He's a soldier, a dog of war and it shows in his stride, in the span of his shoulders and the curve of his back. Russia bears his uniform with pride, with disdain, with all the complexity of a nation at war. But despite it all he glances over and catches those too familiar eyes with his own, blinks and hums under his breath as he thinks.

"No." Because though he's curious, there's a bit of a cheapening to being told the future by himself. So he tips his head, doesn't break the eye contact as he queries, "Would you have told?"

He tries to think if he would have, would have gathered a younger him in his arms and told tales of the glory of the Russian empire, of the splendor, the distress running beneath the surface. So no, the answer is probably not any different.

But Russia does not see the prophecy in Russia's thoughts, doesn't see the sleek figure he can form in another's eyes. There's change bubbling in Russia's veins, height and strength and age settling slow over his features as the years drag on and the war and revolution builds and crests.