FILL REPOST DUE TO DE ANONhetalia_kinkFebruary 22 2011, 04:12:07 UTC
His knees gave out under him, and he collapsed into a puddle of his own blood. Laying there, gagging, he could look into the lifeless faces of his own comrades. A few hours ago they had been patriots, soldiers, taking blessings from priests on the roadside. Now they were painfully young, maimed, and dead.
As his vision blurred, a face appeared above him. Green eyes, pale hair. Jadwiga, he thought, and his lips mimed the thought. His beautiful Jadwiga, waiting patiently at home for him, all of seventeen. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Even if he lived, would she want him, a broken man?
"Get up!" cried the vision above him, and dimly he realized that the voice was masculine. Not Jadwiga at all. Somehow he was pulled to his knees. "You have to move!" the young man said, clutching at his tattered uniform, frantically trying to pull him to his feet. "They'll kill you if you don't move!"
The Russians. The Russians had crushed them. "I-I can't," he said, tears streaming down his face. He had not even the strength to stand. "I can't run -- they've taken Kościuszko -- our hero --" His voice broke.
Gunshots roared overhead, and the young man pushed him back down, covered his body with his own. "You should run," he whispered into the shell of the stranger's ear. "Don't stay here with me. Run -- and -- live."
The stranger caressed his face with heartbreaking tenderness. "Without you, I'll die no matter what," he told him softly. "You and your brothers are, like, my lifeblood. You're the only ones who keep me alive. The only ones who remember my name."
The stranger linked his hands. He trembled; he felt very cold. "What's -- your -- name?" he gritted out between chattering teeth. The world blurred around him again.
He could hear the other man telling him, "Feliks," and he gasped and said, "That's my name, too," and then the world went black, and there was no pain, and no screaming.
As his vision blurred, a face appeared above him. Green eyes, pale hair. Jadwiga, he thought, and his lips mimed the thought. His beautiful Jadwiga, waiting patiently at home for him, all of seventeen. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Even if he lived, would she want him, a broken man?
"Get up!" cried the vision above him, and dimly he realized that the voice was masculine. Not Jadwiga at all. Somehow he was pulled to his knees. "You have to move!" the young man said, clutching at his tattered uniform, frantically trying to pull him to his feet. "They'll kill you if you don't move!"
The Russians. The Russians had crushed them. "I-I can't," he said, tears streaming down his face. He had not even the strength to stand. "I can't run -- they've taken Kościuszko -- our hero --" His voice broke.
Gunshots roared overhead, and the young man pushed him back down, covered his body with his own. "You should run," he whispered into the shell of the stranger's ear. "Don't stay here with me. Run -- and -- live."
The stranger caressed his face with heartbreaking tenderness. "Without you, I'll die no matter what," he told him softly. "You and your brothers are, like, my lifeblood. You're the only ones who keep me alive. The only ones who remember my name."
The stranger linked his hands. He trembled; he felt very cold. "What's -- your -- name?" he gritted out between chattering teeth. The world blurred around him again.
He could hear the other man telling him, "Feliks," and he gasped and said, "That's my name, too," and then the world went black, and there was no pain, and no screaming.
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