Da hat sie weiße Stiefel an…

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Gilbert greedily tore open the letter, hands trembling ever so slightly as he tugged out page after page of thin parchment covered in a small and curly handwriting, scrawls and scratchy ends betraying the author's true age despite the mature look of the penmanship. Detailed writings of days he was no longer part of, a life that he clung to that now for years had not been shared with him. Not independently, no, by far not. Between every word and sentence, between every line and carefully placed letter he could read the love and adoration still blooming in a young heart, could read the desperate longing to be back. To be home.

A word written in every letter. Home. Carelessly tossed into a childish sentence, a recording of a daily story. Home. Hidden between meaningless babbling that followed the need catch up with him. But always so heavy, so much implied behind that word. Home.

Gilbert had to admit he was proud of him. So very young, yet so much of a great mind already. So much intelligence to imply so much meaning into a word. Home. A word he had not known himself until… No, he had known the word. But he had not truly understood it until the first time he woke up to a giggle in his ear and a body right there who's love for him was so different to everything he had ever experienced. And even then, he had not fully understood. Only with the loss of home did he learn to cherish it.

And as much as he wanted to read the letters right there, wanted to greedily slather his hands over the thin parchment in a senseless hope to catch lingering warmth from smaller hands that had held those same letters, wanted to engrave every word into his very being, right there, right there in the post station, drenched wet and cold and shaking…

…He didn't. Instead Gilbert carefully folded them again after a glance and with tender care returned them into the envelope, trembling fingers lingering on the envelope.

No, those words, no matter how simple, deserved to be read in comfort and love. Deserved to be cherished and caressed in a safe place, stored away in care. They had to be. Had to fill the void of laughter and games and play pretend, had to substitute for the warm heaviness in his arms and the pounding in his heart. Had to, had to.

Gilbert pushed past the line of waiting people, stored the letter into his coat's inner pocket after a last gentle caress and draped the cape over his pale head to shield it against the rain.

It would be those letters that Gilbert gave the tailor to sew into the hem of his cape, those letters that he'd hold close to his heart in the heat of battle, those letters that he'd read in camp and that would fuel his determination. It would be those letters Gilbert would knead in anxiety in 1814 during the Congress of Vienna. Those letters in hand he'd sneer in victory at France, a twinkle of worry and excitement in his eyes betraying the true emotions he felt.

It would be those letter's he dropped to catch a small boy flying his way with laughter and games and play pretend, to be warm heaviness in his arms and a pounding in his heart.

Nightmare

Ludwig.

Where was Ludwig?

Gilbert was aware somewhere at the edge of his consciousness that he was running through a burning city, that somewhere he could hear soldiers yelling and screaming. He knew that something important had just happened, something that would change him forever.

But he couldn't concentrate, couldn't focus on anything but the need to find Ludwig.

And then there was a man with a blood dripping sword standing above a young boy. And suddenly that young boy was the one with the sword and he was laughing and crying and his eyes had the colour of ice and Gilbert needed to find Ludwig Ludwig Ludwig!

Gilbert shot awake with a jolt as his hands searched the bed in a frantic haste, gasping in throat clogging fear, tear blinded eyes useless, until he remembered that Ludwig had his own room now, until he remembered that he had brought Ludwig to bed that evening, had read him a fairy tale and had kissed his forehead goodnight.

A shuddering breath turned into a sob. While the dream faded quickly from his mind the shock remained and so did the urgent need to find Ludwig. This time for his sake rather than Ludwig's.

The door to his baby brother's room squeaked ever so softly as Gilbert entered, red eyes glued to the small figure lying motionlessly in the too big four poster bed. Ludwig looked so fragile wrapped around his stuffed dog like that, curled up into a small ball that occupied more of the pillow than the actual mattress. So tiny.

The lump in his throat started to dissolve.

Gilbert took a seat at the edge of the bed to comb a trembling hand through feather light blond hair. The little body moved in a deep breath, eyelids fluttering without opening and Gilbert stilled his actions in favour of silently watching Ludwig sleep. His heavy heartbeat calmed down, the last remains of fear turning into deep affection. The lump dissolved completely.

His Ludwig was safe and warm right there with him.

No time was spent on hesitation as Gilbert swung his legs over the side of the bed and crawled under the covers next to the boy, drawing him into his arms and resting his own head atop his so he could bury his face into fluffy blond strands and feel the small yet strong heartbeat of another.

They were safe and warm and right there with each other.

And Gilbert would not allow for anything to change that.

Origin

"Gilbert, I have been thinking!"

Gilbert had to bite his tongue to not respond with 'do you ever do something else' because he was sure the only thing it would gain him was a pout and a glare and maybe the silent treatment for an hour, so instead he set down his pen and turned in his seat to give his brother his full attention.

The boy was frowning again and Gilbert had to resist the urge to reach forward and smooth out his brow for him because really it made him look way too old and Gilbert was not comfortable being confronted with Ludwig getting older.

"Where do we come from?"

That actually made the albino halt completely for a second, mind going blank as he contemplated telling the boy about the 'birds and the bees'. After all he was a good 20 human years old…

"You see, Ludwig, when a man and a woman really love each other, they-…"

An impatient movement of his small hand, reminding Gilbert almost painfully of his Lieutenant scolding a soldier for a stupid answer.

"I know about sex, Gilbert!" Ludwig's voice was reprimanding, the frown deepening into a dangerous scowl until the boy seemed to change his mind about being angry. Instead he puffed up his cheeks and turned to look at the world map Gilbert had hung above his office desk displaying all the discovered continents and fading into white where the lands had not yet been seen by eyes like theirs.

"I mean… Where do we nations come from? Do we have a Mama and Papa like humans do? How… how do we get born if not?" Gilbert watched the young boy for a long while, silently pondering if he should inquire as to where Ludwig had learned about sex. But then again, his question was too important to get pushed aside for something he could easily pick up again at a later time so he instead picked him up and set him down in his lap.

"Ah… something most of us want to know one day." He hummed and had to admit to himself that with him it had taken centuries before he had even had an interest in knowing where he came from. He hadn't ever questioned his existence, hadn't ever bothered to learn about what had been before.

"You know what we are, right, Ludwig?" He leaned back in his office chair, the wood digging uncomfortably into his back but he didn't care about that because Ludwig was relaxing in his lap and snuggling up to him.

"We are the personification of the people living within the borders of our country, obedient to our ruler and responsible for our country's striving and blooming and gaining in mass." Ludwig recited and Gilbert could hear the roll of his eyes in is words because he had hammered that sentence into his mind since the first day Ludwig had been with him. A tiny smile flickered over his lips.

"That is what I told you, correct. Very good." He praised Ludwig because really he lived for the proud blush on his cheeks and that small chest being pushed out. He shifted the boy a bit so he could sit more comfortably, elbow resting on the hard wood of his armrest, chin atop his closed fist.

"But there is more to that. We exist because our people believe in us. I am Prussia because my people believe that Prussia exists and that they live in it and belong to it. Sometimes our names change but the ideas stay, as do the morals and beliefs, the crown and ceremonies and traditions, the treaties and constitutions and they still think of Prussia as Prussia, simply call it something else. Therefore, I stay." Gilbert made a break to give Ludwig time to think about that and mull it over, because he had learned that otherwise the boy would bombard him with questions otherwise.

A silent nod in return allowed him to continue.

"But sometimes not only the name changes. The country may split in two halves and those two halves have nothing in common with the original country. Thus, two new ones are born and the old one is forgotten until it dissolves into nothing." Gilbert could sense that Ludwig was not comfortable with his blunt words but he hadn't ever been good in sugar coating them.

"Simply as that?" The voice was small, the frown had returned to Ludwig's brow. This time there was more of a tilt to it and Gilbert knew the boy was worried rather than angry. And he also knew why. Ludwig was not really a country founded on papers and a crown but rather on the wishes and ideas of his people. There was no stability to his existence. Not yet.

A small smile tugged on his lips and he stood, ignoring the yelp from the boy and lifting him on his shoulder.

"You better not worry, though, baby brother." A snort at the name, a soft wack to the back of his head that was immediately stroked by small fingers as Gilbert strolled out of his office and down the long corridor of Sanssouci.

Because there was someone who would never forget about Ludwig.

Gilbert.

Poetry

How Ludwig had gotten his hands onto that damn book was a mystery to Gilbert but if he should get his own hands on it he would burn it in his goddamn fireplace!

The boy had withdrawn completely, barely responding if anyone spoke to him, even… even going so far as to ditch Gilbert's attempts at playing with him for that damn book! And he must have finished it already, he must have! He never spent that much time on one single book!

Gilbert slumped his shoulders and glared out of the window at the park below where Ludwig sat curled up on one of the stone benches, eyes filled with an awe Gilbert had only ever seen directed at him as he turned the pages.

So what if he was jealous because of a book! Hah, a book! Dead tree with words printed on! It was nothing against him, the mighty, the most awesome Gilbert, Prussia himself!

And still when Ludwig came to him in the evening with that book pressed to his chest and begging to meet Goethe, please, please, please, Gilbert doesn't have the heart to deny him so he travelled all the way to Weimar with the bouncy ball of nervous Ludwig to watch him stare in awe at someone else than him.

He sat through hour long discussions between the poet and his brother, listened as the boy talked about things he shouldn't know in his young age, listened and listened and listened until his head tipped back and he fell asleep.

He was woken by the time the sun had already set and they were to leave for their hostel room by a beaming Ludwig tugging on his sleeve. Gilbert blinked a couple of times and wiped his eyes, allowing Ludwig to chatter on as they gathered their things and say their goodbyes to Goethe and his wife. Ludwig mentioned something about Schiller and threw a longing glance at the house next door* and Gilbert had to bite his lip to not blurt out how happy he was that the man had already passed because he wouldn't survive another day such as this one.

"But you don't understand!" Ludwig couldn't sleep and apparently because he couldn't, Gilbert was to suffer the same fate. "Poetry is… poetry is so… If you read it you can feel it in your chest and your lungs and it fills you up like a good meal and warms you and… and…" he waved his hands around, kneeling on the edge of Gilbert's bed who had given up on making the boy go to sleep. He entertained him by raising a brow and reaching for the book Ludwig had been guarding like his most precious belonging.

"Der Strauß, den ich gepflücket,
Grüße dich vieltausendmal.
Ich habe mich oft gebücket,
Ach, wohl eintausendmal.
Und ihn ans Herz gedrücket,
Wie hunterttausendmal."*

Gilbert glanced up at the excited boy and couldn't bring himself to admit that there was nothing in his chest or lungs or stomach, nor did he feel warm in any way. All he felt was damn tired. Even more so after that poem.

So, he closed the book, set it down and nodded. "It's…. very nice."

It was worth the lie when Ludwig's face split into a wide grin and the boy flopped onto his side to cradle the book close and go to sleep.

He would have to make sure not to teach him about the relationship of the word 'nice' and 'shitty' soon!*

(1)* Goethe and Schiller were two of Germany's most famous poets and actually lived next to each other at the end of their lives in Weimar, being a strange mix of friend and foe
(2)* The poem is called "Blumengruß" (Flowergreeting) and the Translation goes something like this:
The bouquet that I plucked,
Greets you many thousand times.
I bowed often;
Oh, about one thousand times.
And pressed it to my heart,
Like a hundred thousand times."
It's not exactly one of his most famous poems, nor the most meaningful, so no wonder Gilbert wants to fall asleep ;)
(3)* We have a saying in Germany that goes "Nett ist die kleine Schwester von Scheiße" which means Nice is the little sister of shitty. Basically saying that if someone asks for your opinion on something (let's say their outfit) and you replay with "nice" you actually wanna tell them they look like shit.