Red Ascent (Sequel to Red Fall): 52-54/62
She knew her place.
Quiet, secretive; she was the insider, the one outlier who could sometimes steal slips of information and give it to the Resistance, like a storm giving water to the dying. However, there was only so much one could do by herself, and, even in her position, there were only so many things she had access too. Still, she did whatever she could whenever she could.
But it was never enough.
For every step she tried to tried to push Ivan back, his forces advanced threefold, ravaging any meager walls the opposition could build.
And then Alfred came.
Suddenly, they had a way to siphon this intelligence away, to twist it to their own advantage and unique skills; finally, they could take down the Russian and, for once, have him begging at their feet.
But she was still told to wait.
They didn’t want her to get hurt; after all, she was merely an innocent in all this, an ever-smiling, wide-eyed porcelain doll. She was helping their cause, in fact, so she obviously wasn’t an aggressor; therefore, she had been ordered to keep watch, but not to act, no, never to act.
She had wanted to scream, to show her hands that were heavy and red with blood and prove that she had just as much of a right to fight; she had her own sins to bear, ones that weighed heavy on her broad shoulders and tightened around her throat like a thick winter scarf.
She wished she could have taken the bullets for those children.
She wished she had never donned that uniform crafted of the darkest shadows and that brilliant, sickening red.
But most of all, she cried that she hadn’t been strong enough to close the lids of those quickly glazing violet irises, ones that had belonged to a брат, a fellow country; he had tried so hard to fight, to get away and save his brother.
And he did.
But he couldn’t save himself.
As he had been dragged back before her, colorful bruises flowering across his pale flesh, he had already known what would happen. Perhaps that was why he had smiled when the bullet punctured his temple, why the frozen grin had still been there long after life had trickled away. She had later found out it had been part of the plan; only the brunette had been expected to live, though the eldest certainly hadn’t known that. The bespectacled brother had stayed behind as a decoy, while the youngest-
She knew the blood would never come off her snowy skin, not even if she scrubbed until she was raw and screaming.
That’s why when she saw the knife, the glint of metal drawing a thin line of crimson, she decided that she was done with waiting.
It was her turn.
Unhindered by the long, wan cobalt gown, she tackled the short-haired girl to the floor, the latter’s own amethyst dress fluttering wildly before settling. Hands tightly gripping the other’s throat, the maiden didn’t even notice the pandemonium that quickly descended or her long ponytail that had fallen from the elegant comb.
“No more, Natalia,” Ukraine said, her voice low and rigid with anger, “I will not let you do this anymore.”
“г-rадостная шлю-ха,” Belarus gasped, breath coming in short spurts as she desperately tried to tag the elder with the blade. Hissing as blood trickled down from a slash on her arm, Yekaterina spared a look for the still startled Lithuanian, a black clad hand ghosting across the thin cut.
“G-go,” she said, another gash swiftly joining the first, trails intersecting to form ersatz garnet gloves, “Do not leave America with Ivan; he needs you.” For once, Toris looked conflicted, sole-sight darting to the Briton, who was fending off Natalia’s accompanying soldiers; he wasn’t overwhelmed, but he couldn’t handle more than the few he had.
“But, I-!”
“For fuck’s sake, Toris, we can handle these pansies,” Arthur yelled over the ever increasing din, “You know where you need to be!”
And the brunette’s eye widened, surprised for some unknown reason at this realization; his gaze steeled, and without a backwards glance he took off through the still-open door, rapid footfalls quickly fading.
With a primal scream, the younger women threw her sister to the side, losing her weapon in the process. Grabbing the still spinning implement, Ukraine stood and stumbled back, conveniently blocking the door with her shuddering frame. Sticky crimson made the knife hard to grasp, her white-knuckled grip clutching even tighter to the slickened ivory.
Slowly rising, blonde tresses curtained Natalia’s face, her neck burning with bright, flush pink marks; she began to laugh then, the peals echoing too loudly in the elder’s ears. Drawing up folds of silky violet fabric, she deftly unsheathed a dagger strapped to her upper thigh, a brother to the one in Ukraine’s trembling hands.
“You are so foolish, sister,” Belarus said, licking a trail across the acuate edge of the blade and smiling, “Brother will kill you if I do not.”
“That man is not my brother any more,” the long-haired woman bit out, tone a mixture of unbearable sadness and licking ferocity, “and has not been for a long time. Just how I am no longer your sister; no, that was over the moment you put the bullet through Latvia’s temple and forever stained my clothes with blood.”
The younger’s eyes glinted darkly, the grin widening in madness as she skillfully flipped her knife from hand to hand.
“It was a pity he did not scream.”
And then metal kissed metal, the resulting sound screaming in protest as the two met; Natalia laughed manically as they fought, the pair knowing only the knives and each other.
Meanwhile, the Briton shouted commands at the Resistance fighters; pitted against a wave of reinforcement guards, the team was holding its own, a slight cut or rapidly blooming bruise the only sight of wear.
As the German made quick work of yet another guard, moves still fluid and efficient despite their lack of use, his sight met warm honey. The gaze had regained some of its former shine, a few timidly outstretched fingers hanging awkwardly in the air. There were no words, but his eyes spoke volumes, page upon page of bubbling emotion.
And the blonde raised his gun, expression never flinching, never moving as he focused his aim; fleshy lids slipped closed under wind-swept auburn bangs, the head lolling slightly backward at the answer he received. And the trigger finger twitched-
Bang.
There was the sound of a body hitting the floor, knees first followed by the clatter of a pistol; scarlet quickly began to pool around the expensive leather shoes, dotting the surface with flecks.
And the lids slowly un-hooded, like shutters parting for the brilliant rays of the sun. The honey seemed to liquefy, the sweetness oozing salty tears onto now blushing cheeks; a choked sob caught in the man's throat, and the drops dribbled off his chin, the dead soldier behind him unnoticed, the now abandoned gun still cocked to kill.
“L-lud-wig,” he managed, his voice barely a whisper.
“Ich liebe dich.”
And those amber irises grew, lips parted as the salty streaks continued to multiply.
“Ich liebe dich, Feliciano,” the German said again, deciding that it could never be said enough, having lived with the regret, the burden of never saying it before; never again, he promised. As he outstretched his arms, he did something he hadn’t done in quite a while:
He smiled.
And soon he hand a mass of crying Italian in his hold, the shuddering heap tightly gripping his coat as the blonde buried his free hand in the other’s hair.
“M-mai a-ancora, mai a-ancora; Ti amo, ti amo-” the shorter sobbed, barely feeling a stray drop that traced a line down from sky eyes, something that would later be furiously denied.
A shrill scream pierced the air, jolting the pair apart. Their sights fell upon the still fighting sisters, both panting heavily; the elder was pockmarked with cuts and slashes, her skin glimmering with still warm tattoos. Natalia’s countenance was crazed, her body carrying significantly less damage than Ukraine’s, but her hand wavered with exhaustion.
“You are as poor as ever with your blade work, dearest sister,” the usual term of endearment now slurred for a cruel effect, “I ashamed to call you kin. And look-you dirtied your hair for Brother; how rude.”
And then Yekaterina visibly tensed, her lips rapidly twisting into a snarl.
“That is all you know, is it not, Belarus? Brother. This is Brother’s hair, not mine, and you cannot stand it. You are wanting it so bad? Then here! Take it!” And with a few passes of the blade, Ukraine’s locks broke free, curling about her chin as stray strands fell like snow. In a flash, she threw tresses at her opponent as she rushed the girl; able to distract the other just long enough, she caught the younger upside the head with the hilt of the knife.
Eyes slowly hooded as consciousness faded, a whisper that only Ukraine could hear passing pale pink lips; her sister’s body crumpled to the floor, weapon still clutched in her hand. Letting her own hit the ground with a clatter, the elder looked upwards, as if the answer to the question would be there.
As the last soldier in the room fell to the Resistance, Yekaterina examined her hand, once again colored red with life.
“No-there-there is still hope.”
She heard people calling her name as her knees buckled and her face met the cool marble, the world quickly fading into the darkness.
~~
He wasn’t quite sure where he was.
Not that it mattered.
Countless stained glass windows cast innumerable hues about the expansive space, the carefully constructed pictures gazing down upon him in their wisdom. The gun still weighed heavily in his limp hand, his gaze disturbingly blank and empty; he examined the weapon briefly, his eyes admitting that he really couldn’t recall just what it was for. Slowly shuffling up the long aisle, lined with beautifully carved wooden pews, the muted light centered at the front of the room twinkled across his dead stare.
An alter was laid with virgin white fabric, the delicious, pure cream dirtied with years of dust and lack of care; absently raising his sight upward, he belatedly realized that the roof was absent, save a few moaning beams, something that obviously hadn’t happened recently.
Snow filtered in through the gaps in ceiling, a lonely flake resting on his nose as vapor swirling from his parted lips, quickly chapping from the cold. The moon cast the only light, the pale panels too cold, unlike its colorful counterpart.
Seeming to analyze the sky, he regarded the inky black with a curious, somewhat confused interest.
“Does he hate me too?” Words that were unsure of their recipient, ones that were slurred with a sudden sleepiness.
He was so tired.
Pressing his back against the stone alter, he slid until he was sitting on the floor, legs awkwardly extended in front of him, the white covering moving with him, rumpling the sheet with imperfection.
He fumbled a hand across his chest, finding the desired metal tags and running his fingers across the indented surface.
“You don’t want anything from me, do you?”
As the silence answered, Alfred’s eyes veiled, didgets still entwined with the neck chain.
And from the other end of the long aisle, the heavy door creaked open, the wan light just barely illuminating the entrance.
Irises glimmered, madness and mirth mixing.
Found you.
Брат- brother
гrадостная шлюха- filthy whore
Ich liebe dich- I love you
Mmai ancora, mai ancora; Ti amo, ti amo- Never again, Never again; I love you, I love you.