Prelude

October 1944

He's crouched in a gully, his back pressing against the wall of cool, damp earth. The creek that ran through this wood dried up about a decade ago, but Lithuania still feels it – or he thinks he can, at least. Really it's just the soil, wet from last night's rain, leaching through his uniform shirt. Lithuania presses his back further into the soft earth. He wishes he could just disappear into it. It is comforting, stabilizing, a reminder of gentler times when he used to spend his days tilling farm fields – and he needs that comforting stability for what he's about to do.

The silty loam behind him hardens, forming an impression of his back. A statement. A remnant. That he was here. That he did something.

It is a transitory thing, surely to disappear the moment he leads his men over the gully wall, ambushing the approaching Soviet soldiers. But…for now, it exists. As proof.

Lithuania leans his head back. A few crumbs of dirt break loose. They trickle down his shirt collar, tickling his scarred and beaten back. But Lithuania tries not to think about that just now. Instead he focuses on the distant footsteps, the crunching of leaves. His men look at him expectantly. Lithuania gives the slightest shake of his head, presses his finger to his lips. It is too early. He can tell from the careless tread of the soldiers' footfalls the Soviets are not expecting them. If they show themselves too soon, the casualties would be far too great. They are outnumbered and outgunned. Surprise is the only weapon they have.

Lithuania closes his eyes and counts. One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. The Soviets are one hundred meters and closing. Three one-thousand. Four. He inhales the musty smell of earth and leaves. Five one-thousand. Six one-thousand. He pulls out the small golden cross he wears and kisses it, then tucks it back down his shirt collar. Seven one-thousand. Eight. Lithuania tightens his grip on the rifle, ready to jam the stock into his shoulder pocket and fire the moment he is over the small hill….

Dievas! How did I end up here? Lithuania thinks.

Nine one-thousand. Ten one-thousand.

Another absurd thought enters his head: For over two hundred years, they had ruled together.

Eleven one-thousand. Twelve….

'You fucking coward!' The voice echoes from his memory.

Poland.

Lithuania's eyes fly open. His heart pounds in his throat. For a moment he forgets where he is – until he sees one of his men frantically signaling him. The Soviets are less than fifty meters away. Lithuania nods, wipes the sweat from his brow and tries to regain his focus, but he has not thought about that – about Poland – since the ultimatum. And here he is, fighting again – the one thing he swore he would never do….

Well.

Sometimes….

These things must be done.

Lithuania inhales deeply, wets his lips, and signals his men. They are to wait until after a count of five to follow him. He is determined. This cannot fail. Not now. Not while Russia is otherwise preoccupied.

Lithuania snatches up his rifle and scrambles up the gully wall.

At first, the Soviets didn't know what to make of him. He stands before them, wearing a Soviet Lieutenant's uniform, holding a rifle. They must think he is lost.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" one of them calls in Russian. "We could have shot you."

"Maybe you should have," he answers in his native tongue.

And before the reality of his words has a chance to sink in, Lithuania grimly shoulders his rifle and shoots.

.

.

.

At night, they shelter in a barn. The family that owns it are partisan sympathizers and Lithuania and his men are fed exceptionally well.

Later, when the men are all asleep, Lithuania sneaks out. He cannot sleep. He blames it on the cloying stench of moldy hay, but that is not the real reason. It is not the smell that suffocates him but his thoughts.

He lays down in the grass, the earth solid and unmoving against his back, and looks up at the stars.

For over two hundred years, they had ruled together.

He remembers the last words he said to Poland.

'You can't just, like, declare neutrality. I need your help, Liet.'

Lithuania sits, absently twirling the cross he always wears – the one Poland gave him following their last failed attempt to overthrow Russia.

Poland taps his foot impatiently. 'Why are you doing this? We're fighting the same guy. Or have you forgotten?'

'I know who I'm fighting,' Lithuania finally says, fixing his old ally with a hard look.

'So…then, you'll help?'

'No.'

'What? Why? Stop being stubborn – '

'Give me back my capital,' Lithuania says quietly.

'Psh. Your capital,' Poland scoffs. 'No way. Wilno is, like, one hundred percent Polish. Besides, I took it back from that fucking Russian. So therefore I win.'

'Then I remain neutral.'

'You fucking coward!' Poland fumes, stomps his foot. 'You're just gonna let Russia roll right on in and take whatever he wants again, aren't you? You may claim to want independence, but I think you like being his little bitch.'

'We are done here,' Lithuania says, his voice a deadly whisper. He rises from his chair, gestures to the door. 'I have no words for you.'

Poland's eyes narrow ever so slightly. 'Fine. I guess that's it, then.' He turns on his heel and leaves without a backward glance.

He and Lithuania will not speak face to face for another eighteen years after that – when Poland offers up an ultimatum and demands they re-establish diplomatic relations.

Lithuania closes his eyes.

Tensions between the two of them have started to ease up at that point – but closed doors conceal secret meetings and he and Poland become nothing but unwitting pieces in a much larger game. Invasion and reorganization and occupation. And somehow through the careful dance of figurines across a chessboard, he belongs to Russia once again.

For four years, he has lived with Russia. But things are different now. Russia is not the same Russia as before. In the rare times Russia is home from the war or meetings, Lithuania can see it. There is something missing. Confusion where there once was depth. Paranoia where there once was child-like trust. Lithuania could sense a change coming even as the last century came to a close. He remembers the revolutions (his in 1863 and Russia's in 1905 and again in 1917) – and the scars on his back prickle at the very thought. So he does the only thing he knows how: take orders and obey. It is a course of action that has proven if not ideal then at least adequate in the past.

The first years back with Russia pass in a haze of blind servitude. Lithuania does not question, only does whatever is asked of him. Latvia and Estonia take longer to adjust, but they eventually do. With his help. And the weeks without Russia are a blessing. Lithuania selfishly hopes the war will never end.

Then one day in August, Russia calls him in for a private meeting. Lithuania feels his stomach sink, knowing what that most likely will entail. He does not expect, however, for Russia to present him with a Soviet uniform – not just any uniform, but an officer's. Russia tells him of the partisan fighting happening in Lithuania's homeland and gives him one order:

"Handle it. Or I will, Lieutenant."

He thrusts the uniform and a rifle at Lithuania. The Baltic runs his hand down the worn wooden gunstock. He has been with Russia long enough to know this is a far cry from gaining his trust – just the opposite, in fact. This is a test. One Lithuania plans to fail.

"I trust you know how to use one of those," Russia says, indicating the rifle.

"Ye-yes," Lithuania nods.

"Then why are you still here? Get to the train station!" Russia barks.

Lithuania scurries from the room and sets off to join his countrymen. It takes quite a deal of convincing, but he manages to earn the partisans' trust and is determined to stay with them for as long as he can.

Lithuania's eyes flutter open. Slowly, he pushes himself off the ground. The night has turned colder and his breath comes out in little puffs of condensed air. He stares off into the tree line, watching the shadows play as the moon slides in and out of clouds.

He remembers the soldier he shot.

And the cold that numbs him is not the surrounding air. This new, modern century has been nothing but turmoil and he is sick of it. Sick of fighting, sick of wars. But, until his sovereignty can be regained, he will occupy two worlds: union and independence, complacency and revolution. He only hopes it doesn't tear him apart the way it did Russia.

Lithuania reaches for a cigarette and wonders if he is a good person.