The drunken Canadian before him jeered, waving the bottle over his head. "Yeah, that's right, you can't hurt us—" He stopped talking abruptly, his eyes wide, his face suddenly pale. As he fell, a trail of blood flew through the air from his mouth.
He looked around at the drunk's companions, not putting down his weapon. They whimpered and ran from the alley. He grinned to himself, and took another swig of vodka. The bricks of the alley wall swam in his vision, and he put out a hand to steady himself. The alley was replaced with a scene from hundreds of years ago, a scene that still filled him with an uncomfortable chill…
"Little whelp of a nation…" Someone growled. He felt a weapon strike his side, and he was knocked to the side. He didn't dare get up.
"Let's kill him!"
"Shut up, Mongolia!" The second speaker yelped as there was the sound of a blow. "Remember what happened last time we tried that?"
"…It got really cold…" Mongolia whimpered. "… and he got better as soon as it did…"
"Good boy, you're not as stupid as you look." The first voice was scathing. He felt a heavy boot kick him, but it was nothing compared to the other wounds he'd felt.
"Yeah, lemme kick him!" Mongolia jeered, and he felt a slightly less powerful kick. He opened his eyes, and reached out with a thin hand to grab the ankle of this tormentor. "Hey! Hey! Father, he's grabbing me!"
There was an exasperated sigh, then a blow fell on his wrist. He felt the bones crack, and he reluctantly released Mongolia. "Get him back to the prisons…" A hand grabbed the back of his ragged coat. He was lifted up off the floor, and the walls of the large tent began to blur and darken…
He gulped for air, suddenly finding himself back in the alleyway. He was on his hands and knees, dark blood spattered across the snow. He didn't know whose—probably from the dark mass that was a body, only feet from him…
There were tears running down his face. He stood, wiping them off. He hoped that no one had seen him… Staggering, he made his way down the alley.
It was snowing by the time he reached the street. The sky was dark, and there were streetlights highlighting the flakes. He couldn't remember what he'd been doing through the day. Snowflakes were landing on his eyelashes, and he blinked them away as a car drove past, throwing up more snow. He wondered if he should throw his hand out, get a ride to somewhere where he could do something more than get drunk…
The signs weren't in Russian. He tried to understand them for a minute, then gave up. Snow was being kicked up by the wind and his footsteps. His hand dragged along walls where it could. There were people, giving him strange looks, but otherwise doing nothing.
There was a bench ahead of him. With a growl and a swipe of his weapon, the shapeless mass of clothing that had inhabited it before fled. He collapsed on the bench, grasping a flask in his hand. He drank from it, feeling a pleasant alcoholic buzz take over his brain. The snow blurred… now it was settling on high pine trees…
The horses nearby were whinnying, panting from the cold. Stupid, weak creatures… He grasped the sword that was too big for him, muttering a brief prayer. He heard the muttering in an unfamiliar language, and it filled him with revulsion. These bastards killed my mother. He pushed his way through a bush, peering through the branches. He felt the strength of a nation nearby, and cast his eyes through the horses and invaders until he saw the powerfully built, armor-clad empire. His jaw twitched in anger. The cold and wind rose with his emotions.
With a yell, he charged. Horses shrieked and fled before him. Every time an enemy warrior appeared in his vision, he swiped the long sword, and they fell, staining the snow red. Every crimson drop that fell made him happy. He was avenging his people…
The empire now loomed before him, drawing his own blade. He laughed. "Little idiot," he mocked. "You really think you can defeat me now?"
He stood his ground. "You killed my mother," he hissed. Golden Horde laughed again.
"You mean I killed the human that raised you! And she deserved it; don't you understand that anyone who stands in the way of my conquests must die?"
A scream of rage filled him, and the sword was raised again. He didn't care who he hurt, he just wanted to avenge them… Someone else cried out in pain, and shouts of anger and indignation surrounded them. All he could see was a strange, bright purplish color stained with red. The blade was sinking into flesh, and he was happy…
Pain exploded on his back. The sword fell from his hands, which were suddenly not responding to the commands of his brain. Snow was cushioning his face, and he couldn't understand why. For his face to be in the snow, he must have fallen… and that wasn't possible! He smelled blood…
Someone laughed, a high, sycophantic noise. "Look, Father! I killed him! Aren't you proud of me?..."
He gritted his teeth. "I'm not dead!" he shrieked. "I'm not dead!"
"Evidently, for you to be yelling like that."
He sat upright. There was someone here, someone watching him, someone who shouldn't be here. He narrowed his eyes, peering through the darkness and the blizzard and the vodka haze.
"Who is there?" he called. Whoever it was, they didn't deserve to be seeing him, in this moment of weakness, vulnerability…
"You know damn well who it is, Russia." He saw movement; a figure was walking towards him. He didn't recognize them, could barely see him—it was a male from the voice. He wore a light brown jacket, and jeans, and had bright yellow-blond hair. Familiar…
"Get out," he snarled, not wanting company. "Get out or I'll kill you."
The man stopped. "Kill me?" he said softly. There was a sort of strength around him, a power… "Kill me like you tried to kill Gilbert?"
He stared stupidly at the man standing there, laughing silently at him. He had no idea what he was talking about. "You're a nation, aren't you?" he asked after a while. "How… how did you find me? What are you talking about? Do you think you can… think you can kill me?" His chest was heaving, and his heart felt as though it was about to burst from a maelstrom of strange emotions swirling within it. These were familiar emotions, but they shouldn't be here… Those emotions were from the past…
The nation stepped closer to him, drawing a pistol from his jacket. He could see his face now—blue eyes, glasses, tear-streaked cheeks and an expression of determination. He felt himself no longer able to support himself. It was only with an effort that he prevented himself from slipping off the bench when he collapsed.
His vision was slipping…
His attacker suddenly possessed a long braid of dark hair, and held a sword…
…Now it was the enemy nation again, cocking the pistol…
He managed to raise his head.
"No…" he muttered. "…Don't kill me…"
Mongolia's face was angry. My father is dead because of you.
"I swear… I didn't kill him…"
The nation was crying. "Gilbert is dying, and it's all. Your. Fault."
"Please…"
Why couldn't they ever leave him alone? Why couldn't they see that it hurt him, too?
"You're not strong enough…"
His enemies, the one in his memory and the one standing before him, both shrieked in anger at his words, and their weapons flashed.
I'm going to die now, aren't I?
The familiar prayer flashed through his head, and then everything went black.
Okay, I'm really sorry I haven't uploaded sooner, but I have recently rediscovered the awesomeness of the Harry Potter series (self-contradiction, I sort of failed in my judgements earlier), so all my free time has been taken up with reading and working on fanart and a couple of HP slash fics that I really think you don't want to see- they're horrible, IMO. (_ _)
This chapter is themed on the period of Russia's life where he was imprisoned and abused by the Mongols. This is a very interesting topic, but, unfortunately, I don't think it can be portrayed in one chapter- or even one story. Well, maybe... if it was a long, well-written story...
Again, really sorry for the wait, and there will probably be another long one after this. I'm heading off to Bemidji, Minnesota to learn Russian on Monday, and won't be back for two more weeks. DFTBA!