Hetalia isn't mine. It belongs to Hidekaz Himuruya. Problem? Then go send a letter to Himuruya.
The sunlight spilled through the gape of the beige silk curtains of the quiet study, casting a soft radiance on the fountain pen that was scribbling neat, cursive notes on the cream-colored pages of a black leather-bound journal. Russia was bent over the journal, letting the dark red ink flow onto the paper in elegant stanzas. Writing poems was one of Russia's secret pastimes, one that he preferred to have unknown to the other nations not because he wrote those silly and overly optimistic poems full of sunshine and flowers and romance, but because he must keep his imminent glory a secret.
Russia writes war poems.
The many verses that Russia kept between those leather covers were of combats and crusades, of conquests and slavery. They described the smell of gunpowder emanating from rifles and grenades, the crimson stain of blood as his soldiers were slain mercilessly on the battlefield, and the sounds of anguished cries as his soldiers' loved ones mourned their heroes' deaths. There were details of parades riding on the snow-encased roads to celebrate his glorious victory of every battle as his people danced merrily and played instruments to their leader. Whether to pass the dull time during world conferences or quickly capture the sudden inspiration and use it, Russia would write line after line of wars almost daily. Over the years, his journal sealed in hundreds of poems.
Among the hundreds of poems Russia wrote was one that he cherished the most, the very first one he wrote as soon as he purchased the journal. This poem was one of a young boy, shivering in the desolate terrain as the snowfall masked the trail of footprints he made while trekking the small town. He looked to his left and right, observing the effects of poverty and hopelessness as his citizens struggled to survive after he was conquered by the Mongolian Empire. It was then that the flame of passion was lit within his heart; it was seeing his people grovel and moan that caused a shift in his psyche. These people were the people that he will bring prosperity and strength to, as he will get stronger and stronger and fight and win. The poem was of a little boy who promised his people and himself that the world will fall to his feet as he dominate each and every nation he can find. He was able to conquer Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia in such a little amount of time; that little boy was growng up unstoppable!
Something on the desk caught Russia's eye as he reached for the shot-glass of vodka. It was a framed photo of the Allies together, one of the many copies that America mailed to them. He picked it up and looked at it with a gentle smile across his face. Everyone was beaming in the photo, even England, who had a penchant for scowling always (except for when he's all alone, which Russia just couldn't wrap his head around). America's smile was the brightest of them all, a big smile that matched his vivacious, optimistic, and eager mentality, as if he actually believed that he would reign te world as the biggest superpower or muh longer. It was amusing to see them all like this, smiling as if death and destruction weren't going to cloud their futures. They go about their day, bickering and teasing and laughing, stupidly unaware of the dark powers held within Russia's being that can destroy them with a simple flick of the wrist-
Russia felt his pen scratch against the wooden finish of his desk. He looked down at his journal and noticed that he had absentmindedly scribbled down battle plans and a list of the other nations' weaknesses to the point that it filled out the rst of the page, his handwriting shifting from graceful loops to harried chicken scratch. He chuckled to himself, smiling at the little idiosyncrasy that happens when he wasn't preventing his mind from wandering to those dark areas. He clutched the little shot-glass of vodka between his finger and thumb and leaned back in his chair, tipping the clear liquor into his mouth and savoring the warm, starchy sting. He twirled the sleek fountain pen in his other hand and watched the sunlight bounce off of its reflective material.
"They will all become one with me," Russia predicted with a smik.
According to WebMD, Delusional Disorder is when a person believes that an event that hasn't happened, but has a possibility of happening, is happening or will come true. Whenever Russia speaks about how he will conquer everyone, this disorder immediately spoke to me (although this chapter seem more like horror-movie Sociopathy than Delusional Disorder.)