They gather in the dining room of the old mansion, one of the few rooms in the once-gracious mansion still intact enough to be considered a room. Less than a month has passed since the Allies passed judgment: barely time for wounds to heal.
For some, there will be no healing.
Of the hundred and more Germanic states who had formed the Reich a mere seventy five years before, only a handful remain: Hesse, stoic and stern-faced, new scars giving him the appearance of a permanent sneer. His hair remains long, but it is unkempt, lank. Saxony, broader and more muscular than Hesse, looking more like Germania than ever before. Bavaria, hair shorn to a golden stubble, pale and looking haunted. Greater Berlin, the youngest of them, wheelchair-bound, her limbs still too weak to take her weight. Hanover and Danzig hover over her, both too thin to be healthy.
Too many are gone: Brandenburg and Bremen and Oldenburg and so many, many others.
The sound of a blind man's cane, tapping its way towards them, and the one nation almost all of them wish had fallen is guided in by the elderly human who has served all his life in this house. The blind nation tilts his head, listening to the tense silence, then he closes sightless eyes, takes a deep breath, and begins to speak.
Anything the gathered nations intend to say falls to open-mouthed shock as sounds no human throat can produce emerge from the nation who stands there, swaying on his feet, every sound costing him in pain. They listen: they must. It is beyond rare that a nation will consent to reveal his true name, for nothing can be hidden, nothing spoken falsely. This nation they hate is gifting them his history, his lands, and his soul; and they cannot refuse.
Wind whispering through forest, the sea murmuring at the shore, cold and bleak winter winds, long empty years alone, wondering what he has done to make his people hate him, the deep never-admitted fear that they are right, that he is the demon they name him.
The warriors of God, the warm belonging when they call him Little Brother and the terrible pain when they call him witch and demon because he doesn't think they can win the wars they start. Anger and betrayal, blood and steel, tangled together in a mess of confusion. Pretending not to care so it can't hurt any more, but it does, it does, and when his new people war against his old people he's being torn apart and it hurts so bad he doesn't know what he's saying what he's doing.
Protecting his people from his people, fighting battle after battle, sometimes not knowing who he fights because he was dragged unconscious to the field after arguing with his master, and they know he protects the unarmed serfs and untrained page boys who brought him there, know he will fight for them if nothing else.
Pain and shame and slow growth, hiding his nature to protect his soul, showing the laughing fool no matter what, never letting any other know of his visits to the infirmaries to help heal the injured and sick, of his preaching in his villages, a young-old priest with sad red eyes who comes and goes but will never turn away from need.
The intoxicating rush of power, growing so fast it strains him, offset by grief as he loses first Brandenburg who fades into him and is with him still but never as someone he can touch, then his greatest king, the one he loves as son, then brother, and finally father, then the shock of the dissolution of Holy Rome, the only one of Germania's children to care for him in any way, the one he'd sworn to protect and the one he'd failed. Grief, terrible crippling grief, holding the shattered ruin of an empire to the world by nothing more than willpower, even though it costs him dearly in land and power, holding until something arises that can bring that beloved soul back.
Nurturing the young nation, teaching him, raising him, fighting everyone and everything to make the boy a man, to create from the warring brothers an Empire worthy of their father, willingly giving everything to the newly crowned Germany, his Name, his soul, becoming One in the oldest, truest way so the new empire would be strong enough to stand against whatever fate brought.
The bitter years of failure after failure, taking all the pain of a nation torn by war, by economic turmoil, by hatred, then by war again, taking the jeers and lost status without complaint, because there was a need, and the people dying in the camps, they were their people too, and he shared their pain and kept it from his brother so he could be what his leader needed.
Serving in the camps, his eyes torn out so many times they no longer worked when they healed, the smell of bitter almond and burning and rot ever-present, dwindling to a shattered skeleton, and still holding all the pain, slowly losing himself to his people, their people, being one with them for so long he was barely aware of himself as a separate entity.
Until Germany died.
And now, he carries the burden and holds his brother to the world once more, hoping and praying that the land of Brandenburg which they share will be enough to hold him, to bring him back, not caring whether he remembers this time, so long as he comes back. A blind nation, unable to fight for his people, unable to do much beyond share their pain. Useless. Alone.
Always and ever alone.
When the harsh raspy voice falls silent none of the nations moves or speaks for a long time. They avoid each others' eyes, not wanting to see if they alone have shed tears. Not wanting to see Prussia's face, to look at red eyes that did not see them and be reminded of the things he had concealed from them for so many years.
Finally, Hesse clears his throat. "Why..." His voice falters. "Why, Prussia?"
Prussia's lips twist into something that isn't a smile. "Is there any other way you'd trust me?"
#
The white Mercedes-Maybach with the Prussian Eagle emblazoned on the front doors drew no attention from the children playing in front yards of the quiet Berlin suburb, nor from the women gardening. The vehicle, along with its highly-ranked passenger, was a familiar sight here, one which would draw attention only if it failed to turn into the gracious Imperial era mansion's drive.
The lack of attention would, perhaps, have been noteworthy if most of the residents of this suburb did not have relatives employed at the mansion. The oldest had seen it restored from the ruins left by the war, and sometimes slipped into memories, calling it "Germany's House".
The vehicle turned as usual, pale gravel crunching beneath the tires as the driver followed the curved driveway to pull to a gentle stop under a grand porte-cochère. The double doors opened, and a middle-aged man emerged, walked over to the passenger door of the vehicle, which he opened, then he straightened to almost military attention.
A german shepherd wearing a guide dog harness jumped out and loped over to the nearest pillar, where he lifted a leg and let fly.
The man standing by the door made a choked sound of horror, earning a laugh from inside the vehicle, and the comment, "It's been a long day, Dietrich. Let him be."
Dietrich rolled his eyes, but said only, "Yes, Lord Prussia." He waited while the passenger swung his legs out of the vehicle then extended his cane in preparation for stepping out. The plain white cane was getting worn again, the rounded plastic nub ground down to near uselessness.
The dog returned to his master with a happy yip, rubbing against gray wool trousers.
Prussia reached down to scratch the dog behind one ear before sliding his hand back in a practiced movement to grasp the harness. "You know, you don't need to stand to attention, Dietrich."
Dietrich sighed. "It's respectful, Lord Prussia."
"As if I'm going to care when I can't even see you," the nation replied with amusement. He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "No matter. You'll do as you will no matter what I say." He turned back to the vehicle. "Don't forget to pass on my thanks to your wife for her Kisel recipe – I'm sure Frau Elke will be eager to try it."
"As long as you remember to tell me how it worked out, Lord Prussia."
"Oh, I will." Prussia said with a wave. "Enjoy your vacation."
The driver waited until the door had been closed, and Prussia and Dietrich were inside the house before he started to move.
Prussia shook his head. "I'm not that much an invalid," he said with a sigh.
Dietrich clicked his tongue. "You say that every time, sir."
"Because he does it every time," Prussia retorted. "So… what do I need to know?"
Dietrich ran a hand through gray hair. "Master Italy called shortly before you arrived to say he and Venice will be late. Something about political matters, I think, sir, but there were so many Italian swear words mixed in that it was hard to tell."
A slight smile graced the nation's lips at that. The northern half of Italy had withdrawn into himself so much since… the end of the war he was now unresponsive, as close to dead as the unmoving figure of Brandenburg – the new Brandenburg – in the main bedroom of the house. South Italy had taken over all the duties of a nation, but disliked them and took great pleasure in using the vilest language at his command to say so. Once a week he would bring his catatonic brother to Prussia to spend the weekend in Brandenburg's bed, since both nations appeared to benefit from it.
Italy had long since come to the conclusion that he was willing to live with "that potato bastard" being back if it meant his brother was awake and well again.
"We also received a rather… uncivil call from England, sir, but nobody spoke English well enough to follow him, and he seemed unable to manage German."
Prussia sighed. "I'll go to the study and call him. Have someone call me for dinner, please? Oh, and if you could see that the dogs are fed and in place before Italy's arrival that would be wonderful." He knelt, and quickly removed his guide dog's harness. "Off you go, Kraus." The dog's fur – it was wavy, an odd mutation that half the german shepherds in Prussia now sported thanks entirely to Kraus's breeding line – was soft beneath his fingers, a side effect of the crinkly fur mutation. "Be a good boy, now, and don't bully the others."
The dog gave a happy bark, his tail wagging enough to thump into Prussia's arm, but he trotted after Dietrich without further complaint.
Prussia chuckled softly, and stood. Best to get that call with England out of the way.
#
Once in his study, a comfortable room whose books were all in German Braille these days – he'd moved all the books from his sighted days to storage along with his brother's books – Prussia settled into the comfortable chair by the desk, and swiped his phone to activate it. "Call Eyebrows." He might be a sober, respectable, modern nation these days, but that didn't mean all traces of the old Prussia had died with his brother.
The calling tone came twice before England picked up. "What do you want, Kraut?" There was a slight slur to his voice that suggested he'd been drinking.
Prussia sighed under his breath. "I understand you called earlier. I was returning the call, but if you'd rather I didn't I can hang up."
England growled something in one of his dialects that Prussia didn't bother trying to understand. It was clearly insulting, and that was all he needed to know. "Your arsehole brothers should have told you all about it."
While Prussia tended to agree with England's assessment of his states, what Bavaria and Hesse and the others were like was no business of any other nation. Besides, none of the states were here: all of them stayed in their homes if they weren't making their regular visits to sit with Brandenburg or needed for some nation-level matter. "My states do not live here," he said. "You spoke to my human employees, none of whom know English well enough to follow your cursing."
England was so still that Prussia could hear him breathing. After a long moment, he said in a chastened tone, "Please give them my apologies."
"Of course." It was – outside war, at any rate – the height of bad manners for a nation to abuse another nation's humans. Prussia wasn't sure when the other nations had started caring whether they were rude or not, but he approved. Whatever his sins – and they were many – that was one thing he'd never done. He stayed polite to other nations' humans, and he protected his.
If Prussia had expected thanks he would have been disappointed. "Right then. So you can take your bank and -" The rest of England's tirade would have been amusing had Prussia been his old self, and very drunk. The things the old pirate was suggesting he do with his national bank were physically impossible, and would have been hilarious had he been drinking with France and Spain – something which hadn't happened in close to a hundred years, and wasn't likely to happen again, ever.
Prussia waited until England finally ran out of imagination or energy, then said, "I do not control the Royal Bank of Prussia. I had no say in the bank making loans to your government, I have no say in your government's ability or willingness to repay those loans, nor am I involved in the bank's decision to take action to recoup its investment." All of which was a fancy lead-in to his next comment. "I knew nothing about the bankruptcy proceedings until I was briefed on the matter by my Chancellor this afternoon." He held the phone away from his ear.
England's furious tirade was clearly audible even with the phone close to half-a-meter from Prussia's ear. Words like 'twat', 'wanker', and 'fucker' assaulted his ears as England's accent shifted from the usual impeccable Standard English through several of his more… robust dialects before settling into his old pirate brogue, which was at least melodious but said dangerous things about the nation's mental state.
The world did not need England acquiring himself a modern warship and going pirate with the thing. It had been bad enough when Captain Kirkland was the terror of the high seas. Spain still had nightmares about that era.
"That is quite enough." Prussia deliberately sharpened his tone into something that wasn't quite a verbal slap. "Half of Europe has already been through the same procedure. You don't see any of them raving about what an evil bastard I am, now, do you?" If they did, it wasn't in public: in public nobody said anything about Prussia, largely because he was an embarrassment to them. A blind nation who was nonetheless the economic powerhouse of Europe with a standard of living at least equal to America's.
The blind nation who had, not five years after the Prussian Restoration, defeated the Soviet Union by defeating Russia in hand-to-hand combat despite being blind and having an army consisting of a few hundred horsemen. That said horsemen had taken a perverse delight in what had come to be known as Prussian Tank Popping and taken out a full Soviet tank division after Poland had begged for Prussia's assistance, well… Add to that the way Prussia encouraged his people to be armed and to train regularly with their chosen weapons, the way formal dueling had become a fixture of Prussian society as well as a competitive sport – and the way his people didn't consider themselves properly dressed without a sword and a pistol – and pretty much everything else about the restored Kingdom of Prussia…
If the rest of the world knew that Prussia himself had written the nation's constitution and left himself with rather more power to decide the nation's direction than any other nation, well… He doubted that argument would end well. For anyone other than himself. He'd spent much of the last seventy years doing everything in his power to ensure that even though it was impossibly dangerous for him to fight on the battlefield, his armies and his nation would be able to deal with hostile action.
Prussia had often thought it an amusing irony that he and Poland had come to be close friends as well as firm allies in the last seventy years, and Poland's economy had benefited from him taking Prussia's advice about working closely with his government. Danzig's Prusso-Polish Economic Zone helped.
England finally stopped sputtering objections – Prussia hadn't been listening to them, just hearing the cadence of the man's voice. "I suppose you think this is your revenge."
Prussia snorted. "England, really. If I wanted revenge -" A lie – he did want vengeance, on England and every other nation who had supported dissolving and executing his brother - "I wouldn't be doing anything so kind as restructuring your economy for you. I'd leave you a shattered wasteland without a single living thing to call your own." Which of course was rather beyond his means these days. Besides, he wanted to be able to see the devastation he wrought, and that wasn't going to happen.
With a thriving economy, a population who believed that to be Prussian was the greatest advantage there was, and still blind, Prussia had long since given up hope that he would regain his vision. It would have healed fifty years or more back, if it had been able to heal.
"You go on believing that, wanker." Apparently he'd taken the right tone, if England was getting back to his normal oh-so-superior manner.
"I shall," Prussia said lightly. "Now, was there anything else I can do for you?" He doubted England was likely to state his real desire, so something like 'die in a fire' wasn't going to happen.
England used the opportunity Prussia had given to end the call, with a reminder that the next meeting was in Prussia and the agenda needed to be sent a week in advance.
Prussia waited until the call was over before he made a rude noise. As if he'd forget. Every meeting he'd hosted had run smoothly, without the idiotic posturing and brawling that normally made the meetings a trial. Prussian efficiency, and alone of the nations he could say what he pleased, simply because none of them knew quite how to confront him.
He took more than a little vicious satisfaction from that.
#
By the time Dietrich came to tell him Italy had arrived and dinner was ready, Prussia had read through the pile of important messages his assistant had left on his desk. It was faster for him to read braille than to listen to his computer read the documents, so his personal assistant Helmine had the most important ones printed – braille printers were still sadly expensive – and set on his desk before she left for the day. His fingers were a little tender from the exercise, but not too bad: he'd learned early on that reading until his fingers bled would get him a series of lectures either stern or reproachful from every one of his staff.
Old Helmut had taught that trick to his son, and he to his son Dietrich. It hadn't taken Frau Elke long to learn, either.
Honestly, he should just resign himself to being nannied by his humans. At least they did it for love and respect.
"There you are, bastard." From Italy, that was a respectful greeting.
Prussia smiled. "Good evening to you, too. Did you have a good journey once you convinced your boss this wasn't a holiday?"
That earned him a snort of laughter, and the comment, "I'm here, aren't I?"
Prussia chuckled, and kept walking towards the dining room. Each time Italy's government changed, the new leader tried to convince his nation that it wasn't good to spend every weekend in Prussia. While Prussia had never heard what precisely was said, he was quite certain Italy made his position clear: as long as taking his brother to Prussia's home – and more importantly, Prussia's stupid potato of a brother – made him a little less unresponsive, Italy would continue to make these trips and anyone who thought otherwise could go fuck themselves.
Of course, Italy was likely to be rather less polite than that.
"How is your brother?" Prussia asked.
A whisper of fabric moving suggested a shrug. "Eh. His temperature seems a bit higher, but it's done that before and he's slid back."
"Ja." It was hard, painfully hard, to squash hope each time either unconscious nation's temperature rose from its hibernation state of around room temperature. There were too many possible causes: a burst of economic activity in their lands, a major power outage – and the inevitable activity people used to fill in time they usually spent on powered gadgets – even just summer.
"The way those damn dogs lie all over both of them, that could be making them warmer," Italy said.
Prussia didn't deny the possibility, just changed the subject altogether. "Oh, Frau Elke is trying that minestrone recipe you gave her."
Italy's distrust of 'potato food' was more than enough reason for the household to provide at least some Italian dishes when the nation was visiting, although Prussia suspected that the praise Italy lavished on the humans for their attempts at his cuisine had rather more to do with the menu. Not that he minded: he still considered the simple fact that he could eat luxury enough.
The years he'd spent as an inmate of Auschwitz-Birkenau ensured that.
"I'm sure it will be delicious," Italy said, which meant he thought at least some of the humans were within earshot.
"The tomatoes from the greenhouse aren't as good as yours," Prussia said with a half-shrug, "But they're still much better than anything store-bought."
They entered the dining room: Prussia knew exactly how many steps there were from his study, and beside, he could hear the difference in the sound of their shoes on the floor. The dining room floor was hardwood, where most of the rest of the house had laminated softwood flooring. The difference in sound was subtle, but it was enough.
"Lord Prussia, Master Italy." Frau Elke's voice held hints of age, which was to be expected: she was well into her forties, and a grandmother. "Would you rather dine here or at the kitchen table?"
"Eh, let's not make any more fuss," Italy said. "We're not too proud to eat with a lovely lady such as yourself."
Prussia nodded his agreement. "The dining room is too grand for two old scoundrels like us."
"Speak for yourself!" There wasn't any malice in Italy's tone: over the years he had become as close a friend as Poland, despite the lack of ties between their nations.
It helped that Prussia simply ignored Italy's language – mostly the other nation couldn't help it. It was a kind of verbal tic that went with his frustration at never being able to get the words he wanted to use past his teeth mixed with symptoms of chorea – an ailment that seemed to stem from the unstable geology of his lands, and was always worse when one of his volcanoes was erupting or there'd been an earthquake. Most of the others made no attempt to hide disapproval.
Oddly enough, Prussia had noticed that by treating Italy's outbursts as nothing important, just a part of who and what he was, they'd become less frequent around him. Clearly stress and knowing there were people who'd judge his every action made the nation's issues worse.
#
After a cheerful meal and Frau Elke waving off Italy's offer to help with the dishes, Prussia and Italy climbed the main stairs of the old mansion and walked along the hall to Brandenburg's room in silence.
Both had followed this routine for so many times it was habit: up the stairs, Prussia's cane not used while he held the rail, then along the hallway, past the open doors of the guest rooms and closed doors of the bathrooms, to the last room on the northern side.
That room had been restored to be as close as possible to the room Brandenburg had known before the war's end had destroyed most of the house: dark wood paneled walls, heavy furniture that dated to the late nineteenth century – most of it scavenged from the parts of the mansion that had suffered less damage – electrical fittings designed to look like they belonged to the earliest days of electricity.
Prussia couldn't see any of it, but he could run his hands over the light switches, rest a hand on the bed and feel the warm, smooth texture of polished wood, and hear the sound his shoes made on old wood. The room smelled much like it had a hundred years ago.
There were some changes: the dresser nearest the door had been replaced with a comfortable armchair, in which Prussia slept more often than he slept in his bed across the hall. Last year the windows had been replaced with newer double-hung things that were much lighter and easier for the staff to clean, and a few years ago all the paint and varnish had been re-done.
Mostly, he tried to keep the room as it had been so that if – when – his brother came back he would have a somewhat familiar environment.
One of the dogs yipped in welcome: Blackie, he thought. "Ja, we're here now."
Italy snorted.
Prussia settled in the armchair, leaning his cane against the side of the chair before he ran one hand along the fold of the sheets until it met his brother's hair. He slid the other hand down to find his brother's hand and clasp it gently. "Hello, West. I've missed you."
The only reply was the soft flow of breathing: his, and Italy's. And the dogs. West was so deep in hibernation he took a breath maybe once or twice a day.
Prussia ignored the quiet, telling his brother of the World Council meetings, of England's phone call to complain – Italy made a rude comment about England and his government – and how he had the weekend to himself for once since his King was currently with the rest of the royal family, making their annual pilgrimage to Koenigsburg and the memorial there to the victims of the concentration camps.
The King's grandfather having been interned in one of the camps made the trip rather more personal for Prussia's royalty than such memorials were for the leaders of other nations. Prussia preferred not to think about his own time as an inmate.
Was it his imagination or did West's hand twitch when he mentioned the camps?
Prussia let his left hand slide down to brush hair from his brother's face, and froze. "Italy, there's a thermometer in the drawer beside you. Could you take West's temperature for me?" He'd thought the warmth of his brother's hand was because Berlitz was curled up under that hand, but there was no such explanation for West's forehead to be so warm.
The drawer pulled open, and there was some fumbling there, then Italy's hand brushed his as the other nation set the thermometer against West's forehead. A few moments of near-silence, then a soft beep.
Italy swore. "Thirty one point five." His voice shook. "I'm checking my brother."
Neither nation had measured that high since Prussia had possessed a thermometer to check. Usually both hovered around room temperature, occasionally rising a degree or two before sliding back to their hibernation norms. This was... Dear God, please let him be coming back.
Italy drew in a hissing breath. "Thirty one point seven." He swallowed. "Do you think..." His voice trailed into a shaky whimper.
"I don't know." Prussia couldn't keep his voice steady, either. "It's the best sign we've had in years."
#
Prussia wasn't sure what brought him awake, but he was quite certain what jolted him from sleepy half-awareness to fully alert: the distinct presence of two nations he hadn't felt in years. In seventy years.
Both were weak, which was to be expected, but they were there. He could feel the borders of Brandenburg becoming distinct again, not the blurred, barely-there haze they'd been for so long.
And breathing: he could hear two people breathing as well as the dogs.
God be thanked. There could be no doubt now: West and Venice really were coming back. He didn't know or care why they were coming back now when there was neither any particular need nor any great improvement in the state of their lands. He didn't even care that West would be relegated to a mere Prussian state when Prussia should be part of Germany.
Hell, he'd even be fine with teaching West everything again because none of his memories survived being shot in the head. His West, his little prince, his everything was back.
His useless eyes were leaking: Prussia wiped them with his sleeve, sniffed to clear his sinuses. He'd have to shower in the morning, since he'd fallen asleep in the armchair again, and no doubt he'd get a reproachful lecture from Dietrich or Frau Elke about looking after himself, but he didn't care.
"Brother…?" Soft, hesitant, the familiar deep voice scratchy from disuse. "Prussia? Why… so weak?"
Prussia reached over to the bed, found West's hand and squeezed gently. "It's all right, West. It's to be expected. You've been out for a long time."
"How… long?"
Well, West's personality was intact. "It's been seventy years, give or take a few months," Prussia said in the gentlest tone he could manage. "You've been out the whole time."
"Ss… so long..."
"Ja, I know. I've missed you so much." Damn, his eyes really were leaking. He'd have to find a handkerchief or a paper tissue.
West said nothing for a while, the only sound the rise and fall of breathing.
Prussia had started to wonder if his brother had drifted back to sleep when West asked, "Who lived? Feels… strange."
He squeezed West's hand again. "Bremen, Hamburg, and Oldenburg didn't make it. None of the city states except Danzig and Berlin survived."
West shuddered and made an odd sound. After a moment, Prussia realized his brother – his stoic little brother – was crying, and he leaned over to hold the man as best he could. It wasn't much of an embrace, but he leaned his head on West's chest, hearing the strong steady heartbeat and rejoicing in it despite everything.
"God..." West's voice was harsh with grief. "I'm so sorry."
"Sh." Prussia reached up to stroke his brother's hair. "I know." Although he hadn't, not until that moment, even though Italy had told him once that West's last words were a plea to Prussia to forgive him. He just couldn't be sure it wasn't something the other nation had said to comfort him in the many bleak times when they wondered if their brothers would ever return.
"I… I cost you so much… How can you forgive me?" Now self-loathing colored West's voice.
Prussia sighed. "You're my brother. I've been where you stood, West. I know what it does to a nation, what it did to you. How could I not forgive you?"
West shuddered again. "I gave your love to Austria. I cost you half of Europe..."
Prussia froze for a moment. "You remember?"
"Everything." A pause. "Well, the last thing I remember before waking just now is being surprised the barrel of Russia's gun was cold."
Prussia wasn't sure where he found the snort he managed. "Everything about Russia is cold. But it's just as well you don't remember being shot in the head. I had that happen to me a few times, and it's not fun." Understatement, of course. The times he'd taken head shots in battle were hellishly painful – his body expelling the bullet and refusing to stop because it was too damned important were probably the worst parts. He suspected being shot after having been dissolved was worse.
His brother made a soft sound that could have been a snort. "You've had everything happen to you."
He chuckled, pleased that West's sense of humor had survived his time in hibernation. "Usually several times, yes." Even being dissolved, and it did hurt.
"Why… why didn't you answer when I asked you to forgive me?" Now West sounded hurt, confused.
"I wasn't aware of anything at the time," Prussia told him. "I was half-way to hibernation myself, since I'd become one with my people to escape what was happening to me. It wasn't until they shot you and I felt it that I came back to myself." He kept his tone calm, matter-of-fact. West already held more guilt than he should: he didn't need more.
"God." West shuddered again. "I should -"
"No." Prussia didn't let him finish that. "You had no choice, West. Lay the blame where it belongs, with that Austrian fucker, and let it go. We can move forward now, and do it right."
"You… you'd trust me again?" West sounded as though he both feared and hoped for the answer.
"Always, my brother." Prussia let his head rest on his brother's chest for a while, listening to the steady heartbeat, the slow, even rhythm of his breathing. Eventually, he sighed. "I should go get Dietrich to fix you some broth or something." He didn't move: lying here with West back and alive and very much here was all he wanted.
West asked in a bewildered voice, "Not your cooking? But… I like your cooking."
"Not any more, you don't." Prussia chuckled softly. "I'm blind, West. My eyes didn't work when they grew back. Old Helmut banned me from the kitchen so he wouldn't have to clean my messes, his son Georg made an agreement that he'd leave things I could handle myself on a side table as long as I didn't try to do anything else, and Dietrich has kept that up – although those single-serve coffee machines mean I can fix that for myself now."
"You..."
"Sh." Another round of guilt was no good for anyone. "I'm used to it." He grinned. "Besides, it means none of the others will say a word against me because they don't know how to deal with me." Which wasn't precisely true, but it was close enough. A nation who was temporarily incapacitated was one thing: a permanently crippled one was just not supposed to happen.
It sounded like West was trying to laugh and didn't quite have the strength to move his diaphragm that much. "Only you… would say that."
Prussia didn't get to agree: Venice shifted then, and mumbled, "Ludi?" A moment later, the night's quiet was shattered by a high-pitched shriek followed by a torrent of Italian spoken too fast for Prussia to follow. He was sure the words, "You're awake," and "You're back," and "love" figured prominently, but beyond that… Now he understood why West had yelled at the other nation so much. It would have been the only way to get a word in.
None of Prussia's attempts to stem the flood of words without shouting had any impact: he wasn't sure Venice even heard him.
"Oy." Italy sounded rather less awake than Prussia was. "It's wonderful that you're back, little brother, but you don't have wake everyone for miles."
This flurry of Italian was rather more apologetic, but no less loud, at least until Italy's phone cut across the noise.
Italy's, "Oh, for fuck's sake!" sounded weirdly loud in the sudden hush. "What is it, idiot?"
Prussia heard Spain's voice, tinny and distorted. He couldn't make out words, but he didn't need to: the wheedling tone told him more than enough. Spain was drunk and wanted his 'little tomato' to comfort him.
"It's three in the goddamn morning and you are drunk."
Prussia could hear the fondness beneath the bite in Italy's words, that mix of affection and exasperation that only Spain could produce.
More not-quite-whining, something Prussia wasn't surprised to hear. Spain's drunkenness went through phases: first was the needy, over-affectionate lover, then the conquistador. After that… well, nobody had seen after that in years and nobody wanted to. It was as bad as when England passed through maudlin and giggly to pirate.
"Oh!" Venice apparently only had one volume: loud. "Are you with Spain now, brother?"
Prussia was quite certain Italy was making the same urgent shushing motions he was. He just couldn't see them.
Spain's tone shifted, darkening to jealousy. Obviously he'd only heard another voice, not who that voice belonged to or what it said.
"Don't be more a fool than you can help!" Italy sounded as though he wasn't sure whether to be angry or frustrated and was managing both at once. "You know very well where I am and what I'm -" The rest of his words were drowned out by Venice.
"Hallo Spain! Germany says hallo too!"
Prussia let his head fall to the bed.
Italy's sharp breath sounded like a hiss, but more worrisome was the complete lack of response from the other side of the phone. Then, a different voice. "This had better be a joke."
England. Prussia sighed. Just his damned luck.
His brother's not-soft-enough, "I'm not Germany anymore, Feli," was just the icing on this extremely shitty cake.
Honestly, he'd wanted a chance to let his brother rediscover his personality before dealing with a world that wanted him to stay dead. That and the inevitable chaos that would come when the rest of Prussia's states heard the news did not need to be aired out in the international community thank you very much, but it seemed he wasn't going to get a choice about this.
Italy's phone erupted with shouting. Apparently France and Spain had been drinking with England because all three of them were demanding to know what Italy had been doing, all of them well on their way to their worst version of drunkenness.
They shut off mid-yell. Prussia distinctly heard Italy switch his phone off.
"Sorry." For once Italy actually did sound contrite. "I guess you'd better prepare for some unwanted visitors."
#
The war might have ended, but it wasn't really over yet. Hours of evidence given, most of it enough to twist England's stomach into tight knots, as if the mutilated forms of Poland and – most horribly – Prussia were not enough to convince the other Allies that Germany had transgressed all bounds of nationhood and needed to be eliminated. Prussia was Germany's brother and he'd been treated as badly as a blood enemy.
All that remained was to give the verdict, and with it, punishment.
Germany himself stood tall, thinner than he had been during the fighting but with not a trace of the wounds he should have been suffering as a defeated nation. Those wounds marked Prussia's body.
There was an emptiness to the defeated nation's gaze, a weariness England didn't trust. Since that madman Hitler's death and Germany's surrender shortly after, the nation had been a model prisoner, obedient and saying nothing in his defense. The same couldn't be said of his surviving states, which had been quite the headache.
Soon. They could start rebuilding their world soon.
America breezed in, Canada behind him leading the handcuffed Germanic states. Berlin wasn't able to walk, so Wales pushed her wheelchair with a kind of grim efficiency England knew meant he'd rather be killing something. Or someone.
Germany didn't even twitch.
He didn't move when Belarus wheeled Poland's chair in, the blankets entirely failing to conceal the missing limbs, nor when grim-faced Lithuania and Estonia herded the Balkan states, Austria, and Hungary into the large room.
Not until Russia himself arrived, pushing Prussia's wheelchair, did Germany react in any way.
Prussia… the bandages over his empty eye sockets might have been fresh, but they were already sunken and blood seeped from them to crust against the pale nation's skin. As he had been since Russia found him and Poland in that hellish camp, Prussia was unresponsive, unconscious and unable to be roused.
A muscle twitched in Germany's cheek, and his gaze flicked across to the brother he had sent to hell before returning to stare at the table in front of him. He too was shackled, handcuffs linked by a chain to leg irons, but he made no move against the restraints.
North Italy made a sound of distress, but with Scotland guarding him and his brother, he didn't try to do anything.
Finally, France limped into the room, supported by Belgium and Netherlands, all of them terribly thin but recovering at last.
It was time.
England rose from his chair, cleared his throat. "We gather today to bear witness to a judgment of nations." It was old language, formal, and hadn't been used since, well… ever. "The evidence presented is clear: the nation of Germany has committed unconscionable outrages against his fellow nations. Not only has he broken all bonds of fellowship with nations captured in war -" It had always been something of a tradition to treat annexed nations decently, since one never knew when the annexation would be on the other foot as it were, and besides, they were a small group, a few hundred at most, and only other nations really understood what their existence was like. Germany had shattered those fragile trusts. " - but in turning on the brother who raised him to nationhood he has proven himself the vilest of traitors."
Another distressed noise from North Italy, this one quickly hushed by his brother.
"Accordingly, by unanimous agreement among the victorious parties and liberated nations, we hereby declare the nation of Germany is dissolved and all lands held by said nation prior to the commencement of this war are henceforth given over to the state of Prussia, with the exception of those lands bordering Poland: the Polish-Prussian border to be determined by those two nations as soon as is reasonably possible." Poland refused to agree to anything without that caveat, and England was willing to humor him.
All the Germanic states except Danzig looked mutinous, and Bavaria and Saxony stepped forward, only to be pushed back by America's rifle and cowed by the young superpower's glare.
"The states of the former nation of Germany to be under Prussia's control and guidance;" England continued as though nothing had happened. "With the exception of Austria, who is henceforth designated a nation within the Soviet sphere of influence."
Austria looked sour, but he didn't object. The yellowing bruise on one side of his face suggested that Russia had already convinced him to hold his tongue.
England honestly didn't care what Austria thought. He'd chosen to join Germany: now he could suffer the consequences. Being handed to Russia was what it took to get Stalin's agreement to stay out of Prussia and Poland, and if any nation deserved a chance to rebuild without anyone's influence twisting their government it was those two.
The rest of Eastern Europe's fate had already been decided and announced. There was just this one last issue to wrap up. "And the personification of the former nation of Germany to be executed for his crimes," England finished. "Does the personification of the former nation of Germany have any final statement?"
Germany turned to Prussia, who hadn't moved. When he spoke, he spoke in German, so softly it was almost impossible to hear. "Forgive me, brother. I knew not what I did."
Silence. After a moment, North Italy sniffled.
Germany waited a while before he closed his eyes and turned his head to face forward again. "I am ready. May God have mercy on my soul."
Russia smiled. "Kneel, little one."
It was awkward for Germany, shackled as he was, but he went to his knees without complaint, bowed his head. His cuffed hands clasped together almost as if he was praying. As if prayers from one who had done what he had weren't the most appalling of blasphemies.
Russia positioned his pistol with the muzzle at the base of Germany's skull, nodded in England's direction.
"So be it. Let justice be done."
Russia pulled the trigger.
Germany's body jerked, then fell forward, a gaping hole at the back of his head. He twitched a few times more, then was still.
North Italy screamed once, shouting a name England was quite certain was not 'Germany', then fainted.
When he looked back, Prussia had somehow moved from the wheelchair to Germany's body. The albino nation lay sprawled over his brother, body shaking in soundless sobs, but no tears leaked from the bandage covering his empty eye sockets, and no sound emerged from his tongueless mouth, and somehow that was worse than if he'd screamed or raved because it took on the quality of nightmare that mutilated, tortured Prussia would still grieve for the brother who had destroyed him.
Gravel crunched under the car's wheels, throwing England out of the memories which had replayed endlessly in his mind since he had heard that too-familiar deep voice from Spain's phone. He blinked a few times, realizing then that Spain had his old battle-ax out and was sharpening the blade while France drove up the drive to Prussia's home.
Spain, who had been the laughing, cheerful – even oblivious – fool for centuries now transformed to the Conquistador whose bloody deeds terrorized his enemies, who had once owned half of Europe. Or perhaps the Inquisitor who relentlessly tortured his own people in the name of God. With Spain, it could be hard to tell which of those two old personalities ruled.
France, too, looked grim. That set, determined expression hadn't been seen since Napoleon when the French Empire spanned from the Atlantic into Russia. The beautiful, bloodthirsty French Empire who swept all before him and could be defeated only by General Winter.
Dear God. England hoped he hadn't lost his hold on his modern nature, though he could at least be sure his pirate self hadn't yet come out to play. But then, his pirate self was a cheerful sort, laughing merrily while he destroyed his enemies. The Bloody British Empire was more suited to the hangover beginning to start up a pounding throb behind his eyes and the sheer fury that Germany had dared to return to the world.
France brought the car to a halt, stepped out with brisk efficiency, a saber in his right hand within moments of him exiting the vehicle.
Spain's calm smile and the emptiness behind his eyes told England the other nation had indeed fallen back to his Inquisitor days.
Well. He'd need the pirate to counter that. England smiled, stretched, and with a twist of his right hand he held his cutlass, a fierce, wild grin spreading his lips. "'Tis past time we finished this, mateys."
"Aye." Spain's calmness was superficial, a layer of ice over the abyss. "For the glory of God."
Definitely the Inquisitor.
France nodded and pounded on the door with the hilt of his sword.
Prussia opened the door before France could strike the door more than twice, caught the other nation's arm with the pommel a mere hand's breadth from his face. And twisted, moving with a dancer's speed and grace, until France sprawled in the doorway beside Prussia, his saber skittering along the polished wood floor and out of his reach.
Spain growled a curse in what England suspected was Latin Vulgate, and lunged. England followed belatedly, not having expected anything like this.
Prussia simply wasn't there. He seemed to flicker as he moved, subduing Spain with a gut punch that left the green-eyed nation doubled over and struggling to breathe, then Prussia was behind England and pale hands wrapped around his throat.
"Put the weapons away, arseholes." Prussia's voice was no more than a hiss. "There are humans here: I'll not have you terrorizing them."
England would have objected but those hands pressed tighter, cutting off his air.
He sent his cutlass back to its usual storage place, and Prussia loosened his grip.
Too slowly, Spain and France returned their weapons to their own personal pockets of timelessness.
"Better." Prussia's voice hadn't lost its ability to menace. "Dietrich, would you please close the door? I'm afraid my hands are full right now."
Both France and Spain boggled, gaping at the elderly man in an old-fashioned nightshirt who carefully walked around them to push the house door closed. "Lord Prussia." The old man's tone was deferential, calm. "What accommodations did you wish for these… guests?"
"They can stay in the living room tonight," Prussia said curtly, in German of course. "I'll not have them endangering my people any further by driving about as drunk as they are. If you'd provide them with light refreshments, I'd be grateful."
"Of course, Lord Prussia."
England wondered at that, the old man's acceptance of Prussia's decision and his instant agreement – but also the way Prussia had asked, as though he didn't have the right to simply demand that his staff do as he wished. He'd expected something more martial, with Prussia the General with an iron hand.
"Living room is down the hall, third on your right," Prussia said curtly, in English now. He spoke the language with a heavy accent, but understandable. "England, on your honor as a nation, will you behave with courtesy in my house?"
England blinked. He hadn't expected that. An oath on his honor wasn't binding the way one on his Name was, but it was still a strong thing to ask. Understandable though, he realized. The three of them had effectively attacked the other nation without provocation – or rather, the rest of the world would see it that way, especially in view of Prussia's blindness. "I will." Obviously direct action was out of the question.
Prussia released him.
England rubbed his throat. A moment later he realized Prussia had opened out his cane.
"Come. To the living room. I want to know what brought the three of you to my door with weapons drawn."
It was France who asked the obvious question. "How… did you know about the weapons?"
Prussia's hissing snicker was as unnerving as it had ever been. "Oh, please. We have security cameras here, and Dietrich told me what you were carrying."
#
Prussia closed the door of the living room after he entered. He slipped the strap of his cane over his wrist before he leaned against the wall, arms folded, and aimed a glare at the three nations in his living room.
Their presences were bright and sharp with the not-quite-itch of another sovereign nation on his soil and the reek of alcohol overlaying their natural scents.
He waited until the presences stopped moving before he said, "Now, explain yourselves."
"You are the one who should be explaining," France said in a sullen tone. "That was him we heard."
So, nothing original. Prussia throttled vague disappointment: he'd rather hoped the three fools in front of him would come up with a better excuse than that. He raised an eyebrow. "You heard Brandenburg speak," he said in a cold, clipped voice, biting off every word as though it personally offended him. He did not need this nonsense. "And Venice."
"Germany." England's snarl would have done West's dogs proud.
"There is no Germany." Prussia allowed nothing but ice into his tone.
England's presence shifted: Prussia thought he was leaning forward. "The personification is supposed to be dead."
Again, Prussia raised an eyebrow. "The personification of Germany was duly executed for his crimes, witnessed by half the god-damned world. The document with all your signatures is in my safe. Are you claiming Russia missed?" Of course they weren't. They wanted West killed again. And again, until he stopped coming back. Except that now Prussia was able to protect his brother. He wouldn't allow any more harm to come to the boy.
"That be not the point, ye lubber."
Prussia rolled his eyes. "Put your pirate away, England. It won't change anything."
England's presence advanced.
Prussia held himself still. He doubted England would try anything involving weapons just yet – although he rather hoped the other nation would do something that foolish. He could use the adrenaline rush.
"The point," England said as he advance, "be that yer vile brother be a disgustin'," He poked Prussia's chest. "Excuse." Poke. "fer a nation as ought never be given sail."
Prussia caught England's wrist before he could poke again. "And you've never lost your soul to a shitty leader?" he asked in tones of poison silk. "You've never broken those traditions you claim to revere so much?"
Of course they had, and Prussia well knew it. It was a rare nation who hadn't tried to eliminate his rivals under color of war, hadn't abused captured or client states. They just pretended they were more civilized than that these days.
"I never heard anyone calling for Russia's head over the Holodomor," he added. "Or Turkey's for his actions in Armenia." Both were sufficiently recent to count as 'civilized era' genocide attempts. "Yet my brother is uniquely evil? No."
"That's different," Spain sounded even more sullen than France.
Prussia pushed England away. "I'm sure," he sneered. "They weren't easy targets."
England's growl was followed by a surge of movement.
Prussia leaned to the side, and didn't allow his expression to shift when he heard a fist strike the wall. "Enough!" Now he unleashed his old battlefield roar. "You will sit your arse down and shut up!" By way of reinforcement, he lifted the startled nation, carried him over to the other two and dropped him onto France, before returning to his place by the door.
The scuffle that followed suggested that all three were still drunk enough to be nuisances.
"I will not have you destroying my house, endangering my people, and terrorizing my staff." He pitched his voice to carry over the brawling.
All three nations froze, fear spiking in them.
Well, good. Apparently he still had the ability to make other nations metaphorically wet themselves with fear. He'd rather not have them actually do so, at least, not in his home. "You may remain in this room tonight, but you will leave in the morning, and you will not harass any of my states no matter what you may think of their past. Do I make myself clear?"
Perhaps not surprisingly, France was the first to agree. England grumbled, but finally muttered acceptance.
This time Spain decided to be a pest. "But I want to see my Lovi." He drew out the last syllable into a pathetic whine.
"Shut it." Prussia pulled his phone from his pocket, swiped it on. "Call Italy."
Italy answered on the second ring. "Republic of Italy."
"Spain's being a needy idiot," Prussia informed him. "Would you mind coming down to the living room and shutting him up?"
"Stupid tomato bastard." The tone was affectionate. "I'll be down shortly. Berlin's up there so you don't need to rush."
"Thanks." He cut the phone off, slid it back into his pocket. "He's on his way down here." Prussia glared at all three miscreants – which seemed effective, given how their presences shrank back. "You're taking him from the brother who's been unresponsive for seventy god-damned years, so you'd better be fucking grateful."
Ah, now they start feeling guilty. Dear God save him from fools and drunk nations!
Italy had the courtesy to knock, and to wait until Prussia called for him to come in before he entered the room.
While he was certain the tongue-lashing that followed would be immensely amusing, Prussia used the opportunity to take himself to the kitchen to check with Dietrich and Frau Elke: much as he would have liked to return to his brother, he had all his states on their way here – apart from those who had already arrived – and very likely much of the rest of the world as well.
He didn't have time to doze at West's side.
#
By the time Frau Elke brought breakfast to Prussia's office he was ready to kill someone. His states, God be thanked, were willing enough to accept that their nation was busy and should not be disturbed. They were all more interested in West's recovery, anyway.
The same could not be said of most of the nations who had arrived during the night while Prussia tried to finish calling his states, his King, his Chancellor, and his few allies (mostly Poland and Russia – the latter having become both ally and friend after his abortive attempt to invade Poland had left him a de facto Prussian possession and Prussia had used the opportunity to engage in some highly unorthodox methods to remove the Communists and reform Russia's nation and client states).
The rest of Great Britain and both Irelands heralded their arrival with drunken singing, Netherlands showed up with Belgium and Luxembourg in tow, Netherlands shouting obscenities in Dutch while the other two made no effort to quieten him down, Hungary's happy squeals damn near deafened everyone in earshot – Prussia appreciated her and Austria being supportive, but he'd appreciate it more if they did so quietly.
It was a sad day when Poland was the voice of reason, not least because Poland hated having to do that.
Prussia sighed and massaged his aching head. The smell of Frau Elke's cheese, bread, and wurst should not make his stomach turn.
The departing footsteps paused. A moment later, she said in a reproving tone, "You need to sleep, Lord Prussia. Master Poland and Master Russia are handling the guests now they've sent Master Italy to rest."
That explained why the noise level had dropped, Prussia realized. He must be getting old, to be unable to handle missing a single night's sleep.
"Have you made all your calls yet?"
"I have, Frau Elke." He did his best to sound as though he was just fine thank you, and failed. "I can sleep in the chair here."
He'd swear the temperature dropped several degrees. "Absolutely not!"
Prussia kept his sigh to himself. Apparently the mere idea of him catching a nap in his office chair was beyond scandalous and should have been unthinkable, and never mind that damned idiot England had called half the world insisting on a full gathering to 'decide' on West's fate and convinced enough nations that Prussia couldn't tell the lot of them to take their idiot arses elsewhere without setting off a diplomatic incident.
He didn't have a choice about resting: he needed to get this ridiculous emergency meeting dealt with and his brother's status as one of his states properly secured – and never mind that it should have been secure already with all the bloody paperwork he'd filed regarding the borders and names of his states.
A heavy chill approached him, smelling of snow on tundra. Russia, of course.
"You are not looking well, my friend."
"I'm exercising more self-restraint than a nation ought to," Prussia pointed out.
Russia's little giggle was no less unnerving than it had ever been, although now Prussia knew it wasn't intended to be like that. Russia just… didn't know how to be. The big nation had been treated like property by his leaders for centuries, and was still learning what it meant to have a friendship with no other issues.
At least he no longer had leaders who would order him to stop tanks with his body just for the fun of it.
"You are to be sleeping now," Russia said. "Your Frau Elke and Herr Dietrich are saying you must rest."
"There's still the meeting shit to sort out." And God help him if it was wrong in the slightest way because that would just be proof that Prussia wasn't really a modern civilized nation and all that shit, and there were more than a few who'd like to see him replaced by someone – anyone – more to their liking.
"Hanover and Saxony are doing that." Russia picked him up and cradled him like a baby.
Prussia didn't bother to argue. When Russia decided he was doing something you might as well roll with it because nothing short of killing him was going to change his mind – and really, why would Prussia want to do that? He and Russia were on good terms these days.
Besides, despite his icy presence, Russia was rather warm, and it was kind of nice to be held like this.
He was asleep before Russia deposited him in his bed.
#
Prussia woke to soft voices and two familiar presences in his room: Danzig and Pomerania. It sounded like they were in his wardrobe deciding what he needed to wear for the meeting.
Which was more than sufficient reason not to interrupt: he'd spent much of his life in uniform, be it the robes or armor of the Teutonic Knights, the military uniforms of Prussia and then of Germany, before trading them for a prison uniform. Even if he could see he'd have no notion what should be worn when and would probably opt for whatever uniform his army wore now.
Letting his states decide his wardrobe was the safest way to ensure he didn't make a fool of himself. No matter what he thought of them or they of him, since the day he'd given them his Name they'd come to trust him. So much so that on the anniversary of that day, he and his states formally exchanged Names in a small ceremony he suspected Berlin had devised. It had her touch.
"Come, Uncle," Pomerania said. "I know you're awake."
Prussia chuckled softly. "I never could fool you, love." He sat, letting the bedcovers fall from his body. It wasn't as though his extensively scarred body was anything they hadn't seen before. "So what do I need to know?"
The youngest of his states made a sound of disgust. "Everyone is coming here for an emergency meeting about – and I quote - 'what to do with that kraut bastard'."
That sounded like England's phrasing.
"Danzig called Poland, and he called the rest of Eastern Europe before rushing over here," Pomerania continued. "They're all here now, helping to set up the auditorium."
Well, that explained why Poland had sounded distracted when Prussia had called him. Honestly, there were times when he wondered if it was really an improvement that his states had gone from hating him to so overprotective they were damn near mothering him. Not that there was a damn thing he could do about it. He raised his arms when Danzig told him to so she could slide his shirt on. He'd once objected to his states dressing him like this, but experience had taught him there was no point arguing about it. He protected them from the rest of the world; they made sure he was at his best whenever he faced the rest of the world.
"Switzerland is mediating: he wants to talk to you before everything starts."
Which meant the prickly ever-neutral nation wanted to make his own evaluation of matters before being faced with everyone's arguments. And potentially wanted to check the archives for relevant rules and rulings, too.
Prussia doubted he'd find much: traditionally a nation's states were that nation's business, but the powerful nations were always able to make their own rules. When you were a superpower, who was going to stop you?
"Factions?" he asked.
Danzig finished buttoning his shirt for him and ordered him to lift his left leg so she could get his trousers on. Once she had the left leg on, she had him raise his right leg, then pulled the pants up before buttoning them closed.
While Danzig threaded his belt through the belt loops, Pomerania combed his hair. "Much as you'd expect, Uncle." She sighed. "Eastern Europe, Austria, and Italy are with you. France, Spain, England and most of the Western hemisphere want Brandenburg dead again." Her voice shook a bit there. "The Asians and Africans are mostly neutral but agree that it's bad form for other nations to claim a right to deal with your states."
Meaning that they didn't care about him or his brother, but were against a precedent allowing nations to execute someone else's state on the strength of something supposedly dealt with years ago. Prussia would take that.
"So no surprises?" he asked.
He could hear the smile in her voice when she said, "Unless you count Japan and China both being strongly for your right to deal with your states as you see fit, no."
Prussia couldn't help snickering. Relations between those two nations hadn't been good in a long time, and the last great war had all but destroyed what little rapprochement there was. No doubt both resented finding themselves on the same side in an argument – but China would never allow anyone other than him to control his regions, and Japan was just as fiercely protective of his prefectures.
"Oh, America and Canada are claiming neutrality," Danzig added. "They're here, but they're refusing to take a side."
Pomerania started giggling.
Prussia raised an eyebrow. Danzig was about done with his shoes, and Pomerania had to be satisfied with his hair by now.
His bird chirped.
"No, no! Shoo, you. I didn't spend all this time fixing Uncle's hair for you to nest in it!"
Prussia held out one arm, felt the light touch of his little bird's talons curl around his index finger. He brought his arm to his body, petted the bird gently. "It's okay, Birdie. They're not trying to be mean to you. They just want me to look my best."
The bird made a scolding chirp.
"Ja, ja, I know. It's not my fault people think it's not professional to have a bird on your head."
"Anyway," Danzig said while Prussia transferred his bird to his shoulder, "America and Canada brought their states and provinces along."
Prussia blinked. He remembered some of them from his time in the Americas back when the younger nation was having his revolution and Prussia taught the kid to fight. Some were damn near Germanic, they had so many people from the various Germanic nations.
"Now I know why he and Canada are always distracted at meetings." Danzig sounded as though she was trying not to laugh. "I mean, unlike us, they're all kids, or mostly. Alaska looks maybe ten, and Hawaii eight, and Canada's Nunavut is a toddler."
Trying to imagine either nation as a parent was difficult. Even though Prussia knew very well they, like all nations, maintained a public facade that helped to protect them from the rest of the world. Hell, he'd helped teach America how to make it work.
"They might not want to support me," Prussia said, "But if they brought their states, they're planning to vote in my favor. They're making a point."
Pomerania giggled again. "France fainted when he saw them all."
Prussia did not want to know.
#
Prussia sighed under his breath. This was ridiculous. Not only was he not being permitted to speak in West's defense, Switzerland was accepting the most outlandish arguments for allowing England or France to kill him again. Once a monster, always a monster.
He wanted to go after them, to beat them down and make them hurt, make them spend the next hundred years knowing what it felt like to have a part of yourself missing, ripped out. Instead he made himself sit in his own damned auditorium – his brother had built it in the thirties for Party functions, but Prussia had redecorated and usually held the assorted nation functions there – and listen while England and France took turns vilifying West, with occasional assistance from some of the others his brother had occupied during those years.
Finally, finally, Switzerland said, "Kingdom of Prussia, what have you to say in answer to these accusations?" His tone was absolutely neutral, giving no hint of what he thought.
Prussia rose to his feet, forced his hands to remain open, relaxed at his side. His mental map of the room was a bit fuzzy, since he hadn't been either the first or last to arrive, but he was reasonably sure of a clear path to the front of the room.
His cane swept in front of him, a reflex to ensure his footing would be clear, and his dress shoes made only a soft swish with each step. The distinctive scents of the other nations mingled together too much for him to distinguish them, leaving him only the occasional loud outburst to tell where nations who hadn't spoken yet had chosen to seat themselves.
A wooden thunk told his his cane had found the podium, a simple wooden pedestal that allowed a speaker to rest notes on it in order to read. Prussia oriented himself quickly, sliding the strap of his cane over his left wrist, and rested both hands on the stand.
"First," he said in a soft voice that forced everyone to all but hold their breaths to hear him. "Does anyone see a nation or state by the name of Germany on the map behind me?" That map, a map of the Kingdom of Prussia showing the post-restoration borders, had hung there since Poland painted it for him.
Silence. It seemed the other nations weren't sure where he was taking this, something Prussia was quite willing to accept.
"Second." He let his voice grow a little louder. "Where in our laws and traditions does any nation gain the right to determine the fate of another's dependents? Would America or Canada allow any of you to interfere with their states or provinces?"
Several nations caught their breaths. Prussia wasn't sure who, but he suspected there were nervous glances towards the two North American nations.
"Would China? Japan? Russia?" His voice grew louder with each nation named. "Would England permit anyone to declare Scotland a criminal and have him killed?"
"Now listen here -" England cut himself off so quick Prussia suspected Switzerland had drawn on him. The prickly alpine nation had a rather direct way of enforcing etiquette.
Prussia heard a click that was either Switzerland flipping the safety on – or off. "Please continue, Kingdom of Prussia."
The interruption hadn't been in Prussia's plans, but it would work in his favor, he hoped. It had successfully increased the tension in the auditorium to where Prussia could smell it. "Third, will you murder Venice?" Now he spoke at his normal volume. "I remind you, Venice collapsed when my youngest brother was executed. He remained unresponsive until my brother awakened. Will you torture him, an innocent, in your desire for a revenge you have already taken?"
He let his voice ring out, pitching it to a thunderous roar. "My brother Germany was condemned, dissolved and duly executed seventy years ago. Will you murder my brother Brandenburg because you want every last remnant of your sins wiped from the earth? Will you kill him every time he returns? How many deaths will it take to sate your conscience?"
Silence. Prussia swore he could hear each nation breathing. He let his voice drop back to a near whisper, forcing the nations to lean forward and listen intently. "Germany is dead. The state of Brandenburg is my dependent and under my protection. I will treat any attempt to harm him as I would any harm against my other states: as an act of war against me."
He didn't smile at the outraged shouts that followed his words. He'd expected them. Damn fools thought that because he'd sworn Prussia would start no more wars that meant they could do as they pleased.
"Well said," Switzerland murmured, too softly for anyone else to hear. "I doubt it will convince England or France, but that was well done."
"Thank you." Respect from Switzerland? Now that was one for the books.
"No." England's voice was firm, brittle and cold. "This is different. Germany -" Hatred roiled in that one word, boiling from his presence in an icy cloud. "- tried to destroy multiple nations. He presided over the slaughter of millions -"
"And Russia under the Communists did not?" Prussia demanded. "Yet nobody suggests he should be dissolved."
"Silence!" England's voice and presence shifted: it was no longer the English gentleman speaking but the British Empire. "I will have satisfaction."
"Then you will have it with me," Prussia retorted before anyone could shut the enraged Englishman down. "Switzerland, I believe as the challenged party I have the choice of weapon?"
"You do." For once, Switzerland sounded uncertain. "Are you sure about this, Prussia? If he wins..."
"If he wins, I die, and England's been able to kill someone." Prussia shrugged. "Maybe when I come back my eyes will work." His voice hardened. "But he will have his argument with me and not with any of my brothers."
#
Prussia stood alone in the center of a rope ring in the house courtyard. He'd gained two concessions from Switzerland: a request to everyone watching to keep quiet, and his states standing just outside the rope marking out the ad-hoc arena to tell him when he was getting too close.
Bavaria brought him his sword, the one he'd worn in Old Fritz's day, Baden held Kraus's harness, and Hanover had taken his cane. His little bird perched on Pomerania's head.
He could feel the watching nations on the other side of the rope, hear the buzz of whispered conversations, of speculation and – inevitably – bets. He spared a moment to hope Poland got good odds, then began the simple routine he used to focus.
Slow, steady breaths, his sword drawn and in his left hand, an extension of his body. A silent prayer, in Latin, translating more or less to "Let it be Your will that prevails." Shifting his senses as a nation to feel the soil beneath the paving stones, feel the almost-itch of England standing two meters or so away. Letting his functional senses grow so hyper-keen he could smell the other nation's distinctive scent – sea-salt and rain-soaked grass – feel the slight waver of air from his own breathing.
The discipline of the Teutonic Knight stood there, the unwavering determination of the army with a nation, the pure, concentrated Awesome that was Prussia without his many, many layers of misdirection.
Switzerland's voice, counting down to zero.
Prussia didn't move when the countdown ended. His advantage now lay in defense, in holding his place and his focus.
England circled him slowly: he turned to keep his face towards the other's presence.
A lunge, sharp and sudden.
Prussia moved to the side, felt the rush of air and smelled steel.
Again, and again, England testing him, Prussia making no move to respond, just gliding away, his feet never lifting more than a few millimeters above the paving, never letting his awareness shift from England's sharp, angry presence, from the emotions and intentions the flaring, barely-contained power gave off.
He danced. England's cutlass sliced the air around him, the nation's frustration tasting of smoke and bitterness. Prussia… simply wasn't where England's weapon was.
Now England tried to feint, shifting his body as though he planned to slash crosswise before lunging forward in a move that placed him fractionally off-balance, his weight mostly on his right leg, centered too far forward.
Prussia flicked his sword to his right hand, caught England's arm with his left, and pulled.
England stumbled towards him, tripping over the foot Prussia helpfully extended, and tumbled to the ground when Prussia released his arm, started to roll.
Prussia's sword swept in as he continued to turn, met resistance.
Pain and shock flared from England's presence.
A meaty sound, metal tearing through flesh, then the grating ring of steel against bone, a crunch as the bone gave way.
Prussia pulled his sword free of England's body, then drove it down, into what his senses told him was the strongest part of the nation's presence.
England made a choked sound that wasn't a scream – there wasn't enough air in it for that - and his body thrashed hard enough that Prussia could hear and feel it. His presence vanished.
No, not gone, Prussia realized after a moment. England would return in a few days, and likely die again if his body wasn't stitched up to keep him from bleeding out. The thick metallic smell of blood was enough to make that obvious.
"Is how he defeated me," Russia was saying happily into a frightened hush.
Prussia took a deep, not nearly steady enough breath. "A little help here? If I try to clean up myself, I'll damage something."
#
Once again Prussia and his states gather in the dining room of the old mansion, though this time the mood is cheerful, almost festive. For the first time, Brandenburg who had been Germany who had been the Holy Roman Empire is with them, thinner and not able to walk far without assistance, but present, his borders strong and clear.
The formal recitation of Names takes time: the centuries of their lives cannot be given quickly despite the compressed form the language only nations can speak uses. First Prussia, his Name shifting to the new wholeness that every one of them feels and will make formal here, today.
The states speak in no particular order, each giving his or her Name when they feel the time is right. Danzig's Name speaks of wholeness, of belonging, Bavaria's of the wonder that has come with discovering Prussia truly cares for all of them, of relief that their little king, their golden one, is with them once more. Hanover has tears running down his face long before he finishes, as do Hesse and Saxony, though none will ever mention it no matter how fiercely the Prussian states argue amongst themselves.
Finally, Brandenburg speaks, soft, hesitant, but his blue eyes shine with newfound peace.
...relief, guilty relief when that man dies, when he is no longer bound to abhorrent commands, though his nation, his people lie in ruins around him and he has failed his brothers once more. The despair and pain of his ruined land, the terror that his madness has destroyed all that he cared for, the smell of smoke and death and bitter almonds choking him, though never enough to hide the accusations spoken and unspoken. Murderer, betrayer, destroyer, he denies nothing, accepts all as his due, and goes to his death with only the hope that his shattered people will find a better way, will live a better life with the brother he so nearly destroyed than the bleak facade he tried to force on them.
Darkness, a cold, cold peace, broken by the feeling, the growing certainty that there is more he must do, more he must be. That he is needed.
It is hard, so hard, to return to his mortal shell, to summer breeze over fields and sandy soil, towns and cities buzzing with life, with happy people, proud people. To face the painful knowledge of his failures, of twice over plunging the whole world into conflict and slaughter.
Harder still to be forgiven, to be accepted back by his state government as though he had never done so many terrible things, to be allowed to find happiness with his brothers and sisters and with the city of water and canals and gondolas and love and cheer. To be whole, to belong.
The wonder, the awe of being forgiven and wanted and loved may never leave him.