Disclaimer: Hetalia doesn't belong to me. And it never will...unless I win the lottery!
Warnings: Bad Grammar (Maybe), uh...it might get bloody later on, but there's some pretty depressing themes in this chapter. Oh and some OOCness
Rated T cause I don't think it's safe for little five year olds to read about demons and the Russian Revolution.
1917
A young man was laying on the ground, a light dusting of snow already settling over his body. The piercing green eyes stared into the sky, watching the snowflakes flutter down calmly. The grey sky rumbled with a hint of thunder, threatening a heavier fall.
It as so quiet. So peaceful.
It was the way it should have been in the winter. A small snowstorm, and then the small trek back to his house.
He couldn't believe that the world could ever be this quiet after what had happened.
Slowly sitting up, his frozen limbs moved stiffly, trying to throw off the cold. His lips were, no doubt, blue from lying in the snow for so long. He felt like his flesh was frozen in place, and if had been a normal human lying here, they would have been dead by now.
He looked over the large plain with trees doting the scene occasionally, covered with at least a foot of snow. A numb hand rose to his arm, trying to rub off the bloody frost that was starting to grow on him.
The ice cracked and fell onto the bright red snow, blending in. More snowflakes fell, each one covering the battleground, hiding the bleeding corpses that numbered in the hundreds of thousands.
The bloody screams . . .
The boy's blank eyes took in the miles of bloody snow without a flinch. He had far move past even reacting at the sight of blood. For him, it was a common sight.
The sounds of the gun firing . . .
He wanted to stand up and go home, curl up in front of the fireplace and perhaps thaw out. But he couldn't. He didn't even have the strength to continue sitting. He flopped back down, resuming watching the sky jadedly.
The bright splashes of blood that decorated the snow . . .
He was under a tree with frozen branches. The twigs looked like they had been flashed frozen. He raised her hand, reaching for the frozen tree, only for his arm to be dragged down by an unknown force.
You can remember it, can't you? The wonderful sounds of the dying!
"Please . . . go away," he whispered, the words barely making it out of his mouth. It felt like an invisible hand was trying to shove his mouth close. He struggle for a little while before it gave up and allowed him to speak normally.
Oh, but that's no fun, huh Arthur? The dark voice had a sullen undertone to it, like it was sulking because it gave up control. You must admit, this one was one of the best. All that blood spilling, the screams of the dead and dying. War is such an amazing thing, no?
"Go away." Arthur curled up, scowling into the snow. "I don't need you."
It's not any fun if I don't bother you! It's bad enough that I'm stuck with an ex-pirate who has gone soft! I would much rather have that Russian as a host. He's already insane, which makes it all the more fun!
Arthur growled and looked around, his eyes flickering around the snowy wasteland. "What do you want? There has to be some reason why you're haunting me."
Don't you know? And I thought that the Brits were good at magic. I was sadly mistaken. He could hear the soft laugh in his head, the demon leering at him through his mind eye. Ask any nation! They all know!"
Arthur let out an irritable snarl and sat up, ignoring his body's protests. "If you don't mind, I will be heading home now. I have no interest in watching anymore of the Russian Revolution."
He was about to stand up when the crunch of snow alerted him to movement. He turned his head to see a rather large Russian man making his way towards him. For a moment, he thought it was the nation himself, but it was really just a citizen, probably looting the bodies of the dead. Or maybe it was a soldier, here to find someone's dead body, but he doubted it.
"Кто вы?" He looked blankly at the man, not understanding Russian. He never bothered to learn French, even with that perverted wanker as his neighbor all those years, why should he know Russian? That man was more than a tad bit insane.
Arthur snorted and picked himself up, dusting the snow off of him. "I don't know what you are saying, git."
The man swung a machine gun forward, aiming at him. "остановить! Я буду стрелять!" Just by his expression, Arthur could tell what he was saying. Stop! I'll shoot!
Arthur chuckled a bit before turning around. "Lad, you don't know whom you're dealing with."
He started to walk away, each crunch of the snow echoingly loud, taunting the man into opening fire.
One step.
He could almost hear the man hesitating to kill the strange man. Maybe he thought Arthur was a fairy or some Russian fairytale creature.
Two steps.
He could hear the demon cooing in his mind, and he knew that it was almost springing in anticipation of a little action.
Three steps.
He could hear the multiple bangs of the gun. A few missed completely, slamming into the snow and kicking up a cloud of ice and snowflakes, which completely shrouded Arthur from view.
The Russian man shot seven times before he ran out of bullets. Cursing and fumbling with the gun, he began to reload, just in case the strange man was still alive. Although he was a poor shot, even he couldn't shoot a man six feet away seven times and miss all seven times.
Oh dear.
The man froze at the voice, the gun slipping from his fingers and falling into the snow. It a cheerful voice, with a snide undertone to it. Although it wasn't speaking in Russian, he could understand it just fine.
This simply will not do. After all, I can't have my host dying on me, can't I? Although it would mean being reassigned, it's just plain rude to give up without a struggle, even with someone as pitiful as Arthur here.
The cloud died down to reveal the Englishman standing there haughtily, drawing himself upwards to seem even taller. There wasn't a single scratch on him, his sweater and jeans virtually untouched. His lips curled upwards into a leering grin, his eyes glinting with malice.
"You are quite the lucky one that I'm in a good mood today," he said, his usual British accent contaminated with a dark undertone. "If anyone fired a gun at me, they usually would have been dismembered, but I think I'll just shoot you instead."
He walked forward towards the Russian, while reach down towards the pistol that was almost always strapped around his waist. The man's eyes widened and panicked, scooping up the forgotten gun and struggling to reload it.
"Too late." The Brit was smiling as he held the gun to the man's head, his finger resting lazily on the trigger.
The last thing the man could have sworn he had seen were those emerald green eyes flashing bright venomous orange. He swung the gun around to aim for Arthur's heart, hoping that he would make it in time.
He heard a soft laugh, almost pitying before the trigger was pulled and the poor Russian's brains were blown out.
AN/ So...how you like it? I'm sorry for any grammar mistakes, blame how late it is and my Americaness. And the fact that this is my first fanfiction. Ever. Don't kill me!
This little nibblet takes place during the second Russian Revolution, which led to the formation of the Soviet Union, Sorry if I got anything wrong, I kinda just grabbed some info from wikipedia ^w^.
R and R please! Everyone who does will get a cookie! *nom*