-Author's Notes –

The second part to what is now a three part prologue. Fail. OTL

Warnings: None for this chapter whatsoever, save for a potential pretentious air that for some reason or another has decided to take up residence in this fic. Christ on a cracker. I hate that.

Disclaimer: History = Not. Owning = Also Not.

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Porzellan

Prologue Two: The Flute

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Prussia let his traveler's pack fall to the damp earth, barely registering the cowering servant that hurried forward to retrieve it. One of his generals attempted to engage him in conversation, but he waved the bearded man off with an elegant flip of his wrist, silently making his way across the courtyard. The nation's scarred boots ground the soil to useless dust beneath his feet as he strode past the rest of his solemn and weary garrison. He peeled off one glove and then the next, throwing the useless blood-stained things over his shoulder with detached ease. The red-eyed man halted suddenly, head cocked to the side as he listened, straining his ears for the far-off lilting strains of a lonely flute.

The young man pushed his way past the painstakingly cultivated trees of the palace grounds, unmindful of the garden's frail blossoms that were torn to bits as he passed. The delicate notes of the flute song cleansed him of the sounds of battle that raged in his ears, pulling him relentlessly forward. He scrounged up a final burst of energy, pushing his war-weary body up the steep hills that surrounded the last groomed line of hedges, and looked down into the small valley.

A figure was seated with his back against a willow tree as it played on, a loyal greyhound curled languidly beside him. The tree's delicate branches dipped into the calm surface of the water of a fountain, drawing small ripples that expanded, pushing their way outwards to lap against the narrow edge. Prussia almost broke into a run in his haste to reach the tree, a cool spring breeze blowing away the stench of twisted flesh and bone that for so long had smothered his senses.

He slowed as he approached the aging willow, red eyes narrowing in suspicion. The flute stopped, and the man looked up at his beloved nation in silent greeting, a warm smile wrinkling his face.

Prussia's iron voice was bereft of any question as the silver-haired nation drew his sword, resting it coolly against the man's throat.

"Who are you."

The old man pushed aside the weapon with a graceful gesture. "I am your Fritz," he said, frowning slightly, "And I taught you better than to resort to brute force without first assessing the situation properly."

"Liar." Prussia hissed, tightening his grip on the sword. "Tell me who you are or I slit your throat."

The old man's eyes narrowed as he said in a warning voice, "Gilbert. Patience."

Prussia instantly faltered, the hidden name drawing out a choked noise past chapped and fractured lips. "F-Fritz…" The rising nation sank to his knees in shame, letting the weapon fall to his side. He buried his face in his hands, "I-I am sorry, my liege. I did not recognize you. I did not mean-"

He felt a kind hand rest on his head, and raised stricken blood-red eyes to fix on the smiling face of his king. Frederick's voice was kind, "It is quite alright, my friend. We have been apart for some time now. And while the years have been kind to you, I am afraid they have taken their toll on me."

Prussia reached out a shaky hand to trace the thin lines that adored the man's face, his own rendered in a mask of bewilderment. "I… I do not understand. What has happened to you? Why do you look like this?" he whispered, eyes darting back and forth to take in the graying hair, the sunken eyes of his king, long since vested of their youthful spark.

Frederick gave a light laugh, and gently cupped the nation's strong and ruthless hand in his own weakening grasp. "For one who has seen so many cut down in their prime on the battlefield, I suppose it should not be so surprising that you are unable to recognize the face of death in this slow and unbecoming form."

Prussia pulled back, his eyes flying wide open as he spat out in restless fear, "You are dying? But… but how?" His red eyes anxiously roamed his king's form as he said in puzzlement, "I see no wounds on you, I smell no illness in the air. Are you bleeding internally?"

Frederick laughed loudly, shaking his head in mirth. "Bearing in mind how you act during times of war, I suspect none would presume this subservient attitude of yours to be genuine," he chuckled, turning to gently soothe the startled greyhound curled up next to him.

Prussia straightened his back, lips curling in a haughty sneer, and crushed the cry of battle from his voice. "You taught me that I am more than simply an object of blind mayhem," the silver-haired nation said with a lofty air, "Do not think your lectures of culture and refinement fell on deaf ears, Fritz."

Frederick's eyes grew soft. "No…" he murmured quietly, carefully picking up the discarded sword and handing it back to the attentive nation. "No I… I suppose I have yet to appreciate your civility."

Prussia sheathed his sword with practiced ease and leaned forward to stare at Frederick. "Now tell me," the nation demanded, "How do I keep you from dying? Is there someone I should be hunting to make them release you from this? A doctor I can call? I hear tell of some sort of elixir that Spain's boss sent adventurers around the globe to fetch. Maybe we could steal some – I hear he has fallen to England so often it cannot even be considered a joke in poor taste anymore. Or perhaps-"

"You cannot stop this, Gilbert."

Prussia snorted. "Ridiculous. There is nothing I cannot do," the nation smiled in triumph, "Not with you leading me."

"I'm afraid I am quite serious," Frederick said solemnly, throwing a stick for the eager greyhound to fetch. "There are enemies even you cannot defeat. This is merely one of them."

Prussia fell silent, sudden anxious fingers pulling out clumps of soft grass, building a gradual pile in front of him. "So then, I too…" he swallowed heavily, eyes downcast. "Will I-"

"You will not," Frederick said firmly, putting away his flute with a resolute snap of the case. "Not as we will. Time runs its course differently for you."

The nation remained silent, ripping out even bigger chunks of grass with slowly building frustration before bursting out, "What are you saying? That I remain forever as I am? Unchanging, unchanged while you… while Fritz…" the young man rubbed the back of his eyes with one tired and calloused hand.

"There is only one other thing that can change you or make you fade as we do," Frederick said quietly, gazing out over the still fountain waters. "Only another of your kind has this power over you. And if they know your other name…" Frederick sighed, "You are keeping it close? Keeping it secret?"

Prussia nodded, one hand flying up to cover his chest. "With me at all times," he said solemnly. He raised his head to fix his king with a questioning gaze. "These… others like me. You mean France, England… any of them could make me…" Prussia trailed off, picking up the stick from where the hound had dropped it and angrily flinging it off into the middle of the fountain, ignoring the mournful eyes of the dog as it stared at him.

Frederick shook his head disapprovingly, frowning at the young man and making him flush slightly with shame. The king sighed softly, "Not any of them. They cannot erase you so completely. There is only one with that sort of power. But for now, it remains merely an idea left to us. It certainly will not come to fruition during my lifetime. But perhaps…"

"An idea," Prussia said slowly, his ruby eyes flickering to the side to stare off behind the willow tree. "What would this idea look like?"

Frederick blinked, "Look like? Gilbert, ideas do not-"

"It's a kid, isn't it?" Prussia asked bitterly, angrily sweeping away the pile of grass he had gathered in front of him. "A child. With blonde hair and blue eyes."

Frederick's hand darted forward, gripping Prussia's upper arms tight with a strength that did not match his age. "This child…" he said sternly, "This blonde child. You have seen him?"

Prussia's eyes were wide as he nodded hesitantly. "Yes…"

"Where did you see him? On the battlefield? At Austria's?" the old man's grip grew tighter, making Prussia wince slightly, as the nation stammered, "N-no…"

Frederick gently shook the young man, his voice strained, "Where, then?"

Prussia raised one shaky finger to point at the willow tree. "T-There," he said warily, "He is beside that tree now. It only just appeared as you were talking."

Frederick whirled around just in time to catch a flash of blue as it darted behind the willow. He made to rise to his feet, but Prussia reached out and grabbed his sleeve, shaking his pale head.

"It's no good now, Fritz," the red-eyed nation said, releasing his grip with an abashed expression. "He is gone."

Frederick sighed softly and leaned against the tree again, pulling Prussia close to him. "You have seen him often, then?" he asked quietly, holding the nation as though afraid he would fade to nothing.

Prussia nodded, wrinkling his nose slightly at the close quarters, but remaining silent on the matter. "I have," he said instead, ruby-eyes flashing blood for a moment. "I have lashed out at it with all manner of weapon, but it insists on returning time and again." The nation lifted his head to look Frederick in the eye. "Tell me," he insisted, the sound of his beloved war rising once again in the soft tenor, "Tell me how I can kill it."

Frederick ran his hand through the silver strands. "I am afraid," he murmured, "That this is another enemy you will be unable to vanquish."

Prussia snarled, "Does this unassailable foe have a name? Or am I expected to simply quake in fear whenever it makes an appearance?"

Frederick rose to his feet, pulling the nation up with him. He whistled for the greyhound, and she trotted obediently to his side while Prussia stood expectantly, iron arms crossed against his thin chest. Frederick picked up his flute, as well as his latest letter to the house of France, and made his way slowly up the hill.

"H-hey! Fritz!" Prussia called after him, hurrying to catch up with his king. "Fritz, you did not answer my question! Tell me its name!"

Frederick continued onward clutching the letter tighter in his fist. "What would you make of this question, old friend?" he whispered, turning around to watch Prussia attempt to ward off the playful greyhound as the young nation struggled to follow him up the hill. His smile grew sad as he murmured to himself, "With all your philosophizing, how would you tell this young one that it is the uncaring pages of history he is warring with?"

The old man stood still to let the nation catch up, bringing with him the sudden smell of early summer rains. Prussia panted slightly, glaring down murderously at the dog sitting impassively at his side. "Stupid thing tripped me on purpose," he declared, focusing his attention once more on Frederick as he insisted, "Now, Fritz! Tell me the brat's name."

Frederick shook his head, gesturing for Prussia to follow. "I do not know its name," he said quietly, "And I can only think of one thing it could be called, irrespective of name."

"Well?" Prussia said edgily, his impatience causing the soft summer wind to chill, "Tell me!"

Frederick's face grew grave as he reached the top of the hill. "Gilbert…" he looked out over his palace, at all that he had nurtured and cared for. At Prussia itself.

"That boy…" he looked away, out towards the West, his voice low and somber as he intoned with a heavy air of finality.

"That boy is your brother."