He found it strange that he couldn't account for the dead individuals. He told his president and his generals of the pain he'd felt but none of them believed him. None of them thought that perhaps there really were people dying. Until Germany found the graves. Hundreds, thousands of them, in Katyn Forest. Yet Germany said he had nothing to do with it.
No one would take responsibility. Almost twenty-two thousand dead, and no one knew how they'd died. Russia pointed at Germany. Germany pointed at Russia. Poland was in so much pain he didn't care who did it, as long as they atoned for their sins.
They called it the Katyn Massacre, and they were all killed on Soviet soil. Once again Russia was questioned, and once again he denied the claim. Germany was worrying about his own crimes, and so, for the good of everyone, Poland let the matter drop. But it still burned inside him. A scar had formed, a scar which screamed and ached with the lives of those people, killed in the forest, nameless, forgotten.
In 1990 Poland's worst fears were revealed. It had been the Soviets. Russia knelt before him, Poland being seated in a high-backed leather chair. It was clear this wasn't what he wanted to be doing. However, Poland raised his head, eyes narrowed angrily at the Russian.
"You what?" he growled, angrily
Russia smiled, slightly. It wasn't an apologetic smile, nor was it a sad one. It was a playful smirk. Almost like he was... proud of this confession. Placing a gentle gloved hand over his heart, he glanced up at Poland. "I killed them. My people. We took them to the forest. I have a list of them, the names of the people." He stood and pulled an official document from his jacket, handing it over to the Pole, who refused to move from his seat. The smaller blond glared across at Russia. Even though his seat was higher off the ground and taller, he was eye-level with Russia now. Finally, Russia leaned across the raised square where Poland sat and handed him the document.
Angry cat-like emerald irises scanned the paper and slowly widened. "... There are only one-thousand eight-hundred-three on here," he hissed, glaring up at the Russian, who shrugged. "There were twenty-two thousand! Explain yourself! Where are the others! I know you killed them all, I need closure!" There was almost a hint of fear in his voice. He needed to know who they all were. The guilt was too much.
"This crime was neither a war crime nor a work of genocide," Russia answered, coolly before turning to leave the room, his scarf fluttering behind him.
Poland finally rose from his seat, screaming after him, "MURDERER! YOU PSYCHO! GET BACK HERE!" But the sound that met his ear was simply the closing of the door. It echoed around the room and reverberated from the walls for a few moments before Poland let out an anguished sob and curled up in his chair. It hurt. It would always hurt...
There were investigations established by the Soviets, yet they closed the case, assuming the people who did it were dead. Poland curled up in his bed that night in 2004 and cried himself to sleep, haunted by their screams.
Against Poland's wishes, his boss decided to go to visit the graves of those people on April 10th, 2010. Poland stood with him in the airport, watching the cabinet board ahead of him. "... Be careful," Poland insisted, glancing up at the man, who smiled, patted his head soothingly and left.
An hour later Poland found himself screaming again.
The plane had crashed in a field. At first foul play was suspected, but when the black box was retrieved it was evident that the pilot hadn't been listening to the landing crew. The fog was too thick. And now they were all dead.
It was especially painful for Poland. Almost all of his political leaders had been on that plane, and in one fell swoop they were all gone. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he clutched onto his blankets. His eyes were wide, his body quivering not with fear but from the intense pain he felt. It was almost too much.
Much to Poland's surprise, Russia requested an audience with him not a week after the crash. This time when they met Poland was seated behind the president's desk. He was slumped down low in the swivel chair, normally bright, playful eyes now matte as he dully turned the seat backward and forward.
With little warning the Russian entered. As he had that day all those years ago, he knelt before the smaller blond and placed a hand over his heart, but this time he didn't smile. His face was grim and serious as he stood and approached the desk. "I did not kill them," he insisted.
Poland turned his eyes up to him. "... I doubt that," he murmured, wanting so badly to blame the other, but knowing all-too well that he hadn't done it on purpose.
"Listen to me!" Russia insisted, slamming his hands on the desk. Slowly, Poland turned his eyes to him, and the look in those eyes was enough to send Russia a step backwards. He hesitated for a moment before sighing and approaching him again. "Listen," he insisted in a softer voice. "I came to say... I am very sorry for your loss. If there is anyone who knows anything about losing people dear to him, it is I."
For a moment, Poland felt angry. How dare he even suggest such a thing, that they were the same? But as he met those lavender eyes, he realized he wasn't lying. Even Poland knew about the suffering Russia had endured; the murder of the Romanov s, the bloody beginnings of the Bolsheviks, the crippling losses from World War II... The list went on and on. "... Thank you," Poland answered, softly.
Unsure of whether he wanted to do what he was thinking for a second, Russia hesitantly decided that he needed to. He went around the desk and ignored Poland's retraction from him as he approached and slipped his arms around the little one's waist, pulling him close. Poland's eyes widened, and he wasn't sure what to do. Until Russia whispered, "I truly am sorry. I never hurt them. Because I know what that pain is like."
Slowly, hesitantly, Poland's arms slipped around Russia's neck and he held him, feeling tears sting his eyes once again. Though he wasn't sure if he wanted to cry in front of Russia, when he felt the large man's shoulders shaking he knew it would be alright.
Poland slid a hand down and placed it over the Russian's chest, feeling a slow heartbeat beneath his fingers. And as he sat, his eyes pressed into Russia's shoulder, he realized that their hearts, for the first time, were beating - and breaking - as one.