Chapter Text
Screaming and crying were signs that a newborn was healthy. At least, with humans.
When the boy woke up, he screamed not because he was healthy but because he felt like he was falling apart - like his skin and lungs and limbs weren't meant for each other, each trying to push the other away.
He didn't hear it, or didn't remember it later, but the first words spoken in his live presence were: "Why did we do this if he's still no different from before? You've seen how 1815 went, Prussia."
There were steps; confident, quick, like they had an aim in mind. Like they had no time to lose. The voice that then spoke was close enough to startle him, make him open his eyes for the first time, blinking away tears.
"Because this time will be different."
They called him North German Confederation; they called him Germany and young one and one time they almost called him Holy Roman Em--
The man he had learnt was Prussia (or Gilbert, or big brother as he himself kept insisting) fixed it with a hard jab to the ribs of whoever said it.
"Why don't I have a name?"
"Pardon?"
"People don't just call you Prussia. You say your name is Gilbert when talking to messengers or when outside. What am I supposed to answer when they ask me?"
Gilbert tilted his head, putting his book aside, something between a smile and smirk forming.
"Ludwig."
Later, much later, Gilbert would say that Ludwig was free to change it. That it wasn't uncommon. And Ludwig would never consider it.
The pain was still constant. Sometimes it was worse and sometines not, but somehow four years after his birth, it started vanishing completely for short intervals. Because Gilbert took Ludwig to meetings, dismissing the other states' arguments that he was a child, that he acted and looked like a 7 years old human. Ludwig knew that this was because of a war.
"The blood in your veins," Gilbert would say sometimes when he stayed awake with Ludwig, waiting through the pain that Ludwig no longer cried over because he'd learnt not to because Gilbert always looked at him like a stranger when he did. Anything to impress. "Is not only the veins of your people. It's also the blood you spill. You have to realise that. And you need to realise that this is necessary. This is how we live, Ludwig, it's how we're born and how we die. Creation and destruction and creation."
A kiss to his forehead. Ludwig listened to every word attentively, often writing them down later. Journals upon journals of things he knew he'd need to learn. That, and he noticed a smile every time he asked his brother for a new journal, new ink.
"Blood and iron. That's what'll stop making your body work against itself. You'll be strong and healthy."
Ludwig decided to ask for a sword the very next day. He imagined the child Gilbert had been, all the wars and battles he had told about. A knight, not much older than himself, his grip firm and steady on the sword that's too big for him. He wears white, always, a brilliant pure white not stained by dirt or blood. His gaze is confident. He does not cry or hesitate. He is forever a child but forever eternal, an all-knowing omnipotent being, immortal. He will only die when the earth does too.
Training was hard and straining; but it was with Gilbert once he came back from the war and once they were back from Versailles. Gilbert glowed with triumph, and Ludwig - Ludwig felt as if he should've felt just as triumphant but all he could care about was that the pain was reduced to the occasional headache or mysterious bruise or cold.
When they were back and Gilbert handed Ludwig his sword, instructing him to show what he'd learnt from his teacher, Ludwig gave everything he could. His shoulders ached and his palms were sore afterwards, but.
He was so sure he could see a hint of disappointment on Gilbert's face.
"We will start over. Alright? Your posture needs fixing. Did he teach you defense?"
He hadn't. But Ludwig nodded, straightening his back.
"Good, that's great- I'll do a few basic attacks and you show me how far you've gotten." He picked up a wooden sword, holding it with both hands. "Ready?"
A nod.
The sword moved forward, like a stab, and Ludwig blocked it, shoved it away. It felt like an instinct, he knew that it probably was. Instincts and muscle memory. He knew that it also was enough to make Gilbert raise his eyebrows and smile.
He raised his sword again without a pause, bringing it down. Of course, Ludwig blocked it. He expected another smile then, a chuckle, a "well done". But instead he saw Gilbert's eyes widen and his face looked death pale.
"What? What is it?"
The wooden sword hit the ground and Gilbert grabbed the hilt of Ludwig's.
Realisation washed over him.
His own sword wasn't made of wood. And it had been pressed down against his shoulder.
"Gilbert-" He glanced down at the spreading red on his shirt. A different kind from the blood on scratched knees and elbows from falling down.
"I'm sorry- Ludwig, I'm so sorry--" He removed the blade, throwing it far far away, his voice quiet and his movements frantic. He picked Ludwig up, bringing him into his room, washing the wound and putting a salb and bandage on it, acting as if Ludwig was about to die. It scared him. It terrified him, actually.
"I'm fine."
"You're injured- you're fucking injured, Christ--"
Ludwig found it in himself to laugh. "You've never used swear words around me before."
"I've never hu--" He stopped abruptly. In a second, he picked Ludwig up again, putting him down on the bed and tugging the blanket over him. Like with a child. Ludwig pushed it away a bit, slightly annoyed. He wasn't a child.
(But he wanted to be.)
"I'll read to you. And get you tea."
For the rest of the evening it was Grimm stories and biscuits, warm sweet tea, and one more apology.
The training stopped, at least for a while. Gilbert said it made more sense to focus on other things. He brought books, chess, tin soldiers, maps - one of them was a cheap one. In a moment of child-like humour, Gil scribbled the faces of other nations on it.
"This is England. Arthur Kirkland. His hair looks like a bird nest and he's your typical old man stuck in a 20-something years old's body. If he attempts to talk to you about philosophy or his colonies, quickly exit the room unless you're in for a 30 minutes monologue."
"Oh, you sound like you get along." They laughed. Gilbert made Arthur's eyebrows two sizes bigger.
"Colonies are a waste of money. And he's suspicious of you. People think you're an extremely dangerous one, Ludwig. Watch out! The German Empire! Eight years of age but I swear he'll kill you! Anyway. This is France. Francis. Imaginative, isn't he? He's... nice, actually, but we're not on good terms, I suppose."
"Sore loser?"
"Aren't we all?"
Ludwig, visibly surprised, looked at Gilbert, waiting for an explanation.
"I- I didn't always win. But I got up. That's what matters. Oh, oh, you've met that one: Austria. Roderich Edelstein. I wish you could meet Hungary. Erzsebet. Maybe for your birthday."
But Ludwig wasn't listening. The part about Gilbert admitting defeat had struck him.
Things were great until they weren't. It was 1878 and an old Der Wahre Jakob newspaper was all it took. Gilbert was like warm water when content; and like fire when furious. He was quick to check everywhere and found more than a newspaper.
"What were you thinking-"
"Let me explain!"
"Oh, I don't need an explanation. I know damn well what happened. You went and bought this- socialist bullshit."
"It's not--" But Ludwig's protests were cut off again.
"You realise they're our enemy? Your enemy?! We are doing everything in our power to keep this country- to keep you safe from these revolutionaries. And this is how you thank us?"
"They have good points! In the Ruhr, in the cities, there's--"
"I am so disappointed in you." Cold, hard, like ice. Like metal. It felt like a stab. Ludwig wanted to say something - a what or you don't get it or I was just curious. He didn't. He waited, staring at Gilbert.
"You will burn this. All of this. No word to anyone. Understood?"
He understood.
Months passed but his aging didn't slow down - it even seemed faster than a human's. Mr Austria and Mrs Hungary, or Mr and Mrs Austria-Hungary, commented on it in passing with a look of pity.
"Shame you don't get to be a child for decades. At least a few. I know it was awful when we ourselves were children, but now - the same things that make childhood such a safe time now also make you grow faster. Shame."
Her husband and Prussia looked at each other knowingly. They had someone in mind who had gotten centuries of childhood at a cost. Ludwig knew this. He had found enough old maps, history books. And had heard Gilbert mumble to him drunkenly one time, a sad smile on his lips. I miss you, Karlchen. Ludwig after that hadn't talked to Gilbert for a week. Gilbert never asked why. He knew. Everyone in all of Europe knew that Ludwig's body was second hand. Like looking at a ghost, a state had whispered once, thinking Ludwig wouldn't hear.
Not that he ever told anyone, but Ludwig hated the empire that came before him, hated him for dying. A few days after the visit he stolen wine from Gilbert, emptied it, and talked to his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
"I have to make up for your weakness. Every day. Every day of my life."
Like you aren't weak yourself.
"Well, I didn't die. I'm alive."
I'm not dead. Not really. You're my copy, and you won't ever escape that. You will always be the second empire in everyone's eyes. The second brother. Never your own body or spirit.
"I'm not a second--"
Second place. Always. Gilbert only ever likes you when you act like me, have you noticed? You will never be anything but my ghost, and that's the only way you'll be liked--"
The reflection cracked and shattered with Ludwig's punch, but that wasn't enough. He punched again; right hand, right hand, left hand, both. So nothing but dust would remain. His screams and yells pierced the air, I hate you I hate you I hate you leave me alone you're dead, every punch smearing the shards with blood. His blood. His pain. Only his, nobody else's.
He wasn't sure when Gilbert came, how much he'd heard, but eventually he pulled him away and grabbed his fists, held him tight until Ludwig stopped kicking and his screams melted into sobs.
(A few days later, when Gilbert still hadn't mentioned the incident and still acted strange, Ludwig decided to sneak into his room. The journal was easily found, bare, and it would be so easy to read it. Gilbert's thoughts and opinions all laid in front of him.
Maybe it was fear of what he would find. Maybe it was respect - for his brother or for himself. But Ludwig put the journal back, unread.)