Red Ascent: Sequel to Red Fall 38-41/?
It was opulence defined.
Gold glittered throughout, drapes of crimson, snow, and raven fabric hanging from ceilings that brushed the heavens. The marble floor reflected the entirety of the room, revealing a parallel world beneath the polished rock; the masked couples and their shadows glided across the shining surface in perfect synchronization, steps fluid and smooth.
Crystals attached to an extravagant chandelier glittered and shone under flickering light as countless candles illuminated the expansive space; wan light shone in through several skylights, while a whir of frosty flakes could be seen swirling across the floor-length windows.
Silk adorned tables bore every imaginable delicacy and treat; creamy towered cakes topped with succulent fruits and chocolates, moist, reddened meat and thick brown sauces, and silver platters of aged cheeses and warm, flaky bread. Glistening flutes of champagne bubbled over rims, the frothy white dribbling down smooth glass. The floating, fleeting sound of conversation drifted through the air, mingling with the aroma of fresh flowers; light, airy laughter could be heard, low tenors and breathy sopranos blurring together into one indiscriminate voice.
The coolness of the stone was the only thing keeping him tethered.
Pressed firmly against an ornate pillar, Alfred willed the noise to stop, for everything to be frozen in time by the frigid winds that whipped across the desolate plains outside.
Nervously running his shaking hands across the pastel mask, Alfred took several calming breaths; he had yet to join the festivities, telling the ever inquisitive Russian he wasn’t yet dressed when the man had come knocking.
“Very well,” the muted, saccharine tone had casually chimed from the other side of the door, “But do not keep my guests waiting, little patriot.”
And he here was, doing just that.
What was holding him back? He knew that his absence would only serve to make Ivan more suspicious, but to step into the light, to leave his haven wrapped in darkness made his stomach twist in painful knots, made his entire frame shudder with tremors.
Tonight.
Only tonight.
There would be no second chances, no repeats; this was it. If they failed-
No; he didn’t even want to imagine the consequences if they failed-they wouldn’t fail.
They couldn’t-
Peeking around the corner once again, he willed himself to have the courage to step forward, to join the prelude to the grande finale. He cursed himself for his hesitation, for his weakness;
He had made a promise; he couldn’t back down now, not when everything was set so perfectly to come together.
It was then that he saw her.
Straw blonde hair, long and shining, was curled into countless ringlets, cascading down her chest and back. Her dress, a rich, deep emerald, had a high neck, the fabric draped just right to give her the desired willow-like shape. The delicate face, all blushing pinks and pale moonlight under a glittering mask, looked strangely familiar to him, jade irises glazed and far away. He found himself moving towards her without thought, into the warm orange-yellow haze of the room, drawn by the strange feeling of recognition. As she turned from him, he felt words dying on his lips.
The low-backed dress framed the art that stretched across her back; silver rings pierced two straight lines down her flesh, following the natural curvature of the spine. A silky charcoal ribbon was threaded through the centers, the ends tied into a perfect bow. Faux though it was, the illusion of the corset was both mesmerizing and revolting, the aesthetics striking, but the method harmful, the slight redness around the piercings an assurance of scars.
He felt his arm unfurl, fingers outstretched and spread as if to catch the girl’s retreating form.
A hand encircled his waist, pressure enough that he stumbled backwards.
“Does the General like what he sees?” Words that were mouthed against his ear, warm vibrations chilling his blood.
“I-Ivan-”
“I was beginning to worry about the patriot,” the elder whispered, “but no matter, now; come, we must make the rounds. The guests have been asking after my little one.”
And then he was being guided, deceptively gently, towards the girl in the forest dress, who was now standing next to an unfamiliar man.
“Ah, Mr. Kozlov, I am glad you could find time to join us,” the Russian said, his voice silk and chocolate as he extended his arm. The addressed enthusiastically shook the elder’s arm, his smile almost as fake as the blonde’s.
“Not at all, Master General,” Kozlov chuckled, “It is an honor to be here; I trust you remember my escort? Darling, you are being rude; address the Master General.” The girl, fear creeping into her gaze, curtseyed humbly, lowly, locks like endless fields of rye tumbling over her shoulders.
“It is always a pleasure, sir,” the girl said, the tone meek and weary; with downcast eyes she rose, sparing a mournful glance at the American, “And the same, of course, to you, General.” The Russian smiled, and Alfred saw the shadows that lurked there.
“Ah, no,” Ivan said, brushing a light kiss across the girl’s hand, “the pleasure is all mine, Feliks.”
Recognition.
The words almost poured from his mouth, but he managed to swallow them, adding to the pit of vileness in his stomach, the horrible feeling of wanting to retch. How could he have mistaken him? But he had always liked girly things;
Wasn’t that right, Poland?
“I can never thank you enough for bringing us together,” Kozlov continued, talking a moment to nuzzle his ‘escort’s’ neck, Feliks paling further under the make-up, “A true treasure like this is hard to find; anything you need, I will provide, Master General.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kozlov,” the Russian almost hummed, “but we must be going now, da? I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.”
Alfred managed a shaky nod towards the couple, his heart wrenching painfully as the taller tightened his grip around the polish man’s waist and Ivan led the bespectacled man away.
‘They integrated into high society, into the families of the still rich and powerful…’
Ukraine’s words rang in his mind, echoing through every coherent thought. He-he knew that she wouldn’t have lied, but he never expected-
‘Some changed willingly, accepting the new situation and rules; others-
“Others did not,” Alfred mumbled almost inaudibly, almost crashing into Ivan as the elder suddenly stopped. Dazedly, he looked around the man to see a large group of girls, their blushing countenances leaking childish innocence and laughter.
“A-ah, Master General,” a young auburn beauty stuttered, hands fiddling with her lilac gown, “Would the-would General Alfred perhaps, like, to, u-um, d-dance?” The others tittered with giggles, murmuring their approval of the girl’s question. The Russian grinned jovially, falsely, as he drew the American from behind his back.
“Are you not a little young yet to be dancing? Ah, no matter; of course, the General would be happy to oblige; but only with one, da?”
The crowd immediately began to clamor for the desired spot, all big eyes and cooing tones as they descended upon the honey-blonde. Nervously smiling, he scanned the group for a partner, not really caring who it was; he had more important things to be thinking about.
The brush of soft skin, warmth against warmth.
Alfred looked up to meet the gaze of a raven haired woman, her sheared locks curling around milky shoulders; playful green eyes met ocean, ruby lips curving into a coy, seductive smirk.
“May I have this dance, General?”
“Yes,” the American replied, nearly breathless; as she led him to the floor, Alfred could feel the too saccharine gaze boring into his back, analyzing his every move. Swallowing hard, he tried to summon any knowledge of dancing he might have had as he lightly gripped her waist. She rested a neatly manicured hand on his broad shoulder, leaning in close as they began to sway.
“I’m glad you’re back, America.”
At this he nearly jumped back, but was able to slide it into their dance, playing it down as the tempo changed; she smiled as he turned her, the pair becoming close once again.
“Careful,” she whispered, keeping up her smiling face, “Ivan’s watching; it’s me, America; Elizaveta.” His eyebrows jumped into his hairline, lips parting slightly.
“H-Hungary?” he said softly, incredulously, “but-but your hair-”
“It will grow back, the color will return; I didn’t want to be recognized,” she murmured into his shoulder, their steps light and slow; her crimson gown fluttered outwards as he spun her again, folds of fabric twirling into the air. “I’m so glad it’s you.”
He hugged her closer, briefly resting his head against her own as azure slipped beneath fleshy lids. While he wanted to savor this moment, another reunion with a beloved friend, he knew it wouldn’t last.
“Poland is here,” he said urgently into her hair, “I saw him.” Elizaveta’s smile faltered, but turned it twice as high in order to cover the slip.
“I know; we all know,” she said sadly, her voice and her countenance failing to match, “There are others here too, others who have been corrupted and broken by him; they are barely anything anymore, living, yet not; their caged existence prevents the flourishing of life.
“They are dolls, trophies; pretty, but expected to quietly sit in their place. But you cannot think about them now,” Hungary said, her voice hardening with resolve, “If we are successful, then their chains will be broken, and we will finally be free. Do not forget this, America.”
And the music stopped.
Parting, the two slowly relinquished the other’s hands; moving to leave, the girl brushed a kiss across his cheek, a cover for the lips that hovered near his ear.
“We believe in you.”
And she was gone, blending into the vibrant dresses and echoing laughter with disturbing ease; there was not even a shadow of her presence, all trace drowned in the bubbling froth and blinding gold.
“Attention!”
Alfred looked towards the source of the voice, finding the origin in a neatly dressed soldier at the front of the ballroom; bowing out of the way, the gazes of the party-goers found Ivan who was stretched languidly in a chair (no-a throne); resting his head on the top of a propped hand, he gestured with the other, a lazy grin spreading across his face.
“My friends,” he said, crossing his legs as he leaned, “I hope that you have been enjoying the festivities; this occasion is for you, the ones who have made this new world possible. And, for this, I have a special treat for you.” A murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd, whispers placing butterfly kisses on hungry ears.
“General, can you join me, please?”
Alfred felt his stomach drop, his fingers twitching as he made his way towards the extravagant seat, towards Ivan; he forced the nausea down with difficulty, managing a wan smile as he faced the masked people, directly to the right of his captor.
He had a horrible feeling.
Ivan grinned.
The main doors moaned open and several soldiers began to march through, holding a limp man in their harsh grasps. Dirtied, grimy hair fell in messy blonde waves across a gaunt face, pale and chapped from the cold; hard, frigid eyes glared fiercely at all they came across, their power undiminished by the cracked glasses that balanced on his nose.
No-
They dragged his broken, thin body up the center of the room, the guests parting around them as they blanched in disgust. Dropping him unceremoniously in front of Alfred, the soldiers turned and walked back towards the door, their backs rigid; the ragged frame shuddered, coughing, wheezing for air as it curled in on itself.
No,no-it couldn’t-
“Matthew Williams,” Ivan purred, his low, sickly tone resounding through the quiet room. Standing, the Russian made his way towards the crumpled form, walking in wide circles around it. “Leader of the Canadian forces; though the country fell to us long ago, this man,” a swift kick to the stomach, “however, eluded us. For nearly a decade this man has hidden from us, but no longer; it is time for-retribution.”
A tremor of fervor swept over the crowd, the bile choking in Alfred’s throat as the bloodlust in the room weighed upon him.
“And I wish to give this honor to my closest friend, the man who has ensured our success with his brilliant strategies,” the Russian said, madness twinkling unnoticed in his violet irises, “General Alfred F. Jones.”
A roar of approval erupted from the guests and the American felt the heaviness of death in his palm, the feeling of molded metal and steel as Ivan handed him the gun.
“One shot should do, my patriot; show him what happens to those who defy the Republic.”
Descending into cheers and jeers, as if this was some game, the spectators loudly yelled, calling for blood and bone to decorate their floor. Returning to his seat, Ivan leaned back, his smug expression drowned out by the vicious chants.
Breathing beginning to quicken, Alfred raised the gun, pointing it directly at the Canadian’s head; his hand began to tremble, sweat manifesting at his hairline as his sight wavered.
He had to, had to-there would be s-suspicions if he didn’t and-a-and…
The man-no, his brother-looked up to meet his gaze, the dead eyes a fusion of ice and steel.
“Alfred,” his twin rasped, “I hate you.”
W-what?
H-he-he hates-?
The feeling was rearing again, the poison licking through his veins like fire; the feeling was welcomed, the cold celebrated, because he couldn’t take this, he couldn’t-
Click.
The shattering of glass reverberated throughout the room, the window exploding into a thousand pieces. A man rose from the shards, choppy brown locks sparkling with jagged crystal.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Toris said, a grin plastered on his face, “we’re tonight’s entertainment.”