Red Ascent: Sequel to Red Fall 1-3/?
This is requested sequel to 'Red Fall,' a fanfic about the events following a Russian triumph over America; if you haven't read the first story, I would highly suggest it; otherwise you won't know what's going on. ^^; It can be found in my old journal entries. Enjoy. :3
The view at the top was certainly spectacular. The sky rolled on for endless miles, the blue reaching the ends of the world and beyond. White wisps trailed along for the journey, though they were often too fickle to make it to the edge of everything, dissipating in their ignorance.
The sun was sinking low in the remaining, persistent clouds, flames licking across the almost miniscule plains below.
Ivan gave an approving sniff of the stiff drink.
Yes, he mentally purred, taking a sip, his view was wonderful.
His breath formed heavy vapor as he exhaled into the cool air, his finest vodka warming him from the inside, burning even. He licked his lips, a smirk spreading across his face;
Just the way he liked it.
The smoldering aftertaste made him remember: even though everything seemed placated and finally at ease, the Russian could not give up the fight. The new world would require constant surveillance and care; he would have to watch his back now that he was the sun of the new dawn.
The people were too slow, shackled by their ‘old world’ ways and petty traditions; everyone would be equal now. All countries would become one with the United Soviet-American People’s Republic and foreign boundaries would be forgotten and pushed aside. Everyone would be the same; Everyone would be equal and free; Everyone would be happy.
Ivan chuckled darkly.
What a crock.
That speech was what he had dictated to his former “comrades,” the countries that had looked up at him with sad, tired eyes, their skin and lands permanently stained with blood. Thin, split lips pleaded, begged for mercy after falling at his feet; not for themselves, usually, but for their people. The blonde smiled as he fondly remembered the Northern Italian’s pleas, ones that had been particularly amusing.
“P-please, I-v-van,” Feliciano had whispered, his hands gripping the tails of the Russian’s coat, “M-my p-peopl-le: they-they s-starve. Y-you c-can do wh-a-at you want wi-with me, but they…” a pause here for strangled, choked breaths, “they a-are inn-nocent, v-ve?”
Violet irises seemed to contemplate this, a tilt of the head even added for effect. The Italians had put up a good fight, despite all of the jabs about their World War II weaknesses. There were some resources he wanted, true, Ivan admitted, but the country lay bloodied and battered on the ground at his pristine boots; he could just take what he wanted.
Ah, how true answers reveal themselves.
Lifting one of the perfectly shined shoes, he brought it down on the Italian’s hand, hoping to crush each and every one of the bones. The scream produced reassured Ivan enough that he smiled, patting the sobbing man gently on the head.
“There is no innocence; only fools and people who are smart enough to realize its falsity. There are no white flowers left, da? They died along with all the other deceptive poisons in this broken world. But do not worry, little Feliciano,” Ivan said soothingly, grin widening, “my world will be different.”
The resulting tears had been surprisingly satisfying.
Taking another taste, the blonde added to the already glowing fire in his stomach, the new wave rapidly spreading over him.
It didn’t matter now; their hatred, that is. Most countries had fallen to the United Forces; the few that hadn’t were well on their way there. Though Ivan could have dissolved those that he captured, which in effect would kill them, he never did. Shaking the last few drops from his glass, he spared the sunset another lazy smile.
He wanted to see them squirm; struggle and writhe for each breath and step they took. Why?
Well, why not?
As long as he was in control, why shouldn’t he do as he pleased? He didn’t plan on a revolt anytime soon (though there were plans in place if that ever happened) so it isn’t as if he would be punished for his actions. Besides;
They deserved it.
“Ivan?”
Another twisted grin began to creep along Ivan’s face; Oh? The Hero hadcome to liberate his fellow countries from the darkness! How ever would the Russian stand up to this great opposition?
One step.
Two.
There would be the killing blow, the pinnacle of all action, shouted with curses vicious enough to make even the devil and shadows cringe-
Nothing.
Nothing except for a pair of slim arms wrapping around his waist, a chaste kiss at the nape of his neck.
Aurora still slept.
“Hello there, my little rebel,” the Russian said, leaning into his partner’s touch. Alfred laughed softly, inhaling the scent of expensive booze and the cool, crisp winter air.
“Even after all this time, you still call me that; won’t you call me by my name?” It was Ivan’s turn to laugh, the sounds perfectly rehearsed to sound fluid and natural.
“I would not want to spoil you, my patriot,” the elder country said, thumbing the other’s bottom lip, “But perhaps I will indulge you, just this once; da, Alfred?”
Said country captured the taller’s mouth in a tender kiss, his happiness evident in the slight shiftings and pressure. Breaking the moment, Alfred rested on his captor’s chest, tracing circles with his dexterous fingers.
Give Aurora her spinning wheel and she is content.
“The new order of sunflowers is in,” he said softly, “but one of the maids broke the vase; do we have another?”
“I believe that there is one in the main storage bay; just don’t go into the other rooms, my doll; they still need to be cleaned.” The American nodded, basking in one more moment of his lover’s scent.
“Alright,” Alfred said, as he turned back towards the door. Pausing with his hand on the knob, he turned. “I love you, Ivan,” he added with a blushing smile.
And he meant it.
Ivan turned back towards the sunset, now glimmering in the distance.
He told himself he would never love Alfred.
Alfred was his toy, his ultimate prize in his dance of blood, but never his love. Pouring himself another cup, he savored the sight of the clear liquid momentarily.
He needed to make sure to get rid of the things in the old storage rooms; the shy American had reminded him that equipment and other assorted trinkets from the Russo-American conflict had been shoved away there when Ivan was too busy to care. He didn’t need any of that stuff anymore, nor did Alfred need any unwanted reminders of their clash.
He sent the order for all the contents of the noted rooms to be burned at sunrise.
Raising his glass in toast to the dying embers of the sun, Ivan’s chest rumbled with laughter as a dark flame of darkness burned even stronger in his own heart.