More Hetalia! This time Finland and Russia. After the winter war and the peace negotations: I don't know too much about the war, only the outcome and that it was Russia who started it, but in the end I didn't need many historical facts for this and thanks for that. 8) Written in (crappy) second person. (Although I love Ivan so, he's a such a bastard here. D: Probably because it's with Finland and I'm a proud Finn.)
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"I only wish for peace between us, Tino. Or do you want more innocent people do die because of our meaningless bickering?"
His smile is sweet as ever, eyes narrowed oh so slightly, making his expression somewhat smug: he knows he's won, he's sure of it, this is his victory. Not yours.
But you stand tall, head held up high, expression betraying nothing. You probably want to tell this man in front of you to go back to the dark hole he came from, shove accusations in his face, because it's him who started all this, all these fights and death and endless suffering. Him, and not you: it was never you. But you don't, you stay silent, for you can't afford another war and new battles and more lives lost: Human life is after all precious, irreplaceable.
This monster before your eyes just doesn't seem to understand that.
Your pride as a nation has been wounded terribly, but you don't show it, no not in front of this man, you will not show fear or how broken you are inside, for he knows he has beaten you and the fire needs no more fuel. Still you feel proud: proud of your men's courage in the battlefield, proud of their unyielding will to fight and protect what is dear to them, proud of your people's dexterity through this cold winter now past. And you're sorry to have let them down, inside you apologize endlessly, cry tears that no one shall see, because you couldn't live up to their expectations.
Russia's smile widens at your silence (silence means agreement). It's outwardly sweet, like a pastel-colored caramel, but you see more: the menace beneath. The poison inside the sweet candy.
"So, do we have an agreement?"
You nod, mentally preparing yourself.
Russia is wrong: this is not your loss. It's his.
And yet it doesn't dull the pain as he rips off your arm.