((It's been a while, hasn't it~? But no longer!))

Dreams

During those long, agonizing days in Küstrin where he spent his time locked in a cell, Frederick slept. He slept feverishly and often awoke, muttering to things that were not there—or at least that was what he was told later—before falling back down again. The stuff that the priest had given him to drink had been cool and numbing, it sent him to sleep while at the same time it dulled those places in him that hurt, made them fuzzy and distant as if it was someone else's pain instead of his own. It made the agony bearable, sent him into a thick darkness that he wished he would not wake up from every time he spiraled down where he would curl up and rest like a child in his mother's womb. Those few times he awoke he felt as if he had entered an entirely different world. There were colors and sounds around him, vague figures that vanished into the air whenever he reached to touch them and voices saying things—whether to him or not he had no idea—that he could not understand and the few snatches of words that he did catch made no sense to him.

He hated that world. It was too loud and sharp and wet. Everything had an unpleasant smell that tickled his memory but he did not truly care to remember. Occasionally the lines and colors in his whirling vision would coalesce and form the sharp corners of a room, the lines of inlaid bricks and of a crude window and bars the sliced across it (the same way the sword sliced through Katte) and across the room a door. Large and thick and another window cut into it as well.

The door to his cell.

Memory came with realization and with it, pain. Yes he was in a prison cell, he had been arrested and Katte—no, he would not, could not think of it. He shied away from the thought the same way an animal carefully avoids a fire that would burn it; he simply did not think of those thoughts, he put a wall between him and the memories and buried them under forgetfulness for the sake of his sanity. This world of sounds and sensations was too much, all it did was bring him memories and pain that seeped through the cracked walls of his psyche and unraveled his mind until the colors vanished and the darkness came again. He fled into its welcoming embrace as if all the demons of hell were chasing him and bathed in the cool nothingness that this place was, let it fold into his being until he could no longer feel anything, no pain or confusion or sadness, not even anger or happiness. It was so much better to just drift, free of anything that could hurt him, and rest on the cusp of sleep and a deeper darkness that he could not reach no matter how hard he tried.

For a while he was safe. He slept inside of his dark cradle and hid from the world, and while he slept, he dreamed. At first he had no memory of the dreams, but then they came with a clarity that rivaled that strange loud world he woke into. Dreams of blood and screams, of a roaring voice with storm gray eyes that terrified him to his core and brought pain and suffering. He already had Katte killed and now he will kill me too—but who was "he?" He curled up in a small corner of his mind and prayed the monster would not find him as it bellowed and stomped through his mind, half remembered threats and insults coming to his ears that had him quaking in terror. Other dreams would come sometimes, those of Katte that sent a sliver of pain directly into his heart and twisted it, splintering his entire body with an empty, cold pain that was entirely different from the hot agony the gray-eyed monster brought. This was sharp and clear and did not fade away with time, it drained something from him, some vital part of himself that he would never get back and left him to weep brokenly at his loss, his soul hollow with grief.

"Don't cry, mein Prinz," Katte would whisper to him, his dark eyes full of love and warmth as he pulled Frederick into an embrace that felt solid and honest to gods real. But it wasn't real, a part of Frederick knew that it was not real even though it felt and sounded real and he could even smell Katte, awakening other memories of his touch and kisses and how it felt to press his body into his—their—bed…

He cried out like a wounded animal, feeling those memories cutting him into little shreds. He fled from them and dove back into his darkness, trying as hard as he could to reach deeper into that other, permanent darkness that always eluded him. He's dead, I know he is dead and it's my fault, all my fault. No, he would forget about him. He promised that he would never, ever think about Katte again. Pushing at the memories that tried to weigh him down and burn into his soul, he let his dark blanket surround him again and settled back into the numb state of unfeeling that he had used before. Except this time a chill came with it and he found himself cold, actually shivering from a wind that was whipping at his exposed face.

Frederick's eyes flew open without meaning to and he gasped in shock. Rather than seeing the walls of his cell he was standing on a frozen plain of white that stretched as far as he could see, vanishing into the horizon with a featureless sky that was nearly the same color. He turned in a circle, his boots crunching in the snow, to look at his surroundings. Everything looked the same and for once he was completely and utterly alone, there was no one pushing him, no one mocking or threatening him. There was absolutely nothing but him and the featureless, barren wasteland of glittering snow and ice that went on forever. He breathed in and the cold chilled his lungs and then seemed to spread outwards, flowing across his veins and leaving behind an ice so intense that he did not even feel cold, just numb. The same sort of numbness that his darkness had given him but so, so much more powerful. It wound its way to the very tips of his fingers and toes before coiling around his heart, the center of all his hurt, and sunk deep inside of it until the pain blessedly stopped. He felt nothing in his soul, no pain, no loneliness, no grief, none of the insanity that came back to haunt his mind…no warmth or happiness that brought the pain with it. Just nothing at all. He stood there for a few long minutes, savoring the lack of pain, relishing in the unfeeling that was settled into his very bones.

Safe. He was safe here, not even those memories or monsters could intrude upon this refuge like they did with his darkness. As long as he stayed here nothing could hurt him. How were you supposed to hurt something that could not feel and did not care? A wild laugh was torn from his throat, his breath steaming before him as the realization came to him. "If I don't feel," he found himself whispering, his voice shaking with the elation of his discovery, "then nothing can hurt me. If I don't allow anyone to touch me then they cannot harm me. All I have to do is not feel and not care…"

It was like a gift from the hitherto uncaring gods. It was like a drug, an antidote to his pain and loneliness. As long as he kept this cold inside of him and allowed it to numb his feelings then no one could ever hurt him.

Not ever again.

Narcissism

Oh gods, he looked so awesome right now.

Scarlet eyes gleamed at him, their enthusiasm reflected back in the mirror as Prussia turned this way and that, surveying himself in his new uniform. The dark blue of his coat accentuated his fair skin and the color of his eyes while the red lapels stopped him from looking too pale and made his eyes not as unsettling. Silver lace looped around his lapels, cuffs, pockets, and the rim of his tricorne that matched his hair almost exactly, also matching the sash around his waist and his sword knot. Contrary to the silver were the gold shoulder knots, braided with four cords and indicating his status as an officer. Beyond that, however, there was nothing too distinctive about his dress that would exactly show what regiment he was in. Being a nation was a tricky business, after all; he was obviously a senior officer from the fact alone that he spent much of his time in the presence of the King and surrounded by the other Field Marshals and Generals, but whether he fell into the category of the two was debatable. He carried no baton yet was referred to as Field Marshal anyway by everyone except Frederick himself, who instead called him General. He saluted no one and bowed deferentially to the King only, the rest being out of formality.

Having an official title meant there were records of his existence and records would only bring up questions in the future. Why did Beilschmidt look so young? How did he survive the battle when he was clearly seen being shot off his horse? Why did he not seem to age at all when everyone else around him did? Why was he so distinctive yet when only glimpsing him it was nearly impossible to remember a single detail about him? How, despite that, did he have a certain magnetism, a pull to his voice that could have practically anyone jumping to obey his commands as if they were a personal need without a single thought as to just why they felt that way? Questions that Gilbert could not answer and did not much care to, he had heard them more than enough in the early years of his life to learn that his identity must be a secret at all times. Not that it prevented him from riding amongst the soldiers and citizens and officers, he had also learned that being a nation had its positive sides, for example being utterly forgettable. He was Prussia, after all, the people and the lands. All of those qualities thrown together into one person made it so unless someone spent a lot of time in his presence they would soon start to forget about him, the same way a person would not be able to recall a particular face in a crowd or a certain patch of forest that had been ridden in months ago. Gilbert was sure the only reason people tended to remember him more than that was because of how different he looked than everything else, other nations like France and Spain no doubt had an even easier time with it all.

That's because I'm awesome! he thought, admiring himself again. Because he was so naturally forgettable it allowed him the privilege of being able to show off and appear as striking as he could without having any fear of suspicion, and Gilbert grasped that opportunity with an iron fist and refused to be pried from it. He would never, ever allow anyone to call him vain, though. That implied that one thought too highly of themselves for no reason, and he had every reason in the world to be proud! Just look at him! The clever and shining eyes, the sharp angles of his face, a body that was both tall and lean that his uniform did not hide but emphasized, and a wicked mouth that was made for smiling that seemed ready to curve into a grin at any second. Gods he wished he could kiss those lips. He would take no shame in doing it because he knew that he was an awesome kisser as well. He did not even have to powder his face or hair for he was so naturally pale that it was unnecessary —oh he was well aware of those envious looks he got in the court as he walked by those preening sissies with their makeup and wigs!

A movement in the mirror caught his attention and turned to look at the other occupant of the room who had been merely observing his nation up until now. Frederick was leaning against the wall and had slapped his palm to his face, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "What's so funny?" he demanded, frowning at his king. He was too awesome to be laughed at, Fritz should be gazing at him in awe right now!

Frederick heaved a sigh and stayed like that for a moment before looking up, his eyes azure from the warmth and mirth dancing in them. "You are," he said in an amused voice, the silly little smile plastered all over his face adding to it.

Gilbert frowned and puffed his cheeks a little, a habit he did when embarrassed. "I am not!" he replied indignantly, laying his hand over his heart as if gravely wounded. "I'm awesome!" Instantly he dropped the hurt act and turned back to the mirror a little so he could admire his profile and still watch Fritz behind him. "Just look at this glory before you, Fritz. You really outdid yourself this time with the uniform changes, I mean damn! I'm not even fully dressed yet and I can barely take my own awesome image!" He winked at his king in the mirror as he said that, giving him a cocky grin.

It had just the desired effect that Gilbert knew it would. Frederick laughed in delight, a musical sound that had Prussia's chest filling with warmth as he listened to it; why didn't his king laugh like that more? It sounded amazing. Shaking his head, Fritz pushed himself off the wall and walked slowly over to him, chuckling all the while. "From this moment on I forbid you from going anywhere near lakes," he said, coming to a stop at his nation's side. "I don't want to go through all the trouble of sending people to fish your body out of the water later."

Gilbert scoffed, giving Frederick a glare. "Please, I'm not some stupid Greek who's too unawesome to even be able to swim," he said. "Besides water will ruin this coat anyway." He laughed outright at Fritz's long-suffering groan and stood a little straighter as he viewed them both in the mirror. They didn't look all that different, he mused. Frederick practically wore the same outfit he did except with no silver lace, just the blue coat and red lapels. It was exceedingly plain compared to the rest of his army's uniforms, his shoulder braid and feather-trimmed hat giving him any sort of distinction, but it was the simplicity of his dress that made him stand out so much in comparison to the other officers. Considering how his king dressed himself at court, Gilbert found the uniform to be a welcome change. He grinned at himself, curling his lips in a manner that he knew looked slightly feral and brought a mad light to his eyes. He had practiced that look for centuries, back when he had been a knight and the common folk often screamed that he was a demon and tried to burn him alive, and rather than hide who he was he flaunted it proudly.

He saw Frederick raise an eyebrow. "You better keep that look to yourself," he said even though he was smiling. "You grin like a devil."

"Good!" Gilbert laughed, holding his head higher. "I mean for it to be that way." He turned to the table next to him where his gloves and medals and cloak lay. The oak leaves badge commemorating him for his service in the Thirty Years War was pinned to his hat while the Order of the Black Eagle went on his left breast. Alongside it went another medal fashioned as a blue cross with decorations of gold between the arms, a new medal that Frederick had only recently made called the Pour le Mérite that was now supposed to be the highest merit of order one could receive, and Gilbert was the first to receive it. Frederick had told him that his existence alone was merit enough, with that sincere voice and soft smile that made his throat close up just remembering it. He couldn't wear all of his medals, of course, that was for ceremonies only and he already had far too many for one person to earn in their entire lifetime so he kept them to the most important ones only. The bright red cloak was fastened to his shoulders and lastly he pulled on his gloves, white to Frederick's yellow. "There we are, don't I look like the most awesome thing you have ever seen?" he said to Fritz, striking a pose by putting one of his feet onto a stool and resting his elbow on his knee.

"You do," Frederick replied, to his amazement. He could see Fritz's eyes roaming over him in the mirror before his regent actually faced him, smirking. "I must say, for a man who often quips at me for dressing too extravagantly or indulging in 'French tastes', as he calls it, you without a doubt do the most peacocking out of anyone I have ever met. If my court spent a third of the amount of time as you do staring at themselves in the mirror then I would spend most of my days alone." He reached out and ran his fingers along Gilbert's cloak and down to his medals, his fingertips tracing them gently. "You will make quite a sight in the field, though," he added softly as he took his hand away.

There was something off about his expression that Gilbert could not put his finger on, some sort of emotion that he was hiding. Not that it was anything unusual, but for some reason Gilbert felt his spine tingling in a way that was not entirely unpleasant as he looked into his king's eyes. "So all of this 'peacocking' still meets your approval?" he asked, straightening his back again to show off his full glory.

Again the eyes traveled over him, Frederick's face studiously blank with only a hint of appreciation to show his true thoughts. He nodded after a handful of seconds, smiling again. "Perfect," he said, tapping his fingers on the head of his cane, "I've never seen a uniform more well-kept than yours, Gilbert."

"Well I am awesome, and the only time I care about keeping a tidy appearance is when I'm in the army. Such discipline is reflected among the soldiers as well." He put his foot down and rolled his shoulders a little. "May I go to the parade grounds now, my King? You know how we must all be there and in good order before you arrive."

"Yes, of course," Frederick said, waving him away with a wider smile. "I have no doubt that your soldiers will be brilliant, especially with you to lead them."

It was Prussia's turn to laugh, his grin reappearing as he gave Frederick an arrogant look in response and turned to leave with his leader's eyes on him all the while. Now that the nation was no longer facing him, Frederick could allow his emotions to show plainly on his face, a tortured desire twisted his features as he watched Gilbert walk away. His hungry eyes watched every movement he made with the same hopeless yearning a man would have if the one thing he ever truly wanted in life was right in front of him, all the while knowing that it was something that he could never, ever have.

Happiness

"This place isn't going to be very big, is it?" Prussia asked as they toured the grounds, inspecting the half-finished palace that was crawling with construction workers that ran back and forth across the scaffoldings everywhere. It looked like a disturbed ant hill, except the ants were all shouting.

"I do not want the palace itself to be very big," Frederick replied, beaming at the structure as he walked by. His quick steps forced their servants into a jog as they panted to keep up with the king, only Gilbert was at ease with Frederick's pace and matched him evenly. Ever since they had arrived at the building site Fritz had been a ball of energy, wanting to see everything at once and gasping in delight when something that he had so clearly pictured in his mind sprang up in front of him, brought to life by Knobelsdorff and his men. "It will only have about ten rooms. I do not want a large court bothering me constantly. But the gardens will be an entirely different story!" He rubbed his hands together as he pictured it, his eyes glazing over. "Sprawling gardens, where I can walk to my heart's content."

Gilbert smiled at the idea, not quite sharing Frederick's enthusiasm but seeing his king so happy at the idea made warm fuzzies dance around in his heart. "So the entire rest of the property is going to be nothing but gardens?" he asked with a little trepidation. This place was huge, Fritz couldn't possibly want to cover the entire property with gardens, he'd probably get lost in them!

To his relief he saw Fritz shaking his head. "Oh no, no! Of course not! What good is a residence that never changes, is never improved upon, or even just has something different happen once in a while?" He made a derisive noise that was just barely above being vulgar. "That is why I hate living in the other palace here, and the one in Berlin. They are both too severe and ugly. And old. I will not be forced to live in such stifling houses for the rest of my life." He waved his hand at the skeleton of the palace before them, already looking as if it had come from another world than the austere German palaces Prussia was used to. Sweeping curves and soft lines dominated the shape of the structure and Gilbert just knew the thing was going to look every bit as sissy as Rheinsberg.

He stopped himself from rolling his eyes with an effort. The other palaces were not that bad, it was only the memories of Frederick living in those palaces with his father that made them seem so oppressive to the king. Although Gilbert would never want Fritz to live in them anyway, he would just be constantly reminded of his childhood and Gilbert wanted him to be somewhere that made him smile, and if that meant living in some aristocratic place like Rheinsberg then so be it. "And they don't have gardens," he said with a teasing smile. "I remember what you did to the late king's hunting grounds once you ascended."

Fritz glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "They would get no use out of me, so why not turn them into something beautiful? I have always wanted a large garden to amuse myself in, you know that."

"Oh I do," Gilbert replied, "but is there going to be any use to these gardens or are they just going to sit there and look pretty?"

He heard a scoff and Frederick rolled his eyes. "Not everything has to be fulfilling some sort of duty in order to exist," he chided as he reached into his pocket. "You think too much like a soldier, obsessed with work. I'll have fix that."

Gilbert bristled at him, narrowing his eyes. "I do not need fixing," he said in a voice that he only just kept polite. "I'm not something broken just because I act in a way that you do not approve of. Speaking of which, you are hardly one to talk."

"Mhmm," Fritz replied as if he barely heard his nation's words. "I have a sense of duty but not to the obsession that you take it." He unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket, the ink slightly smudged and the crease lines worn smooth with time. "Here, this is the sketch I made of the grounds, at least what I want so far." Gilbert had caught glimpses of the map before, having seen Fritz working on it during the war, but now he saw the drawing in its entirety as he peered over Frederick's shoulder. Fritz pointed at something next to the stairs, something long and covered with arches. "I want there to be terraces flanking the stairs and on them I shall cultivate grape vines. We'll make wine from them or just dine on them to our pleasure. However I want much more than that, I want to grow all sorts of fruits here and in any season I want them. Greenhouses shall have to be built later for the more delicate fruits, but I shall take it one step at a time. First I'll focus on the palace itself."

He nodded, listening to Fritz go on about his plans about ordering crystal from France and buying more of Watteau and Lancret's work for his growing art gallery. He wasn't paying too much attention at what Fritz was saying but Fritz did not seem to notice, becoming more excited as he thought aloud. He contended himself with watching Fritz's hands as they waved a little in the air for emphasis and the delicate fingers that danced as if they could reach out and pluck his wishes out of nothing. The more Frederick talked the more animated his face grew, his eyes flashing with joy and ranging from enthusiastic to wistful to driven as he went on, lost in his own world. Gilbert could easily watch him forever, a small smile playing on his lips as he simply studied Fritz like a connoisseur, taking in every movement and expression the man made. He knew that he was staring and probably quite rudely but he could not help himself, Fritz was like a dancer on a stage and everything he did down to the smallest action was captivating.

It took Frederick a while to notice, only when he turned to look at Gilbert did he pause, caught off guard by the intense and downright dreamy stare that was directed at him. He cleared his throat, feeling his ears redden. "Are you even listening to me?" he demanded with a frown.

Gilbert started, blinking rapidly as if suddenly awakened. "Of course," he said automatically, trying to give his best smile. "Yes of course I was!"

Was. Gilbert noticed his slip all too late and from the way Frederick's eyes narrowed so did he. "I see," was all his king said, his voice returning to its usual tone. He turned away and began walking even faster, forcing Gilbert to nearly break into a jog himself in order to keep up. The poor servants must have been ready to collapse by now.

The nation cursed himself as he reached Frederick's side. Why couldn't he have just said a simple yes and left it at that? Then again Fritz would have just seen right through him, it was almost impossible to deceive him. It was just hard to pay attention when Fritz kept talking about boring stuff like where he was ordering the new porcelain from and how he would have a whole room dedicated to his music where he would hold concerts every night and that each room would have their own unique decorations that would flow in harmony with the rest of the palace. It wasn't like any of that stuff was important! Gilbert could care less about silly details like that!

Except it isn't about you, a part of him said viciously, it is about him. He cares about those things and they are important to him and you just stepped all over those feelings as he tried to share them with you. How often does he share his dreams with anyone at all? Nice going, there.

Dammit, dammit, dammit! Gilbert wanted to smack himself for being such an idiot, he knew that he was not good at dealing with feelings and emotions but he should at least know when to pay attention! Fritz had obviously been in the middle of discussing something that was his passion, Gilbert had been staring at him for that very reason, and he should have at least been trying to listen to show that he cared. That was what people did in relationships, even he knew that and he blew it. "I'm sorry," he said as he hurried to keep up.

Frederick snorted and ignored him, his cane striking the ground as if he meant to crack it.

The sound went through his heart. "Désolé!" he whispered in desperation, hoping that Fritz's beloved French would make him listen. "Mon roi, je suis vraiment désolé!"

It made Fritz pause for the barest second and the eyes finally turned to him, amazement glinting in their depths despite how hard Fritz was trying to conceal it. "I told you not to call me that…" Fritz replied with a sigh, his words gentle and without anger. His expression softened but the unhappy twist to his mouth remained. His steps slowed to their regular pace and he resumed his exploration. Gilbert sighed, taking it as a sure sign that he was forgiven. This time, however, Fritz veered toward a wing of the palace that had so far been partially completed, only needing the rest of the interior decorators to come and finish the job. He headed straight for it, Gilbert behind him faithfully, but when they were entering the building he gave a signal for the servants following them to slow down, letting them trail behind at a greater distance than before.

Their steps echoed hollowly in the empty halls, bare and waiting for their canvases to be filled. Frederick guided him to the first room they came across, gilded decorations covering the walls in designs of flowers, grapes, twisting vines and animals chasing each other. And it was everywhere. "All of the rooms will look similar to this," Fritz said, pointing his cane at the golden swirls. "Each of them will all have their own unique design, of course, but the overall idea will be the same."

Gilbert groaned quietly. "The French and their Versailles have corrupted your brain," he grumbled, eyeing the room like he would a poisonous snake.

"I know you do not like it, there is no need to voice yourself," Frederick snarled back, the heat in his tone causing Gilbert to take a step back in shock. The king sighed and glanced at the door to make sure the servants were not standing at it then thumped his cane against the floor. "Look, I know you do not like my tastes or the style in which I would prefer to live. However I will not change it. If I must I will make plans to turn your room into something else and you can live in the other palace in Potsdam, or your mansion if you prefer that, and you can report to me every day. Does that please you?"

He blinked, processing the words. "My room?" he finally said, quite stupidly in retrospect but that was the only thing that had truly reached him.

Frederick rolled his eyes. Gods why was his beloved so dense at times. "Yes, your room!" he replied, pinning him with a stare that made the Field Marshal squirm. "I want to live here with you and all of my friends, with a library and music room and gardens! This will be my palace, my retreat, my Sanssouci." He said the words tenderly, like a sweet caress from his lips. "I want everything and everyone I love to be here with me, for nothing would make me happier. But if this place displeases you so much then I will not force you to stay here. Now, do you agree with my terms?" He continued to stare, his gaze piercing and unwavering in the way that only his could be.

Oh. It took an enormous effort not to collapse on the spot into a puddle of warm goo, but Gilbert somehow managed. He felt his complaints—all of them petty now that he thought about it—vanishing under the warmth that swept through him and dammit his heart was doing that stupid fluttery thing again that usually happened whenever Fritz said or did something particularly mushy. He felt the smile breaking out on his face and saw Fritz's confusion and shook his head. "You're a very silly romantic, you know that?" he said without any mocking in his tone at all.

There was a smile that his king was trying desperately to not reveal, only the warmth in his eyes giving any indication of it. "So I've been told numerous times by an arrogant nation who likes to complain about every little thing that he does not find to his liking," he replied without any mocking either.

Gilbert just laughed at him and pulled Fritz closer. He wouldn't let himself collapse but he would allow a kiss. Frederick made a surprised noise and put his hands up as if to push him away, but they just rested on Gilbert's chest uncertainly. "Fritz," he whispered against his king's lips, "to be honest I could go anywhere in the world and be happy as long as I'm with you." He sealed his words with another kiss and ran his fingers down Fritz's cheek.

It was Frederick's turn this time. He trembled a little, wishing there was a chair nearby that he could conveniently seat himself in because he was suddenly feeling quite weak at the knees. He looked up at his nation, searching for any sort of slyness or deception and finding none, and for a second he wanted nothing more than to throw his arms across Gilbert and kiss him as hard as he possibly could. He dismissed the thought immediately, not so much that someone might see them but more out of the fact that he knew what would happen afterwards and that was not something he wanted to occur in the middle of a barebones room without even any furniture to sit on. "So you wish to stay here?" he asked, his heart pounding.

A nod was his answer. "I think I just said that," Gilbert said good-naturedly, stepping back to his normal respectable distance. "But please for the love of gods go easy on the gold crap, Fritz. I'll get headaches just looking at it."

Frederick snickered, mirth dancing in his eyes as he twirled his cane. "I shall see what I can do. I cannot get rid of it completely but I shall try to make your rooms as beautiful as all the others while remaining to your tastes." He turned to head out of the room.

"My taste is nothing on them at all!" Gilbert said, moving quickly to follow him.

He heard the scoff from Fritz and a hand waved at him dismissively, brushing aside the comment like a speck of dust. The playful mood that he had ruined had finally returned, leaving them to explore the rest of the project in peace and calm.

Ready

Thick and cloying, that was how the room felt now. Heavy, foreboding, the impending doom creeping from the shadows and crawling along them all like ants. It darkened the lights and hushed the soul, turned words into bare murmurs that forced men to put their heads together in order to have a conversation. Nervous glances were thrown at the bed whose occupant rattled with every breath he took, his body swollen with humors and foul-smelling blood draining from his legs in a vain hope of treatment.

Death had come. He was in the room with them now and it was His presence that darkened the room so. He was in every breath, every swish of movement, every tick of the clock. Every swirl of dust motes in the candle light, every breath that crawled out of the dying's throat, every click of shoes on floor that echoed in the cracks of the doors. Death had come to finally claim what was His, what all living creatures would give to Him one day.

Gilbert was used to His aura by now; he had lived long enough and had ridden beside Him so many times that they might as well have been friends by now. He was the only one in the room unaffected by the chill in the air as he stood at the bedside, watching the dying man labor through his numbered breaths. He could not tear his eyes away from him, his heart pounding painfully in his throat as the inevitable drew near.

His King was dying. After being his ruler for so long, and living past what would have killed scores of weaker men, the Prussian king was finally succumbing to Death's call. The White Lady had supposedly been seen by one of the servants only a few days ago and it sent a silence through the palace that no one could break. The only prevailing sound was the King's breathing, almost choking on the air, and the murmuring of doctors that could do nothing to save him.

For all the pain that he had caused Gilbert, and his own family nonetheless, Gilbert had to admire Frederick William. The man was without a doubt the strongest human he had ever come across in his lifetime, and not just physically. His King had always been liked a stone that weathered everything the elements could throw at it. How many months, hell, years had he been sick now-on and off with episodes raging between—continuously believed to be at Death's door already before suddenly springing back to full health and shocking everyone around him? Gilbert had lost count by now, his King was built like an ox and had the health to prove it.

But such luck could only last for so long. No one could escape Death forever. That privilege belonged to nations alone.

Another choked breath turned into a fit of coughing which made them all wince in sympathy while attendants rushed forward to help Frederick William sit up so he could breathe more easily. Gilbert stepped back to let them by and glanced around, taking in the court officials and officers that were present in the room. The King had called them all to his room after discussing with his heir about political matters, warning Frederick not to let Vienna hold down their country and to watch George of Hanover, who was jealous of Prussia. It made the nation's throat close listening to his monarch explain to his son his alliances and why he made them and to forever watch out for enemies that would seek to destroy Prussia. No matter what his attitude had been towards his family, Frederick William had always been one of his most devoted King's and the depth of his servitude astounded him.

Speaking of Kings, though… Gilbert looked down at his side, where his Crown Prince sat in a chair, both of his hands clasped around his father's own and his eyes fixated on him. Every line on Frederick's face was hard and controlled, his mask in place, but his eyes reflected what he would not allow his expression to and tears poured from them. After Katte's death his Prince had withdrawn totally into himself and had finally bowed to his father's demands. Blind obedience and acceptance, that was what the King wanted and that was what he got. But Gilbert knew better than that. Frederick was as skilled as any actor on a stage and it had taken the kingdom a very long time to notice that, but throughout the past ten years he had come to reacquaint himself with his Prince once more. Küstrin had almost destroyed the friendship and closeness they had, but talks and certain meetings they shared whenever Gilbert had been allowed to visit Rheinsberg had closed old wounds and reformed their bond. Made it even closer, too, Gilbert would dare to say because now he knew that Frederick was no longer hiding secrets from him.

As if sensing the stare, Fritz looked up at him, tears staining his cheeks and his eyes glittering with more of them. It was hard to tell whether they were genuine, the kid—well, nothing at all like a kid now, he was twenty-eight after all—could turn on the rain at a drop of a hat. Considering the conversation he had just had with his father and what was happening, though, Gilbert was inclined to believe they were real. His clenched jaw and stoicism told another story. He leaned down to whisper into Frederick's ear. "This sight doesn't distress you?" he asked, keeping the conversation simple for the ears around them.

Frederick flinched as his father coughed again, the massive hand around his clenching tightly. "Only of its nature," he replied in an equally low tone and left it at that.

A perfectly vague answer that could be interpreted in multiple ways. It was just like Fritz to give him that sort of response. There was a growl from the bed and Frederick William shoved one of his doctors away from him, his great strength still apparent as he nearly sent the man sprawling across the floor. "Let me alone! You cannot do anything," he said, the anger in his voice warped by pain. He gasped as a cramp took hold of him and he pressed on through it. He turned to Frederick, gray-blue eyes locking with the prince's, and he smiled at him. "Ah, Fritz," he murmured and turned to the officials that he had summoned. "Has God not graced me by having given me such a courageous and worthy son?" he asked them, his gaze landing on Gilbert for a brief second.

His breath paused and he felt his chest tighten as if he had just been punched. Frederick William really just said that, didn't he? The King had been much softer to his son after Frederick had begun to obey him, but such an open declaration in front of other people-! Frederick looked to be the most dumbstruck of them all, his lips parted in shock and staring openly. He rose to his feet on shaking legs and lifted his father's hand to his face, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs that Gilbert knew without a doubt were real this time.

Frederick William pulled at the prince, making him bend down so he could embrace him. The king's arms crushed the Crown Prince close but also held him tenderly, far more than Gilbert had ever seen. "My God," he said to no one in particular, "I die content, since I leave behind such a worthy son and successor."

There was a sob from the prince and Frederick hastily wiped his eyes. "All I have ever wanted was to please you, Your Majesty," he said with the barest quiver to his voice.

A grain of truth lay in that statement. Ever since he had been born Frederick had been obsessed with the idea gaining approval from his father, since the King had given him nothing but disappointment over who he was. But when all attempts had failed he began to rebel and led Katte to his ultimate fate. Gilbert watched the proceedings with amazement, but a frown lingered on his brow. Approval had finally been achieved but at the highest cost. Was it really worth it in the end?

Another doctor came forward and Frederick William sent him scampering back with another growl. Moments later his face relaxed and he motioned for one of the servants to come forward and ordered his coffin to be brought into the room. The morbid request made everyone except Gilbert flinch. Frederick William took no notice of it and began dictating more orders about his funeral, rattling off instructions from memory and constantly repeating that that the whole operation should not cost more than twenty thousand thalers and preferably less, if they could manage it. Miserly to the last.

Gilbert reached out and squeezed Frederick's shoulder comfortingly, receiving a smile and grateful look in return. They all listened to the King giving his last orders and studiously ignored the coffin as it was brought in and laid on the floor. Some of the men shivered and drew back, murmuring to each other, while Gilbert was starting to feel the time grating on him. He wanted to move and be out of the room already, but Frederick William had not dismissed anyone yet. He was forced to lean against a wall and pay attention only vaguely at the conversations going on around him; Fritz and the king, the ambassadors in the corner, some ministers tittering away and glancing back as if wanting to run out of the room altogether. It was extremely boring and the only thing that snapped Gilbert out of it was his name.

"Beilschmidt," Frederick William's rasping voice reached him, dull claws scraping against old bone.

Spine straight and shoulders perfectly square, he stepped forward and bowed a little. "Yes, my King?" he asked gently, glancing up at him.

"Prussia," his ruler replied in a tone that sent a jolt through his whole body and his back stiffened further. "From this moment on I am no longer your king. I pass control of the government and all the powers of the throne into the hands of my beloved son. He is your King now. That is my order."

As he spoke Gilbert felt it take place, the shift in power that he sensed in his gut. Nations always had a special connection to their rulers by the nature of their relationship. Such an influential person who could change the whole country of course did not follow the same rules as the regular citizens and thus they had a different "feel" to them. Prussia was always aware of what direction his King lay in, as if an invisible tether connected them, and he was always aware of the power that loomed over his head like an enormous cloud. When Frederick William spoke his command—that command being law—he felt that connection shift ever so slightly, moving from the man in front of him to the man beside him. The strength of the living man flooded over him for a moment—after being so long connected to the dying king it nearly made him dizzy.

And it felt glorious. He had wanted to feel that for so long, to finally feel the moment when Frederick became his King.

The others in the room drew a breath, not quite loud enough to be a gasp, and looked at the trio in a stunned silence. Most of their eyes were on Frederick who, for the most part, seemed to have no idea what to do until the words sank in. But when they did his eyes started to blaze with such an intensity that he had to quickly duck his head and pretend to weep before it aroused any suspicion. Gilbert could feel the triumph coming from him in waves and had to fight down a smile at the feeling; everything was going alright at last.

A few of the men were already coming forward to pay their respects and pledge themselves to the new king. Frederick William listened to them for a few minutes before waving his hand. "Get out," he said to them. "I wish to speak with my son. Only the chaplains shall remain."

The men hurriedly excused themselves and all but fled, eager to escape the room and Death's scent that pervaded the air. Gilbert was one of them until he saw Frederick William shaking his head, and he lingered by the door. The dying man then motioned for Fritz to lean closer and he began whispering to him. Gilbert was too far away to hear it, but whatever it was must have lasted forever. Frederick seemed to be kneeling for ages and when he did stand back up it was with a wince. His face was troubled and distressed, but he left the room with a dignified grace, glancing at Gilbert with a thousand questions brimming in his eyes before the doors shut behind him.

With most of the occupants gone Death stretched Himself even further, spreading His robes into every shadowed corner. It would be very soon. Gilbert knew that feeling.

One of the chaplains started a wavering hymn, singing how all men arrived naked into the world and how they shall leave naked. Frederick William interrupted him with a laugh. "That is not true. I shall be wearing my uniform," he said before beckoning to his kingdom. "Gilbert."

Hearing his first name spoken by Frederick William for the first time nearly made him leap out of his skin. He walked to the bed again, taking the hand that was still cold despite the fever that wracked the king. "Yes?"

"Have I been a good king to you?" the man whispered, squeezing his hand briefly.

He felt the sigh building in his lungs. Frederick William had been a horrible father, anyone with a brain could see it, and an overall unpleasant person. The man had enraged Gilbert more times than the nation could count, having been forced to sit back throughout the years and watch the abuse happen and then have it turned on him at times. But that was not what made him a King and that was not what made Gilbert respect him all the same. Frederick William had done so much for him all throughout his reign. He had built roads and villages and schools, turned swamps into prosperous farmland, had taken a country ravaged by plague and the Thirty Years' War and had made something out of it. His army was large and well-trained and the treasury was nearly overflowing. No longer was he some backwater, uncivilized country inhabited only by pig-brained farmers that were one step above barbarians and an aristocracy that was a pale imitation of the courts of his far richer neighbors. Prussia had been a joke among the other countries but no more! Now Prussia as a name that meant something and that something put a thread of fear into his fellow nations' hearts. As it should.

"Yes," he said and meant it from the bottom of his soul. "Yes you were. A right bastard of a man but a good King."

The man scowled but let the insult pass. What was the point of anger now that he was dying? "And what do you think of my son?"

Gilbert couldn't stop the grin from spreading across his face, wicked and bringing forth raised eyebrows from the questioner. How to describe Frederick as a king? Well—"Oh he," he drawled, pausing to let the weight of his next words sink in, "will be great. One of the greatest, if I do say so myself."

"You feel it?"

"I know it."

Frederick William sighed and rested his back into the pillows. "Then I depart this world with nothing to fear. You may go now." He pointed at a servant. "Bring me a mirror. I wish to look upon my face as I die."

Men were fidgeting as he exited the room, Fritz outright pacing. He steps were controlled but energetic and the moment he spotted Gilbert he headed straight for him. "Is he—?" he said haltingly.

"Not yet," Gilbert replied, "but very soon. He even asked for a mirror to observe his face with so he could see how he died."

Frederick blinked at him, saying nothing, then shook his head. "He always had the strangest oddities at times…" he muttered, glancing at the door as if afraid the ex-king would somehow overhear him. "But he faces death like a soldier. His courage has no limits."

The kingdom nodded and glanced around at the other men, making sure they were at a distance, before stepping closer to Fritz. "Are you feeling alright?" he asked.

Frederick gave him a look. "Alright? Gilbert I'm overjoyed," his lips twisted in a grin as he said that. "I've been ready for this moment for ages. The fat one will finally die and I will be King." He rubbed his hands together a little, eyes flashing.

Gilbert took a step back, raising an eyebrow and smiling himself. "Don't parade that around too loudly, someone might think you poisoned him."

"Oh please, an uncivilized and barbaric idea," Frederick said scathingly. "Go tell the guards to shut all the gates and doors, will you? No one will leave until they swear fealty to me."

He had to fight to keep the laugh from erupting out of him. "Of course, My King," he said and gods it felt like a dream to finally address Fritz by that title. He walked off, head held high and ignoring Fritz's shocked expression as he made his way down the hall.

Behind him, the life of a Prussian who had been his king was dwindling ever faster, unraveling into a single thread that struggled to cling to the mortal world. It was time for it to finally snap and die and bring a new era into being, one that Prussia could feel in his blood would be like no other.

Charity

Gilbert rarely visited any of the houses and mansions that he owned all across the country, there was hardly a need to. His place was with his kings and his true homes had been their castles for as long as he could remember. He had always had a place among them, and his various dwellings in his name were more for appearance's sake than anything else. Someone of his status had to own one, after all, but being in constant company with his rulers he had no need for them. They were glorified warehouses most of the time, he rarely entertained guests so he kept all of his relics, swords, uniforms, journals, and other knick knacks that he had collected throughout the centuries stored inside of them. Never cluttered though, oh no, he was far too organized for that.

And children. There were hordes of children running around them too.

He knew anyone who saw the state of his houses would probably throw a fit but did he care? Hell no, he did not need them so he would use them for a much better purpose than to simply be a nobleman's playground. The church had taught him far better than that. The nation simply could not ride through a city and see another dirty urchin huddled under some ratty shelter or begging in the streets, the very sight sickened his heart. He had been like that once and he remembered those days all too vividly. Such children often received kicks and beating and were yelled at as if they were more akin to rabid mutts than human beings. At least they weren't chased out of towns by superstitious villagers trying to burn them at the stake, that was something to be thankful for.

Regardless, it was a problem and no one seemed willing to fix it. That did not stop him from trying, though. They were still his people and his children, it simply wouldn't be right to leave them like that. It was always hard to convince the poor things to come with him, they all lived hard lives and were right to trust their suspicions if they wanted to stay alive. Many simply fled from him and few trusted him enough to go with him, even when he stretched his power as a nation. In fact that seemed to frighten them more than anything, unused to such an odd feeling tugging at them. Gilbert would have chased them down but he knew better, he wanted the children to trust him and see him as a kind savior who was taking them to a better life, not some soldier who was dragging them away from everything they ever knew and thrusting them into a strange, unfamiliar world.

Thanks gods he sometimes got a sensible one. The boy could not have been much older than eight or nine and he sat awkwardly in the saddle in front of Gilbert, trying his best to keep his balance. He would learn how to ride soon, Gilbert made sure to teach all of his refugees how. He clutched the ducat that the nation had given him to his chest as if he were afraid that it would vanish at any second; the boy had probably never seen real gold before in his life and his eyes had grown huge in his head when Prussia first presented it to him and promised him the coin if he would come with him.

"What is your name, boy?" he asked as they rode off down the street, although he probably could have guessed the answer in a few tries. Probably a Frederick or Wilhelm or Hans, that was usually how the names went. He ignored every single disproving look thrown his way and snarled back at some of them, causing more than a couple people to turn away in fright.

"Wilhelm," the boy mumbled back, still staring at the coin.

Well, that was a start. At least he knew his own name. "And how old are you?"

"Eight," came the dejected mumble that made his heart splinter to hear. "Do you really have a mansion, sir?"

"Yes, one in the countryside. But we are heading to my smaller house within the city." They turned onto a cleaner street, coming closer to the invisible line that separated the rich from the poor in this city. Wilhelm squirmed a little and darted his head around, obviously knowing this section of the city was off limits to the likes of him. "Do not worry about anything, Wilhelm. No one would dare stop us."

More squirming, a note of fear creeping into the tone. "But, the guards—"

Gilbert shushed him with a reassuring pat to his shoulder. He could feel the bones through the ragged shirt that was nothing more than a bag with a hole cut in it for his head and he felt his rage peak for a second. He swallowed it back down with difficulty and forced his voice to stay light. "Trust me, kid, I can handle any guards that would dare bother us."

Wilhelm fell silent at that, still looking around but at least he stopped squirming. He glanced at the ground that seemed so far beneath his feet and then to the gloved hands of the man who held the reins, at the cuffs of his sleeves and the frills of his shirt poking through them. "You're dressed really nice," he said after a moment, poking Gilbert's gloves as if the make sure that it was actual oiled leather, tailored to fit his hands like a second skin. Then his hand wandered up as if to play with the lace embroidery on the cuffs of his uniform before pausing, deciding that it was probably not a smart move.

He could not help but smile in amusement at the antics. Any other man would have set the back of his hand upon the child's skull for such an improper and bold move that no doubt had dirtied their precious clothing, but Gilbert was not such one and he would beat the hell out of anyone who dared do such a thing in his presence. Children were children and Wilhelm would learn proper behavior soon enough. No one must have taught him etiquette and whatever he did pick up were street rules only. "Yes, I am," he said in reply, leaving the mystery hanging in the air like that. He could practically see the wheels in Wilhelm's mind turning; street urchins were considered only a step above animals and Gilbert could never understand why. Anyone with an eye and two ounces of logic to rub together could see that they were all clever and resourceful. The sound of the mental scales being weighed was almost palpable, all of which turned into a screeching halt when Gilbert turned down yet another street and there.

The child stiffened as if tensing to run. Then he remembered that he was still in the saddle. "S-sir, one of these can't—"

"Oh, yes they can," Gilbert said with a grin, urging his horse into a faster trot noticing more guards in the area that were glancing at the two of them. No one said anything, but they did not have to. "It is this one to our right," he said as they came up to the path leading through the front garden. The stone façade of the house stared back at them, softened by age and windows decorated with pristine curtains covering the walls. It looked inviting, like an old chair that has been sat in many times.

The gardener looked up at them as they passed, then took off his hat and bowed. Gilbert nodded to him as they trotted by.

Wilhelm watched the scene in amazement. "You're the owner of this place?" he gasped, eyes growing wider. "B-But it's huge!"

"Well, you did mention that I have very nice clothes. Obviously I can afford it," Gilbert said, halting in front of the steps as a groom hastily appeared to take his horse. He slid out of the saddle and caught Wilhelm before he could fall and lifted him out as well. The boy barely weighed more than a few bags of flour and trembled in his arms.

Wilhelm hardly even reacted to being put down. "But no one has seen the master of the house come in and out of it," he said, looking up at the huge building as if it would swallow him whole. "Everyone thinks he's some sort of horrible monster or ghost!"

Gilbert had to chuckle. "I have been called both in the past," he said, laying his hand on the boy's back and giving him a little push forward. "Come now, we shall meet with the head of my staff and get you sorted out. Find you some proper clothes and a good meal, you look like you're about to fade away into a shadow."

The muscles under his hand tensed and Gilbert felt himself coming to a halt from it. He could see Wilhelm digging his heels into the ground and looking up, his eyes huge in his dirty, smudged face, fear so clearly reflected in his face that it was like a punch to his gut. That expression was all too familiar, wariness and fear and yet a small spark of hopethat was making him stay where he was instead of fleeing. Gilbert knew that face well and he looked back up at the house. To a child who had spent all his life on the streets, hiding from the eye of every person who dared to look at him for more than a few seconds and scrape by in the lower circles of the city, coming to such a high establishment where he would certainly be caught and beaten if he had wandered up here on his own volition would no doubt be a terrifying experience. But with the promise of something better, it was just like…

Well, it was just like—

A child who floundered in the thick snow, holding a sword that was far too big for him even though it had caused him to fall numerous times already. Once he had wielded that sword with grace and ease, but it dragged on him now like a dead weight. He could not bring it in his heart to part with it, though, it was more precious to him than anything. It was all he had left. He coughed, feeling the cold slice right through his torn clothes and pierced armor like the sharpest of knives, stinging his eyes and leaving little icicles in his snowy hair.

The sob that tried to break free froze in his throat and he coughed it out, his body burning with pain that shook him from head to toe. He was sick, so sick and weak and bleeding. Those wounds hadn't healed since Grunwald and they left a trail of red behind him that was quickly being covered by the snowfall. They hurt so much that he wanted to cry but he didn't even have the strength for that anymore. Infected, they were getting infected, he knew wounds and knew what they did after a long time.

He was dying.

They had killed him. They killed his Order, they killed Hochmeister Ulrich and his wonderful Knights and placed so many reparations on his that all of his money was being bled dry. Damn Feliks! Damn Toris! Damn them both he wanted to kill them, stab them right through their black hearts, kill kill kill kill—

He was so cold and so weak, had eaten nothing but snow for days. But there was something up ahead, something that loomed in front of him more dark and foreboding than an enemy castle. A bell tolled in the distance, low and solemn like his own funeral peal. Fear knotted in his stomach as he ran, dragged, and crawled his way through the thickening snow, sprawling across the door. He was weak and dizzy and thought he was dying right then and there.

His fist pounded on the abbey doors so softly that even he could not hear it.

He blinked the memory away, shaking his head to clear it of the snow and sickness. Wilhelm was looking up at him, fear being replaced by confusion and Gilbert cursed himself for letting his thoughts wander so freely. His free hand had grasped the hilt of his sword without him even realizing it. He knelt down, still keeping his hand on Wilhelm's shoulder and meeting the child's eyes with his gaze. He was amazed to see that Wilhelm did not shrink away and even held his stare. "Listen," he said, speaking the words that he himself needed to hear so long ago, "you will be safe here, I promise. No one will hurt you and you will want for nothing except to get away from your stuffy lessons. There is food, a bed, and all the comforts of a home waiting for you. Nothing will hurt you while you are under my roof, I swear."

A pair of kind brown eyes swam in his memory, the kindest eyes he had ever known that smiled like the sun. A murmur of a voice that soothed him in his sickness and nightmares and taught him all the ways of their life. Another side of his religion that he had never seen in his days of being a Knight, ways of kindness and love and charity and forgiveness. Hands that cleaned and bandaged his wounds and stroked his hair when he screamed into the long, fever-filled nights of his recovery.

Gilbert stood up, eyes becoming hard. "Now, that isn't to say you will spend your days lounging about my house, young man. You will be educated properly and learn a profession while you are here so you will leave with something to help you survive in the world, you will not spend your days idling away." An eager nod. Wilhelm's expression had already changed at Gilbert's last sentence, going from afraid to excited and he was glancing at the front steps almost impatiently now.

"I understand, sir," he said, before frowning in thought and doing a quick bow.

Gilbert blinked in surprise at the action. He did know something after all. "None of that," he said, guiding the boy up the steps. "You may bow to me when the situation is appropriate for it. Now we just need to get you into a bath and into some proper clothes, even if they belong to one of the pages."

Wilhelm wrinkled his nose. "A bath?"

"Yes! And I will not hear any complaints on the matter." His hand struck the door loudly, filled with strength and power that had the echoes of the knocks booming across the house before he opened the door and ushered them both inside.

River

The boat was steady as he leaned over the railing, his heart pounding out of control in his chest at the sensation. The royal yacht. Most would feel honored to step onto it at all but Frederick knew it for what it really was: a prison. Where was there to go? To run? There were guards standing at the pier, the only way off the craft and they would stop him if he tried to leave. After all he had just tried to run away and-

His hands gripped the railing tighter. The King had to know, there was no way he didn't know by now. Know that his son had planned to flee to England, god what was he going to do? A cynical part of his mind snorted you already know and that did nothing to calm his nerves.

Filicide. That was a word that wasn't thrown around very often and no doubt every court in Europe was about to hear it soon.

Water playfully slapped against the edge of the craft, as if mocking him for what was about to come. He could see his face reflected in the water below him: pale and sickly. Perhaps he should just throw himself overboard and save his Father the trouble. He could swim but it wouldn't be too hard to let his limbs go still and sink beneath the surface. But that would take too long and someone could jump in and save him. Maybe to run himself through with his sword. No, too slow and barbaric. Besides, it would be painful. He repressed a shudder. Maybe to get one of the guard's pistols out of his hands and shoot himself?

Now there was a thought, but Frederick was unsure of just how easily he could wrestle away a weapon from one of them. Especially considering that the men towered over him. Damn his Father and his stupid, strange obsession for tall men.

He wasn't going to get away, but he prayed that at least Katte did. He wrote to him of their discovered scheme and begged the man to say himself. Please, don't be an idiot, Katte, he begged the water as if it could hear his thoughts and carry them to his lover. Just for once in your life don't be noble, don't be so selfless and caring and just go. Leave me and save yourself. He felt his throat closing, tears pricking his eyes and one of them falling to join the river below. Let him be okay, please God let him be okay. It was too late for him now but Katte...

The sound of a heavy boot hitting the deck was like a nail driving into a coffin and he tried so hard not to jump at it. Those footsteps were unmistakable, he knew their weight and pace by heart now. He would not face him, would not give him the benefit of even acknowledging his presence. He stared on ahead, pretending to be detached and calm in his own little world. Let the King come to him and not the other way around. He would not walk into his beating like a whipped hound.

"Frederick!" That voice yelled, angry and commanding as ever.

He paused, as if the shout did not bother him, his whole posture radiating coolness as turned his head to look at him and-

-turned right into the blow of the cane that caught him full in the face.

Something cracked and he let out a startled yell, defenses totally destroyed by the flash of hot agony that ate right into his brain. He stumbled back wildly, only keeping his balance because one flailing hand caught the rail again while the other clutched desperately at his face, coming away coated in blood. That bastard, that goddamn asshole he called his name, he knew he would turn he called his name just so he could hit his face. The King had never hit his face before, not with the cane anyway.

A spurt of anger came to life in him at the thought of his Father deliberately striking such an area on his body. "Never did a Brandenburg face suffer the like of this!"* he yelled, his voice warped by pain and his injury. His nose was broken, he didn't need a doctor to tell him that, he felt it break and now it was crooked and blood kept pouring from it in little rivulets to patter across the front of his clothes and the deck of the yacht. It was in his mouth and clogging his sinuses, hot copper coating his tongue and throat as he swallowed some down.

The King's face twisted in fury at his words and he advanced, brandishing the bloody cane again and screaming something that had Frederick backing away further. The death threats were real this time, he knew. There was a particular fury and madness in his Father's eyes that he only saw once before, when he had been strangling him with the cord. Servants and a few soldiers immediately stepped in, trying to restrain the furious King and shield the Prince from the next blows while Frederick stood, trembling and dizzy from the pain.

He pulled off his glove and reached up gingerly to touch his face. He was surprised by how well it had healed, not even crooked, but with a telltale little knot right above where the bone had been cracked. He shuddered at the memory and took his hand away. Considering the agony of interrogations and imprisonment that had come afterward, all of it while half his face was wrapped in bandages and a splint to help his nose heal properly, it was an amazement that it had come out fine.

Laying on his cot, half out of his mind with fever and hallucinations that tormented his soul without any hope of release. His head felt hot and swollen and heavy and it lurched with each breath his took. He had to pant through his mouth to get air, his mouth dry from it all. Afterward such simple acts like sitting up and even talking were an agony. Moving his jaw to speak pulled all wrong muscles in his face and had him wincing in agony each time he held a conversation.

When they finally unwrapped his face and took the splint off he was amazed by how he looked. He had expected a horrible, twisted nose like the likes of those he had seen belonging to men in bars of unworthy company. It was not slanted or crooked, was still as straight and long as ever. But there was an angry red cut on his skin from where the cane had hit him and running his fingers along the bridge of his nose he could feel a little bump under the cut. It ached when he touched it.

The King sighed and pulled his hand back into his glove and pointedly ignored the red eyes that were staring at him worriedly. Gilbert had not been there to protect him from that particular episode of anger and he knew how the nation still felt guilty over it to this day. "Stop torturing yourself over it," he said, turning to briefly glance at him. "It is not your fault and a thing of the past."

"As soon as you stop doing it, I will."

He shook his head, a sardonic smile gracing his face. "I do try not to," he said, picking up his hat and setting it on his head. "But my memory is so sharp I can't help but cut myself sometimes." He left it at that, turning and heading for the door to speak with the page outside, bringing the conversation to a halt right there.

He ignored the irritated glare that prickled his neck. Let Gilbert try to pry that memory apart, he was not going to give in on that.

Graveyard

August 25, 1758

Blood ruled this day, its maker and destroyer, the parched ground soaking it in as if there would never be enough to sate its thirst. Prussian or Russian, men and horse, it did not matter, blood was blood. It oozed from the ground where men walked and formed puddles and streams that flowed from the countless bodies that littered the battlefield, the sweet stench of death coating the air. Mingling with the hot metal scent of overworked artillery and the sharp tang of gunpowder, a combination that could only be found in one location: a battle.

And their blades still clashed together. Through the death surrounding them, the sea of red, the countries circled each other and fought madly. Gilbert knew that he was the better fighter, he always was, but Ivan had more people to draw his strength from. For once, both armies were at a complete standstill, ammunition running out far too early and both sides reduced to fighting with bayonet and sword, close enough to feel the gore of the enemies spatter across their uniforms. Such a battle was ripe for a nation to sweep through and massacre hundreds and just of them in the battle would tip the scales irrevocably, and Gilbert had made it his mission to keep Ivan as far away from his people as possible, and he knew Ivan had the exact same goal in mind.

He would not be with Fritz, not be with anyone. It was his duty to protect his men from the nation standing before him. He had to trust his King and his generals to win the battle without him while he distracted Ivan, kept him too occupied to go anywhere else.

They chased each other across the corpses, darting and attacking for minutes while masses of men around them fought for their lives. The ground was slick with their blood, screams of the dying as they bled out drifting through the air in their own disjointed symphony. They all died slowly and very painfully, the wounds on the nations tearing open and staying open instead of healing like they normally did.

It was so hot everywhere, each ragged pant drawing in another taste of the red mist that hovered in the air. He was so, so very tired and each ragged wound weeping red was draining him like nothing ever had. And on they fought, blades singing, their movements becoming less like a dance and bursts of mad, primal energy that would flare up as they forced their leaden limbs to keep going, keep fighting, even when every atom cried out against it.

When finally he swung his sword, he missed by a mile and the point drove into the ground. Gilbert was trembling so hard that he could barely stand, his knees locked so he would not collapse and he tried to pull his sword free. He tried and tried but it would not budge and his fingers merely slipped across the hilt. He could feel Ivan staring at him and looked up to see the enraged country try to step forward, one leg dragging through the grass as he forced his whole body behind it. It came down with a stomp and then Ivan crumpled, just like that, and fell bonelessly to the earth.

Gilbert wanted to laugh, he tried to, but it would not come. Nothing would come, he was so empty and drained that he just stood there, feeling as if it would only take a strong wind to knock him down. And, eventually, the undefeatable force of gravity won over his shaking muscles and pulled him down to the earth as well. He could see Ivan from where he lay, violet eyes still glaring at him and fingers twitching as he tried to stand, but neither of them could move. The armies were consuming each other in their mad fighting and bringing their nations down with them.

He had no idea how long they lay there like that, bleeding slowly and healing just fast enough so that the injuries could not actually kill them. It felt like years while the battle dragged on and on, more men dropping from heat and exhaustion until the sky began to darken, nature itself bringing an end to the battle that might have been fought to the very last man in their insane desire to annihilate the other. Gilbert let out his first true sigh of relief as he felt his people drawing back, but their wounded and dying still tormented his body. He knew that over ten thousand of his people were dead, probably more, and the pain that was clawing at his nerves was indescribable because of it.

Did Fritz win? Please let him win, he needed to win this battle, Prussia needs this victory…

Voices snapped him out of his thoughts. Russian voices. His eyes shot open and he heard Ivan give a wheezing chuckle, a grin twisting the other's face. Men appeared out of the growing gloom, spattered with blood and speaking a flurry of Russian as they came across their fallen Field Marshal and hurried to rescue him. Gilbert's heart started to race when he noticed they were all Cossacks, all of them tired and filthy from the day's battle, but bloodlust still in their eyes. Oh fuck, FUCK—they were all staring at him, taking in his uniform and medals. One of them laughed and began to move forward.

Then they stopped. Not paused, but the sudden freezing in place type of stopping that heralds the arrival of something very unexpected and dangerous. One of them cursed and Gilbert heard a loud, "Go, go dammit!" from one of the leaders as they gathered their country and rode off, trying to put as much distance between him as possible.

Gilbert frowned, his muddled mind uncomprehending, then he realized just what had happened and he concentrated, trying to feel for any Prussians nearby. There was a whole group behind them and one of them invaded his senses so strongly with his unique "feel" that Gilbert mentally kicked himself in the ass for not noticing it much sooner. He should have known Fritz was headed his way long before this!

His King's voice was cold and clipped, but he knew him far better than to think it was from indifference. "Get him on the litter."

He tried to push himself up but his arms refused to even twitch and hands were on him, making him hiss as they pulled on his wounds and made them flare up. More blood began pouring out of them as he was turned on his back so he could be carried easier.

"Gently!" Fritz's voice cracked like a whip over them. "Gently or God help me I will see every one of you beaten."

The men flinched at that and it was mere exhaustion that stopped Gilbert's jaw from dropping open. His kind, gentle King never threatened anyone with physical punishment before, never in Gilbert's memory.

This time he bit his cheek as he was lifted again and set down into a litter that was being carried by some soldiers, instantly taking a lot of weight off his injuries and leaving him free to breathe again. His eyes flicked over to the chestnut horse that rode at his side and the figure that stared down at him from it.

Worry tightened Frederick's face and showed clear in his eyes, but he was also perfectly, even rigidly, controlled. Gilbert tried to smile and say something, some assurance, but a cough came out instead and he

saw Fritz shaking his head.

Don't speak, the King mouthed to him, his expression melting a little. "We're taking you to safety," Frederick said, the tremble in his voice gone, "and finding your doctor. The Russians are retreating so we came to find you."

A spark of warmth kindled in him, giving him the strength to smile at his lover. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Frederick shook his head again, trying to smile back but it became sickly when he looked at Gilbert's injuries again. The anxiety in his eyes was as clear as day. "Of course, my dearest nation. Come, the faster we find Zahner the better."

Heartbreak

"Let me in."

The guard gave him a look and announced to that he was outside the room, but there was no reply from its occupant. Shaking his head, the guard turned back to him. "I am sorry Field Marshal, His Majesty does not wish to see you."

Gilbert narrowed his eyes, watching the man squirm under the hardened gaze. He knew Fritz being silent did not mean an automatic no and this idiot was in his way! Well, the idiot was only doing his job but still. "I said," he growled, drawing himself up and letting every ounce of his influence and power as a nation go, "let me in."

There was a change in the air around them, as if something very heavy but very soft had just been dropped nearby. He saw the guard gulp and he was reaching for the doorknob absently, not even thinking about it as he swung the door open to admit the kingdom. "Field Marshal Bielschmidt," he said into the room as if that would help.

He brushed by the man with a nod and paused after the door closed behind him, transfixed by the man sitting at a desk with his back to him. Even at this distance he could see Frederick's body shaking with sobs, accompanied by the soft gasps that occasionally left him. One hand was pressed against his face and the other held a letter so tightly that its crumpled edges were all that was visible from between his fingers. There was a whine nearby and Gilbert looked down to see Alcmene staring at him, her eyes huge and frightened as the other greyhounds slunk in their chairs away from their master. As the sound of another sob reached his ears Gilbert felt his heart crack right through the middle. He opened his mouth but before he could get out a single sound he was interrupted.

"Leave."

The crack widened into a fissure and Gilbert felt his face crumpling. "No," he forced himself to say, knowing the outright disobedience could land him in a world of trouble. "Fritz, you need—"

"I said leave!" Frederick yelled, whirling around to face him with all the snarling anger of a dog confronted by a stranger. There were wet tear marks all across his face and his eyes seemed almost unnaturally blue from their swollen red depths. Fritz tried to hold onto that expression, oh how he did try, but Gilbert could see the angry mask cracking as the force of his grief bubbling through it.

Just like that, his heart broke right in half and for a second Gilbert thought he was about to burst into tears, too. He forced the lump back down his throat and spoke in a voice that he was surprised to not have tremble: "Is that an order, My King?"

Silence. Frederick curled his lip a little, knowing full well Gilbert's plan and how he was being called out on the fact that he hated giving a direct order to him. For a second disgust reigned supreme. "That was low," he replied and turned back around as the tears welled up again, unable to be held back for long.

Gilbert started walking, making sure his steps were slow. "Fritz, I just want to help—"

"I do not need nor want your pity!" Frederick snapped at him. The parchment crackled in protest as his fingers tightened around it. "I want you to go away and leave me alone!"

"That's not happening," Gilbert shot back, unable to keep his voice calm as he neared the chair. "I know what you need, and locking yourself in here and refusing to let anyone in is not it!"

A harsh laugh reached him and his King turned to him again, bitter mocking pouring from his expression while the tears flowed freely. "How can you know what I need? How can anyone? What I need is—" his voice paused, hitching on the words that stuck in his throat. He rubbed his eyes and clutched the letter closer to him. Gilbert saw the delicate handwriting and this time the tears were too strong for him to stop. Her last letter. When his King spoke again, his voice broke and oozed their raw emotions like eggshells. "I need her back."

Gilbert bit his lip hard, his breath heaving and tears running freely down his face now. He reached out and gently grasped Frederick's shoulder, stroking it as he pulled his King closer. "I miss her too," he whispered, still unable to believe that she was gone. His dearest princess, sweet, clever, bright, playful Wilhelmine, oh gods he was going to miss her so much. Her smile and that sly look in her eyes when she responded to a comment with some witty jest and the way Fritz would laugh at their antics together…

He heard a strangled noise and he was being crushed closer with Frederick's face buried deep into his shoulder, the noises becoming louder with each passing breath. A horror was creeping upon him and he threw his arms around his ruler and held him tightly, trying to calm his as he stroked the disheveled hair.

"It's alright, Schatz," he said, his grief threatening to overwhelm him. "She will be remembered for centuries, a princess like that is too good to be forgotten, we can build her a monument, hell, ten monuments when we go back…" Please don't go to pieces on me, he thought desperately as he held his leader and whispered his sweet nonsense. I need you to hold it together, Fritz, we all do. Please, please, just get better. Last night's battle was still fresh in everyone's mind and they needed their King to assure them and lead them onward as he always did. How was he to do that in the midst of his heartbreak?

"What am I going to do without her?" Frederick sobbed out, nearly wailing. "Without any of them? Now I've lost Keith and Wilhelmine, I lose all of my closest friends, one after the other!" A muffled cry escaped him and his fingers tightened in Gilbert's uniform.

"But I'm still here," Gilbert replied, a cynical voice in his head telling him that he was just one person and he couldn't be everything in Fritz's life. "I'm here and I will never, ever leave you, Schatz. You don't need to push me away, just talk to me and let me help. I-" he cleared his throat as it tightened, "I'll always be here for you. You don't have to be alone."

But he would be alone, one day. Who was going to comfort him when Fritz died and he would be in this same position now? He refused to think of it and shoved the thoughts away.

"I know," Frederick whispered, "I know, mein Liebster. I just—I just need some time." A strangled sound escaped him and he nuzzled into the shoulder a little. "They're all waiting for me. Waiting for me to lead and I need to go—"

"Shh," Gilbert whispered, pressing him tighter. "No one would dare ask you to do anything now. Take all the time you need, Fritz. I loved her too and I understand…I'll stay here as long as you need me to."

Future

He couldn't believe they were back here, after all of this time. This place was actually quite beautiful when all of the armies and smoke and dead soldiers were out of the way, the little village nestled among its hills and marshes like a little lost gem. Not that it made the memories any less painful, but the place itself was at least not evil.

He looked to his King, wondering if Fritz was thinking the same thing. Frederick's eyes were unreadable as he gazed over the landscape, his steps absently carrying him down the hill and to the dip that formed at the base of it, in the shallow valley where so many lost their lives in a pointless struggle for dominance. The ground in the Kuhgrund was no longer stained red and the grass seemed to be growing back years later after all of the blood polluting it had slowly faded away. The soil was hard again and the bodies under their feet slumbered eternally, a reminder of the battle of Kunersdorf and all of the thousands of Prussians that died under a blazing sun.

The wound on his side itched as he thought about it, as with a dozen others. None of them had quite closed yet even years later and he was still bleeding occasionally, so drained down to his bones hat he had barely anything left inside of him anymore. The war had sucked him dry and left him a husk, ready to collapse at what felt like any moment if it weren't for the short, stocky human who he was walking alongside now. I told you we could do it, he thought, staring at Frederick. I told you.

Frederick had dismounted from his horse and was now walking on foot across the former battlefield, his usual fast strides eating up the ground between the rest of his staff while Gilbert was the only one who could still keep up with him in his current state. Even though the others could have caught up to them on their horses it was obvious by the King's whole demeanor that he did not wish to be bothered and would only allow Gilbert near. It was something the others had long since gotten used to by now.

Their steps carried them into the Kuhgrund, and then past it. Gilbert could see Frederick sigh as he walked, his shoulders slumping and his cane digging into the ground with less force than usual. A cloud was forming over his ruler and he was immediately coming up to drive it away. "Hey," he said, matching Frederick's pace perfectly, "don't get all down on me, now. Not when we're going home soon."

Lips twitched just the slightest bit but no smile appeared. "Going to Berlin is not home," Frederick said, gazing into the distance as if he could look across miles and miles of land and see his beloved Sanssouci from where he stood. "We get to go home, but those who died here do not."

Gilbert bit his lip, pain uncurling in his heart at the cold, resigned words. "They fought and died bravely for our cause," he said, ignoring the pain as best as he could. "They knew the risks they were taking that day."

"They fought and died because I made them," Fritz answered, whispering the words as if they were blood pouring from a wound. "It was my will and my mistake and I will never forget it or forgive myself as long as I live."

"But you don't have to let it tear you up, either," Gilbert said. The ground began to squish under them, wet from the nearby ponds and marshes. "Yes, it was a mistake, no one is denying that. But to hold onto it until it cuts you apart the worst thing to do about it, Schatzi." He started and glanced back to make sure that none of their entourage was close enough to hear that. They had actually stopped following when the marsh began and were staring at the two of them in what Gilbert could only assume was shock.

"Pay them no heed," Frederick said, somehow managing to find all of the dry spots in the marsh by only looking and poking the ground with his cane and he navigated through them as if he had grown up in them his whole life. His eyes were dark and inward-looking, turned upward to watch the wide hill they were now approaching. "And here my greatest folly lies. I tried to conquer it but ended up being conquered myself. My loyal generals and their soldiers threw themselves at this on my orders and not once did I tell them to stop even when they were reduced to climbing over their comrades' corpses to fight."

Against his will, Gilbert's stomach churned uneasily. The last time he had been at the Grosser-Spitzberg it had been littered with bodies and bristling with Russian batteries and Ivan had tortured him relentlessly in order to bring down the left wing. The wounds dotting his chest prickled at the mere thought of it, the memories of Ivan's sword stabbing through his lungs and horrible pain of drowning in his own blood overwhelming him for a second. He swallowed and laid a hand on Frederick's shoulder, squeezing it. "Look at me," he said, waiting for those dark oceans to face him before continuing on. "Please just…stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about how much you could have done something differently and how many people died and all of that. It won't change anything. What happened just happened and it's in the past now, constantly thinking about it until it tears you up won't change it and it only hurts you in the end. We need to look forward and learn from the mistakes we made and not let them rule us."

Frederick stared at him, his face the very definition of unhappiness. "How can you say that?" he whispered with a shake of his head. "I almost ruined everything with my stupid arrogance! We would have lost the entire war if it hadn't been for the miracle of my enemies being completely incompetent. You felt it when your men died, every one of them! God have mercy, Gilbert, I—" his voice wavered but did not break "—I nearly killed you. How can you possibly say such things after that? Don't you think about those men?"

It was his turn to waver, for a moment utterly speechless as his brain furiously worked to regain all of its scattered pieces after Frederick's assault on his heart. He had most definitely not expected that and his King's words had torn open wounds in his heart, however unintentional they were, that he had tried so desperately to forget. He worked his mouth, swallowed, and then shook his head. "Of course I do," he replied, forcing himself on through the quiver in his tone. He shook his head, meeting Frederick's inquisitive and utterly piercing eyes that searched for a lie. No, he could not possibly lie to Fritz about this, even if he wanted to. "I think about them every day and I think about all of the other men that have died for me in battles and wars. This is not the only defeat I've faced, Fritz, and knowing how Fate works this won't be the last and probably not even the worst." Grunwald flashed in his mind's eyes and he shoved it away. "But we cannot let our failures control us! Yes, we fucked up and pretty badly at that! You made mistakes, I made mistakes, the generals made mistakes—"

"Following my orders."

"Fritz!" he snapped with a roll of his eyes before he remembered who he was talking to. But, to his amazement, Frederick arched a surprised eyebrow but did not snap back or even berate him. Well then, that was bound to happen once every few years so he was lucky it came now. "I'm not saying that one person is totally at fault here, alright? What happened in the past is in the past and it does not matter anymore! We can lament all we want about those lost lives and ponder over how things could have been different, but at the end of the day that won't change a damn thing. We need to stop living in the past and look ahead to the future and how we can shape it now. You don't let your regrets and mistakes defeat you, you learn from them and realize what you did wrong and you make sure never to repeat it again. All failures do is make you stronger and with that you go out and kick some more ass!"

Finally, finally he got his King to smile. Years ago he would have laughed. But there was a certain something to his eyes that made Gilbert's heart flutter to see it, a warmth and love that had not shown itself since…well since he had first woken up after Kunersdorf. It was like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds and Fritz was showing it so openly that he was left momentarily stunned by it. Frederick did not seem to mind. "I always wondered how you were so strong. Strong enough to live for hundreds, maybe a thousand, years and still keep going with a smile. After wars and death and plague and famine and what would crush any mortal and drive him to madness. I admire it so greatly in you and wondered how you were capable of doing it." He turned away a little and resumed his walk, his smile still etched on his face. "I suppose therein lies my answer at last."

Gilbert blinked stupidly at him for a moment and then hurried to catch up, wincing as his bandages were pulled. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and looked to see mounted figures following along the treeline behind them. "I hope you get what I'm saying," he said as he fell in step beside Frederick again.

"I do, mein Liebster, I do," Frederick said with a patient smile and a click of his tongue as he too noticed their followers. "They have no patience at all, I swear." He shook his head and moved around the marshes, his eyes on the large pond that stretched before them. There were a number of these everywhere but at the Grosser-Spitzberg were they truly at their largest. "Although I doubt I could withstand what you do. I would have killed myself a long time ago."

Those words, talking about suicide again! Gilbert recoiled as if his King had just pulled a dagger on him and stabbed him with it. Hot anger bubbled to the surface of his lips but a bitter laugh raced past the finish line first. "Oh, you think none of us have tried that? We all do, eventually. You just come back to life and you have to clean up whatever mess you left behind." Then Frederick's words caught up with him and his eyes widened as he remembered something. "Where is that damned thing?" he demanded, reaching to shove his hand into Frederick's coat.

Frederick had been staring at him in utter shock but he jumped at the sudden reach and slapped Gilbert's hand away indignantly. "Where is what?" he asked, eyeing his hand.

"That stupid, goddamned box you carry everywhere!" The words were snarled out and he went for the neck instead, slipping his quick fingers under the necktie and finding the ribbon that Frederick kept the box tied to. He found it safer after the chain broke. "The war is over, you don't need it anymore, now let me have it." The knot that the ribbon was tied in freed itself easily and he gave it a yank, pulling the little gold box free.

Eyes widened at the sight of it, as if he had forgotten that it was still there. "Ah, that thing," he said, an uncomfortable expression crossing his face. He all but squirmed under the glare that Gilbert threw him, but the smile was still there. Then he shrugged. "Well, like you said the war is over so I have no use for it anymore. It yours to do with as you wish."

He gripped it so tightly in his hand that he could feel his fingers leaving imprints on the soft gold. Oh how he had yearned for this moment over the years! He had to sit every single day, knowing that Fritz would kill himself without any hesitation if things got too bad, knowing that he could not do a thing about it if he did because Fritz would forbid him to, and all the while knowing that the instrument of his death was within reach at all times. If his rage had a physical form then he was fairly certain that the box would be on fire at this point and melting in his hand. Frederick was never, ever, going to touch anything remotely like this ever again, he swore to that on his life.

If Frederick noticed his thoughts, he did not comment on them. He simply smiled a little wider and fixed his coat. He looked ten years younger and even held himself taller, as if the box and all the pills it carried had been weighing him down the entire time. "Let's go home, Liebling," he murmured, casting a glance at the party that was trying to approach them through the muck. "If we stay out here any longer I think some idiot will fall in and drown trying to reach us."

Gilbert did not answer him, his crimson gaze still locked upon the box. The horrible, vile thing that had polluted their lives and sanity and had almost driven him to the breaking point several times as he was forced to beg on his knees for his King to wait just a little longer, to see where the future would take them. He had lost track of the times he had to guide Frederick's had away from it, to separate him from the dance that he liked to play with Death and bring him back to the world of reason. And now it was all his and Frederick had truly washed his hands of it, giving him permission to do whatever he wanted with it.

He threw it as hard as he possibly could, watching it sail away into the sky, seeming to hover for a moment before curving gracefully back down and landing in the middle of the pond with a splash that was too far away for them to hear. There, let it sink to the bottom forever and rot with all of its contents, like it deserved.

There were a few beats of silence, filled with Frederick leaning back and tapping on the head of his cane. "That was a very expensive box, you know," he said with mock reproach, trying so very hard to conceal a smile.

"I don't fucking care," Gilbert said with a shrug and a smile. Gods that felt so good, that was the purest feeling of catharsis that he had ever felt in his entire life. He turned to his lover, a smile on his face that was an echo of Frederick's. "Now we can go home." Voices were calling to them, pleading for them to come back and that they needed to get to Berlin soon.

Frederick threw the pond one last look and started to make his way back, starting up a little hum as he did. One of his sonatas that Gilbert recognized instantly. "Let's go home, then. Together."

They walked into the future, side by side, and never once did they look back at the pond or the quaint little town nestled between its hills, were the bones of their mistakes slumbered peacefully away in their graves for the rest of time.

Aftermath

"Your Majesty, we found him. We found Field Marshal Beilschmidt."

It was like lightning from a clear blue sky. In an instant the King was on his feet, leaping up from the pile of hay as if he had been electrocuted by it. For a moment the world spun around him, exhaustion and stress taking its toll on him, but he gritted his teeth and waited for it to pass. He had quite recovered from earlier breakdown and now Gilbird sat in his hat, quite asleep like he had so often done with his owner. A letter fluttered to the ground.

Red-rimmed eyes glared at the aide, hope that Frederick dared not show too freely bringing them back to life from their glazed state. "You did?" he asked as if he could barely believe the words himself. "Take me to him. Right now."

The aide stared only for a second, but seeing that his monarch was quite serious he saluted and stepped out, concern written on his face. Frederick was on his heels, the fire springing up inside of him once more and he was nearly tapping his foot in impatience as he waited for his horse to be brought. Simply finding Gilbert did not tell him much but he was about to see him soon—that was more than enough. He wasn't dead, he wasn't "gone," whatever that meant. Gilbert told him that dead nations simply vanished and he was still here, that meant he was alive. He jumped into the saddle the moment his horse was brought and he ignored the voices around him and other aides and guards scurrying to their own mounts to try and keep up with him, he only cared about the aide leading him.

If Rittwein was any bigger and less occupied he would have pushed his horse into a gallop, but if he did he would have most likely ended up stepping on someone. They were forced into a fast trot and occasional canter, ignoring everyone who noticed him and called out his name. No one was important now, no one else. Huts passed by them in a blur until, all too quickly it seemed, they were dismounting in front of an actual house. In front of it he could see various supply wagons at rest, surgeons running back and forth between them to get bandages and bottles and whatever else they could stuff their arms with. Around the place were soldiers on the ground, some on blankets and some laying in the dirt, moaning or screaming or simply silent. He wondered how many of them were dead. He wondered how many more were going to die before the night was over.

Not important. He handed the reins of his horse off to another man and followed his aide inside, pausing for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. Candles guttered in their tallow prisons, leaving the scent of smoke in the air and turning the house into an oven. The open windows did nothing to alleviate it, as there was still no breeze to relieve them and the air was hot and rancid. Moans filled every inch of the house, even the floorboards under his feet protested as he moved across them. Sometimes there were pleas, begging the surgeons to stop, begging for mothers to come save them, or random bits of gibberish that feverish minds conjured up. An ode of suffering.

All of it his fault.

Frederick gazed at the soldiers and surgeons only for a moment, turning once his guide went down a hall and following him closely. There were doors all along the way, and almost at the very end the man paused and opened one of them, clicking his heels smartly and taking off his hat in a salute. "His Majesty to see Herr Zahner," he announced. He waited for Frederick to pass by him and shoo him away with a jerk of his head before he closed the door to wait outside.

Everything seemed pervertedly silent, then. The other sounds in the house were so faint that Frederick hardly noticed them. He was too busy staring at the figure on the bed, or what he could see over the man bowing in front of it. "Doctor Zahner," he said, tilting his head in return.

Zahner straightened up, his eyes wide and alarmed in the black smudges of his face. Had he been under fire? What in the world would he be doing on the field? From the looks of it the ends of his mustache had been scorched, too. "Your Majesty," he replied graciously, coming forward to greet him as he fixed his spectacles into their proper place. "I've been waiting for you to call upon me. I'm just surprised it was not sooner."

The King had always liked Zahner, even all those years ago when they first met after the doctor had been treating Gilbert after shrapnel had been flung into his eyes. But now he could not seem to rise to his usual banter, one that was all too forced and wan. Whatever Zahner had to say about Gilbert was going to bad. Not that Frederick needed him to say so, he had been there when the injuries happened. When Gilbert had died in his arms and he could do nothing to save him. "How is he?" he said peering a little around Zahner to see for himself.

He couldn't believe at first that the man on the bed was Gilbert. He was far too small, too thin, but no one on Earth had that pale skin and silver hair—all of it decorated with blood. Frederick felt his stomach lurch at the sight; Gilbert was far too pale, there seemed to be no color left in him anywhere, save for those hand-shaped bruises that still dominated his face, angry red turning darker through time. Only the bloodstained bandages wrapped around his head and arms gave him any sort of variation, the rest being hidden by the blanket that Zahner had pulled up to his neck. Wait, no, he had been wrong. There were bruises on his neck, too, and the memory of how they got there flashed in his mind unbidden. Rage curled under his tongue, ready to spring forth like a tiger upon its prey.

There was a nervous noise from Zahner and the surgeon stepped forward, reaching to take one of Gilbert's hands and feel around for the pulse. "Not good," he admitted his shoulders slumping. He had learned a long time ago never to hide the truth from the King, especially regarding Gilbert. "He hasn't woken up ever since your men brought him to me. And he won't stop bleeding."

"What?" Frederick demanded, his anger vanishing under the fear that snapped in his gut like a coil. He came to stand beside Zahner at the bedside, his eyes glued to Gilbert's face. But he could not look for long, not at those bruises, and they roamed in desperation to find someplace else. "The wounds are supposed to close after a while, though," he protested as if the doctor would somehow know what was wrong with the nation. Nations hardly knew how they worked, themselves, what would a human know?

A sad, hopeless sigh. "I know," Zahner replied in a tight voice, quivering with all the tension of a plucked string. "They're supposed to do that but they aren't now, his wounds just keep bleeding and he's gone through almost all of my bandages already. He'll bleed out then—then he'll be still and I can work a little then he comes back to life and starts bleeding again!" His voice was rising and he paced nervously. Fritz glanced at him, then to his clothes. Breeches and shoes stained with Gilbert's blood, just like the King's own. "Eventually he got to the point where there was no blood left for him to bleed and I managed to stich that horrible wound in his side shut, but he didn't come back for hours after that." Zahner shook his head, distress in every movement he made, hands twitching as if they needed to grasp something in them. "I thought he would wake up but no! He's just been…going in and out. Bleeding then not bleeding. He used up all of my catgut for his side and chest stitches, I need more if I want to sew all of the wounds shut."

"Then go to the supply wagons and get some more," Frederick told him, brows frowning over his puzzled eyes. Why in the world was Zahner telling him that? The doctor did not need to be told to restock his supplies so why was he acting like it?

Zahner just chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. "I have already been there three times," he admitted. "I sure the men hate me by now. They were giving me glares as I came back the last time."

The King's eyes narrowed into icy slits. "Tell them that you have my permission to take what you need," he said, his words clipped. "And if they have a problem with that then they can take it up with me."

The relief from Zahner was palpable. "Your Majesty is most gracious," he said with another bow. Always reserved and well-mannered, even if his emotions ran higher than most. Another reason why Frederick liked him. "If I may, sire…?" he gestured at the door, worry clear in his face.

Frederick nodded at him. "Go, take what you need, Zahner," he replied. Already he was seating himself in what had to be the doctor's former chair at Gilbert's bedside. Zahner never needed to ask him to stay and watch over his patient, they both knew that.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Zahner said with another bow and he grabbed his coat and slid it on even as he opened the door to leave. There was a brief few words between him and the aide outside that Frederick did not pay attention to and then all was silent.

He sat there and stared for what felt like years, unable to look away from Gilbert's face. Every fleck of blood staining the skin, the crusted spikes of hair that clung to the bandages that wrapped through them, the bruises that penetrated so deep into his flesh that it made Fritz's stomach churn just to look at them. The same kind of deep bruises that Father's cane had put on him. But throughout it all Gilbert looked so peaceful and still, as if nothing affected him at all. Frederick's hand reached for the blanket, gripping the fabric tightly between his fingers as he paused, debating with himself on whether he should look or not. He really did not wish to know, but at the same time he had to.

Curiosity was a nefarious little imp, always seeking to bring him pain. Just a peek, he promised himself, at least that so the horrible vision of that gash in Gilbert's side would finally leave his brain. He lifted the blanket and felt his insides leap, as if he had jumped off a cliff even though he was still rooted to the spot. An enormous row of stitches greeted his eyes, dried blood coating them as they held the skin and flesh between them together, knotted and meticulous. Zahner always had the neatest stitches Frederick had ever seen. The wound stretched all the way from the armpit to the hip, across Gilbert's entire left side, the evidence of their utterly decimated left wing. How long had that wound been opening throughout the battle, getting bigger as Frederick threw more and more men to their doom in their hopeless effort to storm the Grosser-Spitzberg, only to finally tear apart as the Austrian's finally struck back? How Gilbert had screamed…another sound to haunt his nightmares.

My fault.

He let the blanket fall, feeling sick. He shook his head and took a few deep breaths of the blood-scented air, trying to calm himself down. Looking up again at Gilbert's face, he could feel his heart racing as he searched for any signs of life in the nation. Was he even breathing? It was so hard to tell, he barely moved. Unwilling to touch his neck and those terrible marks there, he reached out to lay his hand on Gilbert's chest instead, fear coursing through him that it might pain Gilbert and wake him up. He never needed to fear, though. The kingdom never so much as flinched.

At first he felt nothing, for a few seconds that sent the purest terror thrilling throughout his veins, but then it was there. A thready heartbeat, pounding weakly under his hand. Soft and struggling but there all the same, fighting to stay alive, fighting to keep going, as if it knew its lover was there and waiting for Gilbert to awaken.

All his breath seemed to come out in a rush and he sat back, his shoulders slumping. The movement disturbed Gilbird, who rustled his feathers and then let out a happy peep when he saw who else was in the room with them. There was a flapping of wings and then the bird was perched on the headboard, peering curiously down at his master. Frederick couldn't help but smile a little at him even as he turned to look at Gilbert again, frowning at his face and reaching out to feel against his lips. He barely felt a tickling of air against his hand and alarm beat in his chest once more. Why wasn't he breathing like normal? Maybe something was wrong? Normally he would have been adverse to moving Gilbert at all but love and concern were two powerful forces when put together and he leaned over to grab Gilbert and pull him closer so he was laying in the King's arms, his head resting against Frederick's shoulder. He was a limp as a doll and that frightened him all the more.

He pushed Gilbert up so he could look at him, frowning a little. There was blood coating his lips, a soft whistle coming from them now that Frederick was close enough to hear it; good heavens above they were all but glued shut from it! His brows dipped more and he glanced around the room, hoping to find a pitcher of water or a bucket but there was nothing. Schenkendorf's words came back to him. No one has been able to command something as simple as a drink of water. Of course Zahner would have none, where would he have gotten it during their flight back to Rittwein?

But he did…

Frederick was suddenly very aware of the canteen hanging at his hip. Not his, that one was long empty, but the one Gilbert had tossed to him before they renewed their attack on the Russians. In an instant he was sliding it off, listening to its contents slosh around as he did. He had only managed to take a sip of it, the rest left untouched as the battle and all the horrors of what had happened to Gilbert eating up too much of his time to drink the rest. From the noise inside there wasn't much left, but enough.

He dug in his pocket for a clean handkerchief, finding one pierced with a few bullets but otherwise fine. Uncapping the canteen, he tipped it very gently until a small trickle of water flowed out, enough to wet a patch of the cloth, and then he capped it back and held Gilbert upright so he could wipe his lips with it. Someone might have called the action degrading for a king and Frederick would have told such a person to go fuck themselves and let him take care of his lover. Brown globs of dried blood came free under his ministrations, scrubbing more until he could see Gilbert's mouth opening, the whistling noise disappearing as more air was allowed to flow into his lungs. He could feel Gilbert's chest pressing against his arms, finally allowed to breathe normally, if still weak.

What else was in his throat? Worry pinched Fritz's face as he peered at Gilbert, tilting his face up so he could examine the nation further. There were more bloodstains on his teeth, no doubt from when he coughed it up. Maybe that was blocking something as well. He thought for a moment, then pulled Gilbert closer to help him sit up fully in his arms. Of course he was still limp and Frederick pushed his head back just slightly to help him accomplish what he needed to do. He took the canteen again and poured a little bit of water past the nation's lips, too terrified of spilling it to give him a whole mouthful. Then with his free hand he massaged the skin just behind Gilbert's chin, forcing his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

The muscles under his hand jumped as Gilbert swallowed, coaxed into the action by Frederick's hand. A wide smile broke across the King's face at the sight and he was soon reaching for the canteen again. "That's it, Liebster," he whispered as he worked, filling his mouth again. "Drink it all, you need it." After all if his own mouth was parched after the day's events he couldn't possibly imagine was Gilbert would be feeling right now; he needed every drop even if Frederick had to trick his body into accepting it like he was doing now. There wasn't much that he could do anyway, not until Zahner got back.

He murmured gently to the nation, uncaring if his words were the only ones filling the room. Maybe, just maybe, they would help. Gilbert had told him a long time ago, after one of the very first times he had died for his King, that he could actually hear what was being said around him when while he was recovering from dying even if he looked to be unconscious still. There had only been enough for a few swallows inside the canteen, but every bit was more precious to Frederick than gold and from the sounds of it Gilbert's breathing was even clearer than before. Not that it said much, he could still barely feel it but any improvement was better than none. He set the canteen aside and pushed Gilbert back into place, tucking the blanket around him and trying so very hard not to look at the wounds on his chest. The sight of them still made his gut twist itself into a cold knot that sat in his body, unwilling to move.

When he seated himself again it was with Gilbert's hand in his own. He was so, so cold, colder than Frederick could have possibly imagined. Colder than he had been earlier. His hands were like ice, impossible in the August heat but here they were regardless. Frederick felt himself sighing and reaching with his other hand to hold Gilbert's between the both of them, gently massaging and rubbing to coax the blood to flow into it, to warm the flesh again. "Come on now, dear," he whispered, his voice a bare distraction to the rest of the room. It fit seamlessly into the bloody air, the pall walls, and the low moaning coming from the rest of the house. His own little melody of suffering to add to the whole, building another layer to the lament around them. "You can wake up now. You're safe here, nothing will happen to you while I'm here." But he was the one who had put Gilbert in this situation in the first place, hadn't he? In reality, he was the most dangerous person to Gilbert right now.

But he would not let those thoughts consume him. Not now and not ever. This was where he belonged, at his nation's side until he awoke and he promised that the first thing Gilbert would see was him, the first thing he would hear was his King's voice telling him that everything was alright. No matter how long it would take.

He sat in that house for four days.

And he refused to be moved.

((Dreams: I need to figure out what to do with the other story I had written for this ages ago, now that I rediscovered it after this was typed up XD The first draft actually was about Gilbert during his Knights era, but I found this version more interesting because it explains how Fritz became such a cold person after his imprisonment and why. Feel free to make all the Frozen references you want, I had this idea in my head before Frozen was even a thing. And I can make allusions to this story now because there are so many other times where I've wanted to reference the ice dream in other stories but I couldn't because no one would understand what I was talking about.

And gratuitous Fratte angst because yes.

Narcissism: Funny thing is the two drafts I had for this story are so similar it's frightening. Even some of the LINES are practically the same and I had no idea I had this story already written so I must have been subconsciously channeling it or something. Unlike the entire fandom I don't like the uniform Prussia wears in the comics because a.) it's not an officer's uniform and b.) it isn't really even a proper Prussian uniform anyway. I can't fault Hima for trying but it honestly just bugs me. I also don't like giving Gilbert gold lace on his uniform. Pretty much my only reasoning is because for his skin tone it wouldn't look right, Gilbert is super pale and has a cool skin tone so gold wouldn't look right on him so I gave him silver instead which I think just fits better with his colors anyway.

I didn't have a specific regiment uniform in mind when I was describing it, but the references I used were officer uniforms of the von Winterfeldt infanty and the I. Leibgarde Infantry, you can find them on Google and Project SYW has the best references for them. Gilbert's uniform is just kind of a mix between the two of them.

Happiness: So I'm actually forced to write them being happy now for a change and it actually felt wonderful, I missed these two just being happy. And gosh I missed Frederick being an adorable nerd because it rarely happens EVER even in my head so watching him just go off all excitedly and start to ramble about everything was so awesome to watch. Since this was still rather early in their relationship I can very easily imagine the rough spots they had, Fritz trying to "fix" Gilbert and Gilbert being just annoying in general and complaining about how sissy his warring king can be.

Except not every argument they have has to end badly (*coughHellcough*) and here I just wrote mushy fluff…and it made me melt too because my Gil said that line pretty much out of nowhere in my head and it was the best thing ever.

And Fritz did like to walk very fast. It's hilarious to read about actually.

Ready: I retold Frederick William's death as accurately as I heard it described. He was a very sick man in the last years of his life and everyone was constantly expecting him to die, but the King would always spring because from his illnesses or go about his business despite them. One story tells of Frederick receiving a letter from Frederick William, the first line reading "My dear Son." It was the first time his Father had ever addressed him like that in a letter and, thinking that he was dying, Frederick rode as fast as he could to Berlin only to find Frederick William overseeing the construction of a new cottage for a peasant. All of the lines spoken by FW in this story are true, sans his dialogue with Gilbert. He really did ask for his coffin to be brought into the room and his final request was a mirror so he could look at his face while he died.

Some people believe that Frederick forgave his Father before he died. I don't believe it considering his attitude after his death. However, there was a reconciliation between them and it did take place. On his deathbed, Frederick William praised his son and spoke the words that Frederick had always wanted to hear, all throughout his life. Too little, too late, but the feelings on both sides were sincere all the same.

Charity: I came up with this story while I had been writing "Happiness." Frederick mentions that Gilbert has a mansion, and of course Gilbert would, being someone of the higher social echelons in his country. And I don't mean the metaphorical type of house that Hetalia itself will use, I mean actual living spaces. So, why does he never use it, or rather, them? Countries have lived for centuries and I refuse to believe that they would only own one mansion. The whole country is probably scattered with country estates, houses, and other such buildings in their name. But in such times as this, the court often lived in the castle with the King while retaining their own estates somewhere else so of course Gilbert would as well. Especially since Fritz built Sanssouci for this particular purpose. What is to become of these unneeded estates then? The answer was given to me by Gilbert himself. I doubt any country would sit by and just let their own people live homeless on the streets, especially when they have their own dwellings that are just sitting and collecting dust, so why not put them to good use? They become shelters for children and the homeless, mostly the former as my Gilbert has a fondness for them. He introduces them to their new life which includes living under his roof but going through the routine he sets out for them. Inside his homes the children are scrubbed clean, dressed, and a tutor is paid to come and give them a proper basic education. When Frederick became King and started building more public schools, many of them were sent there instead. Sometimes they learn a profession if they show a fondness and skill for it, while others join the army when they become old enough.

But none of them ever forget the kind, white-haired and red-eyed man who plucked them out of their rags and gave their lives new opportunity and new meaning.

Yes that flashback is important. Very important.

River: This actually happened too, taking place right after Frederick William was informed of his son's plot to run away~ The King and Crown Prince were on a trip throughout Prussia at the time, taking the royal yacht down the rivers (I forget which one so pardon me on that) and it was on one of these nights Fritz tried his escape. Of course we all know the story of how he was caught and taken back, I don't need to explain that again.

But the next day, on the yacht, the moment FW stepped on and saw Fritz standing there he flew into a rage and hit Fritz right across the face with his cane. *Fritz actually said this in reply. It isn't ever said explicitly whether or not his nose was broken, only that Frederick stumbled away from the hit "with blood pouring down his face," but considering who Frederick William was, Frederick's response, and the looking at his nose in his death mask–which you can see the signs of healing from a broken nose–makes me believe that it was.

Graveyard: Nope this prompt isn't near as boring as it first sounds :D Instead we have the second battle that I really want to write sometime in the future: Zorndorf! My other favorite aside from Leuthen~ It's quite an interesting battle on the account that both sides ran out of ammunition very early on so the soldiers were forced to cut each other to pieces like they did in older times. It's known as the bloodiest battle of the 18th century, over Torgau and Kunersdorf, and I'm quite inclined to believe that on the simple fact that it was pretty much a slaughter. More people might had died in the other two battles, but Zorndorf is by far the most gruesome and horrifying of all these battles.

Heartbreak: Well this was an easy prompt. It was one of those nice ones where you look and you know instantly what you want and you tear your heart out when writing it. Just knowing how close Fritz and Wilhelmine were and how much he loved her and how much she loved him absolutely murders my heart knowing she dies in the middle of the war. Frederick said that Wilhelmine inspired in him a joy to live like no other person could and he always referred to himself as "her faithful servant and brother." Her death crushed him and he built the Temple of Friendship in Sanssouci in her honor.

Future: You know, if this story were ever to end I would have really preferred this to be the last prompt ever. But I'm not nearly that cruel and I don't think even I could take it so it is here instead. When the SYW ended Fritz did stop off at Kunersdorf before he reached Berlin and wandered around for a bit and this idea popped into my head. and by idea I mean Gil throwing the box into the pond, their dialogue was pretty much what they were telling me in my head while I was imagining this scenario and it turned out a lot sadder than I originally planned. But that last paragraph will still punch me right in the gut and bring tears to my eyes no matter how many times I read it…just…wow these two. I love them so much.

Aftermath: Remember Kunersdorf? I bet you do, and so do I. A direct sequel to Hell, obviously, and God takes place some time after this. Of course there are other stories to fill in the gaps later, but as for what happened right after Hell and what happened when Frederick finally did track down Gilbert, now you know~

Forcing myself to swallow something is…a really weird feeling. Just take a mouthful of water or something and hold it in your mouth, then push up on that soft bit of flesh between your chin and neck (WHICH DOESN'T HAVE A NAME I THINK? Either that or I'm bad in finding one for it because I really did look everywhere) and you'll swallow on your own. But what Frederick is doing here really is possible.))