((Basically, I had a whole bunch of specific headcannons as to what happened to Prussia during the end of World War Two and the Berlin wall event, so I decided to string them together and write it. The only other things I've seen that are somewhat similar to this are Russia/Prussia pairing fics, which in my opinion makes no sense at all, but I digress. This fic has no pairing. Maybe a tiny bit of mentioned Pruhun if anything. Mostly just angst eh heh heh.

Tried to be pretty historically accurate, but playing the artistic license card for better story flow and making every year equal to a month.

Also I write Russia pretty mean because I think that is what his character is like. Really not trying to offend anyone. ^^; Russia actually terrifies me, and I find it difficult to write him when I whimper every time he comes onscreen. I hope this is okay anyway. Warnings for violence/torture.))

Headcannon 1 – Nations refer to eachother as their country names at meetings and formal occasions, as well as informally if they don't know the other nation very well. Human names are used between friends/siblings/more familiar relations only.

He was surrounded.

No, no, he couldn't lose this war.

He could not lose this war.

He had only lost one other big war in his lifetime and the consequences for that-

He would not let it happen again.

He knew as well as any sane German in the country that the causes of this war were wrong, but they were too far gone now. It was too late to fix it peacefully. If they lost-

No. He leapt at the Englishman. Long out of bullets, as they all were, he swung his long, knifed rifle like a sword up to his neck. The Englishman blocked it with his own rifle, barely.

Swords were what Prussia was good at, not these silly firearms: weapons of cowards, killing at a distance, relying on luck. Prussia was the best when it came to swords. As good as the Englishman was, Prussia could take him out in a second. The problem was-

He hissed and jumped back as his left shoulder was sliced open. A piece of fabric fluttered downwards, stained red. It blended with the rest of the ground. He whirled around to face his other opponent, his own blood dripping down the Frenchman's rifle, his expression blank. Very unlike himself.

This was the problem Prussia faced. Every time he tried to land a blow on one opponent, a different one would retaliate behind his back. He was exhausted and injured.

But he could not lose.

He advanced and parried expertly with the Frenchman, whipping back and forth, steel flashing. He gritted his teeth and ignored the pain, as he could see the same amount of blood on his own blade as the Frenchman's.

Suddenly there was a flash from the other direction, and he swung around to block another blow from the Englishman while ducking under the Frenchman's rifle.

The Frenchman stumbled slightly as his blow did not connect. He was too close now. Perfect.

Prussia swung around to the Englishman, shoving the butt of his rifle back to slam into the Frenchman's knee. He cried out and fell back as Prussia started slashing at the Englishman.

Laughing now despite the fire in his left arm, he had forgotten that France and England were not his only enemies.

A mistake that would prove to be the most disastrous of his life as his leg was suddenly snapped in two.

He screamed and fell in the mud at the surprised Englishman's feet. A soft chuckle sounded behind him as something hit him hard in the stomach. He coughed at the impact and felt something warm drip down his cheek before his face hit the ground.

"Give up now for your own good, da comrade?"

It was the Russian. Verdammt.

He turned his head to the side and caught sight of his little brother. He had seen what had happened and was desperately trying to fight his way towards him. The American moron was giving him a run for his money though.

Verdammt.

He could not lose.

He grabbed the Englishman's ankle and pulled him to the ground. Forcing himself up on his good knee, he swung his blade at the Russian. He grabbed it and yanked it out of Prussia's hands, then swung it back to knock him upside the head with its butt. Hard.

His vision blurred, but he managed to stay conscious as he hit the ground again. He was breathing hard now, trying to control the pain and get his mind to work properly. It was all fuzzy. No. Focus. Ludwig. He had to win for Ludwig.

He could not lose.

He tried to get up again, then felt something on his broken leg.

"Pathetic."

He looked around just in time to hear the crunch as the Russian's boot pressed down on his leg. Bone broke through skin and he screamed again, eyes watering. The pain was too much. He fought with everything he had to not black out.

Suddenly the pressure stopped. He curled his arms around it protectively and looked up blearily.

"Francis…" he choked.

The Frenchman glanced down at him, then angrily back at the Russian, who he had just shoved aside.

"That's enough," he hissed.

The Englishman stood and brushed himself off. "Indeed. He is unarmed and injured. It's done."

The Russian cocked his head. "Ah, but you see, I was the one who defeated him, which means he is mine."

The Frenchman flinched and hesitated. "… That may be so, but you can't-"

"I can do whatever I want." He moved towards Prussia again.

He shut his eyes in preparation for the next blow. Instead, a hand grabbed a chunkful of his snow white hair and lifted him off the ground.

He drew blood biting his lip in an effort to hold back another yell. His leg felt like it was just going to fall off.

From his now vertical position and his increasing blood loss, he suddenly felt extremely light-headed. He couldn't stay awake any longer.

He felt himself being dragged away by his hair, his leg jostling painfully. He only barely registered the still-angry voices of his two other opponents, and that his brother was yelling something at him from further away, still being fended off by the American and a few others. He shut his eyes. There was too much fog.

He had… lost.

But no. It's okay, bruder. I won't give up. I'm not done yet. I'll get back to you. I'll help you win. I will. I promise. Just after… a little… rest…

Headcannon 2 - during WW2 (and WW1) the French were very much against the Germans and hated them with a passion. France himself, however, was reluctant because of the friendship he once shared with Prussia.