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ferithTitle: A Pale Horseman
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG/PG13
Characters: Prussia
Word Count: 496
Summary: Gilbert was born to war and plague.
Gilbert was born to war and plague.
“Hand me that rag, will you?” Were the first words spoken to him.
“Here, let me do it, you look as though you need rest yourself,” were the first words he spoke, staring up with brand new eyes at the tall, pallid faced man with exhausted tremors running down his fingers.
The man must have had a high fever already, because he didn’t wonder where the tiny child had come from, or why it felt so natural to obey his orders, he simply nodded and left the tent.
The first day that Gilbert lived, he stayed from before dusk to dawn with a dying man. He knew all there was to know of sickness and death before he saw his first sunrise, before he heard his first bird, before he smelled his first pine tree. He watched his first man breathe his last as the sun rose outside the tent that was the world he knew so far.
He was ill himself, at first. His first sensation was that of aching. He was so, so very tired, worn down to his new young bones. He died several times in that first week alone, he had little in the way of a nation’s constitution then, wasn’t much more than a very sick child who could not die. But between deaths he worked, carrying water and washing soiled linens and saying prayers for the dead.
He was born to death, came to life with the sickness of war. But he knew no different, knew no other way to be. He was built of the blood and bones of soldiers and his heart was built for fighting. His heart beat when it had the strength to, and it beat stronger with every breath. He had a purpose and he fulfilled it, brought help and comfort to his people, and dreamed of future strength and war to fill the violence of his heart. He was young and small and hopeful, and the world was wide enough for him, wide enough for him to lay between it’s cracks and reach out toward its edges. He was small and ill and his work was unglamorous and depressing, but he was young, with his bright eyes turned towards future.
Gilbert was born in a tent of dying in a stagnant puddle of war. So he knew war intimately, unromantically, knew it for its dullness and its dreariness, its hunger and sickness and endless, damp-hoped waiting. Gilbert did not meet war charging upon a horse in battle, bright sword in hand, he met it in a siege by a dimly lit sickbed and holding a damp rag. He was born to dying, and all his life he stayed half a step from death. He was a healer and a warrior and always, always a fighter. In the place where Gilbert was born he met death, and always thereafter fought viciously for the aching of his living breath.
Fandom: Hetalia
Rating: PG/PG13
Characters: Prussia
Word Count: 496
Summary: Gilbert was born to war and plague.
Gilbert was born to war and plague.
“Hand me that rag, will you?” Were the first words spoken to him.
“Here, let me do it, you look as though you need rest yourself,” were the first words he spoke, staring up with brand new eyes at the tall, pallid faced man with exhausted tremors running down his fingers.
The man must have had a high fever already, because he didn’t wonder where the tiny child had come from, or why it felt so natural to obey his orders, he simply nodded and left the tent.
The first day that Gilbert lived, he stayed from before dusk to dawn with a dying man. He knew all there was to know of sickness and death before he saw his first sunrise, before he heard his first bird, before he smelled his first pine tree. He watched his first man breathe his last as the sun rose outside the tent that was the world he knew so far.
He was ill himself, at first. His first sensation was that of aching. He was so, so very tired, worn down to his new young bones. He died several times in that first week alone, he had little in the way of a nation’s constitution then, wasn’t much more than a very sick child who could not die. But between deaths he worked, carrying water and washing soiled linens and saying prayers for the dead.
He was born to death, came to life with the sickness of war. But he knew no different, knew no other way to be. He was built of the blood and bones of soldiers and his heart was built for fighting. His heart beat when it had the strength to, and it beat stronger with every breath. He had a purpose and he fulfilled it, brought help and comfort to his people, and dreamed of future strength and war to fill the violence of his heart. He was young and small and hopeful, and the world was wide enough for him, wide enough for him to lay between it’s cracks and reach out toward its edges. He was small and ill and his work was unglamorous and depressing, but he was young, with his bright eyes turned towards future.
Gilbert was born in a tent of dying in a stagnant puddle of war. So he knew war intimately, unromantically, knew it for its dullness and its dreariness, its hunger and sickness and endless, damp-hoped waiting. Gilbert did not meet war charging upon a horse in battle, bright sword in hand, he met it in a siege by a dimly lit sickbed and holding a damp rag. He was born to dying, and all his life he stayed half a step from death. He was a healer and a warrior and always, always a fighter. In the place where Gilbert was born he met death, and always thereafter fought viciously for the aching of his living breath.
