If You Could See Them

Author's Note: Hey guys! I'm Anxnymous, and I'm new to DeviantArt. This is my first Hetalia fic, and I hope you enjoy it~!

Of all of the times, at a world meeting.

    No, this time, it’s not my flying mint bunnies, or Mr. Unicorn, or faeries, or whatever magical beings America loves to tease me for. This time, it’s the ghosts of great conquerors and peace-makers; people who have made it into the hearts of us nations.

    I don’t think they notice. Maybe I’m the only one who can see them. Because of this, I don’t have the heart to tell them that they’re right there.

    There’s one. Trailing right behind Francis.

    Jeanne d’Arc.

    She’s still wearing the white gown she had worn on the day she was burned at the stake. A few tatters were stained black with soot, and holes had been seared in numerous places in her gown. The sword she used in battle was at her side, held by a scabbard and belt, still as she walked behind Francis. Jeanne seemed to hover just above the ground, not touching the floor, but almost. She spots me looking at her, and I turn away quickly. It was my fault she was executed for apparently being a witch. I could’ve stopped it. But I didn’t.

    I feel a light touch on my bowed head, and I look up. Jeanne was there, smiling gently. A pang of guilt gnawed the insides of me, but I held her gaze.

    “I’m sorry,” I whisper. She shakes her head, and points to Francis. “I’ve already made it up to him… I think,” I say, furrowing my brow. She smiles again, and nods. Her light brown hair had grown out a bit, and I reach out to touch a lock of it. “Francis would have liked to see you with your hair grown out again,” I mumble, and Jeanne laughs a little.

    It was a light, happy sound that carried, and I wasn’t surprised when Francis head shot up and looked directly at me. Out of the corner of my eye, he whips his head frantically around, trying to spot something and he looks back down again, a sad and nostalgic expression on his face.

    Jeanne sees this also, and frowns, eyes filled with sorrow and worry. She glides over and reaches to touch his shoulder and pulls back. Her hand had passed right through his shoulder. Seemingly on the brink of tears, she waves her hand in front of clueless Francis’ face. Jeanne reaches towards her hair and sighs. You could tell she had grown her hair especially for the Frenchman.

    She had done this the other times I saw her too.

    A loud bang interrupted my thoughts and Francis’, Joan’s and my own head snapped up. An albino was raucously dedicating a song ‘to his little bruder’ on the table, acting like it was a stage. He got out his broom-guitar and started singing his heart out. A brown haired girl was brandishing a frying pan behind his back and a man with a mole on his chin sighed tiredly; the Frying Pangle; Roderich, Elizaveta and Gilbert. A huge clang stopped Gilbert’s singing, and Hungary stood brandishing her now-smoking frying pan. Francis poked Gilbert’s face, grinning at the swelling bump on his head. Shouts and laughs came from the table and one in particular caught my ear.

    It came from a grey-haired man, his silvery hair tied up in a loose ponytail. He was wearing some sort of old uniform, a blue coat with red and gold cuffs. A smart white shirt was worn underneath it. England guessed who it was; Prussia’s old king, Frederic the Second, or as Gilbert called him, Old Fritz.

    Behind Old Fritz was a man who looked greatly like Ludwig, except he had long blonde hair and a few braids in front. He glared at the bickering Gilbert, as if wanting nothing more than to smack on his head. His expression softened as Ludwig came onto the table-stage, calming down Hungary and scolding his older brother. Both men’s form too, was hazy, like Jeanne d’Arc’s, except the blonde had a certain blue haze around him. The blonde must be different from Old Fritz, I thought, a country probably. And judging from the familiarity with Prussia and Gilbert, it must be Germania.

    Suddenly, Germania whipped his head around, sensing something’ or rather in his case, the lack of something. He scanned the room, and his glare fell upon a brown haired man standing between Feliciano and Romano; Rome. He nuzzled a smiling Italian’s cheek, cooing the words ‘my sweet grandson’ over and over again. Even though North Italy probably didn’t know his former grandfather was there, he let out a happy ‘veee~’. Then, Feliciano tapped Romano’s arm.

    “Hey, fratello, do feel a really warm presence?” he said, and Rome beamed. His blue aura seemed to brighten, and he looked back and forth from Germania to Feliciano, a proud look on his face.

    “Tch, maybe,” muttered Romano, although you could see him relaxing a little.

    The same light laughter I heard before rang throughout the room again; Jeanne was laughing. She was laughing along with Old Fritz and Anastasia, who had taken her place beside a smiling Russia. The din was louder for me than for anyone else, as I heard the laughs and grumbles from former historical figures and nations.

    I smiled sadly. I envied them all; Russia, Prussia, Germany, the two Italy’s and even the old frog. Almost all the nations here had someone they had cared about here, as a phantom, to laugh with them.

    I glanced behind me. I had no-one.

    Looking back, the ghosts shimmered whenever a bout of laughter came about. I wondered if the nations could see them, the phantoms, would they laugh, dance and sing?

    Of course.

    If only they knew.

    Leaning against a wall, I watch as Anastasia keeps trying to tighten Russia’s scarf, grumbling a little when he moved or walked. Gilbert and Ludwig then walked passed, blocking my view, chatting away in rapid German. Germania followed them, walking purposefully behind, feet not quite making contact with the ground.

    Running footsteps came towards me, and I turned to see an old man coming towards me. I direct my attention to him, wondering how he got in here. Liver spots mingled in with the wrinkles on his face, although you could tell he once had freckles. His hair had already greyed and kind eyes twinkled. In his hand, he held a huge bouquet of purple flowers. He handed them to me, an apologetic look on his face.

    “I’m sorry. Could you pass this to Alfred? Tell him I now understand… and that I’m sorry,” he said, voice dwindling into a whisper.

    “Er, of course?” I replied, confused. Then I saw the haziness that he was made of too, and I smiled, understanding. “I will,” I said, with more resolution, taking the bouquet. The man smiled back, and walked away, content smile on his face.

    Chasing down Alfred, I handed the bouquet to him. “It was from an old man. He said… he was sorry, and that now he understands...” I stated, hoping somehow, he would somehow decipher the vague, cryptic message.

    “Davie…” he whispers, a holds the flowers to his face. I leave him there, vaguely remembering the flowers. I feel the stares on my back and I turn, seeing Francis and Russia gawp at me. Other eyes were glued onto me; Wang’s, Elizaveta’s, Ludwig’s, Gilbert’s and Roderich’s.

    What’s their problem? I thought, glaring at them to stop. They look away, but I catch them glancing back up. Even the ghosts had their eyes glued to me, and were standing to attention.

    Weird.

    “You know, those Chinese dresses of yours are quite beautiful, non? Perhaps you could lend me one?” asked Francis.

    “It would be an insult to my culture if I let you wear it, aru,” argued Wang. Francis looked offended.

    “Who said I was going to wear it, monsieur?” retorted Francis.

    “Ugh, it’s no secret that you would cross-dress in your younger—” began China, but then turned to stare at something over Francis’ shoulder.

    “Younger….?” continued Francis, asking for Wang to finish it. But then he hastily looked over his shoulder and back at Wang, then did a double-take. Slack-jawed and awed, multiple countries turned to stare at a passing nation; England, Arthur Kirkland.

    It seemed that Arthur had been draped in some sort of magnificent robe, which hung from his shoulder. Its fur trimmed collar rested perfectly on his shoulders, while a royal red fabric flowed in his wake. Numerous figures walked behind him, chins up and hands crossed it front of them. Crowns bearing jewels that they wore could not match the seemingly glowing halo around Arthur’s head, and they stared at it proudly, as if they had made much effort to make the golden ring. The nation himself walked with well-carried authority, as he usually did, but the robe and halo seemed to thrice the effect he had. Soon, Arthur glanced at our Francis’ direction, and glared at him. The Frenchman ducked his head apologetically, something he hadn’t done for a very, very, very long time. Even the two thousand year old nation couldn’t help but let the admiration in his eyes show.

    “It’s like watching the emperor and his ministers’ procession in the festivals again. Worn with such ease, but authority,” whispered Wang, before adding a forgetful ‘aru’ at the end. All eyes watched as Arthur bent over to pick up some papers a stupefied Anri¹ had dropped, and his eyebrows furrowed as he noticed the befuddled stare of the female nation. “Who are they?” asked Wang, leaning to speak into Francis’ ear.

    “They are the kings and queens from King Alfred the Great to Queen Anne. You see that little break in the line, continuing again with that pompous looking fellow with that outrageous wig? That’s King George I of Britain. I’m guessing the little gap represents when England was England, and then merged with Northern Ireland later on,” explained Francis, eyes shining. The Chinese man nodded, taking it all in.

    Even the usually dark Ivan was staring at Arthur, scarf hiding a probably open mouth. Beside him were Lithuania, Estonia and Latvia, even though they had broken away from the Soviet Union already. You could feel the air being sucked out of the air, seemingly turned into bursting amazement inside of you. You could also feel the longing and the pain, as each nation remembered their kings, emperors, previous nations, and queens. One thought echoed with unsaid agreement between us all.

    If only he knew.