And here, you see the storm cloud of war hang over this man, where there have been many men die around him. He struggles to hold his head up among his people who use mortals to win their battles, for he sees them die. He sees the way their eyes hold fear, then peace, and blood or the name of a loved one slips out of their mouth before the reaper's scythe tugs them gently away like a shepherd's crook.
He sees this because his country is faded, relocated to a place he does not know very well. His land christened anew and himself along with it.
Prussia is as a ghost when he sees the wars the world now fights. He saw Japan's skin blister under America's touch in the Second World War, and he sees the ghosts of the past howl and scream even to this day as men fight with newer, destructive weapons...all because he remembers.
Remembers everything.
Every time his skin was cut by shrapnel.
Remembers the days when fights meant swords aimed at your throat.
He remembers every war.