Egypt knows that Cyprus doesn't know about the circumstances surrounding his birth. He made sure of it himself.
He makes sure a lot of people forget a lot of things. His mother believed that each new day was a new world and to some extent, she was right. The minds of those who live for such a long time can be influenced, even hobbled, slowly, with each 'new universe'.
Usually, some notable events make it possible to forgo the slow route, and give an opportunity for Egypt to meddle a little bit.
Cyprus has no recollection of how he was born, or who his birth parents were.
Greece doesn't either.
As far as Turkey knows, he and the Ottoman Empire and the Seljuks were completely different personifications.
Egypt remembers, though.
Imposing, red door, sharp veins of gold running through the surface in rectangular patterns. Screams of pain. The sounds of skin on skin and Egypt wonders if it's because Turkey is beating Greece or taking him. Perhaps both, Turkey is so incensed at Greece taking Italy's side. He doesn't know. He'll find out by tomorrow, he thinks, and forces himself to walk away.
Tomorrow comes and with it, a wooden door, green panels surrounding white rectangles. Sobbing comes from behind it, and Egypt pushes the door open easily. A luxurious bedspread, soft silk, is peeled away to reveal a bruised face, eyes red from sleeplessness and crying. Legs twitch jerkily away from each other as Greece wriggles towards Egypt, seeking comfort. Egypt wraps his arms around Greece as well, tears forcing their way down his cheeks, only to be soaked into the mattress.
Heavy, lacquered door, curvy emerald green and blue and silver. Guards stand watch in front of it. He raises his hand to knock and a pale hand opens it quickly and yanks him in. Greece's face is red and blotchy, and he is clutching a small burlap sack as he pulls Egypt in.
Cold steel door, hard and unyielding. Screams come from in front of Egypt, but his back is pressed solidly against the door. The doctor is pale, and Egypt wonders whether it's from to shock of a country birth, the tight grip Greece has on his arm, that he must deliver the child, or perhaps the unspoken threat that he cannot speak of it to anyone or Egypt will kill him.
Hard, iron reinforcement atop a hardwood frame. The lock will not open, and Egypt whispers a quick, "Nu", to the lock, and slams his body against it, the lock creaking against his weight. He rams the door again, and this time it swings open, revealing a sobbing Greece, a knife, and a baby. It is too much for Egypt, who rushes in to snatch the child.
A cold, absent, white door stands in front of Egypt as he carries the swaddled baby to it. It reaches up to try and snatch an lock of hair, and Egypt smiles down at it fondly. He knocks, with no answer. The door is rudely forced open, and Egypt strides inside angrily, yanking Greece up and forcing him to stand.
It is hard, Egypt thinks, to understand Greece's motives, though here it is crystal clear. It is not shame of birthing an unhealthy boy, nor even the shame of birthing. Egypt knows that the child is perfect in every way, even by Greece's standards. It is fear of the devşirme. 'With your shield or on it!', Egypt knows, and as the child of the Empire, the babe will be forced to become an official or an officer for the Empire once it is old enough, it is a shame for Greece. But Egypt has always been far more survival-oriented, and if it were his child, and it might as well be, he would give him up in a heartbeat to keep him alive.
Richly ornamented, gold and rich blue lapis lazuli paint, the door is heavy with inlaid jewels and relief carvings. Egypt brings the small nation of Venice the baby. The child, really, that is what Venice is, squeals in delight, and says that he will be the best big brother ever. Egypt almost feels bad that he is counting on the Empire to sweep in and take him back.
Worn, white door. The Empire slams it open, screaming at Greece, screaming about killing his child. Egypt takes his staff, granted with the Empire's trust, and swings, first at Greece and then the Empire, knocking them out. It is easy to set the tip of his staff on the Empire's forehead and erase any suspicions. Greece's mind is far more frenetic, and Egypt settles into mechanically taking memories of the past few years, replacing them with a feverish haze.
Warm, wooden door, covered in red and white lacquer. The Empire strides in merrily and sets a young child down into Greece's lap, and laughs in response to Greece's confused stare, "He's closer to you. Take care of him for me, will ya?" Egypt is gratified to see the light of love and adoration that had not been there the first time.
It's a cold, glass barrier, the one that Egypt is behind. It's a custody battle, and he is not allowed in, even though his own independence from Britain and close relations with those in the room should have earned him a spot. But for now he is content to watch. The second Britain says, "In our judgement, due to population factors, Greece—" Turkey punches Britain, hard, and has to be dragged away by Canada, Finland, and Ireland. Greece is beaming, and Egypt thinks something vaguely along the lines of 'Good, Greece is happy!' and 'I hope Turkey doesn't take it too hard.'