Berlin was burning.

All around them were the sounds of rejoicing as the surviving Russian soldiers, waving their guns in elation and lifting their voices in shouts of relief and joy, swarmed out of the destroyed city like ants.

Ludwig Beilschmidt stood, stony-faced, unmoving and unresisting as America and England forced him to his knees in the snow and bound his hands behind his back. His bloodless face, fierce and stoic, was illuminated by the flames of the burning city, and only his set jaw and shaking hands betrayed his carefully controlled anger and grief. He was bleeding heavily from a gash on his temple that he had made no effort to stem.

His brother, feet firmly planted and a gun in his hand, stood a few yards away. His black uniform was ripped and dirty, the Iron Cross medal around his neck hanging barely by a thread. He was more heavily wounded than his brother, with a deep slash across his cheek narrowly missing his eye as well as all over his arms and torso, and he was swaying a little on his feet from the blood loss, but he backed away slowly, eyes bright, as China and France advanced gradually on him.

His teeth were gritted, his fists clenched, and anguish, hatred and rage written plainly all over his pale features. "Verdammt, West," he spat at his brother, whose emotionless expression did not change in response to the words. "Thanks a lot for just giving up."

He lifted the gun while continuing to back away, aimed carefully, and fired it. The bullet ripped through China's shoulder and the black-haired nation fell to the ground with a loud cry; Prussia gave a high-pitched laugh, triumphant, and threw the now empty gun away as France ran at him. In a moment he had knocked the blond nation down and pinned him to the ground, hands around his throat. His red eyes were flashing, bright and hungry with the bloodlust he still held from his days as the Teutonic Knights as he slammed France's head repeatedly into the frozen ground.

Somewhere behind him he could hear shouting, whether directed at France or himself he could not tell, and he had no idea who was speaking; it might have been his brother or one of the Allies for all he cared. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, making him drunk off the fight.

Then, suddenly, he felt hands close around his own neck from behind, and he was lifted bodily away from France, who rose shakily to his feet and stumbled away to stand beside America, Germany, and England.

Fuck. Russia.

He knew as he thrashed desperately against the cold, powerful hands that he had made a key tactical error. He had not kept track of all his enemies.

His foot made contact with flesh behind him, and, with satisfaction, he heard the answering grunt of pain. Russia, angered by this, hurled Gilbert to the icy ground. He hit hard, facedown, the wind knocked out of him, and felt something crack—most likely one of his ribs. Slightly dazed from hitting his head against the ground, he rolled over onto his back to catch his breath, and Russia placed a heavy brown boot on his neck with a careful gentleness that made it clear he could snap the smaller nation's neck without much trouble. He increased the pressure slightly as Prussia twisted beneath his foot, trying to get away.

Prussia's side hurt badly and he drew shallow breaths, trying to regain level breathing. He gritted his teeth, tasting blood, and realized that his mouth and nose were both bleeding as well from the contact with the ground.

Russia turned away to give a contemptuous glance at France and China, both of whom were bleeding and looked slightly stunned at the speed with which Russia had brought Prussia down.

"It is not really so hard, da?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "I really do not know what took you so long."

Prussia seized his momentary distraction as an opportunity to reach for his gun, thrown away nearby—bullets or no, it would be something to hit with. Russia, feeling him move, immediately turned back and moved his foot to the outstretched arm and pressed down with all his weight. There was a sickening crack as the bone broke, and Prussia gave a cry of agony.

"Good," said America behind him, with some satisfaction. "Bring him over here, Russia, with his brother."

Russia looked down at the small nation lying in the bloodstained snow, then carefully moved his foot again, this time to his wrist, and pressed—enough to cause a sharp intake of breath from Prussia, but not enough to break the bone.

"Do you surrender at last, little East Germany?" he inquired, his voice holding a frightening tone of childish innocence. "Or do I have to keep on hurting you? I don't want to have to hurt you more than I have to, you know."

"Fuck you," hissed Prussia, and reached with his good hand to try to pull away Russia's foot. Russia aimed a vicious kick at his already bloody face, causing his head to snap back and his eyes to momentarily roll back in his skull. Then he moved his foot back and stamped down, snapping the wrist and hearing the responding cry of pain with a faint smile. Prussia's face was bleeding from new wounds now as well as from the cut under his eye, and a purplish bruise was already beginning to show under his pale skin.

"I will break both of your arms if I have to, little one," Russia informed him, in a voice that, had it been saying anything else, might have been perceived as kind—even loving. "I will break your whole body if that is what it takes, da? Surrender now."

"Gilbert," cried Germany, the first words his brother had heard from him since he had surrendered. "Please, there's no way you'll win now—please, you'll only be hurt worse— You Commie bastard, leave my brother alone—"

The words made Prussia's blood boil—such a suggestion, coming from his brother, from a Beilschmidt? Surrender, him? Not likely.

Russia knelt in the snow beside him, no longer even holding him down. Prussia was disgusted with himself to find that he could barely raise himself on his one good arm; the kick to his head in addition to the blow he had received from being thrown to the ground had left him stunned, and he could barely focus his eyes. Everything was beginning to go dark. Russia, amused at his attempt to lift himself, pushed him back down and held him there easily, with one hand on his chest, as he fought for consciousness.

"Well? Do you surrender, little one?"

"Just bring him over here, Ivan," America repeated, slightly more insistent now. "There's no need."

Breathing was horribly difficult and each breath pained his broken rib—unless more than one was broken, Prussia realized, trying to search the pain out more carefully. Yes, he was fairly sure now that it was at least two, if not more. Even the slight pressure on his chest was enough to make the pain worse and his breathing tortuous.

"Ivan," he heard from America, frustrated now at the repeated disobedience, "just bring him over here—"

Russia leaned over Prussia, smiling, reaching out to wipe away the blood from his face with his thumb. His boot had left a dirty, ragged scrape across Prussia's cheek and chin and the wound was bleeding heavily into the snow. Prussia, scarcely able to move, spat his blood in the other nation's face defiantly.

Russia's face changed, the humor drained in one heart-stopping second that, albeit for only a second, made Prussia regret his rash decision and wish he had surrendered when given the opportunity.

He reached up and wiped away the bloody saliva from his face with the back of a gloved hand, then aimed a vicious punch at the smaller man's stomach and Prussia, coughing blood and gasping, curled up instinctively in an attempt to protect himself against further blows, jarring his broken arm excruciatingly in the process.

"I have had it with you, little one," Russia informed him, and his hands once again closed around the white-haired nation's neck with terrifying strength—this time aiming to strangle, not merely to restrain. "You are one of the most stubborn nation I have ever encountered. And I will break you, little one—I swear I will break you."

He yanked him up into a sitting position, to his knees, and then to his feet; Prussia, who could barely stand on his own and could only use one arm, pulled weakly at his hands with one hand and tried to kick him without much success. The punch to the stomach had knocked the wind out of him, and already he was desperate for air, the edges of his vision going dark, his lungs screaming for oxygen.

Russia, frustrated at his continued resistance, lifted him by the neck entirely off his feet, holding him above his head with his thrashing feet well above the ground. Prussia was choking, his already deathly-pale lips beginning to turn blue.

Vaguely, Gilbert could hear his brother shouting his name, could see him fighting now against the restraining hands of America and England; he could hear America, too, shouting, ordering Russia to let him go. His vision was going dark and his legs were too numb to continue trying to kick Russia.

At last the huge nation dropped him, before he lost consciousness completely, and he crumpled to the ground at his feet and lay still.

Author's Note:

Please let me know what you think! This is my first story and I'm excited about it, but I'd really like some feedback! I've got another chapter coming very soon.

I just wanted to write a good Dark!Hetalia fic with these two that didn't end up with them falling in love or having sex; I just really wanted violence and angst and crap. I hope I'm not the only one who thinks so. I'm a bit in love with dear Gilbert and so I enjoy torturing him . . . um. Yeah. :[

Anyway, rate and review! Thank you already, and thank you for taking the time to read my story and the author's note, if you've gotten this far! :D

Warning . . . some events might not be historically accurate. But if there's something that bothers you, please let me know and I'll be happy to change it!

Russian translation
da = yes

German translations
Verdammt = damn it