A few months earlier...
( February 1945)
He was moving back. He had been moving back for years now.
Ever since the defeat in Stalingrad, ever since Ludwig had to leave to take care of the western front, everything had gone downhill. There was no moving forward anymore, only defeat and running away, oh Prussia loathed this!
In his greatest times, he would have charged forward no matter what! He would have died rather than fleeing like a coward.
Had time made him go soft, or was it that he was preoccupied by something else now? Since when did he care about others than himself? Since when did he want to preserve his soldiers' life when, only a hundred of years before, he had sent many to death without a shadow of remorse? Since when falling in battle had stopped to be the greatest honour any man could hope?
Oh he had the answer to all those questions: Since their leader was an insane man no one had faith in anymore.
That Austrian guy wasn't a man to die for, even if a few still believed it. Only fools could still believe and remain confident in a hypothetical victory.
Gilbert knew it was over and he was certain that West had no higher hope than he had.
The war would be over, very soon.
But for now, Prussia would defend his ground for as long as God allowed it. The Russian army, marching to the West, more powerful than ever, had forced them to move back to Königsberg and Gilbert had promised himself that there would be no moving back this time.
He would defend the place with all he had.
He would defend it with his life, because that city was all he had left to call his own. It was his capital: If Köningsberg fell, then he'd fell too.
Would that happen, Prussia wanted his life to end in the most awesome way. He wanted to be found covered in more of the enemy's blood than his own. He wanted his face to wear a grin in death so Russia would know that he'd haunt him forever after.
He also wanted to see West and say goodbye.
He had, and this surprised even himself, so much things he wanted to tell his brother, most of them being of the 'sissy' kind. He wanted to see Germany and tell him how he was proud, how his younger charge had surpassed all hopes he'd had for him, how he hoped the future would be forgiving, how he had grown strong and handsome... And how, for the first time of his life, Prussia had been more than inclined to accept a marriage.
And then, if no one was around to see and hear, he would tell Ludwig that he had been serious that one time they had allowed their relation to go beyond that point brothers never cross. The 'Ich liebe dich' he had whispered then had been honest and true, still was.
But he knew no God would ever grant his wishes. West was too far, the Russians were too close. Thin were the chances they'd ever see each other again.
So, when the first Russian rocket made the ground tremble under his feet, Prussia looked up at the sky. He stared intently at a bunch of clouds that were being pushed by the wind of East toward the West, and put his thoughts in it. This was the only way he could convey his last message to Ludwig.
All was said and Prussia had nothing left to do but fight.
He forced to his mind memories of another time, memories of a king he could have died for a thousand times over and memories of a little boy, an handsome man with sky-blue eyes, for whom he was more than happy to give his life.
Blood in his mind, blood in his eyes, he bared his teeth in a demented grin and charged, his feral battle cry resonating before him, his army following close behind.
He had already seen fire in those most alluring red eyes, on many occasions during the past years. But never, until today, has that fire burned so bright with so much rage and determination. Russia was more than a little intrigued by this man who was the living picture of Russia's darkest fantasies.
Prussia reminded him so much of bright blood on pure white snow.
He was exalted at the thought that, very soon, Prussia's life would be his to dispose of.
It couldn't and it didn't last long. Prussia hold on, fought with all he had until he had no more to give. When, eventually, all of his body' strength was exhausted three days later, even Russia was impressed he had held on for such a long time.
Russia came to pick up his prize. His frozen heart suddenly beat faster when he laid his eyes on Prussia's body, sprawled in the snow, covered with blood that was, for the most part, not even his own. He was conscious and still breathing, but he was too spent to move.
Prussia weakly turned his head to look at Russia and offered him his best grin. Ivan grinned back, pleased to see that the fire in those eyes was still burning as bright as before.
He crouched close to the fallen nation, smiled and tilted his head to observe him.
-" Now you are mine, da!" He said. His hand moved to stroke the white hair, still too immaculate to his liking
-" I'd rather die!" Prussia spat blood and glared hard.
Russia giggled and stood up, picking his pipe from under his coat.
His new acquired pet made for a stunning sight in the snow, but it wasn't perfect enough. There was not enough fresh blood, Russia wanted to see it impregnate the white under and around him.
He lifted the pipe, then brought it down, and again.
And again.
And again.
A crimson river went through the snow, penetrated the soil and told the world of its owner's demise. Russia beat him to a thin inch of his life and stopped only when his eyes were drunk from the wonderful sight that was dark red snow.
He picked what was left of Prussia up and brought him back with him. For now, he only did whatever was necessary to keep Gilbert alive ( He wasn't Prussia anymore, Prussia was dead) and left him in the care of his doctors and servants. It wasn't like he would wake up any time soon anyway.
Russia had to leave then, for he didn't have much time.
He had another German capital to burn down to ashes.
