Withered

It was okay. For the best, even. Because flowers that withered away had to be pruned. That was all there was to it. (No pairings, character suicide warning.)

A/N

This is a fic for Ankhasia Riddle, who wanted something Russia-centric involving angst and suicide. :3 Hope you like it, Ank. It was a bit research-intensive (and by research I mean Wikipedia, because I'm lazy), and I hope I didn't screw something up. Russian readers, and readers who understand world history better than I do, please point out errors so that I may change them and save myself from further embarrassment. But geez, the whole anthro thing makes history hard, 'cause Ukraine wasn't always Ukraine and what-not, so it can be hard to figure out exactly who's who at times. Not to mention that if Hetalia REALLY wanted to be accurate, there'd be a ton of other characters that aren't still countries today. In short, my goal is to make you sad, but I'm a bit worried because you might be too busy laughing at obvious errors. (Oh, and nothing written here is MY opinion of Ivan, it's Ivan's opinion of himself and the people around him. Unreliable narrator, and all that.) But yeah, poor thing's been through a lot of shit. It wasn't all bad, and there were some happy times, but if you look at it as a whole, it's a little depressing to think off a country as a conscious entity going through all that. :( Anyway, yeah, gross oversimplification, ahoy. Excuse me while I hide from people who seek to hunt me down and murder me in my sleep for all the details I screw up on.

Yes, it's a given that Russia is speaking Russian when he's alone. I don't speak the language, unfortunately, and Google Translate is notoriously unreliable.

At one time, he'd been a seed. So many people, not yet unified under one nation. Those had been the most innocent days. The best days. The days before he could look at himself in a mirror and ask himself for what purpose it was that he was born into the world. The days before he could contemplate why he was so very, very cold, even though Winter himself had gone to sleep to make way for warmer weather. Nestled deep in the ground, safe from the world. Safe from himself.

At one time, he'd been a sprout. A newly unified country, young and fresh. Yet, not at all. Perhaps he had always been unlovable from the time he was born, for it wasn't long before he, Rus, had been made to conquer the land known as Kiev. The woman of whom he'd soon taken to calling his big sister. With that, he'd quickly continued to grow. With that, he had become Kievan Rus, and prospered. They had prospered.

Then they had come.

The Mongols, who'd thoroughly ravaged his sister and cut his population in half. He hadn't been in his prime at the time, but their invasion had shattered him. It had taken years to pick up the pieces and drive them back out. Any semblance of innocence he could possibly lay claim to had been taken and shredded. He, still barely more than a child in terms of his physical age, had at last grasped humanity's cruelty. He, who had taken lives with his own hands in the past, finally understood who the true monsters were.

Time had passed. He had grown. In spite of the climate, he'd found the soft earth to stretch his roots as the Grand Duchy of Moscow. He'd stood firm in the harshest of storms. But though years passed, he'd never bloomed. Why was it, he wondered, that he still felt like a bud? Why couldn't he show his petals to the world in all their glory? Surely he'd grown stronger. He felt stronger. But still, he'd never been able to open himself up to the sun. How was he to know what kind of a flower he was? Perhaps the flowers around him were simply soaking up all the sun.

So, he consumed them. Quietly. Carefully. He expanded, stretched out, and absorbed the other flowers into himself. He grew stronger. Though the bigger plants tried to blot out his view of the sun, he forced his way through, with the help of Ivan the Great; a man whose name he shared with pride. But, try as he might, he didn't yet feel whole. There was something missing. He accomplished much, but it was meaningless in the grand scheme of things. He wanted someone to share it with. He wanted friends. Fellow flowers of whom he could talk to, and prosper with.

To do that, he had to grow some petals.

Perhaps becoming stronger, he decided, would speed that process up.

Ivan the Terrible was all too happy to help him with that. He grew bigger. Stronger. His elder sister, whose gregarious nature had been stifled by invasion so long ago, seemed to be recovering, though she remained forever timid. It was okay, though. He was strong, after all. It was the duty of the strong to protect the weak. He would become the strongest, so that he could ensure all the weak were protected. That was his ideal. His childish, naïve ideal.

It wasn't enough, though. Napoleon's invasion had horrified him; not because he had lost, no. France had been no match for his forces. It was a sudden realization that he couldn't stand. The knowledge that he wouldn't be so strong were it not for General Winter. He'd put up a good fight, but would it have been enough without the weather's help? He would never know.

It was the duty of the strong to protect the weak. However, he hated being one of the latter. Especially when the others were too corrupt to understand their responsibilities.

That, however, grew to become the least of his problems as time wore on. His people, for reasons he simply couldn't understand, were dissatisfied. It hurt. It hurt so much. It hurt that they hated him so much, hated the bud that was their country. He'd done his best to please them, hadn't he? To become great? He tried so hard. For them. Why did they hate him? Why, why, WHY?

He didn't need them, anyway.

That Sunday was the first time his heart fell out of his chest.

He didn't need them. He didn't.

Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy…?

One day, as he was feasting with the Romanovs, he had a sudden epiphany. Of course he hadn't bloomed. He'd grown, and he was certainly strong, but as he was, he would forever be a lonely wildflower. How could he be expected to be the best he could be when his Tsar couldn't be bothered to give him all the care and attention a flower needed?

Ivan was well-fed, certainly. But Ivan was just a shell, a projection of consciousness. He was Russia. And Russia, he realized, was very, very hungry. Hungry and cold. Suddenly, he understood why killing them had hurt. He was killing himself. He understood, and he wanted it to stop.

Clearly, he needed a new gardener.

So, he'd sided with his people and pruned them all. His boss, and his boss' family. The children he'd so adored had been lined up against a wall and shot without mercy, crying and begging for their lives. It was for the best. They would only spread death and disease if they were allowed to continue living. They were weeds, sapping his strength and taking it for themselves. He showed them no sympathy. Not even as little Nastya's blood splattered onto his coat. Even if they were a part of him, it was best to cut off a gangrene-ridden limb than let it spread.

He had done as his people asked. He had made them happy. Yes. He did exactly as he'd been told. He became the Soviet Union. At last, they would love him. He would bloom, and have friends, and everything would stop hurting so much.

Hurting.

Him.

So.

MUCH.

But no. It only hurt more. Because humans were horrible people. So corrupt. It would have been a perfect system were it not for human nature. They were killing him. He was dying. Withering. He could feel himself rotting, and it was all their fault, they didn't do it right. They were infections. Parasites. They had to be removed. And then that stupid pig had to go fucking everything up and he hated that man and everyone else hatehatehatehateHATED.

He tried everything. Anything to make that ache stop. Alcohol seemed to work particularly well. It was so easy. Once he had a drink, it was numb. But over time, his body grew used to the vodka, and he had to increase the amount he took in to get the same effect. More, and more, until there was no solace in anything except the bottle. His only friend in a world of people who hated him. Because he wasn't strong enough to protect anyone. Not even himself.

He felt pathetic. Until he drank. Then he felt all better and could smile because it didn't feel so bad when Lithuania and Latvia and Estonia and Ukraine and Belarus and everyone in the whole world ran away from him because he was weak and unlovable.

There were no friends. Only allies and enemies. The Allies themselves were never very pleased to see him, it seemed. Still, in such a state, he found that, in listening to their banter, he was able to take just the tiniest amount of a pleasant feeling he hadn't had in years. Happiness? It had to be. It was the same feeling he had when Ukraine made him his scarf. That feeling of being wanted. Even if he wasn't. Even if it was only to be wanted as an ally, rather than a friend. To be useful.

So it didn't even hurt when he sent so many poorly trained soldiers to their death against the Germans, because he was helping. He was helping, and they wanted his help. He was strong because those sacrifices didn't hurt. They didn't, and it was all okay. Everything was fine, and he could bloom, and he wouldn't have to drink any more vodka because he didn't like being dependent because that made him weak.

Sometimes he laughed in hysterics on the floor because laughing made it all better and it was a sign of happiness, right? And he was so, so happy.

Sometimes he cried himself to sleep because they were tears of joy and he was happy, so very happy.

Happy.

He wasn't happy.

He was sad.

Very, very, sad.

And so very cold.

Because he was too weak and pathetic to love and be loved, wasn't he? Only the strong could ever be loved.

He could feel himself breaking from the inside. His heart, once again, fell out of his chest and onto the floor. All the others were gone, and he was alone.

What was he?

The Russian Federation. That was his new name. Another revolution. Another government. It was nothing new to him. More of the same. He was still a bud. He would never see the sun. He knew that. He'd known it long ago. He just hadn't wanted to admit it to himself. He'd lost the fight against himself. He, Ivan, was simply a failure if there ever was one. He, Ivan, who hadn't recognized that something was wrong as he repeatedly tore himself to pieces, searching for a happiness that people like him simply weren't meant to find.

Why couldn't he have been one of the chosen few, who were allowed to experience joy, and friendship? Why was he doomed to be forever lonely, forever hated? Why did the others look at him with such horror and disgust? He'd done as he'd been told. He always had. His people asked him to change, so he changed, he changed for them! He changed for himself, and for those around him! But somehow, he'd managed to fuck it all up. Somehow, he was alone. Once again.

Hadn't he been strong enough for them?

Hadn't he done what was right?

What was the right answer? What was he supposed to do?

"Lithuania, would you like to-" he'd begun one day.

"I'm sorry, I have somewhere to be!" the brunette had answered quickly, hurrying out of his seat and running for the door like a rabbit would flee from a wolf.

"China, I thought we could-" he'd started to request.

"Sorry, Russia, I'm a little busy," said China warily, gazing at him with distrustful eyes.

"France? Maybe later we can-" he'd attempted later on.

"S-sorry, Ivan, but, umm, oh, look at the time, I have to go to dinner with, uh, somebody!" excused the man without shame, checking a wrist that had no watch in sight and hurrying over to someone else. Anyone else.

"England, what if we-" he'd attempted, growing increasingly desperate.

"No," had been the answer, firm and uncaring.

"America, could we, perhaps-" he'd all but pleaded, having run out of most other options.

"What? Fuck off, commie," answered America, his words drenched in utter loathing.

"Ukraine?" he'd addressed, though there was very little hope left.

"O-oh, yes, I, ah, my boss, umm, I'm sorry, Vanya!" she'd stammered, making it a point not to look at him.

"Belarus? Surely, you-" he'd tried, at the end of the rope.

"My boss has forbidden me from speaking to you unless you accept my proposal. My apologies, brother," she'd answered simply, as though he were but a means to an end.

They hated him. All of them. He knew it. Nobody wanted to be around him. He was alone. He was all alone. Again. As usual. He'd tried so hard, gone through so much, and he was right back where he started.

All. Alone.

Click!

Staring down the barrel of his own gun was such an odd feeling. He wasn't immortal. Only ageless. A shot to the head would kill him like it would any human. He had a choice. He could remain the Russian Federation, or he could let a new, more innocent representative handle it. Someone without his memories, his experiences. Someone likeable. Someone who could fix him, even if it was no longer him after he died.

His people, whom he loved so much, what would they want? If they were aware of his existence, would they be proud of him? Or would they simply hate him for all his mistakes? He couldn't know the answer. He didn't really want to know. The fear of knowing, in fact, was worse than his fear of death itself.

But it wasn't a problem, was it? In the end, regardless of the answer, they deserved better. It was okay. For the best, even. Because flowers that withered away had to be pruned.

All along, he'd thought they were the disease. The weeds. The parasites.

Maybe he himself had been a weed all along. He wasn't a beautiful sunflower. Just a useless, blood-sucking monster that nobody wanted in their gardens, and rightfully so. It made so much sense, when he thought about it. His whole life had been spent trying to blossom, something he thought he could do by stealing away the resources of the flowers in the garden. He was blotting out their sunshine in a pointless campaign to see it for himself.

But it was okay.

It was all okay.

He would do it for them.

Oh, the countless names, the various flags he'd taken on throughout history. He remembered them all. Yet, in that moment, not one of them sparked that youthful energy he'd once possessed. Funny. He'd felt so much warmer back in the days before modern heating. Maybe it wasn't his climate. Maybe it was just a state of mind.

"Kill me, General," he whispered, unable to find the will to squeeze the trigger. "Please. I'm simply too weak to do it myself."

There was no response. It figured. The embodiment of winter couldn't care less about a nation's fate. He had nothing to gain from Ivan's death, so why bother helping him when he needed it most? No, he'd clearly found it more fun to toy with Russia. Give him false hope. Let him think that maybe there was someone, even if it wasn't a fellow representative, that actually cared for his well-being. Allow him to think that he was strong, only to let him realize how truly helpless he was.

He'd been strong. He recognized that, as he held his finger on the trigger. He'd been strong, and he'd abused it. Just like every strong nation in history, and just like every strong nation would continue doing. He had, to put it quite simply, become what he hated the most, and rotted from the inside out.

He understood. He understood why he felt so hollow.

He'd already wilted. Long, long ago.

Maybe the next seed could succeed where he'd failed. Where they'd all failed.

"I understand."

Earth was like a garden.

A garden of weeds fighting for the sun. For the right to bloom. Completely unaware that none of them ever could.

He understood.

He envied the ones who didn't.

Bang.

A/N

Please be somewhat polite in your critique. I'm happy to fix errors (of which there are undoubtedly many) but try not to be pointlessly cruel, okay? That never did anyone any good. :3