It was a cold Christmas and Russia had settled himself down at a window in the Kremlin. He could watch the sky as the sun dipped down below the horizon of the Moscow skyline.
The last few years has gone by at a startling speed, even for a country as old as he. It was hard to handle the reality of the past days, past months, and of that night. Just above one of the walls, Ivan could see the bright red banner of the Soviet Union being lowered. What would be a common practice any other night stung him then. He knew that flag wouldn't be the one raised over the Kremlin walls and Red Square the following morning. The government that banner represented had fallen. The government that was once for the people, by the people, and was so instrumental in pulling Russia and his people from the brink of Oblivion was gone. All done, as much as Russia would have liked to have stopped it.
Ivan knew America, half way round the world, was celebrating. The simply idea of the American celebrating on what Russia considered to be a mournful day left a sour taste in his mouth. It was Alfred's fault, wasn't it? The reason for everything, really. The reason for all the pain, for the loss. For everything.
Russia ignored the ache in his chest; it was nothing he wasn't used to by then. The pain was too persistent to matter.
The sun had finally gone down and the sky was lit up with bright fireworks. Russia finally stood up, glancing out the window one final time. In the morning, there would be a new flag as a new government took root. That was to come in the morning, and Russia would celebrate alongside his people. That night, though, was to mourn. That night, in 1991, he would do just that.