Snow dances around Ivan as he stares into the white abyss. He wraps his coat tighter, even though he doesn't feel the cold. It is something resembling a habit. He blinks and adjusts his long, frayed scarf. It whips about the tall country, twirling to the beat of the wind. His hand relaxes its grip of the long pipe he had been holding for… How long now? Ivan closes his eyes.
Blood spays up the walls, forming obscure patterns. A malicious smile forms over His face. The pipe in one hand and automatic gun the other show signs of recent use, thick gore covering one, a barrel hot on the other. His once spotless coat is now plastered with the blood of innocents.
Ivan opens his eyes again. The land around him is washed-out, almost colourless. Off in the distance the dusky shadow of his house looms menacingly. It offers no protection from the frost, no reprieve. Ivan scuffs his boot on the snow, tossing it into the air, only to be scattered by the wind. He watches as it scatters. He turns his head, looking over his shoulder at the tracks that were already being filled in.
He moves from house to house systematically. It was simple, really, bludgeon the man quickly, bludgeon the woman and end the children in their sleep. There was no use trying to be clean, He thought. After all, the spray and splatter of blood made such interesting displays.
The great nation glances at his house, unwilling to leave. He didn't want this spot. It was so calm… Ivan felt more peaceful in the center of the wind and the snow. This was his land. The smell of nothing, the permanent, quiet chill, the feel of the great, all-consuming loneliness that perpetrated every niche and crevice of the vast land. It was his, and his alone.
It is done. The settlement is no more than a place of bodies and death-art. He stands in the town square, revelling in the pleasure of ending a hundred lives. It isn't something He does normally, but the call of blood had lured him. He lounged in the now-cold blood, inhaling and savouring the scent of the lost life. He stays there for what seems like hours, content with His bloody harvest.
A crying floats past His ears. His eyes widen, there is no way he left someone alive. With a sick slurp, He gets to his feet. He follows the crying to a house, looking fondly at the red streaks as he passes them. Up the stairs, to a door. He cocks his head, curious. He opens the door slowly, noting how there is no creak.
Ivan shifts from foot to foot, another habit he has developed while impersonating humans. All nations had them, manifesting in different ways.
Stalking through the room, He traces the crying to a squat cupboard. He squats in front of it, watching for a few minutes. Tentatively, He calls to the child inside.
"Come out, little one." There is a stifling of the sounds. He blinks, not understanding. "There is no danger. It is safe now." Only now does the door creak open, a red and tear-stained face peeking out. Poor child. The youth is thin, fingers nearly blue with cold. A girl, He notes duly. Her thin clothes are wrapped tightly around her. He can see her ribs clearly.
"Come now, I won't harm you." The girl looks at His blood stained coat, shakes her head and goes to retreat to her safe-house. A stern look stops her.
"Come here," He said, no, demanded. She gets out quickly, showing how emancipated she is. The girl stands dutifully in front of him, shivering. He regards her with dull interest. On a whim, He takes off His heavy jacket and drapes it across the small girl's shoulders. She nearly buckles under the new weight, so on another whim, He tears off a strip of fabric and ties it around her eyes. She panics briefly, before being hushed.
Again, time seems to find a way to manipulate itself so it was only a few hours before He left the girl, still blindfolded on the edge of the nearest village. But He took back His coat. That was special to Him. He did like the way the smell of blood intermingled with the scent of the young girl.
Ivan stood for a while. Just watching the sun's journey across the sky. Even though the snow, it was a beacon in the sky. He thought about his country. What made him special. When the sun starts to touch the horizon, he turns to the shadow of his house. He walks, trudging, yet holding his head high. Ivan knows what he had done. He didn't like it, but he knows all the same.
That's one of the things that make me special, He thought.