Originally two ficlets, combined because they play well together. Considered making two chapters, then didn't. Not sure which order to put them in, and so just picked one.

China musing, first person. RoChu, probably a little historically inaccurate. The only place it might be noticeable would be the description of the Red Square, which is purely imagination and lacks for facts.


Black

His boots are black. They don't show the blood of countries as he stomps them into submission, with their life pooling in the corners of the leather. When they are sufficiently healed, he sets them to scrubbing his boots, scrubbing away the blood stains, scrubbing away his guilt.
But I know he is still guilty. He knows it too. His coat is dingy where bloodied hands have beseeched him mercy. I don't know whether he grants it. I hope I never have to find out.
But he does not take me over, hit me and kick me, and cover the floor with my faint hand-prints. He leaves his pipe at the door. Instead he helps me; he gives me gifts; he holds my hand as I walk into the future. He teaches me the ways of the West, of his West. I know that England and America watch, angry. But i am sure that no one can ever be as gentle as my lovely killer, my killer love. As his slaves scrub the stains of guilt from his boots, I help him wash the stains on his mind. He is red, he is blood; he is black, he is guilt. But he is also white: he is uncertainty, confusion. He is also purple: royal even though the world has again and again made him a savage and an outcast.
I have even come to like his boots.

Red

Red is the color of his flag, all glorious waving over that red square, where every brick is painted gorgeous cimmaron and shines with glaze, where all his troops march in lines so straight and uniforms so neat. They turn and march and turn, parading, Their bayonets flashing. The bayonets are just for show. I know because I was with him after a parade, and he snapped the bayonet off and put it away in a velvet lined box. Then he took the gun, without the shining blade, and set away to put down an uprising. I sat at the house, made myself a cup of tea, read his propaganda newspapers. I know my country is better off. His newspapers lie about the brutal put-downs; mine don't have to. (Yet. I hope they never will.)
He told me once to join him, to become one with Mother Russia. I laughed and shook him off, told him 'No, I'd rather be my own country, aru.' Still he followed me and advised me, and then soon he also held me close and helped me make my own red flag. And I feared he would soon annex me, announce that I would now be one with the Mother, but the day never came. At last, when he returned from the insurrection again, I asked why.
"Why do you not take me over, aru?"
"Do you want me to?"
"No! But why, aru?"
"Because you are not the whiny brat like those other weaklings, nyet. You are a strong man in your own way. Maybe you need my help, but I cannot take you over without hurting you, da. Instead I will be beside you, lead you into the new world, and we will be together in peace surrounded by the sunflowers."
I don't know if I believe his sugary words, but I choose to try. I think that what he cannot say is how he respects me. He views me as a true country, not a foolish fake. I am glad for that. I respect him as well.