A/N: As a note, I looked up the most commonly used human name for Germania, and evidently it's "Folkert." So, in case you're wondering why I used it, that's why. He's also very drunk here...

Munich, Germany

June 23rd, 1938

If there was one thing that Folkert Beilschmidt liked most, it was getting his way. He had grown accustomed to it from all the years he spent indoctrinating his family to believe the concept—"I am your father. Do as I say," he always told his sons. The nonverbal implication went to the tune of "If you don't, you will regret it."

This time, Herr Beilschmidt's second son, Ludwig, decided to test his bravery and tell his father, for the first time, no.

The word was clipped. He would have yelled it if he had not doubted himself at the last moment. Instead Ludwig sounded cautious, and his father hardly reacted to it, at first. Ludwig hoped that he wouldn't laugh—he hated when his father laughed in his patronizing manner. Thankfully, this time he only stood and stared in disbelief.

"I beg your pardon?" Folkert barked.

His immediate hostility made Ludwig's shoulders tighten, and he swore that his stomach dropped. How could soldiers stand it, he thought, being yelled at all day like this? That was why he had to be more aggressive with his father—a soldier's life was not for him. Ludwig stood to his full height: he was taller than his father, by one or two inches.

"I told you, Father," the young man insisted, "I will not enlist."

Until then, Folkert had merely sounded irritated, but his expression suggested that he thought he could bully Ludwig into doing as he said, as usual. His mouth was curved into a smirk, even—after all, this behavior would give him leave to beat his son with the cane once he bullied him into obeying his command. Insubordination was not tolerated in the Beilschmidt household. This was the first time that rule was challenged. When Ludwig remained steadfast and ended the conversation there, despite how scared he actually was, Folkert's face immediately twisted in anger.

Ludwig had never seen his father that way before. He had seen him angry, of course, but that was normally only after drinking too much beer. This was the first time Ludwig saw the blood rise to his father's face, boiling with rage. The thick veins in his neck threatened to burst. Folkert's hands crumpled into tight fists, and it looked like he was trying very hard not to explode at his son. He was livid—seething with quiet rage. Ludwig sincerely hoped that this anger didn't run in their genes. He never wanted to look so angry and monstrous.

He met his father with a cool gaze.

"I am your father, Ludwig," Folkert deadpanned. Do as I say.

"Yes, I know," replied the son.

"So you will do as I say." If you don't, you will regret it.

Ludwig stared his father down and said nothing, hoping to win the argument without escalating to yelling or violence. Their blue eyes met each other, and not another word was spoken between them for a few moments. Ludwig couldn't tell if he was free to leave, or not. He was going to move to his suitcase leaning against the wall, but his father continued.

"As your father, I am telling you that you must enlist in the army," the words sprayed against Ludwig's cheek, "All of the good German boys do. You want to be a good German boy, don't you, Ludwig?"

Ludwig gripped his hands into fists. He needed to quell his anger if he wanted to make the conversation last as long as possible before his father decided to throw a punch. He took a deep breath through his nose.

"I am twenty years old, Father. I'm no longer a boy," he said as evenly as he could manage. They had had that conversation plenty of times before. "And of course I want to be a good German, but a soldier's life is not for me. You know that."

"That is not your decision to make."

Folkert's hand shoved hard against Ludwig's chest as he said the words. Ludwig fought hard not to become angry. He still had a chance to reel his father back into the conversation. Their argument made Ludwig's older brother Gilbert come running into the main room of the apartment. He looked like he was about to jump in and say something, but Ludwig quickly shot him a look that advised against it. Gilbert shrank back and rested against the doorway.

"You owe your life to the Nazis. If not for our glorious Führer Hitler, you would have been food for the dogs, boy!" Folkert was roaring with rage now. He looked like he was itching to hit his son, but his eyes shone with conflict. Ludwig sighed, unable to keep quiet.

"I know that, Father. You remind me every day. I learned all that the Führer has done for Germany in the Youth League," he insisted gently. "But I did not pack my things only to ask for your permission to leave. I come to you as a man, ready to make my own decision. And until the Führer calls for me by name, I will not enlist."

The silence weighed heavily in the air.

He chose not to tell his father the reasons why he refused. He didn't see the need, as it only would have made him angrier. Unexpectedly, Folkert's eyes watered after Ludwig made his decision known. His lips trembled. A quiet cry built up in his throat. He must have been drinking before their confrontation.

"My boy…" Folkert choked. "My poor boy… What happened to you?"

The man wrapped his arms around his son's shoulders in a distant and non-personal embrace. His body racked with sobs that were muffled by Ludwig's shirt. The young man sighed disappointedly. His father was embarrassing. He was such a wreck after coming back from the Great War.

The once calm and collected soldier had become an alcoholic mess. Years ago, the two of them would have settled the matter reasonably.

Nevertheless, Ludwig patted his father on the back and let him continue.

"Our Führer has done so much to restore glory to Germany," he sobbed. He pounded a tight fist against Ludwig's shoulder. "Don't you respect him? Don't you want to repay his kindness? I thought… I thought I raised such a good, strong German boy…"

"You did, Papa. You did."

For a few moments, they stayed just like that. It was almost reminiscent of the time they used to spend together—embracing, like friends. But now it was so different. It was hard for Ludwig to believe that the old, drunken man in his arms was once the strong German doctor that he used to aspire to become.

Ludwig patted his father's back. He could smell the beer in every cry he made. There was no point in continuing the conversation—that was as far as they were going to go. It seemed far easier to leave his father in this fashion than escaping a fight. He was going to say something else before grabbing his suitcase, but Folkert shoved his son away from him. The force nearly sent the drunken man to the floor, but Ludwig caught his father by the sleeve so that he didn't fall.

"Never call me that again…"

"Father, please, don't—"

"Get out of my house," Folkert growled in a low voice. He pointed at the door. "Get out. Leave me, just like your whorish, race-defiling pig of a mother did."

Ludwig's eyes went wide.

"You're drunk. You don't mean that."

"I never want to see your ignorant, traitorous face in my house again," his father hissed in a low voice. "After all I've done for you… After all I've given up for you… Get out!"

Folkert snatched the short glass from the end table, and Ludwig knew better than to stand there. He ducked out of the way. The glass smashed against the wall and burst into tiny pieces on the floor. Ludwig saw Gilbert leap into the room in a flash to restrain their father.

"Dad, stop! That's your son," Gilbert yelled. They struggled for a brief moment before Folkert toppled onto the upholstered chair Ludwig made for him years earlier. "He only wants to leave for a year. He's coming back to serve, aren't you, brother?"

Ludwig had already grabbed his jacket and suitcase. He had no intention of disobeying his father and making him more upset than he already was. Folkert told him to get out, so get out, he did. He opened the door and let it slam behind him as he shuffled down the hallway toward the staircase. He only stepped down one flight of stairs when he heard their apartment door swing open again. Gilbert hobbled after him clumsily.

"Ludwig!" called Gilbert. His boots thudded against the wood nearly in time with Ludwig's pounding chest. "Ludwig, stop! Come back!"

Ludwig could not afford to stop, but he found that he struggled to ignore his older brother. He ground his teeth together and halted on the first landing. Gilbert fumbled his way down the stairs.

"Brother, I can't stay," Ludwig muttered. His voice threatened to break. He didn't like disappointing their father—he never had—and he was beginning to regret his decision to leave. But it hardly mattered anymore. "You heard Father. He doesn't want me anymore."

"You know that isn't true," Gilbert replied. He sounded irritated. "Would it kill you to enlist? I have. Once my leg heals, I'm going back to Berlin. We could serve together, Father would love—"

"You don't understand, Gilbert," Ludwig shot back, locking eyes with his older brother. "You have the passion the Führer wants. You are the soldier he is looking for." He ascended a step so he could lean in very close to Gilbert, and whispered, "Besides, you know how I feel about this war the Nazis want."

Gilbert flinched visibly and took a step back. He looked so much like their father in that moment that Ludwig also took a step back. The older of the brothers shook his head.

"If you want to live, brother," he hissed quietly. "You need to change that attitude. You're being selfish." Ludwig frowned when he heard the accusation. Gilbert suddenly sounded like all of the other good German boys—Ludwig hoped his brother was still in there somewhere.

A wave of doubt flooded over him. He was so sure of his decision when he woke up that morning, but his courage had disappeared. He suddenly wondered if he was doing the right thing at all. He quickly thought of a compromise.

"All right, fine," Ludwig grumbled under his breath. "Tell Father I'll be gone for a year. Perhaps less. Tell them I'm spreading the Führer's good will in Austria."

Gilbert raised his eyebrows and laughed dryly, "Finally playing the good Nazi son, are you? That's rich. You know Father won't believe that."

"Perhaps if it's coming from the favorite son, he will," Ludwig replied without hesitation. The smirk suddenly disappeared from Gilbert's face. He opened his mouth to counter, but Ludwig didn't let him, "Also, remind him that I pledged my service to our good Führer already. I promise,"—he paused uncomfortably—"I promise to serve upon my return, unless I am called earlier."

The words died as they left his mouth. That was the last thing he wanted to do, but he also wanted to placate his patriotic family. He knew he would have to serve one way or another, but he thought he would have more time to himself. Gilbert must have read the sadness on his face, and he dropped all hint of sarcasm.

"I'll tell him," he began. "But I can't make any promises, Ludwig. You know how Father is."

That would have to suffice.

Ludwig straightened and looked at Gilbert. Yes, he told himself. He would make such a wonderful soldier. Exactly the son their father wanted. He extended his hand for Gilbert to shake, "Goodbye, brother. Thank you… for everything."

Gilbert ignored his hand and instead pulled Ludwig in for an embrace. Ludwig wished he hadn't—he was already too emotional. Still, he couldn't reject the advance, and he enveloped his older brother in a hug.

"You're making a mistake, Ludwig," the older of the two scoffed. He barely hid a smirk as he pulled away. "But I guess this isn't the first time, right, baby brother?"

"I'm not a baby," Ludwig insisted.

"Yeah, sure. Take care of yourself, all right, dumbass?"

"Same goes for you, Gilbert."

They exchanged nods, and Ludwig finally turned to go. All of the adrenaline that coursed through his veins earlier had dwindled and vanished, and by the time his hand came down on the brass knob of the apartment building's front door, he almost turned around and marched back.

He stepped into the muggy air of Munich and took a deep breath. He always dreamed that his first taste of freedom would feel wonderful, and rewarding. Instead, he looked his last on the place he had called home for twenty years and felt a crippling sense of failure. He wanted so badly to escape the apartment, but his promise of return dampened his spirit.

His father's words echoed in his mind: You will do as I say.

It was true—Ludwig could never truly stand up to him. The thought churned in his gut. Without dwelling on it further, he hurried down the empty street toward the train station.