Disclaimer: I'm getting too old for this...
...
When the demon child was born.
He was unnatural—pale skin, white like snow, eyes depths of blood.
His father was Germania.
And he remembers the man whose hair blazed in the crown of the sun. Wild, wild Germania, barbarian Germania, whose locks grew gold like burning fields of flax, whose eyes were cold as the blue ice of the Danube.
A warrior, father of warriors.
It was simple as this—throw the apple with the wind, and see how far it falls from the tree.
And the child, white as snow, with eyes like the blood of his enemies, rolled back and embraced the live-giving roots; he had not gone so far in the first place.
He remembers blood and nobility. A tall figure, taller than the trees. Wild barbarian Germania, unbroken.
I want to be just like you when I grow up.
And the vague, vague memory of an embrace. Perhaps it was the only one he gave.
And one day, Germania bloody and broken.
And another day, Germania gone.
Is this what the apocalypse looks like?
To cut down the tallest tree.
To kill the greatest warrior.
And he remembers, in the aftermath, alone in the woods, the vague, raw scraping in his throat, sound released in the emptiness:
"Vater."
...
"What the fuck do you think this is?"
Eyes blazing red, given to anger, given to rage. A sight uncommon, a sight most feared.
A boot lashes out, kicking the man in the mud. He gasps sharply, swerving away to ensure survival. With what strength is left, he tests his jaw, gingerly, gingerly.
Almost dislocated. But not quite.
"This isn't some fucking tea party, Österrich."
A blade jams itself into his arm, and he cries out, rolling onto his back to gaze up into the eyes of the devil.
He wants to cry out at those eyes, those huge, frightening eyes like Mars in the night sky, flashing in his face. It is unnatural; the skin too white, the eyes too bright. He wants to say things, things like freak and warmonger, and barbarian, but is too afraid to.
(A side note; he thinks: They would be considered compliments.)
But he is in pain, and Gilbert Beilschmidt, Prussia, kicks him with unmitigated fury, marking as much of his soft skin as he can.
There is no knife on him now that it has been thrust, but that stops him not; weaponless, the beast has teeth, and claws—but, even more, fangs. Truly a demon, a demon who pulls him up, looks him dead in the eye, and then, once the gaze has been fastened, the hellchild whispers at him with the hottest breath, "You will never be strong; pathetic existence as you live, you crawl through the mud when you could touch the sky."
(And since when had he become a man of poetry?)
(Warmonger.)
"So listen here"—he fastens the trail of his words into a little distance from his ear—"you might as well be dead, you simpering dog."
He has gone as fast as he struck, flailing the eagle, its neck snapping and fusing again in the wind.
...
"Our Vater taught us to be strong, and to live by the sword."
"I don't remember our Vater," says Ludwig, now too big for his knee. Gilbert pulls him closer anyway, can feel the protest in the stiffness of his brother's limbs. He laughs.
"You don't remember a lot of things now, do you, West?"
"Nein."
And it is as simple as that.
"Well, let me tell you this." And he pulls his brother ever closer, feels the grumbling beneath Ludwig's skin. Once more, he finds himself pulling into that little notch of air, his mouth near the ear. "Vater loved us more than anything, and that's why he never showed it. I think he would be disappointed, really. It's funny, but...
"I killed you, West."
For a moment, the silence is as cold as Ludwig's eyes. Gilbert is not afraid, strangely, not even apprehensive. He sits in the stillness, waits for an answer.
He did take part in the death of his brother. The youngest of the German brothers. But what have you? he wondered to Fritz. A kingdom lives by the sword.
And then, with a touch of innocence but also of prudent make, Ludwig's voice emerged, breaking the silence. "Is this guilt, then, brüder?" The light of the window shifts on his hair. Gilbert cannot see his eyes.
And, he must admit to himself, there are moments when he is brutally honest.
Honesty out of a man like him is always doubtless.
"Sure. Guilt...and, I guess, some sort of twisted love."
Ludwig lifts his head, and the light flows down his face. His eyes are chips of steel. "You give up all that land for me."
"Your other brothers want it as well."
"But I can't see you losing your identity for me."
"I won't."
"Brüder."
Gilbert looks long and hard at Ludwig, not answering. He may be waiting for resentment. Hatred, even. Questions, indubitably flickering behind the eyes.
Sometimes, it is forgiveness that is the most shattering.
Ludwig presses, "You know what I mean."
"Me over Bavaria?" Gilbert inquires with some sick twist of the lips. He imagines that he looks quite ill. "I'm not the only one merging for you."
And this is when the forgiveness, sharp and blunt, buries itself in his soul.
Ludwig loosens, deigns to shift closer to his brother's torso, pushes his crown beneath his chin. His hair fades over the white, white skin. "You are my proud, annoying brüder. I think you feel guilty. You killed me, and I'm still alive. Brüder, you will be the one not living soon."
Too guilty to say it outright, then? he thinks, and says it aloud.
Ludwig stiffens again.
Gilbert's soul pulls itself apart. He is unraveling already.
"Ich liebe dich, West," he says, and embraces him close.
...
Hell is not fire and brimstone.
Hell is the rush of flames as Berlin caves in on itself.
Hell is the artillery fire turning the capital to crumbs.
Hell is the streets filled with innocent men and women hanged on the lampposts, Germans killed by Germans.
Hell is the Hitler Youth on the streets.
Hell is sealed with a series of movements: The steady hissing of gas, the agonizing screams of "nein," the crunch of a pill, the explosion of a bullet. And then, the symphony ends with the scratch of a pen. His brother screams in the back; this time, the guilt has landed on the other side.
In hell, he freezes and thinks back, thinks, "...Alte Fritz loved the sound a quill makes on paper."
Hell is nothing but ice and snow.
...
"How does it feel, to not exist?"
She reaches out a hand, to feel the skin. It is still warm. Hot, even. Or, perhaps, is it so cold it burns? A beat—she allows herself a moment, lays her brow against it.
Farewells are hard. Confusing, even. Times like this...
"How does it feel, Ungarn," he says back, "to be a prisoner?"
"Awful," she admits (but she knows what it's like...she is hurtling into the past). Their faces are so incredibly close, their breaths misting over the concaves of their eyes. He sees the green of hers, sees growth and warmth thriving under a sun. It is almost unbearable for a moment, so he closes his eyes. But she presses closer, and their noses cross. "Look at me, Preußen."
He doesn't.
To live by the sword, one must die by the sword.
"Porozs," she says this time.
"I fought for many years." His eyes are still closed. Reflecting, meditating. The world used to be so quiet. More woods. And Russia is full of woods; it is full of quiet. He simply knows where to look.
It's strange. To be in silence again. As if the world of yesterday never went away.
Funny how the peace returns after he dies.
She is pressed so close to him now; she was with him from the beginning, now she will be with him at the end.
"I thought you hated me, Ungarn," he says, feeling himself smile that sick twist of lips again. "You would always go after me, crazy as you were."
"You think I ever wanted you to die?"
"The world doesn't care."
"I do."
(He tries not the clench his teeth. It almost fails.)
He opens his eyes. They are like windows with shutters flying upwards. And again—that unbearable green. He sees his whole life sketched in it, refracting a history towards him. His history. His death. This must be what old men feel when they see themselves as infants again.
Summer comes in Russia, too. There is a hush, for neither of them says so.
And now her cheeks are brushing his as they breathe. Intimate as healing. So close, so, so close. Intimate...intimate as the sweep of swords, intimate as a hand on her breast.
Is it not madness, the snow muffling out the world?—for a moment, he believes that he is in the past again. Young, energetic, sweeping about in white. A demon of death, killing on his Crusades. Ghosts are supposed to be white; and for a moment, he is white again, with red eyes, white robes, ending his enemies with a silver scream. He feels his fingers twitching for a sword; it has been a long time since the hilt has been wrapped in his palm.
"You're a horrible liar," he whispers, teeth so close together, "Ungarn."
Suddenly his hand is drenched in a beautiful, unbearable warmth, as if the sun has grasped it. Thawed, he moves not.
"And when have I ever lied to you? Not since we were children. Not then, not now. Not ever."
He looks at her, then looks down at their linked hands. "We're not children anymore."
"But you are Preußen, no matter your name. And I am Magyar."
He dares not call her a liar again.
...
"I haven't seen you in a long time, Old Man."
They are perched on something white, someplace that was probably once a battlefield; but there is no blood, no torn-churned earth spitting in their faces. The silken veil of the sky has been bleached to a clean cornflower blue. Cleanliness—that is something he has found, somehow. And he cannot believe it, either.
"You aren't saying much today, are you?" he says, turning to the weathered face. Something blossoms in his chest, rather like a bullet blooming over his heart. The heat is unbearable.
And then it lurches as he eyes the old man. This is the most vividly he has seen him in forever. As vivid was the sky, the earth. The battle was just a period in between two places, two very similar places. It was all a passing thing, the battle.
He kicks the dirt a little, scuffing about for scars. When his foot makes a metallic scrape, he knows he has found it.
"It's still here." He kicks at the dirt some more, until a shell gleams wetly at him from the dark. He recognizes its style, its make; it is from an old battle, and he guesses that the weaponry belongs to the time of the Seven Years' War. How fitting to have it here, to see the old man again here. He hesitates, then, suddenly afraid to move his body; if he looks to the right again, would the old man still be there?—but there is a hand nudging at his back (you know me too well, he thinks, even now), and so he scoops the spent shell up with his bare fingers. The metal shines ever the more.
He holds a relic of the past. But his home is full of them— No. West's house. It is no longer his, but of the posterity. Because he is old and gone; the storm, the life of Prussia, has long since passed.
For a moment, the thunderbolt of it slams the pain into his chest, and breathing comes in short gasps. He looks at the old man, whose face is a colored with gentle sympathy—empathy, as well—and back down at the shell; and repeat. Roping himself to two anchors into the past. Tears are slowly welling in his eyes.
"I feel alone," he admits. Around the old man, he feels his own age welling up in him, the deep, painful clang of the bell of history, its octaves swelling his heart in a size too painful to accommodate. And so he speaks. "I've always been alone. But now...my Vater, you know." His breath hitches. "My Vater died before I actually became a country. But that's what happens with nations, right?" A forced breath of a laugh. "We've talked about this before. My Vater died when his tribes died out. My people are still alive. Maybe that's why I'm still alive."
And there is a tilt of the head directed at him; he knows the gesture, and blinks because he can practically hear the soft words.
You're onto something.
"But the Germans became mine. Ours. And then we gave them to West. But they still exist. Now, there isn't even a little province called Prussia, or...or, whatever."
How does it feel, to not exist?
Hungary's words, soft and not unkind, drift over him.
Clamoring in his mind. He stares at the old man, searching, searching.
The sun in his hand; when he looks down, the shell has dropped back onto the freshly turned soil, and a strong grip is holding his. He has forgotten that one little wrinkle of skin in the man's palm, how cold his hands usually were...forgetting with even realizing that he has forgotten, and never getting the chance to realize because the man has been long dead, never to return again.
Until now.
Recklessly, he reaches for the shell with his free hand.
That, also, is caught.
"Leave it, Preußen."
The tears spark again. He has not heard the voice in over two hundred years.
"It has left its mark."
And he stares the gentle smile, and stares and stares and stares, his eyes fogging up until he is awake again.
...
Preußen—a dream within a dream.
Because once upon a time...something really happened, and that is why things are this like today...
...
PT: Hi, guys. Missed me? Quick update—the last couple of years of high school left me extraordinarily stressed and exhausted. But now I'm back, trying to recollect my writing ability. The fandom and canon sure have changed, haven't they...it's so weird.
Therefore—PRUSSIA FEELS. PRUSSIA FEELS EVERYWHERE. –Sprinkles you all with cornflowers-