Synopsis: Time was a strange concept to nations and most of them lost track of it under normal circumstances but, as it turned out, time was even stranger from the inside of a cage. Russia may have time on his side but Prussia had nothing left to lose. Nothing except Canada.

Notes: The title translates as Birdsong. This piece covers a time frame of four decades. It skips days, months, and years.

Hetalia does not belong to me. Neither do any of the countries mentioned. Get back to me after 'World Domination Phase 3' is complete.

Vogelgesang

Prussia sat in the centre of the room with his knees pulled up against his chest and his forehead resting on his knees. His hair was a mess, he knew, and so were his clothes. His bare feet were numb with cold but that was to be expected when the odd snowflake was drifting in through the bars of his window.

Window… It was not so much a window as it was a teasing glance of what he had lost:

His freedom.

A snowflake landed on his foot and he glanced up to watch it melt from delicate wonder into an uninteresting droplet of water. Just like him…

How could it be that someone so great could fall so far?

There was a low cot against one wall and a basin against the other. He never slept in the cot, although it was clean with fresh cotton, because he felt more comfortable sleeping in the corner. If he was to be kept like an animal, he would act one. It was as simple as that.

There was a great foreboding door set opposite from the little window. The door was wrapped in wrought iron and minute, precise rivets but that was not threatening in comparison the most obvious missing feature; there was no doorknob.

Prussia pulled his knees tighter against his chest.

He had been here for a couple of months, he thought, but he could not be sure. Time was a strange concept to nations and most of them lost track of it under normal circumstances but, as it turned out, time was even stranger from the inside of a cage.

He had counted the sunrises for a while but the sunlight burnt his eyes and he quickly lost interest. He had watched the moon cycles for a bit longer but not by much. He had scratched lines in the stones with his fingernails but the lines reminded him of the bars on his window and he stopped that too.

He could not be sure how long he had been here but it felt like forever. It felt like a lifetime. It felt like several.

Prussia heard chains clinking on the other side of the door and frowned. He wondered who he would be dealing with this morning.

Russia opened the door and stepped inside but Prussia had been expecting that. Russia. It was always Russia. The question was: which one? His mind had cracked into a dozen personalities a couple of centuries ago. Some of the personalities were benign and some of them were not. Prussia did not mind spending time with him when he was childish or even sarcastic but he could not stand his psychotic episodes.

Those usually ended with someone getting hurt. It was usually him.

Prussia almost pitied him sometimes, as cracked as he was, but there was no space for such gentle emotions in the hole where his heart used to be. There was hate and rage and pain but never kindness. He had forgotten what kindness felt like.

… It had been raining the last time anyone had shown him a kindness. He remembered that much…

"Good morning!"

Prussia tilted his head to see the hulking nation casting a shadow over him. He was wrapped in his beloved scarf and a jacket and gloves. Prussia would reach for that knitted scarf when he wanted to start an altercation. He did not want to, this morning, and so he left it alone.

Russia was smiling at him and waving his hand and Prussia knew he was dealing with childish. He almost sighed in relief but caught himself. Childish. He could handle that.

"Good morning," he mumbled, although there was nothing 'good' about it.

"And how are you?"

Prussia stared at him and thought about telling the truth. He decided against it. His growling swears might encourage a change in personalities and he was too tired to deal with another one.

Too tired.

"I am alright," he chose his words with careful consideration, although he was about as 'alright' as the morning was 'good'.

Russia clapped his hands.

"I am so glad!"

And in that moment, Prussia knew that he was glad from his toes to the tip of his nose. He was glad. This Russia, the childish one, was pleased to see him and pleased that he was 'alright'.

Russia reached into one of his oversized pockets and brought out some hardened bread and cheese. He handed them to Prussia and Prussia took it without argument. He used to argue. He used to refuse handouts.

Now he was just too tired.

"Thank you," he mumbled and Russia lit up at the praise.

"You are welcome! My older sister said that you would be hungry and she was right."

Ukraine kept an eye on him and, although she never came to see him, she made sure he was fed and that was enough. She did what she could but she was in a similar situation of choosing careful words and stepping on eggshells around the fractured nation. He was grateful to her.

Russia knelt in front of him and stared at his face. Prussia stared back.

"… What?"

Russia cocked his head to the side. He was examining him.

"Why are you sad?"

"I am not sad."

"Your eyes are sad."

Prussia growled but tethered his slipping control.

"I am not sad; I am mad." He was not sure whether he meant furious or insane but either would do. He was both. The words were clipped but civil as pushed them past his clenched teeth. He was almost proud of himself.

Russia shook his head and pressed one of his covered fingers against his frown and Prussia resisted biting it off. He paused before drawing the finger back. He seemed thoughtful.

"No, your lips are mad but your eyes… Your eyes are sad."

Prussia did not have an answer for that so he did not offer one. Of course his eyes were sad; he was a prisoner of war and his nationhood had been bartered for peace that would not last. He continued to glare at Russia until the nation stood up and went to stand in the doorframe. He trailed his fingers over the wrought iron without turning around.

"I am sorry," Russia whispered before slipping through the opening and sealing it behind him and Prussia believed him. This one, the childish one, this Russia was regretful.

He heard the chains clinking back into place and curled a little closer to himself.

Prussia laid on his back with his arms tucked behind his head and watched the sun disappear behind the clouds. It was a bit warmer this afternoon but not much.

He counted the stones of his prison; five hundred and twelve stones.

It was always five hundred and twelve.

Always.

A chickadee landed on the ledge of the window, between the bars, and sang two notes. Prussia softened and whistled two notes back. The chickadee bounced forward and listened to him. It repeated the notes.

The tender song blocked out the static of where his land and citizens used to be in his mind and distracted him from that emptiness inside. He never would have guessed how painful it was to be a dissolved nation, both in the emotional and physical sense, but it was.

He sang more complicated tunes but the chickadee matched him note for note.

Prussia sat up and felt a smile tug on the corner of his lips. It felt awkward.

Russia stormed into the prison and the door slammed into the stones. He grabbed Prussia by the hair and yanked him to his feet.

"You are filthy spy, I think!" He spat.

Prussia had no idea what he was talking about but it did not matter. It was one of his psychotic episodes and he was dreaming of a nightmare Prussia could not see. He was not of sound mind, if he ever had been, and he was caught in some sort of hallucination.

"Well?" He shouted and shook Prussia a little. He was clutching him by the collar of his loose, stained chemise.

There was no winning this argument. He might as well work out some of his frustrations and deal with the consequences afterwards. It would not matter if he kept quiet or screamed; there would be consequences in either case. He might as well earn them.

"And you're a fucking idiot," he growled even as Russia tightened his hands on his collar.

"What are you saying to me?"

"That you are a great, fucking idiot."

Russia lifted him off the ground so that he hung in the air and shook him again.

"You are not wanting to be saying that to me!"

"It's the truth."

"I could be making your life very unhappy."

"You already are, asshole. Now, put me down!"

Prussia knew as soon as he said it that he should have been much more specific with his instructions. 'Slowly' or 'gently' might have been nice additions. As it was, Russia slammed him against the stones and he tumbled onto the cot.

Ouch.

"You are not going to be happy in making me so angry, spy. It will be very… Unpleasant for you, I think."

Prussia still had no idea what he was talking about. He had been kept in this cage for months and months. When would he have found the time to sneak around and, better yet, why would he have bothered? If he was able to escape out the barricaded window or the door without a doorknob, why would he stay here? He would have left.

He would have run as fast and as far away as he could. Perhaps he could even convince himself that he was not a coward when Russia and his manor were far behind him and he was safe.

He glared up at Russia as he loomed over him and did not flinch as the first open handed smack connected with the side of his head.

He would not give him that satisfaction.

Prussia coughed and huddled in the corner of the prison. It was cold, the coldest morning yet, and he was covered in bruises from his latest encounter with Russia. The bruises were purple, ringed in green, as the good ones always were.

The chickadee landed on the windowsill and he was glad to see it had come back. It started singing to him, the same tune he had taught it, and he felt his eyes closing despite himself.

It was a folk song from his homeland, although it no longer existed, and it calmed him. It reminded him of better times. Softer times.

It reminded him of his freedom.

He fell asleep.

"Well, well, well. You are sleeping the day away, yes?"

Prussia cracked an eye open and grimaced. Russia was standing over him and he would recognize that derisive sneer anywhere. He was dealing with a sarcastic Russia, then.

"Maybe I am. What do you care?" Prussia growled back. Russia laughed.

"I do not. I am just thinking that you are very lazy."

"And I think you're an asshole."

"Very well." This Russia would not hit him the way the psychotic one would. This one would belittle him, yes, and make him feel foolish, but he would not raise a hand against him. It would dirty his hand. "I am coming to tell you that we will be having a visitor."

A visitor? Another nation?

Prussia frowned. The other nations had left him here as collateral in one of their treaties and he had yet to forgive them. Perhaps he never would, if he survived long enough to hold a grudge. He understood the reasoning, of course, and the bargaining, but the more human side of him despised the betrayal.

He was not fond of the more human side of him. It was the side that could be hurt.

It was a weakness he could not afford to have.

"Who?"

"Matvey will be coming to see me."

"… Matvey?"

"Yes, Matvey. The bastard child of France and England."

"… Canada?"

"Yes, you are so slow. I am not knowing how you stand it."

Canada. The last time Prussia had seen Canada was on the battlefield but he had known him when he was still a dominion and followed France, and then England around like a shadow. He had been a little slip of child and not worth noticing. Attractive enough, he supposed, in both appearance and resources but quiet and polite and not worth his time.

And then Prussia had come across him during the Great War and his entire opinion changed.

Canada marched across the continent for one hundred days and nights and reminded the Europeans of a time when berserkers roamed their borders. There was such unbridled passion and blood lust contained in such a delicate package. It had been surprising, to say the least, and fascinating to say the most.

He had met him between the wars and he was subdued again. Quiet. Prussia had not been quite so blinded, though, this time around. His soldiers had been terrified of meeting the Canadians during the war and the few battles where the two nations themselves had met had been vindictive. Canada had shot him thrice in the head at their first battle.

Nations do not die, not from mortal wounds, but it does not mean it does not hurt. The pain is the same; there is just no release in death. It is a grace that their healing is so, so, so much faster.

It had hurt like a motherfucker.

At their second battle, he ran Prussia through with a bayonet and held him pinned against the dirt of the trench. He started to chatter; the well meaning polite parlour speak that was so out of place on the battlefield as the bullets rang overhead. It had been surreal. Canada had waited until his flesh had started to knit back together around the bayonet before pulling the blade out.

And then he had done it again. And again. And again.

That was not to say that Prussia had not been cruel in turn. Nations were at their worst during war. He had buried him alive and left him there so that every time he woke up, he would drown on earth all over again. And again. And again. Prussia heard that it had taken his allies three days to find him and dig him out.

But despite that, the two of them had shared trinkets and stories and cigarettes at Christmas. It had been a strange war.

He had seen a little more of him between the first war and the second war. He had been dissolved, but it was de jure and not de facto, so he still came to the world conferences. He even sat next to Canada a couple of times. He asked him to dance at one of the social gatherings.

He said 'yes'.

Prussia admired his pragmatism; that he could be so cruel and ruthless when it suited him but could blink afterwards and slide back into unassuming without missing a beat. The other nations saw it too but tried to ignore it; it worried them, unnerved them. He found it fascinating instead.

It had been much the same during the Second World War although he did not cross paths with him as often. At one point both of them were trapped in the same crumbling building in a town under siege, somewhere in Italy, he thought. The humans were dead, had shot each other hours ago, but it did not matter how often either of them shot the other. It hurt, but neither of them died.

It started raining. He became bored with shooting Canada; Canada had long since been bored of shooting him.

He asked him to dance again.

The rain slipped through the holes in the ceiling.

He said 'yes'.

The two of them had made love on the wet, decomposing floorboards to pass the time until someone rescued them. It was not the writings of a romance novel or an epic ballad but it had been full of laughter and teasing and did not mean much more than it was.

That had been one of the last few pleasant memories he had before the war was lost and he was bartered away. Before he was sent here. It was the last piece of kindness he remembered and he held it close to the aching hole where his heart used to be.

"Canada," he said again and his mouth dried in trepidation, "Matthew."

He did not want Canada to see him like this; weak, pathetic, and a shadow of his former self.

"Yes, he is coming to see me and my sisters. He is welcome here amongst us. He has always been kind to m… Us. Kind to us."

Russia frowned and seemed a little more lost that his sarcastic persona should allow. Prussia wondered if other personalities were beginning to bleed through. He wondered if the new ones would be better or worse than the ones he already knew.

"I am leaving now," Russia growled and turned, his coat swirling around him, "and Matvey will not be visiting you. He is here to visit me, not you, me. I only wanted you to be knowing…"

He trailed off and glared at Prussia. It was hostile.

Russia closed the door with a gentle, muffled sound and wound the chains into place.

Prussia stood up when he was sure that Russia was gone and walked to the window set with bars. He could see down into a courtyard and it was beautiful but it twisted his insides to see freedom so close and still so far. It was one of the reasons he avoided the window.

But… Perhaps he could catch a glimpse of Canada out there sometime soon. That might make his imprisonment a little easier to bear even if Russia would not let him meet face to face with the other nation.

Lithuania and Latvia were out there now. Lithuania waved, a slight, crooked tilt of the hand, when he saw Prussia but Latvia ducked his head and pretended he was not there. That was alright.

He waved back.

Prussia heard him before he saw him. It had been weeks, he thought, since Russia made his announcement and he was beginning to believe that the other nation had lied to him.

He heard singing in the courtyard; a light, cheerful sound that complimented the chickadees that soon joined in.

Prussia came to the window, his uncovered feet sweeping across the stones, and peeked out as if frightened to find an illusion. He was not frightened, perish the thought, but the actions were too close for comfort.

He used to be so much more than this.

Canada stood in the courtyard bundled in furs and singing to the birds perched in the bare trees. He was dressed all in white fur and blended in with the snow. The tip of his nose was pink in the frigid air and so were his fingertips when he reached out of the folds of his fur towards one of the chickadees.

It lighted on his finger and sang back to him.

Why was he not wearing gloves? He should know better.

Russia came rushing out into the courtyard and the chickadee left in a surprised flutter of feathers. It came to sit on the windowsill with him and he smiled before returning his attention to the courtyard.

"Matvey! You are not wearing mittens! You should be knowing better than this!"

Prussia growled. He had thought it first; it felt as if Russia was stealing the words he could not say.

Russia wrapped his hands, safe inside their gloves, around his and raised his pink fingertips to his mouth. He kissed each one very gently and Canada smiled up at him.

He had never seen this persona before. He could not decide who it might be. He knew it was Russia, of course, but not one of the ones he dealt with. This one was gentle and considerate and something else he could not quite place.

Russia wound his arm around him and ushered him into the manor. Canada glanced behind him to the window as Russia led him inside and their gazes met. Canada smiled at him now, this odd, secretive smile and then he was gone.

Prussia turned to the chickadee and it cocked its head to the side.

"He came…" Prussia wondered aloud and the astonishment colouring his words would have been obvious to anyone listening.

The chickadee whistled back.

"You are to be eating now, my sister said."

Russia put down a platter in the centre of the room and stepped back. He was frowning at Prussia and Prussia returned the favour.

"… Which sister?" Ukraine was looking out for him, to be sure, but Belarus would poison him if she got the chance. It would not kill him but it would be less than pleasant.

She had already done it twice.

"Katyusha," Russia supplied and his eyebrows furrowed at the question.

Prussia came forward to snatch a piece of bread from the platter before retreating back into his corner. The chickadee sat on the windowsill again and sang a single note to catch his attention. He tossed a couple of crumbs to the songbird.

Russia was staring at the chickadee now too and dread coiled in his stomach. Prussia brought his attention back to him instead.

"What now, asshole?"

Russia turned back to him.

"You are not being very nice to someone who has just brought you dinner."

"I'm just not a very nice person," he shrugged.

Russia leaned against the stones with his arms crossed over his chest. Prussia was not sure who he was dealing with but he was almost certain it was not one of the more violent personalities. It meant he could be a little freer with his words.

"I am noticing that about you…" Russia trailed off for a moment before changing the subject so fast it almost gave him whiplash. "Matvey is handsome, yes?"

Prussia chewed his slice of bread and considered the question.

"… Yes."

"And he is kind, yes?"

"Yes."

"And he is caring, yes?"

"Yes."

"Then he is nothing the same as us," Russia sighed in exasperation and drummed his fingers against his arm. "He is a good person. We are not. Why is he coming here to be watching over us?"

Prussia shook his head. He had no idea what Russia was talking about but it was true that neither of them were 'nice' or 'good'. Canada, no matter what he did otherwise, always would be.

"I do not know."

Russia was quiet for a moment and if Prussia knew him better he might have said something was bothering him. Oh, perhaps this persona was contemplative? That might explain it, or some of it, at least.

"He is speaking of you last night," Russia frowned, "and he is saying that you are a good man and that I should be letting you leave. When I asked if that made me a bad man, he said 'no'. I am telling him that we cannot both be good but he is not agreeing. He is saying that we are both good."

Prussia paused with the bread raised to his lips and lowered it again. Canada thought that Russia was a good man? More than that, he thought Prussia was a good man? It did not make any more sense to him than it did to Russia.

"He's full of shit," Prussia said, shrugging his shoulders, and Russia laughed.

"That is what I am telling him. I am telling him that we are both very bad men. He is saying I am wrong." Russia met his eyes. "Am I wrong?"

Prussia did not know how to answer that so he said nothing at all. Since when was he his confidante? He was supposed to be his prisoner. Prussia frowned.

Russia went to great, foreboding door and stopped in the doorframe. He sighed again.

"He is asking to be seeing you. I am telling him 'no'."

Russia closed the door behind him and the chains slid back into place. Prussia raised his startled gaze to the chickadee and it mirrored his actions.

Canada wanted to see him too?

Prussia lay on his back and counted the stones to pass the time.

One, two, three, four, five…

It seemed like a year had passed since Canada first came to see Russia. Perhaps it had been a year; perhaps it had been three. Time kept slipping through his fingers, so he could not be sure. Canada would come and leave and come and leave. Each time he asked to see Prussia and each time Russia refused.

Still, he asked each time.

Thirty six, thirty seven, thirty eight…

He often sang in the courtyard where he knew Prussia could hear him and sometimes their gazes would meet through the bars on the window. He taught the chickadee new songs so that it could sing to him when he left.

These new songs were almost as comforting as the old ones now.

Seventy eight, seventy nine, eighty, eighty one…

In the meantime, Prussia had noticed that Russia was always kinder when Canada was visiting; sweeter, gentler, and more patient. He almost never slipped into some of his more foul moods. Prussia wondered if this was what he had been like before the madness. Strangely, he could not remember Russia before the madness. He wondered if any of the nations could.

One hundred twenty two, one hundred twenty three…

The chickadee sang a soft note from his perch and Prussia turned to smile and reassure it that he was alright before he continued counting. He must have been frowning.

It seemed to him that imprisonment was worse than torture. He had long since begun to miss the sensation of touch or even conversation with someone other than Russia. Somehow, Prussia did not think that multiple conversations with his multiple personalities counted as a conversation with someone else.

Two hundred sixty six, two hundred sixty seven…

He prayed that Russia would let Canada visit him soon and despised how weak it made him feel. 'Prayed' and 'let' were the words of someone without hope.

Three hundred, three hundred and one, three hundred and two…

The sunlight shifted across the cage and highlighted the patterns in the stones Prussia was counting. He could see the shadow of the chickadee as it sang him one of the songs Canada had taught on the last visit.

Four hundred fifty four, four hundred fifty five, four hundred fifty six…

He sang along.

Four hundred ninety two, four hundred ninety three…

It was a welcome distraction. No matter how many times Canada asked to see him, Russia always said 'no' and nothing would ever change. He would be trapped in hell forever.

He no longer possessed a title, or land, or citizens, so why could he not fade as so many dissolved nations had before him? He did not understand. He wanted to die and instead he was trapped in a cage where nothing ever changed.

Five hundred eight, five hundred nine, five hundred ten, five hundred eleven, five hundred twelve…

Five hundred and twelve…

Nothing ever changed.

Prussia opened his eyes in the darkness and could not decide what might have disturbed his restless nightmares. It was quiet. There was no reason for him to be awake at this hour.

Strange.

He stood up and went to the window. The chickadee ruffled its feathers but kept its head tucked under its wing as it slept. It made a strange, almost purring noise as he pet it with a gentle finger.

Prussia glanced out the window and was startled to see Canada standing out in the snow staring up at him. He was wrapped in his white furs and standing there with an odd expression gracing his features. He did not say anything to him and Prussia did not say anything back.

It was a clear night and nowhere near kind. It was cold, so cold. What was he doing out there? Prussia could see faded footprints in the snow and wondered how long he had been standing there.

The two of them stared at each other for a long, long time and it was only when sunrise began lightening the skies that Canada left, still without saying a word.

Russia came in through the door with more bluster than usual and Prussia looked up, alarmed, from where he was sitting counting the stones. He was not sure he recognized this Russia and he was not sure he wanted to.

Russia came up to him and wound his fingers in the worn fabric of his chemise. He tugged him to his feet and slammed him against the stones behind him.

Prussia opened his mouth to pick a fight but was surprised when Russia pressed his lips over his own.

What the hell?

Prussia struggled but Russia held him still as he searched his mouth with his tongue. Prussia bit down on his tongue and Russia returned the favour by biting his bottom lip. Both of them were bleeding now but Russia continued to kiss him.

Most of him was furious but some small, insignificant part of him took pleasure in the contact with another creature. He squashed it down.

When Russia finally pulled back, both of them were panting. Prussia glowered at Russia.

"What the fuck was that about?" He spat some of the blood out of his mouth.

"I am not seeing what he is seeing in you."

"Who?"

"Matvey."

"… What?"

Russia let go of him all of a sudden and he dropped to the ground. He touched his mouth and his gloves came away wet with blood. He scowled at Prussia.

"That hurt."

"It was supposed to."

"Then you have been successful." He paused to stare at the chickadee on its perch. He changed the topic, again, too fast. "Why is this little bird always here?"

Prussia ignored him and swiped his mouth with the back of his hand in disgust.

"I am asking why this little bird is always here."

Prussia continued to ignore him.

"You will be answering me when I am speaking to you. Why is this little bird always here?"

Prussia growled.

"How the fuck should I know?"

"Why is it not leaving you? It could leave."

"Yes, it could."

Russia looked at him with wide eyes that were closer to his childish persona than this new, dangerous one.

"And this is not worrying you?"

"No."

Russia stared down at him for a moment before he turned towards the exit with a new determination. It seemed that he had already forgotten their latest encounter.

"I will be fixing this for you."

Prussia did not know what he meant to 'fix' but he left before he could ask. That coil of dread settled in his stomach once more and he curled around his knees. His lips were aching.

He counted the stones over and over and over again to waste time he should not have. He was waiting to die but it never seemed to happen. He felt forsaken.

He should be glad, he guessed, and he might have been if he was not here.

He did not want to die so much as he did not want to be here.

Prussia heard an odd 'whumph' sound from the courtyard and went to see what was happening. It turned out that Canada, Lithuania, and Ukraine were throwing snowballs at each other and dashing in circles. Someone was laughing but he could not see who it was from here.

Estonia and Latvia were standing on the sidelines. Estonia seemed almost condescending as he watched the merriment and Latvia was shaking. It could have been from the cold but Prussia bet it was for fear of a snowball hitting him.

Prussia watched them for a while and was about to retreat back into his cage when a snowball flew up against the bars and exploded all over him.

He spluttered and turned back to the window. He wrapped his fingers around the cold, cold iron bars and glared into the courtyard.

Ukraine and Latvia seemed horrified and both of them were covering their mouths in twin horror. Estonia was smiling but it was not a nice smile. Lithuania seemed apologetic.

Canada was waving at him with the widest smile he had ever seen and holding another snowball in his mitten. Prussia had no doubt who had been aiming for his window.

But it was hard to be upset with him when he was smiling like that.

Prussia found himself smiling back.

The chickadee always came and went. It needed to eat and do whatever it was songbirds did but it always came back. Always.

It was late.

And he had not seen Russia for days.

Prussia knew he should not be worried but he could not help himself. That now familiar dread was coiled tighter in his stomach than ever before. The songbird was the closest thing Prussia had to a friend in this cage.

The chains rattled and Prussia raised his head slowly as if he already knew what was about to happen. Russia opened the door and came in. His hands were behind his back and that childish smile was plastered across his face. Prussia steeled himself.

"I have brought you a present!" He sang but Prussia did not move from where he sat. "Aren't you going to ask what it is?"

"… What is it?"

Russia brought his hands out in front of him and held them out for Prussia to see.

"I said that I would be fixing this for you and I did not lie. My sister says that lying is bad. Look! Now it will not leave you."

Prussia choked on a broken sob.

The delicate chickadee lay crushed between his large hands and dead. Its feathers were matted and twisted and its neck was at a strange angle. Russia went to hand him the songbird with an excited smile that told him he had no idea what he had just done.

Prussia started to cry, the great raking sobs he had not allowed himself since arriving here and once he started, there was no stopping.

He cried and cried and cried but it would not save the chickadee now.

He cried harder.

At some point, Russia had slipped back out through the door with the broken songbird, perhaps alarmed by a reaction he had not been expecting. He had thought he was helping. In his childish naivety, he had thought he was helping.

It made it worse, somehow.

Prussia cried until there were no tears left and then curled in around himself.

The static inside his head was so terrible without the chickadee to distract him. He clutched at his temples and rocked back and forth in an attempt to quiet it.

It was not working.

It was not working, it was not working, it was not working…

He heard someone whistling in the courtyard and it cut through the static. He recognized the tune as one of the chickadees favourites. It managed to quiet the static enough for him to find his feet. He crept up to the window and, mindful of his sensitive, red rimmed eyes, peered outside.

Snowflakes were spiralling in heavy, wet crystals from the clouds and covering the figure standing at the base of a tree. It took him a second to realize that the figure was not covered in snow so much as wearing white furs.

Canada.

He bent down on his knees and started to dig through the snow and then the frozen dirt beneath with his bare hands. He kept digging until he uncovered a hole about seven inches deep.

He brushed his hands on his front without thought to the white furs and reached for a small wooden box Prussia had not noticed until now. He placed it gently in the hole and covered it up again. He did not stop whistling, although the tune was more mournful now.

He stood up and bowed his head. He was quiet for a moment… Then he snapped to attention and held his hand in salute.

He turned to Prussia afterwards, perched high in his window, and offered him the same gesture. Canada had buried the chickadee, he knew, and he had done it for him.

He started crying all over again.

Russia came in with dark circles under his eyes and wound his hands into his scarf. He scuffed one of his boots across the stones in a nervous gesture that would never suit his large frame.

Prussia glanced up, saw him, and then settle his forehead against his knees again.

He sighed.

It had been weeks, perhaps months, since the 'incident' with the chickadee and Prussia was worn down to his core. He never ate, or slept, but somehow he was still enough of a nation not to die. He had screamed at Russia until his throat was raw, he had fought with him until he could not be sure whose blood was whose, and he had kissed him not once but twice in the confusion.

He was a mess.

Russia opened his mouth with a quiet humming sound, closed it, and started over.

"I am… Sorry?"

Prussia laughed; a harsh sound that had little to do with happiness.

"Oh, really?"

"I am. Matvey is saying that I was very bad. He tried to explain it to me but I am not understanding. For that, I am sorry."

"Well, a fuck lot of good that will do, you murderous bastard," he mumbled into his knees. He said it without much venom at this point. He had said it all before and it had not made a difference.

Russia stepped forward.

"I am… It is…" He stumbled over his words. "He is saying that I cannot be making it up to you, not really, but I am thinking that maybe…"

Prussia laughed again and cut him off.

"Are you going to let me go?"

Russia scuffed his boot again.

"No, I cannot be doing that."

"Then what the hell could you possibly do for me?"

"I could… I could be letting Matvey see you… Maybe?"

His head snapped up. Prussia just stared at him in surprise. The rage was still there, quiet and simmering, but now there was something much more dangerous lurking beneath the surface: hope.

"Are you fucking with me?"

Russia stopped scuffing his boot to meet his eyes.

"No. I am not."

Prussia searched his face for some clue that the other nation was messing with him but he seemed serious. His cheeks were coloured as the childish persona bit his lip but he did not shake his head or laugh. He was serious.

It would not fix this terrible situation, of course. It would not bring the chickadee back to life, or grant him his freedom, but it was a step in the right direction and a welcome distraction.

To see Canada…

He had so many questions to ask him. How was his brother? How were his friends? How long had he been in here? Did anyone regret leaving him here with Russia? Did anyone even care?

Did Canada care?

And most of all… Why was he here?

Prussia weighed the options in his mind. The positives of accepting this olive branch far outweighed the negative. He had lost his freedom at the end of the war and his faith when the songbird was stolen too. He had nothing else to lose and everything to gain.

He wanted to see Canada, no, he needed to see Canada. He cringed at the word. 'Needed' sounded so desperate but it was true.

There was only one answer when he came down to it.

"… Alright…"

Russia swooped down to gather him in a hug and Prussia spluttered. He rocked him and crooned in his ear.

"Oh, thank you for letting me to be making it up to you. I am so, so, so sorry! I am not meaning to make you so sad."

Prussia sighed from inside the circle of his arms. Just as before, he knew that this Russia, the childish one, meant it.

Prussia was walking back and forth in his prison as he waited for his visitor; eight steps to the left, eight steps to the right. It had been a couple of weeks, he thought, since Russia first promised to let the nations see each other. Prussia had begun to doubt him in the meantime.

This morning, though, a psychotic Russia had come in to inform him that Canada would be visiting him in the afternoon. He had told him this between open handed smacks and a bite to his shoulder.

It was obvious that he was upset with his own promise, but he kept it, and Prussia handled his anger with a certain amount of grace; even when he bit him, even when it bled.

He was too pleased to kick up that much of a fuss and he accepted the beating as his due.

He reached up to massage his throbbing shoulder with a lopsided grin and chuckled when his fingers came back crimson. It was still worth it.

There was a rattle at the chains and Prussia jumped. Oh, shit, he needed to calm down. He needed to approach the other nation with a cordial, collected air that belied his inner turmoil. He needed to hold back the torrent of emotions swirling through his mind.

He needed to stop thinking about the last time he had seen Canada in the war: naked and wet in the rain as he kissed down the centre of his chest.

Prussia pressed his hand to his face with a sigh, a habit he had picked up from his brother. He needed to calm down. He was about to make a fool of himself.

The door opened with a creaking whine and Prussia let his hand drop from his face to stare at the vision on the other side.

Canada knocked on the open door, allowing him some semblance of privacy, before stepping into his prison. Russia was standing in the shadows behind him, glowering, but he made no move to follow Canada through the door. He was as beautiful as Prussia remembered; pale and blonde with eyes the colour of lavender at sunrise. He was wearing a suit with thin lapels and two buttons near his stomach and Prussia paused because the fashion was quite different from when he was first locked in here. His curls were uncontrolled and uncultured but it suited him. His lips were welcoming.

Calm? Fuck that.

Prussia leapt across the prison in two steps instead of eight and grabbed Canada by the lapels. He twisted to push him against the stones and covered his mouth with his own.

Canada let a shocked gasp escape between their lips and Prussia worried for a second that he might have ruined his chances but then Canada returned the desperate kiss with a passion of his own. He ran his fingers down the inside of his suit and snapped the buttons. Canada wound his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck.

The door slammed shut and the two of them pushed apart to stare at it. Russia must have been upset.

Canada glanced at him and cocked an eyebrow. Prussia raised both of his eyebrows as the chains were slipped back into place. The two of them held the stare for a moment before bursting into laughter at the same time.

Perhaps the two of them had been a bit exuberant. Maybe.

"He'll be back." His voice was as soft and delicate as Prussia remembered.

Prussia guided Canada down to the ground and pushed his curls behind his ear in wonder as their laughter faded. Canada traced his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose with one of his fingers.

"You came…"

"Of course."

"… Why?"

Canada laughed again, even softer this time, and rested his forehead against his own.

"How could I not?"

As it turned out, fifteen years had passed since the end of the war. It was an understatement to say that Prussia was surprised but he had known that time was slipping through his fingers. Canada managed to convince Russia to let him visit once a month, and all of a sudden, Prussia had a new method of keeping track of the moments passing him by outside the window.

Months passed with this new arrangement and Prussia continued to accept the beatings that a frustrated Russia delivered after each visit. He never told Canada that Russia beat him, for fear that he would stop visiting, but he was sure that he knew.

Canada still came to visit Russia too, of course, and tried to distract the nation from his frustrations. Prussia wondered again what their relationship was but he was too afraid to ask.

Instead, he asked the other questions that had had tortured his mind for the past decade and a half.

How was his brother? It seemed that Germany was dealing with his own issues as the two of them were kept apart. Indeed, a wall had been erected to do just that.

On a more personal note, it seemed his brother and Northern Italy were now an item. He had snorted when Canada told him. He could have guessed that without outside intelligence…

How were his friends? Spain was still chasing Southern Italy and France was still chasing everyone else. Hungary and Austria were no longer a dual monarchy, not since the Great War, but their personal ties kept them quite close. Again, he could have guessed all of that without the outside intelligence.

Did anyone regret leaving him here with Russia?

Canada was quiet for a long time when he asked that question.

Prussia kissed his collarbone and pressed him against the cot. Canada moaned and raised his hips to meet his own. He wrapped one of his legs around him and settled his shoe at the base of his spine to keep Prussia against him, although he did not require much convincing.

Their trousers separated them but could not contain the heat rising between them. This was the furthest the two of them had gotten since that first kiss and the desperation colouring their kisses was almost comical at this point. Prussia returned his attention to his lips and tried to devour him from the inside out. Canada let him and indeed tried to do the same. It was pleasant and sweet. The prison was warm for once, as it only was when Canada was visiting him.

The door slammed open and Russia stormed in. He tore them apart and tossed Prussia into the stones. Prussia cradled his head and hissed at the great nation.

"What the fuck was that for, asshole?" He said before he could gauge which Russia he was dealing with. "We were just getting to the good part!"

Russia punched him in the face and broke his nose with a sickening 'crunch'. Prussia coughed and clutched his nose, blood dripping down his arm and staining his hands.

"You are a fucking whore!"

Prussia opened his mouth to scream at him but the words died in his throat when he realized that Russia was not addressing him at all. His fingers were twisted in blonde curls and Canada was down on his knees.

"Let him go!"

Russia punched him in the face again and flattened his nose before kicking Prussia into the cot. Other than that, he ignored him and started dragging Canada out of the prison.

"I will be teaching you a lesson!"

He slammed the door and wound the chains back into place. Prussia pounded on the door with his fists and shouted but it was too late.

Russia was gone, and so was Canada.

Prussia blinked as Canada came through the door. It had been a month since that last disastrous visit, true, but Prussia had not expected to ever see the other nation again after that.

Canada walked to the corner he was curled in and ruffled his hair. He was alive and whole but there was a tightness around his eyes that Prussia could not ignore.

Prussia tried to apologize but Canada shushed him and gathered him against his chest.

"What did he do to you?"

"Hmmm?"

"What did he do to you?"

Canada was curled up next to him on the cot. It had been months since that catastrophic interruption but Canada kept visiting him despite whatever punishment Russia had offered him on the other side of that door. He refused to answer when Prussia asked him, but he kept asking.

Canada cuddled against the bend of his arm and sighed. He traced patterns on his hand.

"Nothing."

"Bullshit."

"Gilbert, it was nothing he has not done before."

Prussia furrowed his eyebrows and jostled the blonde nation. He did not like the sound of that.

"How can you… How the fuck can you protect him?"

"You have never been on the tundra, Gilbert, never mind spent centuries wandering it. I understand him better than most."

"He's insane!"

Canada laughed but it was not a nice laugh.

"Aren't we all?" Canada squeezed his hand, perchance to comfort him, and turned in his arms so that their noses touched. "Ivan loves me, after a fashion. We have been staring at each other over the artic circle for as long as we can both remember. He loves me and I love him. No one else would understand our connection except, maybe, the other northern nations."

Prussia snorted.

"He does not know how to love."

Canada pushed back and raised an eyebrow in amusement before scooting lower and settling against his shoulder, wrapped in his arms.

"Of course he knows how to love. We are nations but we are also human sometimes. We are all capable of love."

"I'm not," Prussia snorted, "not anymore."

Canada reached for his hand again and intertwined their fingers. His hand was warm where it met his flesh.

"We are all capable of love," he said again with a little more force. "And Ivan loves you, too, whether you know it or not."

It seemed strange to accuse Russia of love; slaughter, hate, even heartbreak, but never love. It just seemed too strange. Still… Russia kept him around, locked up though he was, and made sure to visit him. Perhaps that was 'love' in his twisted mind.

Prussia wanted to ask how Russia expressed love to Canada but he was not sure he wanted to know. It might be worse than this cage, if that was possible, and he did not want to know.

… Besides, Canada would just continue to avoid the question.

He concentrated on the warm hand in his and tried to forget the entire conversation. It was easier to hate Russia when he was less than human.

Russia sat on the edge of the cot with his chin resting in his hand and stared at Prussia. Prussia stared back from his corner. It was cold, it always was, but just as Canada made the prison seem warmer; Russia made it seem even colder.

"I am still not seeing what he sees in you."

"That I am handsome, wonderful, and awesome?" Prussia smirked. He was dealing with another of his fractured personalities, and although he could not decide which one it was, he knew it was not one of the more violent ones. He could afford to be arrogant.

"You are not. You are weak and pathetic."

Prussia swallowed. Those sentiments were a little too close to what he thought of himself but he brushed them off and pushed out his chest instead.

"Ah, what do you know? You're fucking insane."

Russia chuckled.

"I am that, yes."

It was quiet in the prison for a while before Prussia chanced asking the question Canada would not answer. He might as well take advantage of this quiet moment with the other nation. He needed to know what he had done to Canada as much as he did not want to know. He was afraid of the answer.

"What did you do to him?" He ventured.

Russia cocked his head to the side with a frown.

"What is it you are talking about?"

Prussia sighed. It would be just his luck if this Russia could not remember what another Russia had done.

"What did you do to Matthew?"

"I have not been doing anything to Matvey. I happen to like him very much."

"The fuck you do."

Russia seemed confused and Prussia was almost positive now that this Russia could not remember the altercation.

"I do. He is… How do you say? He is special to me."

Prussia wondered again what sort of relationship the two of them had.

"Then why do you let him see me?"

Russia leaned forward on the cot and clasped his hands. He thought about it.

"He is making me promise, and my sister says that breaking promises is very bad. I am not wanting to be bad."

"Too late."

Russia laughed.

"Yes, perhaps it is too late, but I promised."

Prussia stood at the window and watched the moon shift across the courtyard. It was late, but he could not dream. Time kept slipping through his fingers and it was bothering him. Why was he still here? Why had he not died?

Canada had told him this afternoon that it had been twenty nine years since he was first locked in this forsaken cage.

Twenty nine years and nothing had changed.

There were still five hundred and twelve stones, his prison was still eight steps wide, and he was still alive.

He curled his fingers around the iron bars.

Canada laughed and settled himself against his chest. He was tucked between his knees and Prussia wrapped his arms around him, holding him close.

"… And then Francis started chasing Arthur around the garden and Alfred started chasing him with a baseball bat."

Prussia rested his chin on top of his head with a smile.

He adored these updates on the outside world. He knew that it was much darker out there than Canada described; he knew that there was another, silent war, but Canada tried to lighten the mood with humourous stories in between. It seems that countries were drowning in tension and intrigue but the nations themselves were attempting to continue business as usual.

It was difficult, Prussia knew, to do that. Tensions in humans led to tensions in their national representatives.

"… And then Berwald said something to Tino that no one else could understand, but he blushed so much!"

Canada said that America and Russia fought all the time now and that explained the bruises Russia wore when he came to visit him. It pleased him to know that someone was hurting the nation, even though he knew it worried Canada.

Russia deserved it.

"… But then Antonio tackled Lovino to the dirt and Feliciano jumped on top of them. Your brother was so upset that he picked all of them up and just carried them back inside."

Prussia tightened his arms around him. He used these stories just as he had used the birdsong to distract himself from the static where his land and citizens used to be. He kept waiting to fade and disappear but it never seemed to happen.

Prussia lay on his back, alone now, and gazed at the stars through his window but he could not appreciate their splendour from behind iron bars. His thoughts echoed through his head in an aching drum, drum, drum of words left unsaid.

He wanted to count the stones but it was too dark to see.

He wanted to make love to Canada but he was no longer here to wrap his arms around.

He wanted to sing but he could not find his voice and the chickadee was not here to fill the silence.

He was alone and that was that. He rolled over onto his side and tried to fall asleep but it was impossible. The cold wind whistled through the window and he closed his eyes in desperation but it did not matter how much he begged. Sleep would not come and he could not will it.

"You are an awful, terrible person! I hate you!"

Russia punched him in the face and tossed him to the cot as he tried to smooth over his own frustrations with the silent war. Prussia crouched low and growled at him.

"Then fucking let me go! Let me die!"

Russia yanked on his hair and kicked him in the stomach. He coughed.

"No!"

He kicked him in the stomach again and Prussia spit blood in his face.

"Let me go!"

"No!"

Prussia leapt across the cot and swept both of them to the ground. He started punching him over and over again to drown out the static of where his land and citizens used to be because the chickadee was gone and Canada was not here to distract him. It was too quiet inside his head without them.

Russia knocked him off and pounded his face against the stones. Prussia kicked his knee and sent him sprawling.

"Let me go!" Prussia screamed and clutched his temples. The inside of his head was empty, too empty, without the voices of his people. It was painful, more painful than any beating. "Let me die!"

Russia ducked down next to him and snatched one of his hands. He bent it back at the wrist until it was a hairsbreadth from breaking but it was still not as painful as the emptiness inside his head.

"No."

Prussia glanced at him and his eyes were almost as wild as his own must be. Sadistic. This was Russia at his most sadistic.

"Why not?" Prussia choked on tears and something thicker; hopelessness. He was no longer a nation and he should have been fading but instead he was growing stronger; strong enough to stand on two feet, strong enough to stand on his own without a million voices at his back.

He did not want to stand on his own. He did not want the burden of this loneliness. He had seen forgotten nations fade in the past and this was backwards. So backwards.

This was cruel.

"Because," Russia bent down to breathe against his ear, "only the good die young. And you? You have been very, very bad."

Prussia crumpled forwards and his own weight snapped his wrist with a sickening 'crack'. He heard it but he could not feel it.

He could not feel anything besides the emptiness echoing inside his head.

Prussia laid his head in his lap and Canada fussed over his hair with gentle fingers. The cold wind whistled in through the window but it was warm here against the other nation. It was comforting.

He sang under his breath and reminded Prussia of the chickadee.

"Why am I still here?" He whispered his darkest fears into the dimness of the cage but he knew that Canada was listening.

"… Because the world is not done with you yet, I suppose."

Prussia laughed.

"The world was done with me thirty two years ago."

"… I am not done with you yet."

Prussia shifted over onto his back to look up at him and Canada seemed close to tears. He wondered if he had somehow managed to become as important to the other nation as he was to him.

"Are you sure? I am an awful, terrible person."

"You are perfect."

He laughed again.

"I am a forgotten prisoner."

"… You are perfect." He repeated it with a little more heat.

"I might die tomorrow, you know."

Canada shushed him and bent over to place a kiss on his mouth. Prussia breathed in his scent. He could feel his tears patter against his face and he wanted to apologize. He still wondered why he had not died, but if he was going to stay, he wanted to stay with Canada. He was not sure how much time he had left but he wanted to spend it with him.

He was in love with him.

The years passed in months and the months passed in hours. It seemed that his questionable grasp of time grew worse with each passing moment spent inside a cage. He watched the fashionable clothes Canada wore shift with the decades and listened for new catchphrases and jargon.

It was difficult to watch an era pass from the outside. He was used to living history and being a part of it. Now he was just apart from it.

Canada brought him updates on his brother and friends whilst Russia let tidbits slip between beatings and rare instances of camaraderie. He grew to love Canada more with each passing day just as he learnt to hate Russia.

And so it went on… And on… And on… And nothing ever changed.

Russia slammed through the door and kicked Prussia in the stomach, highlighting his fading bruises, and knocked the air out of him. He hoisted him into the air and his head snapped backwards with the force of it. He dropped him.

"You made me do it! It was you!"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You made me hurt him!"

Prussia stopped struggling and grasped the hem of his trousers in alarm.

"Hurt who? Ivan, who did you hurt?"

Russia looked down at him with a pained, tortured stare. He seemed frightened.

"Him! I hurt him, and it is all your fault!" He pointed at Prussia and he noticed now that his hands were covered in dried blood; the creases on his palms and his fingernails were stained with rust. His stomach coiled into that too familiar knot of dread. "This is your fault, yours, not mine!"

He kicked him again and stomped from the prison. Prussia hurried after him to hammer on the foreboding door with his fists.

"Ivan, what did you do? What did you do! Ivan!"

There was no answer besides a ragged sob from the other side.

Canada did not visit for a couple of months and Prussia thought he might swallow his own tongue he was so frightened.

Russia did not visit either.

"Hello?"

Prussia jumped at the sudden sound. He had been left alone in his cage for months with the darkness, the static, and his own traitorous thoughts. It was strange to hear the voice of another creature.

He stumbled to the door and pressed his ear against the wrought iron and rivets.

"Who is it?" He cringed at the sound of his own voice; it was halting and rough from lack of use. There had been no one to talk to and he dare not sing.

"It's Katyusha."

Prussia sighed in relief. If there was anyone he could chance trusting in this insane household, it was her.

"Ah."

"Matvey asked me to visit you."

His heart stopped.

"Matthew? Is he alright?"

"Yes, he's… There was an accident. He did not want you to worry."

Prussia laughed, and it was coloured half respite and half resentment. His knees collapsed under him and he could hear the concerned fluttering of Ukraine on the other side of the door as he guided himself down to the ground.

"It's a little late for that, don't you think?"

Canada curled against his chest and hummed a gentle song while Prussia rocked him. He was as pale as the snow from his homeland and Prussia could feel his ribs through his strange garish clothes.

He kept asking him what happened but Canada refused to answer. He kept using the same excuse as before:

"Gilbert, it was nothing he has not done before."

He was getting tired of that answer.

Russia stood in the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest and Prussia thought about rushing past him into the corridor. He had tried before, of course, and it always ended with new bruises and bites.

"… What do you want?"

"My sister said that I should be apologizing to you but I do not want to. I do not like you very much at all."

Prussia snorted. It had been months since their last fight and he had not forgiven him, no, never, but Canada still refused to tell him what happened.

"I feel the same way about you."

"I doubt that."

Prussia sighed and settled against the stones. He was not about to get into an argument over who despised whom more. He knew that he would win. He knew it.

"Then tell her that you apologized and piss off. Lie."

His eyes widened.

"My sister told me lying is very bad. I do not want to be bad."

Prussia brushed him off.

"So, what, you never lie? Ever?"

"No."

He studied him and he seemed serious. It was true that Russia never lied to him or broke his promises when he could help it.

He decided to test him.

"What colour is the cot?"

"… White." He frowned.

"And what is the date?"

"… December third, 1983… It is almost Christmas."

"And are you in love with Matthew?" Russia stopped answering altogether to glare at him but Prussia just allowed himself a self righteous little smile. He twisted the words like a knife. "You said that you never lie. Just think how disappointed Katyusha would be if you started now."

Russia pushed off the doorframe and Prussia steeled himself for another beating but Russia just sank down to sit beside him. He folded his hands on his lap and Prussia wondered how often he had used those fingers to hurt Canada.

"… I am."

"Since when?"

"Since forever."

"Forever is a long time."

"… It is."

"Do you remember how we met?" Prussia whispered to the other nation in his arms. The sunlight trickling in through the window washed the prison in shades of orange. It highlighted his curls and contrasted the lavender of his eyes. He was beautiful.

"… I believe I shot you," Canada mumbled in shame. Prussia laughed.

"Three times. Do you remember the first time we kissed?"

"In the rain," he thought about it, "at the Battle of Ortona, I think."

"… Do you remember the first time I said 'I love you'"?

Canada shook his head.

"No."

"That's because I've never said it before now but… I love you."

Canada kissed him and Prussia whispered 'I love you, I love you' between each kiss. He wanted Canada to know how he felt and he refused to let Russia have him. Russia may have 'forever' on his side but Prussia had nothing left to lose.

Nothing except Canada.

Canada seemed a little more distracted each time he saw him. When he asked, he would shake his head and laugh. Prussia knew that he was preoccupied but Canada covered his mouth with his own and told him not to worry.

He worried anyway.

Canada came in with a limp and a black eye and Prussia was at his side in a moment. He led him to the cot on shaking knees and Canada sat down with a groan of pain.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"You always say that."

"And I always will."

Prussia frowned and jostled him. He was so, so tired of that answer.

"It was Ivan, wasn't it?"

Canada laughed and set to checking his body for bruises. He found a line of contusions leading up his arm and under his suit. He started unbuttoning the suit jacket.

"No, not Ivan. It was Russia."

"… Is there a difference?"

"Of course there is."

He let the jacket slip to the stones and Prussia pushed him back onto the cot. He straddled his hips and started on the next row of buttons. Canada blushed but did not stop him.

"And what did Russia do to you?"

"Nothing he has not done before."

Prussia exposed his chest and hissed at the livid bruises. He dusted his fingers over them and Canada arched up to meet him despite his obvious discomfort.

"Why do you let him do this?" His voice cracked and he despised the sound of it.

"Because."

"Because why?" It was obvious that he was bartering something in exchange for these beatings but what could it be? What was so important to him?

"Just because."

Prussia bent over to kiss the bruises peppered down his front. If there was a tangible reason he had fallen in love with Canada, it was because all of his scars were on his front. His back was smooth and perfect and without a single blemish.

It meant that he had never turned his back on someone. It meant that he had never run away.

Sometimes, just sometimes, Prussia wished that he would run away and leave him here.

He never did.

Canada grasped his hand and glanced around the prison. Prussia tried to see it through his eyes but it was difficult to see anything other than 'home'. It had been his home for over forty years now.

Forty years… That was more than half of a human lifespan and he had spent it most of it in a cage with a chickadee, a lover, and a psychopath. He was no longer waiting for death, he had Canada now, but he wondered how much longer he needed to wait for freedom.

Canada twiddled his tie with his other hand and Prussia frowned at the bright geometric pattern with distaste. Canada told him it was in fashion but he doubted it.

"I wonder how many stones there are…" He whispered it under his breath without expecting an answer.

"Five hundred and twelve," Prussia supplied without pause or doubt. He had been counting those stones for decades and nothing ever changed. He knew the answer better than the back of his hands or the colour of the sky.

Canada blinked.

"Oh…"

Canada squeezed his hand even tighter and stared out through the window, contemplative. He was caught up in whatever scheme he was orchestrating and Prussia could see determination flicker in his gaze. The sunlight highlighted the newest bruise on his face and Prussia wondered what was so important that he kept bothering an unhinged Russia with it.

He touched his cheek and Canada leaned into it without tearing his eyes from the window.

Surely, nothing was worth this.

Russia crept in through the door with a 'clink' of chains and sat down next to him. Prussia looked him over with a frown. His eyes were smudged and dark with sleeplessness and he seemed hollow, beaten, strange. His clothes were a mess and even his scarf was stained. He reached for his hand and Prussia let him. It was not worth the argument.

"I am coming to be saying 'goodbye'. Goodbye."

Prussia snorted.

"Do not make promises you cannot keep."

"I never lie. You are knowing that."

He swept his fingers across his knuckles with an absentminded sort of devotion and massaged his fingers. Prussia was not sure which Russia he was dealing with; he was not sure he even recognized this one.

"You're just going to up and leave me here?"

"Never. I would never be doing that."

"I don't understand."

"It is over." He shifted so that he was facing the other nation. "It is all over."

Russia sealed a kiss over his mouth. It was hesitant and unsure and different from any of the other kisses beforehand. This one was not meant to hurt him and, instead, it seemed to be searching. Prussia did not return the kiss but he did not push him off either.

Russia broke the kiss and brought both of his hands in front of him, clutched between his own, and tightened his grasp.

"Ah…"

"Take care of him."

"… What?"

"Please. Oh, please take care of Matvey. Please, please, please." He whispered the broken prayer over and over again under his breath. "I have been an awful, terrible person but please. Please, please, please."

Prussia was still not sure what he was talking about but he nodded his head. He did not recognize this Russia anymore than he recognized his words but he promised. He might not keep all of his promises but he knew that this was the one promise he would die to keep.

"I promise."

"Thank you." Russia seemed to deflate all at once, as if some great weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, and hiccupped. "Oh, thank you."

He kissed his fingertips, one at a time, and let go. He headed for the door and Prussia called after him.

"… Are you still in love with him?"

"Forever. I will love him forever."

"Forever is a long time."

Russia stopped just inside the doorframe but did not turn around.

"… It is."

He did not close the door behind him.

Canada stepped into his prison with bruised lips and Prussia thought that Russia must have found him too. It had only been a couple of hours, he thought, since that last strange visit. He had left the door unlocked but Prussia did not dare to leave.

It had to be a ruse.

There was no other explanation and so he sat on the cot with his knees against his chest and waited for someone to deliver the punchline. There was no such thing as 'over' in a cage where nothing ever changed.

Canada glanced around the prison with an odd gleam in his eye and his hands in his pockets. His unperturbed behaviour unnerved Prussia and he wondered if he was somehow in on this rather obvious jest.

Then he felt mortified for suspecting him.

"How many stones did you say there were again?"

He seemed almost arrogant as he studied the prison and the question upset Prussia, even though it should not, because he had counted the stones again and again. Nothing ever changed in this cage; nothing would ever change. Change, change, change. Change was a forgotten dream.

"It is five hundred and twelve. It is always five hundred and twelve. It has always been five hundred and twelve."

It will always be five hundred and twelve.

He was shaken after seeing Russia so shattered and defeated and unlike himself. He was confused. What was happening? Where was the punchline? He glared at Canada but the nation met his stare without flinching.

Canada reached further into his pocket and pulled out a small stone the size of his palm. He rocked it from one hand to the other as if weighing his options before handing it to Prussia.

"Five hundred and thirteen," he said with the slightest smile. Prussia opened his mouth and closed it. Opened and closed. Opened and closed. He clutched the stone in shaking hands and noticed that it was still warm from the folds of his pocket.

Russia had meant it when he said it was over. He had not lied... He had never lied. It was over. Over!

Five hundred and thirteen.

Change.

Canada sat down with him to explain the situation and he understood now but Prussia was still surprised how difficult it was for him to leave his prison. It had been his 'home' for over forty years and now he was just supposed to leave? He kept raising his foot and lowering it again without stepping forward.

The door without a doorknob had defined his entire existence for decades and now he was just supposed to step past it?

It was impossible.

Canada clasped his hand and tugged him towards the corridor.

"Come on, then."

Prussia managed to take the first step, and then the second, and each subsequent step was easier than the last. He laughed, both in delight and astonishment, as Canada led him through the winding manor.

There were bags and chests and luggage stacked throughout the manor as smaller nations broke off from the Soviet Union and left Russia behind. He saw some of the nations move past them in a blur of rushed determination to escape. He nodded his head in recognition whenever their eyes would meet.

One of the nations dropped his bag onto his foot with a shocked gasp and Prussia bent over to pick it up for him. He supposed he was surprised to see a dissolved nation that was still alive.

Prussia was surprised himself.

He tightened his grasp on Canada to reassure himself that this was real. He was still alive… And he was leaving.

He was leaving!

Canada led him into the courtyard and the sunlight burnt his eyes. He stumbled a bit but Canada caught him and set him upright. He blinked.

It was springtime and the trees and bushes were budding with new leaves. The grass was brown with patches of green and it crunched beneath his feet. It was warmer outside than he remembered or perhaps that was his imagination. It had been a long time.

"Come on. We're almost there. Just a little bit further."

He brought him to the base of the tree where the little chickadee was buried and Prussia knelt in the grass. Canada knelt with him without ever letting go of his hand. The gravesite was old but Canada had kept the area neat and clean over the years out of respect for the other nation.

Prussia cried.

He was not sure how long he sat there weeping but Canada sat next to him and that made it alright. This was just another 'goodbye'.

Canada dabbed his tears with the hem of his sleeve when he was done and kissed him on the forehead. He was humming under his breath, those same songs he had taught the chickadee, and it tickled where he kissed him.

"I love you," he rasped. His voice was raw from the tears.

Canada chuckled and shifted lower to kiss him on the nose, still singing.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," Prussia repeated.

Canada sealed a kiss over his lips.

"I love you." His voice cracked.

"I love you too."

Canada gathered him up and started leading him towards the gates. Prussia focused on shifting one foot in front of the other and trusted that Canada was leading him towards freedom at last. He had followed him this far; he just needed to follow him a little further.

He tried not to glance behind him but the temptation was too great and he twisted to catch one last glimpse. He wanted freedom, yes, but he also needed to see his cage one more time.

He was surprised to see Russia standing alone at the window where he had stood for decades beforehand. His bloodied gloves were clenched around the iron bars and he was covered in handfuls of golden feathers. Prussia swallowed at the sight of them. He understood now what Russia had been so afraid of when he saw the chickadee soaring free. He had been afraid of this. He had been afraid of being left behind.

Their eyes met.

Prussia thought about turning back but snorted and tore his gaze from the window. He tightened his grasp on Canada and walked through the gates. He did not look back again.

After all, it would be a kindness to go back for him and there was no room left for kindness in the hole where his heart used to be. There was no room left for good. There was only room for Canada.

Russia had said that only the good die young…

And he meant to live for a very long time.

Author's Notes:

I am quite fond of Russia, if you were wondering, and I wish that there were more 'happy endings' for him. I wrote this piece when I found an old poem I wrote in high school about a prisoner and a bluebird. He ends up strangling the songbird in envious greed and is left alone for his troubles… Uh, this piece is only slightly happier. I have always wanted to write a piece for the timeframe of 1945 to 1989 and the Cold War as seen through the eyes of an imprisoned Prussia, and dealing with a fractured Russia and a persevering Canada. It was an interesting project.

It was a looong project.

This sort of ended up as a reverse Lulla(bye). It is written to be introspective and with odd, almost dreamlike characteristics. Some of that is because it is the internal ramblings of a man out of time and some of it is because the piece covers over forty years of history. There was no other way to write that much of a timeframe without skipping weeks, months, and years at a time. Oh well. I have had similar issues in I Only Smoke When I'm With You and Regretfully Yours, which also skip large sections of 'between' in order to tell a story (but not forty four years!).

A couple of notes on Russia: I write his speech like that on purpose. In my mind, that is how he speaks (regardless of the language) and I think it suits him. Also, I tried to showcase his shifting moods in a believable but still dramatic fashion. I explored the same concept in Losing It. When he hurts someone, he regrets it, but he will do it again. It is inevitable. I think that he has been in love with Canada forever but whether it is romantic or dependant is debatable. Some of his more violent episodes towards Prussia were triggered by something Canada said behind scenes. I also think he fell in love with Prussia, in his own way.

A couple of notes on Canada: He plays his cards close to the chest but, above all, he is forgiving. Absolutely. He will never forget but he will always forgive. You might not see it here but he is slowly, oh so slowly, guiding the other two nations towards freedom. He is working behind the scenes and, after forty years, we see that he is as patient as he is forgiving. In the end, he has granted both of them freedom, whether or not they understand it yet.

A couple of notes on Prussia: I cannot imagine how difficult it would be to be connected to a million red threads and then have that connection severed without ceremony. He has seen a dozen other nations fade before him and cannot understand why he is still alive but, over the course of these visits from Canada, he finds a new reason to live. He pities Russia, even likes him sometimes, and hates him. I tried to balance the hopelessness of his situation with his usual confidence and the struggle between them is seen when comparing his thoughts with his spoken words.

The chickadee mentioned here is not Gilbird, I do not think, but you could see it as such if you want to.

My favourite line here is "Only the good die young. And you? You have been very, very bad." That is my explanation for the oft argued reason of the continued existence of dissolved nations. You can see that Russia really struggles with his childish concepts of 'good' and 'bad' throughout this piece. So does Prussia to a lesser extent. So do I.

I really like some bits of this piece and I am unsure of others. I might continue to add changes and subtle tweaks after it has been posted. Please leave a review and feel free to offer opinions, advice, or criticism. All are welcome. You are free to leave an anonymous review; I do not mind. Please just let me know what you think of this piece.