Disclaimer: Yo no se.
...
He had lived centuries without feeling mad at God.
Not since he was born a ghost, with a red that belonged to demon eyes, with a white—a chrome, a silver—that belonged to those so much older than he.
But then he was born dead—and the dead cannot, not really, die again. Which was why, he thought, every time his people fell, every time he shifted form and name almost unrecognizably, he lived. He lived like a vampire, breathing and bleeding as a human.
A small Germanic, a wandering tribe—an unclean, but cleaner, Europe. Land to trace. All preciously pilfered over time.
The blood of Europe watered Europe, he thought. His first kill had been a Moor. His kill before that was a rabbit.
And so we grow, he thought.
Something the old man would have said.
Which old man?
He had been young when Germania vanished.
He had been young when Hermann fell.
He had been young when his brother withered.
He felt young when Fritz died.
Did that make such an ageless body young, then?
I am living in limbo, he thought.
Alte Fritz is an affectionate man, he thought, thinking in German. Alte Fritz was an affectionate man, who spoke French instead of German.
Remember when you were small? he thought some more. Remember when you wandered? When you belonged only to nowhere?
Remember when you took on the name Prussia, and became Preußen? And remember the boldness of the Hohenzollern—
And the greatest of them all, remember him, lying without breath now?
Ah, but you are Prussia. His breath is yours now.
And so it went, in his mind. The crying was never shown. It was a deep, internal tearing.
And he prayed to Gott, that Alte Fritz should be looking down at him, looking at the changed Prussia he had so boldly—with true, Prussian ferocity—sharpened. The man had stalked the battlefield with the unusual grace of a king—one of his people.
He remembered when Alte Fritz cried, after the war.
In the midst of Sanssouci, in the midst of the music he loved so much, the sinking, sinking, letting go...
No bullets had killed him. It took time. Only time, which killed everything, killed him.
Mortality had never torn Prussia.
But here, and now, it was facing him, and it struck him like bullets; but bullets hurt more, he thought.
The face, aged and worn—the face of expression, surely, because expression was art, and he loved art—staring up, perhaps, through eyelids: If you cannot see him, he cannot see you—
Prussia gasped. Could not cry. Not even a trickle.
But the breath in him was harsh. And he had never, never hated God, he thought. He had always, always deferred to him.
Alte Fritz was open to all forms of God—
But Alte Fritz was gone, now. And for the first time in his life, without question, Prussia felt his faith screaming in protest.
And I have killed heathens with less thought—
He wanted to scream, but could not.
He wanted to cry, but could not.
So he sat there, crying, crying, with gasps, without sobs.
And God was surely staring now. But God, as always, was silent.
God let him suffer in his undead limbo.
...
PT: This is just writing nonsense more than anything. If Fanfiction had a scraps option, guess where this would go. But it's still worth putting up. Thanks for reading.