilting, to their right as she sharpened her bayonet against a stone. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail away from her face and she had mud on her cheeks and elbows.

There was silence between them otherwise. Germany clinked his bullets, punctuating it.

"I do not want to talk," Austria said. His voice was high and cold and uninterested.

"Neither do I," Germany replied calmly. "I just want to know."

"You want to know what?" Hungary bit out. Her knife sparked.

"Why the humans do this," Germany said. "Why they drag in their young men, their strong animals, their hard-earned money. It means nothing to us. We feel no pain. But it costs them so much and so I wonder why."

Austria rolled his eyes. One of the lens of his glasses was cracked.

"Wasn't this the kind of deep conversation you used to have with England back when your royal families were comitting all kinds of incest?" he asked sharply. "You know, late at night when all the humans were in bed asleep?"

Germany gave a snort; half-concealed, half-amused laughter.

"Oh, you say that like it meant something," he drawled. "As though we were drunk and bold. But you know well that we are not like humans in that sense, either. We form no relationships, we form no desire towards one another. Alcohol, too, has no effect upon us - so it is not even that our tongues were loosened. Ach, you make my time with England sound so meaningful when it was no such thing."

"I did not say that, exactly," Austria replied lightly. "I mean to say that you found some things in common with him."

Germany sniffed.

"I do not like to think so. He is my enemy because of the humans, yes, and their fickle friendships - but he is my enemy nonetheless."

"Ah, Germany," Hungary sighed gently; she smiled weakly at him. "You are still so young. Go out and enjoy the war, won't you?"

"You needn't bother yourself about the artillery," England said coldly. "We have men for that already. Better trained ones than you, I'm afraid."

America's shoulders sagged.

"Well, gee, let me do something!" he implored. "Look, I know I only just got here and... and we're all fresh off the boat and whatnot but we came here to help, okay?" He looked between England and France, hopelessly clean and too well-rested. "Okay, fellas? We're all on the same side here."

France rolled his eyes and got up, heading out of the dugout with high shoulders.

"He is too fat," he announced pithily, "and too healthy. I shan't set eyes on you, Amerique, until you are as haggard and worn-down as the rest of us. Until then, I cannot bring myself to look you in the eye."

"Well, Jesus H. Christ, check out the attitude on that!" America exclaimed, looking rather hurt as France banged out.

"Pay him no heed, he was a bitter old bastard to start with. He just hides it better than I do." England chewed his lip. "Well, usually." He looked at America with a sigh. "Ugh, I suppose... you're good with horses, aren't you? Used to do all that sort of thing out west, am I right?"

America brightened.

"Yeah, sure, I'm good with 'em! You want me to look after the ones we got here?"

England cleared his throat.

"In a manner of speaking," he said. "To be perfectly honest, we've only got three left and they're not in terribly good shape. One of them looks like it would be better put out of its misery, really - these humans have worked the blighters almost to death. Just... don't go getting upset over the wretched beasts, alright?"

America frowned.

"I've... always seen humans treat horses pretty good," he said uncertainly. "Even in a war situation. I mean, we had 'em in the Revolution and-"

"Yes, well, war has changed," England interrupted heartlessly, " as you're about to find out. It's worse than anybody could have imagined. Truthfully, I don't think the humans - any of them - meant to start something so awful, otherwise they wouldn't have all turned up with swords and shot and bloody horses. But..." England clapped America on the shoulder. "...They did and here we are."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Even the worst of their weapons will not do so much as lift your skin," he said, "but as to the rest, I do hope you've got a strong stomach."

"And now to our purpose," England said; his words were quiet, drowned out by the roar of shells and mines and guns, the inward booms and outward blasts of blood-rinsed earth. Men charged against whining bullets and fell in one, two, three steps, guns clattering, barrels flooding.

"It would seem," Germany agreed; and they shook hands in the middle and the midst of the battlefield. "After all, my friend, there is no reason..."

"...That we shouldn't have a bit of bloody fun," England finished, drawing back his hand. He stepped left and Germany stepped right and they circled gently, deliberately, mud sloshing at their heels, as though they were readying themselves for a waltz. "The bloodiest we can possibly manage."

"Nein." Germany shook his head; there was no part of his hair even remotely oiled back any longer. "There will be no blood. Not between us. There never is."

"We have no need of it, I suppose." England tilted his head as a shell crashed behind them, showering them with wet soil. "Our own blood. There is plenty of it to go around. War, after all, devours everything in its path: Man, beast, earth."

"We talk too long," Germany said brusquely. "We could at least be pretending, England."

England laughed.

"Of course, of course," he said, waving it aside. "You will forgive France, of course, for not joining our game. He is rather sensitive, you know."

Germany nodded.

"Of course I will forgive," he said sagely. "I will forgive him. I will forgive you. But I will not forgive man for this - for dragging in everything around him."

"We are mere moons, then." England wound a piece of barbed wire around his hands and tugged it taut as Germany lifted from the oily water a long bar of twisted rivet. "In orbit of humans against our will - like every other wretched creature on this planet."

Germany smiled in reply and slammed the slab of metal into the side of England's skull.

"We got the trench, England," America said, coming to stand over him in the middle of No Man's Land; he was more than ankle-deep in a puddle but he had to stand in it unless he wanted to be standing on dead soldiers. "Germany's trench has been captured; Canada's over there with the men who made it."

"Wunderbar," Germany said serenely.

"Yes, you heard the man," England sighed. "Wunderbar."

America frowned down at them - they were lying side by side in the mud as though stargazing, England with his arms behind his head, Germany with his hands clasped across his stomach.

"Uh... what are you guys doing?" America asked.

"Nothing," England said. "We had our little fight - you know, put on a show for the top brass back at base. But we're finished now." He exhaled, giving Germany a playful jostle with his elbow. "I have to say that I'm quite tired, actually. You really let me have it with that bit of metal, you daft prick."

"It is a bit of a tank," Germany replied. "It must have gone over a mine."

"Ah." England nodded agreeably. "Well, you can't say I didn't get you back with that barbed wire. Three times around your neck, I managed to get it."

"I know. And the blunt bayonet, do not forget."

"Of course I wasn't going to forget the blunt bayonet."

"This isn't a game!" America snapped; he kicked at them, spraying them with filthy water. "Men... men died out here today, more than I can count, there was a gas bomb over in the trench, killed half the ones who made it across and... and you, you're just lying there, both of you, like it doesn't fucking matter!"

"It doesn't. This was going on for three years before you got here, my lad. It happened yesterday. It'll happen tomorrow." England closed his eyes. "Don't look at me as though I did this. I had nothing to do with this - neither did Germany, neither did France, neither did you. It's just unfortunate that I happen to be here, that's all." He sighed. "We are all so very unfortunate."

America said nothing, slinging his gun back over his shoulder. He paused, drawing his breath with the smoke hanging low like a shroud over the Somme. There was something moving out there, more than just the twist of yellow mustard gas sweetly creeping, than the old writhings of death drawing in on men not ready to depart.

Something running, crashing across the battlefield for all it was worth; not terrified the way soldiers ran but rather resolute, powerful, determined to get away. It ran and ran and ran and America watched it.

"What?" Germany asked, his eyes flicking to him. "I can hear something."

"Yes," America said. "It's a horse."

"Out here?" England asked lazily. "What on earth is it doing?"

"Running." America said it simply, gently, without pretense. "Running for its life."