Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me.
For this, my first published work, I give special thanks to the authors EvanescingSky, gunman, Pretani, Lord of the land of fire, Mister Cynical, and phillyphil2010 for inspiring me by their evident dedication to their writing. Plot ideas and reviews appreciated. Will there be more chapters to follow? You tell me.
Love, Thy Name is Madness
By batquest7
Ivan Braginski was not a happy man. To be fair, there weren't many who would have been happy in his situation, inching his way across the narrow window ledge that led from his bedroom to the hall. Ivan fumed at the theatric, but had to concede its necessity. The only alternative was to make a dash from the door to the stairs, but that route would have guaranteed a collision with her.
The coming of April generally portended less snow and more rain; today seemed to be proving the rule. There was too little frost on the ground to cushion a potential fall, and enough rain was already falling at this early hour to blur his vision. The haven that was the hall window seemed to be hidden behind a watery curtain that descended with increasing rapidity and force from the black sky above.
But fear was a supreme motivator, and Ivan considered the weather for only an instant as he made his way across the tightrope. The rain could pour to its heart's content, for all he cared. If anything, Ivan thought, a fall from two stories up would be a sweet and merciful release from the terror that he sought to escape. Even now, as he wobbled over to seize the near side of the window frame with his fingertips, Ivan heard the screams beginning, the screams of an unstoppable force venting the rage of her frustration.
Muttering oaths from a combination of fear and indignation, Ivan reached out to raise the window sash that led to safety. His body hung partially out in the air as he raised the barrier as highly as possible. Without stopping to think, Ivan swung out from the ledge, over the sill, and into the hall. He landed with an ungraceful thud on the cold tile floor.
Ivan Braginski, the man who was Russia incarnate, didn't dare to believe his luck. He was alive and had again evaded the one person who struck fear into even his heart. But all was not well yet. He heard a crashing sound coming through the open window from the room he had just left. The beautiful mahogany that formed his bedroom door was giving way to the blows of a fearsome invader.
She must really be in the throes of it today mused Russia as he lifted himself to a sitting position on the floor. His temples throbbed and his chest heaved as he sat, his mind still collecting itself. Ivan gently closed his eyes; it hurt too much to use them at present. He reached inside the coat he was wearing to pull out his pipe and some matches. His fingers brushed against something metallic: the flask of vodka he had started to carry with him. Instinctively, the fingers extended to take the flask, but stopped. One, two, three, four, five. For the space of five seconds he was rigid, unsure of what to do. Then the moment passed and his hand moved into the correct pocket.
Still sitting on the floor as he lit up his pipe and opened his eyes, Ivan heard quick footsteps in the opposite hall approaching the crashing sounds. The servants were obeying previous instructions. They were to attempt to coax the would-be entrant away with a gourmet breakfast. He hoped it would work.
He knew it wouldn't.
The crashing sounds ceased suddenly. That meant the menu was being presented. A voice spoke, in tones at once girlish and deadly. Russia looked to the ceiling, mouthing words one step ahead of the voice. "I don't want breakfast!" "But madam-" The following medley of cries brought Russia sharply to his feet and quickly marching to the scene. Fear or no fear, this was too much. Putin had made it clear that the government could not afford another legal fiasco on her account. Frankly, Russia thought, they should have thought of that before they hired these people and trained them in these ridiculous procedures!
How many times had he tried to explain that it was safer to leave her be, no matter how terrifying it was for him personally?
He took the situation in at a glance as he came into the other hall, his face and bearing showing nothing of their former distress, if only for the sake of the potential victims. Four servants, three men and a woman, were huddled against a pillar, collectively paralyzed with fear by the sight before them. Across from them, the door to Ivan's bedroom lay halfway off its hinges. Slashes and dents in the wood showed where fists and a knife had been applied, in some places alternately, in some places simultaneously. There were also signs that a large and heavy object, probably the bust of Peter the Great that now lay shattered and strewn over the carpet, had been called into service against the door. Russia absorbed all these things with a cursory sweep of his eyes before focusing on the eye of the hurricane.
A petite and beautiful figure with long blonde hair stood with her back to him. In one hand she held a small, sharp knife, its tip up against the soft fold of flesh that covered a carotid artery in a throat. In the other hand she held the possessor of that throat a few inches above the ground, a well-dressed gentleman's gentleman whose eyes had glassed over from fear and was exerting what little self-discipline he had at the moment in an attempt to retain control of his bodily functions. He would discover later that he had failed in this effort.
Russia swallowed hard and forced a commanding note into his voice as he spoke. "Natalia. Release him."
Her shoulders tensed momentarily, then relaxed. She loosened her grip on the man's throat and took the knife away. He sank to the ground and coughed hoarsely, still holding the menu in his hand. For a moment, there was silence. Finally, Russia barked a command. "Out! All of you!" The servants needed no second word, literally trying to climb over each other in their haste to depart.
The two were suddenly alone.
Without warning, the girl turned around with a smile that was equal parts sweetness, joy, and madness. "Good morning, big brother!"
Russia massaged his still-throbbing temples. What am I to do with you, Belarus?