"Come on now. You could save yourself those bruises if only you'd act with a little more compliance."
Ludwig opens his eyes. His calming sleep is disturbed by a tone that offers no pity. He's unable to feel his body; his half-lidded gaze sweeps carefully, observing, before it rests on the open door, something inside of him deflating.
He's still in the basement.
"Like it, do you? Makes you feel proud for the stunt you played last night, does it?"
The man is mocking him. Ludwig keeps his stare but shifts, his cold body beaten blue and left to lie, lying on the basement floor.
Moving to regain some feeling in his legs and arms, he tries to kneel. The man is impatient but waits, idly tapping his keys rhythmically to the sound of the pain.
Ludwig shakes on his legs, wants to reach out, but resists. He resists the arm that is offered by the man at the door as he walks by.
He knows what that road leads to.
The house is still in a mess since he left it the night before. Words form the colour of the walls and floor; all scratched at, not gone. No one is cleaning them; all have run from the offense, to hide from the truth.
Ludwig smirks.
"The master has been up all morning. "Prefers the air", he says, but I know there's more to it than that." The man continues to walk lightly beside him, laughing at his pathetic stumbles. "See, some things just don't add up." He glances, checks to see if he's guilty. "I don't suppose the pet rat would know anything about it? It's got all the guys talking."
Ludwig opens his mouth and a harsh sound tumbles out. He stops, clears his throat and tries again.
"You think that the only thing I'm holding on to in this place is your answers?" he asks incredulously. They stop by a door at the end of the hall.
One knock. Two.
"I know my place, you accept yours."
There is a call on the other side.
"See you next Tuesday." Ludwig leaves no time for a reply.
...
The master is sitting behind his desk, elbows resting and fingers laced together in a typically superior pose just for his sake.
"Ah, my dear Germany..." He pauses. "Given last night's antics I trust you found your sleep...beneficial?"
Ludwig avoids his gaze. "I'm no closer to finding my brother."
His master's dry smile told him the answer didn't suffice.
"You and I both know that's not why you did it. Gilbert has been gone for many years now," he says, dismissing the idea as quickly as he stands. There is another pause, and Ludwig assumes he's waiting for another answer. "No, don't tell me," his master interrupts, prompting him to shut his mouth again. "I don't care. I only need to assure it doesn't happen again."
Ludwig finds the strength to stand tall; his master leers.
"Master..?"
"Don't call me that," his master sighs. "It's a very formal word."
"They say I should call it you."
"Well, they would," he master replies, walking around the desk to him. "Because they know they're not as important."
Ludwig knows he would be a fool to accept this as a compliment. The words are like a death sentence. They weren't enemies, they were on the same team but the look on his master's face made the pain in his bruising fade, and gave him the defiance to stand at full height, almost taller than the master himself.
"We make each other strong." They look at each other in the eyes for a moment. There is disagreement, his master senses it, and backs off. "I've never had a problem with you before." He continues to talk, uncaring. "You have earned the respect you get from me."
As Ludwig watches the proud figure retreat back to his desk - absentmindedly pushing his pens into a neat order as does – he lets out a small cough of indifference.
His master notices, his pens not a hindrance in his hearing apparently. Fingers still brushing the wood of his polished desk, he tilts his head towards Ludwig, scrutinising him. "Those other nations act like a pack of wild animals; it seems only fair they be treated as such." He searches for something in his desk draw before pulling out a folded piece of paper. "We leave for the meeting this morning. I suppose I should give you this."
Ludwig looks at the note in his master's callous hands, confused. "It was found lying by the front door last night. It's addressed to you." His master barely holds it out for him, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise, a knowing smirk staining his stoic flesh.
He sees the ink of his brother's hand signed at the bottom of the folded paper and reaches out. It is pulled out of his reach quickly. His master looks dangerously at him. "Don't you dare think about trying to embarrass me again."
The paper is torn into half, fourths, eighths; Ludwig watches helplessly as the tiny bits of paper flutter to the ground.
The meeting is in disarray. Though not for the first time, it's not for enough time.
Ivan is happy, watching the masters become frustrated. The nations are running amok around the bars of his cage and he watches with childish glee.
The hearts of nine nations are present. They are the heart of their nations, but are silenced in politics and affairs. To be seen and not heard; they are hidden away from the rest of the world, only put on for show. They themselves may be for show, but their shackles aren't.
"It keeps them in line," they say.
The large red warning mark on the side of Feliciano's face is long forgotten as his brother is not there to comfort him.
Their masters seem content in sharing their country when others would not. It's a pretty secure deal; both Feliciano and Romano were bound together through blood.
"HA-HA!" Alfred's loud laugh is triumphant. He smears the remains of forest cake into Feliciano's hair; an act retaliated with a glass of water in his face. "Oh, it's ON!" Alfred grabs another glass of water and chucks it at Feliciano. Ducking, it splashes onto the face of a master, the treat of his surprise ever present.
"Uh-oh~" Feliciano mutters, he and Alfred laughing boisterously. They run in opposite directions.
America never grows tired from the endless punishments for his misdemeanours, always comes up with more and more ways to humiliate his master, more out of everyday boredom than defiance.
Both Germany and Japan are trusted by their masters to behave, and Kiku does, willingly. It's a rumour that he and his master treat each other as equals, and whether they do or not, causes disapproval and jealously among the masters and nations respectively.
Matthew also decides not to participate, but it's no use; no one's even noticing his good behaviour anyway. He watches the mad man run – his brother. He hears his master call – unanswered. The stitches on his lips prove it so.
He's had them done before. He's held the quivering form of his brother as they performed the same. But all bonds loosen in the end.
Francis also observes the scene, his face unable to reveal his intentions. His master is looking for him amidst the many other masters as they try and grab the fast-moving forms of Alfred, Feliciano and a suddenly released Ivan.
No one really trusts Francis. Like his inconsistent moods of a sick happiness and sadistic depressions, his loyalty also varies. If one miserable nation so much as looks too long at another he is the first to speak up about it.
"This is ridiculous, aru." A sudden voice spikes his interest. "They'll just see us and we'll be even worse trouble." Francis tries not to be obvious. Smile widening, he quietly bends down. Lifting the white table cloth, he quickly reveals China. Beside him: a shocked looking England.
Seeing the Frenchman, Yao gives up the fight, quick to crawl back out into the chaos.
Francis and Arthur stare at each other. Francis raises a challenging eyebrow to hide any pity that might have originally surfaced. Arthur is faring better than he had in the last meeting it seems, previous cuts and bruises healing nicely.
England is rarely shackled up with the rest of his brothers; their master's think they have "better places to show off their wealth than at a stuffy meeting," something that everyone assumes is British lingo for "the pub." Arthur is often on the receiving end of his brother's tirades at the end of the day, and he's starting to suspect that it isn't entirely alcohol influenced.
A smirk as a parting gift for the nation, Francis lowers the cloth. He's obscured once more, a deep exhale sent in return.
They've all been doing this for a long time now. Hundreds of years, more even. But every day for a nation is like the first, and they never grow tired of the suffering they must endure for their own insolences.
It wasn't always so bad. At one point in their lives they've been happy to serve; it's all they'd known. But when they learn, they remember.
Many were taken from their mothers and siblings who were either destroyed or have disappeared. As they learn to become stronger through the years, they learn not to be embarrassed by the pasts they share.
The scars on previous colonies are healing, once inscribed into their skin by a reluctant – sobbing - nation as an act of claiming.
They are kept together through alliances; only a few times in history have masters been desperate enough to get them to engage in certain activities to try and strengthen that bond more - it's never been proven to work.
So long as the heart of a nation continues to beat, these nations will continue to try and win their freedom.
"Got you!" Arthur feels needles dig into his scalp as he's lifted to his feet by his hair.
Struggling attracts a lot of attention.
Alfred flies over a falling Feliciano and the two are sent crashing to the ground.
Ivan stops in his tracks. He sees both men, sees Arthur and Yao being brought back to their standing and looks down at his feet, disappointed that the game ended so soon; the game only he seemed to be playing.
It was fun while it lasted.
I may or may not continue with this, depending on what people think of it. It was just a random idea I had and thought about making it into a oneshot, but I suppose it could continue further.
Anyway, please let me know what you thought and thanks for reading. :)