Partition
A Lily By Any Other Name
A/N: See end for historical notes.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Disclaimer II: Explicit content and triggers ahead. Do not read if you are sensitive to these topics.
It all began when they ridded him of his king.
Feliks watched, his face an uncharacteristic mask, as that horrible Russian bitch named her lover as the new king of Poland. What a vile woman, he thought; what a vile, horrible, terrible ambitious snake. She had no business in Poland. What was she hoping to gain by taking over? Wheat? Barley? Fields of rye, perhaps? Was marrying into the Romanovs, executing her husband, and crushing her serfs not enough for her?
Ivan shadowed his empress as she placed the Polish crown on her lover's head.
The Russian offered him a smile.
Feliks sneered.
Next came the partitions.
Prussia came first. The albino nation marched into Feliks' lands with a stupid grin on his face and a spring to his step. His bayonet swayed wildly in its holster as he reclaimed what had once belonged to him. He'd hated them, he always had, and held a special hatred for their personification in particular. Gilbert Beilschmidt, the epitome of so-called Prussian greatness, had been no more than a pesky fruit fly, a nuisance, back then—back when he was still powerful—but now, as he threateningly aimed the bayonet, Feliks had no choice but to surrender. He'd been here before—at the mercy of the Prussian—but there was no one to save him now.
Russia was the second. It was at that point when Feliks began wondering where his friends were when he needed them most. Where was Lithuania? Where was France? Francis, the one whom had promised to help him, was nowhere to be seen. So much for alliances. It was funny, really, how the once-great Poland had become a victim of circumstance. He hadn't done anything to the nations tearing him apart. Even if he had, it had all happened centuries ago, back when there was no need to rely on foreign powers for protection. Back when he'd been powerful, and great, and unstoppable, and the one holding the sword.
Back then this wouldn't have happened.
Austria was the last to jump aboard the bandwagon. The aristocrat didn't march to what was left of Poland to demand land himself, but instead sent his troops to pick up the scraps. For some reason, his lack of presence infuriated Feliks even more than the other two had. It was as if Austria didn't see him worthy enough to invest time in, or as if he were too dirty for those elegant, gloved hands to mangle and throttle.
And maybe the Alpine nation was right.
Maybe he'd become too weak, too soft, too malleable to be acknowledged.
Russia and Prussia did not have elegant, piano-playing hands. They did not wear silken white gloves, or played instruments, or carry themselves with the etiquette of the Habsburg court. No, their fingers were made to pull triggers, their hands made to nurture rifles, and their gaits a permanent military march played by the devil's horns and snares.
Feliks yet again tasted blood and dirt as Prussia kicked him down to the ground. The steel tip of his muddy boot dug into his spine with enough force he thought it was break underneath the weight of the two men pinning him down. Prussia snickered sickly as he forced him up on his hands and knees, and aligned himself behind him. Feliks attempted to look away, but Russia cupped his chin in his too-soft hand.
"Good little Poland." Ivan smiled in a way that sent shivers down Feliks' spine. He wanted to spit in his face—wipe that shit-eating grin off his lips—and kick and punch and scream his way out of this, but the hand on his chin seemed to be made of iron. "You will be obedient now, da?"
"He damn better be," Prussia laughed from behind him. Feliks froze in absolute fear as his pants were tugged down past his knees by the albino man. He screamed and squeezed his eyes shut as something—not something, someone—pushed into him mercilessly. The handcuffs binding his hands chaffed against his wrists as he did something—anything —to distract himself from the pain and the humiliation.
"Shut up and hold still, swine!" Prussia snarled, loudly and harshly, in his ear. A rough hand tugged back on his hair. Tears streamed down his face as he felt strands being tugged out with each rough thrust from the man behind him. But he didn't dare scream. Not when he was pinned between the two of them.
"Prussia, you heathen." A curt, clipped, accented voice filled the small, dimly lit room. "Gag him."
Something large, hard, and flesh-like thrust itself into his mouth. He gagged, feeling the obtrusion in the back of his throat, as another set of hands forced him to bob back and forth, back and forth. It was a tug-of-war and he was the rope being pulled apart by two warring sides. He was the brittle rope once made of strong, sturdy material that was now being stretched in two opposing directions. Soon enough, the rope would snap in half—breaking at the middle—and its forlorn segments would be claimed by the victors. One piece for Prussia, one for Russia, and one for Austria, whom was sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, whip in hand, as he tapped his foot in time to some perverse rhythm only he could follow.
Feliks cried, tears splattering on the ground below him, as the whip came down.
Poland was in flames again.
Historical Notes: The Partitions of Poland (1772-1795) were a series of partitions of Polish lands that wiped Poland off the European map for the next hundred years or so. One of the events leading up to the Partitions was Catherine the Great of Russia's deposition of the Polish king. Catherine replaced the king with her lover, Stanislaw Augustus. Over the next couple decades- due to the many wars and rivalries springing up in continental Europe (Seven Years' War, War of Austrian Succession), Poland had become weak and vulnerable to foreign attacks. On August 5th of 1772, Austrian, Prussian, and Russian troops marched into Poland (then still part of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth), and commenced the partitioning. From then, the Commonwealth dissolved, and Poland ceased to be a country till 1895.
A/N: This called for some hella dark characterization. Hope I didn't butcher it entirely. Please review!
A/N: This called for some hella dark characterization. Hope I didn't totally skewer it. Please review!