"NO!" Words tumbled out of his mouth uncontrollably. "Ludwig! Bruder!" Shoving his way past soldiers, their guns blazing, he tripped over the dead, scrambling to find his brother. After all, Ludwig was the center of his hope. Yet as his sight turned red, and as he looked upon the bodies littered across the floor and at his red-stained hands, his last shred of hope and sanity dissolved.
"No," he whispered, his voice hoarse. He fell to his knees like a puppet with cut strings. The stench of death surrounded him, but all he could think of was Ludwig. Ludwig, Ludwig, Ludwig. His brother, his world, the young boy who annoyed him. The fearless yet foolish warrior he trained. The young man who started the biggest war in history. World War Two. He tried to warn Ludwig. He did. Yet as the sound of bullets erupted, and an endless fountain of blood splattered the cold, metal ground, all he could do was remember. Remember how he begged, how he begged and begged. Endlessly, he tried to prevent Ludwig from doing this. From starting it all again. Didn't that foolish boy learn the first time? The first war? But his idiot of a brother ignored him. "I can do this," Ludwig had said. "I won't screw it up again." But at that time, as he looked into his brother's eyes, he no longer saw the young bothersome boy. The innocent newborn nation who looked up to him. No, as he looked into those sky-blue eyes, he saw bloodlust. Revenge. And in the end, the blue sky turned red, and black clouds rained blood. Now, this war was coming to an end, and he feared of the future. What will happen to him? No, not to him, what will happen to Ludwig?
Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice when a large man came up to him, an aura of power radiating from the man. With blonde-white hair and a blood-spattered scarf, this man could not be a man at all. No, the man was a nation. And as he snapped back into the present, he realized this country's identity. The one and only. Russia. Scrambling on his back, fear etched across his bleeding face, he tried to get away. But no, the nation placed a filthy boot on his chest and leaned down, smiling a too-happy smile that sent shivers down his spine.
"Well who do we have here?" Russia said happily, his evil grin spreading even wider. "Nice to see you again, Prussia."
"Hey! Watch where you're going, man!" A stranger shoved into him as he walked by, snapping Prussia back into the present. Gilbert sent him a death glare, his eyes narrowing and his pointed teeth turning into a snarl, which resulted as it always does. With shaggy white hair and crimson red eyes, most people are afraid of him. Warnings would flash in their minds: Freak. Animal. Monster. After all, that's what he was. If people think of me this way, Prussia once thought, then I guess I should live up to their expectations, right? And that he did.
"I-I m-m-mean," the stranger stuttered, suddenly frightened, "I-I'm s-sorry, s-sir." He scrambled away; bumping into people as he frantically tried escaping the fearsome Prussian. Once out of sight, Gilbert shoved his pale hands into his pockets and sighed. Watching his breath in the bitter winter wind of Eastern Berlin, he tried to escape those damn memories that clouded his thoughts. It may have happened years ago, but to him, it felt like yesterday. The day he was taken by Russia. The day his brother Ludwig, or West Germany, was ripped away from him. After his parents died, Gilbert was alone, but he had one person: Ludwig. He loved—no, not loved—loves Ludwig, but after those filthy Russians built the Berlin wall, he never saw him again. Damn it, he didn't even know if Ludwig was alive. After that, of course, he was tortured. Put through Hell by his captor. As he walked down the streets, the light from a nearby lamppost illuminating his face, you could see the cuts. The unhealed, bleeding cuts and bruises.
Across the street, a mother stepped in front of her daughter, who couldn't be more than five. She glanced worriedly at Gilbert, who honestly looked like a murderer. Sending his signature smirk, he flashed those blood-red eyes, and the mother gasped. Now walking faster, she took her child by the arm and pulled her out of sight. But that's fine. He's used to this. The stares, the cautious whispers. Everything. But today, he was done. Just done.
Gilbert kicked open his house door forcefully, or as he liked to refer to it, his prison cell, and threw off his clothes. He didn't bother brushing his teeth as he threw himself onto his rock-hard bed. He couldn't fall asleep, and it wasn't because of his house and bed conditions. No, it was those damn memories. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Ludwig. And every time he remembered, a little piece of his heart broke off. Now, his heart was no more than shattered pieces of glass, except for a tiny spark of hope: Ludwig. That one day, he will find his brother. One day, he will escape from Russia. And with these thoughts he finally drifted to sleep, only to be dragged into another horrible nightmare.
Chains bounded his hands behind a cold, metal chair. Gilbert struggled to break free, but the metal was too strong. Sweat bubbled at his forehead, his crimson eyes wide and frantic. All of a sudden, the door slammed open and closed soon after. A shadowy figured stepped into the cold room, not allowing the light to reach his face. But judging from his size and the powerful aura radiating from him, Gilbert could tell who it was. The man stepped into the light, revealing himself. It was his captor, Ivan Braginsky. A creepy smile crept onto his face as he leaned down, resting his hands on the armrests of Gilberts chair.
"Well, well, well," the personification of Russia said slowly in a thick Russian accent. "Looks like the Allies took your brother and left me with you. Shame, is it not? Having your brother ripped from your grasp. Oh, but we will have so much fun together, da? After I'm done with you, I doubt you will be seeing him again."
Gilbert leaned forward as far as he could until the chains wrapped tighter against his wrists. "Fuck you." He spat directly into Ivan's face. Suddenly angry, Ivan raised a gloved hand and whipped it forward, whacking it across the Prussian's face. A bright red hand mark appeared, almost as red as his eyes, but it didn't seem to faze him.
"Now," Russia smiled, cheerful again, "That teaches a lesson, da? Be a good little ex-nation and pay attention. See, I am going to ask a few questions. All you have to do is answer them. Easy, da? And if not," Russia paused to pull out a nearby cart. On it were sharpened knives, a .47 caliber, a belt, and a few other tools. "Well, if not, I guess you will have to – how should I phrase it? – face the consequences. Let's begin, shall we?"
Drenched in sweat, Gilbert lurched into a sitting position, his heart beating like a frightened rabbit's. He took slow, deep breaths, and rested his head softly on the rock that was surprisingly considered a pillow. The hole in his chest expanded with each of these terrible nightmares. It was something indescribable, something no one has ever felt before. An extreme pain, worse than any injury you can think of. It was like having a thousand knives stabbed repeatedly into your chest, then moving to your head. It was like having each of your limbs torn off slowly. It was like having your heart ripped out of your chest while it's still beating. Except this was worse, more mental rather than physical.
He still remembered that day. The first time Ivan tortured him. Every day of torture, he chanted a single mantra: You're awesome, you can do this. You're awesome, you can handle this. You're awesome, you'll get through it. And shockingly, he managed. But it could never be worse than the pain of losing Ludwig. No, that was unbearable. Cuts and bruises and slashes can heal. But you can't fix a shattered heart with Scotch tape.
Almost as if on cue, he felt a stabbing pain in his chest. Coughing, he doubled over, rolling off of the bed and onto the floor. Tiny hands were ripping at the shattered pieces of his heart from inside, a burning fire rapidly spreading throughout his entire body. His head spun, and his lungs closed up. No, it couldn't be. He was an ex-nation, he couldn't be feeling this. But it was happening. His former capital…something was going on. This kind of pain only happened when something violent and big is going on in a country's capital. Prussia wheezed, trying to catch the slightest bit of air. Berlin, something was happening in Berlin. Clutching his chest, he grabbed on to the bed post and struggled to his feet. He staggered out of the door, and a burst of light pierced his eyes. The smell of smoke filled his nose.
"Holy. Fucking. Shit." Gilbert gasped, running – no, not running, - stumbling through the streets to the heart of Berlin. Something was happening. His thoughts went to one thing: Russia. Goddammit, Ivan! What the fuck are you doing?!
The closer he got, the stronger the smell. A fire? No, but what was causing the smoke? His mind was fuzzy and burning from extreme pain, but he was able to figure out one thing: construction.
No. No, no, no, no! That's why! He felt something cutting through his heart, splitting it in half. God fucking dammit! What was that maniac thinking?! Frenzied thoughts went berserk in his mind, scurrying like a million rats in an attic. Only half-thought words flashed behind his mind: Russia. Ivan. Civilians. Death. A wall.
He made it to the center of Berlin, right on the line between East Berlin and West. Of course, being Prussia, he was on the East.
Tears sprung to his eyes, and his head spun faster and faster like a Ferris wheel on steroids. The blue sky was filled with smoke from construction. White flashed behind his eyes daringly, and he felt as if he was going to pass out from the excruciating pain. Soon, he spotted it. The construction of a wall. But not only did he see a wall being built, he saw red. Blood. The blood of his people, his former children. They were trying desperately trying to cross the wall before it became too late, but the Russians were shooting them down. Blood. It was splattered across the ground, the wall, and the buildings. Blood. Was Ivan fucking insane?!
He felt like he was going to pass out. The pain, the confusion, the freight of his people. But his head whipped to attention as he heard a voice. A familiar voice.
"Gilbert! Gil! Bruder!" Ludwig called from the West of Berlin, desperate to get to the Prussian. From the way Ludwig limped, clutching his chest, he knew that Ludwig felt the same searing pain that burned a fiery inferno inside of him. Gilbert stood from the ground, stars dancing behind his eyes. But right before Ludwig crossed the line, a huge hand clamped around the back of Gilbert's collar. Gilbert staggered to a stop, wheezing and gasping.
"Where were you going, friend? You were not trying to leave just yet, da?"
And with that, Gilbert's sighted turned white, and his eyes rolled back into his head as his body collapsed to the blood-soaked road.
Russia clicked his tongue, and the eyes of the dreary Prussian flew open. He was in the room. The floors were still splattered with his old, dried up blood, and the stench of it filled his nostrils, but the room was the same. Home sweet torture.
As Gilbert regained consciousness, he noticed certain things. The pain, for one, was dulled. His body ached from aftereffects, but it was faded. His heart still felt like it was split in half by a steak knife, but it was still there and beating. But the emotional pain, that tightly coiled knot in his chest, that was still there.
Gilbert licked his lips and prepared himself for what was about to occur.
So sorry that this chapter is short! I promise the others will be longer. Anyway, Please review! Every one of them makes me happy!