The first lash struck and his world exploded in red and white and black. He was certain he was being ripped apart. The second lash licked his skin – already on fire from the first – and his back arced in pain. Then another. And another. Metal barbs peeled back layers of flesh. His torso twisted as his feet fought to stand. He was sure a shoulder had been dislocated. He now hung there, supported only by the ropes bound around his wrists, like some sad marionette.
Reiniger spat curses at the white haired demon, for that's what his torturer was. Nothing that sadistic could be called human.
The demon only laughed at Reiniger's insults, demanding answers to its questions.
The whip stopped, just before the pain became numbing. The demon walked around to face Reiniger. A bony hand stretched out and grabbed his throat, forcing his head up. Red eyes danced back and forth in their sockets, searching Reiniger's own.
"Why won't you answer me? Do you think the people you're protecting give a shit about you? Huh? They're just using you. We already know everything. We've got names, addresses. The only thing we need from you is your confession. Just say the words and this will end."
Reiniger spat in the demon's face. It didn't even blink. Thin lips cracked into a grin.
"Have it your way."
Reiniger cried out as white-hot pain flooded back in and he knew he would die. His body could no longer contain it.
No longer barking questions at his captive, Gilbert's arm swung the whip wildly, hitting arm and leg as well as back. He was aware of nothing else. Eyes, open and alive, gloried in the contortions of Reiniger's body every time he was struck.
"Don't forget, we still need his confession, East."
Russia's words were distant and garbled as they fought to cut through the static between Gilbert's ears.
Reiniger felt the momentary hesitation in the whip before it connected with his flesh again.
Gilbert let his hand fall, shaking from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The pounding in his head ceased almost as soon as the interrogation began. It always did. But every pause brought the rushing noise back. If he stopped now, he'd have an ocean between his ears. He wouldn't be able to stand or even keep his eyes open in the sickly green light. Gilbert could not show weakness in front of this prisoner…or in front of Russia.
Wild eyes searched the bleeding, scarred back of his prisoner for an answer before flicking to the dingy grey walls of the interrogation room. Something! There has to be something to make him break. They all do, in the end. No one has ever defied him. Yes, they have.
A cry ripped itself from Gilbert's chest.
"All this for a goddamn confession! You! All of you have wasted my time for forty fucking years!"
"East…."
A cautionary undertone suffused Russia's voice but Gilbert didn't hear it.
"Why! Won't! You! Just! Obey! Me!" Each word punctuated with a crack of the whip.
"Why! Can't! You! Love! Me! Lo – "
The whip froze in mid-air.
Gott, what have I become?
The static reached a fever pitch louder than Gilbert had ever heard. Instead of an ocean, it was a swarm of black flies. Incessantly buzzing. Gott, it's so loud! Couldn't Russia hear it?
He was certain the insects were coming out of him. Black dots obscured the sides of his vision. His head felt disconnected from his neck, like a balloon floating upwards…or a ball precariously balanced on the edge of a knife. The room started to tilt. A low rumble, like that of a kettledrum, reverberated off the cinder block walls.
Gilbert swung his head to see a crooked grin etched on Russia's face, the large nation quaking with laughter.
"Ah, my little East…you learn so well…."
"Fuck you!" Gilbert snarled.
He started towards the large nation, but the floor fell away from him. Gilbert lost his balance, arms pin-wheeling in a desperate attempt to stay upright. The whip swung down. Russia dodged the barbed tongue but not before a metal tip caught the side of his jaw, leaving a red gash from his cheek to the corner of his mouth.
The action stunned the large nation. Russia instinctively reached a hand up to his face. He pulled it away, staring at the red streak marring his massive palm. He sank to the ground, still staring at his palm, and pulled out a silver flask. Russia took a swig. Clear liquid mixed with blood dribbled down his chin, staining his pale coat. Russia laughed. Laughed and took another swig, mesmerized by the color on his hand.
Gilbert was on the floor, face pressed against the cold, damp concrete. The noise between his ears subsided, replaced by a sharp throbbing. He chanced a glance around the room and saw Russia laughing madly at his hand, the gash Gilbert had made stretching wider. And the white haired nation wasnotsorry for it. Reiniger hung, lifeless, from his ropes. Gilbert pushed himself up, staggering over to the prisoner. He hurried to untie the man while Russia was distracted. Reiniger had lost consciousness but his gaunt frame proved light enough for Gilbert to carry. He hurried Reiniger up to the hospital wing.
Gilbert ordered the night nurses to attend to Reiniger's wounds. They bandaged the man up, a perfectly composed guise of numbness masking their fear but not their trembling hands. The hospital staff was too scared to question Stasi tactics. A sickening satisfaction spread through Gilbert's gut as he watched them. He cursed silently and stepped out for a smoke, disgusted with himself.
I've become what I've hated most.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Flick the ash. Light another.
The tobacco did little to ease his nerves. Gilbert stubbed out the cigarette and went to check on Reiniger.
The nurses had given the prisoner a bed in one of the far corners. Gilbert made his way over, all too aware of the sidelong glances the staff cast his way.
He pulled up a chair and sat by the man's bed. He looked so strangely peaceful. He could be sleeping. But Gilbert knew better. At least the man was breathing – the gentle rise and fall and of the bed sheets told Gilbert that much. He sat with Reiniger through the night, refusing to eat or rest when offered.
Reiniger felt himself slipping between wakefulness and the dream world. One moment he was quite certain he was lying in a bed covered in crisp linen sheets; the white haired demon perched beside him, its own eyes heavy from sleep. The next moment, he was twelve, trying to help his mother pull their cart out of a snowdrift as they fled Königsberg. The harder they pulled, the deeper the wheels seemed to sink in the snow. His mother cursed and his sister cried and Reiniger fell to his knees and started digging. The cold quickly found its way though his too-thin gloves. His hands refused to move. No one stopped to help. No one except a gaunt, tired looking soldier with hair and skin as pale as the winter sky and eyes like glowing embers.
Reiniger was awake again. He watched the thing beside him thrash as it slept, agony twisting its brow and mouth. Reiniger watched as it jerked and sputtered incomprehensible thoughts and for a moment he pitied the man...for a moment, he looked like...no, impossible. Reiniger's eyes slid shut.
When they re-opened, he was twelve again, staring at the weary soldier. The soldier smiled, lit a cigarette, and gave Reiniger his own gloves. He took out a shovel and started moving the snow away from the wheels. Once the snow was clear, the soldier dragged the wagon back onto the road. Reiniger's mother kissed the man on his cheek, thanking him. The soldier told her it was no trouble at all. Then he extended a hand toward Reiniger. The boy grasped it, shook it earnestly, and asked the man's name. The soldier grinned, ruffled Reiniger's hair and said: "Prussia."
Reiniger stared back, bewildered. "Are you mad at us for leaving you?"
"No." The white haired soldier toed out his cigarette. "The only thing that matters to me is that you live...You grow old, have lots of kids, and you live."
With a casual wave, the soldier set off towards the city.
Dawn crept its way into the cold, sterile hospital wing, casting pale pools of light across the beds before spilling down onto the white and grey linoleum. It was this light – flaming orange against his eyelids – that woke Gilbert up.
He did not know how long he slept. His sore joints told him it must have been for a few hours at least, but then again those could also be a result from the dreams he'd had.
Gilbert stretched his back, listening to it crack as his spine lengthened. He twisted his neck, looking around the wing. No sign of any staff members. A rasping breath made him turn back around.
Reiniger's eyes were open.
Gilbert ran a nervous hand over his face several times – fingers fidgeting in the fleshy part of his cheeks before dropping to rub his chin.
He opened his mouth to speak but no words came. Gilbert clenched his jaw. He must look like an idiot child. All the authority he held simply flew away like paper in a breeze.
Reiniger seemed to be studying him, making Gilbert grow even more uncomfortable. However, as he sat watching Reiniger watching him, Gilbert noticed a curious light behind the man's eyes. The corners of the man's mouth twitched up in a gentle smile as Reiniger began to speak.
"Preussen…." Reiniger breathed.
All of the air in the room seemed to have been sucked out. Gilbert's throat was surely closing.
"What…what did you call me?" he choked.
Gilbert straightened his back, angling himself closer to Reiniger, hands reaching out.
"Say it again..." he whispered, gripping the sheets.
"Prussia."
Gilbert's lips twitched. He bit the inside of the bottom one to get it to stop.
"How…?"
"I remember…you."
Gilbert's face blanched, knuckles whitening in twisted linen.
Drawing breath was proving difficult but Reiniger forced the words out, seeing the stricken look in the other's face.
"S-snowdrift. The wagon. Before the…first siege. My m-mother…sister and I…fled."
As he spoke, Gilbert noticed the light in the man's eyes grow brighter with each word, replacing the sorrowful gaze that had captivated the white haired nation. "We never…forgot…you," Reiniger breathed.
Gilbert reached out, taking the man's hand. Hot tears pricked the corner of his eyes.
Reiniger's chest contracted one final time. He exhaled a rattling puff of air...then, stillness.
Gilbert watched the sun set over the city, reflecting its orange glow in the windows and on the pavement. East Berlin looked like it was on fire.
He did not remember how he got back to his apartment – all he could think about was the hospital and Reiniger and a decision that had to be made.
Gilbert didn't hear the door open but felt a cold draft of air enter followed by the familiar heavy hand on his shoulder.
"It ends now," Gilbert said.
Russia's deep, rumbling laugh filled the small apartment. "My little East…it will never end. You belong to me still."
"You knew….You knew some of them were mine, from before the war…when I was still – " his former name choked in his throat.
Gilbert turned to face Russia. The cut from the whip distorted his already lopsided grin. Russia hadn't bothered to get it stitched. The gash pulled open as Russia's smile widened.
"Is this what you meant…all those years ago? 'Blood for blood,' you'd said," Gilbert's voice cracked. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat, shaking his head. "I only thought you meant mine!"
"Remember, too, East, one is not worth the whole. You can be replaced."
"Do it then! I will not be your puppet any longer. I don't care what you do to me, but I will not harm my people!"
"Ah, but East, you had the files…you knew more about them than I did."
Russia's face was close to his, indeed Russia's whole body seemed to fill the cramped apartment. The arctic nation leaned in, closer still, and whispered: "Now, ask yourself, why didn't you stop before?"
Gilbert flinched, turning his head away. Because they had forgotten me.
Russia straightened, pleased at the effect his words produced. Gilbert's shoulders drooped as he turned towards the window once more. He shoved his hand in his pocket and extracted a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lighter. Trembling hands shoved a bent cigarette between his lips before striking the lighter to life. Russia was right. Gilbert had the files. He knew all along.
Gilbert's heart hammered in his chest – a yellow bird beating bloody wings against a metal cage. He wanted to rip it out and throw it against the wall.
"What is a nation?"
Gilbert jumped at Russia's voice. He almost forgot the other nation was still there, but in seconds he found himself reciting the treatise he was forced to memorize countless years ago.
Russia's laugh interrupted him. A massive hand gripped into Gilbert's bony shoulder, spinning him around to face the violet-eyed nation.
"You are quite wrong, my little East. A nation is forgetfulness. The framework required to form a nation doesn't just happen over night. It takes time…an endless amount of time. And strength. We were born from fire and death. It is essential for our survival that the people forget the past brutalities."
"Is that how you justify it?" Gilbert spat.
"Justify what, East?"
"What you…what we…do to the people. The torture, the espionage."
"Each day brings something new," Russia said in his sing-song way. "New bosses, new principles and ideas, and over time the people forget the ways of the old regime."
Gilbert's eyes flicked back to the window. "You're wrong. He remembered me."
Gilbert's eyes met Russia's again. A shadow darkened the bright violet.
"You live in the past, East." Russia's voice was low, dangerous. "I expect you back at your office tomorrow morning. Is that clear?"
Crimson eyes stared at the hand gripping his shoulder. A strange grin, reminiscent of the arrogant smirk he used to wear, curled his lips.
"We're done here," Gilbert said, shrugging off Russia's hand and heading for the door.
"East!"
Russia grabbed the smaller nation's arm and pulled him into a crushing embrace.
"You can't leave me, East."
"What the fuck!"
Gilbert tried to break free, but Russia's grip tightened more.
"You can't leave me East."
Russia's sing-song voice was back but it cracked in pitch. His body shook as a ragged breath escaped his throat. Russia was crying.
"Don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me…."
Massive hands dug into Gilbert's back as Russia fought to hold on even though Gilbert had stopped struggling.
"I need you, East!"
A mixture of pity and disgust swirled in Gilbert's head as he flashed back to the conversation he'd had with Lithuania decades ago. Iabandonedhim…
Russia faced Gilbert, tears streaming down his cheeks. Arms still pinned and at a loss for anything to say, all Gilbert could do was stare in disbelief. He really did look like a child, Gilbert thought.
"I need you, East," Russia whispered.
Russia pressed his hand on the back of Gilbert's head as his lips crashed violently into Gilbert's. He felt the arctic nation's tongue searching, teeth gnashing, as Russia forced their lips together.
A twist of pain and a taste of metal told Gilbert the larger man had bitten his lip.
Russia tasted it too and drew back. A spot of red glistened on his mouth. Gilbert stared at it, trying to comprehend what just happened. Sorrow flickered in Russia's eyes and his grip slackened.
Seizing the opportunity, Gilbert slipped through Russia's arms and ran for the door.
"East!" Russia bellowed.
Gilbert glanced over his shoulder. Avarice and anger once again shadowed Russia's eyes.
"You'll be hunted, East! I promise you!"
"For the last time, it's Prussia, goddammit!"
A/NOh my God, my darlings, I am truly sorry it took this freakin' long to post this chapter. I have no excuse other than I just didn't make time for it. I'm so so sorry! I'll try not to let it happen again, especially since we're nearing the end here. But in a way, it was kinda good b/c I was able to go back over multiple times and tweak certain things .It was feeling too rushed at first, and for me, this chapter is the climax/turning point of the whole story. I do so hope you enjoy it. It was one of my favorites to write! Reviews are always welcome. Thank you!
And sorry to all my story's subscribers, if you got inundated with e-mails. I did make some changes in an effort to make it flow better.
~A nation is forgetfulness comes from an essay by French historian Ernst Renan. "Forgetfulness, and I would even say historical error, are essential in the creation of a nation….Unity is always achieved by brutality…"