3rd September 1939
"Gentlemen, we are at war with Germany."
The only indication that time still moved was the ticking of the clock on the wall as three nations sat paralyzed in the hush of the board room.
Five seconds. Ten. Thirty. A minute.
Along with the repeated noise rose the sound of quiet sobbing as Francis slowly raised both hands to his face, weeping into them.
"This is ridiculous," Arthur was the first to respond, his tone distant, as though he had forgotten that others were present, "you can't possibly mean that."
Voice echoing throughout the room, the stern face of the man who headed the table was unflinching, unresponsive. The papers before him lay in perfect alignment with the words on them bold in black ink. With no one else filling the silence, the British nation continued, seemingly unable to stop.
"I was told we were doing everything possible to prevent this outcome," his eyes darted wildly for something to focus on, tone taking on an odd laugh.
"Yes, well, we were trying-" a second English accent spoke, monotonously, but was cut off by Arthur, who stood slamming both hands onto the table.
"You're telling me you idiots couldn't stop this?" the fury in his face overwhelmed his words, hairs on the back of his neck standing upright as he all but lunged over the table, "You're saying it's happening again?"
"Sir, please, let's try to remain orderly-"
"Shut up!" screaming now, eyes bulging, a string of incoherent insults spilled from the Englishman's mouth in a rage fuelled tirade, as Francis proceeded to despair, the memories all too fresh.
Rising from his seat, Ivan, who had thus far remained quiet, strolled over to the large window that faced out to the garden. He gazed through it with a serene expression, the sun warm on his face. From the other side, the chirping of birds was audible, their interlacing songs filling the morning.
"Why didn't you listen? We all knew that man was no good! Why couldn't you have done your Goddamn job? You fucking moron!" spit flew from the enraged representative's lip as he directed his anger at the nearest outlet.
Tendons pulsing from his neck, he finished his rant, the weight of the situation settling as the room fell soundless once more.
"Your cooperation is much appreciated," the man thanked, twisting the knife.
Voice cracking as he spoke, Arthur's eyes narrowed to hate filled slits. "Get out," he seethed.
The other obliged, tucking together his papers and giving a curt nod before exiting, the click of the door a knell to their ears.
Lowering himself down into his chair, still latched onto the table in a white knuckled grip, the English nation let out a breath and vacantly stared, seeing only the images that played in his mind. Outside, a car engine started, tyres crackling on the gravel and growing distant, the three nations now left alone. Rasping gasps still emitted the Frenchman as he grieved what was to come, wet sniffs coming from behind his hands. Ivan watched the fragment of world that inhabited the view from the window. Disjointed seconds passed, counting down the quickly diminishing time left for thousands of innocent lives.
Still facing away from the other's, the Russian nation allowed his eyes to slip closed for a private moment of peace before he turned to the other occupants of the room.
"I must go now," he stated, "I wish you both luck."
Stirred back to reality by the sound of his voice, Arthur looked up to the looming figure. "You too," he muttered as he rose to shake hands with his ally, "shall we schedule our next meeting for later this week?"
With a placid smile, Ivan ignored the hand that lay outstretched, his hands folded behind his back.
"Unfortunately, I cannot attend any meetings until further notice from my superiors as I am not yet engaged in any hostile activities with our current enemy."
"What?" Arthur let his hand drop, the third representative looking up from his anguish with bloodshot eyes at the information.
"Neither I, nor any of my comrades, are under threat from Germany," the Russian continued, expression fixed, "this is not yet my war."
Rising panic was visible on the faces of the other two men, Francis choking back tears, Arthur staring with wide eyes, unsure of how to react.
"However, it will be soon," Ivan alleviated the tension, "and when that time comes, you may trust me to be an ally to you both."
A wave of relief washed over the room at these words, despite their foreboding nature. He stretched out an arm to solidify his promise, shaking first with the noticeably clammy hand of the Englishman then with the Frenchman, whose body shuddered as he cried inwardly.
"We will meet again soon," he remarked, tone empty, leaving the room thereafter.
Again, the latch of the door snapped shut, leaving the remaining two nations. Shoulders hunched and shuddering with his ragged breath, Francis continued to sputter on his own panic. Arthur took in a deep breath, exhaling in a drawn-out sigh of acceptance, and looked over at his friend.
"Come on, Francis, it'll be alright," his words were hollow to the both of them.
Francis looked back at him, eyes red and puffy, tears still streaming down his cheeks, lips pulled down in an inverted smile.
"Not again," his voice hoarse, he uttered what they had all thought.
All the other could do was send an empathetic look that he knew to be meaningless.
"What more can they do to us?" the British man asked, thinking it a comforting statement but instantaneously wishing he had not said aloud what they feared to think.
With no one to witness it, Francis leaned over, seeking comfort in the smaller man's shoulder as he shook with the effort it took to cry. Eyes fixed blankly on nothing, Arthur allowed his jacket to be soaked, gently rubbing the other man's back as he murmured consoling lies, for his own benefit as much as Francis'.
"It will be alright, pet, I promise you. We'll be alright," he repeated as though saying it would make it come true.
They were promises he could not keep, but it was all that could be done as the clock on the wall ticked, bringing them closer, second by second, to the hell that awaited them.
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