My history is bloody. Violent. One of those things, as Madeline so kindly put, that "don't need to be said." That's not my fault. I didn't make a nation out of a military fort. I didn't cause monarchs to take their thrones by force, by slander instead of by rightful succession. I didn't kill Nikolai. I didn't murder his children. I didn't even touch his Alexei. His Anastasia. I didn't take Alexandra from Germany. She came to me – to him. She loved both of her countries, even if she was afraid to speak here.
I didn't send Rasputin. I didn't call for Lenin. Or Stalin. One banished, one foreign, and of course he's foreign to me – Georgia is not Russia. No matter what the boundaries of the USSR were; I cared not where they lie. I wanted to help. I want to help. Communism, even if I didn't ask for it, was supposed to be my saving grace. How could something so perfect hurt people?
It hurt Калинингрaд – нет, East Germany. The marks, the bruises.. Apparently they're still dark enough to drive him from me. No matter what I tell him. No matter what I promise. No matter what he promised. No matter how honorable, how prestigious his values are. Were – Prussia is gone.
..Gilbert is still here..
I hurt the Baltics, though. They denied their rightful places as my comrades, and I did not treat them as a true member of my society should.
It wasn't something I should have done, really. Hypocritical to the point where it would have been shameful if all of my leaders hadn't been doing the same. Or worse. I should have honored them as the others, shown them how wonderful things could have been. The point was never to spread the ideology through fear.
It did hurt, though, to always have such two-faced neighbors. Fêting my leaders when they came by, then running to the Germans for "rescue" the next second. As soon as we were out of sight.
I don't think it was until I finally tried to save them from themselves that they openly defied me, though. I've never understood it. After all, how different am I from my sisters, and yet the proudest, the most honorable of them ran to my sister's side, even though she denied him. I can respect his persistence – and hers, terrifying as it can be – even if I disagree with his goal. I can't see that I am so different in trying to find friends of my own.
I'm not truly so far thrown from everyone else, am I?
My sisters sound like I do, and they've found friends. The eldest of us even manages to be in American favor, at times.
..
The Americans are not a people I claim to understand. They are corrupt, and they hurt their people. They are virtually the personification of capitalism, and they spite everyone. They are both nosy and ignorant, and they hurt others. And yet, despite all of this, despite all of the ill will towards these people, they are yet some of the most beloved of the globe. Of the world over.
The man himself is in one the most rude and the most kind person I have ever known. It's mystifying. Captivating, really. He is mystifying, and somehow he's just so.. perfectly obscene, I believe I could say.
..But it's no matter. Through all of his people's misconceptions, through all of our conflicts, all of our competitions, I am not someone who matters to him. Or anyone. All I am, all that I now represent, is the shadow of a veiled threat. Not myself: neither Ivan nor Russia. Merely a looming presence whose shadow no longer intimidates.
At least not where it should.