• It was over, the war was over and he had lost. He gazed accusingly to his brother with his only eye, the other recovering under the heavy bandages that embraced his skull. His body was sore, riddled with scarring wounds and ugly bruises. He had absolutely nothing, his home was burned to the ground, his legacy a scorned footnote on history, his people without a future, and it was his fault! His ruby colored eye hardened as a shield to hide his feelings of pain, betrayal, and hatred. He didn't know what hurt more, the pain of being beaten within an inch of his life, or the fact that his own brother had done this to him. He looked back to the other four who were entering as judges and jury to their crimes. The two of them stood in the center of a large room; a semicircle of a table was before them with each of the victors sitting in a seat. America and Russia sat side by side in the middle while France was to the Right of the Eastern European Country, and England sat to the right of his former colony.

    France had an arm in a cast from all the battling, a permanent scowl distorting his features. He used to be so carefree, but now he looked demonic with agony and rage. England was much less damaged, he had a few broken fingers, broken wrist, and a split lip, but he looked equally pissed and ready to kill. Alfred, he was spotless. Why was he presiding over their trial when he had been too busy in the Pacific with Japan? That wasn't right or fair! What did America know about their wars, nothing! He was absolutely clueless to it and the reasons why it occurred! Russia looked worst out of all of them, his right eye was black and his lip was busted in a few places. He wore a cast himself for a broken collarbone and he walked with a heavy limp that seemed to force him to drag his injured leg. Despite it all, he still smiled; he didn't seem as hateful and mad as he had thought he would be. The red-eyed nation fidgeted under his gaze that bore into him, even when he looked away, he knew exactly what Ivan was looking at.

    Alfred stood, "The Sovereign states of Prussia and Germany are being brought to trial this day to answer to their crimes against the Sovereign states of France, England, and Russia, as well as the additional grievances from Poland, Holland, Belgium, Luxemburg, Norway, and Denmark. Sadly the accused party cannot here today due to the damages inflicted upon them. First we shall hear the accusations of France." He wasn't even settled in his seat before Francis was on his feet, a list of tribulations in his hands.

    "As the representative of the French Republic my accusations are as follows." He began listing off the things they all knew, and Prussia was rather surprised they were all valid, nothing about, "Destroying my beauty" or any of that which had been after the first war. He allowed his mind to wander, since he hadn't been involved with France's war really, it had been his brother. "And the French Republic places the blame of the crimes upon the Sovereign state of Prussia in the first degree." The albino's breath caught in his throat and he was just about ready to die from choking.

    "What!"

    America stood once more, "How does the accused party plea?"

    "Not guilty!" he shouted immediately after, "I had nothing to do with your occupation or invasion! Those weren't my soldiers!"

    "Germany?" Alfred inquired, "Is Prussia telling the truth?"

    There was a deadly silent pause that stretched for a minute or so. Gilbert turned to his brother, sweat beading on his forehead and his hands shaking. The younger did not return his gaze. "Yes. He was not involved with France's occupation or conquest; I plea guilty to all charges." He could cry from relief as Alfred nodded his head and motioned for Francis to sit down. He did so reluctantly, but his glare was not directed at the blond who stood taller than the thin albino. He still blamed him, but he had just been told otherwise. Truth was relative, so to him, it was naught but lies.

    "Next the crimes made against the Sovereign state of the United Kingdom." Arthur stood, his paper held gingerly in his grasp. He listed off his pains and placed the blame upon the Sovereign state of Germany, who pleaded guilty in the first degree. Alfred then held up his own paper, much to the brothers' surprise. "As the United States of America, I bring against both the Sovereign state of Germany and the Sovereign state of Prussia Crimes against Humanity in the first degree. How do you plea?"

    "Guilty," Ludwig announced, though the Prussian could hear the strain and distress in the undertone of the blonde's voice. He wanted to help him, but there was nothing either could do. It wasn't their faults though! It was Hitler's! Didn't the four upon the platforms see the pain it did to the two of them? Prussia loved his children, all of them, and he knew Germany did too. Neither had a choice, didn't they understand!

    "Not guilty. Let me explain," Gilbert exclaimed, a little more worried than he wanted to be, he was shaking from nerves, "I was not part of Germany prior to the war, so all crimes committed against my Jews and the POWs that were captured, I will plea guilty in the second degree. It was not by will but force that I was with Hitler."

    America turned to France, for a second opinion, who shook his head, 'No, he's guilty'. Prussia's pink tongue flicked out nervously, moistening his chapped lips. The superpower turned to his European cousin who in turned nodded, 'Second degree'. Now it was fifty-fifty and the Soviet Union held the final vote. All eyes turned to his smiling face and his eyes widened as though surprised to be on the spot as so. The ashen haired man giggled childishly and nodded his head, 'Not guilty'. Despite how long Gilbert had hated the Russian, he suddenly felt a rush of euphoria. He had been saved. Then his blood froze, Ivan hadn't listed the crimes Prussia had amounted against him.

    "The grievances of the Soviet Union now have the stand."

    Ivan stood slowly, his leg hurting him more than it would appear and picked up his own paper, his smiling face becoming foreboding. He listed off the crimes done to his soldiers, to his people, to his sisters and comrades; especially Belarus, as well as the damages caused to his cities. "The Soviet Union brings these transgressions against the Sovereign state of Prussia in the second degree and against the spirit of Adolf Hitler in the first." He settled himself down and clasped his hands expectantly. Gilbert wanted to run up to the Soviet and hug him; Ivan wasn't blaming him for everything! And he completely left his littler brother out of it!

    "Guilty."


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    The four exited the room to create a final decision with their bosses' consents. The two countries now sat alone in a small jail cell, Germany on the bunk while Prussia leaned against the wall looking out the barred window. There was a heavy silence that both were extremely unwilling to break, despite how utterly uncomfortable it was. The heavens darkened into black, apparently their trial would either continue in the morning, or it would be concluded under an abysmal sky.

    "Gilbert," a heavy, rugged voice echoed in the cold stone room, "I . . . I'm . . . sorry. I'm sorry for everything. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

    The older nation turned to his brother, the feelings of betrayal still rooted deep in his heart. He almost verbally tore the younger nation to shreds before he saw him. Ludwig sat on the small cot, his elbows balancing on his knees while he sobbed into his hands. He didn't realize when he rushed to his brother and knelt before him on the painfully hard stones. He pulled the blonde closer, resting his face in the crook of the albino's neck. Gilbert could feel the warm tears soak through his shirt collar. He rubbed soothing circles into his tense back, his shoulders shaking as he bit back his cries. "Shhhh, it's alright. It'll be okay, it wasn't your fault."

    It was.


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    "It's getting late," Alfred yawned; amazingly he had been able to stay completely serious for an entire twenty-four hours. Ivan looked out the window to the night sky; the stars were asleep under a soft blanket of grey clouds.

    "Why did you let him go?" Francis snapped. All knew he would bring it up, his outrage smoldering the entire time they looked over the charges, but he had held his tongue surprisingly, until now of course.

    The American piled his papers and evened them out, "What do you mean by that France?"

    "Why did you lift the charges I placed on Prussia!"

    "Isn't it obvious," England asked curtly, "You are blaming an innocent, you have no right to do that, none of us do. It's because of those sorts of accusations that caused this war in the first place you damned git! Hitler never would have gotten to power if we hadn't been so focused on revenge. We need to learn from the last war so we don't make those stupid mistakes again."

    "You don't understand! It is Prussia's fault! If Prussia never existed, then Germany wouldn't be such a warmonger of a nation! Ludwig wouldn't be here if it wasn't for that albino!" Francis shouted, slamming his good hand on the table for emphasis.

    "And I cannot deny that, even Churchill believes that Prussia's dissolution will pave a better path for us all," England snapped, "But he's guilty nonetheless, and will be punished for it."

    Ivan laughed softly, but it sounded loud in the silence of the small room. Everyone turned to him and he smiled like a child, "You are so immature Francis. You blame the past and bring it here? How pitiful. And I thought I would be the one holding the grudges. I do believe I have more reason than you. I was the one who was on the genocide list, not you."

    "It is Prussian blood that has caused Germany to be so aggressive; I think we should blame the older brother, since he should know better!"

    "And I think we should blame the human," Ivan snapped, his voice becoming deep and serious. Everyone stepped away from him, especially Alfred who had not been expecting the sudden change and was closest to the angered Russian. "Or should I return Napoleon to your mind? Or even better: Robespierre. Or should we blame you for such careless bloodshed? Killing your own children," he tutted shaking his head, "how could you?"

    Francis' face froze, that was a low blow and all of them knew it. The Frenchman slammed his fist on the table, his blue eyes a frozen mask to hide the pain the memories aroused, "And you killed your own voluntarily!"

    "Oh? What makes something voluntary?" Ivan asked rhetorically, "Besides, I have insanity to fall back on. That is what you all call me, yes? I am insane, crazy, and psychotic. I'm a murderer. I kill for fun and life holds no meaning to me. I'm a monster, isn't that right?" All the while he spoke; he slowly rose from his chair, his lavender eyes scanning each of their faces. He knew they thought lowly of him, so he thought the same of them in return. He had hoped Alfred would have accepted him by now, but no. The way he shifted uncomfortably under his intense gaze and the way those oceanic blue eyes flicked away told him that his transgression was not forgiven. And now he didn't care at all. They knew nothing, they understood nothing, and they were nothing. "America, I think it is time that you held up your end of our promise. We did declare war on Japan, which was what you wanted, yes? You simply ended it too soon, but that does not mean you can go off without giving us fair payment."

    "Promise?" France asked, entirely confused over the events.

    "Yes, promise, Churchill and Roosevelt promised me Eastern Europe. Roosevelt said only if I declared war on Japan, which is what I began to do when America decided to massacre millions with his new toy."

    "Shut up!" Alfred shouted, not wanting to remember the way Japan looked as he coughed up blood, tears staining his face, his dark brown eyes seeing nothing. "That was the promise; I need to talk to Truman to see if it still stands. We'll continue tomorrow. Agreed?"

    "Aye."


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    They had fallen asleep, Ludwig under the thin covers and Gilbert lying beside him, an arm slung comfortingly around his brother's chest. The rattle of keys woke them both, jolting up in anxiety, despite how cold, how emotionally worn, and tired they were. Prussia's eyes burned in protest, but he squinted into the light, recognizing the silhouette. What would Russia want with them? Germany was thinking the same and reared up, worried for his brother, not so much himself.

    "Good morning," Russia's voice chimed sweetly as he stepped into the cell, "How are you both."

    "Exhausted."

    Ivan motioned to turn the lights off and the guard left to do so. Once the room was lit only by the dim glow of the coming dawn, Russia began again, "I thought I should come down here and give you an idea of whet will happen, just so you can spend the rest of your time together to the fullest. You see, America and I have a deal going on right now that has been in effect for a while. The conditions were that I declare war on Japan and align myself with the U.S. As you both know, Japan fell by America's hand, dropping two horrific bombs of civilians without care. Still, I kept my end of the deal, and the United States will want to turn away from a war with me. As such, I will be granted full reign over Eastern Europe, including half of Germany. That is, you Gilbert."

    Confusion crossed his face. He didn't know what the taller country was talking about. He was his own sovereign state, what was this "half of Germany" thing? Ivan knew that this would horrify him, it wasn't something that anyone would really want bestowed on another.

    "Despite what the other countries think or do, I have always held respect for you. However, I had no choice in the matter; you know how absolute rulers are. Prussia has been pretty much dissolved. France, England, and America have come to their ultimatum."

    "What?" Gilbert whispered, his breath feeling like it was punched from his lungs. He was . . . destroyed? They signed him away to the grave? He was going to die? Was he human now? If Prussia was gone, what was he! Panic welled in his chest as he felt like the world had flipped completely and was turning backwards. Oh if only time could move backwards! He would have done things differently; he would have lived every moment to the fullest. Now faced with death, he realized how much he took life for granted.

    The violet eyes softened, "You are not entirely gone. As commissioned by America and I, you are now called East Berlin, or Kaliningrad, as we have changed the name of your Königsberg. You will be coming home with me at the end of the trials. Germany, or West Berlin, you will be under the combined care of France, America, and England."

    "W-will we be able to see each other again?" Gilbert asked hesitantly, hoping to god he didn't know the answer.

    Ivan looked out the barred window where the dusted rose of dawn began to bloom, "Sadly, no."

    "Mr. Braginsky, the meeting will be starting soon. I believe you should be heading upstairs," a guard reported, saluting the nationton stiffly.

    Ivan nodded his thanks and returned to the two prisoners, "That will be the verdict. You may say your goodbyes now. There will be no time for it after the trial." He left the cell and the heavy thud of his jackboots echoed through the halls until they silenced with the hollow slam of a door.

    When had he started crying? The warm salt water was chilled in the cold room, as frozen as his heart. Arms wrapped around him possessively and he almost thought he'd see Russia's spirit, but no. Ludwig, being much younger than he looked, clutched to him in a grip that not even death could pry loose. His face was buried into the blue military uniform. If it wasn't for the green uniform, he could have been that little boy he raised all those years ago. Only forty years, forty years and nothing turned out right. Unable to be the strong, older brother he knew he should have been, he buried his face in the loose blonde locks, soaking them with his own tears.


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    "Will I ever be as strong as you?" the small Germanic state asked curiously. A basket of mulberries in both his small hands, Prussia helped him set the basket down on the grass under the trees before plopping down beside the bassinet and took a handful of deep violet berries, munching on them merrily. His hat rested on the grass, the black feather of the raven wisped lightly in the breeze of early summer.

    "Of course! You're being trained by the best of the best Ludwig. You'll give the worlds a wakeup call, that's for sure," Gilbert laughed, taking another bite, the sweet juices running down his mouth. A time before pesticide and chemical abuse, everything was so sweet and natural. This was the life God had promised to his children, there was no denying it. The red eyes closed, savoring the bliss of life. The gentle breath of wind and the songs of birds in the orchards as they took the over ripening fruits that were too high for them to reach without climbing. Gilbert opened one eye to see a doubtful Ludwig staring at the military hat as he nibbled uncertainly at the mulberry.

    Wiping the nectar from his face onto his arm, he smiled sadly. If only everyone realized that he wasn't what they thought. Even Ludwig expected more from him than he really had. Sure he beat Austria a good number of times, but the guy was weak as a nation as well as a military. France was just a push over, having a huge bravado and nothing to back up his talk. Russia . . . okay, Russia gave him a real good run for his money. If it wasn't for the opportune death of their female leader, Frederick might have committed suicide. The one thing he wanted, more than anything really, was to keep Russia on good terms, if he succeeded at that, then he had nothing to worry about and could continue his life Russia-free.

    Shrugging out of his military coat, he draped the too-big shoulders over Ludwig's small, frail ones before plopping the large hat on his head. The blonde's face heated up considerably as he looked at the fine clothes and felt like he would never be able to fill the legacy of Prussia. Seeing the concern, the albino laid a hand on the boy's shoulder and looked deeply into the sky blue eyes, an honest smile across his lips. "Keep working and growing stronger, don't leave your people to toil alone, for you are them and they are you. Keep the memories strong and don't repeat my mistakes, make your own. You will fill outgrow even this old jacket one day. You will become so mighty and great that the entire world will tremble beneath your awe-inspiring power. I will leave everything to you in due time, and when that time comes do not cower back from duty and responsibility. You are the future of Prussia, Ludwig, and I hold all faith in you."


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    "I'm so sorry brother," Ludwig sobbed into his jacket, his shoulders shaking from the emotions, "I failed you. I'm so sorry."

    'So am I . . .'


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    Their time was spent in silence, their words unspoken and all their bottled up emotions kept within. Betrayal, hatred, shattered hopes, charred dreams. Then there was remorse, grief, shame, guilt. Their silent brooding was interrupted by three pairs of feet. They looked up to see America, France, and England at the door of the cell.

    "Germany," America summoned, "Will you please come with us?"

    The blonde stood slowly, his age showing through in his reluctance to leave. As he neared the door, Francis opened his mouth, "Leave the cross." Again, he slowed to a stop. The Iron Cross about his neck gleaming proudly in the pale morning light. His fingers grazed over the cool metal, but after a moment longer, he reluctantly pulled the thin chain over his head and placed it on the bed before following after them. It was a full hour before the door opened again, but only one pair of boots, and the sound was one he recognized greatly. The way Russia dragged his leg could not be disguised.

    He smiled, as though he took pleasure in this cruel form of punishment. "Come along then Kaliningrad. We're going home."

    "Prussia. Please, keep calling me Prussia," he begged weakly, his throat dry and hoarse with emotion. He stood, but recalled the Iron Cross around his neck. He had never taken it off. Ever. It was back from the early nineteenth century, and now he would be parted from it? The pale fingers glanced at the cold ore.

    Ivan tilted his head curiously, "What is it Prussia?"

    "Shouldn't I . . .?" he looked to the shiny, new Iron of the most recent war, the Swastika he had always hated glared back at him.

    "Come along, you can take your brother's with you, but don't show it to anyone in the house. Yours is fine to wear in public, the form of each is distinctly different. Now, let's go. We have a train to catch." Ivan started towards the door to the outside and Gilbert extended his pause a moment longer before snatching up the World War Two cross and running after the Eastern European Country.


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    The yard was huge and the plants were beginning to gain their leaves. It had taken so long, locked away for months; already the spring weather was giving way to summer. Russia held the gate open for him to pass by, his right eye was still bandaged, but his caretaker had checked it to ensure that his sight would return.


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    "All it needs is a healthy environment for it to restore. You won't ever have that part of you again, but you'll heal as long as you keep being a good boy."


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    What had the taller nation meant by that? Gilbert didn't have much time to ponder as he was prodded along by gentle pushes by Ivan until they reached the front door. Before they could even reach for the knobs, the double doors burst open and a girl Gilbert knew only too well from the war lunged at them. She was a fierce fighter and went to kill. Prussia fell back, thinking she was after him, but the one who was tackled to the ground was Russia, who caught her in midair and tumbled back.

    "Vanya! Oh Vanya! You've been gone so long, I missed you so much!" she shouted, planting kisses on every inch of skin she could, despite her brother's cries of protest, and completely ignored the poor albino who was thinking that he should just retreat into the mansion-like house and find a room to barricade himself in. As he took a step up the porch, the wood decided that it didn't like him very much, and let loose a loud shriek which caught the girl's attention. Any colour he did have in his face was no longer there as she whipped around to face him. At first, the blue eyes gave a look of irritation which turned to surprise and slowly into rage. "What are you doing here! You should be dead!"

    She jumped to her feet and made a pose that signaled a frontal charge, a knife magically appearing in her grasp. Before Prussia could say anything, she charged, bloodlust in her eyes.


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    "Let me out of here! Let me go!" she shouted through the bars. Her dress was torn and her body bleeding. It wasn't his fault that she was so wild. He had to be so rough, it wasn't like he was one to willingly abuse a woman, and the only man he took pleasure in humiliating was Austria. Even then, that had been so very long ago.

    Gilbert swung a wooden board against the metal bars and that pushed her back, though there was also the sickening crack of her fingers that didn't escape in time. She howled in pain and rage, cradling her wounded hands, but using her shoulder to push back. "If you didn't keep up such difficult behavior, you wouldn't be in this predicament Ms. Belarus."

    "Just wait!" she screeched, "You just wait! Vanya will come for me! Vanya loves me! He'll come for me, and he'll kill you! Prussia, HA! You are nothing in this time, just an old, worn name! Your name shall be destroyed in flames made by your own hands! No one will look up to you! No one will honour you! You will die and you will die alone!"


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    Belarus was suddenly thrown across the yard, barely landing on her feet as she skid back, shock written on her face. Ivan stood in front of him, baring his metal pipe that he had obliged himself to from Germany's garden. "Natasha, that is no way to greet our new family member," he scolded lightly. There was a difference to him, a higher tone that made his already unstable appearance look full-blown psychotic. An arm pulled Gilbert close to the USSR, his hand caressing lovingly, "This is our new brother Natasha. His name is Kaliningrad."


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    "Excuse me if I don't call you Prussia at any time but in private," Russia called back as they followed the path to the house in the middle of nowhere. Ivan refuse to not let go of Prussia's hand, but Gilbert wouldn't walk beside him. For whatever reason, it didn't seem like the right thing to do.

    Gilbert blinked in confusion, "I guess, but why only in private?"

    "To keep you alive."


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    "Why do you bring him into our home brother, treat him like a human being, feed him and give him clothing and a room of his own! Why do you treat him like one of us after what he's done to me!" she cried out in rage. The other inhabitants of the home looked just as wary of him, all giving the red eyed nation cautious glances. He couldn't blame them really.

    Ukraine was trying to be friendly, with smiles and polite little talk here and there, but she would constantly watch him from the courners of her eyes. If he moved too fast for her liking, she'd jump back with a squeak and draw the other eyes of his fellow satellite nations. She was covered with various burns and wrapped in just as many bandages as her brother, though she was healing much better than he was. Belarus' fingers had healed for the most part; those that weren't were carefully splinted and bandaged. She had gauze wrapped around her neck, though it still bled through the wrappings. Her legs were strong, but cut up in various places, most scabbing over, but were still in danger of tearing back open.

    Then there was someone he never thought he'd see again: Estonia. The bespectacled nation looked the worst out of all of them, and Prussia knew it was not from him or Ludwig. That was all Russia's doing, and his handiwork was a masterpiece in its own right. A busted, bruised lip, broken arm and shoulder as well as his ankle being dislocated and bandages wrapped heartily around his head where scarlet still bled through. That must have been where the pipe made contact; there was no other way around it. What Gilbert had always wanted to ask if Russia took pleasure in punishment, but he never had a moment alone with the 'traitor' to get the subject in.

    Currently, they sat at the dinner table, Russia at the head and Georgia on the other end. Gilbert sat to Ivan's right with Ukraine beside him, Belarus across the table glaring and Lithuania beside her with a crippled Estonia in a wheelchair being tended to silently. Latvia sat on the other side of the eldest Soviet Sister.

    "Natasha, be nice to Kaliningrad, he is still trying to settle in," Russia smiled, "We're his new family now. This is a second chance for him to prove himself. Isn't that right?"

    "Right," he muttered softly, looking down at his food.


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    Why did he always wind up under the mulberry trees with Ludwig? Why was it always that same summer day as they sat in the shade, eating the berries from a basket as they sat on opposite sides of the tree? It was always the same thing, Germany apologizing over and over. Gilbert could hear him cry and whimper, but every time he turned to comfort him, there was no one there; moments later he'd wake up. Tears would be staining his face and his pillow would be soaked.


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    This morning wasn't very different. What caught his attention was the rhythmic high tapping against his window. Startling up, he looked to the frosted glass. The weather had taken an unexpected turn for the worst and seemed to be regressing into winter, but he could see the dark shapes bouncing off the panes. Hesitantly, he crawled out of the comforts of his blankets, throwing open his window. Outside the gate in the frosted grass, making it almost appear like snow, stood Ludwig, pebbles in his hands. The sun had yet to rise, but the dawn was on its way.

    Regardless of all punishment, he smiled and held up a hand in greeting. Ludwig did the same and grinned back. He looked better, the wounds and battle scars almost entirely healed or hidden away. Prussia still had his eye covered, but he could see shadows now. Using hand signals, he questioned if he should go downstairs to meet him, but he was met with a disappointing no. Ludwig motioned that they would meet another day at the fence before slipping back into the trees. While he was once again alone, he didn't feel so lost.


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    "I don't like it here," she hissed under her breath. She didn't trust any of the other housemates, not even sweet Katyusha, which was almost unbelievable. In all honesty, they shouldn't even be meeting in his room without supervision. Ivan was cautious of a return to Nazism, so he placed tight curfews and supervision on them.

    "What are we going to do about it," he asked dully, only waiting for her to leave. He had to wake up early if he was to see his brother the next morning, and she wasn't helping him achieve that goal. Elizabeta had once been so beautiful, but now she was battered, beaten, but dot defeated. That would probably get her killed in the end.

    She frowned; this wasn't the Prussia she knew, "What we would have done about it before! We'll revolt! Rebel! We'll make them wish we were gone, even better, we can gather all the satellites together and overthrow Russia!"

    "I'm tired of fighting Hungary. Let me rest. He'll be mad if we're seen together in the middle of the night."

    She looked to him perplexed, her green eyes revealing her feelings of anger, confusion, and betrayal, "What happened to you? This isn't like you at all. Why are you so silent when he does such things to you and your people! The Prussia I knew would never sit around and take it, he'd stand up, pull together a rag-tag military of any random individuals and declare independence."

    "That's just it," he sighed, sliding under the thin covers, "I'm not the Prussia you knew. Actually, I'm not Prussia at all anymore. This is the only life I have left Hungary, this is my last chance."

    She stood up as though recoiling from a snake, tears of anger glossing over her better judgment, "Coward! Traitor! You'll see, it doesn't matter what you do, you're still that arrogant, loud-mouthed a**! The only difference is that you're closing your eyes so you don't have to take responsibility." With that, she swept out of the room, the pale white of her nightgown following behind her.


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    The crunch of the stiff, while glazed grass was the only sound in the utter stillness of the very early morning. The owls were getting ready to sleep, and the day birds were not yet ready to wake. Only two souls lit up the clearing, separated only by the metal bars of the fence that surrounded the estate. He hadn't slept at all after Hungary had left, her words hadn't touched him. He was numbed from the cold of his desolation, the feelings of helplessness encasing his children who seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once. The only thing that lightened his mood was the thought of seeing Ludwig again. He would check the clock ever ten-or-so minutes before the first tap of the stones reached his ears. Already dressed, he lunged out of bed, holding his boots to cover his descent down the stairs before slipping out the door.

    He wanted to shout, to cal out to his brother and wrap his arms around him. But that wasn't the time. Still, Germany's hand held through the fence was eagerly grasped and held to his chest. "I've missed you," the albino whispered quietly, his breath visible in the brisk morning air.

    "I've missed you too brother," Ludwig spoke equally quiet, but their emotions heavy in their breath. "You feel cold and thin, are you being treated well?"

    "I'm fine; it's nothing that'll kill me. How about you? You look better, much better." There was no denying the fact that Ludwig did look good, almost as though the war never even happened. Muscles were still sturdy and his clothes were by far nicer than his own, dressed in a light black coat and slacks tucked into military boots that didn't look of German make. Prussia had a tan jacket and an old, thin turtleneck. His pants were a little too big and shoved haphazardly into boots too small.

    "The Western Allies are boosting my economy and government. As it is, my people are prospering and moving forward. What has been happening over here?"

    Starvation. Democide. Isolation.

    "We're . . . surviving."


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    From the second story window, they didn't notice they were being watched, disapproving violet eyes looking down upon the blonde outside the fence. He needed a more permanent way of keeping them separate. He didn't want Capitalist ideals corrupting his Kaliningrad, his East Berlin. This was his territory now. And he figured out just the way to do it. If a fence wouldn't keep out those corruptive ideals and unjust practices, then perhaps he needed a sturdier wall.


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    Doors locked, the cold cement of the basement was starting to get to him. When he had first been locked in his room, it had confused him. Then the wall was being erected, the entire perimeter of the yard was being encased with blocks of stone, wire giving the final touch, dissuading anyone of right mind of jumping over. Not that it was really a possibility to him in the state he was in. Russia had found out about his fraternizing with his brother, and it was obviously not approved upon.

    He revolted.

    What else should he have done? Sat back, said 'okay' and let the USSR cut off all ties to the outside! He would not stand for that, and shoved back, he felt a power in him he had been deprived of for so long; the will of his citizens, their cries reaching his heart. But of course he was in no shape to match Russia, he never had been, but now was not the most favorable of situations. Half starved and still marginally blind in his right eye, he wasn't much of a resistance force, and he was pretty sure a fly would have lasted better than him.

    Now he was starving, cold, the basement was honestly worst than he had originally thought. Images of a medieval torture chamber had first flooded his mind, the idea of being pierced with an Iron Maiden or being repeatedly tormented on an old Judaswiege. Actually, it was empty, no lights except for a few unlit candles and no widows. The air was filled with the musty smell of mold and dust. He coughed into his thin, torn sleeve that would have been red with blood had he been able to see. He no longer needed to ask Estonia if Russia, or rather the USSR, enjoyed beating his victims. The answer was quite evident by the fact that the pipe had kept swinging, even as he lay on the ground with blood pooling from his head wound and Ukraine shouting, begging her brother to stop. That was when he was thrown down the stone steps into this abysmal place. Maybe the torture devices would have been better, as long as he could see, perhaps hear something other than his own breathing and pounding of his heart. The only other thing with him was the cries of the past, and those he didn't want to hear at the minute.


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    He stood in the snow, his tan jacket thinner than it had been the day he had seen West through the fence. He called him West now, since he was no longer fully Germany, and he was no longer anything but East. It was winter; the snow was up to his ankles as he wore boot a few sizes too big. The clothing hung awkwardly over his thin body, starvation having a cruel effect, he couldn't grow from the lack of nutrition, and his body was still battered from the last punishment for his 'rambunctious behavior' as Russia put it. Vietnam was over already, but it felt like it started just the other day. He hardly felt the time pass by; one revolution after another, and more bloodshed than need be. Still, if that was what it took, he would break through the cement blocks that stared back.

    Before, he used to hear voices on the other side. There would be food waiting for him and his brother would call his name, as if ensuring that he knew who he was. It had helped, but that had been so long ago. He felt so alone now, no food or calling voices. He was alone. Even still, he would return, he would break down that wall and he would make his existence known.


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    Underneath the mulberry trees, he sat waiting for West to come. Ludwig always came to sit and talk under the trees. The basket was getting empty as his hands went from the woven casket to his mouth. He hadn't changed, he knew he hadn't; the violet juices still running down his chin and over his fingers like they had almost a century ago. Something wasn't the same though, what could it possibly be? He waited and waited under the tree, the fruits disappearing altogether. Where did he go? Why was he all alone? No one came to sit with him under the mulberry tree that day, and no day since.


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    "You may go," the weary voice croaked, the only part visible were the porcelain locks, matted and tangled as they were gripped by slender pale fingers. He stared dumbfounded, had he heard right? Was this really happening? He didn't know if it was a joke or not. Over all these years, he had gotten so thin that his stomach didn't want much food, and what he did get left him feeling bloated and full. His body had never really healed from World War Two, though he could see from his right eye and didn't have to wear bandages over it anymore, he had been to battered from the revolts and abuse that he had, in every sense of the word, never experienced peace.

    "Excuse me?"

    "Go! Go and tear down the wall. Go find your brother. There is nothing here for you anymore, not even for my children," Ivan spoke into his hands, but the message was clear. Russia had lost his stability and power, all that was left was dissolution. Prussia wanted to say words of encouragement, because he knew what that felt like. He knew what it meant to b scared like that. But no, he would say nothing. With that, he ran to the wall.


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    He had never felt so elated, so happy as he did swinging that sledgehammer into the cement, pulling out chunks of debris and rearing back to swing again. All along the wall, people were breaking through and reaching through holes, grabbing hands and crying and screaming in elation. When he finally broke through, he couldn't have felt more at home than gripping the hands from the other side.

    They broke through after long hours of sweating and crying in joy. The East flooded to the West and it was like stepping into another world. The buildings were maintained and clean with no trash or wreckage from tank fire. Weaving through the masses, he hurried down the streets, looking for his brother. He couldn't mistake the blonde hair slicked back, or the serious blue eyes that reflected the sky.

    "WEST!" he shouted, forcing his way to him, tears glazing the red eyes as he pushed through. The blonde looked to him and nodded in recognition. It was such a . . . bland greeting. They hadn't seen each other in years, so many years, why were they not running to each other and hugging like he had always imagined when the wall came down?


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    Alone, all alone, sitting in the shade under the mulberry tree as the summer wears on. The seasons change to autumn and winter and still, no one to share the time with under the mulberry trees. His mind wanders back to a time when the peaceful fields were ones of war and fear and anger were so strong. Now he feels apathy for what his life means. A time when he felt pride and worth, a time where he felt pitiful and hopeless, but what are such feelings when no one cares? Why does anything matter when you aren't supposed to live? Why even live at all?


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    Sitting alone in the cold basement as the world continues on overhead. He doesn't care for that world any longer. The world that betrayed him, that left him to die and become dust in the wind. The world that tried to forget him; his identity and his name a sin on the tongue. The poison of the world he has become, the nightmare in all their dreams. Once upon a time he was the most revered and powerful nation of Europe. Once upon a time there was honour in living and dying, there were feelings of love and loss. Once upon a time, but no more. All those memories reside with him in the cold stone basement of Germany's home, locked away like an antique. Let time come and wear on and on, he will be waiting for the day he can once more walk in the sun. The Iron Cross gleamed in the dim light of the bare bulb in the ceiling, the fires of war raging in the black depths, the cries of proud voices from the past. Let them forget, let them toss it all away, he would remember. He would always remember.