When the latest burst of pain subsided, Prussia realized he'd fallen to the floor and lay curled on the faded carpet of his living room, listening to his people... no, they were no longer his people. The Wall was broken, twenty eight years of living with half a heart ended.
The missing half hadn't returned yet, and Prussia doubted it would. No, the half of his heart that had sustained him all these years would go to his brother, where it belonged.
He wished it would hurry up and get on with it.
The moment the border guards had stepped back and just let people through he'd collapsed, agony surging through him as the barriers between his half of Berlin and his brother's half began to fall away. He'd felt every piece of shattered concrete as a knife in his battered half heart, what little strength he had bleeding from him as his people streamed west, seeking the hope and opportunity they'd been denied for so long.
He didn't try to get up. It might be about as dishonorable a death as a nation could suffer, fading away as his people fled from him, but he couldn't fight and it was what they wanted.
His time was done. As Prussia, he'd been effectively gone since his brother had forced him to unify, and East Germany should never have been given existence. It was nothing more than a shadow, a way for the Soviets to legitimize their continued hold over part of Germany.
Besides he was tired of being trapped in this weak body, tired of the unending pain, and so very tired of never knowing for sure just who or what he was. Of having flashes of the Kingdom of Prussia emerge when he was trying to be properly deferential East Germany, or worse, having the Teutonic Knights take over. The Duchy of Prussia moments weren't so bad, since that was a time he'd had to keep his head down and avoid drawing too much attention, something that was essential for a nation with communist boss.
Strange how after so long fighting to stay alive, to survive however he could, he didn't fear death now. The prospect of finally getting to rest, even if Old Fritz did kick his arse from heaven to hell and back, was just too attractive. It seemed he'd been fighting for survival for all but a handful of his many years. Fighting to make his lands – nothing special, but his – his nation a place to be proud of. And getting kicked in the teeth every time he'd managed to build something decent.
His brother's betrayal... God, would that never stop haunting him? He'd known before the Preussenschlag his brother was completely controlled by his boss: why couldn't he forgive Germany for something he'd not been able to stop? Something he'd done while he wasn't himself?
Prussia knew the answer, much as he hated to admit it to himself. He'd trusted his brother as he'd never trusted anyone else in his life. Besides, he hadn't forgiven himself for the things he'd done while Germany controlled him, so why was it so strange his mind kept circling back to that... abomination?
It didn't matter. Soon enough all that would be gone, ashes. He hoped Old Fritz would put in a good word for him, because otherwise he wouldn't need the old man's boots to send him to hell. His soul was more than black enough for that – but at least he'd earned that honestly.
He heard sounds nearby, people talking, and almost smiled at the simple normality. Even in the strangest circumstances life went on. It was good to be reminded of that, to realize that it wasn't all wars and conquest, that the affairs of nations rested on the shoulders of millions of humans living out their short lives, working, loving, raising their children...
It was too easy to forget that.
The growing darkness closed around him, the last faint sound that reached him a sharp splintering noise and someone calling him. He hoped they'd forgive him his weakness.
It would be nice to see Old Fritz again.