Tolys: technically a diminutive for several other names that begin with the element tol- (which means "far" or "distant") - for example Tolmintas, Tolvydas, or Tolvaišas, all of which are pretty rare themselves; Tolys as a name in its own right is even rarer.

Caring is easy. Too easy, for him, and though he has never been quick to trust caring has gotten him into so much trouble over his long life that he almost hates himself for succumbing to it.

Better by far to stay distant. It's harder to be hurt that way.

He is always very careful not to let himself become bitter. His grudges burn low but hot, like a hearth fire, the coals nurtured under the ashes of remembrance. But the truth is that of all of them he fell first, he fell hard, and it's left its mark. Warped his psyche irreparably.

A hand outstretched, a carefree smile, and taking it catapulted him toward an insignificance he thought he couldn't bring himself to resent. Nights that seemed colder even with another body next to him, as he tried to tell himself that he didn't mind fighting for every inch of cover. It was just his husband's way—

Then the same carefree smile is plastered onto a bloodied face, and he realizes what betrayal really means.

If he hadn't cared, would it still have hurt so much?

Another hand extended, gripping his sleeve and pulling him along not unkindly—gentle violet eyes, begging to be let in. And the promise of feeling better is so tempting, winter air so refreshing after Poland's scorching warmth, that he doesn't realize that he is a prisoner in more than name. Snow is not sunlight but it can still envelop him; strangle him, devour him, infect his bones; Ivan breaks him to pieces, smiling innocently all the while, and (I don't want to be loved anymore, take this poisoned cup from me) carelessly puts him back together so that he can still feel the cracks rubbing sharp against all his edges.

By Alfred, he's learned his lesson. Call me Al! the boy (he really is just a boy) protests, and Lithuania smiles a little sadly and says Mr America until the day he has to leave.

(And meanwhile he can feel the hole in his chest, the emptiness where the rhythm of the streets of Vilnius (not Wilno, not Vilna, Vilnius) is no longer present, and he wants to laugh until he's sick, at the thought that now he is as heartless as he always ought to have been.)

It's an endless cycle of dependency, he realizes at one point, standing on the train platform (1940, and the air in Europe smells like death), waiting for Russia to come sign him out like any other piece of baggage. A possession, tossed from hand to hand, wanted. He is fun to play with—didn't Teutonic Knights say that once, in the glorious past that might as well belong to someone else for all the comfort it brings him?

Russia's sickly-sweet smile hasn't changed (does it ever change?). A slight curve to pale lips—Lithuania pulls back, and sees the hurt that smile fails to hide, and for once, he cannot feel sorry. Back, and back, and back, and he is careful not to let himself become bitter. But caring doesn't work anymore. —maybe it never did.

Her hand is black-gloved, and she keeps it by her side. That's the first thing he sees. She refuses to hold her hand out, refuses to smile at him, refuses to do anything that might suggest she has any interest in him at all.

He didn't remember ever actually noticing her, back then; she was just one of the children, hardly the most important member of their family. (But then, his life had revolved around Poland all of those centuries, hadn't it?) Now, she is a woman grown, beautiful and elegant, ever so slightly wild like the wolves that had once been so dear to him, and completely, utterly, obsessed with Russia (just like he used to be) and it was such a freeing feeling. A safe feeling. To know that there was no risk of his love being returned. Natalya shouts at him and stands him up on dates and he doesn't have to work at all to stop her from laying claim to him.

(He is so, so tired.)

Caring is easy. Trusting, by now, is almost impossible. So Tolys keeps his careful distance, and if he feels pangs of loneliness sometimes, well, it's better than losing his freedom again.