Author's Note: This is an ambitious project of mine, stemming from my need for more Axis!Finland fics. Welcome to the history of Europe from eight different perspectives, all culminating in Axis!Finland. It is in the same headcannon continuity as Sunlight Burning, Cold Sea, and Wolf and Lion. I'm a little nervous, because I don't usually like to write anything where my political opinions on foreign affairs could become enmeshed, and with Hetalia, as soon as we get into living memory that happens very quickly. Hopefully I'll have pulled off a balanced story telling what I want to tell. Also, no historical note, because if I don't explain it within the story, it is not relevant. Welcome to chapter fics my pretties. Now with extra footnotes, and basic editing.
Warnings: Time is a flexible concept, Resistance!Norway deserves a warning all unto himself, Canada stole the show from Alfred, and Romano's language is beyond insulting.
Eight Men
Chapter 1: The Angel
Nuremberg, Germany August, 1945
Berwald kept thinking that this could not be Tino. Disheveled and clapped in irons, the small wraith was still too tall, too broad shouldered, too unrepentant. This country had never needed a Su-san to look after him. Could he have ever—
And then, just then, the violet eyes turned from the bright sunlight filtering in the window. Tino's face broke into the open, sweet smile that no country but Tino could wear, because he was Berwald's Tino. The smile could bring light to the hardest heart, and the darkest place. The sad brown gloom of the cell lifted as soon as Tino smiled.
"Su-san, I did not think that you would come," the smile was one of genuine surprise and joy. Look at me. Even when I have done a horrible thing, my friends are still good enough to visit me. This is why I love them. Yet, despite the smile, the voice was wrong. Something had happened to Tino. His voice, the cheery prattle of a brook in full spring time flow, was flat and tired.
Berwald wondered if the confusion and horror was showing on his immobile face. Probably not, but Tino often saw things about him that other people could not fathom. Berwald liked that. He was Berwald in Tino's presence. Not Sweden. Berwald, who he had such a hard time getting used to, and Tino just dragged out into the bright light of his smile as though it was nothing. It had to be this quality that let Tino understand his moods and thoughts without any visual cue.
"Oh," with a sigh, Tino shuffled to the long bars of the door set in its stone box, "you're still angry."
"No!" the shout constricted in Berwald's throat.
He was not angry. Never angry at Tino. None of this was Tino's fault. He blamed Prussia, sick and deranged as a man without land could be. He blamed Germany, for being more twisted than his brother. He blamed the Italies for falling and for making Germany desperate enough to negotiate on Tino's terms. He blamed Russia just as he always blamed Russia. He blamed himself for not having the strength of will to stand over Tino, and look after him as he should have done. Never Tino.
Those violet eyes closed, and the mop of ragged blond hair fell across hollow cheeks. "Yes, you are. I did a terrible thing, Su-san, and you should be angry. But this is how it has to be, sometimes."
He just wanted to hear Tino laugh right now, and tell him that the last years had been a joke. Not apologies. "D'n't. J'st. No. D'n't."
And his arms reached through the vertical iron poles (his iron, the iron he had sold to Germany in exchange for a false peace [1]) to hug Tino. The body he wrapped up against his blue uniform felt so familiar, despite the added weight and strength. Two lengths of iron were all that kept him from discovering if the contours of their bodies still fit together like the contours of their border.
He felt Tino smile again, his hunger pinched face still pulling at the edges of the mouth nestled somewhere near Berwald's chin. "You don't want to understand, do you, Su-san?"
"Wh't's t' underst'nd?"
A lot, obviously. They were nations. Nations were complex and difficult, in of themselves, but lots of nations all thrown together like this? It was a mess. An unholy mess. Because they were nations with complex needs and feelings, and responsibilities, and Berwald was one of the worst when it came to prioritizing those. He had done the right thing. He thought. Probably. But to feel Tino tremble in his arms, even as the man clung to him—there was nothing to understand beyond that. This had been missing for centuries, and even now it was fragile and liable to go wrong.
From somewhere down that dim passage someone moaned loudly. A hopeless noise of despair in dawning light. The smile on Tino's cheeks fell.
"I think that's Germany," he whispered.
Berwald just hugged tighter. He did not care.
Tino continued, speaking about people and things that Berwald did not know. Did not want to know. Did not want to admit that he knew. "Prussia sometimes yells things out. I can hear them both, but I can't see them. Which is okay. Because I think I might go as cracked as they are if I kept company too long. You know they managed to convince me to hand over political prisoners? I shouldn't have done it. I even fed their gas chambers," something wet slid roughly down Berwald's throat, cooling his Adam's apple before slipping into the cloth of his collar.
"But I can still hear them. Germany was not, was not in the best of places after Italy went. When the rest of you took him—I can't imagine what that must have been like. All I hear is him crying out like that every so often. Prussia just swears, and yells to be allowed to see his brother, or Austria. Sometimes he just screams that Austria should die, and what he would like to do to him. It's refreshing, really. B-b-better than America coming down here with Russia, and-and-and lecturing him about what is okay to do to prisoners, and what isn't. I know America m-m-means well, b-but he doesn't know Ivan. He doesn't realize how much has gone wrong."
Tino lapsed into silence. Berwald was not certain which of them was holding the other up. Maybe it was just the strength of the hug, towing them through the musty brown enveloping dark when the strength of a smile was no longer enough.
Tino tried to resist it after a moment. Berwald could feel the familiar tensing of muscles about pull away, and the turmoil shuddering in Tino's frame. "Norway and Denmark visited me, you know. Just before you came," Berwald did know; Norway still had the knack for making him feel completely useless and like a monster all in one stare. "I think Denmark was really there to kick Prussia a bit. But luckily, it didn't get violent. Anyway, you don't want to hear about my troubles. It'll all get better some day. Even if I become Russia's again. It'll all be over some day. All the fighting, all the senseless waste, all the ruin. So, I'll look forward to that, right, Su-san?"
Yes. That was the Tino he knew. Bright. Happy. Lovely. Friendly. And at this time, in this horrifying place where something as bright-happy-lovely-friendly as Tino should never have seen, Tino was lying. Perhaps it was for Berwald's sake, or his own, of for the sake of both of them, who were both countries and people. Ones who loved each other very much. And because Berwarld loved Tino, he couldn't let Tino lie and forget, not this time.
"No."
Tino faltered in Berwald's grip. The larger man moved his hands to steady the land he had closed himself off from for two years. Tino stilled for a moment. "Ah? Su-san. We, we can't stay here, stuck in this place for the rest of our lives. No matter what happens, I won't be yours to take care of, anyway. We've got to move onwards."
Berwald nodded, knowing Tino could feel it against his shoulder. The seam on the army jacket's sleeve dug into his cheek just a little when he did that. After the nations decided what to do with the Axis Powers, Berwald would take Tino home, and fix that tear. Starved little Tino must be so cold in that cell.
"Y'r right," Berwald closed his eyes, still trying to wrap all of his feelings and anything that Tino might need from him into that hug. "But, t' do th't, I need t' hear you. J'st. J'st speak."
The smile tickled his chin. It rained on his throat. "Ah. Su-san. You want to be hurt, don't you?"
"No. But y' migh' h've t', t' st'nd on y'r own."
The cold dislike, the anger drifting on the snow of their personal storm. He had never been forgiven. But he could learn.
A small laugh that was wiser and deeper than Tino's laugh tickled his ears. "Where did you find that phrase? You don't like independence."
"I d'n't," Berwald admitted. "I d'dn't. M'ght as w'll dislike th' sun, tho'. Th't's one thin' I l'rned wit'out y'. W're all a st'bb'rn bunch."
Tino nodded into the side of Berwald's neck. "That we are."
Earlier, as Sweden swiped his hat from his head, and walked down the stone steps to the cells, a pale hand on his shoulder had stopped him. He craned his head backward, to look up the steep, inhospitable steps, shrouded in a gloom that could only be produced when it was brilliantly sunny outside, and a building was windowless. It was the kind of building that some nations adored, and others found an eternal punishment. The one who had stopped him was one of the latter.
"Isl'nd," Sweden breathed in surprise.
He had not seen the boy—now young man—since before the war. There was nothing of the bitterness of Norway, who might as well be his older brother [2], in the reserved glance cast in the tall country's way. Simply recognition, and something else, bubbling under his surface. Eagerness, perhaps. Excitement. Something would be happening soon.
"Svíþjóð," the boy acknowledged, flushing a little, as he let his human tongue run ahead of his sense. "I mean, Sweden. How are you?"
The cold blue eyes continued to assess him, and then finally, the answer came. "Fine."
Sweden wanted to continue downward. He had been told, by a smiling America, who looked as though something wonderful had just happened (although Sweden could not understand this in conjunction with the discovery of the camps he had guiltily suspected existed, and the word 'freedom,' which flew far too often from America's lips) that Tino was in the cell to the direct left of the stairs. However, seeing Tino would have to wait, as Island wanted to talk about something.
"I was going to see Denmark," the young man blurted out, still awkward enough around a more powerful nation not to know what to say when what he had to say was not going to be well received.
Sweden nodded, and jerked a thumb at the large dark rectangle of a doorway, questioning if Denmark had been allowed down ahead of him. Iceland returned a nod, excitement shaking his body once more.
"He's down there already. I saw Norway follow him. I hope—Norway suggested that he would be more approachable after he visited the cell block."
Tino was there. Everyone felt better after seeing Tino. Yet Sweden had wanted to, his thoughts faltered. What could he be doing on those steps? Going down to gloat? To say: I told you if you went to their side, I could not support you. I told you they were mad men. I implored you not to go to them, as they would eat you just as happily as Russia was already doing, and I could not put my people at risk by attacking them in retribution the way I could attack Russia and help you.
No, that was not what he wanted to say. Sweden was not even sure if that was what he thought. But the idea that Denmark and Norway would see Tino first irked him. He should have been there. From the first moment of capture.
I heard that it was very short and easy, if that is any consolation, da? Sweet Финляндия [3] just smiled, and let them lead him away, no protest. I warned Arthur that is what he does. He smiles sweetly, like an angel in a sunflower field just before he slides the knife in. They will let me have him, to correct that angel smile, da. This you would like, Швеция? [4]
And there was the laugh, booming out of his memories from the disheveled rush to get to Nuremberg this morning. How long had it been since he had left his borders? Land in war time was nightmarish, but the bombed ruins of Germany were almost worse. This was what happened after a nation was defeated so badly that the strain had cracked them. And it was necessary, and it was right, but Sweden never wanted to feel that coming up through his feet.
"Do wh't y' need," Sweden shrugged, continuing down the steps. To the left, a lone figure was almost visible, back to the stairs, staring out of a small window at a hopeful strip of blue. To the right, Norway stood blocking the way. His arms were crossed, and his face had lost much of the aloofness for sheer disdain.
"I did not realize they were allowing neutral nations in already," he commented.
Sweden felt the winter's sting. 1940 had been a horrible year. He could not defend himself. Had this been Denmark, the worst Sweden could have expected was a hearty slap on the back that invaded his personal space, and took his breath away. Maybe some of Denmark's incessantly pleased, frustrating laughter. But this was not Denmark. This was Norway, blocking access to the right most passage and those cells for purposes of his own. He just shook his head, and headed left. Cold blue eyes bored into his shoulder blades.
It did not matter, what he had done to both of them. He was going to see Tino again.
Outside, as the sun was setting, and the events of the past had unfolded within the basement walls, Ivan found Natalya on the rubble of a building on the opposite street. She looked like a doll, even in her army green. He stopped for a moment, trying to blend in with the plaster dust rising though the air, just so that he could see her: a perfect little doll, her pale hair wrapped in black ribbon.
Ivan loved her. She was his sister. Brothers loved their sisters. Family. Family was all that was left. After fire, flood, famine, disease, and revolution, family remained. Perhaps only in the head of the person who survived it all, but they remained. So Ivan loved Natalya, even when all his better senses—and there were few enough of those left, as they were not part of Family, and not inviolate or indomitable—told him to run for the nearest hills when Natalya got that certain look in her eyes.
Now she did not have that look. Now he could be a good brother, and act as good brothers should, bringing their little sisters gifts. And in return, she could give him the little gifts like this. Times when she looked like a good little sister. A doll that he had to protect. Who cared what was going on inside, if she could at least maintain this lovely semblance to the world? His doll-like little sister, cleaning her AVS. Ivan always disliked looking at it. The rifle was a flawed design, and he had gotten better at making these. It did not matter that Tino had stolen most of his anyway. Still, Natalya held onto hers like a toy, lovingly caring for it, and remembering to clean out the grease storage with methodical efficiency. She liked the complexity of the firing mechanism.
Something made her pause in wiping the dirtied rag around the disengaged barrel. Then with a speed that made Ivan proud and not scared because that was his little sister who assembled gun parts with viper-like grace and quickness, Natalya had the gun together and resting easily against her small, frail body. Surely she was a bird and not a woman, young and terrifying, made of crazed little patchworks he had put together for her to be so lovely and delicate.
Those pale little chapped lips that he has seen sucking at Toris' blood, lifted at the corners. The eyes flashed predatory, for a second. Ivan knew that look. She would hide her true nature, thinking to get him to come to her, unsuspecting, like a deer heading for a hide where the hunter lurked.
As long as he stayed out of the range of physical contact, he would be safe, he reasoned. He had brought her presents, and could not, as a good older brother, abandon her. Just because sometimes all the time he wished she was more like Ketyushka, who abhorred this kind of stain on a person, did not mean that he could refuse her sweet little request.
"ножичек? [5]" Ivan stopped a careful double arms' span distant from his darling baby sister. "The rest of the nations have agreed. Are you sure that you want the first shipment?"
"Oh, yes," her voice was throaty, an imitation of a grown woman's, put on just for Ivan's benefit. He did not shudder, because good older brothers were not revolted by their younger sisters. "They have hurt you. They plotted against you. They betrayed you. I should have killed them a long time ago."
The trucks were arriving. Not there, in that exact place, but many places like it, where Belarus the beautiful waited, gun at her side, invisible, yet there. So strong and in love that the humans in those areas took heart, and were able to steel their own.
In hundreds of other places, Belarus raised her gun in time to that of Russian soldiers, and blew off the head of the first White Russian presented to her. Ivan, protected against it all in his thick coat, with his boss in his ear reminding him of the necessity, did not feel it as the men who had fought the revolution were massacred. They had not been humans. They had been Nazis, sometimes, sympathizers a lot of the time, cowards hiding in England, other times. They had stopped being Russians. By defying Ivan they became less than worthless.
So, it was okay for Natalya to gun them down all over Europe. Tomorrow he would tell her that was enough. Tomorrow he would pick up the gun, and continue the long deadly game himself. Because it did not hurt to shoot an animal, even if it had believed in you, and loved you. It did not know the new way of things. The new way of things was Natalya, giggling a little china doll laugh, as she forced more blood down Ivan's throat.
In Nuremberg, Natalya danced. A little girl dance. A spinning doll that terrified Ivan, because she could come for him next, and he might not be able to stop her this time. She came to a graceful, natural halt. Spreading her skirt to the ruin and destruction, she curtsied to an invisible audience.
"Ah," the sound escaped a clever little mouth that was feeling more like a little sister's mouth than a desperate seductress' this day. "Vanya, thank Mr. Jones and Mr. Kirkland, please? It was wonderful. Am I to get more presents?"
Ivan thought about it, about the concessions Alfred had given him because Alfred was his friend, and did what friends should. He should do what good older brothers did in return. But they were his prizes. He did not want to share. Natalya could have the humans. Punishing them gave her so much pleasure that had nothing to do with Ivan at all, and therefore he enjoyed it just as much. Natalya could have the humans. He would take their nations.
"I do not know, ножичек [5]. I will have to see how much of Germany I get. If it is enough, perhaps you would like some of Ludwig, da?" he held out the peace offering.
The slatey eyes of his darling young child sister caught his smiling violet ones. No. No. No. This was not what she wanted. The smile died in Ivan's eyes. He wanted Belarus to be happy. He really did. He was not good at being a proper nation, but he could be a proper brother. "Ludwig is not to your taste, ножичек? [5]"
Natalya kept his gaze, before throwing herself at him. Those horrifyingly weak arms wrapped around his neck much more tightly than his scarf. He had to bend forward to keep her from strangling him. "Say it again," she whispered happily like a little girl. "I like it when you give me cute names in your language. Make it my language, Brother."
"I know you like your name, Natalya," Ivan replied slowly, not wanting to go down the mad road that Belarus was dancing. "What would you like from the spoils I will bring home? Minus Toris' head. He is mine," Ivan had to be firm about that. There were some lines even little sisters could not cross.
"I only want your name," Natalya whispered , her mouth flat against his ear.
Strong hands moved to disengage the delicate gun cleaning fingers from around his scarf. "No, sister. You have a name all your own. Many nations here envy you."
Again, the child came out of a girl trying so hard to pretend to be a woman. "I do not want their envy!"
Ivan set her gently against the ground. She did not understand. So seeped in war and lies and love, Natalya could not understand their lives yet. So few people did understand, and Ivan desired China for knowing, just as he adored America for not. Belarus needed to remain clean, and innocent, despite her bests attempts not to do so. She did not understand. Her road of madness was still filled with darker morasses that Ivan as a good older brother had to keep her out of as best as he could.
"I will give you Poland," he attempted. "Hungary will be your maid, ножичек [5]. I will get Austria to play his music for you. I will give you Tino. Whole, and unharmed, just for you to play with, da? I will let you break Toris' fingers. Just please, stop this."
Those hard blue eyes frowned. For a moment, Ivan thought that he was breaking through. The day could not be better. He was victorious, and—with a jolt he realized that land he already considered his own was being partitioned. Those fools in the cellar! He would force Arthur and Alfred to submit for this insult. Francis was too weak to be involved in this, and Yao was still fighting off Kiku's animosity. There was no one else brash enough to steal Ivan's land. Breaking into a run in the German twilight, Ivan left Natalya to consider his offer.
She passed a hand over her eyes. The leather of her thin gloves came away damp. Of course she rejected it. Natalya did not accept a substitute.
Much earlier in the day Denmark found himself licking blood off his knuckles, wondering if there was a wash basin somewhere in the basement prison. That had not erased the memories of being forced below Prussia's feet, or Roderich's sneer, but finally punching that red eyed bastard in the mouth had felt good. So what if it was nearly a century overdue? Revenge was sweet as Hell, even past its due date. All he needed now was to find Roderich, who he suspected was going to get away from this with nothing worse than a broken ego, if Denmark was not the one to take him down those desperately needed pegs.
Glimmering blue eyes looked to the side, where Norge stood, coiled like a trap, waiting for something. It had been a bad war this time around, Denmark knew, yet seeing Norge again, that had been good. The simple rush on seeing him had made Denmark as giddy as a child. Then, after Denmark asked where they were holding the German bastards, Norge had stated that he would join Denmark in his little visit. That had been great. It was really as though everything was finally repairing itself. Norge, fierce, unbeaten Norge had wanted to come along with Denmark willingly, not because he had nothing better to do, or because he was required to, but because he wanted to follow Denmark. Perhaps he even wanted their countries back in union. The thought filled Matthias with a brilliant warm delight. Norge and Danmark together.
And there would be more, much more. Matthias had plans. After listening to a drunk America expound about the League of Nations, Matthias had large plans. No! Huge plans. They were going to get together. They were going to be people and lands, and anything else they needed to be. But they would be together and talking, and it would be as though all those ages of war were just happy memories, and they would all visit one another, and it would be great.
Because if there was one thing he could have used over the last five years, it would have been something more solid than a wireless report talking about the continued battles on the Swedish border between Norwegian and German soldiers. Something more real than rebel newspapers telling him that the English had saved themselves with the might of fishing ships, making sad, proud little runs to grab soldiers, and then return to grab more. Something more substantial than meetings that talked about adapting French plans for resistance operations. Something that lasted longer than a whisper on the street that the Americans have entered the war! He had needed something more than a laugh at the damn Prussian and German as his navy sank behind him.
That was how the bastards had won for so long, wasn't it? Allies? Don't make Denmark laugh. They had been separate, conquered, and could not talk to anyone friendly. That had almost done all of the Germans' work all in one fell swoop. The night he had last talked to Sweden had been like a hot drink on a cold day. If he was getting mushy over that mumbling voice ungraciously acquiescing to his desperate plea, things clearly must have been black.
Well, it was not going to happen again, Denmark determined, grinning fiercely at his knuckles where the splits were not healing as quickly as he would have hoped. Now, while the iron was hot from recent shellings and war, they had the unparalleled opportunity to meet and promise to become a full pack. There was nothing like victory to bring everyone together.
"Norge?" Denmark asked, wanting to know what was passing through his old friend's head. Maybe get a bit of explanation about the tail-end of the conference with the Prussian. Maybe even find out what Norway had to say to the beaten colorless freak.
Norway turned his head to look over his blue shoulder. "Yes, Danmark?"
The carefully cultivated blankness in Norway's eyes when he had walked up to the Prussian was nothing like the disinterest with which Norway normally faced Denmark. The expression of fifteen minutes ago was not broken, but ignored memories of pain because that was the easiest thing to do. A man, who had directly faced a furious and clearly insane Germany in 1943, laughing with the miraculous disappearance of hundreds of humans and the ships sinking in the cold Baltic waves, found that he was a bit of a coward when it came to that expression on the face of his old partner.
"Just wondering if you'd seen a wash basin. Oh, and you got any idea where that loud America kid might be? I got a wonderful idea I want to run past him."
Norway, about to answer, closed his mouth as the sentence ground itself to a halt in his pride. Tightening himself, he looked up the corridor, and pointed. "To your left. A blind man would be needed not to see the spigot."
Denmark ambled in the indicated direction with a wave of thanks. Norway heard feet on the stairs. Sverige's boots had a distinctive creak to them, and he had a certain way of moving that was thrown off by stairs. Normally he strode as though he was a small mountain range heading out for the local bakery, and no, that was not strange at all. He was like those stupid tigers on the posters [6]. He fit on the ground, and blended with the earth. But stairs were a complication the gliding step suddenly had to stomp down.
Behind the first set came a second, bounding and leaping. Norway would have blamed Danmark, but he was in search of cleaning supplies. Not Danmark, then. Influenced by him, though. A small smile lifted the tired corners of his mouth. Island. However, Sverige came first, and the curled mouth went hard in a straight line.
First, Sverige looked to the left. Where Tino waited, looking at the blue sky with his pretty little dreams. Not that Norway begrudged them. He understood. When you had the choice between being ground under a boot heel, or possibly lacerated by a whip at a later date, you took the whip. Because there was always a chance that you could catch the flailing end without hurting yourself. So Norway did not begrudge the pretty little dreams of Finland, because he shared them.
But Sverige looked left. To the cell with the best lighting, where Tino was. Then he looked right, and encountered Norway's presence. Norway sneered with his eyes. He could put a sneer into his spine, if he had to.
"I did not realize they were allowing neutral nations in already."
Sverige looked at him. Years of anger passed between ice blue and sea blue. Then the bright blond head nodded. He turned. Tino was more important than his collaboration and guilt.
Behind him, Island carefully trotted down the steps. "Norway? Norway, where is Denmark?"
"Danmark," Norway drawled, enjoying the way the young boy's face went red with embarrassment about his own language. Island could be so childish sometimes. After the long German occupation something as easy as a smile at the foibles of a younger nation was a relief. It was so simple this way. So much simpler than it had been before, "is looking for something to wash—,"
The weight of Danmark's playfulness pushing into him like a physical force warned Norway just before the larger nation pounced. Because it was Danmark, and not anyone else, Norway did not suppress the instinctive reaction, and he whirled, jamming the ball of his fist directly into the blunt nose, his left arm warding off the hug for an instant, before he pivoted in the opposite direction, and slammed Danmark's unprotected side with one outstretched leg, and pivoted once more as Denmark stumbled to the left, culminating the quick succession of movements by pressing one forearm against the Danish throat.
The teal bright wolf eyes danced with hidden laughter as Denmark felt his shoulder blades touch the moss growing stone wall. "Alright, Norge. No more."
Norway leaned in, pressing down to make his point, just as another point tickled his side. He did not ask how Danmark had managed to get the huge axe positioned so that one of the sharp points of the blade could bite right into Norway's kidneys. They both had been relearning the dirtiest tricks since 1940.
Island gulped, and both taller countries looked at him, Norway coldly smug, and Denmark just blankly confused, as though to ask: 'Can't you see that we're in the middle of something, kid?'
"Denmark. I wanted to let you know. Ah. I'm not coming back."
Norway pressed down more urgently, thinking that while he had wanted Island to declare his independence fully, this was not the way to do it and stay in one piece.
With a click, Danmark rested the head of his axe against the stone flags. He let his gaze slide back to Norway for a second, something faintly amused lurking in hooded depths, as he relaxed under the other nation's arm. Then, all business, he nodded at Island. "Sure."
Island's head shot up to fix Denmark with a concerned, frank stare. "Sure? I—I don't understand."
"Sure. C'mon, Island, what did we just fight all those bastards for, huh? You've been your own government now for at least a year, right [7]? Well, if you haven't managed to sink yourself yet, you won't do it now. Not like we get into wars over fishing rights any more, and what else could you do [8]? You don't really need me."
Norway stared, only keeping the presence of mind not to let his jaw hang open like an idiot. All these talks that Danmark had been engaging in with that complete waste of space, America, might have cracked the ancient nation. Was idealism contagious? Like a disease that would eat at reality until nothing remained, but a broken thought.
"Where is he?" A snappy twang broke the shock straining between the two winter bound countries.
Barreling down the stairs, his Błyskawica [9] swinging off one shoulder, Poland, his face showing scars, glared furiously at the Nordic gathering, as though they were responsible for his distress. "Where is America? England, even? Where are they?"
Looking between themselves all the northern nations shrugged. Denmark broke the confused silence. "How would I know? I haven't seen America since breakfast, and the eyebrows even earlier than that."
Poland snapped his fingers in irritated rage. "How dare they! I was fighting before they were, and I was the one who sent my people to Arthur during his bleeding white period! I kept up the resistance before fucking Francis got over his Vichy love affair with Germany. I maintained my land! He promised! He promised that he would—," the blond threw back his head, and began to laugh. It was maniacal, and long. "Of course. Of fucking course. Like kid?" he turned bright eyes on Iceland. "A piece of advice that will stand you in good stead in your new life. Don't. Trust. Anyone. Friends, vassals, allies? Hah! They don't exist. We're fucking Europe. The land just isn't big enough for us not to fight over it. America and his demented brother, whatshisface—Mexico!—doesn't have a clue how lucky they are, holding all that land at their finger tips."
"Whoa!" Denmark protested. "Lay off the kid—,"
"Shut the fuck up!" Poland yelled. "What do you know? You had little Finland to keep you safe from that monster! They're giving us to Russia! Everyone who just got in Ivan's deranged path as he stormed Ludwig's little fortress. If he had broken through your precious Finlandia you'd be in the stew right with us!"
Panting, Poland tried to control his trembling hands. God above, he usually handled this better. But he had been so sure. America and all that blinding talk of heroes and loyalty. How had he fallen for it? At least with everyone else you could see it coming. From miles off they waved sabers and laughed like air leaking from tires. They didn't paint big dreams in the sky, and stuck the knives in while you were distracted by the beauty.
Suddenly as he had come, he had to run again. Maybe with a run, he could get the nerves under control. Blasting past the Scandanavias, Poland managed to settle into a long sprint. There had to be an exit to this stupid impromptu prison. A storm exit. Something.
After breakfast Alfred felt guilty. They had all been eating fried sausage and watery eggs, because there was not much else. The sausage had been stolen by Romano on the way to Nuremberg, and so America did not ask if it had once belonged to humans who actually needed to eat. The eggs had come from another farm, and again America refused to look a gloating Francis in the eye. He just accepted his plate from Canada, and tossed his instant coffee at his brother. A little clean water—a nation could always find clean water—and they were in business.
Miles away, in Potsdam, his boss was was busy negotiating with the surviving leaders of the war. But they knew already the basic outcome. They were nations. It was less complicated for them, who only had to worry about one or two representatives per country, rather than hundreds and thousands of people—how much food had they stolen from the German families? Was it enough for a meal? Enough for a week? Alfred, stop thinking about it! Be like Arthur, the uncaring. They are the enemy. They were the enemy. They would always be the enemy.
Denmark had asked first, a terrible glint in his eye, where those damned Germans were being held anyway? Arthur, complaining about the watery coffee and lack of civilized amenities like tea to the haggard and (to Alfred) insane-looking Francis, ignored the question [10]. Francis was absorbed in pushing the excuse for eggs around his plate, and contemplating berating the cook, who he was certain should have known better, although he was not sure who had cooked the meal. America couldn't be blamed for having been raised by England, and he was the one who had presented them with this shoddy excuse for breakfast, hadn't he?
So Alfred summoned his sunniest smile, and told Denmark. Norway, leaning across the taller nation to put his cup away, just caught America's eyes and nodded. Once. Silently. "I will join Danmark on the visit of the cells. When we are allowed to, of course."
Uncertainly, Alfred nodded, as the two northerners began to wash their plates, although Denmark ambled away in the middle, claiming to need a toilet. Norway followed soon, leaving the empty receiving hall where they had set up camp, and Alfred to catch the breath he had not known that he was holding. The resistance nations, although they were all cool, and awesome, and tough, and heroic, worried Alfred. Because they were all these things, and at the same time, they were angry, and deranged, and beaten, and under handed. Germany had taught them to go for both the balls and the throat at the same time. But the thing that all the allies shared was that they were tired, and Alfred, scarily, could not dredge up the energy to worry about Germany getting kicked.
It was horrible to allow people to get kicked while they were down, of course. Heroes did not do that, as he constantly explained to Ivan. He explained it to a lot of people. And then he went out into the dark fields at night, and shot anything that moved, because god damn this had been going on for too long, and if no one was going to play his way, he would play their way, and he was a lot better at it than they were. When he was done, he felt sick. But at least it was Chicago sick, and New York sick, and Boston sick, and not useless sick.
Not useless sick like Germany's records made him feel. Like the pictures. He had known, too. Maybe not known in the way that Germany had known, but he had known. There was rot and sickness in this empire, and they all had closed their eyes and ears to it. But, damnit! America's fist left a sad dent in the wall, which luckily was covered by the door flying open, and the light that should have been there being completely blocked by a monolithic shape.
Arthur looked up, his expression a mix between disdain, resignation, and grudging gratitude. "Sweden. I'm surprised you came."
The huge nation, who Alfred had sworn was Russia upon his entrance—at some point he would really have to just sit down with a map and figure this weird half-continent out—nodded, stepping through the door. "Where T'no?"
"The cellar, mon ami," Francis' grin flashed a row of sharp teeth that worried Alfred.
Casting a puzzled glance at Canada, who was patiently helping bandage the latest laceration on Romano's skull, Alfred mouthed: "T'no?"
Matthew, who was the only one who could get close enough to the rogue Italy, as Romano had forgotten that he was even being treated for the injury he had received from tripping down the stairs to the cells earlier, whispered back: "Tino. Finland."
Alfred grinned, and put on his best welcoming visitors smile, because when someone walked through Germany's wasteland to get here, they deserved a smile. "Yeah. We put him on the left, just by the stairs."
"He has the most light," England agreed, making Alfred's forehead wrinkle.
Why was that important? Admittedly, Sweden looked as though he could take off heads, but surely they were all allies here.
The large blond started for the stairs, but was brought up short by Arthur's hand. "Er, no one is to visit the prisoners right now. C'mon, have some breakfast."
Huge and cold, Sweden glared, proving that there was something worse than his default expression. "'M goin' t' see Tino."
"No, you're not, you bastard!" Romano spat, twisting his head out of Canada's grip, the plaster on his chin drooping comically at one dangling end. The insult was not directed at Sweden so much as the world. "My retard brother's down there right now, and no one is fucking interrupting him."
Sweden blinked at the small nation, even as Arthur nodded. "We're hoping that Feliciano can bring Germany out of where ever he went when we took Berlin."
Alfred nodded. "And then justice will be served! Here, we've still got half a sausage left," he offered the looming nation Canada's plate, forgetting that Matt had not gotten to eat yet, between being their chef and medic.
Francis snorted at this remark. "I still say you should leave him and his brother to me, and save yourselves the farce of a trial."
"Ivan made his claim long before yours," Alfred replied.
He didn't know how he felt about this. Ivan had promised to be good. He had listened so carefully when Alfred had explained what was right and wrong about the way Ivan treated people.
"I still get a part of them," the wild looking nation hissed. "For everything they have done to me, and what they allowed to happen, I get a part of them. Danemark may be satisfied with a few punches. I want them."
"And I want justice!" Alfred snapped. "This is big, Francis! It's huge! We have to speak out. We have to show that those places they set up happened, and will. Not. Happen. Again!"
England and France exchanged glances. No petty bickering, or arguing. It was the final days, and they were mostly beyond that. At least this early in the morning. No, it was just glances. America was so young sometimes. It was almost embarrassing.
At long last, Sweden sat down, awkwardly bending legs and crouching over the plate that Canada had vainly tried to save through longing glances and pointed throat clearing. Defeated, the second largest country on the earth sighed, and wrenched Romano's head back around to finish attaching the plaster. As usual, the explosive nation did not notice this particular manhandling, which made Alfred grin into his weak coffee. His brother was the best for smoothing over awkward conversations.
Over seven horrible silent minutes later, a cry echoed up the steps. Alfred and Romano both jumped to their feet. Alfred could guess what sent the Southern Italy scrambling for the stairs, given that it was his little brother crying in the dark. Alfred was on his heels, as he had been the one to convince everyone that using Feliciano was a good idea.
"Hoi! Matt, he might be hurt," Alfred dashed after Romano's long boots, hoping that Canada kept up.
The first two piled down the stairs in a headlong rush that threatened to split Alfred's chin as well as the Italian one. The sound of wailing echoed sadly down the corner. Noise bounced around them in a cacophony, words like 'please,' 'why,' 'fair,' 'tried,' 'not,' 'I,' 'everything,' 'forgive,' and 'you' snapping in the nation's faces. As Alfred pounded along, all he could think was that when Romano killed him for placing Veneziano in this situation, he was going to be glad because the noise had stopped.
They skidded to a halt before the three final cells. In the wall hugging cell, Prussia, in an undershirt and dirty gray pants, was beating his head against the iron bars of his door. The regular thwok, thwok drowned in Northern Italy's yells, coming from the open door of the cell two over from Prussia.
Bandaged and bruised, Italy was now sobbing on the unconscious Germany's chest. The nation had not even moved, or perhaps he had only woken up enough to do something to set this off, and then return to the coma where, even if the outside world had gone to hell in a hand basket, the inner one was at least blank.
This had been a horrible idea, Alfred realized, and he, like any self-respecting hero, leaped into action to pull Veneziano from the body of Germany. This coincided with a similar brisk stride from Romano, and the two found themselves in a heap on the floor.
Matt, stepped over the two, one of whom had started to swear angrily, adding to the complete noise. He quite easily pulled the screaming Italy off Germany, ignoring the tiny fists pounding the air, his arms, and at one point, his cheek.
"America! Put me down! I still haven't—I still—I promise I'll make him all better! I PROMISE!"
"Shut up, you stupid kid," Romano shouted from the floor, finally untangling himself from America. He lunged upright, fist swinging to administer a silencing punch. His little brother's fist connected with his nose coming from the opposite direction, and Romano yelped, clutching at his face, even as Italy looked around in shock, wringing his hands.
"Veee! I didn't mean to. Really. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to get in the way. I'm sorry, Romano!"
Tears streaming, and red welling wetly at the chinks in his fingers, Romano kept his hand to his face, muttering: "Stupid crybaby."
America, still on the floor, signaled to Canada. "C'mon, we'd better get them out of here."
Veneziano looked at the sprawled man in consternation. "But—ve? If you're down there, how are you holding me up?" he risked a glance over his shoulder, his eyes going wide. "There are two Americas?"
Over Matt's protest that he was Canada, Romano tried to scoff through his bleeding nose. "No, stupid! That's the other one. You know, the one who helped invade us in '43?"
"England?" Feliciano tried, peering to see if the eyebrows had been waxed.
Romano rolled his eyes. "No, Australia! Don't you ever pay attention?"
The violet eyes protected by glass ovals narrowed in annoyance. From the hall, Alfred caught the end of a dry, rasping laugh. "C'mon, Matt," he said, before Canada could lose his temper. "These two need to be patched up." Heaving himself to his feet, Alfred winced at the wheezy laugh that was still reverberating angrily around his skull. "And we should probably see if Prussia's alright," he muttered unwillingly.
Good nations cared for their prisoners, and treated them properly.
Romano snorted. "Potato bastard two? Why bother? He's dead already. He just forgot to disappear."
"For someone who should have disappeared already he managed to cause enough damage," Matt snapped, dragging Northern Italy into the hallway.
He was still angry over the mistakes with his name, Alfred guessed. There was the high strung note of a tight tension execution wire in Canada's voice. The others ignored it, but Alfred made a mental note to keep Canada just on cooking duty until he had time to calm down.
Going back through the door, Alfred was careful to let Romano go ahead of him. A hero did not squish his erstwhile friends into oblivion twice in the span of two minutes. Admittedly, he was not sure where he stood with the Italies. He had seen what they had done to their boss, and that was going to haunt him for some time to come. They couldn't just go around executing vigilante violence on people. That was not worthy of a hero. There was no justice in dark mobs at night. He should know.
In the hallway, Matt had put Veneziano in the care of his brother, as he checked the brown haired nation for any more injuries than he had already patched up. Romano, now that he had identified Matt as Australia, was refusing to allow 'the koala loving bastard' to touch his bleeding nose, and his younger brother was getting distressed at each mention of the injury. Alfred rubbed his temples, as Matt finally threw up his hands in disgust, and turned to the other potentially injured nation, who was locked behind stout iron bars. America could see a rusty red sluggishly flowing over mottled bruising granting some color to the freak's skin.
"Alfred?" Matt asked, requesting back up, should the old nation take advantage of his opening the door.
Standing firmly, his blue eyes glaring at Prussia, Alfred nodded.
Prussia chuckled, and leaned one boney elbow on the rectangle of the lock, so he could rest his chin on the back of one scarred hand, just like a neighbor looking over a wall into someone's garden. By force of the handcuffs, his other hand dangled obscenely by his heart. "What? You think I'm going to suddenly snap and attack you, Kaninchen [11]?"
Matt muttered something about remembering Normandy, which made Alfred feel confused. Had Canada even been there? He'd won the day there. Of that he was sure. Matt couldn't have been part of that. Alfred certainly would have remembered the presence of his own brother—
Alfred laughed drunkenly, feeling as though his eyeballs were burning. Another American arm brought up a gun.
"Christ, Alfred! They're trying to defect!" Matt shrieked [12].
Prussia, who had once towered over him, slapping him around a training field with the flat of his sword, swayed. Another report. Another man fell. The land swum before Alfred's eyes. His glasses had gotten knocked off at some point and he had yet to find them. He stared at Prussia, who grinned in bitter understanding that Canada did not have. The color from his eyes seemed to be leaking all over his face.
"Alfred! Stop your men! Stop them!"
"They didn't stop theirs."
"Alfred! Alfred! This isn't—,"
"What? It isn't heroic? What's so heroic about landmines and barbed wire, and snipers, and gut, and brain, and faces grinning at you, and people's arms, and limbs and the heads blown open!"
Prussia laughed. It bubbled up around Alfred, making him remember harsh winter nights, and beer, and Francis, and England. God, he could remember evenings on the porch. The smell of a wet dog lingering in summer heat. Ringing out over a spring rain, a little sister laughed, and dumped mud in her brother's hair. Mothers baking all the special meals of the year. Everything that his dead men would never get to experience again, and he would because he was their nation, and nations survived all that, and were able to enjoy it, which was not fair, as that was what the people had made for themselves, so why couldn't the sons and brothers and fathers all get back up again?
He just wanted to erase Prussia. Right now.
"He can't hear you, whatsyername."
"It's Canada! And shut up! Alfred! Listen to me!"
Another shot. Suddenly, Alfred felt Matt's hands around his wrist, and then his arm was forced behind his back. Up and up. Higher and higher. It was going to hurt once he started feeling things again. A fierce growl that reminded everyone present that polar bears were the most dangerous thing in their environment.
"America. Get your troops under control. These Germans are defecting. You do not kill people who have information that you need," Matt hissed in his ear. "I will find your glasses. You turn the prisoners over to me and Arthur. We will take it from there."
A low whistle from somewhere interrupted the silence in his brain as the landscape around him suddenly solidified. Was Matt restraining him? When had that happened? Where were his glasses?
"You know, I've got some of yours, Kanada," Prussia taunted over the roaring in Alfred's ears [13].
"I know. I'll be there when you shoot them, too."
—No . Mattie had not been at Normandy. What was Alfred thinking? His brother should never see him like that. It was Chicago crazy, blown out of proportion, and he did not want anyone he counted on to see that side. Really, he did not want anyone to see that side.
Which was probably why Romano was refusing to let Veneziano talk about how sorry he was for having punched his brother. Indeed, as he listened to the two Italies, Alfred had to keep himself from breaking into a real smile. He was facing Prussia, the deranged, who just might attack Matt, as the good-hearted man played the ministering angel. Alfred could not let himself be distracted by how great it was to see the two Europeans act the way real brothers should.
Not to mention that Romano apparently was hyper aware when his actions caused others happiness [14], as he shifted his glare from his brother to Alfred. "What is it, fatty bastard? If you're even thinking anything perverted I'll break your shins."
That brought Alfred up short. "Wait. What? Perverted? Heroes don't think anything perverse, I'll have you know! It's just nice seeing two brothers helping each other after everything that's happened, you know?"
"I'm not helping him!" Romano shoved his younger sibling from the clinging hug that Veneziano had established with both hands, smearing blood on the bandages holding Northern Italy's side together.
Veneziano, still feeling wobbly, and useless, fetched up against the wall with a sniffling sob. "But—But America was right, Lovi. It's nice to see people helping each other like Gil-nii-san and Australia."
That made Alfred swing back to glare at Prussia, who had practically collapsed against the bars in silent laughter, before glaring up at Matt, who had a ferocious scowl on his face, as he tightened the white cloth he was wrapping around the silver head. "Hey! That's my skull you're crushing, Kanada."
"It's Canada," Matt repeated, staring angrily at the little Italy, before his face fell, and he looked down at Prussia. "Wait. Oh! I'm so sorry. I'll fix that. I'm really sorry. I forgot I had the bandage in my hands. I have to apologize. I didn't mean to hurt you. Er, that time, anyway. I'm very, very sorry."
Romano snorted. "What for? Fixing him up so that he can be in perfect health so he can watch the winners dismember his brother?"
Alfred swung back to Romano, his eyes wide with innocence that crumbled under acidic experience. "W-we're not going to dismember Germany."
South Italy's smirk was just a shade too knowing. "Oh? Is that not heroic? You're going to partition him. You don't need to lie to us. Potato bastard is going to get what he deserves."
Prussia suddenly threw himself against the bars, snarling. "You backstabbing little bitch! Ludwig protected you, and you couldn't wait to fuck him over as soon as you could. Hell, I'll bet you offered yourself to the precious Allies as soon as they landed. Rolling on your back like a slut as soon as big cheerful hero looked your way. You've been looking after his vital regions since the twenties [15]!"
Matt yanked hard on the bandage, pulling the crazed man away, just as Romano lunged for the door. Alfred stepped in the way, holding his hands out. Romano screeched something about potato bastards and sucking wurst. Alfred listened with only half an ear. Over Romano's shoulder Veneziano had fallen to his knees, large tears slipping from his eyes. This had been the worst idea he had ever had—he should have known that as soon as Arthur said it might work he was in trouble.
"Matt?" Alfred tried to call above the furious Italian torrent. "I'm going to take these two upstairs. Join us when—,"
Matt held up open palms to indicate that he had finished securing the bandage. Unfortunately, this meant that he was no longer restraining the enemy, and Prussia thudded against the door to his cell once more, trying to get at Romano.
Alfred quickly hustled the angry Italian toward the stairs, picking up his brother on the way with one hand. He stared back, only to see Canada unlocking the door, slipping through, and closing it again carefully. The click of the key in the lock echoed above the string of profanity and sobs coming from the southern nations. Alfred breathed a sigh of relief, propelling his captives forcibly up the stairs.
At the top, he was met by disinterested green, and an interrogating ice blue set that countered the fevered warmth of the final pair of blue. Arthur moved first, stretching, his tattered leisure book falling to one side.
"Good. The frog was planning on sending out a search party. What happened?"
Alfred didn't meet those eyes. Nor did he admit to anything. Especially not the mistake that sending the Italian down to try to revive Germany had been. "Northern Italy had no luck, and then Prussia got smart with Southern Italy."
Francis chuckled, walking over to the group of three. The chuckle was not nice. "Gilbert would. He is so filthy minded when his frérot is in real trouble. Oh well, his lesson will come in time. Perhaps he actually will dissolve as he is supposed to," Francis perked up. "Ah, Alfred, mon cher, we have put you to too much trouble. Let me take those petits garçons from your strong arms."
"Fuck off you debosciati francese [16]," Southern Italy growled, still trying to struggle out of Alfred's grip.
Sweden stood once more, his expression stating that no-one would get in his way this time. "'M goin' t' Tino."
From behind Alfred, a throat was cleared. "Ah, probably not this very instant?"
Sweden loomed. His shoulders alone deserved shadowed mists, given the majesty of his intimidation. Alfred thought that he was going to be squashed by the hand reaching for the long truncheon. Behind him the voice piped up again: "He's sleeping just now. It was a bit of a journey to get here."
Sweden continued looming for a second, and then something made him slump a little. "'M goin' out."
"Careful, cher," Francis warned, practically purring as he sidled closer to the large nation who, Alfred could not help noticing, flinched slightly in disgust. "La Russie and his charming cadet are out there. Although, in all fairness, I'm not certain if our ally knows that the angel dogged his footsteps. Is something the matter, Angleterre?"
Alfred had to agree, once he managed to tear his eyes from Sweden, that Arthur looked ill. More ill than he did on Alfred's birthday, even. Or perhaps it was not the same kind of illness. Had he eaten something unusually rotten? But all that would have been objectionable to his pallet from their breakfast was the coffee, and Alfred had seen him drink that even while complaining.
"Nothing, Frog," the island nation snapped, meeting Alfred's eyes. They both turned away blushing in shame.
Heroes don't do this, Alfred thought mournfully. We both know what is going to happen. Shouldn't one of us stop it?
Distracting himself, he smiled widely at France. "Sorry, but I think I'll take Northern Italy to bed. He needs some rest."
Not even noticing the way Francis had to restrain himself from making a comment in rejoinder to his first statement, Alfred ploughed away. Anything to get out of the hallway and Arthur. They both knew, of course. They had agreed. But no one else had to know. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Heading quickly to the left hallway, he closed a door only held in its frame with hope and a bit of rust where a nail had once been.
At last, he could drop Romano. Veneziano clung unhappily to Alfred's side, until Matt, who had followed, much to Alfred's surprise, disentangled him. Romano sneered at the two continental thirds. Alfred found himself wanting to wipe that expression off the arrogant face. Still, all he really wanted now was a handy wall, and five minutes to arrange his head. Five minutes.
Eventually, those five minutes lapsed into fifteen, and all four had sort of slid into a more horizontal position. That was the only conclusion that Alfred could reach. Last he recalled, they were all standing, with various expressions disdain and unhappy tiredness, and then they were all leaning against the walls, or stretched out on the floor. A gentle slide must have occurred somewhere in there.
Looking over, Alfred met Matt's eyes. Canada had the bruised Veneziano sucking his thumb in his lap. Alfred focused on the bandages on the European's side, and the arm stuck in its sling. Had they done that to him? Had it been his planes? Why hadn't Romano at least spoken up? Switzerland certainly did when Alfred made a mistake like that. Alfred had never come so close to short sudden death before in his life. If the rumors were true, and the deranged hermit had taught Austria how to fight, why did the silk clad nation suck so badly?
And had those wounds been him, flying overhead, pacifying things?
Because no matter what any of the Europeans said, Europe just looked like Europe to Alfred, especially through a bomber's sight. He could not tell what river or mountain belonged in what nation. Weren't they all alike? And why did they get so angry at him, anyway? None of them knew his states. A few knew the important cities. But they wouldn't be able to tell his states apart even with a road map. The west would be a jumbled mess of blocks to them, until they saw California, who was tall—among states that averaged five apples in height, although he blamed the New England states for bringing the average down, personally—and tan, and Europeans could remember her. But the Europeans, even Arthur, who had many painful memories buried with those states, could not tell the rest apart (and anyway, Vermont thought it was funny to pretend to be all of New England, until it managed to annoy both Massachusetts and New Hampshire enough that the big brother and sister pair attacked with snowballs, which inevitably lead to a small tussle, and Vermont stealing everyone's wallets, before threatening to succeed to Canada, until it was reminded that it hated French Canadians and Quebec's house would suddenly become a lot closer [17]).
Alone in a stupid German city, on land that was not his, Alfred suddenly wanted to cry.
"Hey?" Matt asked, knowing from the rare frown on Alfred's face that something had gone wrong. "What is it?"
Alfred tried to smile at his brother. "Just thinking about Vermont, of all the weird things. Could you imagine Francis trying to talk to it? Or any of them trying to tell it apart from New Hampshire. They'd fail, and then be looking for their ankles. They, they—I want to be home, Matt. They're so messed up here."
Matt, who had been stuck with England since 1939, just nodded. He knew, and Alfred was glad that he wasn't lecturing about America's lack of responsibility for not joining as soon as possible. That was one thing Alfred was spared. He did not want to have to explain how he hated this place, and had hated it since the mustard gas and muddy death in the first war. How each time he came back, the countries were just a bit more twisted, and still thought themselves so much better.
They waited again, for some minutes, as Alfred let the feeling wash over him and through him. Then the homesickness left, taking with it cheery memories of the states being themselves. He continued to look at Italy, sleeping uneasily in Canada's lap. "Why's he still wounded, Matt?" America asked eventually.
Canada shrugged.
"Was it one of my, er, geographically challenged raids? I have been on a few recent ones. So has Arthur."
Matt smiled bitterly, a smile saying that he knew more about those raids than either of them wanted to admit. "No. He's had these since he fell."
"Germany left them," Romano snapped from somewhere near Alfred's feet, making the American jump in surprise.
Recovering his breath, Alfred hoped that Romano had not heard the earlier conversation with Matt. "Jeeze, Italy Romano, I thought you were asleep."
Romano snorted, pillowing his head with his hands as he looked at the blank stucco ceiling. "Hah. Like anyone could with you getting all faggy and weepy on Australia's shoulder."
Alfred shook his head at Matt, who he noticed stealthily drawing back a combat boot to kick Southern Italy. Man, Matt was taking the implications that he was Australia personally today. Usually he just ignored it when Francis could not remember his name, or Arthur took to calling him "Commonwealth!" in defense.
As a distraction, Alfred turned his mind back to Italy's wounds. "Germany did this?"
Snarling Romano answered contemptuously. "Yeah. Feli's so fucking weak, he can't even heal them," Alfred got the feeling that Romano was not speaking about the lack of leadership Italy was undergoing. Feliciano the person was too weak to heal his scars. And that scared Romano. "You'd never think that he used to control the best merchant marine on the Mediterranean. That the Arsenallotti were valued in every single empire as the best ship builders the world knew. That he grew up with Milano politics all around his stupid retard ears [18]. That-That—shit. I sound like him when he's in maudlin mode."
"It's interesting," Matt ventured.
Romano lifted a dismissive, defiant finger toward the ceiling. "No, it's not. The shit's fucking boring. Potato bastard's got it coming to him, though. That's all I gotta say. He's gonna pay for everything he did to us."
Alfred, thinking of trucks and ships heading east, and Germans defecting because they had only signed up to fight Russians, suddenly felt anger. Who was Romano to make damn judgments like that? "Romano, did you know about his camps?"
Canada stiffened next to him.
Romano was quiet for a moment, and then: "Me ne frego [19], America! I was Axis, remember? You think when you've got three potato bastards, your own idiot of a brother and friggin' Ivan the violently terrible leaning over you the whole time, you're gonna argue too loudly? I did my best to see to it that they weren't too badly off. It never was Poland or Austria's little tours of horror. Hell, when the potatoes were attacking Feli, and gonna grab and gas the whole lot of them, my people got them to safety! They were just humans, anyway."
America, almost ready to let things go as too complicated and dark for a hero to handle without a big flashlight, felt punched by the last few words. "They? Nobody is just human. They were your people. How—,"
Romano sat up, his eyes burning. Sticking his nose in the air, looking particularly like Arthur, Alfred thought with a roll of anger, he crossed his arms. "You're so young, and such a naïve bastard. How many civil wars have you had? Have you seen your fourth century yet? I've seen more humans come and go in horrible ways that you ever will. I've been to your place, America. You can't even keep track of half of your people. And I've noticed that the ones you do remember tend to be potatoes, and only the ones who've been there as long as the damn eyebrows. You make me sick, going on about ideals, and idiocy. You've infected Feli with it, too, making him even more confused."
"I haven't stuck any of mine in—," the lie died even before Romano could begin to shred it.
"Sure you have! Genocide's a fucking ugly word, America, but you'd know all about that. Wasn't there a time when you were browner than me? You, too, Australia, thinking you're so innocent and perfect. And here you go judging us, saying from on high that there will be justice. Fuck justice. You can have it, if you want it. I'll take fucking vendetta. Judge me if you dare! You've done the same thing to your humans. Me ne frego."
Alfred swallowed, wanting to hide from the angry Italian. He wanted to curl up in shame around the huge secrets like the White Russians heading back to Russia and the execution that they knew awaited them. Like all the times he had been unkind to his minorities. Like every time he had ever allowed his bosses agree with Germany's boss. Like the monster he let war turn him into. He hated Europe for throwing this all back in his face. For reminding him that he was the shittiest hero on the planet.
Prussia adjusted the snug bandage about his forehead once again when a shadow cut across what little light was left in the damp stone box he had been given. Looking up, he groaned. He should have been expecting this visit. The accidental side trip of the Italian party had been a nice surprise. This wasn't.
Denmark grinned down at the pale nation. "Hej Preussen. Haven't seen you since—well, haven't seen you for a while. I only got in last night."
Okay, they were playing friendly? Gilbert could play friendly. "Hallo, Dänemark. I wish I could say this was unexpected. You do love surprising people, don't you?"
"Yup. C'mon, Gil," the way the name rolled off Denmark's tongue made Prussia grit his teeth. No one should be that familiar with his human name, aside from Francis and Antonio, but they did not count. West could have used it as well, but he never did. Denmark was near the top of the list of people who should not have access to Prussia's human name like that, "you should get up to greet me."
Since Prussia was lying on his bare cot, and quite liked that position, thank you, he stuck a finger in the air. "Maybe I'm not a big fan of getting my face flattened."
Denmark chuckled. "Oh, Preussen. That won't save you. I have a key."
Prussia laughed wheezily. "Doesn't everyone?"
"Mmm?" from the scrapings that he heard, Gilbert suspected that Denmark was trying to make the sticky lock unlock.
Planning carefully, the sheet white man pushed himself up on his elbows. He was starved, hand cuffed, and his ankles also had iron cuffs wrapping around them. He had been about to ask the blonde Canada for something to put between his skin and the raw rubbing iron, but that would have meant looking like a pansy in front of the traitorous, disloyal Romano, which was not on the list of geil. So he had accepted the head bandage—another sign of pansiness, but he had tried to beat his own head in, out of sheer frustration as Feliciano screamed everything that Prussia could not, because he hadn't seen Ludwig for days—and let the medic leave. Well, it was better than Vash Zwingli as your resident physician.
Right, plan. So, he was at a disadvantage, even though Denmark was pretty hollow, as well, and Prussia knew where a lot of his wounds were hiding. If he was quick, Prussia could knock Denmark down, and bolt for the exit to the wine cellar before anyone noticed. Then he would—his plan trailed off here in a morass of confusion, but it was a good plan, and he could improvise in any situation. He was Prussia, and he was awesome.
However, this only worked if Denmark was alone. Prussia craned his neck, peering at the dim shapes. A round sailor's hat caught his eye, and he felt his face go cold from blood loss. Oh Scheiße. Norwegen. Of course Denmark would drag him along. This was going to hurt. A lot. If Prussia was very lucky, they wouldn't try to partition his non-existent nation between the two.
He rested against the thin pallet once again, trying to get comfortable. "Oh, just thinking everyone has keys. I managed to snatch America's this morning, but Canada made me give it to him."
Prussia was a little surprised by the way the mention of Canada forced the large country to halt for a moment, looking confused. At some point, Prussia vowed, he was going to discover the secret to that invisibility field that Canada projected. One, it was useful, and two, the sheer power of it scared the living daylights out of Prussia. Right now, however, he could have used it, because while Denmark fussed with an unfamiliar lock and key in the dark, Norway's bottom of the sea rift eyes were on him. Nations know when they are being watched.
Norway wasn't even taller than Ludwig. He was not the type to be called intimidating, and indeed, when Prussia had been venting his frustration about that pathetic(ly good at killing Ludwig's people) resistance, there had been no second thoughts. Slide the knife in, make it twist, make it turn, ask the question again. Antonio had taught him that. Now, however, that chilly, unconcerned stare had Gilbert worried.
The door creaked as it swung open, and Denmark stepped through. On the bed, Gilbert grinned weakly. "Please remember that I bruise easily."
"Oh, I will, Preussen."
The first punch hurt. It ran like electricity down his spine, and that was a miracle, since it had been his head that Denmark had hit. Prussia felt the left side of his face ballooning, as Denmark crawled onto the bunk, straddling Prussia's shins. That just gave the man better leverage and angle for raining down blows on the hunger skinny frame.
Pain happened. It happened a lot. It happened thoroughly. But it was honest pain. It wasn't the cruel pain of piano wire and forced drownings. Prussia was glad for that. At some point they were going to let Francis in on him, and then the real fun would begin. Prussia had not been nice. Part of it had been orders, part of it had just been the sheer thrill of turning everything they had learned together on his old friend—It was a decent fucking pay back for Napoleon, Prussia had thought. So Gilber had used all his friends had given him. From Antonio how to poison the mind so that the victim did not know what the color of the sky was, unless you told them. Francis had brought him up in the ways of the body. But France was not happy about Vichy. Especially the part where Prussia had presented Francis to Ludwig, trussed up, and Ludwig went red, and then rejected the gift—which had only added insult to injury.
Yeah, Denmark could have done worse, and legitimately probably should have. Instead, he repeatedly punched Prussia for a long time. IT HURT. But that was curable. All of Denmark's neighbors were used to the way the old Viking dealt with problems. Norway, watching from the shadows, worried Gilbert each time he came out of his daze. Gilbert had no idea how Norway went about achieving revenge.
Then Denmark sucked a knuckle, and the rhythm broke for certain this time. "That'll do," he commented reflectively, looking down at Prussia, a smile hovering just on the corner of his expression. "Too bad there wasn't a battlefield between us, huh?"
Gilbert just panted, thinking that had there been a battle, and he was doomed to be defeated—not that he ever would have. He was a military genius—a lot worse would have happened. Gilbert unresisting, and clad in irons wasn't ever going to excite the Dane's blood lust, and more ancient instincts.
Denmark, not caring about the answer particularly, climbed off the prone form. He saluted, and strolled into the shadowy corridor, lit down at this end by greens and blacks leeching to browns. Gilbert, though a swelling eye, could just see the man turn in profile. "Norge?"
But the owner of the sea blue eyes slipped into the room with the beaten Prussia. Gilbert waited. Norway remained silent. Seconds crawled by. Still Gilbert waited for the violence. None came.
"All right, what are you going to do?" the warrior nation asked combativly. If he could have moved his upper arms, he would have crossed them. "'Cause if you're just gonna be creepy, Ivan's better at it than you, so you might as well help me up, and unlock Lutz's cell, or at least just tell me how he's doing."
Norway bent over, so his soft-still-a-boy's-mouth was tickling Prussia's earlobe. "Just watching. I've considered it for a long time, but as you are just an ex-nation, any harm I inflict on you will not be replicated in your land, and therefore it will not make you feel guilty enough for what you have done. So, I will watch. Just as you will watch as France, England, America, and Russia divide your brother before your eyes. What was it you said: 'big brothers are supposed to protect the little brothers'? Or was it 'do not get attached'?" Norway chuckled grimly. "Tell me, have you followed the advice that you gave to little Hannover?"
And then he reached over, and pressed on Prussia's side, which was how Gilbert discovered that Denmark had broken a rib.
When the period of black out agony had passed, the Scandinavians were gone. The echoes of Gilbert's screaming had also died enough so that he could hear, up the passage, Feliks' familiar twang. The distressed edge to it was such as a strong reminder that Prussia was brought back to well before the 1800s, and had to crawl panting out of the sewers of memory.
The slap of boots against slick flags filled his ears. This was not the best circumstance of the day. The only person who he wanted to see was Ludwig, so he would at least know if the fragile idiot was all right. If he was going to expand this definition to people who he did not not-want to see, then he would not object to another visit from Canada, preferably involving morphine, or something that England had pumped China full of in times past. But someone with medicine, or something to help make this better.
Poland was not even on the list of the partially-tolerated. They had too much history together. Poland was like an Eastern equivalent to France, only without the fun bits where they got drunk together, and enjoyed each other's company. However, contact from the world was still contact, and he had forgotten to ask most of his visitors today, so Gilbert tried to get up. He fell off his bunk with a crash that was loud enough to pause Poland in his headlong flight.
Peering into the dim cell, the long-haired nation caught Gilbert's pale shape easily. "Prussia. If I cared, I'd want to know why you were on the floor, but I don't, so don't start. I need the exit to this damned place, so if you know, make it snappy."
Wriggling on his stomach produced some horrifying sensations, and Gilbert stopped, only to look up at Feliks. "Hey, look I have an excuse to be a bitch. I can barely move. What's got your panties in a bunch?"
"I'm leaving," Poland replied, looking around for an exit.
Feeling his only lead slipping away, Gilbert tried to literally lunge after it. He ended up in the bottom corner of the cell door, sweating from the effort of staying conscious around the broken rib. "C'mon, Feliks. I'll tell you whatever you want. Just please. Please do me this one favor."
Feliks tried to calibrate his expression to bore into Gilbert. It did not quite work out, because Prussia eyelids were fluttering shut, and snapping open rapidly, like someone trying to stay awake. God, when Ivan got his hands on this one—I repeat, fuck Yalta—Prussia would willingly go into a state of dissolution."Like, what kind of favor?"
Gilbert licked his lips, wondering how to say it, now that he was huddled at Poland's feet. This was not entirely unprecedented, but he had never been this helpless before, and usually it was the other way around. "Ludwig. They haven't let me see him since he was brought in. I don't know what's happened with him, other than it made Feli very unhappy. Just tell me. P-p-p—," it was hard to say, especially to Poland, but he had to, "—p-please."
"Did the great Gilbert Beilschmidt just ask for something? Politely?" Feliks tittered, making irritation run up Prussia's spine. "The world might stop spinning. But I need directions out of here, Prusy."
Gilbert growled in the back of his throat. "You know how I feel about your human language and my name."
"Ah-ah," Poland wagged a disciplinary finger. "I'm the one granting you a favor. I would be careful how you speak to me. Now, the directions."
"Tell me what's happening with Ludwig first," the former nation snapped.
Poland put the wagging finger to his lips in mock concern. "Don't you trust me, Prusy?"
Gilbert caught the grim light in the conversation. His expression slid into ruefully bitter. "No more than you do, me. But if this were Toris, I wouldn't make you dance for your news like this. Well, maybe only a bit. I am a bastard," he grinned, stealing the description from Feliks.
Poland nodded. He leaned against the bars. "So—that thing about Toris, can I get your co-operation on that some time in the future?"
Gilbert blinked. "What? You think I've got a future?"
Feliks laughed shortly. "Your buddy Francis was gloating about how you and your brother were going to be punished. He mentioned that Ivan had a claim on all the land that he got before the Elbe. Trying to reassure me that Ivan would get Berlin, I think. But Francis forgot about everyone in between Ivan and the Elbe."
Shared understanding that they had not known since 1657 danced between them. Gilbert whistled. "Schieße. Your allies suck, Polska."
"They always have, Preußen. I think we'll be seeing a lot of each other, if you have the balls to keep Lugwig safe," Poland's dismissive gesture suggested that he did not think Gilbert had balls at all.
Gilbert smiled wanly, and pressed against the bars, the iron seeming to be the only solid thing in his life. Poland looked down at Prussia, shaking his head over the sheer mess he had gotten into this time.
Footnotes and Annotations
[1] - As a neutral power stuck in a place remote enough that it would have been annoying to invade, Sweden still had its work cut out avoiding the German expansion policies. One of the major concessions that it had to make to Nazi Germany was trading in iron ore, which went into the military war machine of the Axis. There are many who debate whether Sweden should have done this, as well as all of the other political dancing that Sweden did in order to maintain neutrality and peace for its people. Some claim that the iron was not a large factor, and others claim that the lack of Swedish ore could have shut down the Wehrmacht.
[2] - Our friendly DNA test/excavation has not happened yet, so no one really knows.
[3] - 'Finland' in Russian. Pronounced Finlyandiya.
[4] - 'Sweden' in Russian. Pronounced Shvetstiya.
[5] - 'Little knife' in Russian. Pronounced nozhichek. I think. I don't know if I should trust the translator on this. Cyrillic is not an alphabet that I am familiar with, even if I had basic competency with Russian, which I don't.
[6] - Similar to the Allied 'Loose Lips Sink Ships' posters, in Sweden used the image of a yellow and blue tiger with the caption 'En svensk tiger' which could mean 'Swedish tiger' or 'A Swede keeps his mouth shut.' I still prefer lion imagery for Berwald, given how interested he is in having a family around him, but there are some definite parallels.
[7] - Iceland's act of Union with Denmark expired in 1943, and they elected their first president in 1944, so technically Iceland has only had its own government for a year. However, in 1940, when Germany occupied Denmark, Iceland decided to take care of its foreign affairs, and maintain neutrality. A month later Britain occupied the country, and in 1941, the then neutral America took the English soldiers' place to free up troops. Perhaps it would be fairer for Denmark to say that Iceland had managed pretty well on its own for five years, but you know those Nordic countries. If they aren't fiercely declaring their independence, then they're trying to force each other to be dependent on them.
[8] - And then the Cod War happened with England. This, rather like the creation of Sealand, which I still have difficulty taking seriously, is one of those things that you should just Google for yourself, then think about the level of sanity in international relations, and feel worried that Hetalia is not as far off base as we might want it to be.
[9] - A custom made Polish submachine gun produced in occupied Poland for the Polish resistance. Unlike the AVS-36 that Belarus has become attached to, this was actually a good and efficient weapon that could be produced in a country that was under occupation for the entirety of the war. I almost thought about giving Feliks a British Sten, given the fact that he would have been there in his capacity as the Polish Government in London, but Resistance!Poland is not going to be left out of matters. And the Błyskawica is pretty darn epic, just like Poland.
[10] - Here is where the American view of history gets a little dicey, folks. Alfred loves the resistance. They were the coolest heroes ever. However, when people talk about France and WWII in history class, they start getting nervous about the way that France treated the subjects that it saw as collaborators, particularly the women who were forced to provide sexual comfort for German soldiers. One can argue about the definition of 'forced' if they want, and others point out that some chose to use their ignominious positions to spy, while others did not, and simply lived the lives of kept women, while Germans were off being murderous bastards, and destroying France. Either way, once France regained independence, it threw itself into culturally rejecting anything to do with Germany, particularly the Prussian side of Germany. Alfred is a little leery of that, because good heroes should be above that sort of thing, and France can be horrible when it wants to be.
[11] - Bunny rabbit in German. Much as I love 'Birdie,' Prussia doesn't know Canada all that well. Just enough to try out pet names to irritate him. Plus, 'Kanada Kaninchen' has some very nice alliterative properties.
[12] - A significant portion of the German Army stationed in Normandy had signed up to fight the Russians on the Eastern front, even though that was a bloody Hell hole of its own right. After the Allies won D-Day, these mainly Eastern/Prussian Germans defected to the Allied side. Unfortunately, nothing is neat and nice like that, and there were some nasty executions. Yay, for war crimes.
[13] - In another show of messy executions and war crimes associated with D-Day, some of the escaping Germans had rounded up 20 Canadian POWs, and forced marched them to a barn in the French country side, where the Germans shot the prisoners, because no one needs 20 odd Canadians slowing them down. Headcannon says that nations often have to 'witness' what their humans do to each other, much in the same way DEATH does on Terry Pratchett's Discworld. They don't need to be there for every detail, but for some of them. Normally Ludwig would be there, but he wouldn't be able to remember that he had captured Canadian troops, so it's up to Prussia.
[14] - Romano says that you would be too, if you had to worry about being glomped by a Spanish pervert any time he was feeling happy.
[15] - Again, I must apologize, as headcannon has intruded. I can't imagine that Romano didn't once follow his people over to America to see what all the noise was about, especially during the twenties, when there wasn't much to do in Southern Italy, but hope that the weather did what it was supposed to do, and that you didn't starve. You could make money in America. Long live prohibition!
[16] - I believe that this means 'debauched Frenchman' in Italian. Lovino can be quite literary when he wants to be.
[17] - I chose Vermont because it's one of the few states on the Canadian border that I know well, and it has a rather hilarious history. Basically, after the revolution New York (which is not culturally part of New England, guys. It's one of the Industrial States), and New Hampshire started fighting over the land that lay between their newly minted states. They both wrote out land deeds for the same territory, and then sent out settlers with guns to settle matters. Unfortunately, when they reached the area, they discovered that the bandits/land based privateers who had been living there since the Revolution and the local hicks who already had farms on the land, and had no intention of paying taxes, especially not twice over, had taken over the disputed territory, and were not going to pay for the deed. There were some nasty, short battles, and New York and New Hampshire both tried to get Washington on their side. The compromise that ended up happening was that the disputed land became its own state-the first non-colony state, so hurrah for it. Basically, Vermont was settled by land thieves, and to my mind has a habit of stealing the neighbors wallets whenever it has a chance. Vermont currently survives by stealing money from tourists, using a new form of theft called 'marketing.' Most of the tourists are French Canadians, who many Vermonters hate with a passion, because they are obnoxious, rude, and tourist-like. However, if you can't get rid of them, you might as well rob them blind as they try to buy your arts and crafts, such as maple syrup. Finally, despite the dislike of French Canadians the successonist movement in Vermont (small as it might be) is serious. They also want to take Western Massachussetts with them once they succeed, I hear.
[18] - Much as I love Chibitalia, I have to wonder how Feliciano is the innocent one of the pair, given what Milan alone has gone through. And Venice is a kettle of worms that someone else can got through.
[19] - I don't care/give a damn. This was a Fascist motto.
Thank you very much for reading. How are the characters being portrayed? I'm nervous with Feliks, I'll admit.
~ MF