Raivis remembers the day his brother killed him.

He was young then. Many still consider him such, but that's only physically. By nation standards, he's older than most in Europe. No, his people weren't around the longest, but he was not the grandchild of an Ancient like so many others were; he was, and is, the original. He still remembers the Latin phrases he would clunkily prattle off in the marketplace when Roman merchants found their way up the Amber Road, taught to him by the same polyglots who translated for the Gauls and Chinese and Persians that strayed off the Silk Road in search of those Baltic goods. He remembers the other tribal Balts: Courland, the hot-headed, unpredictable wannabe Viking, just as likely to help defend Raivis as they were to join in the raids against him; Semigallia and Selonia, the twins that he could never quite tell apart, but who always seemed to hang around Lithuania; Prussia, the true Prussia, whose name, land, and identity were stolen by Eastern Germanics; Livonia…

Livonia.

Livonia, who was the logical counterpoint to Courland's chaos. Livonia, who was the first nation to sit him down and explain what he was, why he aged so slowly and healed so quickly, that he was not only a person, but was the heart and soul of the tribes of Latgale. Livonia, who taught him how to hunt, how to prepare a fire, how to fit in with humans, how to survive. Livonia, who helped the little agricultural tribe sell his goods through the western Balt's many trade routes, asking only for a commission. With every new batch of wares from the little farmer, there would be hair-ruffling and praise. Look at all that he did! Did he pick this crop himself? Livonia, who always knew how to make Raivis feel important.

Livonia, who found quick friendship in the Teutonic Knights.

Livonia, who not only joined the crusades, but directed the Knights towards his own family.

Livonia, who beat him down and cut his throat.

Yes, Raivis was young then, but he often laments that he was braver in those days than any of the centuries afterwards. Livonia had aged into his mid-teens while Raivis was equal to a nine-year-old human, barely able to hold his spear over his head without falling over… and yet he stood firm, staring up at the one who guided him and demanding he stop his attacks or else. He wasn't as weak as most believed him to be, even then. Farming took muscle. He helped his people fight off invasions many times despite being nothing more than a child. That was different though - border discrepancies, uneasiness from low resources, they were short-lived and focused on issues.

This was focused on utter erasure.

He could feel it deep down, though he couldn't find the word for it, but he soon found that fear confirmed. He remembers many things, but not most of the details of his religion pre-Christian invasion, nor many of his traditions, nor the human names of his other siblings. As his history was erased through fire and force, so too did the memories become fainter and fainter. He tried to hold on, but he's not a person; He's a nation. So much of his existence is the collective consciousness of his people, and when, over the course of generations, tales of old are deemed heresy, or customs and culture are treated as rebellions in need of squashing, that collective consciousness loses grip on what once was integral. When fellow tribes die out or assimilate into nothingness and their history erased, their names become harder and harder to hold onto, regardless of if they were family.

It was all going well before Teutonics came along.

Raivis took what little pride he could in the knowledge that he didn't trust him from the start. He was not a merchant. He was not a farmer. He was not claiming to be a Viking. If he were none of those things, then there could be no pure intentions for him coming to the eastern coast of the Baltic Sea. As if the look wasn't off-putting enough, with hair and skin pale as birch bark, eyes red as cowberries, that crooked, sneering smirk. The preteen left a pit in the boy's stomach, and still does to this day. Whether going by Teutonic Knights, or stealing the name of Prussia from the Baltic brother it belonged to, or being deemed the representation for East Germany, the many names of Gilbert Bielschmidt all read 'trouble' to Raivis Ozoliņš, Republic of Latvia, Swedish and Polish Livonia, Archbishopric of Riga, and Tribe of Latgale. From the day he took action onward, Raivis went from being a peaceful farming tribe to a tug-of-war rope for all those around him. Who wanted a piece? Pull hard enough, and he's yours, regardless of how he feels or who he wants to be with. Instead of an independent nation, he spent centuries as a sentient bargaining chip.

He'd been the only one of the Ancient Balts to survive those years, aside from Courland and Lithuania. God, how he envies Tolys. Yes, he eventually converted, but it was on his own terms. He joined Poland to rule a Commonwealth side-by-side in a powerful unity, and before that, he fended off the Knights so fiercely that they often chose to sail around his land to reach the other Balts rather than risk passing through. It was funny, in a way; Livonia would likely be the lone survivor had it not been for Tolys and Feliks. With the Balts under full control of the church, there wasn't much need for each former tribe to be represented. Even taking the title of the Archbishopric of Riga didn't offer enough independence from his brother. Raivis could practically feel his immortality draining day by day, growing weaker and more sickly as time went on until the Commonwealth conquered their lands. It was sheer luck, and careful ingratiating on Raivis's part, that made them take more interest in Latgale than Livonia. Latgalian morphed and shifted into Latvian. What customs and culture hadn't been lost to centuries of silence were now not only accepted but preferred over those of Livonia. At the last moment, their fates swapped, so much so that the name Livonia was bestowed to him instead. (This, admittedly, was a very confusing switch that seemed like a complication for complication's sake. He never cared for it).

Even if he didn't meet a permanent end, the first time he was murdered in battle - actually murdered, not just injured and succumbing to infection later on - was by the very brother whose future he would steal. As he stood, clutching his spear, blow after blow from the blunt side of Livonia's sword struck the child. He stood firm on his demand even when his legs gave out, even when his busted lip and bit tongue made speech slurred, even as the onslaught interrupted each plea and cry of pain. He begged for Livonia, for his big brother Vesike, to stop, but would not surrender even when the tip of that sword sliced his leather armor and skin open with no resistance. Of course, he was the merchant of the family. His Amber Road gave him access to exotic metals and blacksmithing techniques from much of the known world. His new friends in the church gave him far more funds to try out such methods. Besides, he was the one who taught Raivis everything he knew.

There really was no match. There was never any hope for Raivis outdoing him in strength, skill, or resources. The only weapon he had against him was his voice.

As he lay there, crying, trying to stave the bleeding from his now-armorless chest and trying to get through to the one who he could always rely on, he locked eyes with the Knight who brought his brother to this point, grinning that twisted smile as Raivis begged yet again. The sword tip made a slow descent to Raivis's neck, not much wider than the blade itself. The point drew a pinprick of blood and paused. A two-word order was given by a now stern-faced boy from the west, cocky grin turned deadly serious.

"Do it."

Raivis remembers the feeling of the slash. The death wasn't immediate. The hands that had tried to stop the oozing from his chest were helpless against the spewing from his opened throat, searing pain, panic, and betrayal as his tunic and the grass were painted as red as his future flag. It wasn't long - a minute or so - before body went cold and vision went dark. He would awaken in a holding cell two days later, life breathed back into him through whatever uncontrollable, supernatural means it always was, before being forced to live under the newly coined Livonian Order of the Teutonic Knights.

"...That's not what I said," Gilbert interrupts. For once, his voice is softer, or at least as soft as he can manage. Annoyance has dampened into realization, the seemingly pointless hatred Raivis has for him now scrutinized and examined.

"W-What? No. No, I remember you said-"

"I said 'Don't do it.'"

Blood goes nearly as cold as when it hit the battlefield so long ago. "No. No, no no. I… You were smirking beforehand. Y-You knew what he was going to do! I remember you-"

"Thought you were gonna give in. Of course I was cocky! I thought we'd pushed another barba- another group into surrendering to the 'Glory of God' or whatever. That's not... You seriously thought I was excited to see a little kid get his throat chopped down to the spine?"

"W-Well… I-"

"No, seriously, I saw your spine through your neck. I've got tons of experience; I've seen a lot on the battlefield, plenty of stuff more gruesome than some head choppin', but… it's, uh, it's different when it's just a lil' pipsqueak like you were. I mean, I wasn't much older. Fuck, we were all kids, even Vesike."

Raivis's hands rise, trembling, to his neck. It's been so long, but that feeling, that fear… "No. No, he wouldn't. Not unless someone was pressuring him. He would have - have d-disarmed me, and scolded me for not being a better fighter, and - and slung me over his shoulder and carried me off against my will, sure, b-but still alive. He had no reason to… to do that."

For once, Gilbert lets him finish, scratching the back of his head. "I know I could convince anyone to do anything - I'm just that charismatic, huh? - but he chose that on his own. Even when I told him not to. He… Scheisse, it's hard to remember. It's been a while. He said somethin' afterwards about, you know… needin' you to shut the hell up? You kept going on with all that beggin' and talkin' about being brothers and all that. Who knows, maybe you were gettin' through to him and finishing the job made it easier." It's been a long, long time since such memories were drudged to the surface.

"So then he… he meant to silence me." Raivis gives a weak, joyless laugh and shakes his head. "B-But not kill! He wanted to make it hard for me to speak, but not - clearly not go as far as he did!"

"Maybe? I dunno. Look, I'll be square with you - he never said anything about regretting it. The best I could do was stop him from going after more of your people. I mean, the whole 'we'll spare you if you convert' doesn't really work if you don't actually spare anyone."

Silence. The weight in Raivis's chest makes him fall to his knees. Why? Why would the same person who tried to give him the best start to life, also be the one to try and end it? There was no way, no way that Vesike chose such a path on his own. Yes, he had some minor skirmishes as the Livonian Brotherhood, roughing up the younger Balts, but he didn't take their land. He didn't take their freedoms. He didn't take their lives.

Not until Bielschmidt came along.

"You… You did something to him," he rasps. "You changed him. You did. I-It had to be you."

The resentment and annoyance have fully drained from them both, leaving the two exhausted. Gilbert, with shoulders slack and lips tensed into the barest hint of a grimace, pushes back. "Vesike and the other Knights were my closest friends back then. I like to think I knew 'em all pretty well. And, what I knew about Livonia… was that he liked power. He was always braggin' about his Amber Road and all the shit he got ya guys to do for him, how much money he made just by tellin' you how good you did. Psh, Templar would always butt in with something about how 'money isn't nearly as great as living in the Light of Christ' and stuff. You remember him, right? Now that was a guy who believed in the cause. But point is, just 'cuz someone seemed like they cared before, doesn't mean they did. Sometimes, I dunno, it takes an outside force to get their true colors to show. I didn't do anythin' to Vesike. I… I think he just realized he didn't need to play nice to get what he wanted."

Gilbert isn't the best at being gentle, but for once, he takes extra caution in his delivery. Even then, he's not surprised when Raivis slouches forward in silent sobs. There's no way to give such news lightly, and after so many centuries of trying to convince himself that there was a singular, horrid, evil outside source to blame for corrupting his dearest Big Brother, shattering that reality meant shattering the view of his own family.

And yet, those sobs soften when Raivis feels a hand between his shoulder blades. It takes a few moments to steady himself, but with a shuddering exhale, he looks up at the Prussian. "Is… Is there any chance we could t-talk about this more? Maybe over drinks?" His words are still choked, throat tight from silenced cries, but he manages to swallow both pride and sorrow and ask his piece. And, even more surprisingly, he manages a wobbly, weary smile upon hearing the response:

"You know what? I'd like that, Lettgaller."