Chapter Text
Russia was mid-sentence when he felt what was about to happen, but that didn’t give him nearly enough time to react. He let out a pained yelp and rubbed the back of his head before looking to the ground behind where he sat, where a dull, cylinder-shaped rubber bullet lay, no doubt still hot to the touch. He winced at the sound of a folder being slammed on the table he was sitting at. The expansive hall was empty, and the echo bounced off the clean, bare walls with monumental, almost deafening force.
“Task failed. Once again. What am I going to do with you?” Stalin’s tone pierced right through Russia’s soul.
“I’m trying my best, comrade-”
“Well, you are not trying hard enough! I expected better from you, USSR. It’s been almost a month, and you still let your guard down just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“I’m not the-”
Stalin stood up and held his hands behind his back, moving slowly around the large table towards his nation. “You think that just because you are here with me that you are safe? Those treacherous Nazi spies could be anywhere! You cannot afford to let your mind wander and get distracted for even a second! Do you understand?” He stood behind Russia, leaning slightly over him.
“Yes, comrade Stalin, my apologies comrade. This will not happen again.” Russia stared at the edge of the table intently.
“It better not. Next time you fail one of my tests, I will be forced to punish you.”
Russia felt his heart stop for a moment as he heard this. His eyes widened briefly and he suppressed a shiver, bowing his head down lower. He made sure nothing showed on the surface; not near him. Stalin didn’t appreciate him displaying such weakness, especially something as “low” and “animalistic” as fear.
The screams wouldn’t stop. They usually went away after a while, but this time they seemed to never end. His army couldn’t hold them, they were coming closer. Russia could almost hear the gunfire too, even alone in his bed in the middle of the night. He felt his hope start to dwindle as he knew it was only a matter of time before they stepped foot into his capital. Then it would all be over.
Ivan sat in the darkness, gripping his cherished white scarf in the hope that it would give him comfort. He heard the howling wind of the snow storm raging outside. While such hostile weather usually brought down Russia’s mood, that night he was more than happy to listen. It helped clear his mind, pull him away from the death on the battlefield. It reminded him that no matter how unwelcoming it may seem, it was still his. It was his weather, his land. Ivan dearly wished he could join his people in the fight for his home, but the ambition alone was foolish. No war was worth risking the nation.
Russia sluggishly lit his bedside oil lamp, letting the light wash away the suffocating darkness. He hadn’t slept well in a few weeks and felt that night was the night he wouldn’t sleep at all. Rubbing his tired eyes, he leaned back against the wooden headboard. It would only get worse from there.
The next morning the whole Union felt that Russia wasn’t in the best of moods. He had woken up exceptionally early and shut himself in his office, not even coming out to join the others for breakfast. They all felt a sense of worry concerning Russia but dared not approach him when he was in such a state. Who knows what he would do? Most nations went about their day as normal and tried to pretend that everything was okay, although it seemed their list of responsibilities kept increasing by the day, forcing them to work without rest.
Ukraine moved quickly around the large kitchen as she brewed some strong black tea and took the gingerbread out of the oven. She promptly divided the sweet treats among the plates with the many cups of tea.
“Toris dear, can you come in here for a second?” she called as she tied her short blonde hair into a ponytail.
The familiar pair of hasty footsteps in the corridor paused for a moment before changing their trajectory, and a tired-looking Lithuania rushed into the kitchen.
“What is it that you need, Miss Ukraine?” He asked politely, straightening out his shirt. Even with all of the pressure and fear that took up residence in the Union’s household, he always tried to look presentable when in the presence of other nations. His shoulder-length brown hair was combed neatly, and his attire was more formal than need be in the place he called home.
“Sorry to bother you, I know you have a lot of work to do too, but can you please lend me a hand and give out these snacks to everyone? I would do it myself, but I need to leave in a few minutes to run some errands. Everyone is working so hard, and I just think they deserve to take a small break to rest,” she said, smiling sheepishly with her hands clasped together in front of her, accidentally highlighting her… “large tracts of land”. Lithuania paid this no mind and approached the table.
“Of course. I’ll get right to that.” He smiled back.
“Thank you so much, Toris! I can always count on you.” She hugged him tightly. “I will make sure to repay your kindness.”
Then she scurried away, and in a couple of minutes, a few nations could have seen her running across the snowy field just outside their home.
Lithuania reached out to take a few portions and placed them on a wide wooden serving tray. The task seemed like the perfect opportunity to get some exercise in while running around the expansive mansion, along with serving as a small break from all the paperwork that had flooded in since Germany claimed his territory. Lithuania could even briefly interact with beautiful Natalya. That point alone made the task worth it.
It would be better to get the worst over with first. He headed towards Russia’s office on the second floor. Stopping in front of it, Lithuania held the tray carefully in one hand and knocked on the solid oak door.
“Not now, I’m busy,” came a response.
Toris recoiled at the harsh tone but persisted nonetheless.
“Miss Ukraine has made tea and пряники (pryaniki) and asked me to distribute them amongst the Union.” He bit his lip. “You haven’t eaten anything since yesterday, Mr Russia.”
“…Come in.”
With a bit of effort, Lithuania opened the door and made his way towards Ivan’s desk, behind which the host nation himself sat. The office was dark, the curtains at the back of the room drawn, with the only light coming from the oil lamp on the desk. Toris got a glimpse of some military plans and strange encrypted letters before his gaze met with Russia’s, who’d been watching him approach, his head propped up on his hand.
He was in a bad state; like, really bad. Lithuania noticed his glassy, bloodshot eyes, the purple dull and speckled with red. The bags under those eyes stood out on his pale skin that in and of itself could be compared to paper in colour, if it weren’t for the sickly greyish tint. Several strands of ruffled platinum hair stood out at random angles. While everyone was feeling the draining effects of the war, it seemed the head of the USSR felt it worst of all.
Lithuania placed the tea and gingerbread on the table where it was clear of any papers and smiled nervously. Russia didn’t smile back.
“Thank you, Toris. You may go now.”
“A-ah, yes, of course.”
Lithuania speed-walked out of the room, aware of the gaze seeing him out, and gently shut the door behind him before sighing in relief. That went over well.
“We will surround the troops here.” America leaned over the table and traced a broad circle around Eastern Europe on the map with his finger. “And that’s it, we have them beat, easy!” His blue eyes glinted brightly behind Texas as the state slowly slid down the bridge of his perfect nose. He was feeling quite lively that day and was in the mood to beat some fascist ass, although he wasn’t exactly allowed to pull a stunt like that. That didn’t stop Alfred from dressing for the occasion, though, with him having on his army green military uniform and custom-made bomber jacket with the number “50” on the back.
The light bulb hanging above the table flickered, causing the trio in the small, dingy basement to tense up, falling silent. After a minute of dead silence, they eased up a bit, continuing their discussion.
“Aiya, do you have any actual ideas on how we can stop those vile Axis, or are you just going to continue babbling nonsense?” China crossed his arms and eyed the wooden stairs behind the American.
Alfred was making it painfully obvious he didn’t know what he was doing. What was even the purpose of them being there, in that basement? Their leaders believed they could figure something out, being “connected to the people” and all that, but did that even matter? How were they supposed to help in any way if they were falling apart at the seams? China looked at his northern ally, who seemed about ready to drop dead. He wasn’t doing that much better himself.
“As if you have anything better to say,” Alfred huffed. “Hey, Russian commie, what are you planning to do? It seems Germany has his men far into your territory already.”
Russia didn’t say anything. The very thought of what was happening on his land had him aching all over. He looked up at his two remaining allies. At least he wasn’t England, who at that very moment was being treated for major internal bleeding after an especially devastating air raid.
“See? Even communist number two has nothing to say! I’m at least trying to make this meeting not feel like a total waste of time.” America sat back in his chair and pouted.
“I have an idea-” The strange, disembodied voice was promptly ignored by the three nations.
“My generals have the situation under control. My men will continue to fight until they cannot fight any longer.” Russia coughed as it got progressively harder for him to speak. “And about these meetings. For now, I don’t see any point in us continuing to have them. Two of us are already… incapacitated…”
Russia stopped midsentence and let out a strange choking sound. China and America were immediately alert and looked nervously at their ally. Russia clutched at the fabric at his chest in an attempt to reduce the deep and intense pain that seemed to spring out of nowhere. It was all too familiar; he almost wasn’t surprised.
America shielded his eyes, not too keen on seeing the death of a nation. China, on the other hand, seemed to have a clue as to what was happening. He sprung up and rushed to his friend’s aid. He knew he couldn’t do much to help, but he hoped he could at least distract Russia from the pain.
“Hey, hey. Look at me. It’s going to be okay, just relax. Focus on your breathing. Watch me. In-” Yao took a deep breath. “-and out.” He breathed out slowly as Ivan tried his best to mimic his friend’s movements through a pain that felt as if his heart was being torn to shreds.
But soon it all stopped. As suddenly as it had come, it vanished, and Russia felt the forceful pulling sensation that always accompanied those moments decreasing. He loosened his grip on his beige coat, the area now stained red. But that was fine. It was all over. He gave China a relieved smile.
“There we go. Everything’s okay now.” Yao squeezed his ally’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, what the fuck?” America watched the pair from afar. “It looks like you got stabbed. What the hell happened?”
“It’s nothing.” Russia looked away, embarrassed. “My heart just… has the habit of trying to ‘fall out’.”
“Freeaky. But hey, nothing I wouldn’t expect from my favourite communist. You prob wouldn’t have whatever problem this is if you weren’t a commie, just saying.” He laughed, already over the whole thing. “So, are we going to continue or what?”
China glared at him. “We are definitely done here for today.” He looked at Russia. “You will go home and rest, do you understand? You look terrible.”
Ivan nodded. He felt just as good as he looked.
Russia sat in his temporary office on the outskirts of Moscow. It was like a bunker: empty and windowless apart from the desk pushed tightly against the wall and a single chair, a dim light by the ceiling on the right wall and an ominous door on his left, left slightly ajar.
He was supposed to be working, although what he was doing could hardly be considered “work”, as every few minutes he was forced away from the task to place his head in his hands in a poor attempt to muffle the migraine he was experiencing. His leader had started to gradually lessen his workload in the previous couple of weeks as even he started to accept that his nation was barely able to function, let alone do important tasks.
He picked up his pen and was just about to continue writing when he heard a very odd sound. Russia paused and strained his ears, trying to identify what the sound was and where it was coming from. It sounded like a quiet… kesese.
Oh no.
The added panic did little to clear Russia’s foggy mind as he just froze in place. A moment later he felt a sharp blade lightly graze his throat and hot breath on the back of his neck as the person behind him bent down to his level.
“I have you now, kesesesese.” The voice was undeniably Prussia’s, his tone mocking and loud, blaring right into his ear.
He should have kept an eye on the door.
“How… did you find me?”
This can’t be happening. It can’t be him.
“That doesn’t matter. Stalin really tried to help you, to get you ready for situations like these, and yet you still failed him like the failure you are. And now you will so easily die at my awesome hands. Everything you own will be mine. Hell, it’s already mine; I pronounce all your shit as mine from this point forward. It’s not like you can do anything about it, сука (bitch)!” There was that obnoxious laugh again.
Russia knew that that was true. He couldn’t overpower Prussia even if he tried to with all of his left-over energy. The knife was so very close…
“You will risk breaking the nation code? Do you think no one will find out?”
“Oh please, you think I haven’t done this shit before? No one will know, I’ll make sure of that.”
Russia clawed weakly at the hands of his assailant as the blade was pressed ever so slightly into the thin bandages around his neck. One flick of his wrist, and that’d be another scar in his collection. That is, if he wasn’t turned to dust right after. He closed his eyes. He had to fight, but he felt nothing but the pounding pain in his temples and the heaviness in his limbs. Russia just wished the pain would go away.
“Ok. Do it. Do it.”
“… Huh?”
“Slit my throat. Go on.” The suspense was tugging at his nerves.
“I’m… sorry?”
If Ivan had the power to think rationally at that moment, he would have found it odd how from the very beginning, the conversation had been entirely in Russian. Prussia would rather drink sewage than learn his language; he had made that very clear throughout the centuries. Moreover, he didn’t catch how the voice behind him changed in the last phrase it spoke, how it deepened and sounded nothing like the voice of the infamous Gilbert he had just been supposedly talking to.
Russia was surprised when the hold on him loosened and the knife was moved away. It wasn’t in Prussia’s style to show mercy. Instead, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see his leader, looking down at him in both the literal and metaphorical sense. Stalin’s face was the epitome of disappointment.
“You have completely given up, haven’t you? What is this ‘go on’ and ‘do it’? You must be truly out of your mind.”
“What…?” Ivan twisted his body around slowly, fighting through the pain in his joints. It was not Gilbert Beilschmidt who stood behind him, but one of his people, who looked back at him with noticeable concern.
Russia turned back around and was at a complete loss for words. Stalin quickly dismissed his agent and was left alone with his nation. Both men were silent for some time, Stalin studying the sickly figure next to him closely. Then, he spoke.
“Don’t tell me you’ve become so weak that you can’t even fight off a human.”
Ivan stayed silent.
“You were talking to yourself.” He saw his nation flinch. “I heard you mention the nation code. Tell me, who did you think was behind you?”
Stalin waited for an answer, although it seemed Russia wasn’t planning on giving him one. He asked again.
“Who were you talking to?”
“Prussia. I-I thought it was... Prussia.” Russia finally managed out as his leader’s voice chilled him to the bone. “I don’t understand… I heard his voice. Those were his mannerisms, his voice.” Russia’s voice was shaky and quiet, seemingly also worn out by the war that was raging on his territory.
Ivan looked at Stalin, but the latter immediately turned away, not willing to look at what his nation was reduced to.
“Get back to work,” he said before leaving abruptly.
Russia eyed him as he left before hesitantly following his leader’s command. He touched his neck gingerly.
“USSR.”
Russia turned away from the window as he heard the voice of his leader. Stalin stepped into the large meeting hall holding a cup of something in his hand. He quickly approached his nation, rounding the conference table, and Ivan concluded that what he was holding was, in fact, coffee.
“This is for you.” He brought the cup forward for Ivan to take.
That took Russia by surprise.
“Thank you, comrade, but you know I don’t drink coffee,” he tried to decline, but Stalin didn’t appreciate the audacity.
He forcefully handed the cup over to Russia, although being careful to not spill its contents.
“That was not an offer, Union, you will drink this. I have been notified that the Germans are quickly approaching Stalingrad; I will need you awake and active as soon as they reach the city. I have some matters planned for you, so be a good boy and drink the coffee so your brain doesn’t shut off during the operation. I know you haven’t been sleeping much lately.”
Russia peered down into the dark liquid. He’d always disliked the taste of coffee and how sick it always made him feel, finding tea to be superior in every way. Just looking at the strong black brew he was being forced to drink made his stomach turn, but he couldn’t refuse his leader. He quickly downed it and got it over with, his features contorting only slightly at the dreadfully bitter taste. Stalin took the cup.
“I’ll call you when I need you. You can do whatever you want until then.”
Ivan looked back outside at the sunny summer streets of central Moscow. The cloudless sky was an especially bright blue and the sun felt warm on his skin. It was almost… peaceful.
Russia certainly didn’t feel as bright as his weather.
What an amazing day to be alive!
Russia stopped, high up on a hill in a semi-rural, forested area. His car’s tires dug into the rich, wet soil, the sky having cleared up just minutes ago. Stepping out, he definitely recognised the region. Ivan snickered. Of course he recognised it, it was his territory! His cherished Kaliningrad. It wasn’t surprising that Prussia chose this place for his execution. All the more convenient for Ivan.
Russia looked out over his land, feeling giddy. He just couldn’t wait. On that hill were the ruins of an ancient castle, with nothing but a few walls and a courtyard remaining; no doubt a relic of Prussia’s past. Russia made a mental note to tear the ruins down as soon as possible.
Finally stepping into the courtyard, he found everyone already present. “Everyone” being just three nations, but the only nations that mattered. Although Russia wished America hadn’t come; Alfred hadn’t been too nice to him in the recent months.
“Ah, you’re finally here.” England stood by one of the crumbling walls with America beside him, holding a thick, weathered book, its blank cover made of dark leather. From what Russia could tell, it was one of Arthur’s spell books.
Russia gave them a smile, turning his attention to the final nation, handcuffed and on his knees in the middle of the courtyard. The helpless, pathetic figure made Ivan’s heart skip a beat. The mighty Prussia, now reduced to nothing but lowly, genocidal filth that had to be thrown out. The day of reckoning had finally arrived.
Russia came closer to his two allies.
“So, how are we going to do this?” he asked. America glared at him.
England glanced up from the book. “You don’t have to do anything. I, however, will have to freeze time in our surrounding area before starting the disintegration process, so the aftereffects of his death will not spill over to neighbouring nations.”
“And then you’ll disintegrate him right in front of our very eyes?” One look at Russia’s manic expression sent shivers down Arthur’s spine.
“Of course.”
Silence followed this short interaction, as England studied the necessary spells. Russia kept an eye on their victim, who hadn’t moved since his arrival, eyes trained on the grass.
The pitiful sight of a nation, once so powerful and proud, now brought to their knees almost awoke some form of sympathy in Russia’s mind. That is, until he turned his attention to the ache in his ribs, spikes of pain shooting through his body every time he breathed, or the burning in his neck, the scars reopened once again, or even the constant urge to cough, knowing very well he’d be coughing up blood if gave into said urge. Even two years since the end of the war, these wounds had yet to heal. And that was only a fraction of the torment that Gilbert had inflicted in the few short years that felt like centuries.
And he saw red. As vibrant as his own eyes had become, seemingly stained with the blood of his fallen soldiers. Almost as red as Gilbert’s eyes. Gilbert’s, now, not Prussia’s. The heinous war criminal before him did not deserve the “nation” title. What a joy it was, knowing that after so many centuries of torment, he’d finally get what he deserved.
Periodically glancing at his two allies, Russia found they were slowly but surely moving away from him.
He made no move to stop them.
All four nations in that small, enclosed courtyard were waiting for Arthur to finish. Alfred, though, was fidgeting, sometimes peeking over England’s shoulder at the spell book and wincing at the contents inside. His behaviour earned him a few dirty looks from the Englishman.
“Alright then,” Arthur said finally, snapping the book closed and almost catching America’s nose in the process. “Do you have anything to say before we start, Prussia?”
Russia rolled his eyes. Giving the Nazi a chance to say his last words; how considerate.
Gilbert finally raised his head.
“Go easy on Ludwig, please. He had no part in what I did.” His gaze was firm, unwavering, but his eyes shone with plea.
“We’ll take good care of him, don’t you worry! Wont we, Fedya?” Russia smiled widely, his voice loud and tone oh so sweet. He turned his head to the nation he mentioned, who gave him nothing but a sidelong glance and a frown.
“This is awful,” America finally spoke. “We shouldn’t be doing this.” He turned his gaze to England, gesturing to the defeated nation on the ground.
“I’m afraid we should,” England didn’t waver. “The Jury has spoken. We can’t forgive what he’s done.”
“But it wasn’t his fault, he was under the influence of his fucked-up regime.”
“Defending the Nazi’s actions, are we?” Russia turned fully towards his ally with the same pleasant smile.
“There are other ways of punishing nations that don’t involve dooming their people. This is… It’s inhumane; it’s barbaric!”
“Easy for you to say. You didn’t suffer at his hands. Since when do you have the right to speak on this matter?”
America scowled. “What has-”
“He’s killed people. My people. He killed innocent people without a second thought because he wanted to. He’s a thousand years old, he can control himself, so don’t you dare use the ‘influence’ excuse when talking about actual genocide.”
“So you’re saying you’ve never killed people before? Somehow I really doubt that.” Alfred took a step forward, his hands clenched into fists.
Russia just rolled his eyes with a scoff. “There’s a difference between having no other choice and doing it for fun. Should I remind you that I saw with my very own eyes how he burned-”
“Now, now, how about we stop this petty scuffle and start the process?” England interrupted. “We didn’t force you to be here, America.”
Alfred huffed. “I never thought you’d actually go through with this disgusting verdict. I won’t be a part of this shit. And you-” He pointed at Russia. “are a sick fuck, you know that?”
Ivan raised an eyebrow, but before he could reply, Alfred had already turned on his heels and hurried out, jumping over one of the lower parts of the wall.
“Now.” England cleared his throat, and his carved wooden wand slipped out of his sleeve into his waiting hand. “You will be missed, Prussia.”
“Just get on with it.” Gilbert scrunched his eyes shut.
England whispered some odd phrases under his breath, and time stood still. Russia looked around in wonder.
Complete and utter silence.
A few more whispers later, Prussia’s eyes snapped open and he breathed a ragged sigh, his breath accompanied by a fine mist of reddish dust. He bowed his head once again, and dust cascaded from his disintegrating hair.
This was it.
Russia was ecstatic. His grin was wide enough to be uncanny, his red eyes alight with childish glee. He was taking in every second of this execution, almost shaking with delight. England took a few more hesitant steps away from him.
A minute later, England said the last few words, and Prussia’s modest clothing instantly dropped onto a heap of reddish dust. Arthur quickly collected the remains, making sure the dust was safe and secure. Declining Russia’s invite to a celebratory dinner, he immediately sent the dust on its way. Germany could do with it whatever he pleased.
A few months later, the Prussian state was formally abolished.