Poland - "Endlessly" (Part III)
VII
Everyone was dead.
He could hardly move. His back was pressed against the crumbling walls of an old chapel. Just two days ago he had stood where Royal Castle had been, but now there was only smoke and rubble. The charred silhouette of a soldier blown by a grenade decorated the opposite wall in a grim spectacle. Poland grunted and tied the final knot of the bandage around his head. Caked blood and fresh one splattered his face, his boots, and his uniform was stained with gunpowder and mud. He took a deep breath, hugging the riffle against his chest and looking toward the grey sky through a hole in the roof. The earth shook as overhead the engine of a Russian plane roared with a metallic timbre. Poland sniffed and chuckled dryly. Surely the trumpets of the infernal horsemen sounded like that giant, metallic beehive because obviously this was hell.
Outside it was a wild chase of sounds. Gunshots, explosions, screams, Polish and German were all mixed in a hollow echo that resembled nothing. Earlier in the chaos, in between the orders to “raze his beloved city to its foundations”, he had dived into the streets bellowing, the war-cry raw in his throat. One of his men thrust himself against him and held him by the collar, pulling him away from the whizzing bullets’ course. On his right side, a grenade went off and Poland hit his head on the cold floor after his body was flung, then forced down heavily like a sack. For a moment everything moved in slow-motion and people seemed stupid and confused. The world spun out of control and red spots blinded him momentarily. He could still feel the soldier’s iron grip on his sleeve but when he looked only the arm of the man remained, the limb held onto Poland’s upper arm tightly, twisted unnaturally into a claw, like the broken piece of a rag doll. Inches away, the soldier laid motionless in a puddle of his own still warm innards, his remaining limbs akimbo, and his face was so charred and disfigured that he was almost unrecognizable.
His ears were ringing again and Poland moaned as he pressed his forehead against the stone. He just then realized his forehead was bleeding, a deep angry cut jarred the skin and he probably had hit his head too hard, the constant thudding of his skull assured him that. Or maybe it was just the cacophony, the roaring bullets and tanks. He cursed and screamed as he felt how he was torn again and the tears streamed paths down his dirt-covered cheeks as he thought of the lifeless eyes of the black and red face of the man who had saved him, forever stuck in a mask of horror and shock. He looked up, confused and dizzy and as he wrenched the arm from himself, he felt the acid rising and he vomited until his limbs shook and his hair was matted and dirty enough.
When he closed his eyes, there he was again, back in 1241. His insides burned and blazed, the voices of his children mingled with the screams of the damned and the burnt and the pained. His Warszawa -his heart- was ablaze, robbed of its splendor and pride, its people hung like puppets, like old clothes, victims of Lapanka and pointless hate. Just like Krakow had been robbed of her identity, her sovereignty, how the City of Kings had been desecrated. How his children had ran in fear of the blade that rushed just behind their necks in the form of heavy cavalry. Now, there was only panic, the wild sense of self-preservation that desperately gripped his heart and his sword in Grunwald and Legnica. The confusion was the same, the same fear of doom that had made his heart race more than the thrill of battle when he was surrounded, blinded by a screen of smoke and the heavy pounding of horse-hooves came from everywhere. He was stripped of his wings, and then, in a demonical tirade, they surged in a bloody spectacle with Henry’s tiny head impaled in a sharp lance. The blade, steel coloured black with blood, jutted through his throat, and his pious mouth hung open in a perpetual scream.
When he opened his eyes again there was no head and no horses, but the smoke and the noise were always there.
VIII
Providence had answered with a bittersweet turn of events that only left Poland with the copper after-taste from a punch squarely in the mouth. Troops camped just beyond the Vistula waters, fires shimmered and heated mugs with whatever blasted venom those Russki drank. He could almost see the smile on that bastard’s face and how he would look down saying in a cruelly innocent tone, “I told you so, little Poland.” A chill ran down his spine.
Poland spat, his saliva was dark red -it was a dark spot on the concrete. Among the metallic taste of the blood, he still savored traces of the scarce provisions a Hungarian soldier had given him. As he munched the stale food earlier he smiled as the lingering touch of Hungary gave him energy. But the effect could only last so long. And Liet… there was no word from him. With a smirk Poland wondered and conceded that he was probably still sore about the whole Vilnius issue. If he survived this then maybe he should apologize… and then smack him for not helping him at all. Yes that image did brighten his mood for a little while longer.
He continued looking at the sky, unblinking and murmuring a passage that he had read in a private letter from a friend over an over with a humorless smile. "We are waiting for you, red plague... you will be salvation welcomed with revulsion... we are waiting for you, our eternal enemy... bloody murderer of so many of our brethren..."
He had to at least know that he could still feel pain that helped him remember that he was still alive. That he was still part of something, and that by blinking away the sting from his eyes he remained human to some extent, like his children.
Everyone was dead. Alek… Rudy… Zośka… Ziutek… Anna… All that was left was for him to await death.
And when it did, it came bearing a red banner.
“Your red, victorious army has been lying at the bright feet of burning Warsaw and is feeding its soul with bloody pain of a handful of madmen who are dying in the ruins...”
-
PART IV - http://mase992.livejournal.com/9259.html
Everyone was dead.
He could hardly move. His back was pressed against the crumbling walls of an old chapel. Just two days ago he had stood where Royal Castle had been, but now there was only smoke and rubble. The charred silhouette of a soldier blown by a grenade decorated the opposite wall in a grim spectacle. Poland grunted and tied the final knot of the bandage around his head. Caked blood and fresh one splattered his face, his boots, and his uniform was stained with gunpowder and mud. He took a deep breath, hugging the riffle against his chest and looking toward the grey sky through a hole in the roof. The earth shook as overhead the engine of a Russian plane roared with a metallic timbre. Poland sniffed and chuckled dryly. Surely the trumpets of the infernal horsemen sounded like that giant, metallic beehive because obviously this was hell.
Outside it was a wild chase of sounds. Gunshots, explosions, screams, Polish and German were all mixed in a hollow echo that resembled nothing. Earlier in the chaos, in between the orders to “raze his beloved city to its foundations”, he had dived into the streets bellowing, the war-cry raw in his throat. One of his men thrust himself against him and held him by the collar, pulling him away from the whizzing bullets’ course. On his right side, a grenade went off and Poland hit his head on the cold floor after his body was flung, then forced down heavily like a sack. For a moment everything moved in slow-motion and people seemed stupid and confused. The world spun out of control and red spots blinded him momentarily. He could still feel the soldier’s iron grip on his sleeve but when he looked only the arm of the man remained, the limb held onto Poland’s upper arm tightly, twisted unnaturally into a claw, like the broken piece of a rag doll. Inches away, the soldier laid motionless in a puddle of his own still warm innards, his remaining limbs akimbo, and his face was so charred and disfigured that he was almost unrecognizable.
His ears were ringing again and Poland moaned as he pressed his forehead against the stone. He just then realized his forehead was bleeding, a deep angry cut jarred the skin and he probably had hit his head too hard, the constant thudding of his skull assured him that. Or maybe it was just the cacophony, the roaring bullets and tanks. He cursed and screamed as he felt how he was torn again and the tears streamed paths down his dirt-covered cheeks as he thought of the lifeless eyes of the black and red face of the man who had saved him, forever stuck in a mask of horror and shock. He looked up, confused and dizzy and as he wrenched the arm from himself, he felt the acid rising and he vomited until his limbs shook and his hair was matted and dirty enough.
When he closed his eyes, there he was again, back in 1241. His insides burned and blazed, the voices of his children mingled with the screams of the damned and the burnt and the pained. His Warszawa -his heart- was ablaze, robbed of its splendor and pride, its people hung like puppets, like old clothes, victims of Lapanka and pointless hate. Just like Krakow had been robbed of her identity, her sovereignty, how the City of Kings had been desecrated. How his children had ran in fear of the blade that rushed just behind their necks in the form of heavy cavalry. Now, there was only panic, the wild sense of self-preservation that desperately gripped his heart and his sword in Grunwald and Legnica. The confusion was the same, the same fear of doom that had made his heart race more than the thrill of battle when he was surrounded, blinded by a screen of smoke and the heavy pounding of horse-hooves came from everywhere. He was stripped of his wings, and then, in a demonical tirade, they surged in a bloody spectacle with Henry’s tiny head impaled in a sharp lance. The blade, steel coloured black with blood, jutted through his throat, and his pious mouth hung open in a perpetual scream.
When he opened his eyes again there was no head and no horses, but the smoke and the noise were always there.
VIII
Providence had answered with a bittersweet turn of events that only left Poland with the copper after-taste from a punch squarely in the mouth. Troops camped just beyond the Vistula waters, fires shimmered and heated mugs with whatever blasted venom those Russki drank. He could almost see the smile on that bastard’s face and how he would look down saying in a cruelly innocent tone, “I told you so, little Poland.” A chill ran down his spine.
Poland spat, his saliva was dark red -it was a dark spot on the concrete. Among the metallic taste of the blood, he still savored traces of the scarce provisions a Hungarian soldier had given him. As he munched the stale food earlier he smiled as the lingering touch of Hungary gave him energy. But the effect could only last so long. And Liet… there was no word from him. With a smirk Poland wondered and conceded that he was probably still sore about the whole Vilnius issue. If he survived this then maybe he should apologize… and then smack him for not helping him at all. Yes that image did brighten his mood for a little while longer.
He continued looking at the sky, unblinking and murmuring a passage that he had read in a private letter from a friend over an over with a humorless smile. "We are waiting for you, red plague... you will be salvation welcomed with revulsion... we are waiting for you, our eternal enemy... bloody murderer of so many of our brethren..."
He had to at least know that he could still feel pain that helped him remember that he was still alive. That he was still part of something, and that by blinking away the sting from his eyes he remained human to some extent, like his children.
Everyone was dead. Alek… Rudy… Zośka… Ziutek… Anna… All that was left was for him to await death.
And when it did, it came bearing a red banner.
“Your red, victorious army has been lying at the bright feet of burning Warsaw and is feeding its soul with bloody pain of a handful of madmen who are dying in the ruins...”
-
PART IV - http://mase992.livejournal.com/9259.html