Волк
Is this anger? Russia wonders. He has heard of this emotion, but somehow his own always seem to tend towards the colder spectrum. Sadness. Fear. Pain. Anger is heat – foreign and unknowable.
Or so he always thought. Now he wonders how his breath can become crystalline in the air, how his tears can turn to ice on the skin of his cheeks, when inside him his blood is boiling.
Russia's knees punch into the red snow. His hands tremble as he pushes his fingers through the she-wolf's cold, cold fur, stroking her ears, her blood-stained muzzle. And Russia wonders how he can hate his own people so much.
Belarus would laugh at him for crying over something as stupid as a dead wolf, but Belarus isn't here. Russia tangles his fingers in the wolf's fur, buries his face in her shoulder and tries to breathe in the fading scent of her, and he howls.
It is a while before he realises he is not alone. There is another voice entwined with his, at a higher pitch, thinner, and with greater sorrow. Russia pulls back, blinking in surprise. Hardly daring to believe it, he pushes a hand beneath the she-wolf's flank… and feels something move! Letting out a little cry, half of shock and half pure joy, Russia closes his fist and exhumes a tiny grey cub from the snow.
They regard each other. Yellow eyes into violet, violet into yellow, and red red snow between.
"You're a small one, aren't you?"
The cub doesn't answer. Just stares.
"A little grey runt. Like me." He pauses. "You'll probably die soon, anyway." And he reaches out to snap the unfortunate creature's neck.
It is almost as if the cub hears him and understands, because at that moment the tiny stub of a tail begins to wag and the runt begins to struggle feebly, and Russia can see in its eyes that is does not want to die.
Russia thinks of Belarus. She would tell him to kill the thing and get it over with. He shakes his head. Ukraine? She would say the same, but for a different reason, and with kindness in her eyes. She would say that it is his place to show mercy, and not to prolong an innocent creature's suffering.
But it is neither Belarus nor Ukraine standing here with a runt's scruff in their fist; it is Russia.
And Russia has never been one for showing mercy.
"Нет."
His cheeks are stiff with all the foolish tears he's shed, but somehow he manages to smile. He wraps the shivering cub in his scarf and tucks him into his jacket, against the warmth of his heart, and he gives the dead mother-wolf a last affectionate pat before standing and starting for home.
"They'll see, Bолк. We'll show them how strong we are."
.
Years later, and the snow is red once again. This time Russia stands in the ruins of Stalingrad, and the wolf crouching before him wears an iron cross.
They regard each other. Blue eyes into violet, violet into blue and the red red snow between.
"It's over, German."
The wolf doesn't answer. Just stares.
"So sad for you, to die so far from home." Russia cocks his pistol and levels it at the wolf's blue eye.
The wolf hears, and understands, and those dead eyes come to life as he raises his one good arm and pushes the pistol away from his face.
Russia frowns, levels the gun, and again the wolf pushes it away. Russia begins to smile.
That's it, little wolf. Fight for your life.
Once more, Russia aims the gun and this time, he fires a single shot.
The wolf stares. Steam rises from a distant snowbank.
"Go, German."
The wolf scrambles to his feet, his blue eyes fearing some trick. But Russia merely smiles and puts up his gun.
"I said I would show them how strong I am, and I have. Это не место человека, чтобы убить волка."
The smile is frozen on Russia's face, and there are tears on his cheeks
The wolf turns, and runs.
Волк ("Volk") = Wolf
Нет ("Net") = No
Это не место человека, чтобы убить волка ("Eto ne mesto cheloveka, chtoby ubit'volka") = It is not a man's place to kill a wolf