Panic, pain, and suffering… everything he had done, everyone he had wronged, every time he failed to stop his government from the monstrosities they were perpetuating… As his head cracked off the hard stone of his jail cell floor and everything went black, Ludwig could only think that finally, at least some of his punishment was being meted out.

The images were cloudy at first, but his vision came into focus soon enough. The blood of the battlefield, it was beautiful… the death and destruction around him, nothing but a means to an end. Striding forward, the very personification of all the evil Nazi Germany had to offer the world took not even a moment to mourn for the mangled corpses surrounding him – anyone who stood against the Fuhrer deserved nothing less.

When he reached one certain body, the man finally took interest in something. Kneeling, the smirk that grew to cover his lips was nothing short of diabolical. Against the bright burn of fire streaking the countryside behind them, the only two living creatures left on the battlefield were outlined in stark, harsh light. "You have failed, France," in contrast to the screams and cries that had filled the battlefield not two hours before, the voice of the German was shockingly soft, almost gentle, "and now you are mine."

Before his enemy had even a moment to respond, the crack of his hand echoed off the other man's temple. They would talk once safely ensconced back in Berlin, away from any nation who might decide to steal away his newest prize. Scooping the Frenchman from the ground, Germany cradled him to his chest in some sick parody of the way a groom holds his bride. Francis would be joining his home, but there would be no joy or happiness in it.

It had been difficult at first, to say the least. Francis had kicked, bitten, and screamed every inch of the way and it had taken more than one punishment to bring him into line, but honestly, the end result was worth it. Vichy France was a masterpiece, an excellent example of how the right training and encouragements could reshape any dissenters and bring them into the Nazi fold.

Lost in his work, Germany absentmindedly lowered his hand off the side of the chair, finding and stroking the shock of blonde hair resting against his knee. When the movement resulted in a soft hum of content, the German took just a moment to pause, a smile coming to his lips, "Good, pet…" A laugh escaped then when France nudged his hand gently, clearly begging for more attention from his owner, "Patience, I still have work to do."

The grumbling of his stomach was the thing that finally roused Germany from his desk. Standing, he took a moment to stretch, the aches of war having settled into his back long ago. But it was of no matter, he was young and healthy, strong enough for all of this. Flicking his eyes down, another half-smile touched his lips – France was holding his leash up as he had been taught, offering the looped end to Germany.

His mind alight with the thrill of power that simple gesture gave him, he threaded his hand through the loop, tugging gently as he started to head for the mess hall, "Heel." As France fell in beside him immediately, Germany allowed himself a moment to admire the gentle arch of his back, and the more pronounced curve of his ass – his pet certainly looked good on his hands and knees.

Though calling it love would have twisted the meaning of that word beyond recognition, as the war continued on the two men started to share something akin to it. France was desperate in his worship of Germany, constantly seeking affection and attention. Though he preferred the positives, France was not discriminatory – any sort of attention from his owner was better than none at all.

The screams echoing from him had been choked off a while ago, the strain on his throat finally overcoming his ability to speak. Now the only sounds Germany could hear were muted grunts, groans, and whimpers, all of pain. But therein lied the pleasure, for both of them – France's ass had been whipped to welts, his back in much the same condition. The hot rush of anguish stinging his flesh and running through his bloodstream only enhanced the sensation of Germany taking him, ramming into him with complete disregard for his comfort.

When they both came to completion, France wished for nothing more than his hands to be undone, so he could caress Germany's skin and clean every inch of him. He ached to lay in bed and soothe his wounds, but that could wait – he had to see to Germany first, had to care for his master, make sure he had everything he could possibly want. That was France's life now, and as Vichy he couldn't want anything more.

But then the days came where Francis woke up and Vichy was nowhere to be seen. More often than not, being buried in the heart of his country and in the very middle of this war, Germany was still controlled by the Nazi influences. These days were the worst, because at least at Vichy, Francis could take pleasure from the pain inflicted on him. But when Germany was punishing him for misbehavior, well… God either loved him or hated him, because the treatment would have killed a human. It was moments like this in his life where Francis couldn't decide if being a nation was a blessing or a curse.

Yet… the few and far between days when Germany reverted, when he was Ludwig again… Francis didn't have it in his heart to hate the other man. He couldn't even summon scorn. No… perhaps it was sick, or twisted, but… more often than not, he felt something like sadness, something like longing…

The war fueled Nazi Germany, but it was killing Ludwig. The boy was just that, really… a boy, so young by the standards nations set. Francis could see the raw anguish in his eyes, every time Ludwig saw the marks on his body, the fresh and faded scars so crisscrossed over his skin that oftentimes it was hard to tell where one started and the other began. He had heard the other man vomiting at night, retching in the bathroom where he was alone and hoped no one would stumble upon him. When he was himself, Ludwig was… shocking, but in a good way, like a breath of fresh air after being trapped in a stale building for hours. The desperate way he begged for forgiveness, the horror that masked his face as he remembered the things he had done, the gentle way his hands moved over Francis then, to bandage and heal his wounds rather than inflict more… those moments became something Francis longed for, so much so that his heart ached for them.

They were proof that Ludwig was a good person. Genuinely good, his life only marred by the cruelties of his leaders, the follies of humans. Eventually, thoughts of those moments and memories were all that got Francis through the days when he was sane but Germany was not. The longer he spent in Berlin, the less and less of a grip he had on himself, until the day came where Vichy had succeeded Francis almost permanently.

The lengths France went to in order to give him what he wanted were astounding, even to Germany. It was as though the man was insane, his quest to please his owner was so all consuming. The kisses he gave, when Germany allowed them, were overwhelming in their need, all-consuming in the passion they held for the other man. Germany responded with just as much intensity, his passion the same as France's, though it took on a different tone. In a way, he was just as desperate to control France as France was to be controlled by him. In a way, it was the only actual control Germany had over anything in his life right now. France was the only lifeline he had in an unrelenting storm of hate, murder, and genocide and even when he did not know himself, somehow, his body knew that at least, to be true.

The biggest reward Germany could bestow on France was the honor of sleeping in his bed with him, rather than in his usual spot, the dog crate on the floor. Every such night, the Frenchman crawled under the sheets with unbridled glee before promptly curling up at Germany's side, tucking himself into the curve of the other man's body. Germany would always allow the movement, and it would be completed only when his hand slowly snaked up the front of France's body until his hand wrapped around the other man's throat, fingers stroking the trembling flesh there for a moment before settling in for the night.

It was a high, the rush France felt when Germany's hand surrounded his neck. The man at his back was so strong, so vicious, so powerful… he could choke France to unconsciousness with ease. The thoughts made him undeniably turned on, but he tried his best to quell the sensations – his owner was exhausted, and besides, there would be plenty of time for that tomorrow. As his eyes drifted closed, he just allowed himself to enjoy every sensation washing over him, taking extra care to revel in the reminder resting around his neck that Germany owned every single thing about him.

As consciousness slowly returned to him, it left a lingering image in Ludwig's mind. The swastika staining his upper arm and the pouring rain that drenched all of Berlin in a gray fog he remembered clearly, but they were only background noise to the main focus. The way France had kissed him that day was the same as any other, though there was one clear indication that something about it was drastically different. The man's slender hands clenched tightly in the fabric of his uniform as rain slicked their hair back against their skull and his own arms had been tight around Francis' waist, pulling the smaller man against him as close as he could.

The allies had invaded Normandy two days before, and they were well on their way to freeing France from the grasp of the Axis. The shock of it all had jarred Nazi's control on Ludwig, freeing him from the bloodlust for at least a few days. This was it, this was the last moment they might ever have to share whatever this was… they needed to exchange their last words, whatever they were. Those days had been a whirlwind, to say the least. The first time Francis had told him he loved him, Ludwig dismissed it as fear – the war had gone on so long, been so harsh on him and his people, that the man would say anything to stop the pain.

The second time, Ludwig had run from it, insisting that the other man was still in the grip of Vichy, still consumed by his disgusting loyalty to the Third Reich and its ideals. The third time, he hid from it, shutting down in the face of Francis' admission, choosing to do his best to just ignore it. The fourth time he had taken it out on Francis, screaming at him that he couldn't possibly love a monster, that there was no way he actually felt that way, that he was confused and just needed to stop it, because soon enough he would come to his senses, remember what happened, and want to be as far from Ludwig as humanly possible.

The fifth time, well… the fifth time, he had lost all the strength he had to fight. Because, somehow, through all of this… he had come to love the other man too. But it terrified Ludwig, the feeling, because how could he possibly be anything but a vermin to feel so for someone he had so brutally raped and hurt? Maybe Nazi loved Vichy – in a way, as sick as it was, at least that made sense. But they had been created from the same cloth, and now it was finally for them to die. So they would go together, and perhaps that had been what they were born for – to show a different side of love, to play the lead this tragic, broken, horror story. But that didn't mean that what they left behind, Francis and Ludwig, could ever or should ever be anything.

They were bruised, and he was broken, but he deserved it. As he lay there on the floor of his cell, rightfully abandoned by anyone he had ever considered a friend, Ludwig felt all the passion and life his body once held draining from him bit by bit. Nazi Germany would be the legacy he left behind, all he ever gave to the world… he was sure of it. They would disband his country, lock up his leaders, and disperse his people. That was the only course of action after such egregious transgressions. Never before had he felt so alone, but again… nothing less was to be expected.

When unexpected footsteps sounded in the hallway, Ludwig grunted, pushing himself up on his forearms. His entire body was covered in bruises and welts from the beatings he received in the name of interrogation, making much of any movement agonizing but he wasn't going to complain. But whoever was coming, he wanted to meet them head on – he still had a bit of pride, and didn't want to die curled up on the floor like a coward.

Expecting the hangman to come taunt him, or England to come mock him, the shock that echoed in Ludwig's eyes was clear as the last person he ever expected to see again rounded the corner, a thoughtful but kind look in his eyes.

Though he lacked a key and had technically been denied access to the dungeons, Francis' determination had allowed him to find his way into them regardless. Though the sound of his feet scuffing the floor was steady, his mind still begged them to keep going, to take the steps he's asking of them. He already knew what he would see when he reached Ludwig's cell, but that didn't stop his heart from breaking at the idea. Though he had tried his hardest to stop the Allies from doing what they did, none of them would listen – Ludwig was young, overtaken by the same thirst for blood that had consumed each and every one of them at some point in their histories.

It did not absolve him of guilt, but it should have weighed heavily on the minds of the others, who literally got away with murder. Though there had been times, during the war, when Francis had had nothing but his wits and his heart, somehow he still felt lonelier now than he ever had as Germany's captive. It had certainly been one hell of a tough road, but that's what love always boiled down to. The feelings he had for Ludwig were formed during that war and also managed to survive it, that was miraculous in itself. But then, when he added in the fact that they existed even now that Vichy France was nothing but a distant memory – this love he felt, it was possibly the strongest he ever had. There had to be something in this, something more for them… No love survived a road that bumpy just to crash and burn once the hard part had passed.

He didn't have all the answers; hell, he didn't have any, really, but that didn't matter. When he reached the cell, the smile he sent Ludwig's way was small, but genuine, "You may have fallen, Ludwig…" He pressed a hand through the bars now, reaching out to touch the fragile, skittish man on the other side, "But I will help you get back up." His voice trailed off then as he closed his eyes, remembering the first words Nazi Germany had ever spoken to him. At the time, they had been twisted and dark, a promise of pain, but now he could change them into something bright, something that promised the future, "You are mine. I know this is hard, but I will not give you up, no matter what happens."

With baited breath, he waited to see if Ludwig would grasp his offered hand. The man was caged, cornered, and lost, but Francis believed in them, believed that a love this strong meant that even if they didn't have the answers now, they would find them someday. He believed in them with his whole heart, and the nation of love did not do that easily. The smile on his face grew larger at the hope he saw reflected in Ludwig's eyes, though it was tempered with haunting pain. Curling his fingers inward, he gestured to the other man, silently begging him to come closer, "Come, mon cheri… This isn't a love that was born to just die."