Violet eyes scanned the bare walls of the small office, and a small sigh escaped the man sitting at the desk. How long had he been out on the Solvetsky islands? Days? Years? Time seemed to pass differently here, hanging and dragging, the hands on the clock marching forward in a slow, steady procession; left, right, left, right, keep marching men! One's fallen you say? Leave him be. The snow will take care of the corpse. You there! Lagging behind? Crack! A whip whistling in the air, leaving a bloody trail behind.
The Gulag, an acronym for Chief Administration of Corrective Labor Camps and Colonies, was possibly the most notorious of the USSR prison camps. There wasn't really one central camp to make up the prison, per say, but rather a series of camps, an archipelago of prisons scattered across the nation.
However, contrary to the physical layout of the camp, the rankings, or classes, of the camps were very simple. There were, of course, at the bottom, the prisoners; the kulaks, those that had committed petty crimes and served primarily as tools of physical labors, then the regular criminals, and finally and most importantly, those that had committed atrocities against the Bolsheviks. The political prisoners who did not see the good that Lenin had brought to the motherland, the fools that rallied against the USSR. Those were the ones most severely punished, the ones that Ivan always had particular fun with.
Following the prisoners were their guards, then various ranks that Ivan couldn't remember (nor really cared for) captains, lieutenants… they were all equal, no? And finally, Ivan himself. He was the head of the Gulag, in charge of the many prisons, the vast death that cleansed the motherland.
"You are the janitor of our precious motherland" Ivan's Superior had once told him, "Taking out the trash, cutting the rotten ones out, destroying anything and everything that could harm our beautiful nation."
Ivan had played his part well, taking great joy in cleaning out his nation. It was always so wonderful; to see that bright crimson red staining the walls as the blood of traitors was spilt. To hear the gurgled moans, the desperate crazed look in each of his victims' eyes, the strangled pleas, cries, whimpers…Ivan giggled, wringing his hands together in a crazed, almost frenzied way. Oh what a wonderful time to be a janitor, a janitor of humans, of the nation indeed!
"Brother?"
Ivan looked up. A woman, beautiful and pale, stood in the doorway. She wore the typical garb of a prison guard, brown and plain. A simple bow adorned her sleek silver hair, and her face, refined and calm, betrayed no emotion.
"Yes, Natalya?" Ivan asked, rising, "What is it, sister dearest?"
"There are more prisoners." She replied, "The Great Purge is finally cleansing all those untrue and unworthy. Our great leader, Stalin, has deemed these people traitors of the motherland, sewers of disorder and chaos. They have violated Article 58, and thus must be taken care of."
Ivan nodded, a small grin creeping around the edges of his face. Seizing an old metal pipe he kept by the side of his desk in conditions such as these, Ivan followed Natalya out into the main prison camp.
Alfred watched his breath escape from him, the small cloud disappearing into the air just seconds after. How long had he been here? A year? two? He didn't know anymore; his once vibrant and blue eyes were now glossed over and the cowlick that had once stood stiff and tall on his hair was beginning to go limp. Those damn commie bastard, locking him in here! He hadn't done anything wrong! Sure he'd talked some shit about Stalin, but he was drunk…yeah, drunk.
The American hugged the thin coat he was wearing closer to him as he watched the prisoners come in. He was the only one left of the 50 others that had been brought in with him. Ivan had said he was special, though he didn't know why. He just figured the Russian bastard liked torturing him the best, enjoyed using him as an "example" for the others.
50 prisoners. 50 wasn't a bad number. 50 was a very good number actually. There were 50 apple trees in an orchard. A 50-50 chance is half.
There were 50 stars on the American flag.
Smirking, Ivan raised his eyes, scanning the prison camp for that familiar cowlick, and spotted it, its owner huddled by the side of one of the compounds. Glaring at him from his hiding spot, was his dear Alfred, his precious подсолнечник. The man had come here, a political prisoner, accused of insulting the great Stalin, and had proved most entertaining to Ivan.
Honestly, Ivan couldn't say what attracted him to the man. Perhaps it was his hair, still so vibrant compared to Ivan's own, despite the years of abuse and malnutrition. Perhaps it was his eyes, that brilliant shade of blue, deep, but not like the pale gray skies that ruled the Russian winters. Perhaps it was his defiance, his posture, his brashness, his attitude. His pride at his American heritage, his hate-filled glare. Perhaps it was his startled gasps as he struggled against the bindings. Perhaps it was the fact that he struggled, even after Ivan had bound him, even after he had been drugged. Perhaps it was his moans, the way his body writhed under Ivan's own, the flexing of the muscles, the surprised gasps, the panting, the keening…
Ivan quickly pulled himself out of his reverie, and turned from Alfred's glare (after sending a quick smile to said man) to inspect the latest prisoners. There wasn't anything special it seemed, just the same names, same faces…wait. Arthur Kirkland. That was a new one.
Lowering the paper, Ivan inspected Arthur. He was a thin man, small but clearly not weak. His eyes were a brilliant shade of green, and within them blazed a sense of defiance. His face was pulled into a deep scowl, the thick eyebrows of his face knotted tightly together.
"Mr. Kirkland?" Ivan asked sweetly, "Would you mind stepping forward, please?"
Arthur hesitated for only a second, then stepped forward, "Yes?" he asked, malice dripping from his voice.
"You have violated Article 58, correct?"
"Bloody hell, I don't know!" Arthur exploded, "I'm a citizen of the United Kingdom! I'm here for a newspaper, and then suddenly, bam! The fucking police are at my door, and are hauling me off o this frozen wasteland! I've never even hea-"
Whatever else Arthur had planned to say was instantly cut off by the sickening Crack! as metal met bone. Arthur went sprawling into the snow, the force of Ivan's blow enough to send him flying.
"Oh dear me…" Ivan said, sighing and swinging the pipe back over his shoulder "It does appear my hand slipped. You are alright, no? Oh goodness, I think I've dislocated your jaw!"
Ivan began walking over to where Arthur lay in the snow, unmoving, but was interrupted by an angry, and familiar, shout.
Alfred ran up to the fight, no it wasn't a fight, it was a beating, and slid to a stop on the ice, panting. "Arthur! what the hell are you doing here. . . " he watched as his friend painfully coughed up blood. Clentching his fists the glared at Ivan. "What the fuck is he in here for Braginski!"
Ivan turned, and was somewhat surprised to see Alfred rush over to the injured man, crying out his name. So he knows him..the Russian noted, storing the information in the back of his mind for later use.
"He violated Article 58, my dear подсолнечник." Ivan smirked, twirling the pipe and sending droplets of blood flying through the air, "He wrote things that would have harmed the motherland. Not too different from yourself is he, Alfred?"
He shorted man growled as he walked over to his injured friend "You know damn well I don't know what Artical 58 is . . . and stop calling me that damn Russian name! I don't even know what it means!" Alfred bent down in the snow to try and pick Arthur up but stopped when he saw how much pain his friend was in.
Damn that fuckin Braginski…Alfred thought, his head slightly bowed, Hurting Arthur for his own sick pleasure…
Ivan brought his pipe down, gently tapping Alfred's arm, "You can't touch him, dear." He informed the blonde, ignoring Alfred's complaints, "Put him down. He must be punished for such defiance."
Ivan's remark only made Alfred hold on tighter, but only for a second. He knew what would happen if he didn't listen to Ivan, and really didn't know if he could handle being raped any further. He whispered a soft "Sorry" to Arthur, gently put him down, then backed away to Ivan's side.
Ivan's smirk grew, "You are learning to be rather compliant, my подсолнечник" he whispered, leaning over and letting his breath fan over the shorter man's ear, "Perhaps such good behavior should be rewarded…?"
Alfred shoved the taller man away from him as hard as he could "Get away from me you freak" he growled backing away. " I don't need any kind of 'reward' from the likes of you!"
Ivan stumbled back slightly. Despite all he had been through, Alfred was still terribly strong, and the force of his shove was enough to cause Ivan to lose balance and fall backwards into the snow. However, he was up in a second, his icy smile never leaving his face, "That wasn't very nice, Alfred dear" he commented coolly. He picked up his pipe, and swung it back and forth a few times, as if testing the weight, "Do I need to remind you what happens when we don't play nice?"
The American backed away a few steps his eyes fixed on the ground a he shook his head and mumbled a "No". Truth be told, he hated being so submissive but he just didn't could not muster the strength to fight today. As time passed he found himself becoming less and less assertive, the firm defiance he had once had flicking down, fading... That revelation frightened him more than anything else in this god forsaken hell…After all if Ivan lost interest in him he might just throw Alfred away like he did everyone else.
Ivan's smirk grew, "On the contrary, my dear, I do think you need to be reminded. It's for your own good after all." raising the pipe into the air, Ivan brought it smashing down, not on Alfred, but the man in the snow, Arthur. There was a resounding crack as the pipe came crashing down on Arthur's leg. Ivan had not held back, and the leg was most certainly broken by now.
" ARTHUR!" Alfred yelled, falling to his knees as his watched his best friend gasp then spasm in the snow in unimaginable pain. He cletched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. Rage built up in his chest, flashing dangerously through his eyes. It took all of Alfred's self control not to nail the bastard in his fucking face right then and there. "Stop it. . . .just. . .just. . .stop. . ." Alfred begged staring at the ground. He couldn't take it. He'd stopped caring what happened to himself a long time ago but seeing Arthur hurt like this was enough to make him cry…and he never cried
Ivan watched in interest as Alfred collapsed by the ground next to the fallen man. He was begging, much to Ivan's delight, and goodness, were those tears? A strange warm feeling, one of giddiness and happiness seemed to bubble up in Ivan's chest. It was clear to the Russian that this Arthur certainly had a strong influence on his dear Alfred. This certainly could be used to Ivan's advantage.
"Tell me, подсолнечник", he whispered, kneeling over, "Have you learned your lesson?"
Alfred swollowed what little pride he had left and nodded, "Da, Vanya. . ." he said using Ivan's nickname and what little Russian he knew in an attempt to placate the other man. Though he would hate himself later for it, if it would prevent Arthur from being any further abused, it would be worth it.
Ivan smirked. Speaking Russian? This Arthur certainly held a strong sway over Alfred. Straightening up, Ivan nodded, "That is all today then, дорогой"
However, before Alfred could reply, a low moan sounded from the blooded man in the snow. Ivan watched with some interest as the man, clearly in a good deal of pain, pulled himself to his elbows. He glared at Ivan for a few seconds before turning to Alfred, "What…the…bloody hell…." He growled, glaring at the other blonde, "You…who are you! You…you aren't Alfred…" he pause, gritting his teeth as he forced the pain down, "Alfred…Al wouldn't jus…just let some…some fucking Commie shit t…tell him what to do! Al…Al…he'd fight, d…damnit!"
Alfred's eyes widened as reality hit him square in the face. Arthur, who was in immense pain had gotten up to tell him that he wasn't being himself. Really what was he doing bowing down to Ivan like this. He felt nauseous, the sour taste of bile rising into the back of his throat. He stood up and turned his back to the Englishman "I know. . . "The American clentched his fists again " I know ok! You think i enjoy getting on my knees and begging like that!" he turned around and glared at both of them "Well, I DON'T!" he paused, gasping slightly, "This camp does things to people Arthur. . .bad things" He looked at the ground, the memories of those nights, those long and terrible night of pain, torture, rape all rushing back to him in a single moment.
Arthur glared at Alfred, "I don't care." He said, shaking, "I…I don't c…care what kind of pain you've been in…wha..what you've been through…How…how could yo…you submit …yourself to…to this! T…This injustice…this…this brutal tyranny! T…Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph!" Arthur paused, hacking up blood, staining the snow below him bright red, "D…Do you remember who said that, A…Al?"
"Yeah . . .I do " Alfred responded, now visibly shaking. He looked up at Ivan who didn't seem amused at all by any of this. He knew if Arthur kept talking Ivan would shut him up very unpleasant way," I'd only been in the Army for a year when I said that though . . ."
"S…So are you saying…are you saying you had more balls back the…then!" Arthur demanded, "That…that Al…wa..was the one I was friends with! That Al..was the one I..I respected, the…the one I..considered a brother! Tha…tha-guuh!"
Ivan had apparently had enough of the conversation, for he kicked Arthur in the stomach, sending the already injured man flying into another snowdrift. Arthur let out another scream of pain, curling up in a small ball as he crashed onto the ground, Ivan advancing close behind him.
"Take him away" Ivan said harshly, nodding to Arthur.
Alfred avoided eye contact with his friend as the man was carried away. Opting to instead turn around and walk back to the corner of the fence he had been previously sitting at. As he trudged through the snow, hugging his tattered jacket tightly around him, he bowed his head, clutching the worn silver cross that he wore around his neck and prayed. Prayed that Arthur would be alright, prayed that he wasn't hurt, he would survive, and prayed that Ivan would just leave him alone.