Who is this boy?   von AnnelieseEdelstein
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                                Prolog: Prolog
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Who is this boy?

Italy, also known as Feliciano Vargas was a young man, who lived in the house of
Austria, alias Roderich Edelstein, together with the lovely and beautiful
Elizaveta Héderváry, better known as Hungary. 

Italy lived in Austria’s house since we was a child. 
He didn’t like it very much, since he had to work for Austria, as for example
clean the house and such stuff and because he wasn’t allowed to eat pasta all
the time or held siesta whenever he wanted to. 
The only thing Italy enjoyed was, when Austria played on his piano.
Austria was a very good pianist and Italy, as well as Hungary, loved to listen
to him, whenever he played something – which he did quite often.

Italy was just scrubbing the foyer, while Hungary did something in the other
room. 
Austria wasn’t at home. He went out to do something. 
Neither Italy nor Hungary knew what he was doing. 

Then Italy heard the door handle go down and looked up to the door, expecting,
that Austria would be back.
Hungary, who expected nothing less, came into the lobby too, as she heard the
door open.

Both of them were right. It was really Austria, who entered the room. But they
were only half right. 
„Mr. Austria. What took you so l-„ Hungary stopped in the middle of her
question, as the door had completely opened and she realized, what Italy had
already seen. 

Austria wasn’t alone. He was carrying something big in his arms – or
someone, as Italy and Hungary could see, that it was a teenage boy, when Austria
come in. 

‚Who was this boy?‘ Italy asked himself.

The boy, he must have been about sixteen years old, looked - describing it with
one word – terrible. 
For a short moment Italy thought that he was dead, because he had his eyes
closed and hung limply in Austria’s arms. According to Hungary’s look she
must have also thought that, or she was just horrified of the condition the boy
was in. 
But then Italy saw that he was breathing heavily, as if it would be difficult
for him and he’d to struggle with it. 

The boys blonde hair, that he had tied together with a red ribbon in his back,
were dishevelled and messy. Single hair strands hang into his face and if the
light didn’t just play a trick to Italy, then he also saw that in some places,
his hair was glued together by blood. 
The shirt and the trousers that the boy wore, were tattered and dirty
and it was clear from first sight, that he had been severely wounded. 

Italy wondered what had happened to the boy. Without any doubt he was a country
too, like Austria, Hungary and himself. But what made him look this miserable?

Hungary seemd to be asking herself the same question, because she stepped closer
to Austria and asked: „Austria, tell me, what happened?“ as she looked
worried at the boy, Austria was carrying. 

„France“ Austria replied and anger was reflected in his voice and his eyes.


„Francis did that to him?!“ Hungary asked incredulous and bewildered. 

Austria shook his head. „Most of fit, but not all. Also Bavaria –„
„Bavaria!?“ Hungary interrupted Austria. „But isn’t he …“ Austria
nodded and so Hungary left her question unsaid.

Italy wished she hadn’t. Obviously Hungary knew more than he and Italy also
wanted to know who that young country was and why he was so mauled and what
Bavaria had to do with it. 
Just from Hungary’s appalled glance and voice Italy could tell that Bavaria
must play some kind of special role here – that there was more behind than
them simply being opponents in a war or something like that.

Austria headed to the stairs. „He’ll be staying with us from now on“ he
told Hungary, who followed him. Also Italy followed them out of curiosity. 
„I’ve already set up a room for him upstairs“ Austria continued, as he
carried the teenager, who was still sleeping or unconscious – Italy couldn’t
tell exactly – up the stairs. 

When they reached the first floor they vanished in a room and before Italy had
reached the room as well, Hungary had closed the door. 
‚Why did she close the door!?“ Italy thought angrily. 
But then he realized that the door wasn’t completely closed. It was just ajar.

So Italy stepped closer to hear something. 

‚Who was that boy?‘
Maybe they’d say something now. 

Italy could hear that Austria laid him into a bed, but neither he nor Hungary
said something. 

„I can’t believe it“ Hungary said, her voice still sounding shocked.
Austria didn’t reply or maybe he just nodded or replied with a glance, which
of course Italy couldn’t see. 
But then Austria said: „We should let him rest for a while.“

Italy realized that Austria and Hungary were about to come out of the room again
and so he stepped back a few steps. 
Austria passed him, without taking a look at him, while Hungary gave him a
gentle smile while she passed him and followed Austria downstairs. 
Italy followed them too. 

His question, who the teenager with the messy blonde hair and the torn clothes
was, was still unanswered, but he didn’t dare asking. 
He was afraid Austria would just tell him that this was none of his business and
that he should go back to work. 

***

As it had already been late afternoon, it soon was evening and they were having
dinner. 
Austria let Italy eat together with him and Hungary – which wasn’t natural
– but to Italy’s disappointment there was no pasta for dinner. 

Austria seemed to be deep in thoughts. Was he thinking about the boy who was
still lying in that room upstairs? 
Also Hungary said nothing. She just looked from Austria to Italy from time to
time. 

“Shouldn’t we bring him something to eat?” Hungary broke the silence. 
Austria looked up to her and nodded slowly. “Even though I don’t think
he’s awake yet.” 
“I will look if he’s awake, ve  ~” Italy offered and Austria looked at him
and gave him his approval by nodding. 
So Italy jumped up and went upstairs to the boy’s room. 
He opened the door silently and stepped in. 

The teenager was still lying on the bed. His breath had calmed down, so that
Italy once again thought he was dead, but as he come closer towards him he
noticed with a relieved sigh that he was still alive. 
As he came closer to him he could see for the first time how many scratches,
bruises and injuries the boy had. 
“Do you want something to eat, ve  ~” Italy asked the boy, even though he
was sure, that he wouldn’t hear him. 
But it turned out that there Italy wasn’t completely right. 
The young country groaned slightly and opened his eyes a bit. 
Italy could see now that they were blue.
Remarkable blue. 
He once had a friend who had also such eyes. A friend that was very dear to
Italy and that went away. Italy missed him with everyday and hoped he would come
back. 
The colour of the boy’s hair and his eyes weren’t the same as the one of
Italy’s friend, but they somehow reminded him of him for a short moment. 
Was it possible, that they were related? 

“Bruder, bist du …” the adolescent mumbled before he fainted again. 
Italy had only understood one word: “Fratello” and he had recognized that
the language in which the boy had spoken was German. The same language that
Austria, but also his lost friend spoke. 

After some time, as the boy didn’t give any sign or sound of him anymore,
Italy went back downstairs. 
Now he wondered even more: ‘Who is this boy?’

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