Translations:

Gott sei mit dir: God be with you


FOUR

I awoke from the nightmare with a strained yell. I looked down at myself. I had become trapped in the blankets, seeing the fabric twist and contort to squeeze around my limbs and torso. Some of the formally white sheets had been stained red.

The wound on my hand had reopened and was bleeding around me. The gauze had become soaked and was now leaving a square-shaped stamp of my blood where I laid it. A fear of bleeding dry rushed through me. I knew it was nearly impossible and it would thicken soon enough, but the amount of red liquid pooling in the bed was unnerving, and I had lost a significant amount of blood the night before. I bound it with the sheet, staunching the flow.

'Damn Ruskie!'

I went to the door. There would be someone out there to help me get further medical attention.

Locked.

"Damn you!" I yelled, pounding on the door. The pain in the recently used leg reminded me of his other transgressions and my hatred was rekindled. Sympathy? Forgiveness? No way in Hell. Not after what he had done to me. God, my leg hurt, it ached, it burned.

The memories of last night rushed back more vividly than I cared for them to. Images of him smiling, the knife with my blood, him licking from the wound on my lip. His laugh as he slashed open my arm. The pain of the sterilized needle sewing me back together like a torn piece of fabric.

I balled my hands into fists and tried not to flinch as I felt the strain on my still bleeding hand.

I saw the curtains, and pulled them back to reveal a window. I opened it to gaze upon a dreaded sight. I was three stories up. I laid the bloody hand on the clean sill, knowing that when I let go I would leave a red handprint. Too far unless I wanted a broken leg. I looked down at the already mangled skin. Not an option.

Someone opened the door.

"Don't!" they immediately shouted.

I turned back to see the face of a guard grabbing me around my midsection, pulling me back from the window.

"Let go of me!"

He closed and latched the window before holding at arms' length. "Don't do it."

"What do you mean?"

"We both know you were going to jump."

My mind echoed on the word jump. He thought I was getting ready to commit suicide…?

"I wasn't." I said calmly. I had to appeal to his reason. "I wouldn't do that. I know I do not deserve to die."

He let go of me and I promptly closed the curtains of the window.

"Now, I need a new bandage for my hand. Can you get me it?"

"Yes," he replied, and scurried out, closing and locking the door behind him.

I sat of the edge of the bed. Suicide? Is that what he could drive people to? Had it happened before? What about that boyish man I had met in the cell? Would he have jumped if in my position?

That man was a monster. A psychotic, violent, horrible monster, underneath what might have been a kind façade. I laid down on the bed and attempted to calm myself.

A couple of minutes later there was a knock at my door.

"Come in," I replied, knowing they would whether I responded or not. I sat up, trying to find a position where the blankets didn't hurt my leg. I took the gauze off of my hand and turned to ask for the new bandage and didn't see the guard in front of me, but the last person I wanted to see.

He sat next to me on the bed, clean wrappings in hand. "May I have you hand?" he asked, and I surrendered it with a stony look.

He covered the wound, circling my hand twice to make sure it would not come off. "Don't scare me like that again," his voice was quieter this time; gentler.

'He wants to get you off guard, the bastard. He's the one who gave you the cut!'

"Do what?"

"Tomas said he saw you ready to jump out the window." He paced over to it and pulled open the curtains to reveal my bloody handprint on the sill.

"I wasn't going to jump, Sir." I stated without emotion.

He turned back to me; eyes trying to dig deep into mine. I knew mine were glazed and kept silent by my will. He would get nothing from me.

"Sir, I wouldn't." I rephrased.

He suddenly rushed to me and hugged me, being careful of the tender spots. It was strong enough to keep me in my place, but loose enough to not be interpreted as threatening. He felt… soft. "Please don't."

I was a still as a statue; and giving off as much warmth as.

He pulled back. "There's breakfast for you if you'd like. While you're eating I'll have someone take care of your room, da. You can get dressed now if you want to eat."

I gave him no response.

"I'll wait outside." He rushed out the door, leaving me alone in the room again.

Reluctantly I dressed in the clothes that had been provided. It was a calf-length brown skirt paired with a turquoise long-sleeved blouse. I looked at my reflection using the window, thinking, 'I know, I'm confused too. But don't let him play his games. He is your enemy. And you can defeat him.'

I nodded dutifully at my reflection and then padded over to the door and rapped on the wood. He opened it and took my hand on his elbow like he had before and led me down to the dining room, trying to subtly support me on the side my leg was stitched shut. I was limping because of the wound. Little sparks of pain ran up my leg with every step I took.

"You didn't sleep well, did you?" he asked, voice touching on guilt.

"No, I didn't, Sir. How'd you know?"

"Your eyes look tired and you don't seem yourself... plus, it must have taken a lot of violence to reopen the wound on your hand; and tossing in bed is usually paired with nightmares. I'm sorry… I should have gotten you some pain medication or something to help you sleep."

Something good smelling interrupted my confused train of thought.

He pulled out my chair and I sat as he went out of the room, excusing himself. At his absence a myriad of contradicting thoughts came into being. They concerned his actions, speech, motives. He was completely different from the one that had cut me. But the opposite was true. He was the man who cut me. Tortured me. Stitched me up.

When he came back through the doors, contented smile gracing his lips, eyes closed in the confidence of knowing where everything was, it shattered all reason.

Why was he confusing me? One moment he was almost killing me, the next he looked so innocent!

"It's pirozhki. One of my favorites!"

He set one plate in front of me and returned to his spot.

I eyed the dish, then took my fork to it. 'That smell…'

I took a bite, sighing into it. Delicious. I chewed it thoroughly, extracting every drop of flavor before letting it slide down my throat. It tasted like a long time ago, when I was able to afford meals that tasted so good.

"You seem out of sorts, da," he tried to start a conversation. "Are you feeling alright? Are you unwell? I must keep you in fair condition."

I tried to pick up some note of sarcasm; some hidden meaning. He hadn't touched his food, and was again trying to pick up a mote of feeling in me. I said simply, "If you wanted to keep me in fair condition, you wouldn't carve me up with a knife, Sir."

He merely chuckled and replied, "You deserved it. But that is behind us now, da? We must learn to move forward."

Move… forward? Really?

"Because you were wondering earlier… I find it interesting how you operate. Alone, yet you have a friend. You function very much as an independent unit, but you seem to accept help regretfully. You should learn not to look a gift horse in the mouth, by the way." He took a bite of his pirozhki. " And also the fact that I have seen you looking for further employment, yet you don't find any. It is like you repulse the people, da?"

I could have sworn my eye twitched. "It's because of my language skills. I can't speak Russian fluently, and since my Mother is dead, the people have no more use of me."

"Your Mother?"

"Died. Pneumonia. About a month ago." I whispered quickly, keeping my head down. "I couldn't help her. I tried. But I couldn't." I hastily wiped some tears from the corners of my eyes.

"Don't feel bad…" Suddenly a light came on in his eyes. "I know what'll make you feel better!" he grabbed my wrist like a child would to their mother and started dragging me out the hall.

I didn't resist to the tugging on my arm, and tried to keep my weight on the leg that hadn't been slashed. I wiped the tears away with the opposite hand as I was dragged through the corridor. Everything was so mixed up inside me that I let myself be taken to wherever he wanted to go. This was just a game. Manipulation. But I wanted to believe there was good in everyone… including him… was he really trying to cheer me up, or was this all a big game?

"Close your eyes," he said with excitement pouring from his voice.

I looked up to see his expression but all I found was anticipation and innocence. Or at least that was all he was letting me see. He leaned his face the littlest bit closer in the motion that he was waiting for me to obey.

I stopped straining my neck to try to appear taller and reluctantly closed my eyes. He led me down a bit more of the hall, then opened a door. At the click of him turning the doorknob I took a sharp breath in. Usually when he was opening doors it didn't mean the best of things was coming.

"Go on," he said quietly, "open up."

I found myself in a room of glass, surrounded by sunflowers. I gasped. "Wow…"

He stroked one of their petals. "Do you like it?"

"Beautiful," I breathed. Then I remembered who he was. "So?"

"Nothing more than that," he smiled distractedly while petting the seeds in the center of the flower. "They just make me feel happy when I'm down. I thought they'd help you. You should keep some at your stall, they brighten up people's days."

My hard line of a mouth parted a bit in confusion. I almost felt like crying. This was too much. I couldn't pin him down. Like he was a ghost. I was unable to label him. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

I smelled one of the flowers, losing myself in the sea of yellow, brown, and green.

"You can eat the seeds," he said, showing me a palmful he had taken from one. He took my hand gently and opened it up, pouring a couple of seeds into my palm. "You crack open the shells with your teeth and spit them out and eat the seed inside. I just chew and swallow them altogether, though. The shells don't bother me, da."

I placed one in my mouth and cracked the shell, chewing. The seed was a bit bland but had a nice tinge of earthy flavor to it.

I heard a scoff from the other side of the room. I looked to see who I remembered as Doitsu leaning over Ivan's shoulder.

He also had a dagger to the center of his back.

I spit out the contents of my mouth and dropped the rest of the seeds in shock.

"Hello, Ludwig."

"Shut up, Braginski," the other growled.

The purple eyes were too calm, hands still lightly clasping the thick stem of a sunflower.

Germany slashed across his shoulder blade, rivulets of blood instantly showing. He cut again on his midsection. "If you ever hurt Italy again-"

"He didn't hurt him!" the words came out of my mouth without my permission. Why was I trying to protect him? "I was with Italia, remember? He was just scared."

Germany plunged the blade into his femur.

"Stop!" I screamed.

"Look at you!" the enraged man let go of Russia, letting the now limp body fall to the ground. He came towards me, his teeth bared. "Look at your leg! I know his wounds when I see them, you insolent child! If not Italy then he has harmed you, and so many before you!"

I did not turn away from the ice-blue gaze.

"Yet you dare try to protect him?"

The battle for the right words took place on my tongue. "Let him suffer in a purgatory of his own design," I managed to spit out, "he has chosen the life of a murderer. The life of one who kills and injures and takes. You fight and wound him only for revenge; feeding the black hole of inhumanity that dwells within him." I stole a glance at the body, now lying in a pool of blood.

The German's voice faltered. He answered me with a look at the Russian and the grave words, "And what will the captured do? Let him die, or help him live with this black hole?"

He left out the door he had came; prolonging his presence with unhurried steps. A couple of guards had come, but none challenged him.

I rushed to the man. "Oh god…"

"I'm surprised you defended me… strange… perhaps you will develop Stockholm Syndrome, da?" He looked to his wound. "I've suffered much worse," he said, surprisingly calm. "Germany was just getting a bit of revenge."

'Much worse?' I thought, shocked.

"I could pretend to be weak in order to get some sympathy from you… it'd probably work…" he mused.

"Shut up. I'm not in the mood for manipulation."

He laughed, but I saw a cringe of pain when he thought I wasn't looking.

I softened; then I felt my heart harden in self-defense. "Clean yourself up," I ordered; ignoring the blood that stuck to my skin.

"No help?" he asked as I walked away.

"Would a prisoner save their warden?" I cut through him with words before shutting the door to the room of sunflowers.

~o~

I walked to my room with a purposeful stride; bare feet skirting the ground. My leg stung and burned with each step I took, drawing the majority of my attention. I felt the hall get smaller and smaller as I kept going, closing in around me. I knew it was just an illusion. My brain was overloaded from everything that had gone on. I just couldn't let it fizzle out.

I slammed the door not in anger but anguish and slumped to the floor.

What had just happened?

I looked to my blood spattered flesh and cringed. I just left him there, practically drowning in his own wounds. His blood now congealed on my bare skin. Disgusting.

'He has his own guards and medics,' I thought. 'Besides, I kept Doitsu from going any further in his injuring of him. That's help enough.'

"Psst! Hier!"

I saw the man I had just been thinking about coming in through my window.

I backed up against the door. "What are you doing here?" I spat at him.

He chuckled. "Italia asked me to come back for you. You don't want to come with me?"

I blanched. He was offering me a way out?

He smiled with something in his eyes that I couldn't identify. "So, you wish to stay."

"I most certainly do not!"

"If you didn't want to be here, you'd be coming with me already."

"You hurt him really bad," I stated, shuffling around the subject as he walked closer.

He looked disappointed. "Not badly enough, obviously. If I hurt him gravely you'd be down there."

"Look, Doitsu. I don't care. He hurt me… I don't even know why I'm really here. Something about judgments and an unhealthy amount of intrigue. Why would I care? Of course I don't."

He patted me on the head like I was a small child. "Ah, but you do. Otherwise you wouldn't have told me to stop. You would have enjoyed the sight of him bleeding, the pain he tries so hard to cover up. But we all know it must be there under a stoic outlook."

"I'm not sadistic," I countered. I knew I had to deal with him diplomatically. "I just think that all life has value."

"Even the life of a nation?"

"Why does he keep mentioning that?" I asked him. "Italia called him Russia, you're Germany, apparently, and Italia is Italy…"

"Italia is only North Italy, but for now, yes, I suppose that's a satisfactory statement. We are."

"How?" I asked, exasperated. "All of this… it isn't possible!"

He chuckled. "It is. You need to realize that."

I looked at him through strained eyes as he continued, "I told you earlier to look at your wounds. Are you blind or do you really not hold a grudge for it?"

"Of course I hold a grudge," I uttered.

"Then why did you defend him?"

"I… it's…" my head fell in defeat. I had no answer.

Germany smiled, "It's because you care for the Russki. Admit it."

"No! He did do those horrible things to me! He manipulates me! He changes himself to torture my very mind, my emotions!"

"Emotions…" Doitsu continued, "An edgy subject, don't you agree?"

I wasn't sure what he was insinuating, but I didn't want to find out. I simply replied with a diplomatically phrased, "I could agree with that."

"You know, you are truly stupid for not taking this opportunity," he stated, walking towards the open window from whence he came.

I swallowed. "I… I feel like I'm needed here."

"What justifies that?" he asked harshly. "The cuts?"

"Plenty of these were here before he even saw me," I almost smiled. The street fights in America had roughed me up a bit. Calloused hands, roughed up arms and repeatedly skinned knees had been a part of my everyday life. I didn't like my scars, but they didn't hinder me so I was fine with them. They were faded to light marks anyways, not even noticeable. "Besides… maybe I could… help him, in some way?"

"No matter. Those that find themselves 'needed' here find quickly that it isn't a particularly good thing. There are worse things than petty cuts."

I nodded solemnly. "I understand."

"Hmm," he stood straighter, facing the window. "Is there anyone I can send a message to for you?"

I immediately said, "Francis. Francis Bonnefoy. Tell him I'm alright."

"Francis?" he turned, eyebrows furrowed. "He's here?"

"Yes… why? Do you know him?"

He turned to the ground, "Nothing, nothing. And what about where you are? Don't you wish for him to know?"

I contemplated, looking down at my feet. If he knew where I was, he was going to come and try to get me. He'd end up captured, tortured, or worse. "No. Just that I'm fine."

"As you wish."

I followed him to the window, reopening it for him. "Be careful on your way out. It's a long way down."

He laughed, "It'd take a lot more than a bad fall to slow me down," and hung over the edge of the open window. He gave me a stare straight into my pupils, "Are you sure you wish to stay?"

I looked out towards freedom, then back to the prison that so desperately needed me. I gave him a sad smile, "I'm sure. Gott sei mit dir."

"Gott sei mit dir," he echoed; then expertly climbed down the wall. I watched him as he hit the ground running and started off towards the horizon.

I shut the window without mental ease. I had just given up on my freedom.

"Well if I'm going to be here then I damn might as well help…" I glanced to the door. "…or not."

I paced to the mirror where I inspected myself. "You little bitch. You don't care. But you do. And then you insist you don't and then you do again and you think you might when you don't. You don't deserve sympathy! Get a fucking hold on yourself! You should have gone with Germany when you had the chance. What are you, stupid? You'd rather sentence yourself for however long with a psycho? A… psycho…" the words didn't feel right. He wasn't insane. Just… horrible? But that didn't sound correct either. Misunderstood was out of question. I understood him well enough. Nothing fit.

"He's fucked up beyond words…" I chuckled to myself in the mirror.

Something warm touched my hand. I looked down to see a gloved hand; afraid to look further up the arm to see the owner of it.

I shivered. I didn't know why. Something in my body felt out of place. Odd. More alive, perhaps.

"Fucked up beyond words…" came the slightly raspy voice of the Russian. "Never heard it put that way before, da."

I closed my eyes, waiting for him to hit me, to plunge fingernails into my throat, anything violent or destructive like I expected.

"Don't be scared," he said caringly.

I wanted to say 'I'm not' but the lie wouldn't come out of my mouth.

"Open your eyes," he whispered. I saw the two of us in the pane of glass. Me, confused, hair mussed, anticipating pain. His reflection revealed sad looking eyes, a heartbroken smile, and a bit of half-dried blood on his chin.

He kissed my cheek with more tenderness than I ever thought capable of him. "I'm not going to hurt you, тот, кто я хотел бы утверждать, но не может."

"I don't know what that means."

He let go of my hand, which was only gently grasped anyways. "I'm going to go get some more medical attention. I will see you later if you wish, but only if you want to see me."

I watched him exit the room slowly. I knew that he wanted to stay near me somehow. Something inside of me wanted to be near him.