The Prologue
Estonia stared the Baltic Sea. It was a windy day of early fall. Dark grey and heavy clouds painted the view with their own gloomy colours which the sea mirrored. Despite this, Estonia thought the scenery was very beautiful, in its own way. He wasn't one for eternal sunshine and still waters. Maybe he would've been, if not his struggles growing up. The waves of the sea danced a savage dance, made by the equally violent storm winds. Trees joined in this vehement play, their braches made to dance like it was some sort of a macabre puppet show.
Estonia took a deep breath. This was who he was. This was what he was alive for. The change. It had moulded him, tested him, made him stronger. It defined him to the very core. He was neither the strongest nation, nor the bravest. While he was smart, he also had to admit he wasn't the only intelligent one in the world. But he had his perseverance. An ability to withstand almost everything. He was a small nation in the world of giants, giants, who didn't give a thought to others but themselves. Giants, who had been, quite literally, out there to get him. Against all odds here he still was, still himself, if not missing a few pieces.
Yes, Estonia thought, I am still here. I am still here, and I am going to get better.
While the age of the giants might not be over – and truly it would probably never be – but at least his personal Goliath had fallen, and he hadn't fallen with it. The very air itself smelled sweeter than it did mere months ago, when he had still been in a fear of retribution. But now it was over, or rather a beginning, for Russia had signed his declaration of sovereignty.
With a certain amount of pure glee Estonia thought what this must mean for Russia, for Soviet Union. A simple act of signing was a significant message to the world; once a mighty, almost omnipotent force was actually just glass cannon, prone to shatter in a slightest struggle. Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania were at last free in the truest definition of the word.
My brothers and I have a future again, Estonia thought. It felt good, calling somebody a brother.
The Baltic nations, or the Baltic brothers, as they were known, were not perhaps true kin, but their bond was welded by the shared history and adversities they had faced together. They were made blood brothers of a sort, not because they had decided to slash their palms and to swear blood oaths, but because someone had shed their blood for them.
A slight drizzle interrupted his thoughts. The sky was grey as ever, but far out in the sea clouds had parted allowing in faint rays of sunshine. There, far in horizon, above the Gulf of Finland, was a rainbow. Estonia could not help but a smile at that. It was only appropriate that a rainbow would point across the gulf. He after all was very well aware that his pot of gold was in fact on the other side of the sea.
Though Finland would probably punch me if he ever heard me call him 'a pot of gold', Estonia smirked.
His mirth was short-lived. Thinking about Finland always raised a dozen conflicting emotion in him. There was no doubt that he loved Finland, and he thought – or at least, had thought – that his love was returned in equal measure.
Fate had kept them apart, he had thought. Bests of friends since the beginning of their very existence, always together and enjoying each others company until powers greater than any of them tore them apart, only to be briefly brought back together by those same forces. Estonia did not have faith in many things – only a fool would have, with his past – but he had always had faith in knowing that this latest separation between them would come to an end in a one way or another.
So when he and his brothers had risen in defiance against Russia, he had excitingly invited Finland to Tallinn to share his pursuit of freedom and self-rule. But when Finland had come, it was not at all in the same manner when the Nordic nation had previously arrived to aid in Estonia's War of Independence decades past.
Finland had looked pale and stern, not at all like his usual kind self. He had sat in chair, not even saying 'hello' first and asked in serious voice: 'what are you doing Viro?' Estonia remembers that conversation vividly, how he had explained in a barely restrained voice of zeal how now would be his chance – their change – of getting rid a once so potent oppressor. He had asked for Finland's help. Finland had sat there, silent and serious, until he had only said: 'you must understand, now isn't the best time to rock the boat'.
And that was it. That was the extent of the help of his neighbour, of his best friend, of his lover. Estonia grimaced. Three years after, and a mere recollection of that particular memory made him physically sick to his stomach. He had begged help, and he was ignored by the person he had thought had loved him.
But despite all that, Estonia couldn't fault him too much. After all, it was Soviet Union he had gone against, and that was no small feat. It was just that he had thought that Finland was… better, he supposed.
Finland had always been stronger of the two, in both spirit and strength. Estonia had looked up to Finland, especially since the Nordic nation had managed to escape the fate that befell to Estonia. In the past, it had been him who had cowered while Finland had fought, and he had paid the price for that. And now it was time for him to fight, at last. He just always had imagined that in that moment he would have his best friend at his side.
Estonia could see his beloved face before him when he closed his eyes: his fair hair, his oddly coloured bilberry-blue eyes, his lovely smile and his tender gaze. He sighed and opened his eyes again. It was no-good to lose himself in images of someone he now knew he didn't have anymore.
Drizzle had turned into proper rain, but Estonia didn't mind, in fact it suited his mood rather well. The rainbow had also vanished, like a great symbol of his thoughts.
He and Finland were the same, had always been. Even back when the sea that separates them had truly been their sea, when there still were other people in the world who he had truly called his kin – even then they had been the same.
Finland would call it sisu, he thought, and despite everything, that notion managed to bring a slim smile to his face.
They both had something others in their family did not have. Estonia had no noble word for it; he just knew both he and Finland never gave up, even when there was no chance of a good outcome. So many of their family were now dead, or worse. Estonia shuddered to think back the time when he had last visited Karelia. A once beautiful, cheerful, motherly nation had been driven mad by the centuries of war that had ravaged her lands. Her once glossy and curly auburn hair had turned into matted mess, her light green eyes looking quite dead.
After centuries of being pushed and pulled in variety of directions by strong nations – mainly Russia and Sweden – she was still being juggled between Finland and Russia as both owned a part of her lands. Estonia had seen her when he still lived in the same house with her. When she was with Russia, she was either catatonic or in fits of crazed rage, so Russia mostly kept her behind locked doors.
And while Estonia pitied her, he also knew nothing he could do would make her better. He had eventually stopped seeing her, just to save himself of the hurt and other raw, primal feelings those meeting would raise. Karelia's situation wasn't much better when she had to live with Finland. Finland had told Estonia that when she was with him, she mostly cried and madly begged again and again to be allowed 'to become one with Russia'.
Her fate was sad affair, and it made the fates of other people in Finnic family look better, even when most of them now were dead.
What a depressing thought, Estonia mused. But it was the truth. He wouldn't wish Karelia's condition to his worst enemy. He himself would rather be dead than insane.
He had been standing in the rain too long. He was soaked to his underwear and wind had started to affect him. At some point he had started shivering, but had not noticed, so immersed he had been in his thoughts. His apartment – thankfully – wasn't far.
A small trek later he got home. He undressed quickly, but did not find the energy to properly hang his clothes to dry. Usually he was a bit of a neat freak, but now he felt that rain had washed him of everything, drained him of his very self. He barely had energy to light fire in his fireplace before he dropped to the floor with a blanket wrapped tightly around him.
He felt odd. Too light and too heavy at the same time. This day should've been the culmination of his long struggle, a new beginning, yet all he could think about was the past. Finland and his brother Tavastia, Karelia and her sister Ingria, his own brother Livonia, and the lone wolf Vepsia. Faces of the long dead haunted him.
Karelia, in her prime had been a fierce protector and at the same time, a kind mother-like figure to them. She had loved them all, but most of all her little sister Ingria, who herself had been anything but a timid little creature needing of protecting.
Finland and Tavastia could've been identical twins, if it wasn't for their wildly different personalities. Estonia never had trouble to see which one was which, even if most people did. If not for anything else, the almost constant scowl on Tavastia's face was a dead giveaway.
Livonia, his big brother, on the other hand was the only one of the bunch who didn't raise any fond feelings, quite the opposite in fact. Livonia had been stronger, faster and wittier, and had never missed an opportunity to rub it in. He had turned his back to Estonia when his little brother needed him the most, being obsessed by his own might and influence without a thought to others. It made him powerful for awhile, but like the brightest candles often do, he had quickly burned himself out.
Then lastly there had been Vepsia, who Estonia had never known very well, who had never quite fit in. They had been mere children when he had died, but Estonia can still remember his curly golden hair and his round, freckled face.
To die at a such young age, Estonia mulled. And at the hands of the very man who was also responsible for much of Estonia's own troubles.
Or all of them, he thought grimly. Russia certainly was the great villain of the history of any Finnic nation. Or any nation, he concluded, though he knew it wasn't fair.
Russia had, in a bout of drunken confession years ago admitted how awful he felt about the deaths he had caused. It had truly boggled Estonia's mind at the time. He had always thought Russia's mad quest of conquering the world would de facto result in a death of all other nations of the world, perhaps excluding his sisters. But that did not seem to be the case, which in Estonia's mind made Russia even crazier than what he previously thought to be the case.
Russia had been quite shaken by the deaths of Ingria and Vepsia, and the madness of Karelia. He had even sung an old and doleful Russian folk song that told about the deaths of Baltic Finns at the hands of his people. Estonia had listened, patiently, and when the morning had came, he tactfully and wisely appeared to forget the night before had ever happened. So had Russia.
He shivered, hoping he wouldn't catch a cold from standing too long in the rain. This was the night of his triumph, and there he was, pathetically lying on the floor, remembering things that should've been forgotten long ago. He knew all this, but still he couldn't let it go. The past was there with him, whispering in his ears about regrets and sorrows.
But if he couldn't tune it out, he could at least tone it down. Estonia sat up, opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of vodka.
There goes that promise, he thought. He had indeed promised to himself that he would stop drinking, since there would be no time to sit around being foggy-minded when there was simply so much to do. He knew much of Europe expected him to be ecstatic of his newly found freedom – hell, he had thought he'd be jumping with joy. Instead, he felt old beyond his years and weary to the bone.
But things will get better, he promised to himself, this night might belong to the past, but tomorrow will be future's!
A.N. A bit depressing start, I admit. But I thought it was better to set the tone of this story in this way. The fates of the Baltic Finns may also be quite bleak, but that's history for you. The first chapter will really start the story, and the rest of the chapters will continue in the cronological order.
No, I didn't make up the Russian folklore about the Baltic Finns: en . wikipedia wiki / Chud#Chudes_in_folklore
Oh, and this is my first fanfic ever, and it's not in my native language, so please, criticism is welcome, whether it is about the story itself, or my grammar.