Yet another intercom jingle sounded, and the nurses, anticipating the Head Doctor's orders, already began grouping around the patients as he began to speak
( Read more... )
When Prussia awoke, just after the clicking off of the intercom, it was with a sense of panic.
He knew this feeling. He hadn't felt it this sharply for a long time-not since he'd gone by a different name and did what he needed to in order to survive-and it had never been so... so thorough before, but he knew it. He'd felt loss before. He'd felt his borders shift and change, he'd felt his land lost and gained, but he'd always felt something. People, if not land; land if not people. This was so much like that feeling from centuries ago, but it was... different, too. That lingering sense of something-anything!-still there was missing.
Everything was gone-his land, his people, the old castles and forts, the capital... Berlin; he couldn't feel Berlin! And West, his brother, that familiar presence that he'd always felt somewhere in the back of his mind or along his borders to the southwest ever since the formation of the Empire-West was gone, too.
He shot up, but his mind didn't quite register the unfamiliar surroundings; he was too focused on the feeling of being completely disconnected from everything that made him what he was. He closed his eyes and breathed in a deep breath-it was supposed to be calming, but it didn't help at all. Everything was gone; he'd lost everything. On a quick inspection, even the injuries he'd borne since the war were gone, and that unsettled him. For the wounds to disappear... They had said he'd have a few more weeks, but had they moved their plans ahead? Had they proceeded with implementing their damned Law No. 46 in secret while he'd slept, in order to prevent any remaining possibility of retaliation?
Prussia scoffed at the thought. How could he retaliate? Since the end of the war, he'd been unable to lift a finger against their rules and regulations and control councils; they'd made sure of that, and they'd come down on him harder than on West-but that was to be expected. West was still young, after all. West hadn't fought with them and against them in countless battles over hundreds of years. West didn't have the history with the others that Prussia had.
But... if they'd gone through with their plan already (or even worse, if he'd missed being there for it, missed that last opportunity to curse their names for doing this to him, missed saying goodbye to his brother), then he... He ached for his land-and it was that loss he felt most acutely, it had always been important to him-but a touch, a press of his hand against his chest was all that was needed to prove that his heart still beat there. He was still alive.
They'd failed, then. Even if he'd lost everything else, he was still alive. He hadn't died or faded away like Rome or Germania. Their law hadn't killed him, and he wasn't in heaven or in...
Come to think of it, he didn't know where he was. He peered around at the room-he'd always liked white, but there was so much of it. It wasn't his house (did he even still have a house now?), and it wasn't West's house, either. If the sharp clinical smell was anything to go by, it seemed likely to be a hospital of some sort, but...
There were no guards. Not inside the room at least, and that was definitely new. Overconfident, the lot of them... They may have stolen everything from him, but if they'd been expecting him to simply roll over and die because of it, they were going to be sorely disappointed. He'd survived, and he'd keep surviving. Once he had the strength to, he'd take everything back.
First, though, he was getting out of here. If they thought he didn't need guards any more, that was even more reason to get out before they changed their minds. Prussia climbed out of bed and headed straight for the door, but found it locked. Of course they wouldn't have made things that easy for him...
He looked around the room. No doors save for the one, no windows, two beds, and two sets of all the furniture, as if there were supposed to be a second occupant in the room. West, maybe? But if his brother were supposed to be here with him now, where was he?
There was food on a tray on the desk-spaghetti and bread and gelato. He ignored it at first, trying the door again and making an unsuccessful attempt to ram it open by force, but he finally took a reluctant seat. If Italy had cooked, he shouldn't waste it...
One bite proved him wrong: it definitely wasn't anything that Italy had made.
He knew this feeling. He hadn't felt it this sharply for a long time-not since he'd gone by a different name and did what he needed to in order to survive-and it had never been so... so thorough before, but he knew it. He'd felt loss before. He'd felt his borders shift and change, he'd felt his land lost and gained, but he'd always felt something. People, if not land; land if not people. This was so much like that feeling from centuries ago, but it was... different, too. That lingering sense of something-anything!-still there was missing.
Everything was gone-his land, his people, the old castles and forts, the capital... Berlin; he couldn't feel Berlin! And West, his brother, that familiar presence that he'd always felt somewhere in the back of his mind or along his borders to the southwest ever since the formation of the Empire-West was gone, too.
He shot up, but his mind didn't quite register the unfamiliar surroundings; he was too focused on the feeling of being completely disconnected from everything that made him what he was. He closed his eyes and breathed in a deep breath-it was supposed to be calming, but it didn't help at all. Everything was gone; he'd lost everything. On a quick inspection, even the injuries he'd borne since the war were gone, and that unsettled him. For the wounds to disappear... They had said he'd have a few more weeks, but had they moved their plans ahead? Had they proceeded with implementing their damned Law No. 46 in secret while he'd slept, in order to prevent any remaining possibility of retaliation?
Prussia scoffed at the thought. How could he retaliate? Since the end of the war, he'd been unable to lift a finger against their rules and regulations and control councils; they'd made sure of that, and they'd come down on him harder than on West-but that was to be expected. West was still young, after all. West hadn't fought with them and against them in countless battles over hundreds of years. West didn't have the history with the others that Prussia had.
But... if they'd gone through with their plan already (or even worse, if he'd missed being there for it, missed that last opportunity to curse their names for doing this to him, missed saying goodbye to his brother), then he... He ached for his land-and it was that loss he felt most acutely, it had always been important to him-but a touch, a press of his hand against his chest was all that was needed to prove that his heart still beat there. He was still alive.
They'd failed, then. Even if he'd lost everything else, he was still alive. He hadn't died or faded away like Rome or Germania. Their law hadn't killed him, and he wasn't in heaven or in...
Come to think of it, he didn't know where he was. He peered around at the room-he'd always liked white, but there was so much of it. It wasn't his house (did he even still have a house now?), and it wasn't West's house, either. If the sharp clinical smell was anything to go by, it seemed likely to be a hospital of some sort, but...
There were no guards. Not inside the room at least, and that was definitely new. Overconfident, the lot of them... They may have stolen everything from him, but if they'd been expecting him to simply roll over and die because of it, they were going to be sorely disappointed. He'd survived, and he'd keep surviving. Once he had the strength to, he'd take everything back.
Reply
He looked around the room. No doors save for the one, no windows, two beds, and two sets of all the furniture, as if there were supposed to be a second occupant in the room. West, maybe? But if his brother were supposed to be here with him now, where was he?
There was food on a tray on the desk-spaghetti and bread and gelato. He ignored it at first, trying the door again and making an unsuccessful attempt to ram it open by force, but he finally took a reluctant seat. If Italy had cooked, he shouldn't waste it...
One bite proved him wrong: it definitely wasn't anything that Italy had made.
Reply
Leave a comment