(no subject)
Russia closed his eyes against the pain. A hand clenched at his stomach, tried to keep himself together at the seams; Clenched at the wound that burst into being when his city was blasted apart. Nizhny Novgorod, Kazan, He felt as his people were killed instantly from the first blast, and then as shrapnel and flames took lives. The wound sapped at his strength, blood slipping past his trembling fingers as he probed at the burned and torn flesh.
Russia understood Japan now, knew how Nagasaki and Hiroshima’s fall felt.
He struggled to the door, leaning against the frame for a moment before he pushed himself forward with a gasping breath. His mind swam with images of blood and gore and death. Of his cities burning and destroyed, his people fleeing and dying. He only managed his way through his Kremlin by memory alone. People rushed past him, screaming from the invasion, screaming from his appearance. He glowered at those who tried to get him to stop and treat the flesh-wound and pushed forward. Soldiers marched across his back; burning the lands, and killing his people. The only comfort he had was that his beloved Moscow had yet to be breached.
The people were taken by surprise at this invasion- no one could have foreseen but he should have known, should have protected his people better- and though they scattered they also fought fiercely for their survival.
Russia pushed himself-trying to get out, trying to go and fight- but in a sudden moment he felt his back arch in pain, steel cables and tracks blowing apart, the trains of his Trans-Siberian being derailed and destroyed. With a hoarse wordless scream he felt the base of his spin shatter into pieces and stumbled forward on suddenly unresponsive legs. The fall knocked his breath from him. Tears burned and fell from his eyes as he panted, pain making his mind go hazy. Wisteria eyes glanced back at the limp, tangled mess his legs were in.
It was in an instant that Russia realized he couldn’t feel them anymore.
Despite his numb legs, the pain in the rest of his body was immense and Russia was still bleeding from his stomach wound, but he pulled himself up on struggling arms and dragged himself further along. He didn’t know what he was trying to do, he was incapable of helping anyone in this condition, but being outside and getting a glimpse of his Moskva was better than staying curled up in a corner of the Kremlin. Somewhere in the back of his might was a deep forbidding notion that this was it. He could feel the curl of death- familiar but not fully known, he hadn’t truly died and stayed dead before after all- brushing against his mind.
Russia propped the heavy door open and slid out of the Kremlin on his stomach, ignoring the way his torso and wound were ripped up by the floor. As he reached the stairs he could feel his arms giving out on him and with a sharp inhale he twisted himself around, slumped on the stone stairs in a heap.
Blood stained the stones, pooled around him as he stared out at his capital. He had loved this city. It was his heart, his life-blood, and now, feeling the enemy slowly chipping away at his boarders, he knew he would be losing his heart for the last time. This time he wouldn’t be finding it tucked away in some corner, or down a hall. He wouldn’t see Lithuania or Estonia hand him a found heart with faintly exasperated looks.
He wouldn’t be getting his heart back. He was leaving his Moskva behind. And that knowledge hurt more than the flesh-wounds.
Russia brushed tears from his cheeks, leaving behind brilliant crimson. It would fade within moments, he knew. Turn from blood to stone. Already he could see the color sapping from his already pale skin, turning his fingertips marble white and as hard as stone. He held his arms up in the sky; paling eyes following the curve of veins in his arms lose their blue hue as his heart pumped living marble through his body.
For all their human looks, nation-people were also truly a part of the land. Thus, when their lives ended they once more joined the earth. He’d seen it happen once before, saw The Golden Horde turn to Marble; fierce golden eyes turning white even as the man snarled his defiance. Russia had been but a child in form then, but he’d never forgotten it. He couldn’t banish the images from his mind as The Golden Horde froze in place, turned as pale as snow, and slowly crumbled. It was terrifying to watch, he knew, but no one was there to watch the nation’s last moments. To see his hair stiffen and turn to stone in the breeze, his eyelids blink over whitening eyes, his arms turn marble strong.
It was terrifying and peaceful.
The pain faded away as his nerves became marble- organs stopped failing, blood stopped spilling- and Russia was content to gaze up into the inky black sky and watch the stars as his world fell around him.
The last thing he saw was a twinkle of silver diamonds in the sky before his vision was over taken by white, and then black as he faded out of being. He didn’t feel it as his legs crumbled and turned to dust in the wind, his fingers and hands following next. His body was gone within minutes, leaving behind only his clothes, once more free from bloodstains but dipped in the marble dust of a fallen nation.
Russia would watch as his people pulled together, took back his heart from the clutches of the other nations. As his successor-his child- was born. She bore his scarf around her neck, a too fast growing child turned adult in a few years. Russia didn’t think she’d remember him, but she did. She greeted him with a smile and his name when he showed up, a hint of vodka, pine and snow on the breeze. She never mentioned it, but Ivan (He wasn’t truly Russia anymore, she was) was certain that somewhere in the back of her mind she had his memories.
It was a sad notion, but comforting at the same time. He wouldn’t be forgotten.
Russia understood Japan now, knew how Nagasaki and Hiroshima’s fall felt.
He struggled to the door, leaning against the frame for a moment before he pushed himself forward with a gasping breath. His mind swam with images of blood and gore and death. Of his cities burning and destroyed, his people fleeing and dying. He only managed his way through his Kremlin by memory alone. People rushed past him, screaming from the invasion, screaming from his appearance. He glowered at those who tried to get him to stop and treat the flesh-wound and pushed forward. Soldiers marched across his back; burning the lands, and killing his people. The only comfort he had was that his beloved Moscow had yet to be breached.
The people were taken by surprise at this invasion- no one could have foreseen but he should have known, should have protected his people better- and though they scattered they also fought fiercely for their survival.
Russia pushed himself-trying to get out, trying to go and fight- but in a sudden moment he felt his back arch in pain, steel cables and tracks blowing apart, the trains of his Trans-Siberian being derailed and destroyed. With a hoarse wordless scream he felt the base of his spin shatter into pieces and stumbled forward on suddenly unresponsive legs. The fall knocked his breath from him. Tears burned and fell from his eyes as he panted, pain making his mind go hazy. Wisteria eyes glanced back at the limp, tangled mess his legs were in.
It was in an instant that Russia realized he couldn’t feel them anymore.
Despite his numb legs, the pain in the rest of his body was immense and Russia was still bleeding from his stomach wound, but he pulled himself up on struggling arms and dragged himself further along. He didn’t know what he was trying to do, he was incapable of helping anyone in this condition, but being outside and getting a glimpse of his Moskva was better than staying curled up in a corner of the Kremlin. Somewhere in the back of his might was a deep forbidding notion that this was it. He could feel the curl of death- familiar but not fully known, he hadn’t truly died and stayed dead before after all- brushing against his mind.
Russia propped the heavy door open and slid out of the Kremlin on his stomach, ignoring the way his torso and wound were ripped up by the floor. As he reached the stairs he could feel his arms giving out on him and with a sharp inhale he twisted himself around, slumped on the stone stairs in a heap.
Blood stained the stones, pooled around him as he stared out at his capital. He had loved this city. It was his heart, his life-blood, and now, feeling the enemy slowly chipping away at his boarders, he knew he would be losing his heart for the last time. This time he wouldn’t be finding it tucked away in some corner, or down a hall. He wouldn’t see Lithuania or Estonia hand him a found heart with faintly exasperated looks.
He wouldn’t be getting his heart back. He was leaving his Moskva behind. And that knowledge hurt more than the flesh-wounds.
Russia brushed tears from his cheeks, leaving behind brilliant crimson. It would fade within moments, he knew. Turn from blood to stone. Already he could see the color sapping from his already pale skin, turning his fingertips marble white and as hard as stone. He held his arms up in the sky; paling eyes following the curve of veins in his arms lose their blue hue as his heart pumped living marble through his body.
For all their human looks, nation-people were also truly a part of the land. Thus, when their lives ended they once more joined the earth. He’d seen it happen once before, saw The Golden Horde turn to Marble; fierce golden eyes turning white even as the man snarled his defiance. Russia had been but a child in form then, but he’d never forgotten it. He couldn’t banish the images from his mind as The Golden Horde froze in place, turned as pale as snow, and slowly crumbled. It was terrifying to watch, he knew, but no one was there to watch the nation’s last moments. To see his hair stiffen and turn to stone in the breeze, his eyelids blink over whitening eyes, his arms turn marble strong.
It was terrifying and peaceful.
The pain faded away as his nerves became marble- organs stopped failing, blood stopped spilling- and Russia was content to gaze up into the inky black sky and watch the stars as his world fell around him.
The last thing he saw was a twinkle of silver diamonds in the sky before his vision was over taken by white, and then black as he faded out of being. He didn’t feel it as his legs crumbled and turned to dust in the wind, his fingers and hands following next. His body was gone within minutes, leaving behind only his clothes, once more free from bloodstains but dipped in the marble dust of a fallen nation.
Russia would watch as his people pulled together, took back his heart from the clutches of the other nations. As his successor-his child- was born. She bore his scarf around her neck, a too fast growing child turned adult in a few years. Russia didn’t think she’d remember him, but she did. She greeted him with a smile and his name when he showed up, a hint of vodka, pine and snow on the breeze. She never mentioned it, but Ivan (He wasn’t truly Russia anymore, she was) was certain that somewhere in the back of her mind she had his memories.
It was a sad notion, but comforting at the same time. He wouldn’t be forgotten.