A/N: The title comes from the song by Debra Cowan, which I listened to practically on repeat as I wrote this. I recommend it for full effect
The day was grey and foggy, as though the sky had held onto the smoke of thousands of guns long after the battle was finished. Every cloud held itself in the same perpetual position. The sun hid away, taking its warmth with it. Germany walked through the streets, trying not to think about anything but where he was going. But, his thoughts couldn't help but wander.
He saw the buildings that he passed and remembered the glory. This had once been a beautiful city, now no piece of masonry was free of pockmarks. Russian bullets had lodged themselves deep in the marble and sandstone. But it was far worse to see a pile of rubble and remember the building it used to be. The space left where it once stood was like a ghost, open air still full of substance. Germany sighed to himself and continued walking.
He knew this was his fault, he had chosen the war without knowing what devastation would come from it. He continued walking, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of the coat he was wearing. Thoughts about the war were still beating themselves bloody against the inside of his head. He clenched his fists in his pockets, feeling the pain of his nails digging into his own palms. He didn't want to feel, didn't want to regret, but the actions he was taking at this very moment showed that he still felt deeply guilty. His feet carried him down the familiar route.
He passed the stains on the street where impromptu tank traps had been set up. The scars of war were still so fresh, but the physical damage wasn't the worst. The worst was yet to come at the end of this fool's trip that Germany took every day. He knew he shouldn't still be doing this, but the pain was too fresh even after these few months had passed.
He continued walking, avoiding the places where the sidewalk had been destroyed by the shells of tanks, or simply crushed beneath the weight of the metal beasts. It seemed an eternity ago that these streets had echoed with enthusiastic cheers, that these building fronts had redoubled the words of songs. Red banners had flown, triumphant, from every building and flagpole. Now, there was nothing but ash clinging to what little was left. But, when he closed his eyes, Germany could still hear the faint echo of goose-stepping feet.
Germany stopped and looked directly into the street, remembering the spectacle that had been here. He had been so naïve to be swept away by crazed nationalism. It had been so good to hear his name raised on so many voices. He had felt so sure of himself. Now, it brought a bitter taste to his mouth to even think about the hollow words, the empty promises. He hadn't seen the clear warnings then, but the hindsight was so clear. His brother had seen, had known. That had been why Gilbert had been drinking so heavily, especially once the Eastern front had broken open. Germany couldn't help but think that his brother had known that this war would end in ruin.
His eyes began to burn in a way that had become all too familiar; the strange heat always came with tears. He reached up with one gloved hand and checked for any stray drops of moisture that threatened to escape down his cheeks and give away his emotions. He wanted to ask his brother about the war, whether he had seen the inevitable defeat. Just a few months ago that would have been possible. Before the judgment, before there separate fates had been decided. As the emotions uncoiled themselves from where they had been momentarily hiding, Germany clenched his hands back into fists and forced them back into his pockets. He wasn't going to cry, it wasn't behavior fit for a fully-fledged country.
His eyes still smarting more than he wanted them to be, he started walking again. His gate felt unsteady, certainly not the confident steps that he had had before the war. He stepped to the side as a woman in a tattered green coat hurried past him, her hat pulled low over her eyes. A blonde boy in pants that were a couple inches too short clung to her hand. As they passed, Germany heard the boy ask, his voice full of the innocence of youth, "When is Vati coming home?"
His mother responded bitterly, "Never. He went to Russia and isn't coming back."
Germany winced when he heard the bitterness in her voice. She wasn't the only mother who had been left without a husband. The boy was one of many left without a father. Germany knew it and knew that it was his fault; his war had sent so many men to their death. His war had left so many people alone, left him alone. Prussia, the closest thing he had to a father, was gone. Germany became aware that he had stopped again and was pulling in shaky breaths. The cold air stung his lungs.
Germany looked around for a distraction, any distraction. But he still saw the ruins of a once proud city. It hadn't been Germany's city; his brother had left it to him. The all too familiar feeling of shame returned. Everything Prussia had built was in ruins now. It was not honest to blame the allies or their bombs. All Germany had wanted was to be able to make his brother proud. How had it gone so terribly wrong?
He glanced across the street at a man whose face had been aged past its years by far. In one hand he held a bottle of unidentified alcohol; in the other he held a wooden crutch. The man's right leg only extended to the knee, the rest had been likely been lost to a shell or an infection. This sight too was all too common. Redoubling his determination, Germany started walking again.
He was almost to his destination, only a few more meters to go. He turned at a particularly pockmarked building and he saw it. The arch loomed large on the horizon, still standing even after the bombs had fallen. The pale masonry was stained with the black residue of battle, but it still stood as a monument to Germany's failure. The Brandenburg gate, the symbol of his brother's power. Germany's mistake had corrupted even that. The swastika was still barely visible in the ruined hand of Nike.
He stopped walking, this time intentionally. This was as far as he was allowed to go, the rest of the city now belonged to Russia. This was the spot Germany had chosen to mourn his mistake. The cold wind picked up as the thoughts finally engulfed him. Looking back less than a decade, he felt alien to himself. A boy still trying to fit in his brother's boots. He should have talked to Prussia, should have asked his brother's opinion. Instead, he had forced his brother into a long Eastern war. Even when Prussia had emphatically told him not to betray the Soviet Union, he hadn't listened. If only his brother could appear just on the other side of the line so Germany could apologize.
He pulled in a shaky breath that sounded too much like sob. He looked back down, again attempting to find distraction. His attention was caught by a pair of Soviet soldiers on the other side of the gate. They appeared to be having a casual conversation, but the sight still made Germany viscerally angry. Those men had done so much damage, but all of that paled in comparison to stealing away half the country. Every muscle in his body wanted to take the steps forward, if only to do whatever damage he could to the Soviet soldiers. But if he crossed this line, he would be putting himself in danger.
Instead, he turned and walked parallel to the dividing line. With his emotions coming up hot and volatile in his throat, it was impossible to differentiate one from the other. The rage at Russia mixed with his own shame and became thoroughly painful. Restlessly, he turned and walked back in the direction he had come from, but along a different street. This was a foolish walk; it was completely idiotic to believe that staring at the Brandenburg gate would give him a chance to see his brother again. And yet, every day he did this.
Germany walked even faster, enraged at his own lack of control. A small brown ball bumped against his foot, breaking the vicious cycle of thoughts whipping through his brain. He stopped and kneeled down to pick up the ball. It was rough in his hand, but there was something sweet about it. Even in this slate grey world, there were still children's toys. He looked around for the source and noticed a boy with short black hair sitting on the stoop of a bombed out building. One of his thin hands was extended out in Germany's direction. He said pleadingly, "Bitte."
Germany smiled and walked over to the boy and kneeled down. He extended the ball to the boy, who eagerly took it in both hands. His toothy grin had a certain charm to it. Germany couldn't help but return the smile. It felt like the first time he had smiled in several years, the muscles in his face felt strangely stiff. The child said, "Danke!" Germany felt his regrets float to the back of his mind. It couldn't all be terrible with this kind of enthusiasm in it. Germany stood back up and said, "Naturlich. What is your name?"
The child was about to respond when the sharp sound of running footsteps from inside the building. A frail looking woman rushed forward and scooped the boy into her arms and stepped away protectively. Her eyes were wild, but when they fixed on Germany they filled with hate. However, his eyes were drawn away from her face to the yellow Star of David still stitched on her coat.
All the blood drained from Germany's face as the realization hit him. His worst mistake was staring at him in the guise of a child. The woman had every right to stare at him with such utter contempt. If she knew who he really was, her hatred would be all the more intense, and all the more justified.
Germany walked away quickly, trying to escape his emotions. He had been responsible for all those deaths, but he wasn't paying for them. Excluding the Nuremburg trials, there had been very little punishment. But, the thought tormented him that the same was not true for his brother. Prussia, who had counseled him not to invade the Soviet union, not to let the Final solution go into such full scale effect, was now in the hands of Russia who was undoubtedly extracting penance in blood.
Overcome again, Germany turned down an ally to have a moment to himself. Tears rolled freely down his face as the most painful thought swelled in the forefront of his mind: His brother had martyred himself for a cause he had never believed in. Germany didn't deserve that kind of love, not after what he had done. Why had his brother been so noble? The last words Gilbert had said to him came back to him, "Be strong, Ludwig."
He sobbed to himself, responding to the man who no was no longer close enough to hear, "I can't, Gil." As he admitted it to himself, it became overwhelming. Even in this last request, he couldn't do what his brother told him. He wanted to be strong, but the reminders all around broke him down. His voice breaking again, he repeated, "I can't. Forgive me, Bruder."