I don't own Hetalia
Warning: Some profanity, and not so pleasant descriptions about past events.
It was at times like this that a person could really feel how small they were in the scale of things.
The only sound was the grass swaying, the wind brushing past his clothing and then flowing on, carrying with it the most addictive scent of the countryside. The air was always so fresh - so different to the slight pollution of perfume, smoke and industry in his capital. It seemed to cleanse him - dispelling the stress and the worry that plagued his life routinely, washing away his creased brow and his dour mood and replacing it with peace and a childish perspective, if only for a little while.
He inhaled deeply, and contained a wince at the crack his nose made. That had never fully healed right.
He felt like a new person when he wandered the infinite fields of his home, when he saw the slow, paced life of those who dwell here. It seemed as if they had never known the rush of modern society, and it was a relief to go back to his roots as much as possible. To remember a time when everyone lived like this, when money wasn't the power that ruled them all. Back when the only challenge was a bad harvest and perhaps some small band of invaders.
Life was a joy back then.
He didn't feel uncomfortable in his own body, and he didn't have paranoia or claustrophobia. In that era, the only thought he had when told he was leaving his home was "adventure!"
He gave a long sigh and spat out the stalk he had been twiddling in his mouth.
Those had been the days.
The incline wasn't particularly steep, but he stumbled a few steps down regardless and his boot sunk two or so inches into the small patch of thick mud. He pulled it out with a huff, and wiped off the rest of the substance onto the surrounding grass before continuing on with his journey.
The house wasn't very far from here, he could see it over the tops of some trees at the trough of the hill. He tried to ignore the shaking of his hands by speeding up, but as he travelled, it slowly began to get worse until he was trembling like it was winter.
So close. Heaven above, so close to the border.
It angered him. It made him so incensed that he still reacted like this, that after almost seventy years he was still terrified to leave his home. He couldn't even fly out of the country without having a flash of irrational fear - for God's sake, he couldn't even trust his own skin to stay where it was! There was about a quarter of a mile between himself and the border, and if he squinted, he could see the lights of a town belonging to him.
His heart leapt in his chest.
If he had any choice, he would have ran back. He would run all the way back to Warsaw without stopping if he had less self control, but he couldn't do that. He hadn't seen Justyna and her husband since the sixties, and they had been kind enough to invite him to dinner. He would not let his fear stop him from seeing two old friends.
He would not let those men hold him under their power, after all this time.
He was up early the next morning, having being uncomfortably awoken by the feeling of the small federal subject on his eastern border gain a very unwelcome visitor (in his eyes). The swell of purple pressed against him like a water balloon, and in ordinary cases, he would have skittered back, away from the perceived threat and the poisonous presence.
But, if he moved away he would be entering into another's range, and that made it even worse - dragging up repressed memories of being suffocated. Two superpowers at each side, squeezing and squeezing until something has to give, and suddenly he is in two pieces-
He threw open the front door, and ran to the top of the hill (the one opposite to the one he had climbed yesterday), disregarding the burn in his thighs. The sun had just risen and was beginning to dry off the dew, and the breeze was cold against his warm cheeks.
The sky was cloudless, but the encompassing sky did little to reassure him, as the sensation of being pushed into a box was growing. He felt like there wasn't enough room to breath, that his lungs were being crushed, his limbs held down and he was prevented from escaping...
He collapsed to the ground, and felt salty water well up in his eyes. One traitorous tear slipped down his cheeks, and he wiped it away furiously. Damn it, he had promised he wouldn't cry about it any more. That time was past, over, and he would never have to go through it again, so why was he still so...
He slammed his right fist on the ground and pulled his legs into towards his chest, not noticing the way the water anointing the tops of the blades of grass was soaking into his creased uniform, all the way from his outer left ankle up to his shoulder.
He didn't know how long he lay there, slowly crumbling into his memories, into the times of having his bones snapped and being denied food day after day, of having all of his treasured blond hair shaved off, of having that fucking number tattooed on his left forearm that was still there because nations apparently "can't have tattoos removed, because our scars are permanent, je suis désolé, Pologne..."
Before he lost consciousness, the last thing he remembered was something sniffing around his face and a distinctly foreign voice.
Strangely enough, he was woken up by his own sneeze. The rush of air combined with the abrupt return to reality left him disorientated enough, but the scarily familiar voice broke past all of the barriers his situation had built, and he pulled himself to his feet despite the immediate dizziness and heat in his blood.
"Sind Sie gut?" It was said in a quiet, gentle tone, but Poland really couldn't help himself, and swiped his hand hard across the man's face as he stood up to help him, and tried to stumble away, with no success.
"Stay away from me!"
"Sit down, Polen. You have a fever! Verstehen Sie? Sit down!"
Verstehen Sie. Verstehen Sie.
'Polen. You will be coming with us now, Verstehen Sie?'
He let out an unidentifiable noise and fought harder, trying to force the taller and stronger man to let him go, to stop trying to push him back to the bed.
"Don't touch me! Get away from me! Nienawidzę cię! Skurwiel!"
"Polen, bitte, just lie down!"
"Nie, not until you get away from me!"
"Fine!" Suddenly, his wrists were free, and he backed away quickly until his legs hit the edge of the mattress. He then pulled his knees to his chest, and forced his back against the wall until he was as far away from the other man as possible.
Said blond held his hands up and walked away to sit in an empty chair on the other side of the room. While he did so, Poland looked around him quickly, trying to determine where he was. The room was small, and looked like a one room cabin, but he couldn't be sure. Beside where the makeshift kitchen was, were three large dogs huddled together, all watching the events calmly. Poland shuffled slightly in nervousness.
His eyes flew back to the other man's, and he wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees without breaking eye contact.
His hands were clasped together so tightly, there wasn't a chance for them to shake.
"Where am I?"
Germany opened his mouth to speak, watching the previously hysterical blond warily.
"Just outside of Grambow. Your border is an eight minute walk that way." He pointed in a direction that Poland stored in his mind, and then tried to get up again.
"Please stop trying to get up, you'll just hurt yourself."
This time, Germany didn't move, but Poland could see his muscles tense as if in preparation, and he flinched violently in reply. His body was screaming at him to stop moving, but he couldn't.
By God, he couldn't stay here. Not here.
"I'm fine. Leave me alone." He pushed himself away from the bed, and took three steps before succumbing once again.
This time, two large arms caught him before he hit the floor.
The next time he regained consciousness, he wasn't sure what was happening.
The light was warping around the room, and the walls were pulsing in a strange, haphazard pattern. He heard the mumbles of horribly familiar accents, that albino bastard's cackle, the sound of Rosja's icy giggle. The sound of the siren, the bang on the steel door of his cell, the buzz of the generator he could hear through the four inch by three inch vent at the very top of the concrete wall that kept him freezing in both summer and winter.
Unrecognisable words flew around his ears like bluebottles, and he swatted at them unsuccessfully with his uninjured hand. His other ached, like it always did, the cold having got into the wrongly healed breaks long ago.
Iced blue eyes and malicious violet ones float around his view, haunting his thoughts.
He whined in pain as the whip came down on his back again and again - the hot poker was laid on his stomach and turned slowly, the pain excruciating - the hollow in his stomach where it used to hurt, but now he doesn't even remember hunger - the needle didn't hurt, but whatever was in it did, and it amplified everything to an unbearable level, one where the only thing left to hear is his own screams, his ears burning but unable to register anything else.
He choked out words, some that made sense, some that didn't, but one that was repeated the most was, "what did I do to deserve this?"
The only other thing he remembered was something wet on his hand and a voice saying "nichts".
The third time he woke, he was alone and home in Warsaw. Everything in the room is familiar, and for the first time in God knows how long, he allowed his body to relax.
It was just a dream. God, how he hated the dreams, but at least that when he dreamed, he knew it would end. It always did.
Just a dream.
When he eventually stood up, something fell from his duvet, and partly curious, partly numb, he picked it up and unfolded it.
Moments later, the note fell from his hands.
For what it's worth, I am sorry.
Remember to keep warm.
Sequel to Partition - you will need to read it first to fully get this. Well, I wrote that in two hours, so I'm pretty proud of myself.
The federal subject is Kaliningrad Oblast. What happened was Russia visited it, and Poland could feel it, in case you didn't quite get that.
Right, translations.
Je suis désolé, Pologne - French, I am sorry, Poland.
Sind Sie gut - German, Are you alright?
Polen - German, Poland.
Verstehen Sie - German, Do you understand?
Nienawidzę cię - Polish, I hate you.
Skurwiel - Polish, (to my knowledge, quite a nasty insult. Please correct me if necessary.)
Bitte - German, please.
Nie - Polish, no.
Rosja - Polish, Russia.
Nichts - German, nothing.
Thank you to MRoshka for help with the Polish!
Hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. To me, PTSD would be quite severe in a nation, and even after all this time Poland would still be affected. I don't think the paranoia and the claustrophobia was such of a stretch either.
Poland isn't weak, just tormented. I think anyone would be. Any questions or corrections, please just contact me.
Reviews are always appreciated.
(^J^)
This story is finished, so DO NOT ALERT. ((I might write more though - and that will be in a separate one shot))