Prussia had never liked coming back from mortal wounds. It was better than fading, sure, but he'd never been one of those fortunate sorts who managed to be among friends when he died.
No, when Prussia died it was usually on a battlefield – and he did his best to take the bastard who killed him with him – or he'd been wounded and was being executed for something or other. Sometimes – less likely these days although the Austrian prick had been a shining arsehole of an exception – for nothing more than his red eyes and silver-white hair.
Since the last thing he remembered this time around was being tied to a pole because having his nation dissolved hurt so fucking much he couldn't stand straight, then watching a vengeful England pump bullets into his heart until finally – finally – everything faded to merciful blackness, Prussia doubted he was going to return to anything he'd enjoy.
While his body slowly warmed and his senses began to function again – bringing, inevitably, more pain than Prussia wanted to think about – he tried to get some idea where he was.
Cold was the first thing he noticed. Stale air, not much circulation, and a faint dusty, decayed smell. Clammy air, hint of damp salt. And nothing to suggest that anyone was anywhere close.
Odd. He'd half expected to wake in some British prison for another round of vengeance – or worse, a Russian one. Russia wanted him alive, for reasons Prussia doubted he'd enjoy.
He hadn't been buried - there was too much air around him for that - and he lay in a bizarre mockery of the usual laying out position for a corpse, with his arms folded over his chest. One hand was clasped around the familiar shape of his Iron Cross, which he hadn't had when he'd been executed.
Bless you, West. His brother must have convinced the Allies Prussia was going to stay dead and secreted him somewhere out of the way, although why Germany had laid him out in clothes that could only have belonged to a giant... His feet swam in the boots he wore, and even before he was fully back he could feel the looseness of the clothes, feel the fabric puddling around him.
Movement at last, a twitch or two first, then Prussia slowly climbed to his feet, hissing under his breath as every move made stiff muscles burn and caught the many wounds that had healed but only on the surface. He was used to that, to skin that closed and rarely scarred but hurt for much longer beneath the smooth surface, but everything felt wrong, and the cave... no, old mine with crystalline salt reflecting what little light crept down here from the surface...
Prussia blinked. Surely Germany didn't...
He turned slowly. He was in a small niche, not really visible from the main shaft if his eyes weren't deceiving him. The place was barely high enough for him: he could feel his hair brushing the ceiling.
The first step Prussia took he nearly tripped in the too-large boots.
Irritably, he moved to unlace them, and froze. Those were not his hands.
His hands were broad, callused from untold years of wielding his sword. These were a child's hands, unscarred, unmarked, and – in the ultimate insult – delicate.
Prussia's stomach knotted as he pushed the overlong sleeve back to reveal an equally childish arm. Thin, scrawny even. No sign of the muscle he'd built over his lifetime.
A panicked look in his pants confirmed the worst. That was not his awesome five meters down there. It was the undeveloped equipment of a child.
"Fuck." Prussia sat down hard enough to jar his spine. He remembered everything, but his body had changed. Reverted to somewhere between ten and twelve. He wasn't wearing a giant's clothes at all: these were his clothes, the clothes of the man he'd been far too large for the scrawny child he'd become.
His voice, too... high pitched and childish.
Shit. This was bad.
Bad enough that the Allies would want to kill him again if he showed his face – and Russia would probably want to do worse than that. But like this, he couldn't defend himself. He was worse than helpless, colony-bait for whoever happened to figure it out.
At least his people were still his people, somehow. Whatever the Allies had done to dissolve his nation still hurt, but it hadn't taken his people from him. Reaching them felt a bit like diving into an acid bath, but they were there.
Prussia closed his eyes. First things first. He needed to ditch the clothes and make it look like he'd faded. Cruel as that might be to his brother, Germany was possibly the worst liar in the world, so Prussia had to make everything look real. He could apologize later, if there was one.
Then... find somewhere to hide until he returned to his normal self and the Allies calmed down. A few years ought to be enough.
Prussia hoped.