It was yet another World Summit meeting, and as normal, only around half of the world's personifications were there. It could only be expected – half was the average fraction in terms of attendance.

This particular meeting was about the economy, as most of them were these days. It was the most pressing issue, for all their other problems stemmed from it, and if they could just agree on something, then maybe things could start going back to normal.

None of them were in good shape. America, despite his ever-boisterous grin, looked thin and gaunt wearing a suit two sizes too big. Most of the Asian nations, specifically China and Japan, couldn't make most of their conferences because they were just too ill. Russia smiled less, and glared less. Romano coughed blood into a handkerchief, and Italy would wordlessly hand him a handkerchief of his own, only slightly less rust-colored.

And yet on one memorable occasion, something happened which gave the the nations what they all desperately needed.. hope.

Prussia had insisted that his little brother take him to the World Meetings. He could tell that Germany didn't really want to, spouting and blathering nonsense about how he should be resting, but Prussia insisted. Prussia always insisted, and eventually, he would get his way. Prussia always got his way. If West had any problems with it, Prussia wasn't so sick that he couldn't still kick ass and be thoroughly awesome while doing it.

He could. Definitely.

It had started off slowly, without being very noticeable. Prussia had stayed behind after his nation was dissolved (and that had hurt like a fucking bitch, he had to say), and no one knew why, but the former empire wasn't planning on complaining. He was quite happy to hang around and share his awesomeness with the world.

At first, he thought it was because of the Berlin Wall and him becoming East Germany; the Berlin Wall fell in 1989.

Then he'd assumed it was because there were still Prussians that were alive, people that had been born in East Germany or in what had once been Prussia... It had been more than a century since the ending of the Second World War, and all who had been born in Prussia or the East were long dead.

The Hohenzollern family was still alive and kicking, but what was the point of having royalty with no land to rule over?

There was a vague sort of theory in his mind about how there were still pockets of Prussian influence across the world, but it was flimsy at best. All the nations had been influenced by the Ancients, but those few had long since faded into nothing.

He just told everyone he was awesome. He made good use of his time – he went out drinking with France and Spain, he would make a racket, he would crash the meetings and film the happenings to use as future blackmail, he had a constant smile plastered onto his face... but the gatecrashing became less and less frequent, and the noise and laughter became quieter, interspersed with hacking coughs and moments of confusion. The smiles dimmed.

Prussia was really fucking old. In his better moments of clarity, which were becoming few and far between, he wondered how China felt.

"Take me to the damn meetings, West," he had rasped one day, while his brother alternated between fussing over him and doing paperwork. "I'm fucking awesome, and I won't have you treating me like an invalid!"

He'd started coughing after that, and pretended that he didn't know about how Germany checked every meeting place beforehand to make sure there was a wheelchair ramp.

So it was yet another meeting about the economy, the nations getting nothing done and arguing with each other amidst their failing health. Germany did his best to keep order, but sweat beaded his brow, and he was very pale. Russia halfheartedly swung his pipe at America; America halfheartedly ducked.

Prussia tried to feel sympathy for them, but it was difficult when they kept sliding in and out of focus and his entire body ached. He watched the lethargic chaos through heavy-lidded crimson eyes, and he knew his hair was starting to thin. He'd taken to wearing a black and white hat – Prussian colors were totally awesome. At best, he could muster up a ghost of his former smile, but he still smiled all the same. Damn their looks of pity, he was Prussia and he was awesome, and he'd make the best of this wreck!

West had tucked a blanket over his legs to keep him warm. It looked like the Prussian flag, black and white with his eagle emblazoned across the front, but it was a lot fuzzier and softer than he remembered his flag being. Though he'd never admit it, the wheelchair he had was pretty damn comfortable... and it got him free rides, too. People just took him wherever he wanted to go. He got free stuff from people that saw him and felt bad. Awesome.

But it was so cold all the time, and he couldn't stop coughing, and there were times when he didn't remember what he'd done during the day, and he was suddenly eating dinner with his brother when a few minutes ago he'd been taking a wheel through the city in the early morning. It sucked.

Dying really sucked.

Hungary was trying to beat France away from Austria with her frying pan. Russia and America were still arguing. The Baltic states had convinced Ukraine to join them in a card game. ...At least he knew things wouldn't be changing very much after his death.

Prussia's lips curled up in a smile at the thought, and he chuckled – only for a moment, though, because a few seconds later the amusement faded to pain as he felt his lungs rattle. He started coughing, screwing his eyes shut while his whole body shook. Flecks of blood splattered his hand as he brought it up to muffle the sounds.

"Dying sucks," he muttered, though no one heard him. He coughed again a couple times, just for good measure, and sank back a little in his chair. At least this was one of his better moments – the room was quite clearly in focus for once, but something was twisting awfully inside him. The latter had been happening a lot recently, it was probably some phantom pain drifting over from West...

Germany had been seeing his fair share of riots. Prussia just wished he were able to walk for once, so he could do something other than listen while his brother scurried down the hall from his bedroom to the bathroom in the middle of the night and vomited up everything he'd eaten.

There was something tapping at the window – a bird, probably. They were in Berlin, and it was springtime, after all. Prussia liked birds, so he turned his head (or perhaps it would be better to say he let his head fall over to one side, since his fine muscle control was falling to pieces) and squinted into the sunlight streaming through the window.

"Birdie...?"

He coughed again – this coughing was not awesome, he hated this – and reached out with sinewy, shaky hands to roll his wheelchair up to the thirtieth-story window. Each gesture was made with a painstaking amount of effort, and by the time he got there several minutes later he was panting from exertion, sweating underneath the layers he wore yet still absolutely frigidly cold.

Dying sucked.

Opening the window took longer, the latches requiring patience and dexterity that he didn't really have anymore, which actually made him angry for the first time in a long time. Hadn't he been great, once? He'd taken down empires, he'd fought, he'd conquered, he'd triumphed over all... he had been able to hold his own, by himself, against a single army. Now he couldn't open the fucking window. Fuck that. After a few minutes in which thankfully no one noticed his plight – he didn't want those looks of pity, thanks – he succeeded in his task, and the moment he could, the fluffy yellow chick which had been tapping at the glass hopped through and nestled himself in the palms of Prussia's trembling hands.

"Piyo~!"

The little chick chirped and rubbed his head against Prussia's thumb, flapping its little wings a couple of times.

Prussia, for the first time in a very long time, felt like he was going to start crying.

"Gilbird...!"

In confirmation, the chick nodded a couple of times, cheeping and chirping while Prussia stared in awe. He was so positively overjoyed at the appearance of his old friend that it took a few moments for it to sink in what that actually meant.

Nations had something that stayed with them through most or all of their too-long lives. America wore his glasses, which he had kept since Texas became a state in 1845. Canada owned a polar bear cub. Prussia distinctly remembered the day when his little brother, about seven physically at the time, came home with three dogs in tow, three dogs which were still alive today. England had those magical fairy friends... supposedly. Hungary had her frying pan; China, his wok; Russia, his scarf. When those items broke or died or vanished, well... the nation knew that they weren't very far behind.

"How've you been, little buddy?" the former nation croaked out, punctuating the end of his question with a cough. Gilbird tweeted and fluttered back down so he was in Prussia's hands. "You... you came back to me... Ha, hold on a moment, I got something for ya..."

He fumbled with his pocket, and then his fingers didn't want to grasp the chain – though they were feeling warm again, he hadn't felt warm in a long time – but he managed eventually. Because he was awesome, you know.

Gilbird looked strangely proud for a bird wearing an iron cross around its neck, and Prussia nodded.

"There you go, Birdie. Matches mine."

A pause. He looked back to where the arguing was still ongoing, though there was evidently a duel between Hungary and China for some unknown reason. Metal pans clashed against one another with awful grating noise. Italy sat down next to Greece and Japan in the corner and began distributing pasta.

That twisting feeling wasn't stopping. Annoyed, he poked himself in the stomach, as though that would make it stop. Not awesome, stomach, doing... whatever the hell this is when I'm trying to be happy.

Except... no, it wasn't a bad thing. Unfamiliar, certainly, and he was understandably confused, but... this. It was warmth, it was the sudden prickling of feeling where feeling had long since gone numb. It was songs of praise, it was strength, it was the idea of existence, and borders, and every footstep, every rustle of grass, every gentle breeze, every river, every pebble... This, oh... he had missed this.

Germany had been seeing his fair share of riots. Hopefully things would calm down soon – if whatever government the people were setting up was sensible and didn't engage in two-front wars (which was a fucking stupid idea, really), it certainly should.

Knees creaking, and his legs shaking (but he didn't fall, because he was too awesome for that), Prussia stood to look out the window. He could see clearly, and he could clearly see the black and white banners streaming through the air.

Something bubbled up inside him, his blood pumping through his veins and leaving him more energized than he had felt in decades. There was a grin on his face, and he couldn't wipe it away even if he tried.

He looked at the blanket, now half-falling out of his wheelchair, and hobbled back over to fold it up. The nations behind him were too preoccupied with arguing to notice him (or maybe, as he'd faded, he'd just become less noticeable). Gilbird flew from his hands to his shoulder and nuzzled his ear.

Prussia looked down at his hands. Old hands, thin, bony, lined with callouses and scars... but they weren't shaking anymore. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, and with each steady thump he felt the life pouring through his veins.

"Awesome is back, bitches," he whispered, still grinning, and used the opportunity Germany's turned back presented to him by leaping over the table and tackling his younger brother in a hug.

I'm not quite sure where this came from, when it's set, or what's happening, but whatever it is, I like it. Now for a few brief notes:

Prussian flag is black and white, with a black eagle in the middle. The Hohenzollern family used to be really powerful rulers in the Germanic area, and they're still around today. They still even have their titles - the current Prince of Prussia is a man named Georg Friedrich. Please ignore the vaguely mentioned politics and go with willing suspension of disbelief. Prussia gets land and he's not dead, hurrah.

Also, this is my first time writing Prussia's character, and I'm not too sure how I did. Reviews would be much appreciated!