This is what Hungary knows: there is no such thing as a child that could ever mean anything but a loss to her. A loss of prestige, a loss of power, a loss of influence over the mortal men around her - people like them don't have children. They have threats.
When the Holy Roman Empire first made itself known to her, she was fully aware of this. From the confidence with which he carried himself, to the deference he commanded merely entering the room; she could see all too well the path laid out before her.
By now, perhaps, this wasn't unexpected. Of course the writing had been on the wall for years now, and the birth of another like them – well, any self-respecting Nation would have noticed. Nethertheless, it rankled, seeing Prussia at the front of the room with a proprietary arm over the young Nation's shoulder, sat sprawled as if on a throne. It isn't hard to see just how he means to pull the strings here.
This is what Hungary knows: any new Nation marks a shift in dynamics, as the rest of the players move over and the symphony grows richer. If she plays her cards right, then that shift will be to her advantage.
They've moved her seat. That in itself wouldn't be a problem in the usual order of things (Hungary is, after all, used to the battlefield. She wouldn't last long in command if she couldn't adjust to unexpected changes), but this isn't the usual order of things. She's been replaced by a Nation barely older than the dress she's wearing, and that's only because her outfits for official business are tailored fresh each season.
At the head of the table, Prussia smirks at her. It's as much a challenge as when he would throw rocks at her as a child, and for a wild moment she considers throwing something at him, but as always, she somehow manages to quash the urge.
Angelic, she smiles back at him. Then she takes her chair by the headboard, and drags it back up to her rightful place. It makes an awful, satisfying screeching noise. She's certain she scratches the marble beyond repair, and it fulfils her immensely.
She makes a show of smoothing her skirts around her as she sits down where she ought to be, back at the top of the table. As she does so, she ignores Prussia hide a snort two seats down. It's a sound that's purely Gilbert, there and gone in an instance, and entirely lacking in decorum. She decides not to hold the power play against him for too long, in a fit of nostalgia that's entirely unprofessional.
"Shall we begin, gentlemen?" She inquires, ignoring the way the men are staring at her, gobsmacked. She does, however, make a note of how the tiny Nation sat next to her shoots a glance up at her, eyes wide with admiration, before his gaze returns to fix stiffly on the sheets of paper before him.
This is what Hungary knows: the Holy Roman Empire is a valuable ally to have, and she is lucky to have it. It's only logical to nurture that alliance. He's young, impressionable, and as eager to please as much he's determined to be respected; she can tell as much just watching him scurry after Prussia like an imperious sooty duckling.
He's a serious little boy, all earnestness, with a worried intensity to his gaze that only worsens with his stubborn refusal to take any explanation he doesn't deem enough for him. He tries to hide his child's curiosity beneath a veneer of adult severity – it's adorable.
The Holy Roman Empire, she discovers, goes by Heinrich. He's shy, and clings to Prussia in a way that surprised her at first. It's unexpected from a Nation that rose to power so quickly – or maybe all the more expected.
He has a sweet tooth he refuses to admit. Hungary begins to bake additional desserts when she has the chance. The look on his face when she slips him a bun or a pastry that "won't fit in the pantry" – well, it's a delight.
It's clearly of strategic value to pass the younger Nation so many cakes. She's fostering an amicable relationship between two allied states. It's only the reasonable thing to do.
This is what Hungary knows: a Nation's strength, even in such a tiny form, is still a powerful opponent. There are mountains writ large across their shoulders; each vein of rock or metal makes itself known in their arms alone.
It would, of course, be horrific to send a human child out to war. Monstrous, even. But the Holy Roman Empire isn't a child; he's a Nation, with a Nation's power and a Nation's ambition. It would be cruel to keep him from the same freedoms she had so enjoyed.
She watches him drill with Prussia, even joins in on the rare occasion she wants to let off steam. His strength is beyond even what she expects; each blow could cleave a mortal man clean in two. It's fortunate, then, that she is no mortal.
There's something thrilling even in holding a sword again, an electric current that runs from the tip of her blade all the way to her heart. Hungary wields her sword as if she'd never put it down – it sits in her hand like an old friend. By the end of their time together, she plans to teach him the same easy familiarity.
She waves him off when he leaves, each time, and fully expects to see him return the same way. After all, she's taught him nearly everything she knows. She can't wait to teach him more.
This is what Hungary knows: when a Nation is injured, they draw on the strength of their people to heal. It's instinctive, even unconscious. There is no power known that could stop it; as long as one loyal citizen remains, a Nation's body will knit itself back together again, and again, and again. Before, it had always been a source of comfort.
It's sick, watching his ribs shudder with the effort of each breath. The blanket tucked around him grows dark with dampness, and she's quietly thankful for whoever switched out his usual pale green bedding for a deep blue quilt. In the sparse minutes he's awake, Heinrich doesn't have to see more than the slow darkening of the wool; it's already as dark as the twilight sky outside. She could almost pretend it wasn't there, that she was only tucking him in after a late return from the battlefield, if it weren't for the cavernous gash just before his chest should end naturally.
There's a horrible divot between his ribs and his waist, and it ripples with each shallow gasp. It's a blow that would have caved any man's chest in – the Holy Roman Empire isn't a man at all. He's only a boy, he's her boy, and she sent him out there to die. He'd come back flinching at shadows and clutching his own insides.
She tells herself she wasn't to know. It's no different from her own youth, spent warring and wandering the wilds of the forests. She'd had plenty of scrapes of her own back then.
The sword had nearly split him in two.
No child could have withstood that blow, strength or no strength.
She doesn't know at what point the Holy Roman Empire ceased to exist, and there only remained Heinrich, tiny, pale and clinging to life.
She does, however, know that one morning she enters his room only to find it empty. There's a dent in the bed where he should be. There's a horrible churning nausea in her gut, and as Erzebet goes to cover her mouth, she realises that her cheeks are damp. Her chest heaves, once, and the noise that comes from her isn't human, yet it couldn't be mistaken for anything but. She sinks down beside the bed, one hand still reaching for what she knows can't be there, can never be there again. She aches to hold him again, far tighter than she ever had before, and each breath burns with anguish.
That space beneath her ribs feels far hollower than it ever has before.
He's gone.
The room is empty.
Ezrebet weeps. She doesn't know how long for, but the sun has begun to rise and paint the room a dead sort of grey when she finally rises to her feet. Then she wipes the tears from her cheeks, fixes her hair back where it ought to be, and Hungary leaves the room, still smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt. Someone has to tell Austria.
This is what Ezrebet knows: there is no such thing as a child that could ever mean anything but a loss to her. People like them don't have children – not to keep.
A/N: Back years later with more Frying Pangle angst? It's becoming a pattern, whoops. This story can be read in the same universe as Eavesdropping and Lullaby for a Battlefield, and if you're a fan of my characterisations, I have a lot more Frying Pangle on my profile.