June 28, 1941
Berlin, Germany

Dinner was wiener schnitzel with sauerkraut and fried potatoes, or so France announced before muttering under his breath that it was appalling he be forced to cook something so blasphemous to the art of food. Toris didn't mind – he hadn't eaten a proper meal in a week.

Dinners at Russia's house were always strained with the Baltics' fear of their master, but it was nothing compared to the tension at the Nazi Household. The dining room was deadly silent, save for the scrapes of forks against plates and the muffled chewing of what Toris counted as no less than fifteen nations sitting around a giant rectangular table. His eyes widened when he realized that plus Germany, Prussia, and Hungary, that number would be eighteen… and he was sure that his brothers, Ukraine, and Natalia would soon follow. And if the Nazis succeeded in their invasion of the Soviet Union… Toris didn't even want to think about it.

Austria sat at the head of the table, back straight and utensils brandished with the elegance of a true aristocrat. He made no effort to start any conversation, and seemed perfectly content to sit in the dreadful silence that engulfed the room. Toris imagined that dinner would have been very different with Prussia here – the narcissist would probably use the opportunity to torment everyone at the table. Toris shuddered at the memory of that bloodstained smile, hoping that he would never have to see it again.

Just then there was the first noise of the meal: someone cleared their throat. Everyone looked up from their plates, trying to find the source. Halfway down the table Toris heard a familiar voice: "Herr Austria?"

Toris could see every nation tense at the use of English. Austria didn't bother to look up from his plate, ignoring whoever had called his name.

"Aren't you going to introduce to us our new housemate?"

Toris paled, and he was at last able to see that it was Czech who had spoken. Several nations looked around in confusion, scanning the faces around the table to try and see who this new 'housemate' was. He looked at Austria to see the former empire's eyebrow twitch in irritation. He looked even more annoyed than usual – it was obvious that he and Czech were not in good standing. After collecting himself, Austria looked up with a blank expression and gestured towards Toris.

"We welcome Lithuania to the Third Reich."

Toris had to resist squirming as he felt all eyes fall on him, slight whispers flitting across the room. He heard the word 'invasion' as eyes widened in horror, darting to the bandage on his head. Austria seemed even more annoyed that his precious silence had been broken.

"Yes, you hopeful fools, Operation Barbarossa is working. It shouldn't be such a shock, seeing as you yourselves were clearly incapable of stopping invasion."

There were some growled insults, but the muttering at the table receded back into resentful chewing. An elbow dug into Toris's ribs, and he glanced sideways to look into a pair of worried brown eyes. Toris couldn't place the name; he knew this had to be one of the Balkans. "How bad was it?" the nation whispered.

Toris opened his mouth to respond, but the memories from his dream came back and a chill ran down his spine. He turned to his food, suddenly losing his appetite. "I can't remember. I was unconscious for most of it."

The nation nodded in understanding. "You were lucky, then." Austria shot him a glare that clearly meant 'shut up', but the nation only huffed through his nose and stabbed his fork into a lump of sauerkraut. As Toris took one more glance around the table, he realized that many of these nations had once been under Austro-Hungarian rule. He imagined their history with Austria was similar to his with Ivan – long and full of resentment.

It was then that Toris's gaze came to rest on Feliks, slouched in his chair between Czech and Belgium. The Pole hadn't looked at him throughout the entire meal. His head was bowed over his pate, taking small bites and chewing slowly as if even digesting the food was painful. Toris couldn't stop himself from glancing up every few minutes, but Feliks never looked up from his plate.

With zero conversation, the meal was over fairly quickly. There was a clink of Austria's fork being placed on his plate, and everyone simultaneously put their own utensils down. As he rose to his feet they all did, each carrying their plate in silence as they filed out of the dining room. A few muttered their thanks to France, who looked as though he was about to cry. Toris knew that the flamboyant nation adored the art of food above all else – it must pain him to watch it being eaten so morosely.

When about half of the nations had left, the nation beside Toris turned to him again. "Austria wasn't always this bad," he whispered. Toris started at the use of Russian, then he recognized the nation from years ago during the Great War – it was Serbia. "Of course he'll forever be a prick, but he used to let us break as many of the rules as he could without getting into trouble. We much preferred him to Germany or Prussia." Serbia's face grew somber. "But ever since they took Hungary away, he's been determined to make our lives even more miserable. He's angry at Germany and Prussia, and he's taking it out on us. I never thought I'd say this, but I hope she comes back soon."

"How did she treat you?" Toris asked, remembering the use of her name in Austria's speech.

Serbia shrugged. "She wanted to help us, but there wasn't much she could do. Mainly she slipped out resistance letters and made contacts. Austria knew she would be tortured if Germany or Prussia found out, so he covered for her. But now that she's gone, there's even less we can do to help our people."

"I'm sorry." Toris glanced around nervously. "But really, you don't have to speak Russian. I don't want you to get in trouble."

"You mean that stupid language rule? Everyone breaks it all the time – as long as Austria can't hear us we're fine. Didn't you speak your native language when Russia wasn't around?"

Toris felt his stomach clench, his eyes falling to the floor. "No."

Serbia's eyes widened in surprise. He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off with a bark from the doorway, "Litauen!"

Toris straightened so fast that his silverware slid on his plate. "Jawhol?"

"You will assist in drying the dishes, then retire to your room no later than twenty hours sharp. You are to report to my office at exactly seven o' cock in the morning to receive further instruction."

"Jawhol."

Austria's eyes slid towards Serbia, narrowing in distain. "And no more chit-chatting with the ingrate." He turned sharply and strode out of the doorway, the medals on his uniform jingling as he went.

Serbia rolled his eyes. "A big fan of mine, that one."

"It… wouldn't have anything to do with your people shooting his Archduke, would it?"

A sly smile flickered across the Serb's face. "Or me putting a bullet through his chest while he was writing music at his desk? Of course not, we're the best of friends."

It was then that Toris realized he was speaking with the nation who had essentially started the Great War. Serbia must have seen the nervous look on his face. "There's no point in reminiscing, Litva. If this war continues the way it's been going, it won't be long before we're all bleeding out on the floor, da?"

Toris decided he didn't like Serbia speaking Russian to him. He smiled weakly, then excused himself and darted into the kitchen. "I'm… supposed to help dry the dishes?" Norway and Netherlands looked up from the sink, their expressions equally blank. Toris couldn't help but notice how both of their eyes scanned the length of his body – it was the same look Eduard would give him when searching for injuries. Toris cleared his throat, and the two blinked. Norway turned back to the sink and Netherlands jerked a thumb in the direction of a stack of wet dishes on the counter.

The three of them worked in silence, but this time Toris was grateful for it. Every conversation he had with the nations who lived here only painted a grimmer picture of what life as a Nazi territory had in store for him. Toris felt his stomach sink. And my brothers. He wondered how Prussia would treat them, or their people. It was unbearable to imagine them getting hurt.

Norway and Netherlands finished before he did, and Toris was left alone in the kitchen as the light from outside grew dim. He was almost finished when he heard footsteps nearing. He looked up to see Czech standing in the doorway. Toris smiled weakly. "Guten Abend." He felt stupid saying it, but he may as well start practicing his German now.

Czech wore the same blank, haunted expression that Toris had seen on everyone else here. "I know you didn't like that I singled you out at dinner. But you deserve the dignity of at least being acknowledged, even if they are going to take everything else from you."

Toris's eyes fell to the plate in his hands. "Thank you."

"I came because Poland asked me to. He wants you to meet him in the downstairs living room at the back of the house. Do you think you can find it?"

"I'm sure I can manage. Do…you know why he wants to see me?"

"No. Any idea why he would be building a fire in June?"

Toris frowned. "He's doing what?"

"He is a mystery to us both, then." She nodded in Toris's direction. "Gute Nacht, Litauen. And… be careful."

She turned to leave but Toris called out, "Wait." She stopped and turned to look back at him. "Why do you care? Everyone else here seems to have given up hope, but you're helping me."

Her expression became somber. "My brother and I were the first to arrive at this house. We're the only ones who saw what Poland was like when he first got here, what he's truly been through. I've watched him fight back to the bitter end regardless of the consequences…but something has changed. I don't know if it's the war, or if it's because he's lost his will to keep fighting…but I don't think he has much time left." Her eyes softened. "I know you two hate each other. But you may be his only hope."

Czech's words repeated again and again in Toris's head as he made his way through the dark halls. I don't think he has much time left. After the relief of knowing that Feliks was alive, and now it was possible that he could still die? Toris trembled at the thought – he couldn't bare to suffer that grief again. He remembered the dark glare the Pole had shot him earlier, the hate lining his words. Toris's chest seized with helplessness. How could he save Feliks if he still hated him?

As he neared the back of the house, Toris heard the crackling of a fire. Soft orange light glowed on the walls, flickering shadows across the floor. He slowed as he entered the room and peered in to see the slim figure of Feliks prodding a stack of logs with a poker. Toris frowned; why would Feliks be building a fire in June?

"I'm not going to, like, burn you alive or something."

Toris tensed. He decided that was the Pole's way of saying 'come in.' Even if it was blunt, at least he was speaking Polish this time. He uncrossed his arms and slowly walked into the room, waiting for Feliks to start the conversation.

"Your legs will probably get tired if you just stand there."

Toris assumed this meant 'have a seat.' Feliks still didn't look at him, still poking and prodding at the fire. As Toris lowered himself to the floor, he watched a whirl of sparks fly up into the chimney. His eyes darted from the fire, to Feliks, and back again. The silence around them was itchy, the only noise coming from the crackling of the logs.

"So like, what happened to your head?"

Toris nearly sighed in relief, thankful that Feliks had started a casual conversation. It was the first thing akin to concern that Feliks had said to him in over twenty years. "Prussia shot me."

Feliks snorted. "You deserved it."

Toris felt his muscles tense up again. He tried to decipher any emotion from the Pole, but Feliks's face remained stony and unreadable in the orange glow. He leaned towards the fireplace and propped the poker against the logs, the flames curling around the iron tip. "Please tell me you got a few shots in."

Toris couldn't tear his eyes away from the poker. "I didn't get a chance. He used a grenade."

Feliks curled a lip. "Well that's like, cheap."

"That's what I told him."

"Before he blasted your brains out."

"Mm."

Feliks stepped away from the fireplace, sinking to the floor next to Toris as he propped his chin on a hand and stared into the flames. "Wait two days, then take the bandage off. It won't bleed, but the hole will still be there. Totally grosses them out."

Toris let his eyes rest on his friend. Ivan could have lied to him about what happened to Feliks… but it was very possible that he had told the truth. If Prussia had cut him in half while Germany watched from the sidelines, what else could they have done during his three years of living in this horrible place? The guilt welled up in him again, so strong that his voice cracked.

"Feliks – "

"Shut up."

Toris held back tears. He couldn't do this, he couldn't bare to keep fighting. If Feliks could just understand how sorry he was –

"I know what you're going to say, and it won't change anything." Feliks kept his gaze forward, the flames throwing shadows across the gashes in his face. "I've spent twenty-three years hating you. For leaving me, for siding with Russia, and now for standing idle while my people are murdered. The tanks, the camps, this entire freaking war needs to be blamed on someone. Everyone says that it's Prussia's fault for raising Germany this way… but not me. To me, it's your fault."

Toris's blood chilled at those words. Feliks's voice remained cold and even.

"I convinced myself that it was because of you. That somehow, if you had agreed to marry me again, or if you had helped me fight back during the invasion… that none of this would have happened. I believed that it had been in your power to stop this entire war, and you chose to let it rage just because you wanted your damn capital back. And because of that, I prayed to God that Russia would lock you in the dungeon and leave you there to rot. I wanted you to feel my pain, I wanted you to hear the screams that I hear and hate yourself for it."

A sense of betrayal stirred inside of Toris. A year ago he had been so furious at Ivan for killing his best friend that Toris had refused to obey him. The consequence was weeks of excruciating torture in the dungeon that left him with scars he would bare for the rest of his life. Toris had felt he deserved those scars for letting Feliks die. But the thought that Feliks had actually prayed for this to happen to him… He bowed his head, fingernails digging into his knees. It seemed an eternity before Feliks spoke again.

"Do you know what it feels like to be dead?"

Toris didn't reply, knowing that Feliks would answer his own question.

"It's this crazy feeling of being here, but not being here. My blood feels so thin that some days I expect it to be clear, like water… or for the light to shine through my skin like a silk curtain. When I trip, my bones rattling inside of me like they're about to shatter. I can feel the strands of myself unraveling, my insides quivering just trying to stay in once piece. My senses flicker on and off, like a broken electric wire. I black out – voices will become distant echoes, faces blur into washes of color. Sometimes I can't feel anything, like I'm not even here. I can't feel the floor or my clothes or even my own skin. It's just – nothing. Like I'm just a part of the oxygen in the room.

"But that's not even the worst of it. It's not just my body that's fading, it's my people. My government, my culture, my language… They've been reduced to a pulse that I can barely feel. It's like I'm… blind, it's like I've lost communication with a part of myself. And when I try to make a connection – " Feliks's voice cracked and he bowed his head. "All I feel is pain. It burns, and my head explodes with the sounds of their screams. I can feel the gunshots ripping through my body again and again, my lungs fill with poison gas and I choke until I'm coughing up blood. Sometimes I can't stop, and I pass out. But it doesn't end there, because every time I go unconscious or fall asleep, I wake up in the smoking ruins of one of my villages, or in a ditch filled with rotting carcasses, or inside a camp where my people are being systematically murdered. I see it with my own eyes, I can smell the stench of their decaying bodies.

"As nations, we are supposed to draw strength from our people. But the only thing I can draw from them is fear and hate and this – this hopelessness." Feliks's hand trembled as he wiped it across his nose. "Liz tried to help me. Once she found out what was happening to me, she would never stop telling me to keep fighting. She stayed up with me through my sleepless nights and we would talk about the old days, before the war. And when I started screaming and coughing, she would be there to hold me, and tell me again and again that it would all be over soon, that I just had to survive for one more day and I would be that much closer to being free of this hell.

"But… but they – th-they took her…" Feliks choked and pressed a hand to his mouth. "Germany sent her to fight on the Eastern front, a-and I don't know if she'll even survive. She – she could die out there, and – " He pulled up his knees, and the tears flowed freely. "And she – she told me to keep on fighting but I can't, I can't keep doing it because I know that I'm just a breath away from dying, and I want to because I-I don't want to do this anymore, I can't keep feeling this pain, it's too much, I…" Feliks squeezed his eyes shut, taking a shuddering breath as he smeared the tears away with the palms of his hands.

Toris was in shock. What Feliks had described was worse than anything he had been through, even after a century of being under Russia's rule. "Feliks, if there is anything I can do – "

"There is nothing you can do," Feliks snarled. "You've made your choice again and again, Liet. You made me like this."

Toris opened his mouth to reply, but his voice got stuck in his throat. What was he to say? That Feliks was wrong, that it wasn't his fault? "Feliks, I – I'm sorry, I don't know what else to say – "

"That's the thing, Liet. You can say that as many times as you want, but I know you don't really mean it." Feliks pushed himself to his feet and approached the fireplace. Toris's eyes darted to the poker – by now it was glowing orange from the heat of the fire. His eyes widened as Feliks bent down and took the metal rod from the logs, a trail of smoke curling into the air as he swung it out into the living room.

"Wh-what are you doing – "

Feliks's open eye reflected the yellow-orange glow as if he were a wild animal. His face softened, tears shimmering on his cheeks. "This is the only way for me to get better."

Toris jumped to his feet, holding out his hands as he backed away. "Feliks, please, you're not thinking this through – "

"Of course I am, I've been thinking it through ever since Liz left. I can't kill myself because that would make me a traitor my people, and I can't let Austria do it because that would be surrendering to the Nazis, plus I totally hate him. None of the other nations will do it because they would get in trouble and it wouldn't be worth it to them."

Toris froze. "Wait – what?"

Feliks's gaze rose up to meet Toris for the first time. His face was blank, absent of the hate or remorse of earlier. It was chilling to see that he was just… empty. "But you can do it." He turned the poker so that the handle pointed towards Toris and held it out. He looked Toris straight in the eyes as he said, "You can kill me."

Toris's mouth fell open, barely able to process Feliks's words. They were so similar to what he had spat two decades ago: Go ahead, cut my head off. But looking at Feliks's broken face, Toris knew that time it wasn't a challenge – it was an honest request.

"You don't get it, Liet. The kind of pain I'm in, the nightmares that I have – it's because I'm supposed to be dead. The only reason I'm alive is because Liz sewed the pieces of my body back together, because at least more of my people were alive back then." The glowing tip of the poker quivered as he continued, "My people are gone, my government is gone, my borders are gone, and now Liz is gone. I have nothing, I am nothing, but yet I'm still left here to suffocate in my nothingness. I know you hate me. So take this poker and run it through my heart so that we can both get what we want."

Toris stared at him in disbelief. "You – you think I want you dead?"

Feliks's face contorted into anger. "Don't give me your compassionate bullshit, Liet. I know you hate me, just do it!"

"No!" Toris cried. "No, this is madness! You're alive for a reason, your people are still out there fighting. Even if all you feel is pain, it's because they need you to survive!"

Feliks's voice lowered to a growl. "You say that like you care."

"Of course I care, Feliks! When Ivan took me back to his mansion, he told me that you were dead, and I – my whole world it just – " Toris's voice cracked as he continued, "Look, I can help you like Hungary did – just like you did for me during the Great War. I-I can sing folk songs, I can tell old stories to get your mind off of things – "

"NO!" Feliks roared, swinging the poker so that it hissed as it flew through the air. "You say this now, but you won't! You don't know what it's like, Liet. You'll have to hold me down in the middle of the night, I'll cough up blood all over you and scream horrible things, I'll try to kill you. You'll give up the moment it becomes too much for you, you'll abandon me just like you do every other time!"

Those words stabbed Toris in the chest. Standing there looking at the trembling figure of his friend, he realized that Feliks was right. Whenever things got too hard for Toris, he ran. It was what he had always done, even during the Commonwealth. The guilt crashed into him again as realized that Feliks truly believed Toris incapable of helping him – that he would rather see him dead.

Without a word, Toris stood up straight and walked over to his friend. He reached out and took the poker from Feliks's hand. The Pole's expression didn't change, tears shimmering on the corners of his eyes as he breathed hard through his nose. His hand fell from the poker and he stood up straight, waiting for Toris to run the metal through his heart.

Toris looked Feliks straight in the eye as he hurled the poker into the fireplace with a clang.

"NO!" Feliks lunged at Toris, but he was so weak that Toris barely felt it. He gripped his friend by the shoulders and forced him to look into his face. For the first time Toris saw utter terror reflected in those eyes. Feliks trembled, tears rolling down his cheeks, lips pulled into a grimace of pain that was unbearable to see. He gasped for air as his fingers balled into fists around Toris's collar. "Kill me," he begged. "P-please, I can't I c-can't, I can't do this anymo-o-re!"

Toris had to hold back his own tears as he gripped Feliks's shoulders. "Feliks Łukasiewicz. You were, and are, and always will be, my best friend in the entire world. And I am telling the truth, when I say that I will not let you die, under any circumstances – "

"N-no, n-no…"

"And nothing will change that – not betrayal, not revenge, not war or whatever kind of twisted hell that this is. I swear to you, Feliks. I will do everything in my power to help you get through this. We will get through this, together. Like we always have, like we always will. And you are not going to die."

Toris watched as something broke inside of his friend's eyes. He gasped for air, hands trembling on Toris's collar. Toris pulled him into an embrace and felt Feliks grow weak against him. Bony arms encircled around his neck and Feliks's face buried into his shoulder. Then his frail body started shaking with sobs, and Toris could no longer hold back the tears. His hand curled around the Pole's uniform pressing Feliks tight against himself so that nothing – not even death – could snatch him away.

He didn't know how long they stood in each other's arms, crying. But as Toris ran his hands through strands of brittle blond hair, he knew one thing: That Feliks had forgiven him, and the twenty-three years of hate between them were finally over.

June 30, 1941
Berlin, Germany

The first two nights were difficult. Thankfully Toris had experience with violent flashbacks from the Russian Revolution. Feliks wasn't nearly as strong as Ivan had been, and so Toris assumed it would be relatively easy to talk him through the nightmares. He had been horrified to discover that most nights Feliks didn't sleep at all, instead writing in his archive of journals or sending out resistance letters. Toris insisted that Feliks at least try to get some sleep. It took a few hours, but Toris awoke to bony fingers curling around his neck as Feliks screamed for him to 'let her go.' He barely managed to pry off the Pole's vice grip and shake him awake. Feliks didn't apologize, but slunk wordlessly to his desk where he took out a journal and started writing. Toris had a bad feeling that sleep would be a rarity.

The next day he walked in on Feliks coughing blood onto the living room floor. He ran to him and held him up while Feliks clung to his uniform and begged Toris to 'Make it stop, p-please, please!' , with such agony that for a moment Toris thought it would be better for Feliks to die than suffer this kind of pain. But he remembered his promise, and took Feliks's head in his hands as he assured him that it would all be over soon, that the war would end tomorrow if Feliks could just survive until then…

It was strange to be rooming with Feliks again. The last time they had shared a room was during the Great War, and nights were often filled with passionate kissing beneath the covers. But to go this far was unimaginable for Toris – not only because they had hated each other so recently, but because Feliks seemed to barely have the energy to finish his daily chores, let alone carry on an affair. Toris was even uncomfortable undressing around Feliks, not wanting him to see the new scars marring his back from Ivan's torture. Feliks also made sure to slip into the bathroom when changing, probably for the same reason. Knowing what the Pole had been through, Toris could only imagine the kind of wounds concealed beneath his uniform.

But he soon learned that there was another reason for the Pole's lack of interest.

It was Toris's third day at the mansion, and he and Feliks had been ordered to polish a dish collection. The silver plates and utensils were spread across the table, the air thick with the scent of polish. Toris tossed Feliks a rag, but he accidentally hit him in the head.

"Oh, sorry!"

Feliks hissed in pain, pressing a hand to one of the gashes. The wounds should have healed by now, but he was so weak that they had barely scabbed over. Toris had wondered about his injuries, but until now he was too afraid to ask.

"Did Germany do that before he left?"

"What, these?" Feliks reached down and snatched the rag from the floor. "No, this was Austria."

Toris's eyes widened. He knew that Austria was strict, but he could never imagine him inflicting the kinds of wounds on Feliks's face. Toris recognized a beating when he saw one. "Austria?"

"Yeah. I like, pissed him off."

Toris tried to imagine what Feliks could have done to set off the aristocrat's temper. Feliks caught him staring and explained himself, "He and Lizzie had a big fight before she left. He blames me for her falling out of love with him, or some shit." Feliks scoffed. "He doesn't need my help for that. He like, did it all on his own."

Toris frowned. Why would Austria blame Feliks for such a thing? It didn't make any sense, unless… Toris narrowed his eyes into a I-know-you're-not-telling-me-everything look.

Feliks growled in frustration. "I kissed her before she left, okay? It's not like, a big deal or anything, geez!"

Toris's mouth fell open. "You kissed Hungary? In front of Austria?!"

"He wasn't supposed to see it! And it's not even a big deal, we're just friends!"

Toris folded his arms and smirked. "Uh-huh."

"Don't give me that look! She was the only one keeping me alive and they were sending her off to her death, what else was I supposed to do!? For all I know, I might never see her again!"

"Alright," Toris said, smiling. He decided not to point out how red Feliks's face had become. "But for the record, anyone who kisses Austria's wife should expect a beating."

"Ex-wife," Feliks corrected. "And you shut up."

Toris suppressed a smile, dipping his rag in the polish and smearing it to a silver plate. "Did she kiss back?"

For a while Feliks didn't answer, furiously scrubbing a fork. "No. But it's not like I gave her a chance, or anything! It was just a goodbye thing, we're not – " He cut himself off with a growl of frustration. "I'm like, totally done talking about this." Feliks pointed the fork threateningly at Toris. "And this is like, a huge secret, just so you know."

"The you kissing Hungary thing."

"Yeah. Like, best friend, cross your heart and hope to freaking die secret, got it?"

"So we're best friends." Toris still hadn't gotten him to say it out loud.

Feliks paused, then went back to polishing his fork. "Yeah," he said, as if they had been so their entire lives.

Toris couldn't stop the grin from spreading across his face. "Okay." A comfortable silence settled between them. After so long of being alone, he had forgotten the comfort of just being in the presence of his friend, even if they weren't talking. He also realized how strange it was, that an entire war was raging and yet here they were, polishing silver. Even so, this was a golden opportunity to find more about Feliks's "friendship" with Hungary.

"So… was this a first time thing, or…?"

"SHUT UP, LIET!"

Toris did something he had not done in a long time: He laughed.

History Notes:

Serbia in WWI:
In 1998, Austria-Hungary annexed its former territory of Bosnia and Herzegovina, which angered Serbia. After a series of regional wars, Serbian nationalism arose which was opposed to Austro-Hungarian presence in the area. Archduke Franz Ferdinand was heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne and wanted to initiate reforms which would unite Slavic lands into Austro-Hungary. On June 28, 1914, Gavrilo Princip of Serbia shot Franz Ferdinand as he passed on the street in a procession. Despite an Ultimatum demanding peace, Serbia mobilized its army and Austria-Hungary declared war. Due to previous alliances, Prussia and Germany sided with Austria-Hungary and Russia and France sided with Serbia. Thus began the First World War.

Czechoslovakia:
After Anschluss, Hitler declared that ethnic Germans living in Czechoslovakia were being mistreated. On September 30, 1938, Nazi Germany signed the Munich Agreement with France, Italy, and Britain demanding that Czechoslovakia cede a southern region to Nazi Germany. The Czechoslovak government was neither notified nor consulted about this. In the aftermath, territory was split between Hungary and Poland and Czechoslovakia almost ceased to exist. After the invasion of Poland, the Czechoslovak territory was directly integrated into the Third Reich.

Poland:
The Nazi agenda in Poland was not only to annex its territory, but to totally destroy Polish culture and the nation itself. Jews were expelled from their homes and forced to live in ghettos, and Polish citizens were arrested off the streets and used in forced labor. Catholic clergy and Polish professors were also imprisoned or sent to concentration camps. After the start of Operation Barbarossa, the exploitation of Polish labor and resources increased, resulting in widespread disease and hunger. It is estimated that about 5.7 million Polish citizens died as a result of German occupation – about a sixth of its population.

AN:
So there it is! I hope you don't mind me using some less popular characters – Czech and Slovakia DID become official Hetalia characters recently (FINALLY!) and so I thought I should take advantage! I have been to the Czech Republic and have a friend from Serbia, so I felt relatively comfortable writing for those characters. (As opposed to Lithuania and Poland, which I have never been to and don't have any friends from. Whoops.)

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this story, and please leave a review to let me know why or why not! :)