Unbroken Continuity

an Hetalia Fanfic

By Freiherr

"I am but waiting for you.

For an interval.

Somewhere. Very near.

Just around the corner."

'What is Death?'

Henry Scott Holland

Approximately 1970….

Every February someone took it into their heads that in order to be fair, someone should send a note of some sort to Ludwig Weillschmidt's House, the sprawling, grand manor in which the Nation-spirit of Germany lived with what remained of his States. Most of the other Nations felt guilty, after all, because they had not been able to stand up to a certain Soviet and say "enough!" They had allowed the Soviet to take half of Ludwig's capital and nearly a third of his territory, at first supposedly just to occupy it in a military sense—but of course Ivan had not stopped there, and the Allies had not been allowed to stop him. Now the others felt they had to do something—and that something was tearing Ludwig apart, little by little.

This year it seemed to have been England's turn to say something. Somewhere deep in the night of 25 February, the anniversary of the Dissolution of Prussia in 1947, Ludwig decided it was all England's fault he felt this miserable. England and his damnable compassion.

It began when an anonymous vase of cornflowers and white lilies were delivered —German flowers, funeral flowers. Ludwig had no idea who sent them at first, there had been no card. He had been puzzling over who might have done it this year, when the mailman brought him the afternoon post—containing a letter with distinctive handwriting on the front. Inside had been a short note and a poem sent by Arthur Kirkland, the Nation-spirit of the United Kingdom (though still known as England to those who had known him longest).

This is a poem by one of my Children, Henry Holland. It was written at a time of death, but for some reason it made me think of you and Preußens, England had written. With good fortune someday the Wall may well fall, Ludwig. Until then, don't give up. If you need to talk, give me a call, would you?

Ludwig had almost balled the whole thing up and thrown it into the dustbin, but his manners were better than that, despite what some people thought. He had kept it, had even read the poem, and then he had ended up here: in the place where the Wall cut off a goodly portion of his House, cut off a large part of the wing that had once been Prussia's, built on the foundations of Magna Germania.

Death is nothing at all.

It does not count.

I have only slipped away into the next room.

Nothing has happened.

Everything remains exactly as it was.

The Berlin Wall cut through his City, giving Ludwig a stitch in his side that he suspected would not go away until the Wall itself did—if it ever went away. It was a blight on the land, a blatant, cruel thumbing of the nose from Ivan Braginski, the Nation-spirit of the Soviet Union. But worse, the Wall cut through Ludwig's very home: the great House in which his history and all that was dear to him resided. Oh, the Soviets had not been able to seal off the wing completely. Most of it was simply not visible to anyone without a German heart. But while Ludwig could still get to his brother's old rooms, his most private places, he could not get to the public spaces—the parts of the wing that defined Prussian greatness, now probably being left open to the elements and God knew what degradation by Ivan and his minions.

Nor, of course, could he get to his brother's side….

Ludwig sat on the floor on his side of the Wall, clutching a pillow to his chest and staring at the words Arthur had written. Oh yes, he could see why England had thought of them when he found the poem. For Gilbert, the Nation-spirit of Prussia, was a hostage to the Soviet, as were several of the German states sufficiently unfortunate to be on the eastern side of the land-mass: Brandenburg, Mecklenburg, Saxony, Saxon-Anhalt and Thuringia. The Soviet had re-named them into the German Democratic Republic, though the region was neither democratic nor a republic. Most of the world called it East Germany, and Ludwig himself had become known as West. For the human Children of the world it was just information, facts on paper, occasionally an annoyance in the years since 1947; for the Nations, however, it was a far more serious matter. Re-naming any of them was tantamount to torture; it twisted them, changed them and altered their outlook. If Ludwig were being fair—and he did try to be—he would have to admit that even Ivan himself had been less right in the head since his monarchist government fell to revolution and he had been reshaped into the entity he was now. It was hard to even consider, on most days, what this enforced captivity might be doing to Gilbert and the others.

I am I, and you are you,

and the old life

that we lived so fondly together

is untouched, unchanged.

Whatever we were to each other,

that we are still.

Ludwig could not remember a day in his existence when Gilbert had not been a part of his life. From the day he awakened in the Great North of Europe, a confused, speechless little Nation with no lands to call his own, terrified of anything French, annoyed by anything Austrian, and not really knowing why, Ludwig had been protected, raised, taught, trained by his brother. Gilbert was singular among the Nations as having begun not as a territory of any sort, but as a military Order of the Roman Catholic Church. He had gone on to conquer the lands held by Ancient Prussia, whose origins and fate none of them now knew. Gilbert was therefore physically unlike the others as well: albino, tall, whippet-slender, with silver-white hair and eyes like rubies. Except for the occasional spat between them, those eyes had always been the stuff of good things for Ludwig. Gilbert's presence had always been safety and love and shelter. Oh, he had grown up knowing that to many of the others, Prussia was someone to be feared. If Gilbert and his army arrived on the scene and he was not your ally, you did best to roll over and give up if you didn't want to be blasted off the map. If he was your ally, you did best to let him take charge—because if it was warfare or diplomacy, Gilbert knew it inside and out. Besides, he would have just taken charge anyway. Ludwig had always been hugely proud of his big brother.

Prussia had of course been a stormy sort of sibling and surrogate father, but Ludwig had not minded. No, in fact he had adored Gilbert right from the start, felt as if he'd known him forever even though he had just been born and Gilbert was much older than he. At some point Ludwig's adoration had become desire: a desire to please his gloriously rampant brother, yes, but also a desire to be his, all his, the way lovers were. Ludwig had tried to suppress the emotions but they were always there just below the surface. Every accomplishment he had ever attained Ludwig had done to make Gilbert proud. It did not matter what it was: mastering a new instrument or weapon, learning to ride or shoot or fence or swear, writing poetry or music or demands for surrender, it was all of a one-ness: he had to show Gilbert that he was worthy of the sacrifices Prussia had made so that there could be a German state at all.

But that was all in the past now.

The Soviet had changed Gilbert somehow. Thinking on it now, Ludwig bent double over the pillow and hid his face, not wanting anyone to see or hear his miserable sobbing. At every meeting between all the world's Nations of late, Gilbert had either ignored his existence completely—or had gone out of his way to bait him, insisting that he, Gilbert, was the "real Germany" because Ivan said he was, and that Ludwig was a "fat, lazy capitalist whore" sucking up to America and his allies in order to have a cushy life. And those were the nicer things he said. Ludwig sought desperately each time to see some glimmer of his beloved brother behind the angry shouting or the painful indifference, some hint that perhaps Gilbert was saying these things and acting this way because Ivan was watching or someone else was spying. But this year he had tried to get Gilbert off in another room so they could talk. That had been SO the wrong thing to do. Gilbert had reached out and backhanded him so that, unprepared for the blow, Ludwig had gone sprawling across the corridor to land in a heap against the wall in front of everyone. Then it had taken all the strength of France and Spain, Gilbert's dearest friends once upon a time, to haul Prussia—no, the GDR!—off his stunned kinsman while Ludwig did nothing to defend himself because… because… well, it was Gilbert, dammit!

One had to face facts. It would appear the Soviet had won. Gilbert was his now, not Ludwig's, and the dream was dead….

Call me by the old familiar name.

Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.

Put no difference into your tone.

Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Ludwig wept until he had no tears left, rocking there on the floor and howling like a wounded animal, all of it muffled by the pillow. Without realizing he was doing it, he began to bang his head and the side of his face against the cursed Wall until blood ran and bruises bloomed. How could decades of closeness be wiped away like that? What had Ivan done to him—to them both!—to make this happen? How could God allow one Nation to have such power to do such things! It was wrong; it was horrifying, it was just not right! Ludwig was ashamed of himself for being such a baby like this, but on some level there was just nothing else he could do. Still physically weakened by the two World Wars and their aftermath, still self-disgusted at what his Children had done under the evils of National Socialism, Ludwig had nothing left for himself. Everything he had, every ounce of strength and will, went into keeping his country going and maintaining the façade of capable power that was his daytime persona. Coming home to a cold, empty House at night, unable to reach Gilbert on any level any longer, he could only stare at the Wall in wounded silence—or howl out his ongoing grief. Tonight, England's damned poem had just pushed him over the brink.

Laugh as we always laughed

at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.

Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.

Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.

Let it be spoken without an effort,

without the ghost of a shadow upon it.

Ludwig could not see or hear anything but his own misery; thus when a hand touched his shoulder and a voice called out to him, he gave a hoarse scream like a stallion and threw out one arm, reacting in shock as any soldier would have done. He had one fist drawn back ready to strike before he realized he had a tight handful of someone's shirt—and that a very surprised Francis Bonnefoy was staring at him in stunned surprise.

"Ludwig! Mon Dieu, don't—it is me! What is the matter with you!" cried the Nation-spirit of France, drawing back as far as he was able. He tried to loosen Ludwig's hold on him but the fist would not budge. "Is this any way to greet a friend? I came to see if you were all right—you haven't answered the telephone all evening and I couldn't reach you any other way!"

"Don't. Don't ever do that again. If I'd had a weapon I'd have shot you. Heilige Christus, France!" Ludwig choked on the words, his voice rough with grief. "Do I look all right? Just go away, leave me alone!" But he could not seem to open his fist. His whole arm and hand were shaking with the effort to loosen up, but the limb would not obey him. Ludwig stared at it, then at Francis. In a very small voice, he added: "I can't let go."

"Oh, garçon chéri," Francis murmured on a note of pain. "You have to stop doing this. It is what it is. Surely he won't be gone forever."

He began to lightly stroke Ludwig's clenched hand. The German winced.

"What are you doing? Stop."

"I will stop when you can let go," France replied with Gallic calm. "This is supposed to help you release your hold—it's hysterical anger, Ludwig, your hand cannot do what you want it to until you relax. Just don't think about it and let me work."

Ludwig turned away in shame, closing his eyes and leaning his free hand against the rough concrete of the Wall. Francis continued stroking, talking to him softly in nonsense syllables and a weird kind of polyglot of English, French, German, trying to deflect Ludwig's attention. The combination was strange and hypnotic but rather than soothe, it struck him to the heart. Cried out? Oh no, this was a deep well of sorrow, and there was always more. He put his face to the Wall and wept as a child weeps when it has been beaten past its ability to bear.

Ludwig never even realized it when his hand fell open and he released France's shirt. Until there were arms about him and soft fabric, the sound of a beating heart and firm, warm flesh beneath his cheek, Ludwig knew nothing. He did not know how he ended up on the floor, limp and exhausted, shaking with sobs and tasting blood in his mouth as he bit his lips trying to contain the embarrassing sounds of grief.

"How long have you been holding this inside, you damned young fool?" Francis crooned, shaking his head. Ludwig did not answer. He only flinched a little when Francis began to dab with a handkerchief at the blood on his face and the back of his head. How long? Not long at all, only since 1947… twenty-three years, not so long at all in the life of a Nation, not really… he felt fuzzy-headed, could not think straight. Finally he just gave up and passed out, too tired and too fraught to care if the world ended right then and there….

Somehow his visitor got Ludwig upstairs, undressed, and tucked in. Francis stayed the night, sitting in the chair next to Ludwig's bed, watching him sleep and grieving for the necessities of the past.

Life means all that it ever meant.

It is the same as it ever was.

There is absolute and unbroken continuity.

What is this death but a negligible accident?

October, 1989

There was euphoria everywhere, people laughing and crying, holding onto each other, pointing toward the Wall as sections of it broke away and fell, shattering. Ludwig walked among them, his heart thudding in his chest. Some of his Children reached out to touch him, to hug him, to shake his hand, to cry on him; he let them do so, patting backs, shaking hands, suffering them to kiss him. For their sake he even managed to paste on a smile that looked genuine, so long as one avoided looking him in the eyes.

His eyes… his eyes were worried.

Berlin had already been reunited with her little sister East Berlin, born the day the Soviets invaded. Brandenburg, Thuringia, Mecklenburg, Saxony, Sachsen-Anhalt—they had all been waiting right there when the Wall fell, had run to group-hug Ludwig as if their lives depended on it. Then the whole lot of them had headed for the House to celebrate and pull down the sections of the Wall at home that had separated them all for so long.

"Come with us?" Saxony half- begged, half-commanded, taking him by the arm. Ludwig gave him a quick hug and a shake of his head.

"I'm going to wait for him, Onkel. We'll doubtless be along soon."

The others had looked between one another and then looked everywhere but at Ludwig. Finally they smiled and cried and nodded… and left, to continue the discussion in private. Saxony looked back before they turned the corner out of the Pariser Platz, but Ludwig did not see. He was staring into the east as if he could somehow conjure Gilbert out of the shadows of the loud, happy, celebrating night.

It had been a long road to get here—not just in years but in politics. Ludwig knew via his fellow Nations that some Bosses were not happy at the thought of reunification. Amerika's Boss, Herr Reagan, was pushing for it, yes, but others not so much. England and France had both apologised sadly when they brought Ludwig the news. England's Prime Minister, Frau Thatcher, had actually gone so far as to plead with Ivan's Boss Brezhnev to keep reunification from happening. England's report of her exact words was painful to hear:

"We do not want a united Germany. This will lead to a return to postwar borders—and we cannot allow that, because such a development would undermine the stability of the whole international situation—and could endanger our security!"

While Ludwig was still picking up his metaphorically dropped jaw over that one, this very morning France had called to say, "I want you to hear this from me before it hits the news, chéri. Président Mitterrand called Mme. Thatcher just now to say that a unified Germany could take over more ground than Hitler ever had—and that Europe will have to bear the consequences. I am so sorry, Ludwig—they're only Human, they don't understand. He was in the Résistance; you know how that goes…."

It would take a long time for the dust to settle in more than one way, Ludwig knew.

The wait went on. Midnight came and went; the car horns and shouting, the singing and the chanting, it all subsided—though there were still quite a few people milling about, going back and forth across what had once been a death-line. It was cold enough now that Ludwig could see his breath. There was still no sign of Gilbert, no hint that he might even be nearby. He was not dead, that much his brother knew. Ludwig would have known if that was the case, though he had experienced a brief wrench of fear that the fall of the Wall would mean the end of Gilbert. But the others had said… they said…. Ludwig tightened one hand around the Iron Cross in his coat pocket until the arms of the thing cut into his flesh. Through his head echoed the words, over and over: Bruder please, please come home, Bruder please….

Two in the morning; the street crews had come through to clean up what mess there was, and a night-shift construction team was using heavy equipment to remove broken sections of the Wall. Some trucks went east, others west. Ludwig stood there silently watching, waiting, hoping.

Why should I be out of mind

because I am out of sight?

I am but waiting for you,

for an interval,

somewhere very near, just round the corner.

Just before dawn, he gave up.

Gilbert had not come. So many other happy reunions, families brought back together, but not for the Fatherland. At least, not the reunion he had hoped for, prayed for, worked for. Ludwig sat down on a fallen bit of the Wall, shoulders slumping. The pre-dawn air was clammy and chilled; Ludwig was damp through and through from the mist, his hair falling in his eyes, his hand throbbing from Gilbert's Iron Cross. He drew that hand out of his pocket and stared at the medal—the second one ever made, the first having been given to the King. Until the day Gilbert left, Ludwig had never seen it off his brother's neck. Until the day Gilbert handed it to him and told him to keep it safe, that he would be home before he was even missed….

So much for that.

Ludwig pressed the cross to his lips and saluted it with a kiss. He was too tired for tears, too torn up inside. The long-awaited, hoped-for day had come. Waiting at the House for him were his other States, glad to be home if their earlier reaction had been any indication. He supposed he should be grateful for what had been given back. But his former invocation was replaced with a series of unanswered questions. Had Gilbert decided to stay in the East? Was he a prisoner, or a willing party staying because he wanted to? No way to know until… until….

Ludwig sighed heavily. To go home and get roaring drunk or sit here until something happened to answer his questions… which was the right thing to do? Maybe Gilbert would still come. Maybe there were papers to sign, things to file. Or maybe he would not, would never come.

"Behold the Fatherland. Shit, don't you look pitiful."

For half a heartbeat Ludwig thought the voices in his head had somehow gotten out. Then he realized what exactly he had heard, and in what voice. He did not dare look up.

"Not like you to be late, Bruder."

"I didn't raise you to hold pity-parties in the public square, either." There was a sluggish parting of air; a trench coat brushed against Ludwig's arm. "Give me a cigarette."

"I stopped smoking ten years ago."

"Splendid. Then what good are you?" Gilbert leaned over and stared at Ludwig's hand. "Apparently I can't leave you alone for any length of time. What did you do, bite your nails or something?"

Ludwig knew this game. They had played it before. Like an old record, the needle ran in a well-used groove: pretend the anger and buck up. They had gotten through so many things that way: Ludwig's first battle wound, his first defeat in the field, the first time he'd fallen off a horse… the tenth time he'd fallen. He gave a snort.

"Or something, I'd say." Ludwig held out his hand, displaying the blood-flecked Iron Cross. "You told me to keep this for you until you came home. Are you home? It's yours, do you want it?"

He tried his best to sound casual, even disdainful. It might have worked with anyone else. Gilbert just laughed bitterly.

"What is it with you, West? You really are the prime capitalist pig, aren't you? Everything's all about who owns what, who wants what. You wouldn't know what to do with real deprivation."

Ludwig's guts twisted. So that was how it would be. Stripped of his name, not acknowledged as a brother or even a friend, much less beloved… He turned then and looked at the GDR, and closed his fist on the cross. Closed it on purpose so that it dug into his flesh again, to steel him. His face was expressionless, though God knew what his eyes looked like.

"Ja, because I ate dog meat during the war for the taste," he snapped back, and stood up. "Are you coming home? Or did you just come here to be an arrogant prick like your Soviet master?"

Gilbert remained seated, hands resting on the Wall fragment on either side of his hips. His face darkened; his mouth curved into a snarl. "He's not my master. Never was, never will be. No one is my master. Not him—and not you."

"Then act like a free man, East," Ludwig retorted. "Neither you nor he can change the fact that I'm your brother—and practically your son. Either come home with me or go back to him. There's no middle ground any more. It's being torn down." He gestured broadly, the Iron Cross dangling from his hand. "Look around you. There's nothing stopping you from going anywhere you want!"

Gilbert eyed him in silence for a long moment. Then with a swift motion he snatched up the medal. He brought it close to his face and stared at it, then made a kind of sniffing sound.

"Tch. As if it needed any more blood spilled on it."

Ludwig was breathing heavily now, the hours of waiting taking their toll. He felt if Gilbert didn't make a decision soon, he would explode. "Bruder—for God's sake!"

Gilbert rose, chin dropped, eyes hooded. He brandished the cross like a weapon.

"Is there a home for me anywhere?" he demanded, his voice low, even, deadly. "Is there?"

"What sort of ass-hatted question is that?" Ludwig growled. "Of course there is. Brandenburg and the others went home hours ago to tear down the Wall through our House. I promised you I'd keep a light in the window for you back in 1947, and I've kept my word. You promised me you'd come home and take back your cross—and now you have!"

"Yes. Now I have." Gilbert looped the chain around his neck and pushed the cross inside his shirt. He looked at Ludwig and then unaccountably smirked. "Thank you. Promises kept."

He turned and began to walk—not back toward the ruins of the Wall, but out into the Pariser Platz in its oddly re-configured state. Gilbert looked around like a man considering a purchase. Ludwig did not dare to breathe. Was he leaving? What the hell was he doing?

"The place looks like a dump. You can't tell me you're just going to leave this mess? The church with its spire broken down like that? The Reichstag? Haven't you been doing your job? Don't tell me you don't have reconstruction funds, I know Amerika has been holding your hand since '45."

"You mean like Ivan's been holding yours?" The words slipped out before Ludwig could stop them. Gilbert turned on one heel, snarling.

"He hasn't been holding my hand, Bruder," the elder shot back, making the familial word into a kind of curse, and started slowly stalking toward Ludwig. "He's been doing everything BUT holding my hand. If you don't know what you're talking about, I suggest you shut your mouth before I shut it for you."

"I'll shut mine when you shut yours." Ludwig stepped toward him, his jaw jutted angrily. "Don't assume I don't know. I might not know all the details, but the Cold War has been fought as much on this side of the Wall as it was on the other. Why do you think I've been pushing back as hard as I could? Do you think I wanted you over there? Heilige Christus, why are we fighting like this! We've been played by Amerika and the Soviet long enough, don't you think?"

Gilbert's eyes were murderous. "Oh, so because you got stuck in the middle, suddenly you just magically understand? What a load of Qvatsch. How long's it been, West? How long since you were really starving, since someone was beating your ass every time they looked at you crosswise, since… other things? Never—because I protected you. Me! Well, no one was protecting me—and I didn't need it! I took care of myself, dammit! You can guess, boy, but you can fall short of the truth, too. Don't you dare tell me you know shit." This last was accompanied by several pokes in the chest. Ludwig looked down, and then raised his eyes slowly.

"All right, so I don't know everything. I can guess, based on things people have whispered, or stopped talking about when I came into the room. But you're right, I don't know the way you know," he admitted. He was still angry, but it was shading over to hurt now. Ludwig remembered too late that he'd forgotten to take his medications this evening. His shoulders slumped. "What good does it do for us to stand here and launder our business in front of any listening ears? I'll stop if you will. Just stop calling me a fat capitalist pig, stop making assumptions, and stop being a shit! Just—just come home!"

The last words came out far more beseeching than Ludwig had intended, but there was no calling them back now. In for a Pfennig, in for a Mark… he held out both hands. "For Christ's sake, Bruder—just come home. Please."

It had not happened often, God knew, but it had been known to occur from time to time. Gilbert simply stopped talking. His expression was a masterpiece of bemused surprise and remnants of anger. They stared at each other for several heartbeats. Just as Ludwig was about to drop his hands and admit defeat, Gilbert laughed. Moreover, he almost sounded normal.

"Aren't you just a piece of work," he murmured, skewing his mouth sidewise. "Really, West, what the fresh hell is with you? What a whiner. I didn't raise you that way. As for a place to live—where else would I go? That wing is mine and don't you forget it. I'm taking it back—and you with it."

Ludwig was too tired, too wrung out to be sufficiently on the ball. He tilted his head to one side and stared. "What?"

"Holy Jesus and all His marbles—come here, you idiot." Gilbert stepped into Ludwig's personal space and grabbed him, smacking him on the side of the head when the other's instinctive reaction was to put up his hands in protest. "Tell me you don't remember how to greet your brother when he comes home, and I'll call you a liar to your silly capitalist face."

"Don't call me that—I'm not a—" Ludwig ended up with his arms full of brother just at the same moment when his weary mind caught up with the protestation. "Well, all right, I am a capitalist. Big damned deal."

"Ja, ja, aren't you something, then. I knew if we kept feeding you, you'd just fucking grow. You're even bigger than I remembered." Gilbert buried his face briefly in Ludwig's damp coat. He sounded as if he might be trying to talk past a sizable lump in his throat. "Euw, God, you're all wet and smell like dogs. Have you been out here the whole damned night? What are you, insane?"

"I came out when I felt the Children breaking the Wall," Ludwig protested, tears welling up in his eyes as he wrapped his arms about his brother and held on for dear life. He was so thin… muscular, but dear God so thin! "I didn't have a lot of time to think it through. I just grabbed a coat and came out. Not my fault you took forever to find the way back."

"You little putz," Gilbert snorted, voice muffled. "Come on—I suppose we'll have to walk there, I'll get my car in the morning. Because I'm sure as hell not going to try and fit something as big as you into a Trabi."

"Oh? But I thought they were supposed to have 'room for four adults and luggage in a compact, light and durable shell,' surely you could fit the two of us?" Ludwig said through his tears, quoting the commercials for the boxy little East German automobile. Gilbert raised his head and glared, pushing Ludwig away.

"You're bigger than you realize, Bruderlein. So let me guess—you drove over here in some flashy-ass Mercedes, ja?"

"No, I walked. But we can hail a cab, if you'd like?" Ludwig stared at Gilbert's raised eyebrow. "What? I like walking!"

"Then we'll walk," Gilbert said brusquely. "No sense wasting the money for a cab." He looked about at the nearly-silent Platz. There was a sole police car near the Brandenburger Tor, its occupant talking to one rather bemused-looking East German border guard amid the broken Wall and the useless barbed wire. Up the street toward the heart of the City there were a few trucks trundling through the Tiergarten along the Straße des 17. Juni. Gilbert could see the partly-restored hulk of the old Reichstag off to the right, and down at the end, just visible through the trees in the dimness was the Siegessäule, commemorating some of his own finest victories. He smiled just a little. Taking out a handkerchief, he pressed it into his brother's hand. "Here, wipe your nose."

Ludwig grumbled, but it seemed entirely natural to do as he was told. When Gilbert started hauling him along toward home, that felt natural, too. They walked in silence for a while. Without thinking about it, Ludwig strayed closer to his brother so that their shoulders were almost touching. Gilbert stepped away, letting Ludwig go on slightly ahead of him; when the other tried to wait for him, Gilbert waved him on with a peremptory gesture. Ludwig sighed and walked onward. He could just about hear the unspoken command: keep 'em where I can see 'em. Gilbert might be home, but Ludwig was still somehow the enemy.

Time. It will take time. Must be patient….

By the time they made it home sunrise was imminent; this late in the year there were few birds, but the ones who remained were beginning to make themselves heard. For some reason it felt oddly comforting that the bright light of the new day was coming from the east. As they came to the street on which their House rested, they saw that nearly every light in the place was on. People could be seen moving about inside. The section of the Wall that had blighted the garden and blocked off so important a wing of the place was gone, as if it had never been there. It occurred to Ludwig that out of sight wasn't necessarily out of mind, and that it would be a long, hard road to find true healing. He opened the gate and let Gilbert through; they stopped at the foot of the stairs to the broad porch and looked up at the door. Gilbert's face was unreadable.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, you know," Ludwig said quietly. Gilbert snorted.

"Why thank you, Majestät." Gilbert pulled a face and hit him hard in the shoulder. "So nice of you."

Ludwig refused to be baited. He raised one shoulder in a shrug. "But when you want to, I'll, you know, be there to listen."

"You'll be the first to know. When I'm damned good and ready."

"Ja, well, that's as it should be, isn't it?"

"Ja. That."

Then Gilbert bounded up the stairs, slamming open the two front doors as he had been wont to do in days gone by. "Heia, you amateurs! Let a real German show you how a homecoming party is supposed to go! Somebody get me a goddamned beer and a cigarette!"

Ludwig put his hands in his pockets and stood there for a moment longer, watching as the sunrise broke over the old trees on their property. Someone—probably Hamburg or Berlin—let the dogs out; they boiled around Ludwig's feet, barking joyfully and wriggling, demanding his attention. He crouched down and patted them all, then ordered them off to do their business. A little taken aback at how swiftly, how dizzyingly everything had fallen back into at least the semblance of normalcy, Ludwig stood there staring at the House. He had known Gilbert too long to not sense the tension in him, the things left unsaid. There were too many years unaccounted for, years spent no doubt in terrible uncertainty. As Gilbert had said, it would all be told when he was ready… but Ludwig knew this was only the merciful calm before the storm. No reunion after such a separation as theirs could possibly be this simple. Still. Whatever the future brought, they would be able to face it together once more, as they had faced so much in their past. Somehow… somehow it would all work out. He hoped.

Ludwig climbed the steps and went inside, closing the doors quietly behind him. Another day had begun.

All is well.

Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.

One brief moment and all will be as it was before.

How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

((The poem whose lines are sprinkled throughout is known as "Death Is Nothing At All" or "What is Death?" It was penned by Canon Henry Scott Holland, 1847–1918; he was Regius Professor of Divinity at the University of Oxford, and a canon of Christ Church, Oxford. He delivered these words as part of a sermon in May of 1910, after the death of King Edward VII of Great Britain. The sermon was entitled "Death, the King of Terrors." It is widely used as a comforting reading at funerals to this very day.))