Poland knew it was only a matter of time.
He had retreated to his border with Russia, having fled Germany's troops, but it was only a matter of time until Russia would attack.
And he did.
It didn't come as a surprise, and it wasn't particularly unusual.
Russia always had to be beating up on somebody, and this time it was him. But more important right now was engaging with Germany. His own forces, the Polish ones, were losing considerably.
Poland's shoulder caught on Germany's sword. Swords, of course, though outdated, were the tradition.
He didn't know if he'd prefer being shot.
The metal ripped his clothes, tore his skin, cut muscle—it burned. "Son of a motherfucking bitch," Poland hissed, parrying another blow.
He reposted—jabbed Germany harshly in the arm. Germany muttered some unintelligible, assumingly swears, under his breath before cutting a long gash from Poland's shoulder to opposite hip.
"Feliks!"
Germany straightened up and signaled for his troops to cease fire.
Lithuania pushed past Russia and ran to Poland's side, watching him bleed out his life, trying whatever he could to stop the bleeding. Nothing worked.
"Lieeeeeeet," Poland groaned, drawing out the 'e' as far as he could with his shallow breath.
Lithuania pulled Poland into his lap and hugged him tightly until the blonde passed out.
"He is too soft, da? What can we do with him?"
Russia's voice was childish, almost melodious. Lithuania hated him for every syllable he spoke. It was Russia or Germany that should be bleeding on the ground, they that should be dying rapidly, they who should be suffering! What did Poland do to deserve it?
"All he wants is Vilnius," Germany's gruff voice replied, hiding a wince that Lithuania knew was achingly present.
Poland's bleeding slowed and his breathing got shallower to the point he was hardly breathing at all.
"Leave him be. He can be dealt with later."