Author's Note: Well, here's a one-shot (WW2, of course) about Russia that I've been working on for a long time. I'll try to write more, and it's really late, and I'm really tired, so please enjoy.
Turning the Tide
The thunder of thousands of guns shook the ground as the 4th SS Panzer Army and the Soviet 5th Guards Tank Army clashed on the Prokhorovka Field. The screech of screaming metal sliced through the air as tanks smashed into each other, all weapons firing as fast as their operators could fire.
Battle cries barely echoed through the air as infantry squads charged among the metal beasts; all hell had literally been unleashed on the 7th day of the Battle of Kursk.
Both the Germans and Russians has known this fight was coming, and both sides poured all their strength into the battle: the Wehrmacht at encircling the Russian salient, and the Red Army at holding back the panzer onslaught. The battle raged as hundreds of thousands of men moved, fought, and died.
Even among the steel monsters rumbling around, and multitudes of soldiers, one man stood out: striding ruthlessly through the carnage, Russia fought his way to his foe.
Smashing a Wehrmacht Officer's face in with his pipe, the tall nation weaved throughout the battle, only uttering a muted kolkolkolkolkol for his battle cry.
This would be it: the climactic battle between Soviet Russia and Nazi Germany to determine the fate of the Eastern Front in this cursed war. Ivan felt much stronger than he had a year ago; the Red Army was prepared now, after stablizing the front at the salient. His eyes scanned ahead trough the smoke, search for that flash of white, that damned Prussian bastard. He had eluded Russia's fury ever since Stalingrad, and vengeance was long overdue. With Germany tied up fighting in Italy, Russia finally would be able to take revenge against the eternally laughing, red-eyed demon.
Russia crushed a German Tank Commander's skull between his hands.
Yes, vengeance was long overdue.
The sun reached it's daily peak, and the fighting only increased, as each side's armor spearhead grappled to the death. Von Manstein's elite panzers were evenly matched with their Soviet counterparts, neither side gaining a clear advantage.
As Russia broke out from between two smoldering tanks, he found himself in a deserted part of the battlefield. The black acrid land, that had once contained fields of his sunflowers, was surrounded in a semi-circle of burned machines of war. Such waste of beauty, crushed and destroyed...
The high-pitched sound of metal bending under a foot stated that someone had walked behind him. Smiling grimly, Ivan turned, pipe a shining blur, smashing towards what he knew would be Prussia's skull-
And Germany caught the pipe and twisted down, sending Ivan's blow into the ground.
That feeling, that had been plaguing him for the past 3 years, that damned fear, uncoiled in Ivan's stomach as he twisted around to face his opponent.
Germany's face held an annoyed expression as he gazed at Russia, the blonde man's uniform crisp as ever, a stark contrast to the blood-stained hands that had re-directed Ivan's blow. The German crouched in a combat-ready stance, unarmed.
"You."
Ivan's acknowledgement was quietly said, recieving no sign of reciprocation from Ludwig. Russia sighed, before raising his pipe.
And then they were off, both nations charging across the blackened ground, to slam into the other, to crush, to destroy.
Germany charged headlong into Russia, enduring several punishing blows from the pipe until he twisted it out of the giant's hand, punching at the Soviet's body with immense strength.
Russia felt several ribs break as Germany's fist slammed into his chest yet again, and as the German's fist was wound back for another blow, Ivan pushed with both arms, sending Germany flying backwards. The tall country wiped the blood trickling from his mouth, ignoring the pain. He tasted the grit, the smoke, the pain of the Russian people, and he growled.
Pushing off the broken hulk of a tank, the German resumed his attack on Russia, the two exchanging punches in a deadly game while bullets whined overhead.
The always-perfectly-shined blonde hair had fallen askew, matted with blood, dripping down to mix with the many wounds and rips decorating the Nation's grey uniform. Dealing a swift uppercut to his taller opponent, Germany drove forward, right into Russia's arms.
With a roar of unparalled fury, Russia grabbed Germany, slamming the Reich's head against a nearby tank, leaving a bloody head-shape print again and again and again and agai-
Until Germany grabbed Russia's hands, tearing them off of his head as he spat out blood. Delivering a kick to Russia's chest, the German leapt upwards, striking at the Russian's face before being hurled back. At that moment, a barrage of mortar shells crashed down near their part of the battlefield, enveloping the circle of destroyed tanks in a thick fog of smoke and dust.
Breathing heavily, Ivan wiped the blood out of his eyes. He wiped his hands on his overcoat, only staining them further red as his ribs twinged. Gritting his teeth, he realized it must be close to dusk.
The smoke cleared with a whoosh of air, and illuminated in the last rays of sunlight, The Third Reich and The Soviet Union stood over the blood-soaked ground.
And then they charged, for country, for life, for death.
After punch after punch, both locked hands, the test of strength determining the victor. Both men strained, digging their boots into the soil, fighting for dominance. Russia held on, violet eyes locked with the German's blue ones. Ivan felt his knee jitter, as Ludwig fought forward growling.
Closing his eyes, Ivan barely held on, remembering the devestation to his people, his land, his sunflowers; and in a single moment, Russia threw back Germany, hurling the blonde into the rusted hulk of a panzer.
Germany's eyes flashed red, matching the blood pooling around him, as Russia advanced, when yet another artillery strike fell, this time landing directly on the countries.
He leaned back, opening his arms, the mighty Soviet Union stood tall, embracing the pain. Never again would he feel fear on the battlefield, for none were as strong as he was. The dust filled his mouth where he stood, screaming out kolkolkolkolkolkol into the lightning filled sky.
When the air cleared Germany was gone, retreated back to his territory.
Limping back to command headquarters, Ivan smiled when he heard the reports. The Panzerwaffe hadn't broken through. The Red Army had thrown out the invaders. The tide was turned in this war, regardless of the countless men sure to be lost in the ensuing years.
Leaning over out back behind the tent, Ivan turned, and, to his surpise, saw a glimpse of yellow, against the blacked ground. He walked over and picked it up, closing his eyes to take in the scent of a sunflower.
Leaning over, with drops of his red life staining those yellow petals, Ivan opened his eyes and smiled.