In Agony, to the Earth

A HetaOni Fan Fiction

TW: violence, death, HetaOni

For creativay.

There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past-
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by-
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.

"Dreamland" Edgar Allen Poe

When he'd been on the front lines during the Great War, he'd been afraid of being buried alive. It was an unreasonable fear and he knew that. Still, in the twilight hours and during the twilight consciousness, he would see himself trapped in the bunker. No matter how many times he tried to overlook or overcome that fear, it still remained. He was afraid that he would disappear beneath that rubble, a conscious corpse. Mud and quicksand and water. He feared—much more than he had once feared dissolution—suffocation, immobilization. Being unable to do anything. That's what he was afraid of. Prussia was scared of very few things in his youth. Power had blinded him to fear. It was a wasteful venture then. It was an unproductive mindset. Now, older and more seasoned, Prussia feared a great many things.

One of those things was thundering down the hallway, whispered warnings chiming in his head. A voice too familiar, a voice he wanted to forget. He resumed a hold on his sword, stumbling to his feet. Behind him, Matthew was barely standing. His hand pressed against a bleeding wound, probably a death sentence. He snorted sardonically, shaking his head. Inside, he felt another thrill of fear. "You're so young and inexperienced. Let the awesome Prussia take this one."

"Gil—"

Shifting the sword, Prussia looked back at Canada and gave him a reassuring smirk. At least, he hoped against hope that it was reassuring. He was never too good at it. Bravado, that was his calling. He'd never been the foolishly optimistic sort, not like Canada with his freshness and calming smiles. No, Prussia was never raised that way. "Not like this is the end anyway, right? I've died before and here I am. I'm not scared." He saw the younger man wince and saw a flash of something there, but he refused to believe it was pity. He didn't need that. Not when he was about to die again. Pity was the last thing he needed.

Perhaps pity is the thing you need most.

Reaffirming his hold on the sword, Prussia fell into the formal stance he'd been taught in the early fourteenth century. It was simple, a foot sliding back and one hand resting at his side. The door began to shake. For a moment, he wondered where his brother was. He wondered if Germany had gotten Italy to safety somewhere in the mansion. It was an unproductive thought, he realized after a moment. His heart started to race a bit in his chest. After all, there was nothing he could do about it now. The best he could do would be giving Canada enough time to escape. He lowered the pilfered blade, resting into the alber stance, his smirk becoming more and more pronounced.

You are no fool.

The voice was attempting reassurances now. Good Lord, he was going to die again. The voice only offered reassurances when all else was lost. The door quaked and the floor rattled and he could hear Canada shuffling himself into a sitting position on the far wall. Prussia could almost smell the stench of blood, a far too familiar smell. "You think you can get up, Matt?"

"Nope," Canada's tone was wistful and bitter at the same time. "Not this time."

Not this time. Or the time before. They were never going to escape this hell hole. Prussia felt the weight of the blade, all the times it had clattered out of his hand at the bludgeoning of the beast. The thing. He had his own theories on its true nature. He had more theories than he knew what to do with. None of which seemed important in this cycle. Maybe another time? Yeah, another time.

The door slammed open and Prussia felt himself flowing back into his old habits. He was once a soldier, a knight, a man who feared no battle of men. This battle was terrifying though. And eventually, he knew he would fall. His body hit the wall and crumpled to the floor, a sharp pain tearing a scream from his throat. He kept his eyes open long enough to see the creature's gray skin wrap around Matt's neck. He couldn't move. The door was still swinging, a creaking sound that seemed to reverberate in his very soul.

"Captain! We have won the day! Danzig has fallen!" White surcoats and black crosses, ghosts now come to carry him away. He could hear Canada's dying gasps. "You will be the most powerful of them all, Prussia. This I swear to you." Frederick, his King. Forever his King. No other could compare. The haunting sound of a flute almost drowned out Canada's whispered pleading. Then silence. "You are a child, Gilbert. You had no right!" Austria had never forgiven him. He could hear the thump of footsteps drawing nearer and then a great weight fell on his back. "Holy Rome, stop!" The pain was white hot and he could feel his chest being crushed. The pain was familiar. "You shall be Germany!"

It felt like—being buried alive.

"West, help!"

He couldn't breathe. Ghost were gathered around him, specters he couldn't see. He could feel them though, brushing against his shoulders and legs. His former comrades? His former King? His—His eyes opened just slightly, feeling the crack of his bones as the monster bore down. It's black eyes stared down at him, unfeeling. A terrible way to go, he thought vaguely as he reached toward where the sword had fallen. A knight never surrenders though. That's what he'd been taught throughout his long life. Never back down. He wanted to breathe again. His hands convulsed and his eyes widened before he felt the pull of death again.

"You're dying, Prussia."

The ghosts disappeared. The pressure increased. The tips of his fingers brushed the sword then

everything went white.