It was dark and cold. Very cold, he couldn't feel his fingers or his nose. Maybe that was a good thing... they were probably broken anyway. He shivered alone in the cell. He was crushed, he was gone. Prussia had fallen, he lost his brother.
Maybe it was true, maybe he was nothing now, not important... Any fire he had in his warriors heart was decimated.
A door opened and light streamed in, a hulking figure walked in.
Suddenly the dead fire came back and he in a fit of rage attacked the man.
Something swished through the air, colliding with his head. Pain exploded through his body and he crumpled to the ground. But no, that's not enough. He fought, so he was punished.
A pipe smashed into his side, he screamed, again, and again. The pain coursed through him, how long the beating lasted, he couldn't tell. The door slammed and he was alone again, bleeding, broken.
He would die like this. A broken man, with no chance to ever see his younger brother again
He sat alone in his room, with a box he kept hidden from everyone, including the light of day. Newspaper clippings of Nazi lies. Propaganda. Flags, plans, a book..
He blinked back tears, reading American papers. Accusing him of great crimes...but he couldn't get mad. They were all true.
How many had he killed?
How many times did he yell at his brother, or not listen to his wisdom?
How many wrongs had he done!? Too many to count.
He saw so many dying faces...of people he killed. He saw his brothers disapproving face. He hated that face... He heard the other countries scorning him, making fun of him, taunting him.
He remembered the Wall. The Wall his sins built...all those years /he/ cursed Gilbert with under Russian control.
Then he broke into sobs. He remembered his strong proud brother, a weak and broken man...
He threw the box across the room. He was alone, no one would care about him. The only person that would was now dead, and it was his fault.