Red Ascent: Sequel to Red Fall 14-16/?
Brilliant straw waves were whipped about by the wind, wintry flakes clinging to the silky strands. Slowly, the American lowered his scarf, the cold almost immediately chapping the fleshy lips. He didn’t bother to smile.
“-Name,” the choked, quiet voice continued, swallowing thickly, “Alfred F. Jones.”
“America…” the brunette in front whispered, his aim faltering as the gun wavered in his hands.
Alfred wanted to grin and cry; to laugh as he sobbed and reach out his arms, holding each and every one of his friends and never again letting go. But he found that there were no words to speak, not a single utterance that could convey his meaning, his sorrow, his pain.
So he said nothing.
“Shoot him.”
Both the American and the brunette looked towards the source of the voice, startled from the pregnant silence. Ratty blonde locks that fell long past the shoulders shielded one eye, the other trained on Alfred. A once muscular, slender figure was bony, the angles awkwardly jutting and meeting each other; there was no warmth in his face, only anger and hatred that burned white-hot.
“You heard me; blow his fucking head off,” the man elaborated bitterly, his eyes never blinking, never moving, as he dictated his command.
Recognition.
“Frances…” Alfred mouthed, hardly believing what he was seeing. He looked-so broken. The Frenchmen still refused to look away.
“You have the master goddamn strategist for this entire fucking war standing right in front of you, and you’re hesitating; kill him, Toris!”
The American turned back to the brunette in the center, his heart pounding painfully in his ears.
“Toris…?” Alfred said, his breathing sudden shallow, “You’re Toris?” The Lithuanian flicked his gaze back to the bespectacled man, his eyes wary, distrustful. Unknowingly touching his own eye, Alfred barely breathed, “What happened to your eye?”
This shocked Toris completely, almost dropping the gun in surprise; how could he not know? Was this some kind of ploy? Looking closer, the Lithuanian scrutinized his figure, looking directly into the other’s stare. His own gaze widened imperceptibly;
…But it couldn’t be possible-could it?
“Toris!” Frances shouted again, his voice raw and furious, “What are you doing?! This is General-the second in command! For god’s sake, he killed my Angleterre!”
Stop.
Alfred suddenly felt light-headed and dizzy; time slowed and froze, the seconds passing like years as the words rang in his ears, the buzzing drowning out all other noise.
“You’re lying,” Alfred said almost inaudibly, his legs beginning to shake. He frantically looked through the crowd, looking for a mop of blonde hair and dark eyebrows; a semi-permanent scowl that would blossom into a smile if tweaked just right. But all he saw were scarlet pools, emerald eyes crying tears of crimson as last, harsh breaths were drawn.
‘If I must die, I want it to be-by your hands.
I-I’m sorry; I couldn’t s-save you…’
“England-England, where are you?” he said, quietly, hysterically. Only the brunette noticed the change, as the others were soon drawn into France’s chant.
“You killed your own father; your brother!”
“Monster!”
“Traitor!”
“Kill him! Kill him!”
“It’s all your fault, coward!”
Click.
‘What do you do when you feel threatened, my one?’
Shut out all outside forces; prepare to fight.
‘Good, good, my patriot; how do we fight?’
We fight to win; total defeat; all or nothing.
‘Da,’ a glittering smile, shadows seeping into the memory, ‘And how do we play Russian Roulette, my soldier?’
With a fully loaded gun.
Eyes became blank and empty; a familiar feeling was washing over him, a sense of cold, impenetrable calm and painful emptiness. An erratic thumping in his chest quieted, the beating almost nonexistent now.
Oh?
Were they still talking?
The jeers had only increased in volume, deteriorating into vicious, incomprehensible phrases and sounds. Then, suddenly:
“Why isn’t he doing anything?”
The shouting slowly died as the countries gazed upon Alfred, their eyebrows drawn in confusion at his lack of action. Was the General really just going to let them shoot him?
The American smiled.
“I apologize; we haven’t even had time to get to know each other, have we?” he said softly, his tone airy, “How rude of me; let’s play a game to get more familiar, okay?
Toris took a step back; he had seen that look before. Those same eyes had glimmered happily at him as his bones were broken, as his life dribbled onto the floor in wet, sticky drops, as he cried, and cried, and cried-
“Fine! I’ll do it myself!” the Frenchman screeched, ripping the gun from the Lithuanian’s hands.
“No, Frances, don’t-!”
The epitome of grace.
Quick, floating steps; fluid motions and the lithe twisting of the body; a sharp uppercut with an open palm and a painful cracking filling the air.
Toris blinked.
And everything was still.
Alfred was now balancing a gun in his palm as Frances held his bleeding, broken nose, blood trickling between his fingers. Even he had nothing to say; he hadn’t even seen the American move…
As if it was second nature, the blonde twirled the gun around his index finger, letting it fall into the perfect indentation in his hand. In one flowing movement, Alfred raised the gun to the air and fired off a shot, the sound reverberating painfully through the deadly silent forest.
“Thank you for your suggestion, comrade,” the American said, the corners of his mouth drawn upwards, “This is one of my favorite games. And look, we have already started; the first shot is always used to begin, yes?
“Game? What game?” Romano managed, the attention of the group now solely focused on the blonde. Licking a stray trail of red from his fingers, the bespectacled man grinned, his lips now partially dyed crimson.
“Why, Russian Roulette, of course,” Alfred chided teasingly, giving the barrel of the revolver a careful, loving spin, “Now; who’s first?”
“You can’t play Russian Roulette with a fully loaded gun! That’s suicide!” Romano sputtered incredulously, warily eyeing the firearm.
Alfred only smirked as he tossed the revolver high up into the air, catching it adroitly behind his back. Pausing only briefly, he brought it forward with a twirl once again, enjoying his small show.
“It is not fully loaded anymore; one shot to start the game, remember? Besides, comrade,” the blonde stressed sweetly, “I think that I would know, yes?”
Because I’ve had twenty years to learn.
The American raised the gun, pointing it at his chosen plaything.
“You.”
Snow swirled in front of the selected man’s face, his one eye now firm with a plan of action.
“’Face your enemy like a true warrior, or rot in the ditch’; this is what you said,” Alfred repeated, his speech even morphing as he slipped further into the past, “Well, hypocrites are just as bad as cowards, yes?”
Toris remained motionless, his gaze crystallized with steel. But suddenly, he moved forward, his stride strong and steady as he reached the still leering American. He extended his arm, palm facing the heavens, waiting for the weapon. As Alfred moved to give it to him, the Lithuanian withdrew his fingers.
“Oh, just one thing before we begin,” the brunette said slowly, taking a breath, his sole sight serious; a raised eyebrow was his only response, “I forgive you, America.”
“An apology?” Alfred laughed, “What could you possibly forgive-”
I forgive you, America.
Coherency, reasoning slowly inched back, realization returning in slow, agonizing bursts; the programming began to settle, the true poison once again slipping away to sleep in his core, as he remembered-
And then there was heat as the cold drained, trickling away as if cleansed by the spring rains. Emotion returned with the warmth, and it was everywhere, and he ached all over, and suddenly he couldn’t see-
He looked at his hand, so shocked to see the weapon that he threw it away with a gasp, his arms and frame shaking. Tears blurred his vision, and he finally found the words he wanted to say:
“I’m sorry.”
Toris smiled, nothing like it used to be, but it was all for Alfred, all for the Hero that had finally returned, for it was the Hero that had possessed the hardest trial of all. And with open arms, and an open heart, he spoke:
“I forgive you, America.”
Alfred had never felt more relieved as he sobbed into the Lithuanian’s embrace.