Eight Men [fanfic]
Title: Eight Men
Author: MorriganFearn
Rating: R
Characters: Finland, Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Prussia, Poland, America, Russia
Genre: Dark, History, Friendship, Drama
Pairings: SuFin, DenNor, GerIta, LietPol and hinted others
Warnings: Violence, extreme sexual situations, dark themes
Summary: August 1945. While the humans debate the proper end to the Second World War in Potsdam, the nations are already in Nuremberg, trying to decide what to do with Germany, Bulgaria, and Finland. For eight of them, Allied and Axis alike, this has just been the inevitable conclusion of history.
Chapter: Two (Part 5 of 8)
Rating: R
Characters: Russia, Catherine the Great
Summary: October 1774. Russia is taught exactly what he is, and what his place is in terms of humans by his empress.
Warnings: Imperial!Russia and implied rape, human on nation mental abuse.
Eight Men
Historical Notes
Moscow - Cathrine the Great was one of Russia's most powerful rulers. She skilfully guided Russia through rapidly expanding borders, the Russo-Turkish War, the Partitioning of Poland, the French Revolution, was a patron of the arts and culture of Russia to an extent that has not been replicated by any Russian ruler, past or present, brought about the Russian enlightenment with her interest in the arts, and vastly increased the power of the Russian nobility while maintaining her own sovereign rights as a female ruler. However, as a consequence of expanded privilege, there was an expansion of power abuse among the Russian aristocracy. It was already hard to live in a villain class, and punishing to be a serf, now it became an almost unlivable existence. There were over 50 peasant uprisings in the first 12 years of Catherine's reign. These culminated in Pugachev's Rebellion, which became a real threat to Imperial power. However, it was crushed under orders by Catherine just as ruthlessly as the previous rebellions. Pugachev was caught and executed in Moscow on January 10th, 1775.
Chapter 2: That Which is Broken-Hearted
December, 1774 - Moscow, Russia [33]
It was snowing outside, and Ivan was thinking of sunflowers. This was not all that Ivan was thinking of, naturally. He was a large country with many thoughts and interests, and his sisters were with him, which meant that he had many things to think about. Quite a few involved keeping a proper distance from Belarus, because as she grew up, Natalya was beginning to worry him. Other thoughts ambulated toward the plans he had for this evening. Toris was going to be cooking tonight, and Ivan had to apologize for the way he had crushed the most recent personal rebellion.
His little mouse was so sweet and kind when Ivan apologized for what Toris made him do. He became like butter and soft warm bread fresh from Katyusha's ovens. It was a crime not to eat up every crumb of that bread. A crime not to hold Toris down and take all that he was offering. Really, Ivan almost could not wait until the next time he was forced to punish Toris, and they could begin the reconciliation process all over again.
But mostly, Ivan thought of sunflowers, looking at the white whirling flakes. There were sunflowers embroidered into the heavy drapes framing the window, and they were such a cheerful yellow color. Ivan liked yellow. It made him happy, and he liked being happy.
Yellow was also her color. Ivan would have to admit that he was a little in awe of her. Women always seemed like such powerful mysterious creatures. With open hearts that could suddenly slam closed like tiger traps, or remain open and free forever, or do so much that it made his head spin. Men did not have hearts. Ivan was not sure what he had, but it was not a heart, per se. He had to borrow his from Katyusha (and she, marvelous woman, simply gave it to him, knitting it up inside the new scarves he received each time the old one developed holes).
Maybe that was what was wrong with Natalya? Had he and Katyusha forgotten to give her a heart when they were putting her together, stitching up a little sister as one would stitch up a rag doll? [34] The theory made sense, but it troubled Ivan. If he was to blame for the false make of Belarus, then why did he not know how to fix her?
"Vanya," sweeping in a butter yellow dress, his adored Catherine approached the window. Somewhere outside in the storm church bells tolled the hour of midnight mass. "I apologize for the lateness of the hour."
He smiled at the apology. "I am Russia, majesty. I work as the hours need me," he bowed to the golden figure.
She laughed heartily, beckoning Ivan to come to the warm red carpeted study. He followed obediently, shutting the door after himself. "You wished to talk to me about the peasants?"
Fiddling with gloved hands, Ivan tried to compose himself. She was his leader. She was sunflowers. She was heart. She was not going to like this. "They are hungry. They are tired. Surely the words of-of, the French one, V-," Ivan's fingers made circles of confusion as he tried to remember the strange name. "Voltaire mean something?"
The mouth that was made for quiet assured smiles pursed in thought. Her hands, long sleeves weighty with lace against the cold, walked distractedly over the great desk behind which she ran the Empire. Ivan felt the weight of that lace dragging down her capable wrists like manacles. His nobles, and their power. His peasants, and their desperate wants. Him, Russia, the land trapped and tortured by long winter.
The fire in the great fireplace snapped and crackled. It gave them both yellow light. The light that made him happy. The fire worked into the knots riddling old logs, and cast small explosions among them like cannon fire. It lit Catherine.
At last she nodded to herself. "Vanya, some sacrifices have to be made so that I might make Russia the power of the world. Do you wish for England to have that title? My husband tried his hardest to give it to Prussia. You were so thankful when we finally got rid of Peter. It was a sacrifice that we had to make for the betterment of the empire." [35]
Ivan nodded, his mouth pulling at a tightly mild smile. Somewhere from his scarf, maybe, he had to dredge some understanding. For Catherine. Still, maybe they were not talking about the same thing. "Yes. Yes, but I am Russia. When the serf cries out in the night, because his wife is taken from his side, I hear it. I feel it when they dig through my crust to bury their children. What is happening hurts them, badly. And I know this."
"Do you?" Catherine asked quietly. "Ivan, tell me, for the sake of clarity, if you felt their pain, they would react to yours, right?"
Kindly eyebrows over mirroring eyes furrowed with uncertainty. "I have been told so."
"Stab yourself with the paper knife," the Empress instructed calmly.
Russia felt bewildered. His Catherine. His sunflower. His Empress. "Why, your majesty?"
Those weighty hands picked up the gleaming silver, and handed it to him, handle first. "To demonstrate the fallacy of the argument, Ivan. Please. It does not have to be a deep wound. Merely noticeable."
Ivan nodded. This was Catherine. She would not do him wrong. She was like Peter who brought people to him, and she loved yellow, and made him happy. Silver was the color of steel. Steel hurt. But it was not wrong. There was nothing wrong in the hurt. Just pain. So obviously, this was all okay. Ivan smiled at his ruler. "I am sorry if I made a mess on the carpet. Yes. So, what is the point?"
The small blade was handed back across the desk. Handle first, because the point was sharp and red. Catherine accepted it. She wiped the blood off absently, a side effect of their lives. "Ivan, what happened?"
"I hurt my hand."
Those kind blue eyes gazed at him, their wisdom deep. Please continue.
"Nothing else. My hand hurts now. It's a little like fire."
"Are the people who live in you on fire?" Catherine asked.
Shaking his beige head, Ivan tried to keep the firm axe of his nose between him and the dawning light of understanding. Understanding was cream colored, and that was not as strong and good as warm wheat yellow.
"Then, are they wounded in some way?"
No more than they every had been. Ivan shook his head.
Rising from her comfortable chair, the gorgeous Catherine adjusted her steel gray wig with confidence. "Ivan, understand that you are an angel, darling, but what you are has no connection to these people you speak of. The nation is in the land. In the valleys, and trees. In the large stands of wheat, and the summer poppies. You are confused, because they work so closely with you. But there are more of them, Ivan. They are just the workers. There will always be more workers."
She was right. She was right. He was wrong, and hearing what she said wrongly, because she was right, and it was okay. He smiled magnificently.
"I will go bandage my hand now."
"Russia is a great country, Vanya," Catherine told him, nodding her pretty round face, which was kind like Katyusha's. "You will survive this."
He smiled, firelight winking red in his deeply purple eyes Imperial purple now and walked out of the office. The idea of Toris' cooking preyed on his mind. Toris' cooking was not like Katyusha's cooking. It was simple in a different way. Because Toris was a man, and had no heart, which was why he did not cook like Katyusha, who put all her heart into the process. Katyusha. Yekaterina. Katerina. Catherine. Who loved yellow, like the sunflowers. Who wanted Ivan to be happy.
In the woodshed, one of them, connected to the palace by the servants' kitchen, Ivan found himself looking at knotted wood that exploded in glorious gouts of flame and rising sparks. Like Poland always promised he would. Ivan really hoped that Poland would do so. He hated Poland, because Poland made Toris want to be somewhere else. Poland, heartless and perverse, tried to trick Toris into thinking that he had a heart. Heartless, perverse, and a trickster. A god of tricks and stratagems.
He hated tricks and lies and heartless perversions. Katerina. Yekaterina. Catherine. Katyusha. Picking up a shovel, he thought of his older sister, who loved him not like little Natalya, but proper woman love that came from a heart made of natural things, and his Empress, who loved him, and how much blood there was on the ground between them. Not because of them. Never because of them. But between them, where ideologies clashed as they guided their little Vanya through life.
He felt happy. Orangey-yellow happy, like a sunflower bursting into flame. Katyusha had never really explained humans to him. Now his Katerina had, and he knew everything he needed. He was not The People, some disturbing nebulous term that depraved countries waved before themselves like flags of white and red and black. He was the land. Humans were humans, and there were always more of them to fill his ground.
Taking the shovel, he started to beat his wounded hand with both the flat and the blade, just to see what would happen. Ivan could ask Katyusha to bandage it up later with her heart.
Footnotes and Annotations
[33] - Just as with the Stockholm scene, all conversation is taking place in Russian, and so Russia has no need of his verbal 'da' tick.
[34] - I tried to do some research into the history of Belarus when beginning the project. Then I promised myself that I would never do so again, and went to have a bit of a lie down. The Frankensteinian patchwork of countries and cultures that make up Natalya, along with the nightmarish scenarios that she has been faced with are mind boggling, and taking it all into account, she is exceedingly well adjusted to life. No wonder that she wants to become one with Russia, actually. Ivan has been the most stable thing in her unstable life, and out of necessity must be very attractive.
[35] - Catherine the Great took over in a coup from her husband Peter III. As Emperor, he hero-worshiped his contemporary Frederick the Great (Old Fritz) of Prussia, and allowed Russian foreign policy to be dictated by Prussian whims. The Russian nobility took a very dim view of this, and quickly conspired to depose him after they realized that his wife was not enamored with these foreign upstarts. Peter and Catherine seemed to have a willing partnership rather than a loving marriage. Peter acquiesced to quietly living out his (subsequently very short) life in the country, as long as he was allowed to do so in the company of his mistress, and Catherine, who also had many acknowledged lovers, agreed. It was, given Russian history, a very amicable split, and Catherine went on to make Russia a vast Imperial power, while Peter was assassinated by one of her lovers (almost certainly not on her orders, though).
Links to Other PartsGo Back a Section: That Which Is Broken Hearted - Part Four
Go Forward a Section: That Which Is Broken Hearted - Part Six
Author: MorriganFearn
Rating: R
Characters: Finland, Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Prussia, Poland, America, Russia
Genre: Dark, History, Friendship, Drama
Pairings: SuFin, DenNor, GerIta, LietPol and hinted others
Warnings: Violence, extreme sexual situations, dark themes
Summary: August 1945. While the humans debate the proper end to the Second World War in Potsdam, the nations are already in Nuremberg, trying to decide what to do with Germany, Bulgaria, and Finland. For eight of them, Allied and Axis alike, this has just been the inevitable conclusion of history.
Chapter: Two (Part 5 of 8)
Rating: R
Characters: Russia, Catherine the Great
Summary: October 1774. Russia is taught exactly what he is, and what his place is in terms of humans by his empress.
Warnings: Imperial!Russia and implied rape, human on nation mental abuse.
Eight Men
Historical Notes
Moscow - Cathrine the Great was one of Russia's most powerful rulers. She skilfully guided Russia through rapidly expanding borders, the Russo-Turkish War, the Partitioning of Poland, the French Revolution, was a patron of the arts and culture of Russia to an extent that has not been replicated by any Russian ruler, past or present, brought about the Russian enlightenment with her interest in the arts, and vastly increased the power of the Russian nobility while maintaining her own sovereign rights as a female ruler. However, as a consequence of expanded privilege, there was an expansion of power abuse among the Russian aristocracy. It was already hard to live in a villain class, and punishing to be a serf, now it became an almost unlivable existence. There were over 50 peasant uprisings in the first 12 years of Catherine's reign. These culminated in Pugachev's Rebellion, which became a real threat to Imperial power. However, it was crushed under orders by Catherine just as ruthlessly as the previous rebellions. Pugachev was caught and executed in Moscow on January 10th, 1775.
Chapter 2: That Which is Broken-Hearted
December, 1774 - Moscow, Russia [33]
It was snowing outside, and Ivan was thinking of sunflowers. This was not all that Ivan was thinking of, naturally. He was a large country with many thoughts and interests, and his sisters were with him, which meant that he had many things to think about. Quite a few involved keeping a proper distance from Belarus, because as she grew up, Natalya was beginning to worry him. Other thoughts ambulated toward the plans he had for this evening. Toris was going to be cooking tonight, and Ivan had to apologize for the way he had crushed the most recent personal rebellion.
His little mouse was so sweet and kind when Ivan apologized for what Toris made him do. He became like butter and soft warm bread fresh from Katyusha's ovens. It was a crime not to eat up every crumb of that bread. A crime not to hold Toris down and take all that he was offering. Really, Ivan almost could not wait until the next time he was forced to punish Toris, and they could begin the reconciliation process all over again.
But mostly, Ivan thought of sunflowers, looking at the white whirling flakes. There were sunflowers embroidered into the heavy drapes framing the window, and they were such a cheerful yellow color. Ivan liked yellow. It made him happy, and he liked being happy.
Yellow was also her color. Ivan would have to admit that he was a little in awe of her. Women always seemed like such powerful mysterious creatures. With open hearts that could suddenly slam closed like tiger traps, or remain open and free forever, or do so much that it made his head spin. Men did not have hearts. Ivan was not sure what he had, but it was not a heart, per se. He had to borrow his from Katyusha (and she, marvelous woman, simply gave it to him, knitting it up inside the new scarves he received each time the old one developed holes).
Maybe that was what was wrong with Natalya? Had he and Katyusha forgotten to give her a heart when they were putting her together, stitching up a little sister as one would stitch up a rag doll? [34] The theory made sense, but it troubled Ivan. If he was to blame for the false make of Belarus, then why did he not know how to fix her?
"Vanya," sweeping in a butter yellow dress, his adored Catherine approached the window. Somewhere outside in the storm church bells tolled the hour of midnight mass. "I apologize for the lateness of the hour."
He smiled at the apology. "I am Russia, majesty. I work as the hours need me," he bowed to the golden figure.
She laughed heartily, beckoning Ivan to come to the warm red carpeted study. He followed obediently, shutting the door after himself. "You wished to talk to me about the peasants?"
Fiddling with gloved hands, Ivan tried to compose himself. She was his leader. She was sunflowers. She was heart. She was not going to like this. "They are hungry. They are tired. Surely the words of-of, the French one, V-," Ivan's fingers made circles of confusion as he tried to remember the strange name. "Voltaire mean something?"
The mouth that was made for quiet assured smiles pursed in thought. Her hands, long sleeves weighty with lace against the cold, walked distractedly over the great desk behind which she ran the Empire. Ivan felt the weight of that lace dragging down her capable wrists like manacles. His nobles, and their power. His peasants, and their desperate wants. Him, Russia, the land trapped and tortured by long winter.
The fire in the great fireplace snapped and crackled. It gave them both yellow light. The light that made him happy. The fire worked into the knots riddling old logs, and cast small explosions among them like cannon fire. It lit Catherine.
At last she nodded to herself. "Vanya, some sacrifices have to be made so that I might make Russia the power of the world. Do you wish for England to have that title? My husband tried his hardest to give it to Prussia. You were so thankful when we finally got rid of Peter. It was a sacrifice that we had to make for the betterment of the empire." [35]
Ivan nodded, his mouth pulling at a tightly mild smile. Somewhere from his scarf, maybe, he had to dredge some understanding. For Catherine. Still, maybe they were not talking about the same thing. "Yes. Yes, but I am Russia. When the serf cries out in the night, because his wife is taken from his side, I hear it. I feel it when they dig through my crust to bury their children. What is happening hurts them, badly. And I know this."
"Do you?" Catherine asked quietly. "Ivan, tell me, for the sake of clarity, if you felt their pain, they would react to yours, right?"
Kindly eyebrows over mirroring eyes furrowed with uncertainty. "I have been told so."
"Stab yourself with the paper knife," the Empress instructed calmly.
Russia felt bewildered. His Catherine. His sunflower. His Empress. "Why, your majesty?"
Those weighty hands picked up the gleaming silver, and handed it to him, handle first. "To demonstrate the fallacy of the argument, Ivan. Please. It does not have to be a deep wound. Merely noticeable."
Ivan nodded. This was Catherine. She would not do him wrong. She was like Peter who brought people to him, and she loved yellow, and made him happy. Silver was the color of steel. Steel hurt. But it was not wrong. There was nothing wrong in the hurt. Just pain. So obviously, this was all okay. Ivan smiled at his ruler. "I am sorry if I made a mess on the carpet. Yes. So, what is the point?"
The small blade was handed back across the desk. Handle first, because the point was sharp and red. Catherine accepted it. She wiped the blood off absently, a side effect of their lives. "Ivan, what happened?"
"I hurt my hand."
Those kind blue eyes gazed at him, their wisdom deep. Please continue.
"Nothing else. My hand hurts now. It's a little like fire."
"Are the people who live in you on fire?" Catherine asked.
Shaking his beige head, Ivan tried to keep the firm axe of his nose between him and the dawning light of understanding. Understanding was cream colored, and that was not as strong and good as warm wheat yellow.
"Then, are they wounded in some way?"
No more than they every had been. Ivan shook his head.
Rising from her comfortable chair, the gorgeous Catherine adjusted her steel gray wig with confidence. "Ivan, understand that you are an angel, darling, but what you are has no connection to these people you speak of. The nation is in the land. In the valleys, and trees. In the large stands of wheat, and the summer poppies. You are confused, because they work so closely with you. But there are more of them, Ivan. They are just the workers. There will always be more workers."
She was right. She was right. He was wrong, and hearing what she said wrongly, because she was right, and it was okay. He smiled magnificently.
"I will go bandage my hand now."
"Russia is a great country, Vanya," Catherine told him, nodding her pretty round face, which was kind like Katyusha's. "You will survive this."
He smiled, firelight winking red in his deeply purple eyes Imperial purple now and walked out of the office. The idea of Toris' cooking preyed on his mind. Toris' cooking was not like Katyusha's cooking. It was simple in a different way. Because Toris was a man, and had no heart, which was why he did not cook like Katyusha, who put all her heart into the process. Katyusha. Yekaterina. Katerina. Catherine. Who loved yellow, like the sunflowers. Who wanted Ivan to be happy.
In the woodshed, one of them, connected to the palace by the servants' kitchen, Ivan found himself looking at knotted wood that exploded in glorious gouts of flame and rising sparks. Like Poland always promised he would. Ivan really hoped that Poland would do so. He hated Poland, because Poland made Toris want to be somewhere else. Poland, heartless and perverse, tried to trick Toris into thinking that he had a heart. Heartless, perverse, and a trickster. A god of tricks and stratagems.
He hated tricks and lies and heartless perversions. Katerina. Yekaterina. Catherine. Katyusha. Picking up a shovel, he thought of his older sister, who loved him not like little Natalya, but proper woman love that came from a heart made of natural things, and his Empress, who loved him, and how much blood there was on the ground between them. Not because of them. Never because of them. But between them, where ideologies clashed as they guided their little Vanya through life.
He felt happy. Orangey-yellow happy, like a sunflower bursting into flame. Katyusha had never really explained humans to him. Now his Katerina had, and he knew everything he needed. He was not The People, some disturbing nebulous term that depraved countries waved before themselves like flags of white and red and black. He was the land. Humans were humans, and there were always more of them to fill his ground.
Taking the shovel, he started to beat his wounded hand with both the flat and the blade, just to see what would happen. Ivan could ask Katyusha to bandage it up later with her heart.
Footnotes and Annotations
[33] - Just as with the Stockholm scene, all conversation is taking place in Russian, and so Russia has no need of his verbal 'da' tick.
[34] - I tried to do some research into the history of Belarus when beginning the project. Then I promised myself that I would never do so again, and went to have a bit of a lie down. The Frankensteinian patchwork of countries and cultures that make up Natalya, along with the nightmarish scenarios that she has been faced with are mind boggling, and taking it all into account, she is exceedingly well adjusted to life. No wonder that she wants to become one with Russia, actually. Ivan has been the most stable thing in her unstable life, and out of necessity must be very attractive.
[35] - Catherine the Great took over in a coup from her husband Peter III. As Emperor, he hero-worshiped his contemporary Frederick the Great (Old Fritz) of Prussia, and allowed Russian foreign policy to be dictated by Prussian whims. The Russian nobility took a very dim view of this, and quickly conspired to depose him after they realized that his wife was not enamored with these foreign upstarts. Peter and Catherine seemed to have a willing partnership rather than a loving marriage. Peter acquiesced to quietly living out his (subsequently very short) life in the country, as long as he was allowed to do so in the company of his mistress, and Catherine, who also had many acknowledged lovers, agreed. It was, given Russian history, a very amicable split, and Catherine went on to make Russia a vast Imperial power, while Peter was assassinated by one of her lovers (almost certainly not on her orders, though).
Links to Other PartsGo Back a Section: That Which Is Broken Hearted - Part Four
Go Forward a Section: That Which Is Broken Hearted - Part Six