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Prussia had been dead for one day.
But Brandenburg could not mourn. He couldn’t. He had to trudge on. The world was unforgiving, in these times especially so.
He couldn’t go to Königsberg anymore, not since that Soviet bastard had annexed it. He couldn’t go visit the old palace anymore. No, he had to stay in Berlin.
The Allies didn’t even deign to give Prussia a grave. The entire affair had been quiet, so quiet that Brandenburg wasn’t notified until a day after his death.
When the messenger had relayed Prussia’s last words, Brandenburg felt a chill run down his spine.
Goodbye. I’m sorry.
He didn’t need to think twice about what Prussia was sorry about.
The one thing they had. The one promise, made all those hundreds of years ago. The one they had kept true to, no matter the cost.
And now…
Now life had lost its meaning.
Prussia. His younger brother. His beloved younger brother, who he had raised, watched rise to power and make a name for himself in history.
Stupid fucking Kingdom of Prussia.
Brandenburg had to settle for laying a bouquet of cornflowers down at the foot of Brandenburg Gate, along with an ink-black feather.
If he was not allowed a grave, Brandenburg would make one.
.
.
.
Prussia had been dead for a week and a half.
And the world carried on like always. As if they hadn’t lost yet another soul to the unfairness of political war. As if they hadn’t lost the man who had carried Germany on his back.
They lived on. Like always.
But who was ‘they’? Was there anyone who cared? Anyone who truly cared? Anyone who stayed long enough to care?
“Will anyone stay?”
Prussia stayed. For a while.
But that while was over.
Brandenburg had wings. Wings as large as Prussia’s, no different except for the color.
Brandenburg’s wings were crimson red.
He never liked taking out his wings. They were too big, and proved a hassle for the battlefield. So he preferred to keep them hidden underneath his military coat.
But he kept them out for longer now. They were somewhat of a comfort to him. Wrapping them around himself and imagining, if just for a moment, that one of them was Prussia’s.
He had passed by Brandenburg Gate today, glancing at the cornflowers he had placed on that day.
They were dry and brittle. Wilted. The feather had long blown away.
.
.
.
Prussia had been dead for two months.
It still hung on Brandenburg’s mind, grief nudging him in the head every waking second of the day.
Why?
Why did Prussia have to die?
He wasn’t the one in the wrong. He wasn’t the one who had started all of this.
He should be alive right now.
Brandenburg had properly dried a cornflower and encased it in resin, carrying it in his breast pocket wherever he went.
It was a little piece of Prussia he had with him. It brought him some comfort in the grief.
.
.
.
Prussia had been dead for one year.
The Allies had finally given him a proper grave, if only to get Brandenburg off their backs.
He was grateful anyways.
Sometimes, he would go to the grave and talk to Prussia about his day. How work was, how many times Soviet had argued with his children and subordinates, how much he missed Prussia.
And sometimes, he swore he could hear Prussia talking back, his voice carried by the wind.
The preserved cornflower’s new home was propped against the headstone.
.
.
.
Prussia had been dead for 10 years.
And Brandenburg was finally healed.
He had mostly moved on. Part of him still stayed with Prussia’s grave, no matter where he went. Part of him still imagined Prussia’s wing brushing against his.
But for now, his voice in the wind was enough.
.
.
.
Prussia had been dead for 44 years.
44 years, and Brandenburg always took two days off of work, no matter the occasion: April 10, and February 25.