APH: 'Ma liberaci dal Male...Amen' Fic

~Ma liberaci dal Male...Amen~

House of peace. House of salvation. House of God.

Nothing remained of it now but ashes and broken stone.

Brilliant mosaic floors were dulled and fragmented; what few walls remained gaped like toothless corpses propped up by pillars refusing to bow beneath their burdens. Where had once been delicate stained glass windows were now empty sockets removed of the rose-colored lenses of faith from the town of Reggio di Calabria.

Beyond the rows of debris-covered pews and broken arches knelt a huddled mass beneath the shadow of the fractured alter. Upon the ornate crimson rug meant for the feet of holy men, wept the nation from which the birthplace of Roman Catholicism began.

He held his arms tightly as his frame wracked with sobs, his head hanging low as his honey-colored eyes stared transfixed on the floor. Tears poured down his face like the endless waters of the Trevi in Rome, making his sun-favored skin look as slick and ashen as the marble of Oceanus's face. His fingers were white with strain from digging into his cobalt uniform, a uniform he had once worn with such pride and now wanted nothing more than to be free of. Since donning it, nothing but misery and pain had befallen him and his people; something that was suppose to bring the country glory and strengthen its ties to its allies was now plunging it and all of its citizens into darkness and bloodshed. His beloved country, his grandfather's legacy, had finally been unified and was now completely falling apart…and he felt solely responsible.

Because he had been trying to cleanse too many sins with so many more.

"Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me…" He whispered over and over again between breaths, trying to find comfort in a house in which he had always felt welcome, but now felt nothing but emptiness and shame.

"Stop it, Veneziano, no one is listening."

The Italian continued to beg and cry as though he had never heard the voice behind him, coming from the man slouched on one of the front pews and staring ahead with a blank expression. The man had a darker complexion than his companion who was currently abasing himself, with browner hair and deeper eyes that had nearly lost all trace of shine in their vacancy. Though the man on the floor was consumed by the woes of the present, it was clear the other was far away and beyond anything happening in the desecrated halls of the cathedral.

Or outside…making its way into the city from the beach.

The blue-clad Italian snuffled loudly and swallowed, trying to find his voice after it had became hoarse from his lamenting. "I thought…I believed we were doing the right thing. Everyone – …everyone thought we were traitors after the last war, I wanted…I wanted to prove – "

"Throwing our lot in with the Potato Bastard only proved that we were greater fools for not learning our lesson the first time," the seated Italian cut in, still mentally removed from the situation even as his harsh words made the other wince. "But I suppose that's what happens when some prick from Predappio decides he's in charge…" He continued, then added under his breath, "He deserves more than his fair share of the blame…"

Another sob choked the fairer Italian as he constricted his grip on his arms, nearly to the point of bruising while his body curled tighter against his form. The man behind him paid him neither comment nor glance while he cried, and simply left the other to his thoughts.

The northern brother knew he wasn't evil; he also knew his country wasn't either. At the same time, he believed the same of his friend Ludwig and the German people. Their leaders were corrupt, the Italian could see that more clearly now than ever, but that didn't mean the cores of the nations they led were putrid with the same taint. There were people here in Italy and in Germany fighting against the corruption, against the atrocities of the war and striving for the peace the avatar wanted more than anything. There were even more people who were separated from it all and just trying to live their lives as best they could, to continue everyday life in hopes that someday soon the darkness would lift from the world. Those people, all of those people were good, and even the many soldiers he had met who tried to balance doing the right thing with the orders they were given…He felt the worst for them; for the good people wearing uniforms would forever be made one in the same with the wicked among them. If he could spare all of those good people, his country and his allies, he would; no sacrifice would be too great…but all the possibilities terrified him.

Finally the honey-eyed lad raised his head and spoke again, "What…what's going to happen t-to us, fratello?"

A shudder ran through the other's body, but he tried not to show it as he spoke. "You know what's going to happen, Veneziano, we're going to be punished…because it's easier to punish our people and our leaders through us."

It was then that Feliciano Vargas's heart truly sank lower than his groveling form ever could. His people were going to suffer more because he had been incapable of stopping Mussolini's rise to power, because his voice had been too small when protesting military campaigns he knew were fruitless, and because keeping his alliance with Germany meant more to him than seeing the commitment for what it really was…who and what he and Ludwig had really been committing to.

That he, Romano, and his people would be precursors to his allies' and their people's fates made his very soul hemorrhage with grief.

"…People…so many people who had nothing to do with this, they are innocent," Feliciano managed between his quieter tears. "…Is there no way to spare them?"

"That's not up to us," Romano replied in a deadpan voice. "We can't decide how retribution is dealt."

Honey-brown eyes widened and suddenly a small spark of hope returned. Feliciano raised his head and turned on his knees towards his brother, his face conveying the desperation he felt as he grasped at the prospect of there being a chance. "Can we not convince them, you and I? Can we not argue the case for our people and just take the punishment ourselves without hurting them? …Romano…" He trailed off, his eyes watering again as he looked at his brother in shame. "I was the one who pushed so much for our alliance with Germany…i-it's my fault so much has gone wrong…You don't deserve to be punished too."

The shift in the other's demeanor was sudden, and instantly his eyes snapped back into focus before narrowing on his brother. His body shook with building anger as emotions he'd been trying to hide were brought violently to the surface.

"How dare you invalidate me like that! We're unified and I have had just as much say in matters as you've had," he retorted, his complexion reddening slightly. "Don't think I couldn't have decked your ass and spoken against you at any time – because I could have; that I didn't is something I'll have to live with, but I'm not going to run away and leave the world thinking that I made no decisions and left our country's fate to a brat like you!"

Feliciano stared back at his brother in silent surprise and awe as burning tears began to roll down Romano's cheeks. The Southern Italian could barely control the trembling of his body as his hold on his knees tightened until his knuckles became white.

"I exist, Goddamn it! I'm going to take the responsibility of that, and I won't let you steal it from me."

"…Fratello…"

Romano violently turned his head away from his brother, refusing to meet that face any longer lest he lose what little reserve he had left. He clamped his jaw tightly shut to prevent the sob desperate to escape; his sharp and rapid breathing caused his nose to run, making him roughly use his sleeve to wipe as much shame from his face as possible. He silently berated himself for his state. Feliciano was allowed to cry, he had always been the more emotional of them, but Romano had always fancied himself to be the stronger, tougher brother…after all, he had been through so much more than Feliciano, facing much of it alone.

It was unfair how forgotten he was, how little his presence mattered beyond counting him as property or just another section of his favored brother's country. He had survived invaders, civil war, being passed around from one ruler to the next and still he had fought every day to live and be recognized. Many attributed his stubbornness and pride to the characteristics of his people, but Romano wanted them to just be attributes of him. He wanted to own more than just scars, he wanted a voice.

And he'd be damned before he let Feliciano take that from him...regardless of the fear that gripped him at the thought of what that meant.

He hadn't noticed when his fairer brother approached him; he was completely oblivious to the other's presence until a pair of arms wrapped about his shaking form and embraced him. Romano tensed and wanted to push Feliciano away, but he couldn't find the will to unlock his muscles to follow through. Instead, his head fell onto his brother's shoulder and he found himself unable to hold back any longer…and openly cried.

His arms finally moved, but now they were to cling his brother back.

The Northern Italian said nothing as Romano cried and loudly sobbed, his tears soaking the other's blue uniform until it was nearly black. He paid it no mind as he remained kneeling before his other half and allowed his brother whatever comfort he could. He had had no idea Romano felt this way and harbored such feelings of resentment…In that moment he felt that he had failed more as a brother than as the avatar of his country.

"…I'm sorry, fratello…I'm so sorry."

Romano's expression contorted with irritation as he squeezed the other tighter in frustration. "S-stop apologizing, y-you useless brat," he growled between sobs and his tightened jaw. "W-we made our choices, now it's time to d-deal with the fallout. They'll come for us, both of us, but we're not running away – not this time."

Feliciano closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his brother's shoulder, "…You'll stay with me, Romano?"

Silence stretched between the pair for a long while, but slowly Romano's breaths calmed and the intensity of his hold on his brother relaxed. His face still buried against the other's he finally managed, "I'll be here, fratellino…someone has to make sure you don't embarrass us with all your damn crying."

For the first time in what felt like years, Feliciano smiled and hugged his brother tighter. "Grazie, fratello…grazie."

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Later that night, the sound of boot-steps over the rubble made Feliciano's hand on his brother's tighten – the other returning the gesture even though he was shaking with fear. By the time the footsteps stopped both brothers were trembling and their hands were sealed together with sweat. The sound of a round being chambered only made their perspiration worse.

"On your knees."

The brothers stood side by side at the base of the steps leading to the altar, neither of them able to turn around and face the man with the gun, as they remained frozen in silence.

The hammer of the gun clicked and the sound of an arm in stiff military issued material rising made Feliciano whimper as Romano squeezed his eyes shut. "I said, on your knees."

The fairer Italian swallowed and felt his eyes burning with tears again. "…C-can you promise…more innocent people won't be hurt by this?"

Without a word the figure stepped forward and connected a boot with the back of the Italian's knees, making him cry out as he lost his grip on his brother and fell forward. Romano's face twisted with rage as he spun on heel with a fist raised, but only met air before the butt of the pistol slammed into the side of his head. With Feliciano on his knees and Romano on his back, one hand to his bleeding temple, a shadow fell over the brothers, with the firearm level once more.

"Don't try to tell me that you suddenly care about innocents," came the accented voice of the man with the gun as the anger thickened in his voice. "You didn't care about innocents during the invasion of France or the Blitz, but now that the enemy is at your doorstep you suddenly feel remorse; convenient reconnections with your conscience won't spare you."

When he could open his eyes past the pain, Romano glared up at the man above him while Feliciano was struggling to push himself up. The fairer Italian's heart hurt far worse than his body, but he managed to get to his knees facing the altar.

He couldn't give up.

"…We cared…we have always cared," he began, trying to gain strength in his sincerity. "But we follow orders just like you and everyone else; regardless of how we feel, it's not we who dictate the course our leaders choose for us…but it's we who have to live with the consequences for eternity."

Venomous green eyes narrowed, but his attention was turned to the other Italian now sitting up and wiping the blood from his face. "You've already taken Sicily and bombed Rome; our armies have all but collapsed and our societies are in a state of chaos. You've already pressured the king into ousting Mussolini, and Germany is already preparing to invade once their fears of our surrender are confirmed," he growled, then shouted in his frustration, "What more do you want, you tea-drinking bastard?"

Arthur Kirkland said nothing for a time and locked a cold stare with the older of the two brothers. "Tomorrow the armistice between the Allies and the Kingdom of Italy will be signed, and by then it will be too late to deal the greatest blow to Germany and those in your country who still side with the Axis," he began, both his words and his tone enough to reverberate inside both of the brothers. "I'll do all it takes to remove any obstacles between me and Germany."

Feliciano slowly turned his head to see his executioner for the first time, and his blood ran like ice water beholding the sight of what remained of the British Empire standing behind him.

Arthur's skin looked ashen and grey, his once vivid emerald-green eyes were lusterless above dark circles that provided the only color to his face. He looked gaunter, his uniform seemed larger than his frame and his once metaphysically intimidating presence had dimmed substantially. Arthur Kirkland looked like he was dying…slowly and painfully he was becoming a shadow of what he once was…Even so, his arm extending the gun never wavered and his face never reflected the pain he was clearly suffering.

Feliciano felt such sadness welling within him…Arthur looked much like Grandpa Rome in his final days.

"You're both old enough to know how this works," Arthur said in a more even tone, his expression never changing. "Stay where you are if you want to see it, otherwise turn around."

Feliciano cast his eyes down before looking at Romano, who refused to look away from Arthur. Romano's expression was set with determination, but his eyes couldn't hide the terrible fear inside. Both brothers had experienced death before, but in their country's vulnerable state neither of them knew how terribly their deaths would affect it. When they died so many more died with them, and their population had so little to spare. Once the armistice was signed the fate of that very population would lay within the powers their executioner represented. If the kingdom and societies fell, and their country never recovered, neither would they.

Feliciano would never get to tell Ludwig how sorry he was for never being a strong enough ally…or friend, and that for some reason hurt him to the core of his soul.

"…Padre Nostro che sei nei cieli, sia santificato il tuo Nome…"

Both Arthur and Romano looked at the Northern Italian, the young man having turned back towards the altar, with his head bowed as he sat kneeling on the floor. The Englishman seemed suspended in time as the prayer continued to flow unhurried and softly from Feliciano's lips. The familiar unsung melody behind each rise and fall of his voice and each pause registered immediately with every fiber of Christianity threaded into Arthur's being. He didn't have to understand Italian to know what Feliciano was saying.

While the younger Italian shed no more tears, Romano's eyes filled with them as he turned and protectively embraced his brother from behind.

He was still echoing his brother's words through his sobs as Arthur aimed the gun at the back of his head…and fired.


~Fin~