{Man Down}
Beads of sweat wind their way down Lithuania's sallow face and sharp cheekbones. One drop lingers at the edge of his gaping mouth. They mingle with the tears eking a path through the grime settled on top of his skin. His sword is shaking, knuckles white. There's a gash on his side – not bleeding, because this is Lithuania, not someone fragile, mortal – but the man sprawled in front of him has more than a gash, and more than enough blood to paint a picture of a forest fire, a war, spilling out onto the field.
"Oh god," Lithuania breathes, eyes wide. His pupils are so small that the emerald green of his irses nearly swallows them entirely. "Oh god, oh god, oh god..." He's starting to hyperventilate, breathing fast and what little color he has draining from his skin. Poland doesn't know what to do, but the sword, flashing silver in the golden sunlight, is worrisome, so he reaches out and gently tries to loosen Lithuania's grip around the hilt. Lithuania doesn't even notice, doesn't react to the touch of his partner's hands on his, so lost is he in the horror of what he's done.
"Liet," Poland says, reassuring, trying to not sound panicked as the tremor in Lithuania's bony hands spreads to shake his wiry, rake-thin body, "Calm down. This man was a scout. Or something. We're in a war, Liet, and he's an enemy – if you didn't kill him, he'd kill our people."
Lithuania isn't listening. He's chewing his lip – his self destructive habit, the one Poland loathes but can't complain about, because if he tries to speak about it, Lithuania will surely bring up the slight scratches along his arms and the way he picks at scabs, over and over, until they leave near-invisible scars on his pale flesh. "I wonder whose he was," Lithuania mutters, staring at the body with eyes blown wide with fear. "Sweden's? Could be; he's blonde and looks hungry. Or Russia's. Can't be from the Ottoman Empire..." He shudders, a full body wracking down to the marrow of his bones, and Poland drops the sword onto rusty grass and reaches out to steady him.
"Lithuania," he snaps, dragging his partner down his knees because he looks like he's going to swoon any moment now, "You have got to listen to me." Lithuania's eyes glitter with tears and he looks so skeletal, so scrawny, not at all like a century-years old entity, and Poland remembers how kind and unsuited for the world Lithuania really is. He brushes a strand of greasy brown hair away from Lithuania's eyes, and that simple gesture seems to pull Lithuania further back into reality. "We live in a dangerous time," Poland says, speaking as if to a child, gently and without blame, or anger.
Fragile, shattered, Lithuania stares back at him. "But...It wasn't even a fair fight," he whimpers, clutching at Poland's wrist. "I just...cut him down. He didn't have a chance. Time to run or fight or anything. I was just..." He inhales, exhales, coughs, spits. "What if he had a wife or kids?"
"He might have not, he looks kind of young." Poland realizes a heartbeat later that that was most likely not the best thing to say in response; Lithuania's tremors worsen and when Poland's hand slips down to Lithuania's grime-encrusted neck, he can feel his partner's heartbeat jumping, far too fast.
"Breathe," he says again, and repeats it until Lithuania squeezes his eyes shut and heaves in a shuddering breath. "Liet..." He strokes his hair again, and searches for words that will not worsen the situation. "It's okay," he says finally. "Or, maybe not really," he adds, "But you know as well as I do that if any other country caught one of our men, they'd kill them too. Some of them more brutally."
Lithuania gazes at him like he holds all the secrets to the universe, like he can fix this with a word or two. And Poland despises himself, for he doesn't know the answers and the world is cruel and there is really nothing he can do. "But I killed him," Lithuania says, voice cracking, and even though this is not the first man Lithuania has killed, nor shall it be the last, there is something different with this one, something that has shot right through Lithuania and pierced him right in the soul, and there is truly nothing at all Poland can do that will ever mend this or make it better.
{Ho Hey}
Lithuania prefers the shadows found in the folds of rich curtains in the corners of the room to being the center of attention – Poland's total opposite in that regard. Lithuania is quiet and reserved, calm and serene. Most of the other nations call their Commonwealth merely Poland, passing over the other half of it entirely. Lithuania never acts like it bothers him, and maybe it doesn't. Poland is the face of their partnership, and it is his noblity and his kings that rule, but they both know that nothing would be accomplished at all without Lithuania.
Lithuania is the one who insists, in his peaceful, gentle way, on checks on the monarchy, and on religious tolerance for all. Lithuania oversees the establishment of the Parliament, the Senate, and the election of the king. Lithuania stands over the king, holding the tray with the pen and the bottle of ink, as the monarch signs the document agreeing to respect the rights of citizens. Lithuania plans and leads the battles, the defense against Sweden, Russia and the Ottoman Empire. Lithuania protects Poland, shielding his immortal body from all harm during the battles, and then cleans up the mess Poland leaves behind him when they return home and Poland sheds his clothes like leaves in autumn, dropping them behind him on the cold, stone hallways and leaving Lithuania to gather them up and mend the damage by flickering candlelight later in the evening, when Poland himself has slipped into sleep.
He wonders sometimes, when the sun is setting and catching on the lighter shades of chestnut in Lithuania's hair as he perches on an uncomfortable chair, flipping through a dusty tome and looking so ancient and wise, why Lithuania bothers. He shakes the thought away as soon as it appears; he doesn't like to dwell on such things, so he's never truly reached the end of that idea, never worked out the reasons why. To Poland, it doesn't matter much, as they are partners. Poland does the job of being the face of their country, plays the celebrity and pushes his people into power, while Lithuania prefers to manipulate behind the scenes, so cleverly and skillfully that no one ever suspects the near-silent boy with the long brown hair who stands half in shadows at formal events, uncomfortable in his stuffy formal garb.
Maybe Poland takes Lithuania for granted. It was never something he thought much of, in those days.
Now, hundreds of years later, when he closes his eyes and tilts his head back, he can still recall the glimpses of warm summer sunlight and Lithuania's scarred, hard hands lifting him gingerly to his feet, and the way it was more a smile in his vivid green eyes rather than on his lips. In those days, he had a thousand such moments, and so did not assign much importance to them, didn't exert himself trying to memorize the way that Lithuania would heistantingly tuck his hair behind his ears, or the sure movements of his hands as he assisted Poland in the fields. He regrets that now, but then, in those long lost days, those moments happened daily.
He hasn't had a day like that in years.
Poland can still feel the caress of Russia's warm breath in his ear, shocking against the biting chill of that frozen winter, when the sky was as gray as stone and the snow fell as silently as Lithuania's footsteps, those nights when he couldn't sleep and would skulk around their home.
You don't deserve him.
The truth is bitter, disgusting, burning in the back of his throat, for Russia was right, Russia knew the truth. Russia saw Poland's unworthiness and stole Lithuania away and returned him broken, beaten, flinching away every time Poland reached out a hand to help him.
Lithuania has never been, and never will be, the center of attention. Like Canada, he is an afterthought, a fleeting breath of wind, and Poland regrets for having pushed him into that position, so long ago.
{Restless}
The fields of grain sway in the gentle breeze, glowing a dull, beaten gold under the summer sun. Autumn is coming, and fast; Lithuania can already smell the chill of night-frost on the air when he wakes in the morning. He tightens the tie wrapped around his long hair, pushes his bangs away from his face, and swings his scythe. He can't see Poland anywhere in the endless field – Poland doesn't like the work of farming; he complained bitterly when Lithuania insisted that slavery was immoral and abolished it. It means there is more he has to do himself, and Poland has never been one for labor.
Lithuania's scythe flashes again as he swings it downwards, face shining with sweat. He adds the grain to the slowly filling basket strapped to his back. He and Poland do not need to eat, don't need substence in the same way humans do – it's an indulgence, not a necesity – so this harvest will go mainly to trade and be exported to the neighboring nations.
Swish. Swish. He takes a few steps forward, stuffs the grain into his basket. He's falling into the rhythm, and the movement comes easily now – smooth, unhindered; he can ignore the strain in his back and the dull ache in his hands.
Poland chooses that moment to pop his head out of the field, grass tangled in his unbrushed hair and dirt smudged across his nose. He's so freckled that his face appears to be one enormous freckle, broken by tiny patches of sunburnt skin. He beams, shoving his hair from his face. Lithuania doesn't notice, concentrating on his work.
Swish, swish.
"Liet!" Poland calls, cupping his hands around his mouth, "I'm bored!"
Swish, swish. Lithuania's hands still, and he looks up. His lips are curved upwards, but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes – he's annoyed, frustrated, although he'll deny it if asked. "Well, I'm working," he says, and his voice is gentle, but there's enough steel in them that Poland slouches back and disappears again under the cover of wheat.
Swish, swish. Poland doesn't fully understand the responsibility that work and being a Nation entails. He fights wars, but he goes about it as if he is playing a game, as if there is no risk of anyone getting hurt, or dying. They do not have that risk – Nations are above such petty things as bleeding or falling ill – but Lithuania sometimes wonders if the falling of a fellow soldier bothers Poland at all, or if he is merely oversensitive and all Nations react to death in the same manner that Poland does.
He can see the glimmer of Poland's blonde hair above the slight quivering of the remaining grain, and the glitter of Poland's eyes, watching him. Lithuania sighs, and hangs his scythe from his belt. He tightens his grip on the basket's straps, and tries to banish all weariness from his voice. "I think a storm's rolling in; we should head back." He thinks no such thing, but he is weak, and he gives in far too easily. Poland fairly skips over to him, catching at his hands and pulling him towards their house – a small, well built affair crafted from stone and thatched with waterproof reeds, stolen from Sweden.
Lithuania quells the part of him that wishes to grab Poland by the shoulders and shake him until he understands just how difficult the real world is, and tries to focus instead on the laughter on his friend's face, but his smile feels too brittle and he feels too fragile.
He wonders how much longer he can last in this monotony, and has no answer.
Author's note
Songs:
Man Down - Rihanna cover by Walk Off the Earth
Oh Hey - the Lumineers
Restless - Switchfoot
All parts take place during the time of the Commonwealth. Rytm is Polish.
