Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine, obviously.
The conductors discovered Gilbert fast asleep just after the train passed Liberec Station. One kicked him sharply in the ribs, causing him to wake from his fitful sleep. Disorientated, he blinked up at them, wincing as he heard the larger of the two cracking his knuckles menacingly. Closing his eyes again, he stood up, willing himself to look impassive. He said quietly, "They refused to sell me a ticket in Berlin."
The shorter – he looked like a Karl to Gilbert – snorted. "No reason fo' a respec'ble gen'leman like yo'self not ta 'ave one. Prob'ly some rich bas'ard wot wants ta' get outta 'ere afore dem commies take all yer stuff," he said, spitting on the floor as he did so. His companion nodded unpleasantly, a twisted smile on his face. Karl continued, "we ain't commies, bu' we don't like rich bas'ards either. Rudy, let's teach 'im a lesson."
And they did.
Three full hours later, Gilbert laid half-dead and face-down beside the tracks, his bag thrown down beside him. His chest shook as each paper-thin breath was painfully drawn into his lungs. Fist-sized bruises, belt-whip welts and cuts of all description cover every inch of his pale skin. They had the grace to strip him down to his skin before they beat him; now his clothes were haphazardly thrown over him, crumpled and creased but not damaged. Other than that, he was buck-naked on the cold hard ground.
The two asses had taught him a lesson he had learned a long time ago, but it never made it any easier. Having once been a nation, he had been scarred, burned, tormented in more ways than could be conceived, but these had never stopped him. He was the country. Countries did not die if burned, sacked or ravaged by illness and disease. Countries persevered through their people. On the other hand, if their people renounced their county – Gilbert's situation was the result.
As a country he had been effectively invincible – if beaten he could recover; if struck down by plague, he would rise again; if destroyed by war, he would gather his strength and retaliate in time. Now he felt naked and vulnerable, having been forsaken by his people and thus stripped of all the vestiges of power he once had. Beaten and battered by a pair of punks when he had triumphed so often over armies that could have annihilated all but Prussia, he felt ashamed of himself, as though he had embarrassed the very memory of Prussia by being beaten so easily. He shivered; he was falling ill, he could tell; weakening with every breath and he was letting it be.
He hated himself for it.
Gilbert curled up as the cold air began to nip at his skin. He could barely feel it, but he wished – how he wished – he could just sink into the very earth and never be found again. As the wind began to pick up, Gilbert slowly, gingerly, tried to stand up. A wave of pain consumed him, and he fell back, gasping for breath. Weakness echoed though his form as self-disgust rang and reverberated in the cavern of his mind. He closed his eyes, wanting to lie there and disappear from the world.
Just as he was about to give up entirely, the sound of marching feet and turning wheels began sounding in his ears. Opening one eye, he gazed about. The grassy land was barren of people or horses, but the sound did not disappear. Instead, it became louder, approaching where he lay. It soothed him for some reason, the sound being strangely familiar to his ears. The sound of drums and pipes, the clicking of military gear, and the sound of orders being barked out in true Prussian fashion were added to the increasingly glorious cacophony. Then in a sudden burst of memory, Gilbert remembered.
He had been here before, on these very grounds. Opening his eyes, he could see, not endless fields and hills of grass and brush, but rather the ghosts of a memory that he had long forgotten in the troubles of today. Rank upon rank, file upon file of dark-blue uniformed soldiers, each armed with handsome shiny-new muskets, were marching gloriously across the land in countless columns towards Domstadtl where they would begin the siege. Muzzle-loading 12- and 24- pounder cannons were trundling along beside the men, their barrels gleaming as their wheels and carriages rattled, each drawn by pair of huge, muscular-looking horses. Prussian hussars rode between the infantry columns and the guns; their horses cantering impatiently, eager to be spurred into battle as the men who rode them looked towards the horizon with imperial dignity. The 'Borussia' was played on every instrument as the Prussian flag flew from every line, the Royal Eagle flying as it had never flown before.
Gilbert's eyes filled with tears at the sight of the army, his heart pounding with joy and loving remembrance.
He stretched out a hand to touch them, but it went straight through. He knew they were no ghosts, but a vivid memory, played for the nation the men had given life, honour, blood and tears to protect and raise. As they passed, each soldier turned his head to look at Gilbert, saluting as they did so. The horsemen took off their hats in salute, their horses neighing in delight. The last man passed him, and army was moved into the distance slowly before disappearing into smoke. However, one memory chose to remain. One horseman, wearing a handsome bicorne rather than the usual shako, stood unmoving in the wake of the army. Holding a regal-looking cane in one gloved hand, he removed his hat.
Old Fritz smiled down on Gilbert, raising his cane to the heavens in triumphal splendour. Gilbert felt stronger, the pain from his wounds becoming non-existent. His favourite child dismounted his horse and approached Gilbert in familiar grace, stretching a hand to him. Gilbert struggled to his feet and managed, despite his injuries, to slowly walk to Frederick. Frederick, instead of shaking his hand, drew him into an embrace, more comforting than a parent; more loving than a child; more familiar to Gilbert than all Prussian land put together.
Releasing him, Frederick stood as Gilbert remembered him: old but mighty, thoughtful and dignified, and his favourite child. But as Gilbert opened his mouth to speak, Frederick gave a roguish wink and vanished with the wind. A small breeze brought a quiet whisper of a voice to Gilbert before it too disappeared.
'We live for Prussia; just as Prussia lives for us.'
Gilbert grinned. Standing alone in the fields, he gazed at the dying sun before getting dressed. Smoothing his clothes out and making himself look as best he could, he picked up his bag after having checked everything was still in one piece. As he began to walk, he sneezed loudly. Sniffing, he began to follow the tracks he knew would lead him into Brno at the heart of Moravia – no – Czechoslovakia.
Fields gave way to rolling hills and forest. He arrived at Brno four hours later, having marched his way unceasingly towards the city, his sneezes being now accompanied by coughs and sniffles. This time, he was greeted with, not angry scowls and a populace wallowing in misery. Instead of the hostility of the Berliners and the gloom of the Sudetenland-Germans in Liberec, Brno was buzzing in activity, despite the cold.
People were smiling and laughing, conversing happily in Czech rather than the German that had been prevalent only several months ago. Some were dancing together in the streets in national clothing; others were simply watching the proceedings with blissful expressions. Only the widows, completely dressed in black, and the invalids of the war seemed to be, understandably, unhappy, but they were few and far between on Brno main street. Banners with the new national flag of Czechoslovakia were hung from every window and wreaths had been placed upon every lamppost.
Gilbert shook his head wearily at the sight. Despite his hopes being buoyed up by the Memory-Fritz and -Prussian army, he was still tired, ill and truly in no spirits to deal with the euphoria of the city. As though to prove his illness, he sneezed loudly enough to attract stares from some of the people wandering around on the street.
However, that euphoria by no means caused the hatred of the Czech for Germans to diminish, but rather caused it to escalate. Regardless of the festivities, broken glass littered parts of the pavement, where German-own stores had been ransacked and lynched by Czechs, their owners having been driven out of town or being humiliated on the street. Gilbert stopped when he saw one middle-aged moustachioed man being thrown down onto the pavement by a group of angry men and women. The man was protesting in thick Sudeten German which served only to enrage the crown even more. They raised him up on their collective arms, preparing to dash his brains out onto the pavement.
Gilbert would have none of it. Quickly grabbing his needle-gun from his bag, Gilbert raised it, smartly as a drill officer at the crowd. They wavered when they saw the weapon, its steel muzzle gleaming menacingly at them. Gilbert's finger tightened on the trigger as he gazed unblinkingly on the crowd. In a voice that seemed to shake the ground with its righteous fury, Gilbert thundered, 'In the name of God put him down! Put him down or I will shoot!'
The entire street had gone silent – all eyes were on Gilbert and the mass of people – even the middle-aged man, who was about to be thrown down by the crowd, looked at the scene, astonished. Gilbert only gripped the rifle tighter.
No one breathed for a moment, waiting for the crowd. Gilbert inwardly prayed that they would listen and go away – in his weakened state, he doubted he could load fast enough to incapacitate even a few of them out before they managed to take him down. Suddenly, a flower, fallen from one of the wreaths hanging from a balcony above, fell and tickled the end of his nose.
His sneeze echoed through the street with the sound of a cannon exploding. His finger pulled the trigger of his rifle, the sound of the gunshot ringing with the sound of his sneeze, but the sneeze had ruined his aim. A flowerpot from one of the upper windows was shot off its perch and smashed onto the pavement with the loud crash of breaking porcelain.
The crowd scattered and women screamed. Chaos filled the street as Gilbert, having figured out what had happened, ran to get the man out of harm's way. Helping the man up, they both quickly dashed into a side-street, narrowly avoiding being trampled by a mass of frightened pedestrians. The man panted, wiping his brow with a handkerchief he produced from his breast pocket. Gilbert panted hard too – his illness had taken away the stamina and constitution that he had prized in both himself and the Prussian infantry of yore.
'Vielen Dank, my good sir,' the man said after a while, a smile spreading across his face.
Gilbert grinned, 'One German to another. We have to stick together in these difficult times, ja?'
The man nodded, before asking in the usual formal form of German, 'where do you come from, by the way? Your accent, it is not Austrian.'
'Germany is my homeland. Prussia is my home – all of liebe Prussia.'
'I see, a true German! My name is Ferdinand, Dr. Ferdinand Porsche,' he said, extending his hand to Gilbert.
Gilbert shook his hand firmly, 'Gilbert Beilschmidt. Dr. Porsche, I've heard your name countless times in the newspapers. Your race cars are fantastic.'
Dr. Porsche smiled, abashed, 'you flatter me, Herr Beilschmidt. I am only a humble car engineer.'
'And a man destined to become the greatest automobile designer of all time.'
Dr. Porsche shook his head modestly. Gilbert then noticed his clothes were torn and dirty from the excitement of the street. Dr. Porsche noticed his stare and said, with a rueful smile, 'I cannot find work in my dear Sudetenland, you see. This war is terrible for the economy!'
The older-looking gentleman sighed then, his expression somewhat downcast, 'Perhaps I should return to Austria to try my luck there…'
Putting one hand on Dr. Porsche's shoulder, Gilbert said in a burst of inspiration, 'Dr. Porsche, I think you should come to Germany instead.'
The other man, altogether surprised by the suggestion, only stared back in answer. Gilbert continued, 'Czechoslovakia is no longer friendly to us Germans and Austria has now become too small – your potential would only be stunted. Come to Germany, mein Freund, and I will guarantee you will find your true home in the homeland of all Germans.'
Dr. Porsche, a happy smile suffusing his face, heartily agreed.
The mad stampede died down some minutes after they had taken refuge, and the two men left via the other end of the side-street, chatting amicably, if still wary of their surroundings. Gilbert, regardless of how cold he felt, chose to shuck off his coat, wrapping it around his rifle to disguise it as best he could while also keeping his tricorne tucked under one arm. No need to further alarm the populace by popping up in the uniform he had just opened fire in after all.
With Dr. Porsche in the lead, the two men proceeded to the small flat he had rented with the intention of finding work in Brno, weaving quickly but unobtrusively down streets that were mostly packed with celebrating Czechoslovakians. Once there, they discussed what details they could about Germany proper - culminating in Gilbert scribbling an address to Porsche who looked at it a moment, before pocketing it securely in his breast pocket. With a firm shake of the hand and a half-embrace that might occur between equals who would have liked to have known each other earlier in their lives, they parted ways.
It was an hour later that Gilbert managed to get to Brno main station, having left half of his purse's contents with his new friend as well as stopping by the post office to send a quick letter to Ludwig. In it, he wrote only that he was safe, travelling and that Ludwig was to keep an eye out for Dr. Porsche would would be coming to his place in Bonn to call, and to take care of the automotive engineer as though he were his own child, rather than Austria's.
Boarding the train was a difficult affair. Amazingly enough, the story of the showdown in the main street had spread across town and now had turned into a story that he had fired on the open crowd with an artillery piece and several machine-guns but missed them completely. Only a significantly large bribe would induce the conductors to let him on the train, seeing as the man at the booth had refused to sell him a ticket again. Taking his seat at the very back compartment of the carriage, Gilbert waited.
The train finally began to hiss steam, the iron horse laboriously pulling the cars that trailed it, before picking up speed with a will. Roaring through the Moravian-Slovakian countryside, the train headed at full-speed towards its destination. This time though, it was bound for Bratislava station and from there, Gilbert would exchange trains to reach lovely Budapest, the most beautiful city on the Danube and the new capital of the formerly lesser partner in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Hungary.
Next chapter is on its way and this time, yes it will be set in Hungary, if you couldn't work out which way he's going. :P
Btw, if anyone isn't familiar with the locations, Liberec is in Czech Sudetenland up in the North-West, Brno is on the eastern edge of the Czech Republic and Bratislava is in Slovakia, just past the Czech-Slovak border and down South.
