Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers Hetalia~!

A/N: Iaveina is awesome and beta-read this story. :D I would also like to thank her for having to read my ramblings while I was writing this (and giving me ideas!).

This idea came from an RP and was originally going to be a one-shot. While writing it, however, it began to flesh out, so there will most likely be more to come. :D I haven't abandoned my other stories, but I am writersblocked on them, so I'm sorry about that. Also, I'm not sure about pairings yet.

It's the first time I've ever written gore so I'm sorry if it's a bit weird. ^^; Please tell me if there's anything I need to improve on!

Speechless

Chapter 1

Alfred carefully stepped past a small puddle that settled in the middle of the dirt path he was traveling on. His boots made a soft squish in the dark mud near it, and it took all of his resolve not jump into the water like a child would have. He looked up and noticed that the sky was getting dark again, and that it would probably rain soon.

He continued on his way to his large Virginia house, ignoring the rest of the puddles and enjoying the trail, which was perfectly carved in the middle of the surrounding forest of trees. America stretched his arms upwards tiredly, thinking about the nap he'd take once he got inside. He had been extremely tired since the Cold War had started; what with the Red Scare and Russia's seeming passive aggressiveness and the Space Race ending badly on his part and his people getting worked up over a possible nuclear war. It was starting to make him feel sick.

The nation thought that something was a little off when he entered his home, as though it were colder than usual, but he decided to ignore it and head upstairs to his main bedroom. He took off his giant rubber boots and let them sit on the hardwood floor; he'd clean the caked mud off of them later. A long raincoat that he had on over his normal outfit was hung up on the coat rack shortly, and then he finally began to walk up the steps.

The feeling that he was being watched resurfaced again, making the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. But he was used to this because of the communist scares in his country, so he tried not to pay too much attention to it.

Once he reached his room he took a quick look at himself in the mirror: his mess of dirty blond hair and the bags underneath his cobalt eyes. Even his skin seemed dirtier and his whole frame leaner. The war was taking a toll on him, but Alfred would most likely never admit that.

America down flopped on the bed tiredly; glad that he could finally get some well-deserved rest. Everything was so hectic lately that he could never find time to catch even a good night's sleep. It was currently late in the afternoon, but he didn't care. Any time was good for him.

He was starting to drift off until he thought he felt fingers at his feet. Thinking that it was perhaps part of one of his weird half-awake dreams, he tried to swat it away with his toes, but it was still there. Then he began to feel them tighten around one foot, and then the other.

"What the fu –!" Alfred's startled exclamation was cut off by a sharp yank, and immediately he was pulled off his bed and lay sprawled on the floor in front of it. Before he could open his eyes he felt something press against him; it was another person, and they were of a bigger and stronger build than him. "Ivan."

There was that creepy smile and the purple eyes that America felt he knew so well. "Da, it is me," Russia replied happily. He stopped Alfred from trying to strangle him by putting all of his weight onto him.

"The hell are you here for!" America spat instead, since he couldn't move anymore. He thought he saw a flash of something gray and sharp, but pushed it to the back of his mind. 'How did he find one of my houses and know I'd be in it today? Was he waiting here the whole time for me?'

"I just wanted to visit you," The man replied. "You barely speak to me anymore at the meetings." His smile grew wider.

"Why the hell would I want to talk to a stupid commie –"

His head was slammed against the floor, hard. Alfred was beginning to see stars.

"Say that again. Louder," Ivan dared.

America did not want to be made a fool of, even if it was in the supposed privacy of his own home. He said it again: "Why the hell would I want to talk to a –"

Russia took a hold of his arms and threw him to the other side of the room, opposite the door. Alfred hit the wall straight on with his back and fell onto the floor. He had just missed crashing into the window. Although there wasn't much of a chance for an escape because Ivan was right in front of him, America got up and jumped the length of his bed so he could avoid the Russian and get to the door. The thought had crossed his mind to get out through the window, but it would have taken him a while to get it open and the three-story drop wasn't appealing.

The doorknob was right in his grasp when he felt the same tug from before. Cold, hard metal slipped away from his hand as Alfred fell to the wooden floor again; he could feel his whole body being dragged backwards toward Ivan now.

"Silly America. You will not be able to get away," Russia giggled. "Da, because I will find you wherever you go."

An audible, stomach-turning snap was heard, and the blond screamed in pain. Tears of sweat appeared on his face, dripping down his forehead and off his chin. He dug his gloved fingers in between the wooden planks of the floorboard out of sheer agony. Ivan had broken his right leg below the knee, splintering his shinbone halfway.

Russia just smiled at his enemy's anguish and said, "It is only one leg." Another loud crack followed the first; identical in every way except that it parted his left shinbone instead. Alfred bit his lip and dug his fingers in even deeper, but he could not stop his oncoming shriek of pain. The floorboards were starting to jut out of their places, becoming nearly as bent as his own bones. "Now you will not be able to run away again, da?" Ivan chimed.

"Fucking bastard," America cursed under his breath, gasping heavily whenever he had to take in air.

Russia made a chiding noise at him and told him to watch his language. When Alfred craned his neck to see what he was doing, he noticed that he was even waggling a finger at him. His face was still happy; his smile was still molded into his features as though it was part of a permanent expression on a statue.

"What is wrong with you?" Alfred demanded. "Why are you doing this?"

"I merely wanted to have a conversation with you, but you were calling me names. And I did not like that you were trying to run away," Ivan answered, leaning in so his lips were right against his ear. "I had to do something about that."

America shivered slightly, but despite the pain and the position he was in, he reached up and tried to swat him away with his hand. Russia didn't take kindly to this and grabbed his wrist. Then, he twisted it nearly all the way around, but not enough to break it. He just watched his former comrade's face twist in even more tortuous agony.

"I hope you have learned quickly that you should not do anything to upset me," Ivan told him.

"Well, I hope you freeze to death in some godforsaken snow-covered abyss –" Alfred interrupted himself with a yelp. His wrist was easily crushed in a few seconds. It lay on the ground as soon as Russia released it, fragmented in several places. America began to feel emasculated; how could he continue calling himself a hero if he was getting beaten up so badly right now? "If you gave me a fair chance," He said between gritted teeth, "I could have thrashed you with my bare hands."

"I am getting tired of hearing you talk. You be quiet now, da?"

"And why the hell should I?" Alfred retorted. He saw a gleam of light flash on a piece of silvery metal. Ivan had pulled out a knife from his pocket.

"If you do not shut up, I will cut out your vocal chords with this blade, da," Russia threatened.

America shook his head. He started to laugh because he imagined that as an empty threat; just something the commie said to make people scared. "Suuure you will." He wasn't afraid.

Ivan turned him around so that Alfred would be able to face him without straining his neck, and then he grabbed his hair and forced his head backwards so his throat was more readily accessible. "I will show you what I mean."

The knife went straight for his exposed throat, first making a vertical slice and then digging deeper while blood spurted out and stained the Russian's clothing.

"Oops, I think I might have hit something major." Ivan smiled as though he had accidentally colored outside the line in a coloring book. His pale face was soon covered in little red droplets, but all he did was lick off the ones that had landed on his lips.

America couldn't scream, but he was able to thrash about as best as he could with two broken legs and a broken wrist. His struggling didn't achieve very much, however, for all Russia had to do was move his body a little closer and hold him tighter with his free arm. This way, he could barely move and could only watch as Ivan continued the procedure. Tears were actually rolling down his cheeks this time; the torture was too much to bear. Alfred could only hope to pass out soon so he could avoid feeling anything more.

Metal cut even deeper, routing around for its mark in the throat of its victim. Ivan commented, "I don't think it'd be too hard to find, da. Ah, there they are! Sneaky little things! They were trying to hide from me." He used the knife to sever the offending body parts, extracting them quickly and then dropping America to the ground so his other hand could hold the white, slimy things. "And now I have something to remember you by." The Russian stood to go, pocketing first the knife in its leather strap, and then the still-pulsing vocal chords right beside it. His coat was partially sprayed with blood and partially drenched in it, for with the way he had been holding his former comrade, the liquid that had been streaming down his neck and chest had managed to seep onto Ivan's clothing.

Before Russia left, he watched America pass out, bleeding onto the floor because he lay on his side. Alfred's clothes were covered in blood, of course, but it was slightly less noticeable because of the color and thickness of his bomber jacket.

"Maybe I will see you at the next meeting, America-kun," Ivan grinned cheerfully. "Although now you have an excuse not to speak to me." His lavender-colored eyes flitted to his pocket for a moment before he stepped over the unconscious body and exited the house quietly.

A couple of hours later, night was falling on the Virginia plain and Canada was nervously stepping down the path to one of America's houses. It was the one he knew he'd be in today, and he wanted to check up on him to make sure he was alright. He knew the war was taking its toll on his brother and he wanted to help him in any way he could.

"A-Alfred?" he began timidly, pushing open the door which was surprisingly unlocked. "Alfred, are you here?" he asked again. After looking around that floor a little bit, he decided that perhaps he was sleeping, so he walked upstairs holding Kumajirou tightly.

Matthew pushed open the door to his brother's bedroom and nearly gagged at what he witnessed. Still, he was able to get as close to America as he could without slipping on the red pool around him. Alfred was completely pale from all the blood loss, but because he was a nation and therefore couldn't die from wounds fatal to mortals, his heart kept pumping more blood into his system only to have it gush out again through the huge gap in his throat.

"I'm going to call an ambulance!" Canada promised, although Alfred's eyes looked frozen over in his unconscious state, and his mouth was parted as though in a muted scream. Matthew ran to the nearest phone to call 911, and as an afterthought decided to ring up England.

Arthur had been arguing with Francis when the phone rang. He was on one side of the table in the living room, and the French man was on the other. They were both standing up and had their hands on the sides of the table. Whenever France edged closer to him, England moved away, making it look like they were doing a strange combination of a stare down and a dance.

"Give it up, frog, I'm not going to that ball or whatever it is with you," The British man said. "I have other priorities."

"My dear Angleterre, if you will not come with me willingly then I am afraid I will have to kidnap you." Francis smiled and winked at him.

"Ugh, I –" But before Arthur could answer him, his phone began to ring from the kitchen. He kept one emerald green eye on France and made it to his destination unperturbed because he was the closest to where the phone was. "Hello?"

"A-Arthur, I'm c-calling about Alfred." Canada's voice seemed scared and far away.

For a few seconds, England had no clue who could have been calling, but then he remembered about America's brother with a jolt, and hesitantly said, "…Matthew?"

"Yes, it's me," Canada replied with a small note of impatience in his voice. "Listen, Alfred's badly hurt."

France suddenly cut in from the living room, "Tell Mathieu his big brother Francis says bonjour!"

"Shut up!" Arthur snapped. He apologized to Canada quickly, "I'm sorry, that was the frog. He says hi or something."

"Oh! Well, tell him I said hello back…"

Arthur rolled his eyes and called, "Matthew says hi back!" He inadvertently turned his back on the living room area and continued, "So what do you mean Alfred is hurt? Is the Cold War taking that much of a toll on him?"

"N-No, I think someone came to his house and…" Canada suddenly got very choked up; England imagined he could have been fighting back tears because of how audibly upset he was. "T-They…" Abruptly, sirens were heard on the other end. "That's the ambulance! I'll have to call you back, I-I'm sorry for wasting your time…"

"Wait! Tell me what happened!" But there was a click and it was obvious Matthew had hung up on him. England growled angrily. "I want to find out what happened…Francis, I'm going to be in America for a spell. Why don't you put off your silly little invitation until –?"

France seemed to have appeared directly behind him when England turned back around. He was half-smiling but knew that the situation was probably serious across the ocean, so he said, "Oui, I shall wait until you come back…Unless you would like for me to come with you, that is."

He had winked again at the end of that sentence, which only rewarded him with a thump on the head and an angry retort of, "I think I can travel by myself, thank you." England turned away and went off to pack for the trip.