Dawn, 7th May 1945. The sun was hidden in the grey, murky clouds but Germany knew it was dawn. He walked slowly upwards, struggling against the hill's gradient, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He had become so thin, so dirty, so broken... and now it was over... Germany sighed, pulling his rifle onto his shoulder and continued to climb, eyes downcast. His helmet felt heavy on his head, as did the rest of his kit. Before the war, he could have easily carried twice the amount he wore. But now...
Cresting the hill, a shadow pooled at his feet, one that didn't belong to him. He looked up, the scowl lifting from his face as he saw who waited for him.
"Bruder?" A whisper reached him. Germany's shoulders sagged as he drank in the sight of Prussia, his elder brother.
Prussia's once snow-white hair was now grey, lank and dirty against his forehead. The crimson eyes that used to be so full of life and energy were now dull, glazed over and sunken back into his skull. His cheeks were hollow and stained. His uniform was torn, burnt and caked in mud and blood. He stood atop the hill, his frame fail and smaller than Germany had ever seen before. His rifle was held in his hand, his helmet undone at his chin. He wore an expression of defeat and despair, two emotions that echoed in Germany's heart.
"How did it come to this?" Prussia breathed, his gaze fall to the ground. The grass waved in the breeze. Germany walked forward slowly. He dropped his empty rifle on the ground and gently embraced his brother, struggling to keep the tears inside.
"I don't know bruder," Germany replied, his voice cracking. "I have no words to comfort you." He felt his brother's arms wrap around him; they were so thin. A dam broke inside and tears coursed down Germany's cheeks.
"Will I ever see you again?" his brother sobbed into his chest. Germany clutched him tighter, wanting to pull the slight frame inside his coat and keep him there forever.
Footsteps sounded and two figures appeared, stopping before the two brothers. Both were dirty, bloodied and thin. Their uniforms were rags, their kit lost and their eyes dull with matching defeat. Austria ran a free hand through his dank, dirty hair, avoiding Germany's gaze. Mud and dried blood were caked onto his forehead and cheek; his glasses were broken and hanging dangerously from the end of his nose. His arm was wrapped around Hungary's waist, supporting her as she settled into a lopsided stance. Her right leg was bleeding profusely, dripping down her shoes and pooling onto the grass. Pain was etched onto her thin face.
"One day bruder," Germany whispered, stroking his brother's thin back, wincing at how sharp his shoulder blades felt. "One day, we will see each other again," he soothed.
Germany pulled his brother away and looked into his puffy eyes. Crimson met blue. Both were tear-stained, defeated and devoid of life. The only emotions were sorrow and regret.
More footsteps sounded, this time from behind Germany. With a last touch to his brother's face, Germany dried his eyes and turned to face his captors.
There were three of them ascending the hill. Their leader was dressed in a clean uniform, no stains or burn marks marring its design. He wasn't thin like the others; he was healthy and full of pride. The other two were dirty, one incredibly thin shuffling behind at a terribly slow pace. These two seemed tired, their dirty but intact uniforms weighing down on their fragile frames. They echoed how Germany felt; tired and worn thin.
They stopped before Germany, America leading the group. He stood tall, his dark blond hair shining with cleanliness. Germany felt a twist in his heart at the sight of him. One last act of defiance threatened to burst.
"We've come for your surrender Germany," America said loudly, his voice grating against Germany's ears. "Make it quick now, you've lost enough," he smirked, adding fuel to Germany's anger.
With as much defiance as he could muster, Germany glared at America and strode past him. He stopped before a small, confused Britain. Canada hovered in the background. Germany pulled the humiliating papers from his pocket and held them out towards Britain. Recognition bloomed in Britain's eyes.
"I unconditionally surrender to you," Germany whispered through gritted teeth, his head sinking. The same shame he had felt all those years ago at Versailles... it still hurt to think of that time, but this... this new shame heaped upon the old one... it burned deeper than he had ever known it could.
Britain took the papers that signalled the Third Reich's official surrender to the Allied Forces. His bony fingers shook slightly, their energy draining away. There was no smug satisfaction in his gaze, which Germany was grateful for. Britain's gaze was not unkind, but... there was an emotion in his face Germany could not read.
More footsteps sounded behind Germany. From the other side of the hill, a figure loomed. He was tall and muscular, his face covered in mud, snow and blood. He carried a machine gun in his hand and a rifle strapped to his back. Germany's heart wrenched. He had come.
A gloved hand settled onto Prussia's shoulder, threatening to push the frail nation to the ground. Another hand pointed at Hungary, the finger crooking at her, beckoning her. With a sob, she hugged a tear-stained Austria and slowly limped towards Russia's side. Prussia wrapped an arm around Hungary, tears flowing from their eyes. They stood together in mutual despair.
A hand closed around Germany's shoulder. He turned to find Britain and Canada shaking their heads at him. America walked forward and placed a hand on Austria's shoulder, guiding him toward their group. Fresh tears were streaming down his face. The spoils of war had been collected. It was time.
Germany's face crumpled as he glanced on last time at his brother. Grim determination fought against desperate grief. Germany tried to memorize those eyes, the hair, the smiles from before... he would see his brother again... he would!
With a tug of his hand, Russia led the two nations away. Germany watched as his brother was taken from him, holding a limping Hungary. Tears coursed down his face as hopelessness washed over him.
"Come Germany, it is time," Britain murmured, gently pulling him away.
Sobbing, Germany turned and walked away. His chest was constricted as his heart shrivelled and died. The tears would not stop.
The Iron Curtain of separation had been raised.