Before we get started, I will warn you that this fic may end up gruesomely long, or completely abandoned. So review, because that reminds me that I'm actually supposed to be writing.

Long-winded summary: This is a history of Prussia, from the moment he was picked up by the Teutonic Knights in the Twelve-hundreds, to the present day. Mostly jumping over un-important parts in history or things I don't know enough to write about, of course. It's my way of explaining how Gilbert became the cocky bastard we know and love.

Rating: M for a few chapters. The rest is T for Gilbert and others' foul language.

Pairings: A few OCs x Prussia, Prussia x Fritz, and other possibilities.

I have no clue where it's going.

Warnings: Eventual guy on guy, violence, foul language, a couple dozen OCs (Warning is totally required, as I usually hate OCs. But they're mostly plot devices.), character death, and history muck-ups.

Despite that, enjoy~

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Roadside, Chapter one.

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The soft creaking and jingling of chainmail and tack accompanied the dull thuds of several hooves in the dirt as seven tall men, clothed in silver armour and white robes baring black crosses rode their fine warhorses through the village. Around them, a few pale, blonde-haired and blue-eyed children stared up in wonderment, puzzled as to why these knights were in their home. The man in the lead with by far the most handsome horse and regal helm bent over awkwardly to address one child, who pointed to a house not too far from where they had paused. Nodding his head, he rode on calmly to dismount in front of the aforementioned building, knocking three times upon the wood.

A young boy, no more than seven and barely at the man's waist appeared, staring up between shaggy brown locks with equally brown eyes. When the man asked him for something, he paused, seemingly to figure out what he had said, and then paled.

The knight blinked when the boy vanished back into the house. Perhaps he had scared the lad off...? Or maybe his accent really was as terrible as the others said. But he found himself looking down again at yet another boy, only this one was taller and clearly older.

Not only that, but he had the purest white for hair, and piercing, yet soft red eyes. There seemed to be almost no colour to the boy at all save for those eyes, and his skin looked delicate and nearly translucent.

"Who the hell're you?" He quipped, his tongue nearly as sharp as his eyes. It made the old knight's eyes crinkle with mirth.

"I, young Prusa, am the Grand Master of the Teutonic Order of St. Mary's Church of Jerusalem," Carefully, the Grand Master removed his helm and shook loose his short, curly brown hair and smiled at the albino, "and you are coming with me."

The boy's eyes narrowed, pale brows lowered. "How do you know I am the man you seek?"

Hearty laughter filled the air briefly, and an armor-clad hand rested on a skinny shoulder. "Because there are no other Immortals in these lands, and you are pale as the one described to me and are living in the same town! That, and you called yourself a man when you look just nine winters old, not to mention speak in a dialect much older than the rest of the villagers.

You, my boy, are the physical representation of Prussia. And to end the Northern Crusades in your lands, we are going to need your assistance."

Prussia scowled, inwardly dismayed that a man like him knew so much already. Well, he did not know his name...but he was sure the old man would find a way to weed it out of him eventually. "...Tch, fine, I will come. But don't expect me to talk to anyone; I'm better off on my own."

"Oi, Kid, you alright back there?"

Prussia blinked blearily, fingers clutching the white robes of the knight in front of him. With dirty blonde hair that grew lighter until it reached the ends, cropped just below his chin, and sparkling blue eyes, said knight was rather handsome, actually. Or for a German. But what mattered right now was the fact that this horse was tall, and riding behind the saddle was more than a little jostling. "Y-yeah, just...just peachy." Gods, smite him now and get it over with...

"Are you sure? You don't sound so good." The knight turned to look at him, and Prussia found himself nearly heaving when the robe moved and pulled him with it.

"D-Don't fucking move o-or I'll kick yer fucking ass.." Prussia glared when his partner laughed at him and stopped his horse.

"Here, the back gets a little bad if you've never ridden a horse before," He picked him up under his arms and set him at the front of the saddle, which had - thankfully - no horn, and enough room for a child to sit in. The Prussian blushed furiously when the man's arm wrapped around his chest and middle protectively, pressing him back into is warm chest. "...Thanks." he murmured, begging he couldn't see how red his face was.

The knight laughed again, kicking his horse into a fast walk to catch up with the others and one hand holding the reins. "Not a problem. Alas, I don't believe I have told you my name yet! I am Sir Willheim, son of Frederick and Elizabeth, and Knight of the Teutonic Order." Willheim said very proudly, emphasizing the 'Sir' part of his name. His pride brought a smile to the younger boy's face, gazing up at the knight with slight admiration.

Compelled to do something similar, he took a short breath and looked very seriously at the horse in front of him. "I am Gilbert Weillschmidt, Physical embodiment of the Prussian peoples." Gilbert blinked when Willheim laughed - it was rich, yet rough, and it was contagious - and ruffled his hair. Despite himself, he found himself laughing too, which brought on more laughter from the pair of them, earning questioning looks from the other knights. "You know, Willheim, I like you." Gilbert stated matter-of-factly, smirking in self-approval.

"That's a great thing to hear from such an important man," the blonde half-teased with a small chuckle, "You're alright, kid. You're going to do just fine with us."

Gilbert hummed and nodded contently; the two lapsing into a short silence, with the boy couldn't help but break. "Willheim...That's a mouthful, ain't it? You got a nickname? Will, Willy, Bill, perhaps?"

Willheim laughed and patted his head again. "Nein, I just get called Willheim." The young nation scowled softly, raking his brains for something to call this man, who was most certainly not his friend; Prussia was fine enough on his own, he didn't need friends.

"Since I can't think of anything else," He chirped after a moment, grinning back at the scraggly blonde, "You're now Sir Willy."

The now-dubbed 'Sir Willy' laughed. "Alright, just don't call me that near the other knights. They will tease me about it for ages."

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Gilbert groaned and rubbed his back, apologizing when he elbowed the knight behind him who, to his dismay, wasn't Willheim, but an older, gruffer man who refused to talk to him. But at the moment, he didn't care, too caught up in the after effects of the wonder that was camping out in the woods with a rock jabbing you in the back. It left him almost wishing for his itchy straw bed he had in his village, despite the random bugs that enjoyed making their home in it every-so-often. Clearly he had pissed off some God that he was being tortured as so. It must have been him being forced – forced, he mentally shouted at the heavens – to participate in thanking this Christian God he didn't know of before he ate. And then the prayers in the morning...

Yep. He was being sent to hell.

He slumped over in defeat, earning a quick bark in a language he could only assume was German and a sharp thwack to the head. Gilbert could only help but assume that he, too, had slept with a rock in his back. A very big one. One could only hope.

The long ride through the day proved to be completely and utterly boring, not to mention painful, as the Grand Master had graciously decided to eat lunch on horseback instead of stopping. So not only was the young Prussian's back sore, his rear was probably irrevocably mangled from the saddle, and by the time the sun had started to sink further toward the horizon, he was half tempted to just jump off the horse and run too keep up. But then, his grouchy partner tapped his shoulder, rousing him from his pessimistic thoughts, and pointed up the road.

There, built on the crest of a fairly decent sized hill was a huge brick castle, surrounded by its own tall walls, and a city sprawling out under the its shadows and down the slope. Fading sunlight glinted off the shingles of the roofs in the richer districts, while the thatching on the others seemed to nearly swallow the light. Prussia's people were pretty well off, having their own castles and cities, but none were as large or as grand as this, and the lad stared unabashed, mouth agape.

Sir Willheim rode up beside him at that moment and smiled at him over the gap. "Prussia, welcome to the castle of Rehden."

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Author's Notes:

Willheim isn't actually a name, obviously. But it sounds an awful lot like Wilhelm, and you know what, perhaps Sir Willy's parents wanted to be creative.

Rehden was (and still is) a Teutonic-built castle at the south-western tip of what was then Prussia. I'm not sure what era this is, alas, but I think it's after the Prussians came through and tried to siege the castle. Thankfully, it was one of the five (remembering that the Order didn't have many castles at the time, so five left was pretty good) castles not taken. There was a treaty, blah-blah-blah boring stuff. It's also close to the Poles, and yes, Poland will have a part in the next chapter or so.

Taking liberties with history is my specialty. If anything is wrong, too bad, I'm writing it this way.