He waited, tense, clenching his restrained hands into fists to keep them steady. Russia had stepped aside to allow his sister to exit the room, but once she had left he had not moved from the doorway. He simply stood watching Prussia, who had already made the decision not to give him the satisfaction of seeing him struggle fruitlessly and now stared back, crimson eyes narrowed with the utmost loathing.
"Your wrists look in terrible shape," Russia told him, in a voice that almost sounded kind. "They're bleeding again, aren't they, bednyaga? You should have them bandaged again."
Prussia bit his tongue so hard that his teeth drew blood to keep back the insults and curses running through his head, dropping his gaze from Russia's to the bloodstained floor. He could not look at his tormentor's face without wanting to swear at him, and he was fully aware of the immediate repercussions such an action would have.
Take deep breaths and calm down, Dummkopf, he ordered himself sternly, trying to control the trembling in his hands. You can be brave without doing anything stupid.
He was not convincing himself of anything. Prussia was not in the habit of listening to the reasonable side of his brain; he was much more accustomed to pay attention to the warlike side which was now screaming at him to stop being a scared pussy and tell the Russian exactly what he thought of him.
Gott, gib mir Kraft.
He continued to stare fixedly at the ground, refusing to look up again even when he heard the heavy footfalls cross the room again and knew that Russia was standing in front of him. Russia seemed to take his lowered eyes as a sign of submission, as his voice was pleased when he spoke again. The satisfaction in his tone grated against Prussia's ears; experience had taught him that the Russian's happiness generally meant impending pain for him, which made the Soviet's next words even more surprising than they would have been ordinarily.
"Would you like me to take the shackles off, GDR? I only put them there for Ekaterina's good, you know, to make her work easier."
Prussia looked up at this, taken aback, uncertain of the reason for the sudden generosity. The offer of leniency made him feel that he had done something wrong; that perhaps Russia thought he was beginning to break down and intended to reward him for that. Still, if it meant he could be unchained, he was not complaining; it was hardly giving in to accept a favor.
He pushed his misgivings aside and nodded faintly, saw the wide smile in return. Russia leaned over him to unlock the shackles and Prussia flinched away, unsettled by his closeness, but the larger nation moved away again once he had released him, sitting on the floor beside the mattress and simply observing his prisoner with an odd fascination.
Prussia could not bring himself to look up, to meet his captor's probing purple eyes; when he did they seemed to bore into his own. He looked down instead and rubbed his wrists. They were in bad shape where the cold iron shackles had bit into them; he let go of his wrists and found his fingers bloody.
Russia was looking at the injuries, and he could not tell whether his expression held sympathy or merely morbid interest. He decided that he did not particularly care; he just wanted him to make his next move, because his proximity was unnerving. He risked a glance at him to check if he had brought his pipe.
For once, he had not. He appeared to be entirely unarmed, but this was not enough of a reason for Prussia to let his guard down; he was well aware of the effectiveness of his fists as weapons if need be.
Russia, who had apparently finished his inspection of the white-haired nation, rose to his feet, and Prussia flinched away without meaning to, unsure of his intentions. But Russia did not make another move towards him. He simply spent a few more seconds looking down at Prussia, smiling faintly, and then unexpectedly turned and walked out of the cell, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.
Prussia, now trying to breathe deeply and evenly to calm himself down—he had been more afraid than he would ever admit to himself that Russia would begin beating him again so soon—watched the door, still massaging the feeling back into his hands and wrists, and waited to hear the hated sound of the key in the lock.
It did not come.
He waited for a few more seconds, caught off guard, suddenly fearing that Russia was just standing outside the door for some reason as if hoping he would take advantage of the situation. He knew he could not just have missed the sound; the grating click of the heavy bolt being pushed into the wall was unmistakable and loud enough that he had noticed it before without listening for it.
Confused, Prussia rose unsteadily to his feet, then stopped, wondering if he was somehow walking into a trap. If Russia was, indeed, standing outside the door, maybe he was just looking for a new excuse to punish his prisoner, a justification for tormenting him. This thought held him frozen uncertainly for almost half a minute, his mind in turmoil.
Then his curiosity overwhelmed him; he made his way silently across the floor and placed a hand on the doorknob lightly, almost timidly, as if expecting that the contact would hurt him in some way, and testing it to see if he had been correct. It turned, silently, and he returned it to its original position with the utmost care, and pressed his ear against the door to see if he could hear breathing on the other side.
It was silent, though this was nothing like an assurance that Russia was really gone. If he was planning to ambush him, then he would be keeping quiet purposefully.
With a knot in his stomach, genuine dread at what he might find on the other side, he pushed the door forward a few inches and stopped again, waiting for any response from the other side. None came. He left the door a little ajar and looked out through the small opening, seeing nothing but the empty corridor outside the cell.
Experimentally, he pushed a little more and the door gave a loud creak that made him freeze. For about ten seconds he remained perfectly still, fearful, waiting to hear the heavy footsteps of the Russian returning to investigate the sound. The silence continued to stretch out, and with a silent sigh of relief he understood that he had gone unnoticed: that it was not a trap. It was just an oversight on Russia's part.
Relief washed over him like a wave, followed immediately by excitement. He laughed with genuine happiness, the first time in he could not remember how long. Dumme Russische Bastard! He had left the door unlocked and his prisoner unchained and now there was nothing standing between him and the exit, and freedom, blessed freedom!
With a bounce in his step that he had not had for years, Prussia returned to sit on the mattress and tug his combat boots on, then pulled the blanket from the bed to wrap around his shoulders. If he was going outside, and he fully intended to do so, he was going to do so with as much protection against the brutal Russian elements as he could find. But he had to be quick if he had any hope of actually escaping the house. Any minute now Russia might realize his mistake and come back to remedy it.
He returned to the door, which he had left slightly open. Now that he was wearing boots it took a little more effort to remain perfectly silent, but he managed it, and pushed the door open with agonizing slowness to prevent any further sound, only as far as he needed to slip out through the gap—and then he was standing outside the cell, his hands untied, free, free, free.
He explored the basement as quietly as he could, hoping to find a door so that he would not have to try and sneak through the main floor. The first he found was locked tight, but another few minutes of silent searching and he had discovered a second, this one open, and pushed it open with less caution than he had the door of his cell.
A blast of icy air hit him, making him gasp; he had slowly grown accustomed to the cold of the basement, which he was aware would once have probably killed him, but even that was nothing compared to the pure, intense, bone-chilling cold of the outside. He pulled the blanket closer around his bare shoulders, feeling all of the warmth leaving his body, desperately grateful for the wool socks beneath his heavy boots. At the very least, his feet would stay protected.
The cold bothered him for only seconds and then he was too overjoyed to even notice the discomfort. He was out of the house, and no longer had to be worried about making a noise, and so he ran. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, sending thrills of delight through him. He laughed again into the icy, barren landscape, the gleeful sound echoing through the deadened trees around him, a triumphant sound.
The winter air was burning in his lungs and he was fully aware that many of his wounds were bleeding again with the exertion and he had neither the speed nor the endurance he had once trained into himself, but it hardly mattered; he ran, exhilarating in the freedom and the wide-open space after so long in a cramped room.
It was going to be okay; West was going to be there, he would be so surprised and so glad to see him, he would be able to have German beer again and see the dogs and Gilbird. He could ask Ludwig what had been in all of the letters he had not been able to read; tell him at last, in the comfort and safety of his own home, what had happened.
After so long, he was going home. He could scarcely suppress a cry of delight at the thought.
Before long, his injuries forced him to slow down to a brisk walk. The snow was crunching underfoot, a sound that would ordinarily have been pleasant but which was now just a grim reminder of his location. However, this encouraged him to walk faster.
Something was ahead of him, something he did not recognize. He sped up his pace a little, a faint note of concern adulterating his otherwise boisterous mood, until he could better make out what it was. Some structure, grayish and solid and ugly, just like everything else the Soviets made, he thought with some bitterness. But why was it there? A new building, so close to Russia's house?
No—it was not a building, he realized. It was a wall.
He slowed down, staring into the distance first to his left and then its right, unable to make out a terminal point at either end. It was a wall, about twelve feet high, protected at the top by loops of cruel-looking barbed wire. He could see guard towers every now and then along the tremendous length.
And all at once he understood the implications, the reason that the wall had been constructed.
It was a wall separating him from West.
This was why Russia had been lax in locking the door behind him; why he had been so willing to unlock his chains and give him the pretense of more freedom. Because he was simply extending his leash, giving him the illusion of freedom so that it would only be more agonizing, more utterly unbearable, when he jerked the leash back again.
There had been a barrier before, this he had been told by Lithuania long before—a wire fence, nothing more than a stupid symbol erected to signify the separation. He had given it no thought. It would have been easily climbed over for escape; it would have been easily torn down to destroy the divide altogether.
This, though, this was intended to last, a barrier not only for show but for function as well, a wall around the prison that had once been East Germany. A structure intended to make the divide between him and his brother permanent, to ensure that he would never escape, never see West again. An investment made, he was sure, at huge cost to Russia—made in the confidence that it need never fall.
The huge wall and the rest of the world were swimming in front of Prussia's eyes now. He felt as though all of his limbs had been turned to water and his knees almost buckled; he placed a shaking hand on the wall to steady himself, a hand which was sore and numb from the savage cold. More than just a wall, it seemed to him a malicious entity, a sentinel to carry out Russia's intentions.
Tears were burning at the back of his eyes, running hot and painful down his cold cheeks, and he slammed the palm of his hand despairingly into the wall, sending an arrow of pain through his arm, overwhelmed with the horror of it all. The gunmen at the top of the watchtowers, to kill his people if they tried to flee. The coils of razor wire at the top of the twelve-foot wall, making it unclimbable.
This fucking cement monster cutting him off from West, isolating his people within the Soviet Union, standing in its looming ugliness as a prison and a constant reminder of their captivity.
He slammed the palm of his hand viciously against the horrible construction, sending an arrow of pain shooting up his arm. He scarcely noticed. He could not even identify the emotion overwhelming him now: was it fear? Grief? Or just pure, unadulterated rage, that anyone would dare do such a thing to his precious citizens, presume to try and cage the proud East German people?
He could hear Ukraine's words echoing in his head again, understood all at once the pity in her eyes when he spoke proudly of his people continuing to fight.
"They won't be able to escape anymore, dear. If you still feel them fighting . . . well, I suppose it is in vain."
If he looked down the wall, stretching seemingly to infinity in both directions, he could see bloodstains the snow, the blood of his people whom he loved.
The ultimate punishment for those who, like himself, just wanted to escape this hellish Russian prison.
Nein. Nein. Nein.
He drew a long, shaking breath, and then the horror of the situation overwhelmed him completely, and all at once he could no longer stand.
As he fell to his knees hopelessly in the snow, the tears now running unchecked down his pale face, he heard Russia's soft laughter behind him.
Author's note:
Oh my goodness. This was a really emotional chapter to write. But Prussia, you idiot, didn't you realize it was too easy? No alarm bells or anything?
It's about time the Berlin Wall made an appearance; the story's named after it and it still took thirteen chapters.
Maybe it's a bit stupid to have the Berlin Wall close enough to the house that he can walk to it like that, but at one point Russia does refer to the Soviet Union as a big house, and so if you look at it that way then Germany would be on the boundary, and the wall at the edge of the yard? Maybe?
Many thanks to rookanga and Wolken for reviewing the last chapter - it really means a lot! And a special thank you to Wolken for helping me fix and improve German translations!
Please, please review if you read it, and favorite and follow if you liked it!
Russian translation
bednyaga = poor thing
German translation
Dummkopf = idiot
Gott, gib mir Kraft = God, give me strength
Dumme Russische Bastard = stupid Russian bastard
Nein = no