Gilbert Beilschmidt

The first time the mark burned, it felt like war.

Not the kind of war that Gilbert Beilschmidt had known all his life, not the roaring clash of steel or the triumphant chaos he once reveled in, but something quieter and far more terrifying. It was a slow, searing heat beneath his skin, right over the place he had long ago stopped touching, a mark he had dismissed as little more than a cruel joke from the universe. For centuries, he had carried it without meaning, a symbol of a miracle so rare that even nations stopped believing in it after their first few hundred years of existence. Soulmates were myths wrapped in probability so laughably small that even the most hopeful had long since abandoned the idea, choosing instead to drown themselves in alliances, rivalries, or fleeting pleasures that never quite filled the hollow space inside them. Gilbert had been no different, loudly proclaiming he didn’t need anyone, that he was “awesome” enough on his own, that the world was his to conquer and laugh at. But that burning—persistent, undeniable—was not something he could ignore. It felt like something was calling him, dragging him forward, stripping away the gray monotony he had grown accustomed to. And for the first time in centuries, Prussia felt something dangerously close to anticipation.

The second time it burned, he realized he was already too late.

You were there, standing in a place so ordinary it felt almost insulting to the magnitude of what was happening, and yet everything about you eclipsed the world around you. Gilbert didn’t remember moving, didn’t remember deciding to approach you, only that his body betrayed him completely as he dropped to his knees before you without hesitation, without pride, without even understanding why. It was instinct, pure and overwhelming, the kind that stripped away centuries of hardened arrogance and left behind something raw and desperate. The mark flared under his skin as if recognizing its other half, and suddenly the noise of the world dimmed into nothing, replaced by a clarity he had never experienced before. For a country who had lived through countless eras, who had endured wars, betrayals, and endless change, the sensation of peace was foreign and almost unbearable. His breath hitched as he reached for you, hands trembling in a way that no battlefield had ever managed to cause. “You’re… mine,” he whispered, though the words came out reverent rather than possessive, like a prayer spoken to something sacred. And in that moment, Gilbert Beilschmidt, who had never bowed to anyone, knelt completely.

It didn’t take long for the obsession to take root.

To anyone else, it would have seemed sudden, unnatural even, but for Gilbert it felt like something that had always been there, buried beneath layers of denial and empty bravado. You were not just his soulmate; you were his anchor, his clarity, the one thing that made the endless stretch of time feel meaningful rather than suffocating. He followed you without thinking, hovered close as if distance itself was a threat, his usual loud and brash demeanor replaced with something softer, almost reverent. The phrase “I’m awesome” slipped from his vocabulary when he was near you, replaced instead with quiet murmurs of praise directed entirely at you, as though your existence alone was something worth worshipping. Every glance you gave him, every word, every small gesture—it all fed into something deeper, something insatiable. When you touched his mark, even absentmindedly, the effect was immediate, his entire body relaxing as if centuries of tension had finally been released. He would lean into you without hesitation, eyes half-lidded, expression uncharacteristically peaceful. “You saved me,” he would say, over and over again, as though afraid the truth might vanish if he didn’t repeat it enough. And perhaps, in his mind, you had.

The world, however, was not so kind as to let something like this exist without consequence.

Among the countless territories, nations, and fragments of land that made up the fragile balance of power, there were always those who wanted more, who envied what others had been granted. Lara was one of them—a minor territory with an ambition far larger than her significance, someone who had spent her existence clawing for attention and recognition. Unlike most, she bore no soulmate mark, a fact that had shaped her into something sharp and bitter, someone who scoffed at the very concept even as she secretly resented those who possessed it. Gilbert had once been an ally to her, someone she admired in a shallow, opportunistic way, drawn to his confidence and reputation. But admiration twisted easily into desire when she realized what he had become after meeting you. The once untouchable Prussia, now reduced to someone who followed another so completely, who spoke of you as if you were the center of his universe—it infuriated her. To her, you were nothing special, nothing worthy of such devotion. And yet, you had what she could never have.

She made sure you knew it, too.

Lara’s words were laced with mockery, her tone dripping with false sweetness as she circled you like a predator sizing up prey. She questioned your worth, your strength, your right to stand beside someone like Gilbert, all while trying to position herself as the better choice. To her, this wasn’t just jealousy—it was an opportunity, a chance to claim something rare and elevate herself in the eyes of others. She tried to get close to Gilbert again, to remind him of their past alliance, to lure him back with promises and flattery. But she underestimated something fundamental: the bond between a country and their soulmate was not something that could be severed by persuasion or temptation. Gilbert’s reaction to her was immediate and visceral, a stark contrast to the softness he showed you. His eyes hardened, his posture shifting as he placed himself firmly between you and her, as though even her proximity was a threat. “Don’t,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous in a way that reminded everyone exactly who he used to be. “Don’t even look at them.”

It wasn’t just anger—it was devotion taken to its most extreme form.

Gilbert’s obsession wasn’t the chaotic, unpredictable kind that lashed out blindly; it was focused, precise, entirely centered on you and your safety. He watched everything, noticed everything, every glance directed your way, every word spoken about you, storing it all away with a careful intensity that bordered on unsettling. When you were calm, he was calm; when you were distressed, the world itself seemed to feel the shift in his demeanor. Your presence regulated him in a way nothing else ever had, smoothing out the sharp edges of his personality, grounding him in a reality that felt stable for the first time in centuries. But that same connection meant that any threat to you was amplified tenfold in his mind. Lara’s continued attempts to insert herself into your lives only fueled that protective instinct, pushing him closer to a line he had not crossed in a long time. “You don’t get it,” he told her once, his grip on your hand tightening as if to emphasize his point. “They’re not something you can take. They’re not something you can replace.” His voice softened slightly as he glanced at you, a rare vulnerability flickering across his expression. “They’re everything.”

And for Gilbert, that wasn’t an exaggeration.

In a world where most had long since given up on the idea of soulmates, where the odds were so astronomically low that hope itself felt foolish, finding you had changed everything. It wasn’t just about love—something he had never truly understood before—but about purpose, about clarity, about finally feeling complete in a way that no victory or conquest had ever provided. He didn’t care about power, not anymore, even though your bond had undeniably strengthened him in ways others could sense but not explain. What mattered was you, your presence, your existence, the simple fact that you were there with him. “I’d burn the whole world down if it tried to take you away,” he admitted quietly one day, his tone so matter-of-fact it sent a chill down the spine. There was no bravado in his words, no exaggeration—just a statement of truth as he understood it. And when he leaned his head against you, seeking that quiet reassurance only you could provide, it was clear that for all his intensity, for all his obsession, there was something deeply fragile beneath it. Something that feared losing the one thing that had finally brought color back into his gray world.

Because even miracles, no matter how rare, were never truly safe.