He awoke still on the floor, unsure of how much time had passed—minutes? Hours? A day?—and sore all over, almost too stiff to move. He slowly, painfully lifted himself into a sitting position against the wall so that he could examine himself: the bruises all over his arms and legs and torso, the tears in his flesh from when the pipe had caught him at the wrong angle. The cut across his collarbone, which had finally stopped bleeding, though the pipe had smeared blood all down and across his chest from the wound before this happened.

He was aware that the blows had not been delivered with Russia's full strength, that they had been carefully aimed to hurt without permanently damaging: not for reasons of mercy, but so that he would be in as much pain as possible but would still recover quickly so that Russia need not wait for him to heal to continue his torments.

He forced himself to his feet, swaying a little; the lightheadedness was partially due to hunger, he realized, and wondered briefly if anyone would bring him food. The possibility was a pleasant one, but he did not intend to hope for too much. He hoped that his own hunger was not also a sign that his people were starving under Russian authority.

He walked around the room once, scarcely aware of what he was doing, then made his way to the mattress again to lie down and cover himself with the blanket; the blood loss had made him feel even colder. Then, angry at himself for the weakness, he rose again unsteadily and lowered himself to the floor to do push-ups, the first chance he had gotten to be work out, alone and untied.

He did not count, did not want to know how much of his former strength he had lost, but he was certain by the time he could do no more that he was much farther from beating his brother at push-ups than he had ever been before. When he tried to push himself off the floor to get to his feet, he realized he could barely even do that much anymore.

Verdammt. What am I, France? This is pathetic.

With an angry force of will he lifted himself to his feet and made his way unsteadily back to the mattress to lie down, wrapping the thin blanket around himself with hands that had still not stopped shaking. He hated himself for this. If he had lost his physical strength so quickly under abuse and starvation, how quickly would his mental strength follow?

No, don't think stupid things like that, he told himself sternly. That would not happen. Nothing was going to break that down. He was a soldier, he had been in countless wars and battles, he could take this and worse. He remembered scornfully what Russia had said about Lithuania, that he would not last much longer—as if a comparison could even be drawn, he thought with contempt, carefully pushing to the back of his mind the memory of his defeat at Lithuania's hands. That was a long time ago. Lithuania wasn't so strong anymore; he wasn't so strong when Russia took him over.

The door opened and Prussia flinched despite himself, but it was another nation he had not seen before: a much shorter, younger one, with tousled blond hair and an air even more timid than Lithuania. From what Lithuania had told him, he assumed this was Latvia. The young nation was holding a bowl and piece of bread in his hands, which he set down next to the door before quickly disappearing again, locking the door behind him.

Too late, Prussia realized that, had he had his wits about him, he could have overpowered the small Baltic and escaped, but changed his mind; he was not sure he could have made it across the room before Latvia shut the door again, and even if he had gotten out of his cell he could not have escaped the house itself.

He sighed, now wishing that Latvia had stayed for different reasons. Company would have been nice. As soon as he had realized it was not Russia behind the door, he had hoped for Ukraine; Hungary would not have been allowed to stay, probably, but she might have talked to him, and perhaps cleaned some of the new wounds. He was tired of being covered in blood, which had dried all over his skin and left it feeling stiff and unpleasant.

He carefully sat up and rose achingly to his feet—yeah, he realized with some resignation, there was no way he could have made it across the room in time to grab Latvia—to pick up the food. The soup was still slightly warm, though it was quickly cooling off in the frigid air of the cell, and he immediately raised it to his lips and drank it all, cherishing the faint warmth it sent coursing through his veins. The relief was immediate.

The bread was stale, and almost more trouble than it was worth to chew, but he was too hungry to turn down any food no matter what state it was in. He made himself eat it more slowly than he had the soup, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces until it was gone.

Once he had eaten, he immediately felt better. He left the empty bowl beside the door and returned to sit on the mattress; he considered trying to do push-ups again, but decided that burning more calories was probably not the best idea when he was being given so few to begin with.

Was it worth it to try and sleep again? There was not much else to do in the cell since he had exhausted his now-meager ability to work out, and sleep would help him to heal. Anyway, with food in his stomach he felt significantly more comfortable, and hoped he would genuinely be able to sleep soundly now.

First he reached for his boots and sat down on the mattress heavily to pull them on again, lacing them tight and knotting the laces with unsteady fingers; he wanted whatever extra warmth he could get, and if Russia decided to come in while he was trying to sleep and he got the opportunity to kick him, then he wanted to be able to do so with heavy military boots on.

He then climbed stiffly to his feet again to turn off the light, immediately plunging the cell into darkness; it took him some time to make his way back to the mattress in the dark, but as soon as he was able to relax into something at least vaguely soft, he was able to sleep again, exhausted from the ordeal of the previous day.

He had barely drifted off into deep sleep when the door opened again.

Fuck. Once again he hadn't been expecting it.

It was dark and his eyes were still trying to focus, but he could tell from the heavy footfalls crossing the room that it was Russia even before he turned the light back on, blinding Prussia momentarily and making him curse. Still holding the verflucht pipe. He had not expected him back so soon, and he was now still only half-awake, struggling to clear the fog of sleep from his mind.

Russia did not voice his usual greeting this time, only stood there in the middle of the room waiting, as if for Prussia to say or do something. Prussia stared back at him, smiling a little through cracked lips despite the fact that his heart was once again racing and all of his limbs felt weak. He doubted he could have risen now if he had wanted to, and fuck his hands needed to stop the damn shaking. He could no longer tell whether the shaking was from weakness, fear, cold, or some combination of two or three.

"Can't stay away from me, huh?" he said, his tone more lighthearted than he felt. "You missed me that much?"

Russia laughed—laughed casually, as if he were merely joking around with a friend. It gave Prussia chills. "I said that I would come back today," he said, "and I keep my promises, malyutka, just like I promised that I would break you down and make you into the obedient little Soviet I want."

Prussia smirked. He was trying to ignore the aching pains all over his body; under the stress, he thought some of the wounds were likely beginning to bleed again, but he was not going to break eye contact to look down and check. "You might as well give up now, Russland," he shot back, "because you'll be tired of this before I am."

"I doubt that, little one," said Russia; he had ignored the German name for the time being, but his expression had darkened a little, and the malice on his face told Prussia plainly that he had not missed the act of defiance and would be taking it out on him soon. "Something tells me I am enjoying this far more than you. Still, you are eager, so we can begin early today. Yesterday I forgot to put any new marks on your back; I had been wanting to do that."

He crossed the rest of the small space in a few long steps, making Prussia back away against the wall, then slip away as he tried to grab at his arm. Such resistance was, of course, completely futile, and likely to make things worse for him later, but any opportunity to make Russia's life more difficult was not to be missed.

"Fuck no," he snapped, well aware of the fact that he could no longer move as quickly or agilely as he had once been able to. He also had nowhere to go to escape; Russia had closed and locked the door behind him, likely for this very reason. Russia halted and Prussia did too, a few yards away, meeting his eyes with hatred while simultaneously trying to assess the rest of the room in his peripheral vision for anywhere he could get away and delay his capture for a few more precious seconds. And at least he had the use of his hands now, and so could balance better.

He took one more step back, and all of the sudden Russia moved so swiftly that Prussia did not even see it coming, taking one long step and swinging the pipe as he did so. It connected squarely with the side his head and everything immediately went black.

He woke up about half a minute later, momentarily unsure where he was. His hands were chained above his head and he was standing facing the wall—or at least, was held hanging in an upright position by the shackles around his wrists—and he had been jerked back into consciousness by a stinging blow against his back. He gasped, cursing, and struggled to find his footing; the chains were long enough that they were not taut if he stood straight up, and this relieved the pressure on his wrists.

Another reason it was a good idea to put my boots on, he thought, pleased that he could more easily set his feet firmly against the ground, though this moment of self-satisfaction was quickly driven from his mind: the next blow hit higher, almost at the back of his neck, and Prussia hissed another German curse under his breath, half-twisting his body as best he could so that he could see Russia, who now held a whip in his hands; he had not seen him bring it in. Russia brought the whip down with all his strength against his now unprotected side, making him twist again in the chains away from the blows. The blows stung badly but the pain was bearable; he guessed that Russia wanted the marks more than the pain in this case, just as he had wanted to see blood the day before.

He closed his eyes tight and gritted his teeth to force himself to make no further sound, waiting for the whipping to be over. This was not so bad as the shower of blows from the heavy pipe, though it had the disadvantage of being enough to hurt badly but not enough to make him begin to lose consciousness; he was fully aware of every separate blow and could feel each lash long after the whip had struck, knew where each welt had raised on his skin. He hated the position he was in, utterly helpless with his arms stretched up and away from his body, completely unable to turn away or protect himself.

Once Russia had whipped the smaller nation severely and was satisfied with the pattern of welts now showing all over the skin of his back, he laid the whip aside carefully and picked up the pipe again.

Shit. Prussia's eyes widened in fear. and instinctively he tried to pull away, to move as far as the restricting chains would allow. In the back of his mind he knew it was ridiculous to struggle so hard to gain only a few more inches of safety, but survival instincts were too strong to prevent himself from doing so. He was not ready for this so soon after the whipping; he had thought Russia was finished for the day when he put aside the whip. His legs were weak and unsteady now, scarcely able to support him.

Russia waited for a few seconds while he struggled, then reached out his hand and pinned him against the wall by the back of his neck, the side of his face pressing hard into the cold stone. From his bound position, Prussia was unable to move, to gain any leverage to push back against him; he spat German curses into the wall, the only form of defiance still left to him.

Russia leaned his pipe against the wall nearby, just far enough away that Prussia could not kick it away, and moved his now free hand to the white-haired nation's shoulder, squeezing a pressure point. A cry escaped Prussia's lips and he jerked violently under Russia's hand, struggling futilely to pull away. Russia waited until he had stilled again, then moved his hand to the pressure point on his elbow, forcing another agonized cry from his prisoner. The metal cuffs dug deep into Prussia's already bleeding wrists as the white-haired nation strained against them, the unyielding chains pulled completely taut. Keeping his hand on Prussia's neck, Russia reached over to retrieve his pipe once again.

"Do not think," he told Prussia, his voice low, "that I did not hear you speak in German to me before. You know I will not tolerate that. But I will give you another chance. I am feeling merciful. Are you ready to give in now, GDR?"

From his position against the wall, Prussia could just turn his head to meet Russia's eyes without having to turn his whole body. He could still manage a twisted smile, although his mouth was bleeding; some of the blows had caused his face to hit the hard stone wall and his lip had been cut badly.

"Nie," he gasped. "You don't scare me, Russland."

He had been watching the pipe out of the corner of his eye, waiting in expectation for the first blow to fall, so he did not see Russia ball up his fist instead until it had crashed into the side of his face, slamming his head into the wall again and making his vision go black for a second. The pipe crashed against his back again before he was able to regain his vision, probably cracking a rib.

Prussia gritted his teeth, straining against the chains; he was barely able to support himself on his own legs anymore, and whenever he allowed his weight to rest entirely on his shackled hands the cuffs bit into his wrists, deepening wounds already there. They were starting to bleed again; he wished desperately for the bandages that Ukraine had wrapped around them what felt like an eternity ago.

The pipe came down on his shoulder and there was a sickening pop sound; Prussia gave a cry of agony, a sudden intense pain in his shoulder, and forced himself to stand upright again, taking the strain off the shoulder which he was sure was now dislocated. Russia seemed to notice this as well, as he did not hit his shoulder again, but nor did he ease up on the blows on the rest of his back, until the smaller nation was once again slumped against the wall, hanging from his chains barely conscious, face drawn and white with severe agony.

He stopped just before Prussia lost consciousness altogether, perhaps uninterested in wasting his strength on a captive who no longer felt the blows. He then pulled him upright again by the back of his neck, just enough to unlock the shackles around his wrists and free him.

As soon as he had done this, Prussia staggered and nearly collapsed to the floor, legs no longer able to support his weiht, and Russia grabbed his arm to prevent him from falling before lowering him to the ground in a sitting position against the wall. Prussia watched him hazily, too far gone to understand what he was doing, as Russia bent his elbow and lifted his arm, pushing it back, working the shoulder carefully back into the joint. It took a few tries and within seconds Prussia was panting, his red eyes glazed over and face contorted with the severity of the pain.

With a faint noise, the shoulder popped back into place, forcing another strangled cry from Prussia. He raised his other trembling hand and placed it gingerly on his shoulder, then moved the other arm with pained slowness. He then let it fall against his chest again. His face and upper body were soaked in sweat despite the cold of the cell.

Russia rose to his feet, seeming to tower above him, still holding the pipe in his hand. Prussia raised his head to look up at him, his crimson eyes half-open and his breathing shallow and slow. Russia spoke, almost affectionately.

"Do you want to give in now, malyutka?"

Unable to speak, Prussia shook his head weakly from side to side. If Russia wanted to beat him further, he doubted he would even feel it anymore, but he still tensed in anticipation of another blow.

Russia did not hit him again. He was holding the pipe in his hand again, tapping it on the floor impatiently, but he did not make another move towards Prussia, lying crumpled and bleeding on the floor.

"Then you are forcing me to hurt you more," he said, his tone one of a father disappointed in a disobedient child. "I will be back later, little one, and perhaps by then you will have thought better of your decision."

If he said anything further, Prussia did not hear him; his head slumped onto his chest and he allowed blessed unconsciousness to overcome him at last.

Author's note:

The jab at France was kind of a reference to the Franco-Prussian War, where basically all you need to know is I think even the Prussians were surprised at how fast they won.

I worry that this chapter was too similar to the last one, but I did want to make it clear that he didn't really get any respite before Russia started in on him again. And since I want to write this solely from his point of view, I can't break up what I hope isn't the tedium by going to another character. I actually enjoyed this chapter more than the last one, though maybe it's because he was hurt worse in this one.

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German translations

Verdammt = damn it
verfluchte = damned/cursed
Russland = Russia
nie = never