Hetalia one-shots

Soldier, Poet, King

   Hello reader, here is another shit-fic. Bit of pruaushun angsty-fluff and war-like, in other words, a historical-one-shot, although some of the histories may be incorrect or mixed because the American School system sucks, and I had to learn most of these events on my own accord. This takes place around the Thirty-years-war (1618-1648); a time that marked the beginning of the end of the Holy Roman Empire. Anyway, enjoy, made while listening to Medival music.

   Hungary walked down the empty hallway, silently humming to herself a calming tune. She made her way to a large door and opened it, leading to a dark room. She opened the curtains, letting a thin ray of sunlight inside. From the middle of the room, one could hear a small groan.

   "Holy Rome, it's time to get up now," Hungary nudges from where she stood.

   A small figure shifted from the bed, a teenage boy, no older than thirteen, sat up. His chest was wrapped in bandages, and his hair was damp with sweat. Hungary walked to the boy and placed a hand on his forehead.

   "Your fever had gone down; are you hungry? I could have one of the serfs send some food if you like." Hungary asked softly.

   Holy Rome shook his head, leaning against Hungary with tired eyes. Hungary sat at the edge of the bed and threaded her hand through his damp yet soft blond hair. She placed a cool cloth on his forehead to help with his fever.

   "Do you want me to read to you Holy Rome, I know I'm not Prussia, but I could read to you till you fall asleep again?" Hungary asked in a hushed tone.

   "Mhm," croaked Holy Rome; he could barely utter a word, his throat was too sore, and he was too tired to form any proper words.

   "What would you like to read?; we could reread the Odyssey, continue Hamlet, or, I think you'd like this one, it's from Spain, Don Quixote?" Hungary asked.

   Holy Rome looked at the book Hungary had in hand, hazily trying to think of a response before answering, "Cou-could we continue Hamlet? I would like to know what the ghost has to say."

   Hungary nodded and searched to the page they had left on early; she began to read, giving each character a different voice to the best of her ability. She noticed how Prussia would do the same, how it always made Holy Rome laugh when he gave the characters a voice that didn't by any means fit their personality.

   Unlike most times, Holy Rome didn't laugh because he couldn't; he was in much pain. He missed his older brother dearly, and Hungary knew that her presence alone couldn't replace Prussia's, but she tried her best to make the most of the situation.

   Hungary had to stop mid-act due to Holy Rome's coughing. He shook violently with each cough; a few drops of blood came out after a while. Hungary helped him get over his fit, helping ease his breath, and hit fit subsided.

   "I'll go get you some warm milk; it will help your thought and will help you sleep; I'll be right back," Hungary said as she stood from the edge of the bed.

   Holy Rome nodded, not being able to even croak a response. He looked out his window, not much could be seen but the walls of the castle and a few gray clouds. It had been raining for many days, so the weather was cold; he pulled his blankets closer.

   He thought of his brother, how he was fighting against France and Sweden. "He must be terrified," Holy Rome thought, but he quickly shot down the idea, "Impossible, nothing can faze him, not even Hungary's frying pan." He missed his older brother; he longed for his warm embrace, war stories, and how awesome he was. He missed how he would teach him to fight; and when he read to him. He missed how he would explain science, like how the Earth was the center of gravity. Or when he taught him about Geometry and shapes, how a simple square can be drawn into a castle.