This is my story of Russia, and will continue as soon as I am done with all my (far too many) other fics. The first chapter, or rather, the prologue, will be a song-chapter (not song-fic) with 12 stones' World so Cold, for the simple reason that when I came by it in a playlist, the lyrics forced my thoughts to Russia. I HAD to begin this. The song DEMANDED it!
Warnings: Blood and pain and a very long prologue.
Disclaimer: Neither own the song World so Cold by 12 stones or any characters from Hetalia.
Prologue
Violet eyes were tightly shut as the small child, looking about seven or eight years old and big for his age, was hit once again, this time stumbling to the ground with a startled cry of pain. The man wearing his black, fur-coated hat towered above him, staring down with a mix of malice and disgust, before placing his foot on the chest of the child.
It starts with pain
"I will say this only once more," he said, the foot slowly pushing down onto the child's frail body. The forest around them was for once filled with sunshine, and the snow turned into icy puddles of mud that matted unto the scarf he wore around his neck. It was the far south of his lands. The pink color of blood had mixed with the dirty water, running from both the mouth and the nose of the boy as well as cuts on other parts of his body. "Pay my taxes. Give me your land. I do not want to hurt you, you know."
The voice was so sweet, and a smile crept onto the face of the Golden Horde, a smile the little boy would see so many more times in his centuries. A smile that never reached the eyes, an expression he would meet every time he looked into a mirror many years forward.
The pressure on his chest lightened to let him breathe enough to speak, and so he did, fulfilling the responsibility his mother had been forced to pass to him. "M-my p-people… Th-they are starving. I-I c-can't give you more. P-please."
Followed by hate
He tried to be submissive. He really tried. But despite the tears in his eyes and the pain in his face, the stammer in the beginning of every sentence, a fire he could not demolish burned beneath the flushed skin and those tearful eyes. He did not want to be hurt – did not want to suffer, or make his people suffer. Still… he just… could not… bow…
The Golden Horde saw this, and he grit his teeth as his smile faltered for a second to an outraged expression. Then it was back on, the smile, wide as he stepped up again, up and on, onto the side of the boy's pale face. "Then I cannot ask more of you, can I?" he asked in malicious satisfaction as he squeezed the skull of the younger one. Finally, when the kid was sure his skull would break from the pressure, the man lightened the weight.
"Unfortunately," he began, his eyebrows rising, "I am better off with you alive. No matter how annoying you are, you are too weak to fight back, and have a lot of land beneath you." He squatted down beside the boy, who laid half-conscious, staring dully up at him. His hand brushed some stray, ash-blond bangs away from the small forehead. "Take care," he said, nearly sounding like he meant it. "And remember, this is nothing. Next time, it will be hundred times worse."
It took a while for the boy to realize he had left, but as he did, he sat up, his hand curled tightly into a fist, new tears filling his eyes.
Fueled by the endless questions
He tried to stand, but the dizziness in his head after having been stepped on made it impossible. So much anger filled him, but his age prevented him from doing what he wanted. Beat up the culprit. And so, instead, he closed his eyes and let the nails of his fisted hand bore into the skin.
A sob coursed through his body, new tears flowing from his eyes, mixing with the still fresh blood underneath his nose and chin.
"Where are my sisters?" he screamed at the nothingness, choking the sobs with his forceful cry. It was about fifty years since he had been parted from them. "Why are you doing this?" He spat out a mass of drying blood and snot that had travelled down on the inside from his nose to his throat, shaking wildly from the sobs. "Can't you just leave me alone? What did I do to make you do this?"
His hands moved to his head, gripping his hair and tried to pull it out of his scalp. "Wh-what did I do?" he sobbed, the tears flowing freely past his bruised face, down to the earth.
No one can answer
Around him, no-one seemed to hear him. Only an icy breeze, filled with newly made ice crystals that did not fit the warmth of the environment, stayed as his company. Slowly, with stiff fingers, he let go of his hair, not noticing the many strands in ash-blond color sticking to his bloodied hand. "What…" His voice was nothing but a whisper in that freezing wind. "What did you do to my mother?"
The thought of his mother was worse than the thought of his sisters, and he once again grabbed his hair tightly, closed his eyes, and leaned his forehead towards his bended knees. A tight knot filled him where his heart was supposed to be, and a vision flared behind his eyelids. A vision of a young woman, nearly only a girl, her hear a shining blond and he slim body covered with plates and leather. She was smiling at him, the age of her body seemingly about eighteen to twenty.
A stain
She had told him that he was going to succeed parts of her landmasses along with his sisters. That he was going to be the one in charge if she would ever be gone and that he would be so strong that he would never get under the control of other countries. He would be protector and king of the Slavs. He would be the biggest, strongest kingdom, and in time, everyone would be a part of him, and he would rule the Flat World.
That was what she had told him. That his sisters were not weaker – simply made of different material. But one day, the Golden Horde with his fur-coated hat and golden skin came, just outside the borders of Kiev, the capital of his mother who had already been falling apart for about a century.
The stranger had been invading for long, using his soldiers to take one of his mother's rivaling parts after the other. She had pulled out her sword, meeting him head on, swiping at him, and her young body engaged in combat with his older.
Then all he had seen was a splash of red, and his mother fell to the ground, her back still to her three children as she ended on the floor. Then he never saw her again, as the man had stepped over her, his gaze to the children, and he had grabbed for them all.
He and his bigger sister had stepped in front of the little one, and so, he was grabbed first, his flailing limps no match for the stranger. His subordinates, mere human beings, taking his sisters.
That was the last time he had seen them, or his mother, the Kievan Rus'. The last time…
He muffled a scream, his hands falling into the puddle of red mud, staining his ragged clothes and the cloth around his neck.
Covers your heart
It hurt so much. Even if he did not understand the fall of his mother… something told him it was his last glimpse of her. Four hundred years she had lived, and she claimed he would be the conqueror of the world. How could he trust her, when she could not even keep her own lands? Yet in all honesty, that was not what really bothered him.
Tears you apart just like a sleeping cancer
It was the fact that he would never see her again. Her shining, blue eyes, the vivid, blonde hair, the calm, soothing aura, all of them were forever gone. He would never see her again, even if he did not understand the concept of death after having lived for only about hundred to a hundred and fifty full years. Even his sisters might be gone forever, even if he knew they were somewhere apart of the Golden Horde's empire.
He knew, deep in his heart, that he would never see his mother again, and that he would never look upon his sisters with the same eyes.
A surreal smile crept onto his face at the thoughts as he dragged his fingers through the mud, a weird feeling of indifference filling him, erasing the troubles of his mind. It was so much like the one he had met in his enemy. The smile just kept growing and growing, and growing, until he felt so careless, so free, that he stood on trembling feet, his head still pounding and the rest of his body still bloody and beaten.
Dragging himself off, to under a tree, away from the puddle, he laid himself down and closed his eyes, snuggling into the cloth around his neck, sniffing for the scent of his long lost family. Sniffing in and going to sleep while contemplating how he could stab his capturer right through the heart, just so he could be certain that the organ was still there in such an evil body.
Now I don't believe men are born to be killers
Russia stood by the border of his territory. He stood five feet and eight inches with the age of his body seeming just to be about thirteen. He sat on the a stone in the snow, grinding a poor sword with a crooked blade, using a rock and looking at the bridge parting him from a world some had told him was rich and beautiful. He did not, however, even consider leaving this world yet. His sword was for one body and one body only.
Plastered on his face was a smile so weak and innocent, his eyes closed and looking serene, his face so often having gotten bruised it was a miracle he still looked so much like an angel. The motion of the rock was nearly musical, always following the same rhythm. Kriiiich, kriiiich, kriich kriich, kriiiich. It seemed peaceful and quiet, the famous scene of the lone soldier.
That was when he opened his eyes. They were hard, frozen orbs of amethyst, so out of place in a both childish and calm face, a face just the age of a big child. He looked down at the sword, his head forming a plan to overturn the rule of his areas.
I don't believe that this world can't be saved
He would not only help himself. He would help all areas under the rule of the harsh Mongolian's Empire. When he stabbed the man through the heart, he would get the status of a hero. His smile widened slightly at the thought. He would be a hero like those men who was said to slay dragons, and those heroes got both virgin princesses and friends and were followed by many people.
He wanted friends, but he did not want to be weak while having friends. If he should have a friend, he should deserve it, and deserve it he did if he could defend his own territory, and maybe even expand! It would be so perfect if he could expand and make everyone a part of him!
So he would be a hero and slay the Golden Horde, and free both the rich and beautiful world on the other side of the bridge and the cold and hard world on this side from the threat of the man.
How did you get here and when did it start
He was sure this was what his mother meant. She had known she would not live long, and so had told him that he was going to be strong and big and rule the Flat World and save them all. She was clairvoyant, so she had seen her fall. But furthermore, she had seen his rise from her ashes, like the birds of fire that lived in the beautiful world of the south filled with flowers the size of a man.
She had seen a lot of things. So much of a lot of things. So he would slay the evil dragon of a man and be a hero, a hero so big that all freely would give themselves to him.
An innocent child with a thorn in his heart
He felt a sudden jab in his heart, a shock of electricity making him jump, and the smile faltered. He had been alone for so long, without anyone knowing… Did anyone even miss him? If anyone truly cared, why had they not come? Were there even other things than him and the Golden Horde? Kievan Rus' could have survived, and his sisters had to be somewhere… near… If they were still there… if he really had been there, if he really had been their brother, if he truly had been in their world, why had they left him? Was he… truly… all alone?
Tears welled up in his eyes, and for once his eyes showed more than just frozen blankness. They showed a child, fearing the world truly had abandoned him. "Will I always be alone?" his shaking voice asked him, and even just the words made him flinch.
'You do not want to be alone, eh?' the wind asked him, and he raised his head confusedly at the whirling snowflakes. 'I have been watching you for years, little Ivan. Stubborn boy, are you. If you want company, I can keep you company for about six months every year.'
"Who are you?" the Russian asked. Had anyone been watching him, they would think he was mad. "Are you one of the Horde's companions?" He gripped his sword tighter, letting the stone he had used to grind it fall into his purse.
'Oh, no, I am one of your companions. Or rather, your only companion. Call me General Winter, an old man who has seen far too many years of this poor world without meeting a figure worth my while. If you let me stay with you forever and ever, I will help you stop all the future invasion-attempts you might meet. You have the qualities I have been seeking.'
His words were reassuring and good, and even if his defenses against possible invasions were poor, poor help was better than no help. So his smile spread across his face as he nodded. "I would love your company, General."
What kind of world do we live in?
Yet another head was crushed underneath the wooden end of his sestroryetsk rifle, the crunch of breaking bones surreally clear. The Russian man fell, his body limp. Maybe dead. Maybe not.
Ivan did not turn to check, merely turned the gun around and continued shooting at his citizen, his eyes burning with childish anger while his face was covered with a smile.
The streets of Saint Petersburg were slowly darkening with red as more and more civilians fell wounded, dying or dead from the shots of Russia or his military subordinates. Truth to be told, Russia had not been commanded to do this by his boss, but his boss was out of town, and both Russia and the man in charge in the tsar's absence had agreed on the methods currently being used.
Where love is divided by hate
Why would they not understand? It was not his wish that they were starving and overworking, nor the wish of the tsar! The economy of the nation was bad, they were undergoing a depression, why could they not just go back to work and make money instead of complaining about the country?
The Russian Empire was more stable now than in any other part of Russia's history, could they not get that?
Losing control of our feelings
It made him so mad!
He pulled the trigger again, aiming for his own people before having to reload the stupid gun. With this stupid weapon, he could not even get satisfaction for his stupid feelings!
He threw the gun to the ground, his smile still on his face even if he was exploding inside. Then he ran and chasing the civilians, bullets from the soldiers behind him flying closely past his body. He could not bear the feeling – he hated to feel bad feelings. Bad feelings were the same as pain, and he was certain too much pain had already been inflicted on him.
We all must be dreaming this life away
Fleeing away in the heat of the south he had never truly seen, he flung one of his giant fists at a woman, hitting her neck and making her fall. He was not psychologically present when he stepped on her neck, choking her while a dagger came to his hand from its sheath on his belt. He knelt down, never taking the pressure off of her throat. He stabbed her through her chest, stabbed her stabbed her stabbed her, letting her feel his anger and take it in his stead.
All the while, he did not notice the blood that bloomed through his ash-blond hair, bleeding from a wound on his scalp near his temple despite no bullets and no blades having touched his body.
In a world so cold
The street sudden fell quiet, and he looked around confusedly. Where had everyone gone? He took a step backwards, suddenly noticing the woman whose blood covered his blade, hands and clothes, her throat crushed from his weight. What had happened? What had he done?
A sob crushed his insides, churning his stomach and lungs as he fell to the ground, his smile gone, sobbing at the pain from his hip, his Saint Petersburg. How…? How…? How…?
'What a mess,' an amused voice commented, and the head with the ash-blond hair scowled at the freezing wind suddenly whirling around him, so cold he was shivering. 'Did you lose it again, Ivan? Usually, you keep your own people out of your rampaging. Did they touch the door to your tsar's house or something just as vile?'
The smile crept back to the face of the blond as he turned around in the wind. He even forgot to curse himself for having let the General into his country, like he had done ever since he had been 'accompanied' by the harsh Winter for the first year. No, he just simply smiled. "Shut up, da!"
Are you sane?
Crimson eyes stared up into his violet, rage so strong it would have made Russia recoil just fifty years before. When the tsars still lived, and the world still seemed sane. Now, all it did was filling him with joy at the fun of their game, especially since he knew the broken limps prevented the Prussian to strike back. So helpless. It was loveable!
He took another sip of the vodka in his hand and crouched down to caress the near-white hair, only to take his hand away with the speed of a snake when Gilbert's white teeth tried to snatch at his gloves. Ivan pouted slightly, as though he was a disappointed child whose mother would not give him candy. "Stupid, stupid Gilbert."
"Prussia, you fucking jerk," the other snapped, wincing whenever he accidently moved. His left arm was broken in two places, the elbow on the right popped out of its socket, and the Prussian did not even want to think of his legs.
Ivan crossed his arms, not satisfied by the others attitude. "You are not kind, Gilbert, not kind. Want to make your stay here a forever nightmare, da?" He stepped closer again, lifting his foot and taking it down upon the head of the other nations while drinking the rest of the vodka in his bottle. "You and your brother are responsible for over 26 million deaths. Deaths of people formerly living within my borders. You should be more respectful, da?" Then he flung the glass at the man's shoulder with all his might, making it explode in shards.
Where's the shame?
The Prussian had been lucky enough to turn his head, so that his nose was not crushed. Still, the Russian man was taller than him and looked about twice his weight, and Gilbert had a hard time not wailing and crying out in pain, especially when a shard of glass had been pushed into his skin. But he was too stubborn, and in too much pain, to do so, his broken ribs risking to injure his lungs if he screamed.
The world became black stars springing before his eyes, telling him he was on the verge of losing consciousness, but the painless bliss of dark sub-consciousness was not welcomed him. The pressure lifted, the boot was removed, and he could only barely see Russia smile down at him again and crouch down once more, letting his fingers caress the hair.
Finally, he was satisfied, and the smile on his face became true. He had won! He had touched the ever untouchable Prussia's hair! He laughed, long and hard and cheerfully, as he turned around and worked the stairs, feeling free and happy and his eyes were twinkling.
A moment of time passes by
He opened the door and yelled; "Raivis!", knowing he could not let the man in the basement lie without help. The small nation did not come, and he yelled again, a little harder. "RAIVIS!" The boy came running, knowing that if he did not come right that moment, Russia's happy game of hide-and-seek would begin.
"Y-yes, m-master Russia?" He was quivering with fear, knowing nothing good was coming. A hand was placed on his head as always, pressing him down, and Ivan smiled widely at the small, fearful boy in his very kind care.
"Prussia would like you in the basement. Be kind, da?" This was torment for both the small one and the wounded one, as Latvia feared the albino nearly as much as he feared Russia, and Prussia would take being treated by weaklings, or anyone other than his brother anyway, as shameful.
You cannot rewind
Ivan turned, walking to his office, and queerly, even if his house was full of other nations as he had continued to grow, he only met Ukraine and Belarus on the way, sipping tea by the living room sofa. He smiled at them, and they smiled back, their feelings honest but smiles weak. Ukraine loved him dearly, but parts of his actions had always scared her, and he had been getting worse since the start of the new century. Belarus still liked him the same way she always had, but… the blood staining his clothes from the Prussian kind of scared her…
He waved slightly at them, not even slowing down before reaching his office. So much time had passed by, but every part of the mansion he had built in the middle of nowhere still looked like an upper-class home of the 19th century. He looked at the furniture, the desk and chair, all the paintings on the wall, and remembered the smiling faces of the people giving it to him, moving over to the three sunflowers by the window.
Most of it, he had gotten from the Romanovs'.
Who's to blame and where did it start
His smile fell at the thought, and he drew out the pipe Gilbert had been lucky enough not to feel. It was flung over his head before it hit the desk hard, his strength crashing the surface with all the papers of work he was supposed to make.
The smile was still missing at the next swing, and the next, perishing the delicate desk. When he felt it was done, he swung at the chair with the pipe like a sword, smashing it into the painting he still kept of Tsar Nikolay Alexandrovich Romanov, which got torn by the force.
It was all the fault of the tsars! Or was it his sisters? Or was it the General? Or the Germans? The loss of his mother or the Golden Horde or the loneliness or the weakness or the civilians of Bloody Sunday? Why did it hurt so much not to smile?
He had lost track of it all. He had lost track of all his pain. It was all the same, just the same.
Is there a cure for your sickness?
"M-master Russia?" a shivering voice asked, and he turned, the smile back on.
"Privyet, Toris!" he near-yelled, letting the pipe fall and jumped over, hugging the poor nation so tightly the Lithuanian nearly got to re-taste his lunch. He was at a loss for words, just as Russia had no idea why seeing a person made tears form in his eyes. He continued the hugging, swinging the other around until he had control over his tears. Then, the slim nation was smacked the ground, screaming in shock as it happened.
Have you no heart?
Before Lithuania could even attempt of fleeing, Russia sat on his chest with the attitude of a big brother tormenting his little brother. "Toooris, I want a new desk, da! One just as old as my old, with markings and a chair and paintings and shelves and pens and paper and bookshelves and books in Cyrillic. And they shall be from your old house, da!" Toris looked around, and noticed to his fear that the hall was void of people.
Then he looked to the Russian and fought to smile. "S-s-sure, sure, Master R-Russia, just let me get up so I can d-do it, okay?" Another jab of fear filled him when he saw the Russian stick out his tongue at him, looking utterly overjoyed.
"I am not moving from here before my office is useable again, da!"
Now I don't believe men are born to be killers
The dinning-room was hauntingly quiet, the only sound louder than the humming of whispers was the whistling from the Russian's mouth from the end of the table. Russia enjoyed enjoying his dinner with the subordinates, or republics, of the Soviet, but the same could not be said about these subordinates.
Hungary was trying to protect everyone from Prussia's sharp tongue, to keep him out of trouble.
His sisters were sitting beside their conqueror, but only answered the questions he might give them in attempt not to get enemies among the rest of the residents at the table. Belarus was more talkative, though, giving him small looks when no one watched.
The man called Moldova tried to stare the Hungarian woman down, his anger towards her still flaring even if it was more than a hundred years since her armies continuously invaded his territory.
Latvia, Estonia and Lithuania sat beside Belarus, eating in silence and begging it to continue.
The women Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia sat the furthest away from the Russian's end, whispering among them in an attempt of finding together in another alliance when they rose against their captor.
In short, it was no joyful table.
I don't believe this world can't be saved
In the mind of about everyone, plans of either escaping or fighting themselves free took a lot of space, but even if they were four times as many if his beloved sisters were to join him, he was still the stronger. Their own quarrels could be put aside for a moment of kicking the Russian over the shins, but their daydream was crushed by facts.
He had not only physical strength to crush them, as well as weapons to do so, but none of their territory was without his soldiers, and if they would make an uproar and try a revolution, it would end in their people getting slaughtered with his pure numbers of soldiers and better developed weaponry. They could not see the light, not now and not even a thousand years forward.
How did you get here and when did it start
"Gilbert!" Russia said suddenly, breaking the whispering, whistling silence by pointing at the man, mentioning the name of one of his favorites to torment. The Prussian knew it was for all the lives his brother had taken in the Russian regions, but he still stared back proudly, even with one arm in a sling and a black eye. "Did you do something funny today, da?"
"It's Prussia, you jee-!nngh-idiot," he tried to correct himself, but the other choice of words was no better than his first. "And except for freeze, starve and sleeping in your bed when I was supposed to make it, nothing, Arschloch." He could not hold his tongue, and even though most of the residents in the house had learned to hate him for his former actions, the feelings were slowly beginning to settle into more reasonable conclusions.
He and his stubborn strength certainly was their biggest hope of rescue, after all.
An innocent child with a thorn in his heart
Ivan pouted sadly, picking at his food. "That's sad," he said, half-way feeling the words he spoke, a promise of another childishly cruel game for the Prussian in the morning. "That's very sad, Gilbert." The chant of 'Kol kol kol' was not far behind, though it was slightly muffled by the food in the Russian's mouth.
What kind of world do we live in?
Ukraine stood on the outside of the door to his office, now filled with stuff from the poor Lithuania's own home. She stood there, hearing his drunken-song of vodka through the door, along with his pen scraping over his papers. It was a hot day of Russian status, especially in this area, and she had been planning on going for a walk with him for about a week.
She just had not gotten around asking, and now when even the weather was with her, she decided to ask him this day. Her hand reached out to the door, and she felt the cold knob on her skin as she was about to turn it. She smiled. It could be like the old days, before the Golden Horde.
Where love is divided by hate?
Then footsteps behind her reached her ears, and she turned to look into the green eyes of Elizaveta, the Hungarian nation. The other's eyes looked her over, then turned to the hand she held on the door, and the slightest movement of disgust passed over the other woman's lips and eyes. Then she went back to smiling, but Katyusha saw the disgust, that immense contempt.
And Katyusha had never been a strong woman. Her lips quivered as she let go of the knob, deciding that this day was not the day to ask her brother for at walk. Not this day, nor any other.
The Hungarian frowned at her slightly, and then nodded, deciding that the other woman had taken her stand in the game, even if the contester was her own little brother. Then she turned away, letting the woman be alone with her thoughts.
Losing control of our feeling
As soon as Katyusha no longer heard her, she felt the tears roll down her cheeks. She tried to wipe them away, hating that she was crying once again, but the salty waters continued to come to her cheeks again and again, no matter how hard she tried.
Deciding her brother could not see her crying, she ran off, her footsteps clattering through the hall as she made way for the bedroom she shared with Belarus. Her movements were of course heard by the Russian, and just ten seconds later, he slammed the door open and looked about, wondering what he had heard and if it was something fun to do.
We're dreaming this life away
When she finally reached her bed, Ukraine tossed herself upon it, lying on her stomach and crying into her arms. She wanted her brother back, the sweet little brother whom had smiled true smiles and laughed warm laughs, who had played real games and who she had thought would grow into a tall, strong hero and succeed most of their mother's lands without shaming them.
She wondered what had gone wrong. Where had she lost her grip on him? Where had she gone wrong to make him a malicious, intelligent child in the body of a human giant? When had the path turned wrong and the line been crossed?
She cried so long that she fell asleep, and in her dream, she gave him her scarf once again, and she and Belarus helped each other putting it on to their freezing brother. Those were the good time. Those were life. Those were two weeks before the invasion of the Horde.
What kind of world do we live in?
Russia stared over the border to what the world now preferred to as West Germany, standing of the earth of the eastern part of the split country. He was here for one reason. To stop the people going from his land to the capitalists. "What will you do, sir?" the human beside him asked, and Russia smiled at him like the words he was about to say were the sanest thing in the world.
"Build a wall, of course! One to go down from one end of the border to another, da. If anyone comes from their side to ours, they are welcome. They may even come to join Russia, da. But anyone coming from our side must be stopped, no matter what means it takes."
The man seemed shocked, but Ivan noticed nothing, just smiling out to the other side of the border. It was at the end of winter, sure, but Winter still roamed. For that reason, Ivan was happy to be outside his own borders, for it was only there Winter ruled. Here, he might even see sunflowers sprout if he stayed for long enough.
His dreamy thoughts were broken when a figure with a yellow head approached them.
Where love is divided by hate?
"So it is true that you have approached. What are you doing here, coming to take the other half?" the blond German asked, not even shouting, but his army-voice clear even a hundred feet away. He was still coming towards them, though, and nothing kind showed in his face.
This did not discourage Russia, who just tilted his head to the side and watched the German, his smile not even faltering. "No, I just had plans of making a wall to stop you Nazi-thoughts from spreading into my un-Nazi side, da."
"And what if I do not approve?" Germany asked, seemingly uncomfortable. He did not like to be apart from his big brother, especially not since said big brother was suffering because of his deeds, and a wall to make their separation physical was just… cruel and unbearable.
Russia just shook his head. "I make the wall a meter within my own border. Then it is my wall and mine only. And you cannot argue, da?"
The blond was silent for a moment, swallowing something in his mouth. "Anything I can do for you not to?" he asked, hoping to get reason out of the man in his front.
"Become one with me, da!"
Selling our souls for no reason
How could words of imprisonment be so tempting? The blue eyes got closed, trying to reason with himself that the only thing he would get would be an angry big brother, yelling at him that all the suffering he had been through would be in vain if he became 'one with Russia'. He knew it was the truth, and that it would only bring his brother more pain.
And still, the pull to be beside his idiotic, annoying, arrogant brother was so great. The reason for changing the border was stupid and made for selfish reasons only.
We all must be dreaming this life away
Finally, he shook his head. It was not even for him to decide, but America and all the others who were supposed to own him. And that was the reason for his final decline, and Russia did not even seem sad about it. Just very amused.
"Then it's your problem, da?" the bigger nation said, reaching over and padding the German on the head, much to the strict one's irritation. "Do svidanya!"
In a world so cold
Russia walked away, and did not even speak Russian as he loudly spoke the plans of the wall to the citizen by his side, and Ludwig lowered his head and closed his eyes to conceal his tears. He shivered as the remnants of the cold wind of winter swiped past the landscape of spring, and bit his lower lip to regain control of his feelings.
It would not be forever. Even if Russia was still strong, he would not be strong forever. No country had been great for more than a few centuries, at least in the last millennia. He and his brother would get together again, in time, and Prussia might even get his lands back.
There's a sickness inside you that wants to escape
Another bottle was set on his desk, empty after having been gulped down in and angry manner. Ivan was in a bad mood, had been so for a few hours without knowing why. It had begun in a headache he was very sure rooted in the scar from Bloody Sunday, set under his hair near the temple. This was the reason for his heavy drinking, as he tried to drown his sadness in his sweet vodka.
Other bottles already lied on his desk, some of them still standing. Had it been a man of another size or a man with less experience in drinking, they would have passed out and in danger of dying from overdrinking. To his luck, he had been drinking since morning. Russia was still in the dying-risk, but he was awake.
Searching for a new bottle under the table, his swimming gaze was startled to find no more. He sighed, tried to stand and found his feet gliding under him, like the floor was covered with butter. He grabbed unto the side of the desk to steady himself, and swiped the empty bottles to the floor in the process. He stared at the door, annoyed that it danced tauntingly in front of him.
It's a feeling you get when you can't find your way
On unsteady feet he made way towards the door, reaching for the jumping knob. It continued to slip from his fingers, and he lost all patience and slammed his head into the door to open it.
It still did not open, but he found that banging his head against something dulled the painful sadness in his chest and pain in his head better than the alcohol. He aimed for the door again, banged his head towards it, but what connected to his forehead was a wall. It did not matter. All that mattered was the relief, and he grabbed onto the shelf beside the door to keep himself steady as he continued his self-damaging.
The fact that everything was against him no longer mattered. The helplessness of being sad without reason, the bottle of vodka that was not there, the doorknob that continued to avoid his fingers. All that mattered was the pain in his chest and head that got dulled, the wish of things getting better becoming less important for every jab of pain.
So how many times must you fall to your knees?
He did not notice the door open slightly at the noise and the head of one of his servants, this time Hungary, peering in. She saw his state and gasped soundlessly, disappeared again to get the rest.
Even if they hated him and even if they wanted him to disappear, they knew they could not kill him, even in this state. His soldiers still resided in their own lands, without themselves having anyone to defend themselves. And worse than that, if he woke up with a headache that was worse than a hangover, he would blame them for not stopping him.
Even Prussia came, but probably more to look than anything. Russia noticed them and made a swing at the nearest, Eduard, and though he hit his target, the power was too much for his outbalanced body to handle. He slipped on his feet and fell into the desk again, his upper body hitting the surface while the lower hit the broken bottles. "Ai want vodkla!" he exclaimed, trying to kick out at them but failing to determine the distance.
"How-how much did he drink?" Georgia asked, staring at the bottles under his legs with disbelief. They had not seen him all day, but had thought nothing of it for the time being, most actually happy for a day off. "W-will he die?" And despite everything, none of them wished for such things to happen.
"Y-you have gotten enough, Master Russia," Lithuania stated, trying to get close as the bigger man tried to get back to his feet. He got so close he could grab his shoulder, but Russia found his feet right then and flung a fist at Toris. He hit his target again, but the Lithuanian managed to get a grip on his elbow and hold it. Confused by this, and by his lack of control over everything about himself and the rest, Ivan did not even get time to react when the next of them grabbed him.
He began to struggle, and when he did, they knew they had to force him to the ground to keep control of him. Ukraine got thrown up on as soon as she tried to help them, tears in her eyes at her brother's state, and other's got stained too by what seemed to be pure alcohol. But getting the upper hand was not as hard as you could think, with him being drunk, yet even if his flailing limps were imprecise, they had not lost their strength.
Never, never, never, never, never do this again
He ended on his stomach, trashing about, with both his hands, Moldova, Hungary, Estonia and even Belarus on his back to keep him there and Ukraine in the corner, fighting her tears. It did not please Ivan, and he did his best to roll around and smack his head into the floor in frustration until Prussia, grinning amusedly, put a pillow underneath.
"I hrate youv!" the Russian slurred, rolling his head from side to side on the pillow, staining it with the remnants of puke from the corners of his lips. "Ai flate youv all! Ai hrate youv de mosth, even if youvrr hair ish ngice ang whith." He still tried to free himself, squirming and tossing and turning. Then he suddenly stopped, the only sound in the room the panting of the fighters.
Russia laid with his head to the side on the pillow, staring dully into the books on his shelf, his drunken head spinning. His face once again resembled one of a child again, but it was a sad child, a lonely child. A child who had seen far too many nights without hope to light his darkness. "Wry won't youv be nice? Wry do you hlate mii? Ai-Ai-I only wrant youv for fjiends…"
It starts with pain
The fall of the wall. The end of his reign. He was never supposed to fall… but now, the fall of the wall he had made to keep his people in was a symbol for people to get out.
His loss of power was not what hurt the most. It was the smiles of all those people he had taken care of when they were suddenly freed. Their happiness that they had never showed him when they were part of him.
Followed by hate
His house was empty. So empty. And cold. No nations to keep it warm with their presence and their chopped wood.
Now I don't believe men are born to be killers
How did it all happen? Where had he gone wrong? He had never hurt anybody, had he? Everything he had done to them, he had tried himself… Why would they want to move away for something like that? They just did not follow his orders… it was only natural… they had to be punished…
And I don't believe this world can't be saved
The library was empty. Normally, this was where he could find Estonia and Latvia when he had a good day. The kitchen was empty. That was where Hungary fled to when her thoughts about Austria got too hurtful. And there was the living room. This was where his sisters usually sat, chatting about things he did not understand…
But now, only the cold winds of Winter occupied the chairs of the library and played with the shelves in the kitchen, and clattered with the dirty china by the sofa of his livingroom…
America and a lot of the other called his former subordinates 'saved'. Saved from what, Russia had to ask…
What kind of world do we live in?
His house was so scary sometimes. Or maybe it was just because of the figure outside his house, trying to pry herself in. "Brooootheeerrr, why don't you come ooouut?" Why had she changed? How had she become like that? He shivered, sitting in the dust of his empty house, behind his moth-bitten, worn sofa, hiding from his little sister.
She was worse than the feeling of being alone, wanting to do things to him that he did not want himself. He wanted friends, close friends, not lovers, and his little sister was his little sister.
Where love is divided by hate
He had not seen his big sister, on the other hand, for months… or was it years? Time seemed to pass by without him, and the world meetings seemed to float together despite of the great amount of time there was between them, and he tuned out his visits from Winter in attempt of surviving them sanely. She had chosen them instead of him, trying to be a part of the world, but was he not a part of the world too? … Actually, he was not very sure anymore, despite his amounts of land.
The rest of the world hated him… Had that not been the case, his sister would still be beside him, smiling at him whenever he spoke to her. If he had not been hated, she could go on her search for friends without cutting her ties with him. But as the situation was, it was a choice between him and the rest of the world… and somehow, he was the lightest.
Losing control of our feelings
The banging on the door continued for another half hour, until she decided he was not in the house and left to find him somewhere else. He continued to sit there, though, knowing that she still looked for him and might see him through the windows if he moved around.
He felt a swiping wind, and despite knowing what it was, he did not shiver in fear or anger. "You will never leave me, da?" He heard an amused chuckle, and the wind curled around him, like a human sitting down beside him, arms around him. An invisible, icy cold human, of course.
And for some reason, he could not stop his tears, and did not know if they were for the happiness of never spending a whole year alone… or sadness for only having a sadistic old element for company.
We're dreaming this life away
'No, Ivan,' the voice told him, so utterly amused at the words he had heard from the others mouth, the near plead of loneliness. 'I will never leave you.' And suddenly, the presence holding him grew unbearably tight.
What kind of world do we live in?
He tossed himself around in the bed, another dream filling his mind.
Where love is divided by hate?
Images of his sisters, his former subordinates, his former enemies, the entire world. All of them flashed before his closed eyelids.
Selling our souls for no reason
'Life is not worth to be lived if we have no human to share it with. Ever heard of that?'
We all must be dreaming this life away
He sat of sharply, panting and staring through the darkness at the fading and scaling tapestry.
In a world so cold
He stood from bed, rubbed his eyes in a childish manner and made a decision that would affect the world.
In a world so cold
"Who's there? Why do you call me at four in the morning?"
"It's Russia, da."
"Ivan… What is it now…? Who do you want to visit this time? Not Ukraine again, right?"
"It nothing of the sort, da. Very important, Mr. Medvedev, very important. I want you and Mr. Putin in your office a five o'clock today, boss, and don't you dare be late, da!"
"What is so important I may not get my sleep?"
"We are going to war! Funny, da?"