"Say his name," his daughter implored.
Russia stroked her long hair back from her face, staring into her piercing red eyes. "My Anya is weary," he told her. "She needs her rest."
Anya tried to jerk away from his touch. "There is nothing wrong with me! Why won't you even say his name? Why can't you acknowledge his existence?"
He sighed heavily. His daughter was his delight, but her insistence on bringing up The Other into every conversation was tiring him. Russia had thought, at first, that Anya would forget about it. He'd looked forward to the day when her mind turned to other things, more appropriate things. But the weeks passed, and weeks became months, and his refusal to acknowledge The Other only enraged Anya, making her, if anything, more passionate about her cause.
"Say his name!"
"There is nothing to say." Russia guided her towards the bed, taking hold of her elbow more forcefully than was strictly neccesary. "It is time for bed, my Anya."
"Does a name frighten you?" Anya sneered at him, an ugly expression contorting her beautiful features. "Does a mere word make you tremble, Nana? He is only a boy!"
"That is enough," Russia warned her.
Anya dug in her heels, pulling away from him. Russia tightened his grip and pulled back, but was taken aback by her surprising strength; his daughter would not be easily moved. "I know the truth!" Anya shouted, bracing herself, pulling away with all her might. A flash of bone, as she beared her teeth. Her eyes narrowed into slits. "He looks just like you! He's your son, isn't he? What kind of father would hate his own son?"
"Silence," Russia told her.
"Kaliningrad!" Anya threw back her head and shouted his name. "Fricu!" All his names. "Brother!"
"SILENCE!" Russia's scream almost shook the entire house. Anya reeled back, as though struck. She crooned softly, and Russia watched with growing horror as a bloodstain spread across her blouse, as though his angry words had pierced her heart.
Anya slumped to the floor, clutching at the delicate embroidery over her heart. Her fingers came away tinged blood-red. "Nana?" she asked wonderingly.
Russia ripped her blouse open, revealing unmarred porcelin skin. He searched frantically, but could find no mark upon her, no visible sign of injury. Her heartbeat fluttered under his fingers like the beating of a bird's wings. "How, how?" he repeated to himself.
"My people," breathed Anya. She looked up at him, comprehending now. Somewhere, far away, but not far enough, one of her young men lay prone in the shadow of a Wall, bleeding out his life into the dirt, while his friends looked on, too afraid of the machineguns to dare save him. She moaned low, her eyes rolling back into her head in horror.
Russia gathered his daughter into his arms, stripped her of her bloody clothes, and laid her into a warm bath until she was clean of the bloodstain. He lifted her, warm and wet, and wrapped her in towels, carefully patting her dry. He lay her in bed, then stoked the fire in the grate until it roared, and pitched her ruined clothes into the inferno. The ash floated up the chimney, far away. Out of sight. Out of mind.
"All will be all right," Russia promised his daughter, kissing her forehead.
Her eyes fluttered open. "No," she said. "Nothing will be all right ever again." And she rolled over and turned her back to him.
Kaliningrad had never lived in a home that was not built, brick by brick, by Russia's hands. He'd never slept in a bed that was not ringed by concrete and barbed wire, or lived a day in a world that was not as red as the blood pulsing through his veins.
So when the Wall began to fall, when Russia's power began to crumble, when Communism rotted from within, it all came crashing down brick by brick.
It was Azerbaijan who began it all, Turkey's petite, dark-haired little sister, when she spat in Russia's face and received a split lip for her trouble. After that, everywhere Russia turned, another of his 'family' pulled farther away. Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia. Even his sisters, until Russia was left with only the ghost warmth of their hands in his.
One day, Poland and Hungary came to the door. Poland slung an arm across Kaliningrad's shoulders, holding him close, while Hungary went to the landing of the stairs and called out, "Anya! Anya!"
A slam, and a great crashing sound, like books being flung to the floor, and then GDR appeared at the top of the stairs. Russia loomed over her, his hands on her shoulders. "It is not safe for you out there."
"I can't stay here forever, Nana," said GDR.
"I won't be letting you go."
"You can't stop me," GDR told him. She gently removed each of his hands from her shoulders. "My people need me. It's time for me to go."
As she turned to step down, Russia, great Russia, sank to his knees, as though mortally wounded. He held out his hand to her, silently beseeching her not to leave. GDR caught hold of his hand and raised to her lips, kissing his knuckles. "I'm not doing this to hurt you, Nana," she whispered. She lowered his hand, then walked down the stairs to where Hungary was waiting for her. If Hungary saw in her the daughter she and Prussia might've had, she did not betray herself. She linked arms with GDR, and the two women left the house together.
Kaliningrad leaned against Poland and watched as the Baltics packed their bags silently. He could feel the electric thrill of the world changing around him, restructuring itself, redrawing borders, redefining terms and treaties. Lithuania glanced over and smiled at him, ruffling his hair like he used to when Kaliningrad was a little boy; Kaliningrad was no longer so little.
"Are you nervous?" Kaliningrad asked him.
Lithuania thought over that for a moment. "Yes," he said. "But it's a good nervous. I don't know what tomorrow will bring - but I'm ready for it."
Estonia stood, suitcase in hand, and walked over to them. He and Lithuania locked eyes, communicating in their unspoken way, and then he clasped Kaliningrad's shoulder and said, "I will see you soon, Fricu." Then he turned and walked out of the house, with Latvia trailing after him.
Kaliningrad caught a glimpse of a young girl with long blonde hair running towards Estonia with her arms spread wide, before Russia slammed the door shut behind the two Baltics. "Stop this, Lithuania," he rasped. He wore dark circles under his eyes and a haunted expression.
Lithuania stood up straight. Beside him, Kaliningrad and Poland stared at Russia, purple eyes watching him warily, green eyes watching him scornfully. Finally, Lithuania spoke. "Sir, you can't give me orders anymore." Russia stood aside and watched as Poland and Lithuania walked out of the house, Kaliningrad between them, to join Hungary and GDR.
The five walked down the path a long way until the snowflakes began to fall and they shivered in the cold. At last they came to a fork in the road, where the three elder nations paused and stepped away from the twins.
"This is as far as we can take you," Hungary said, brushing a stray strand of silvery hair back from GDR's face.
"You have to go the rest of the way on your own," Lithuania explained, pulling Kaliningrad into an embrace.
"But we'll totally be waiting for you when you get back," Poland vowed. He was the only one smiling. Hungary looked proud but stoic, while Lithuania's face twisted with sorrow.
"But how will we know when we get there?" asked Kaliningrad. Lithuania could feel the boy's heart pounding wildly, and in response he could only cling to Kaliningrad even more tightly.
"There's someone waiting to see you," Lithuania told him, releasing his grip on his ward reluctantly. He stepped back, wiping at his face with his sleeve. His voice cracked. "He's been waiting... a long time for the two of you."
Hungary kissed GDR on the forehead. "You'll know what to do when you see him."
The twins seemed to draw simultaneous deep breaths. After a moment they turned and headed off down the path on their own, waving as they went, their faces pale but hopeful. Lithuania kept waving until he couldn't see them anymore, and only then did he collapse into a heap, grabbing great handfuls of dirt, sucking in a deep breath and letting out a moan.
"One of them... isn't going to come back," he sobbed as Poland helped him back up. Hungary just turned away, letting the wind whip at her hair and hide her face.
"I d-didn't know it would be so painful," Lithuania told Poland even as he stumbled back to his feet. Poland tenderly brushed earth and tears from his cheeks. "I can't wish for Anya to die so that Fricu can live, but," Lithuania gasped, clutching at Poland. "I can't bear to see him die! I can't! I held him in my arms when he was newly born."
With a great cry, Hungary grabbed a clod of frozen dirt and flung it at a tree so that it exploded. "Damn it!" she screamed until her throat was raw. "I wish - I almost wish they hadn't been-" and she too fell to weeping, red-faced and angry, more rage than grief.
The sun burned on the horizon. Poland held Lithuania and kept watch on Hungary, and they waited. There was nothing else to be done.
They could hear the sounds of wild jubilation as they neared the city, the roar of heavy machinery, and a sound like the world breaking in two, the sound of the Wall falling and the world being remade.
GDR looked at Kaliningrad and said, partly from nervousness, but mostly from the need to say it before they ran out of time to say anything, "I'm sorry about what happened to you. I don't know why Nana did what he did, but you didn't deserve it. If there's some way I can make it right, tell me."
Kaliningrad exhaled, his breath like smoke. "There's nothing - it wasn't your fault - anyway, I never knew anything different."
"Doesn't make it right."
Kaliningrad looked at his feet. Although in his coloring he was so like her Nana, and in his features he was Prussia come again, GDR could see Lithuania's influence in the way he held himself, his shy smiles, even in his shoulder-length hair. That made Nana's behavior all the more perplexing, for he loved Lithuania but had not a moment's consideration for Kaliningrad. A storm warred in GDR, emotions as disparate as resentment and affection, adoration and confusion, bloodlust and sisterly love, competing for supremacy. Perhaps if she lived a thousand years, she would make some sense of it all. Or perhaps there was no sense to any of this tragedy.
GDR stumbled in the path, and her heart skipped a beat. She clutched at her chest, hoping Kaliningrad didn't notice her moment of weakness. He paused to catch her by the elbow, and she smiled. "Tripped on a rock," she said airily, willing her heart to beat in time. "Silly me."
Kaliningrad stuttered out something, then caught himself, took a deep breath, and tried again. "I'm glad you're here with me." He hesitated. "Sister."
GDR clasped hands with him. "There's no one I would rather walk this path with, brother." She felt sure that if Prussia had lived to see them grow, that he would've felt, if not love, then pride at Kaliningrad's resilience and GDR's determination to be the master of her fate.
For the first time since the day of their birth, they forged ahead together towards the future.
Germany climbed through the break in the Wall, over crumbling concrete and mortar, past wide-eyed guards and old men relearning the faces of long-lost friends. Some of his people turned in circles, overcome with emotion. Others stared with red-rimmed eyes, hiccuping from time to time, clutching a lost sister or child or neighbor to them. And Germany himself walked amongst them, peering over the tops of their heads, seeking a glimpse of white hair or of preternaturally blood-red eyes.
He had imagined this day many times, and exactly what his brother would look like walking towards him: Prussia would be bruised, of course, perhaps even bloody, but he would be smiling his wolf's smile that bared all his teeth. He would stand tall as ever, and he would slap Germany across the back and pull him tight to him. They would step over the barbed wire and concrete and walk away from the Wall, and then they would forget about it and never think of it again.
The crowd parted before him as the humans instinctively sensed something different about the newcomers, and there before him stood not his brother Prussia, but two young people. No, not people, but like him - Nations. Germany looked, and then he knew. He knew.
Looking at the young man was like looking into the face of his brother many mortal lifetimes ago, when canons had ruled the battlefield and Prussia's generals had been the pride of their nation. But the young man looked at him with pale purple eyes that were nothing like Prussia's.
The girl was delicately beautiful, with cupid's bow lips and silvery hair that fell to her waist. Her red, red eyes flickered back and forth, taking in the Wall, the people, and finally Germany himself. She began to speak to him, and then seemed to think better of it.
Germany reeled backwards until he could grasp hold of a still-standing section of the Wall and lean his weight on it. He sucked in air in little gasps. His eyes prickled.
One of his own people caught him by the elbow and helped him stand up. "Are you all right, friend?" asked the man, who looked to be in his sixties and was giving Germany a sympathetic, fatherly look.
"My brother-" he had to say it, he had to say it, "- is dead. My brother has been dead," he swallowed hard, "for many years."
The warmth of the man's hand on his shoulder seemed to be the only real thing in the world. "I'm sorry for you," the man told him. "I lost my brother, as well. We are as one in loss."
Germany drew a deep shakey breath, then straightened himself. "Thank you," he said. He wanted to say something meaningful, something about loss and death and grief, but he could think of nothing to say that could express the enormity of what he felt, so he settled for a deep nod of the head. The human nodded back, and something passed between them very much like understanding. Germany then turned towards the two young people (his niece and nephew, mein Gott, Prussia's children) and said, "Welcome. I-I am your uncle."
The twins said nothing for some moments. At last, realizing Kaliningrad was too thunderstruck to respond, GDR raised her chin and said, "I am the German Democratic Republic. This is my brother, Kaliningrad Oblast."
Her uncle blinked once, twice. "German Democratic Republic - that can't be true -"
"W-why?" Kaliningrad asked softly. He'd ducked his head and was peering nervously at Germany from beneath a fringe of hair.
"Because the German Democratic Republic is being dissolved," Germany said. "German reunification is expected in... October."
GDR's jaw dropped open. All the years she'd never live - the loves she'd never have - the battles she'd never fight - it was too much. Overwhelming. Her heart pounded like a war drum. She felt her knees buckle. Somehow Kaliningrad caught her before she hit the ground, and swept her up into his arms. She clung to his coat, feeling like neither Achilles nor Hector, who both died in battle gloriously, but like a little girl helplessly watching the Fates cut her life-line with their scissors.
"That's not true!" Kaliningrad cried. "She's not going to... It's not going to happen! Lithuania would've told me if this were going to happen!"
"Perhaps," GDR said weakly, and Kaliningrad looked down at her. His brows knit together anxiously, and his lips were chapped from the cold. "Or perhaps Lithuania couldn't bear to tell us," she said at last.
Kaliningrad turned to Germany, imploring, "I'm sorry for what happened to Prussia! If you want a life for a life, you can have mine."
Germany stepped forward and rested his hands on Kaliningrad's shoulders. "Never think," he said very slowly and seriously, "that I would blame you for what happened to my brother, or wish that you were dead in his place. Every death is a tragedy. If I could save her, I would."
"But why-" Kaliningrad began to say, before GDR cut him off.
"Set me down, brother."
"But." Kaliningrad worried at his bottom lip.
"If I'm to die, it will be on my feet."
Kaliningrad gently lowered her to the ground, and although she swayed at first, GDR did stand again. Germany studied both their faces before saying softly, "We have so much to talk about."
When the end came, she did not go peacefully or beautifully. GDR did not die laying in bed with her hair spread across the pillows, her deathly pallor somehow heightening her beauty.
GDR died in degrees, in increments, over many months. Her appetite went first, wittled down to nothing, until Kaliningrad spoon-fed her and she ate more out of pity for her brother than from hunger. Her cheeks sunk in and her eyes looked too large for her pale, suffering face.
After her legs gave out and she collapsed in Germany's kitchen and hit her head on the counter, she was confined to bed. Kaliningrad would lift her in his arms and carry her down the stairs with no more difficulty than he would've had carrying a doll so that she could sit in front of the television or warm herself in the sun, and then he would carry her back up again.
Her glorious hair fell out in clumps. GDR wove some into keepsakes for her uncle and brother; Germany carefully placed his in a chest, next to his momentos of his brother, but Kaliningrad couldn't bear to keep his and secretly burned it in the fireplace.
GDR would sit in bed and write long letters, although inevitably she would tear them to shreds and discard them in frustration. It was only when her hands began to shake uncontrollably that she asked for one last sheet of paper and painstakingly wrote out a short message by hand, then sealed it in an envelope and gave it to her brother. "Please make sure it makes it to him," she said.
Kaliningrad tucked the letter addressed to Nana into his coat pocket. "I promise."
Towards the end came the smell: the putrid smell of something rotting and dying from the inside out. Germany burned incense in her room to overpower the scent, but GDR was miserably aware of how disgusting she smelled.
For all that, though, she bore up like a soldier, so that one would almost think she wasn't in pain, unless one saw her as Kaliningrad did, trembling in her sleep, waking up several times a night crying out in agony.
One morning, GDR awoke shortly before dawn, the last bedraggled strands of her hair soaked with sweat. She lifted her head to see her twin kneeling at her bedside, fast asleep, his head and shoulders resting on the bed, his hand loosely holding hers. GDR pulled her hand away and stroked his hair. Kaliningrad grunted softly and looked up, blinking.
"I'm glad... you're here..."
A smile perked up his lips but then fell immediately. "Oh, no," Kaliningrad whispered, sitting up. "Don't talk like that. Don't. Please."
"It's... going to be... all right. Little brother." GDR managed a half-smile.
"No, no," he repeated. "We were born together, we should die together."
"And I thought... I was the morbid one," GDR gasped out. Willing her heart to beat just a few beats more, she caught his hand. Her skin felt clammy to the touch.
Kaliningrad's face twisted as he fought to control himself. "Aren't you afraid?" he asked.
"It's only... the unknown..." GDR said, and then her eyes stared blankly, and there was one Germany in the world.
Germany awakened to the sound of a long, low wail, and ran into GDR's room to find Kaliningrad cradling her limp body. He clutched his sister to his chest, rocking back and forth, crooning for something lost that he'd barely had to begin with.
Kaliningrad clenched his eyes shut and rocked back and forth, GDR pressed against his chest, crying into her sparse hair. He cried openly, unashamedly, until his face was red and his voice ragged. Germany sat on the edge of the bed for a long time until Kaliningrad's sobs quieted to whimpers, and then he reached over and gently pulled the boy's hands away from his sister's limp body.
Kaliningrad watched with miserable, bloodshot eyes as Germany lifted her and held her for several long moments, staring into the beautiful, cold face of Prussia's dead daughter. Her eyes stared out at him, fringed with white lashes. She weighed no more in his arms than a broken doll.
Kaliningrad swallowed, and said, "Sh-she shouldn't have died like this. She wanted to die on her feet. In battle."
Germany looked into those red eyes one last time before brushing his fingertips over her eyelids and shutting them forever.
They buried her the next day, on a hill. Afterward, Kaliningrad lingered over her tombstone, tracing her name with his fingers. Germany walked up behind him and paused, hands clasped behind his back. "Does it ever get any better?" Kaliningrad asked. "Losing your sibling forever?"
"I don't know yet myself," Germany admitted. He rested his hands on his nephew's shoulders.
Kaliningrad turned to look up to him. "There's one thing left that I have to do," he said. "Then I'm going to see Lithuania. I want to tell you - thank you. For taking us in when you did. So that she would have a place to die."
Germany choked down the lump in his throat. "It was my honor to care for my brother's children. He - I think he would've been proud of both of you."
Kaliningrad looked at the ground. "GDR was meant to be the next Prussia. I'm too Russian to ever take his place."
"There was only one Prussia," Germany told him gently. "She was GDR and you are Kaliningrad. You have a place in this world."
"Yes," Kaliningrad said, but he had a faraway look in his eyes as though he did not see Germany, or even the hill where his sister was buried, but some place else entirely. "I do."
Kaliningrad awoke early the next morning and dressed to leave. He went downstairs to find Germany sitting at his kitchen table, a cup of black coffee in his hand.
"Leaving already?" Germany asked.
"I have a long way to go," Kaliningrad said, buttoning up his coat. He looked out the window, where the first rays of dawn were turning the sky yellow and gray. He had miles to go, and he had to walk them alone.
Germany pushed his chair back from the table and stood stiffly. Kaliningrad could see the dark circles under his eyes, and realized that Germany hadn't slept all night; he must've stayed up, waiting for his nephew. Germany stood in front of him, and reached into his front pocket.
"I was saving this for Prussia's return," he admitted. "There was a time when this meant the world to him. I considered burying it with your sister, but now... I would like you to have it." He took Kaliningrad's hand and pressed something small and metal to his palm, then closed his fingers around it. Kaliningrad stared wonderingly into his uncle's face for a moment, then looked down and opened his hand to reveal a medal. An Iron Cross.
"It's the first one ever made," Germany told him. "Given to Prussians who fought valiantly against Napoleon."
Kaliningrad stared at Prussia's Iron Cross for several long moments, drawing shaky breaths, then said reverently, "I will treasure this all my days."
Germany helped him pin it to the inside of his coat, then walked him out the door and waved him off. They said no goodbyes; they both felt certain they would meet again.
The going was hard, and Kaliningrad concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to keep his mind blank. Every so often, an image would come to mind, of GDR as she was before she died, or a memory of Lithuania's gentle hands, and his face would contort, and he would have to sit by the side of the road and wipe hot tears from his cheeks before he could go on. Several times he had to open his coat and look at the Iron Cross, to reassure himself that it was real, and really his.
He came upon Russia's house to find the door swinging open, creaking to and fro with the wind. Kaliningrad peered into the gloom hesitantly, then took one step inside, and then another. Russia's house was empty, empty, empty. He might've thought it was abandoned if he didn't know Russia as well as he did. Even his sisters, Ukraine and Belarus, had gone. The Baltics had long since left, taking everything that belonged to them and leaving everything that belonged to Russia.
The kitchen cupboards were bare.
Russia's office was unlocked, and strewn with crumpled bits of papers and newspapers with panicky headlines in Cyrillic.
Nowhere did a soul breathe save for Kaliningrad himself. Finally, steeling himself, he began to climb the stairs towards the room Russia had shared with GDR.
The door's rusty hinge squeaked as he pushed it open. Kaliningrad's jaw fell open as he took in the sight of the once-immaculate bedchambers. Bookshelves were overturned, and torn pages lay in sad heaps on the floor. GDR's beautiful wooden bed had been smashed nearly into kindling. The velvet curtain that had shrouded Prussia's portrait was in tatters, and the portrait itself was shredded, as though Russia had attacked it with his fingernails.
The door slammed behind him, and Kaliningrad nearly leapt out of his shoes in fright.
"So you came back," slurred Russia.
"Hello, Russia," Kaliningrad said in a low voice.
Russia put one heavy boot in front of the other, and instinctively Kaliningrad stepped back, until his back was against the wall and there was nowhere to go. Russia loomed over him and said through clenched teeth, "There is nothing here for you. There never was." His breath smelled strongly of vodka.
Kaliningrad cleared his throat softly, and held up the envelope with Nana written across it. Russia stared at it, uncomprehending. "She asked me to give this to you," Kaliningrad told him. "It was her last request."
Russia snatched it from Kaliningrad's hands, but he did not tear into it, not then. He clutched the envelope to his chest, his paws crumping the paper. Over Russia's shoulder, Kaliningrad could see Prussia's tattered portrait staring at him, as though beseeching him to be careful.
"We buried her in Berlin, under the name Anya Beilschmidt," Kaliningrad whispered. Russia looked up at him with wild eyes, his pupils shrunk to little pinpricks. "If you wish to come visit her, I will tell you how. She would've wanted you to come."
Russia snarled at him, and Kaliningrad braced himself for a blow that did not come. He hated himself a little for flinching before Russia; he did not want to look weak to his father. But Russia's snarl turned into a rasping, mocking laugh. "Such a good brother, faithful like a dog," he said. "There is nothing of Prussia in you. Did you know he died cursing you? Did Lithuania tell you that?" His taunts were childishly cruel, his drunkenness making him wild. "He died cursing you for killing him."
Kaliningrad looked into Russia's face and saw the brittleness in him, the endless cold and the desperation slowly soured into malice. He wondered if Russia had perhaps in his own way loved Prussia, wondered if he mourned him still. Do you blame me for killing him? Kaliningrad wanted to ask him. Or do you blame yourself? And then there was Lithuania, who could love a little boy with Russia's eyes but not Russia himself.
Kaliningrad laid his hands over his heart, closed his eyes and said, "I have been loved from the moment of my birth."
After a moment he opened his eyes to see Russia shatter. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, holding GDR's letter like a shield. Russia crumpled in on himself, shaking with barely silenced sobs, like a man who's life work was a house of cards that toppled over in moments.
Kaliningrad stepped around him and left the room. He did not feel he was wanted there. Instead, he went down the corridor to his old room, the room he had shared with Lithuania since he was minutes old. Unlike the rest of the house, it was untouched by Russia's rampage. Lithuania had left the bed neatly made, and the dresser held nothing but the work clothing Russia had made him wear. Even Kaliningrad's few toys from his childhood were gone, carefully packed in a suitcase and taken far, far away. Kaliningrad took one last lingering look at the little room with its four walls, before shutting the door and locking it behind him as he left.
Russia blocked the hallway. Kaliningrad watched him as he approached, slowly, almost hesitantly, as though afraid Kaliningrad would flinch away from him. When they were an arm's length apart, Russia reached into his coat and produced a small book. "Take it," he said gruffly. His skin was deathly pale and his eyes were red-rimmed and bleak. "She wanted you to have this."
Kaliningrad took the book from him. Turning it over, he found the cover to be the familiar Treasure Island book GDR had given him all these years ago, carefully preserved and treasured. He traced the embossed letters on the cover with his fingertips as he said, "Thank you."
"How did she die?" Russia asked in a hush. He would not meet Kaliningrad's eyes.
"With her eyes open," Kaliningrad told him. "Unafraid. Facing death like a soldier."
Russia went downstairs first, followed by Kaliningrad. He watched as Russia sat at the kitchen table, laid a crumpled letter beside him, and laid his head in his arms. Kaliningrad walked past him, GDR's book in hand, and peered at the letter, wanting to see his sister's final words to their father.
In the shaky, giant lettering of a dying girl was written one sentence, DO THIS FOR ME.
Kaliningrad sobbed aloud, balling a fist into his mouth to muffle the sound. The thought that - GDR in her last days had - begged their father to - come to some reconciliation with him - hot tears spilled from his eyes, and he ran from the house, ran out the still open front door, ran and ran and left Russia behind, ran until his lungs burned and he could scream out his pain to the night's sky.
There could be centuries, millenia left for Kaliningrad. His sister had had a few scant months.
He trudged the rest of the way to Lithuania's house. He was on it almost without noticing, and when he knocked on the door it was wrenched open instantly. "Oh, God," Lithuania moaned when he saw Kaliningrad. "Oh, Fricu."
Kaliningrad collapsed into his arms, even as Poland ran towards them, shouting both their names.
Kaliningrad's fate would be forever tied to the two fathers he had never known - one taken by death, one by madness. But, perhaps, there could be dignity in this life, and healing, and even joy. His sister would've wanted no less for them.
They all deserved no less.
