Lesie Katyñska [ Russia & Poland ]

[Poland]

1941 September, near the Katyn Forest…

Feliks padded after Russia, sending him constant pensive glances bordering on accusing glares. The taller nation didn’t seem to notice, or he pretended not to, or he didn’t even care, but Poland still stared at his face intently as if he could read the other’s mind. Or as if staring hard enough would make him blow up. Either way would’ve been unbelievably helpful given Poland’s well-founded hatred, and the limping nation half-heartedly prayed in silence for Russia’s head to either explode or make all of its unscrupulous secrets known to him. After a few more moments of trudging in clenching wordlessness with neither of the aforementioned miracles occurring, Feliks exhaled sharply and called to Russia with the sole intention of breaking the silence. “So, when are we going to, you know, get there? Ivan?” Patience had never been one of his strong suits, especially in circumstances as contemptible as this.

Feliks deplored awkward silences, and he despised Ivan even more. An entirely too awkward silence in the company of his most despicable enemy, while trudging through said enemy’s frostbitten lands for a few hours with a persistent and painful sickness was too much to handle. But all he had to do was bite down on his lip and think of how worthy the trouble would seem when he arrived at the prison camp to see thousands of Poles lined up to be happily on their way to freedom with paluszki sticking out of their mouths or something equally uplifting. That’s what he had demanded of Russia, anyway. Maybe, he conceded internally, looking upward at the clouds, it’s not gonna be that happy, but…

Seeing them there was perfectly fine. He treasured his people, unlike Russia, unlike Germany. He loved them too much to properly express. Who was it that had stood up so many times for him? It wasn’t just his governments, not only his kings and queens, it was his people—from the commoners to the soldiers to the doctors—who would fight so gladly for Poland and his ideals. Nobody else would do that for him. If he was without allies, then he had his people, his allies to the last. That was why the miserable trip and just Russia’s general presence was acceptable, at least for now. His people. His people would mostly be, well, there. His soldiers, mainly. Prisoners of War, that’s what Russia said, and due to their negotiations, those prisoners of war would have to be let go. All of them. There. Accounted for. That’s what Russia said. They, maybe, had wasted away a little bit in the camps, but they were Polish and Poles oft pulled through their plight; Feliks attested to that, had faith in the prospect of optimism and life. So they’d be fine.

That was his promise, anyway. Stalin’s, and thereby, Russia’s promise. Because of their agreement at England’s place, Poland had admittedly felt a surge of hope, accompanied by the internal disgust with himself for accepting Russia’s help after the partitions and the world wars and the other shit that Russia had pulled over the centuries. Maybe it was foolhardy of him, but he didn’t conciously consider much else other than this years-old grudge and that Russia was handing him back his soldiers on a silver platter in order to fight the Germans. He could still be of use. He could still fight, too. Poland was wary of Russia, sure, but the psycho had promised. And Poland had every intention of holding him to it, even if it meant dragging his own limp, weak body to the camp to count every last Polish POW on their way home to meet their wives and children. Because that was so, so, so totally worth it.

Yet, there was that undeniable sinking feeling. There was always a sinking feeling, and usually Poland could toss it away and the wind would carry it far, far off. However, Feliks couldn’t shake the odd feeling of a hole—that’s what it felt like. Amidst all his other injuries, there was a deep, deep emptiness, a hole, that he didn’t know quite what to do with. It was instinct. He was aware that his inexplicable feelings meant more than the average human’s might, but shooed thoughts of that variety away constantly. He preferred his more negative emotions to make sense, at the very least. But…

It was a doubt. Not in his own survival, but in Ivan, which was perfectly understandable and completely creepy, now that Feliks was blindly following after him, aware of some maliciousness but unsure what form or to what degree it would come in. He restlessly folded and unfolded the hem of his coat, murmuring in Polish and tossing more wary looks at Russia. He wasn’t afraid of the other, but sometimes—scarcely—Feliks found himself afraid of what Ivan was capable of doing. Not that, by any stretch of the imagination, Feliks would cower because of it. Even if he was a little fearful of something, it had never stopped him before, only fired him up more. And besides, they were allies now. Russia couldn’t possibly do anything too horrible, or the other powers would hate him. Well, hate him more. And he wasn’t like, that dumb! Right? What was he going to do, anyway? Feliks inwardly chuckled; he was being way dumb himself. Really? He fully expected Russia’s sole intent now was simply to lead Feliks to the prisoner of war camp to check up on his people, and then go back. The trees would part to reveal one of those filthy, unpleasant establishments filled with well-for-the-most-part Poles, and all would be well. Because he believed in the prospect of optimism and life…


(( OOC: Phew... first post \o/ Russia, or, rather, anyone, if I did something weird/inaccurate/wrong don't hesitate to tell me! I'll definitely fix it! ))

[Russia]

There was a pleasant crispness to the air this particular morning, and it was easy to tell that autumn was not far off. Leading the other nation through the outskirts of the woods, Russia found himself fairly happy that the upcoming season had yet to start freezing the ground in this particular region of his homeland. How much harder the upcoming task would be if he had waited much longer to bring Poland here. Despite the chilly morning however, it was still the beginning of September, and therefore still warm enough that the soil had yet to freeze and once the day progressed, the forest would heat up by at least a few degrees. Not that frozen ground would have been enough to stop him from dragging Feliks out here. The Pole was eager to see his people after all, and who was Russia to disappoint him?

Hand leisurely gripping the shovel he had brought along, Russia made his way through the dew soaked shrubbery. He of course knew this land well, but it could still be tricky to find exact locations in these particular woods. It was all the more tricky with the dimmer lighting and the mist blanketing the ground. It wasn’t like the NKVD had marked the way to where they were going either, so the Russian was left to navigate on pure memory. Last time he had been here, he had also come from a slightly different direction, which would undoubtedly make the site that much more harder to locate.

“So, when are we going to, you know, get there? Ivan?”

Feliks’ words momentarily broke his concentration. A queer mixture of annoyance and amusement set in as he tried to remember how much further in the site was. He doubted Poland would be so eager if he knew where they were really going. Or more appropriately, what they were going to see. Poland was being simply silly if he thought for a second that there really was some work camp out there holding all his missing prisoners of war. He should know better under Stalin’s regime. Enemies of the state- in other words, enemies of Stalin- were dealt with accordingly. The moment they had been taken prisoner, those Polish insurgents had been doomed to meet a fitting and violent end. Feliks should thank his lucky stars that any of the Polish prisoners had been released at all. If it were not for the drama with Nazi Germany, it would have been likely that far less would have been free to walk.

“You’ll see your lost men soon enough.” He informed Poland jovially, realizing that they were getting very close. Suddenly turning right he led the way deeper into the thickly wooded area, now sure that he was on the path that he and the NKVD had taken not so long ago. The all to eager Russian quickened his pace, weaving around a few of the various trees and shrubs as more and more of the landscape seemed familiar. His heart quickened with anticipation as he led the way out into a rather ominous looking clearing. Ivan stopped, taking in the scenery to make sure they were in the right place.

There were thick trees all around, many of them deciduous species, whose leaves had just began to turn shades slightly. The ground was very barren and still looked slightly disturbed in places. Somewhere off to the left, he could make out the unmistakable sound of a stream. The whole place seemed somehow more eerie and disconcerting in the early hours of morning, despite the singing of birds in the canopy. Russia paused besides a rather tall alder tree, waiting for Poland to catch up with him. The place was just as he remembered it, minus the ditches and lined up Polish prisoners. And of course the NKVD prowling the lines like hungry wolves, pistols in hand. The inhumanity of the entire event escaped Russia. They had been enemies after all. “Hardened and uncompromising enemies of Soviet authority,” as the higher Soviet officials had said after interviewing so many of the Polish prisoners. Why should he feel any form of regret or displeasure with them being dealt with in such an undignified manner? Not that he made feeling of regret a habit in the first place. He so rarely felt anything of the sort, and never when dealing with former enemies.

“I have something I want you to do before you see your men, Poland.” The crazed nation stated, fixing the other man with a dangerously playful look. Eyes fastened on the ground, he moved past Feliks, looking for the most suitable spot for his purposes. He stopped dead in his tracks near the center of the clearing and turned to the other nation. Tossing the shovel he had been carrying along towards Feliks, he gestured for him to come closer. “Dig. Right here.” Ivan tapped the ground lightly with his boot, indicating the vicinity he wanted the Pole to dig in. “If you want to see your missing prisoners again, you’ll do exactly as I say.” Stepping back a bit to allow room for the other country to carry out his demands, he tightened his scarf around his neck a little, cheerful expression still firmly in place on his soft boyish features.

[Poland]

“You’ll see your lost men soon enough.”

Feliks rolled his eyes and grumbled, feeling quite like the aggravated teenager strung along on a displeasingly lengthy trip. “Well… I’d better,” he snapped in response, because he was already slowing to staggering, shaky steps in deep contrast to Russia’s graceful strides. He didn’t want to admit it, to Russia least of all, but it was quite easy now to become tired. His body was already feeling constantly sick, from what exactly Feliks had little idea. Surely, though, it all went back to what everything lately stemmed from: The war, the war, the war.

Feliks stopped in his tracks to catch his breath and consider the antagonistic Russo-Polish relationship for a moment, staring absently after Russia as he mirthfully strode down through the trees, dragging that odd shovel behind him. It brought certain memories out in brief and vivid flashes—a sickeningly familiar pipe trailing behind that beige coat, worn boots trudging through snow. And before they could seriously be registered, they were gone. Feliks had known Russia for centuries now, centuries upon centuries, and true alliances between the two were scarce if not non-existent. Even back when the perpetually childlike Russia had actually been a child, Feliks had held copious amounts of disdain towards him. In short, Feliks had always, always hated the other Slav and he would probably continue to do so for years to come—not to say that Russia didn’t have a hand in the hate-fest either. Focused on his own grudge as he may be, Feliks didn’t fail to recognize Russia’s quiet resentment of him that came not only in the wars between their people, but in those special little things Russia would do personally do; the derogatory quips that flew over Poland’s head until days later, the smartass comments during their battles, the fact that he seemed to make an effort to take all of Poland’s precious things away from him.

Oh, but all of that culminated in the many, many wars. The wars that left him as he was now—scarred, limping, bleeding, burning. Granted, he could mostly thank Germany for these constant pains, but Germany would not have thought of touching one hair on Poland’s pretty little head until he knew Russia wouldn’t have a problem with it. And why would he? Of course he’d like to join in too! Why not, oh, to hell with that balance-of-power thing, and in fact, to hell with anything close to morality. Feliks had never even conceived that Russia would let Germany, a potential enemy, so close to Soviet gates! Oh, but he’d been proved wrong again! But so had Russia. The only good thing about those two was that they might, by some lucky star, mutually destroy each other and finally leave the world a better place. Then they could have barrels of fun trying to invade each other in the deepest pits of hell where they would undoubtedly be going.

Feliks grit his teeth, forcing his legs forward. The weather was not at all unbearable, but slightly uncomfortable as he was only clothed in garb suitable for England’s rainy London streets. What really made it insufferable was, of course, the clinging anticipation of seeing the people he had waited so long on and Russia, who had, for some reason, stopped in the clearing, looking around leisurely. Poland stopped at a safe distance from him, tilting his head and standing still with that irritated look writ all over his face as Russia seemed to look for something. When he stopped and turned around to face Feliks, perfectly cheerful, the Pole admittedly cringed inwardly, glowering wearily at the other.

“I have something I want you to do before you see your men, Poland.”

”What? That’s not fair.” Poland argued, taking a step forward. “You can’t order me around.” Except, Feliks was probably in fact at his mercy. Tragically so. The shovel then flew at him, and Feliks fumbled with it for a moment before holding it questioningly in his hands. A shovel? Russia wasn’t going to ask him—ill, physically weak Poland—to dig, was he? There was so much wrong with that Feliks didn’t know what to say, eyes darting from the hefty tool in his hands to a close-to-exuberant Russia.

"Dig. Right here."

Feliks watched Russia’s boot tap the dirt with a perturbed expression before glancing again at smiling nation’s face. “You can’t ask me to dig.” He said incredulously, voice dripping with disgusted disbelief, “I-If you haven’t noticed or something, I’m kinda like, not in the best shape right now.” Besides that, he hated menial labor of any sort. And digging reminded him of camps, which, ironically, he was technically supposed to be at now. If dumb Russia wasn’t just leading him through forests randomly on whim, playing with him.

“If you want to see your missing prisoners again, you’ll do exactly as I say.”

“That’s—” Feliks snarled, and faltered slightly, opening his mouth as if he dearly wanted to say something. But he closed it after a few moments of begrudging deliberation, and looked at the offending patch of ground as if it had wronged him a thousand times over, holding the shovel in a near death grip. Reluctantly, but with pride still very much intact, he marched—or as close as he could come to marched with his current injured state-- to that very spot and now peered down at it. Maybe it was above a tunnel the Germans were digging to invade Russia, and when Feliks revealed their plot they’d all shoot him while Russia skipped away giggling maniacally. Maybe that certain patch of dirt covered a long descent into hell where Russia had originally come from, and once Feliks started digging he would fall in. Or he’d find mole people or demons or something. Maybe he was over thinking this, and Russia would just find some sort of insane glee in watching another man dig a hole in the middle of the forest, because Russia was totally psycho enough for something as nonsensical and vapid as that, right?

”…Russia,” He started with a grunt, kicking the shovel into the dirt with his good leg, “Why do I h-have to dig a hole?!” It was a tone easily mistakable for a whine, for it was in fact a whine, because Feliks was already not enjoying the effort he had to put into digging a stupid hole for a stupid nation for some stupid, unknown reason.

[Russia]

Russia found the Pole’s initial hesitancy to follow orders rather amusing. The same for his insistence that Russia couldn’t order him around. Of course he could order Poland around whenever he wanted. It was silly for Feliks to even begin to claim otherwise. As far as their relationship was concerned, the tides had definitely turned. Gone were the days when Poland had been part of a powerful commonwealth. Long past were the times when Russia would take the effeminate blonde as a real threat worthy of concern. In his younger years there could be no doubt that Poland had been a real problem at times and the cause of much pain and suffering for his people in addition to himself. But now Ivan had the upper hand, and he fully planned on exploiting it. Recent events had really proven to be excellent catalysts for taking out some of his pent up aggressions and animosity.

“That’s—”

Poland started to say something and then must have decided against it. Wisely decided against it, as Russia thought. Poland was in no position to be getting mouthy or complaining. Not while Ivan was in a position of power and held onto something that he wanted. Then again, knowing Poland, that might not be enough to completely stop him from complaining or foolishly voicing his opinions.

“Why do I h-have to dig a hole?!”

Russia laughed at the question, watching the injured nation drive the shovel into the ground and start in on the task. He was so very tempted to tell Poland that in order to “see” his people it was physically necessary to dig for them. But such a statement would give away the surprise, and Ivan was very much looking forward to seeing Feliks’ reaction when he first realized what was going on. He wouldn’t ruin the surprise. No, he was content to let Feliks figure out the true reason why he was digging on his own. For now, Russia intended to simply amuse himself by watching the other nation dig while in such piss-poor condition.

“Because you want to see your prisoners again, да? Which means you have to do exactly as I say.” He smiled pleasantly at the Polish nation, taking twisted delight in keeping him in the dark. How he would have loved for Feliks to have personally been present in the spring of 1940, when the ground had been opened up and waiting for the Polish enemies. It was impossible to kill a nation in the same way as a human of course. Shooting Feliks in the head would not have crippled his government to the point of collapse-although it would have been very entertaining for Ivan. Not that his darker sadistic side had not been somewhat entertained by the “executions” of the unknown Polish prisoners, but Russia had not known those people personally. They had just been nameless faceless enemies being executed for whatever crimes that Stalin had saw fit to tack on them. With Feliks, it would have been so much more personal and enjoyable.

Though Germany’s recent disregard of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact had proven to Russia that he and Poland now shared a common enemy, he still harbored an unhealthy amount of contempt for the Pole. With such negative memories as the “Battle of Klushino,” or indeed, the entire travesty that was the Polish-Muscovite War between them, it was hard for Russia to think of Poland as anything but an enemy. It really made little sense in many ways, since Lithuania was also in on many of those embarrassing defeats, and Ivan did not hold Toris in the same light as Feliks. Perhaps it was because the two had such vastly different personalities, and since dragging Lithuania off to be a servant in his house, he had spent more time lording over the trembling Baltic.

Watching Feliks dig, Ivan instinctively backed farther away. Already, the smell of death was in the air, and only getting stronger with the more dirt being shoveled aside. He was perfectly fine with the scent of fresh blood, often finding himself decorated with it these days, but the scent of decaying flesh was something else entirely. It was downright putrid and dizzying. Feliks had yet to dig down deep enough for the scent to be overpowering, but Ivan knew that was only a matter of time. Those bodies had been in the ground for over a year now after all. He would certainly not want to be in Poland’s spot at the moment.

“Having fun yet, Feliks?” He asked giddily, after having waited for what seemed to him like ages. “Have you found the surprise? I think once you do you’ll understand why I brought you here.” His voice was the embodiment cheer, further accented by his out of place smile. Despite being a few paces away, the curious violet-eyed nation shifted to attempt and steal a glance down the hole. His position made it near impossible to see anything but dirt however, so after pushing his scarf up around his nose and holding it there with his hand, he dared to step closer.

[Poland]

He just barely had the self control to not hit Ivan with a shovel. Hadn’t the desire always been there, though? Burning in his soul, a hot flame of contempt, since those days when Russia had gotten the bright idea to invade Lithuania. Russia’s other despicable antics as of late had only fueled the fire; it was a never-ending cycle of trying to get each other back, wasn’t it? Well, not like he at all wanted better relations anyway. As always, this chapter in their book would end and the next would begin with a beautifully crushing Polish victory, and Russia would be doing worse things than digging holes while Poland waited idly by. Once his country was restored. And it would be. Because he had his people, and the Western countries—who he viewed with some mistrust now—had seemingly decided to stop being total assholes. Not that that would like, ever occur to Russia. To not be an asshole. No, he was like asshole central, like the capital of asshole, with a main export of total assholes, taking such pleasure in Poland’s misery.

Feliks stopped again, leaning on the shovel outside of the dent he had made in the smooth earth. He panted, back turned to Russia so that the other would only see his shoulders fall and rise at its rapid pace. For some reason, the air felt musky, harder to breathe in, and he breathed already as if the oxygen was dissipating from the area.

“Having fun yet, Feliks?”

Ha ha ha. “Yeah, total—“he had to exhale again, but his voice was just positively soaked in that healthy, biting sarcasm, “fun! You should join in or something! Oh, I just love randomly digging holes in the middle of nowhere!” Hahaha. No. “Not really, you’re just an asshole.” He added in a flat, virulent voice more conveying his current feelings, just to clarify. He wasn’t like Russia; he did not hide his emotions behind those false pretenses of innocence.

With another deep breath, filling his chest with much-needed air and slowly letting it out, he stepped cautiously back into the small hole, dragging the cold-to-the-touch shovel behind him. In hindsight, it would’ve been wise to bring gloves considering it was Russia’s place after all, but he had been so bursting with energy and grudges and anticipation that he had forgotten. But all of these petty troubles didn’t matter. He was a miracle—he had survived over one-hundred years without any borders, without a place on the map, divided between the three vicious black eagles. I’ll show Russia the Polish spirit, he thought spitefully, pushing the shovel into the dirt with less reserve and more fire. Because the numbness of his hands and the dirt on his shoes and the frigid morning air and the seeming heaviness of the shovel and that strange, vastly unpleasant stench in the air meant nothing compared to everything else he had so strongly endured. It would be such a disgrace to those people waiting in the camps if he were to give in to such insignificant matters. He kept going a few rounds of digging, pausing in brief intervals.

“Have you found the surprise? I think once you do you’ll understand why I brought you here.”

A surprise? That tone, coupled with the innocent words and—as Feliks turned to stare at him dumbfounded, only his head and barely his shoulders shown above the hole now—that damn smile always hiding his true malign ideas, could’ve fooled someone who didn’t know Russia into thinking that the nation’s intentions were pure, kind, even. A surprise? Well, Feliks hated surprises by now—oh, like the surprise that he was going to be partitioned, or, gee, imagine his surprise when he finally learned that Russia had been in on the invasion of his home all along.

No, surprises, especially from Russia, were never good. What was it? What injurious shock awaited him when he stopped digging? Poland’s arms halted in their repetitive motion, he glanced down at the ground and utilized the senses he had been blessed with, sniffing curiously if not worriedly. He immediately regretted it, finding that repugnant smell had grown to be far worse the more he unearthed the ground. Appalled by the abominable smell, Feliks fell back against the side of the musty hole, staring down at his feet as a focus point since everything else seemed to blur irreconcilably. He felt dizzy—had the odor just snuck up on him? Had he simply been breathing through his mouth too much to notice? Holding his head with one hand, he maneuvered his coat up to better cover his nose and mouth. It smelled like sweat and dirt, but partially blocked out that far less desirable other stench—that which reminded him of the scent of death.

The scent of death.

Death?

Feliks held one hand over his mouth, letting out the shuddering breath through his nose. Maybe… Russia didn’t seem to exist anymore; he was only that vague presence cautiously observing from a place that also didn’t exist, above the ground. It was all about Feliks and whatever lay buried beneath the earth now. Fretful, he tentatively groped for the shovel lying on the ground, wincing and holding his breath as his face drew closer to the repulsive scent, quick to rise once his fingers had meekly found their way around the handle of it.

He didn’t want to dig further, but his weight was already inexplicably shifting, his arms already making the motions, disturbingly enchanted by the oppressive scent rising from the ground, frighteningly eager to uncover the secrets that should never be revealed. With a final push and pull he threw off the last patch of earth rendering the “surprise” a secret, and then another, and another. The Pole then took a moment, eyes waiting to widen as he registered the horrendous scene—dirt and, and clothes, and m-maybe, h-hair?-- pulling the image through a forest of rapidly tangling thoughts until he opened his mouth and tried to find a scream.

Nothing came out; he felt nothing but raw terror, backing away desperately and hitting the earthen wall harder than anticipated. He took his hand and bit down on it through the flannel cloth of his coat, stifling the shriek that threatened to race past his lips and into the chilled air. This isn’t—

He screamed then, not in outright fear, but in fearful disgust at his own unsuspecting actions-- He had dug up—defiled—the grave of a man. Two men, by the looks of it, carelessly strewn atop each other—three men? How many more? Sleeping under the ground. It couldn’t have been for very long—they were lifeless, yet still very much resembled men. It was not so much a true respectful grave as a hiding place for someone’s dirty secrets. And those—those men, he initially knew by that awful foreboding instinct—were Polish men. Or, at least, he thought with striking clarity in the midst of shock and confusion, had been Polish men.

He bit down harder, threatening to draw blood from his own skin, immobile, numb, wide-eyed. "Those are… they…” The words were murmured frantically, just barely moving past his lips and dispersing away into nothingness. No, too weak for Russia—the only other alive being in the forest—to hear. Feliks licked his lips, distantly feeling revulsion at the putrid sensations rolling into his nose and mouth, and tried again with hardly improved results. What did it matter? He realized he was calling out to Russia, Russia who had orchestrated this cruel little surprise while Feliks unwittingly complained and made faces, unaware of the real malice behind the show. Russia must’ve—the details seemed foggy, but that—those—this—was Russia’s fault, undoubtedly.

So he let out another cry, in frustration and fear and self-loathing and Russia-loathing, but still found himself plastered to that very spot, thoughts trying to organize themselves, but among all, that hopeless feeling of death lingering, covering everything else. He didn’t like contemplating death, he was above death and never had to think of death. But how could he ignore the prospect of death when it stared him in the face like this?

Feliks wasn’t sure how to respond. His thoughts flew around at the speeds of fighter planes, his heart thudded and his throat felt dry. He needed to get out, that much was clear. It was an awful trick, and as he started to scramble up the side of the hole and back into the world where Russia waited, he slowly began to contemplate how exactly those—and how the words made him quiver--fresh corpses had come to be in the ground. And how Russia would know the very spot they had been buried.

The sorrowful confusion began to turn in the opposite direction: one-tracked fury. It was laughable, though, this fury, which came off from a dirty, frail and otherwise incredibly weak nation as he clambered almost desperately out of the hole he himself had opened up again. But who had opened up the hole first? Who had created it, who had dumped his countrymen in there like garbage? Obviously…

”Rosja!!” He had reached above ground again, and rose up unsteadily on the ground. His knees were shaking, his entire frame was shaking. “Ro—Ivan, what is that? What—How…” He struggled to find coherency, or at least strength in his voice. Again, there was neither, only blind rage. “What’s going on?! They—those—those couldn’t have been buried for very long. What are you trying to pull?! God, God…” Feliks forgot how to breathe, and tried in vain to steady himself. “What is going on… What did you do to them? How many of my people are dead? How many prisoners…” He couldn’t talk anymore. He was dizzy, the ground felt as though it was going to swallow him up. He tried to look at Russia fiercely, to say something scathing and cutting that would make him regret everything. But he really was surprised; when Feliks looked up at the other, the world had turned fuzzy, disoriented. He was looking through teardrops.
----
------------------
ooc:
Rosja = Russia, in case that is somehow confusing.

At this point he’s not really aware that it’s a mass grave since he only undug a part (and is he really going to stick around to find the rest? ) But he has a bad feeling… And as for the obligatory self-bashing portion of OOC notes: OH GOSH RUSSIA I'M SO SORRYYYY. It took so long and it's so hastily thrown together buhhhh. I'm going to do way better next time promise promise <3 /goes to work on Liet's post now

[Russia]

With a better vantage point, Ivan could see just how far Feliks had progressed in his digging. Breathing in through the scarf’s warm fabric to help block out the smell of decay, he estimated just how much further the Pole had to go before he would hit the grizzly surprise. It would not be much longer, if his memory served him well in this case. How many bodies high had they stacked the trench? Remembering how deep down the trench had been before blood was spilt and bodies added to the soil, he figured Feliks should be hitting the mark soon.

Impatient that Poland was taking so much longer than he would to dig, Ivan started to pace besides the ever deepening hole. Though he could do it when he must, he really hated having to wait for things. He much preferred instant gratification when possible. Feliks was injured though, and despite his impatience, Ivan knew better than to expect and injured nation to shovel dirt very quickly. Pulling his attention away from Poland for the time being, he focused on the woods surrounding them. There had to be something of interest to take his mind off having to wait. Cold violet eyes focused on a few birds nearby, hopping around in the clearing in search of food. His hand slipped inside his coat and rested on the handle of his Tokarev pistol as he watched the small feathery creatures, wondering how many of them he could pick off before they flew into the safety of the leafy forest canopy.

A scream from the pit startled both Russia and the birds he had been intently staring at. He turned around excitedly, figuring that Poland had found the surprise at last. He couldn’t tell if the scream had been one of fear or dismay, but since he couldn’t understand why anyone would be afraid of something that was already dead, he figured it to be the latter. Another cry came, but Russia remained quiet and still. He would wait for Feliks to ask him about the bodies. It would just be so much more satisfying that way. After all, hadn’t Feliks been the one wanting Ivan to take him here and see his men? The Russian had done just as he said he would; he had brought Poland to see his missing Polish prisoners.

”Rosja!!”

“Да товарищ?" Russia studied the shaking Pole with amusement. The image of him crawling up out of the unearthed grave, dirty, injured and a complete mess was enough to tempt Ivan to laughter again. It was for sure an image that he planed on keeping engraved in his mind for years to come.

“Ro—Ivan, what is that? What—How…”

Eyes wild with excitement, the sadistic Russian watched as Poland fell victim to emotion and incoherency. Was he actually asking what those were down in that hole? Was he ridiculous enough to actually ask Russia about what those bodies were and how they had gotten there?

“What’s going on?! They—those—those couldn’t have been buried for very long. What are you trying to pull?! God, God…”

“What is this? You asked me to take you to your men, yes? I’ve done just that. Those are your missing Polish prisoners.” Moving to look down into the hole, the morbidly curious Russian got a view of the unearthed corpses. Not a pleasant sight, by any stretch of the imagination. Luckily, most of the bodies remained covered in dirt. The only thing Ivan could really distinguish was the dirty clothing and stringy hair from the area Feliks had been shoveling. He brought his eyes away from the sight, deciding that it was best that Poland had uncovered so little.

“What is going on… What did you do to them? How many of my people are dead? How many prisoners…”

“You ask such odd questions, Feliks. I would think it was obvious what was done to them.” He considered the other questions for a moment in silence. In all honesty, he didn’t kept track of the numbers of prisoners who had been killed. “Well, how many of your men are you missing? That’s probably how many ended up like this.” He gestured towards the hole thoughtfully. “How are you so sure that me or my people are even responsible for this?” He teased the other nation, already fully knowing how and why Feliks would connect him and his people to the murders. Ivan loved games of all sorts, and he was more than thrilled with the idea of playing around with Feliks. Whether or not the Pole wanted to play games was unimportant to him, and even if Feliks did find out the details of the massacre, who would he tell? His boss? Like anyone in charge could afford to do anything about it. Besides, publicly the NKVD would blame the Nazis and nobody would be able to prove otherwise by Feliks’ word alone.
_____________________
((No worries Poland. Your posts are always worth the wait I think. <3
Да товарищ? = Yes comrade?))

[Poland]

Russia was so calm… Damn it, how the hell was he so collected at a time like—when he knew that—when— and he knew—

Feliks wanted to scream again. He just barely held it in. His little self-control was dissipating quickly though, replaced with blatant horror and intense sadness. He wiped at his eyes though, quietly thinking himself pathetic for even shedding a tear—that sadness should be anger. He should be angry. The so-deserving object of his anger was right there, after all, looking for all the world as though Feliks had come back from baking cookies and not from a musty grave where the stench of death hung fresh in the air. He had absolutely no skills for hand-to-hand combat, but he knew he should be hurting Russia right now. Somehow. Punching him, kicking him, killing his people, something, anything. He was nearly desperate to have it. Some kind of payback for that nasty trick on Poland and the far nastier crime committed against those Poles. But while his mind was undoubtedly focused on exacting immediate and painful revenge, the fact remained that Feliks was sick. He was a quarter-dead still, just recovering from broken ribs, broken arms, broken legs. His infirmity had not left him yet. However, if he had a gun… His hand flew to his side instinctively—he was greatly dismayed to find nothing.

In hindsight, he probably should have brought a firearm of some sort, but he had only expected to visit a prisoner camp… he had only expected for Russia to lead him somewhere then disappear as Feliks joined his men on their long journey to a safe place… in short, he hadn’t expected any of this. He hadn’t prepared even remotely.

He hadn’t prepared.

There was a thick concentration of a bad feeling suddenly blooming within his stomach. He regretted so much. He regretted so much that he couldn’t even stand to bear it. If he had fought back harder during the partitions… if he had killed those damn Jews to begin with, before they touched him… if he had been more organized militarily… if he had gained more allies… if he had built up his military even more after the first Great War ended… if he had expected Germany… if he had expected Russia… if he had made better strategies, if he had given up that strip of land to Germany to begin with, if he had sent his people away to a safe place as soon as he saw a threat coming from the west, if he had…

His anger was given a second place to that, that awful and overpowering feeling of guilt. There was more. He could have done more. He could have prevented this, somehow, he could have… Feliks looked at the ground, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, hands balled into little frail fists he might have just wanted to turn on himself. He hated it, this abstruse feeling of responsibility bearing down on him like all the world’s rain in one neat and brutal shower. He hated this intense feeling of guilt, he wanted it to go away… he wanted to wake up and see the entire emotional disaster as a sick dream, as a horrendously effusive nightmare. But Feliks never had much nightmares. Or much luck.

Russia spoke and his head snapped up—he was done looking at the ground. The ground made him sick, it shook so hard and it held sleeping bodies, probably thousands if he thought about it, buried somewhere beneath them...

“…sked me to take you to your men, yes? I’ve done just that. Those are your missing Polish prisoners.”

The small amount of breakfast he had nabbed this morning threatened to come up again. Feliks gripped his own stomach, staring at Russia with wide, disbelieving eyes as a fresh and powerful pang of horror curled within his chest, ready to stop his heart from beating. Those were? So then...

“You ask such odd questions, Feliks. I would think it was obvious what was done to them.”

Yes. On a basic, general level, yes. They were murdered. But he yearned to know the entire ordeal. Shot? Buried alive? Was it torture or some cruel, systematic and efficient murdering sequence? What kind of specific atrocities had been committed to his men, who had gone to their deaths thinking of their families and their dying country… Who, what, when, where, why…

How many, too. How many had he lost?


“Well, how many of your men are you missing? That’s probably how many ended up like this.”

What.

Seriously, what. Did Russia even realize how many people that was?

Feliks found himself rubbing ferociously at his eyes once more. His knees wobbled again, he leaned over and placed his hands on bent knees in another attempt to balance himself in his grief. “That…” Why, why, why hadn’t he known about this earlier? Why hadn’t he just fought off Russia and Germany? Where the hell was God…? Where had everything good in the world went; had it all just disappeared once Hitler came around? But then…

What was fifteen thousand more people? Twenty-thousand even? So many were already dying. What was fifteen thousand more lost men, each with their own distinct aspirations, goals, personalities, families, likely sons and daughters awaiting their return? Feliks shook his head, brimming with nothing but heartache and headache and ache and ache and ache. “…By God, you just have to take everything, don’t you?” He snarled accusingly, voice more filled with more absolute hate than he’d heard in a while. The Pole was going to say something else, but he seethingly quieted himself—it was impossible to reason with the Russian nation. It was also impossible to play on that monster’s sympathies, Feliks knew, since he didn’t have any. In this case, it was probably best to stay silent…


“How are you so sure that me or my people are even responsible for this?” That smile. Oh God, that stupid smile, didn't he feel any guilt at all?

Feliks exploded.

”What the hell? What the hell is wrong with you?” He stomped his foot on the ground like a petulant child, plodded to a spot about a few yards away from Russia, just near enough to spit then looked up at the abhorrent nation with fire in his eyes to make up for those tears. “You take me here and then you… you, what, are you calling me stupid now? Of course you’re responsible for this! This—“ He pointed at the vile hole in the ground, enraged, and then gesticulated wildly to the desolate area around him, ”And wherever else they’re all… all buried, this totally has Mother Russia stamped all over it!!! It’s in your territory, it’s—you know what, I’m so sick of your games right now Russia! I am so not in the mood, and—you are going to hell. I hope you and Germany shoot off each other’s faces in the deepest pits of hell forever and ever, you know that? I—“

He took a deep breath and when he finished, he realized how useless it was to even yell at him. He looked down at his shoes fixatedly, knowing that when he looked up Russia would just be smiling that son of a bitch’s serene smile as if nothing was wrong, when everything, everything, everything was.

[Russia]

”What the hell? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Apparently, Feliks was not at all happy with Ivan’s little game. All the same, his expression and reactions were enough to make Russia break into giggles. Here was Poland, a beaten and fairly powerless nation at the moment, looking a perfect blend of furious and sad at the same time. It was downright hilarious. Especially since Poland was obviously not going to buy that Russia had nothing to do with killing the Polish prisoners. That would not stop Russia from having his fun though.

“You take me here and then you… you, what, are you calling me stupid now? Of course you’re responsible for this! This—“

Ivan’s eyes followed Feliks’ motioning hand to the hole in the ground, where the vile smell of death was emanating from. He had not specifically called Feliks stupid, no matter how many times in the past he had thought of him as such. Which really made him being defeated by the Pole in the past rather embarrassing and unpleasant to think about.

He listened attentively to Poland’s rant about exactly how he knew Russia was at fault for the mass grave they were standing on. Going to Hell? The Russian stared at him in temporary confusion. Why would he be destined for Hell? That was only where bad people or countries went, and he figured he was far from being bad. Looking at the grave, he saw absolutely no reason why Poland would draw that odd conclusion. There was nothing wrong with killing enemies. It was all perfectly normal and harmless. As far as he knew, everybody did it, so if that was an instant ticket to Hell, then the entire world would be destined to end up there.

Suddenly remembering that he was not supposed to be thinking about religion at all anymore, Russia was quick to drag his mind away from the topic. His smile slipped for a moment. Religion was something that communists simply did not need. Or so he had been told. It was a false construct that only those suffering under capitalism relied on. Hadn’t Marx said that in a perfect communist world, people would no longer need religion at all? A brief wave of shame swept over Russia for even considering his old religious beliefs. It just went to show that the Soviet Union had not yet progressed to that wonderful state of pure communism that he was sure they would one day accomplish.

Realizing that Poland was still there, Ivan quickly smiled again. There was still fun to be had here, it was no time to think about depressingly confusing topics such as religion and communism. He had a Polish nation to play with.

“How do you know Germany didn’t do this? His boss is fond of mass killings it would seem. His forces have already killed so many Poles and Russians alike and pushed them into mass graves. Why so quick to blame me when I’m not your enemy?” He wasn’t lying. Germany’s forces had already killed so many Soviets, sometimes burying them on Ivan’s own land. Just because they had not done this particular mass execution, did not mean that they had not done similar ones.

“I think Ludwig and his men killed these Poles, Feliks.” Even if Poland himself didn’t believe it, Russia was sure that the NKVD would use the Germans as a scapegoat for the killings. Should they be discovered. Which they undoubtedly would, by Ivan’s reasoning; It was only a matter of time. And since governments rarely liked to admit mass killings for some reason, he suspected it would not be long before he was left telling everyone that it was the Nazis who were to blame. He personally had no problems admitting that his people had killed the prisoners. It wouldn’t change anything anyways. It wasn’t like the allies would do anything, they couldn’t afford to lose him as an ally against the Axis, even if they did for some reason disapprove. But his bosses liked to keep things hush for whatever reasons and he would do exactly as they said without a fuss.

“You know, if you wanted to know the exact number of Polish prisoners we are standing on right now, you could always dig and count them. It would take you awhile I imagine, but then you would know for sure.” He moved closer to Poland thoughtfully, violet eyes examining the other man playfully. “Of course, who’s saying this mass killing that the Nazis did was limited to this area. There could be dead Poles in graves like this all over Europe for all you know.”

((Just to note, I am not such a Marxist in reality. Russia's views for sure are not necessarily mine. ^^; I am merely keeping him based off the popular Bolshevik ideals for the time.))

[Poland]

When he did look up, Poland saw that his vigorous screaming had done nothing but put a small discontented frown upon Russia’s face, just as soon replaced by another broad smile. Poland wanted to rip it off of him. He hated it. He hated it more than anything. He longed for the days when Russia never smiled, when he was assaulted with troubles from all fronts, or when he was smaller and so much easier to push around. But this was the modern era, the new era, and Poland wasn’t with Lithuania anymore and his territory did not take up Central Europe anymore and Russia most definitely wasn’t small anymore. The creepy boy had grown into a far creepier, larger, and increasingly deranged man, who grasped all the power in the region and held to it like a lifeline—like Poland had once upon a time. But now the older nation was skinny, slighter, his power had faded faster than he’d ever imagined… he was vulnerable. Disgustingly and woefully vulnerable, and Russia, with that innocent and contemptible smile, was totally taking advantage of it.


“How do you know Germany didn’t do this? His boss is fond of mass killings it would seem. His forces have already killed so many Poles and Russians alike and pushed them into mass graves. Why so quick to blame me when I’m not your enemy?”

Feliks looked hopelessly up at him, jaw slack, distantly wondering when the hell he was going to stop playing this stupid, cruel game of his. Though he seemed to be almost unwitting somehow as he spoke, from Poland’s point of view, he was most surely attempting to kill the Polish nation on the inside. And damn it, he was nearly succeeding. The world felt like it was flip-flopping, and Poland was reaching the point where he couldn’t do anything but not care. But of course, he had to care. He had no choice but to care.

Right now, he couldn’t remember a time when Russia had not been his enemy. A few hours ago, he had been under the illusion that the other was a sort of friend, or at least was coming to be with time now that they had a common enemy. But he wasn’t at all an ally—he was an ally’s ally. That didn’t mean they were not enemies still. Especially now that Feliks held the knowledge that Russia had committed this… atrocity. This heinous crime, that he now pinned the blame for upon Germany. Bull. Germany killed his people—Germany killed his women and children in fact. While not by any means a new aspect of war, that certain means of subduing his people, by killing everyone to the last child, surprised him every time. From what he knew, no women had accompanied the prisoners of war to their burial sites, but they were prisoners. How could one take in prisoners and then murder them all so carelessly? With a deep breath and steeled nerves, Feliks contemplated the impossible number of people that could be dead by Russia’s hand, who they were, what they were. Or at least, what they had been. Converting his perplexed, depressed thoughts of those prisoners to the past tense was even more painful than being shot, it seemed, and he had been shot many, many times in his life. It wasn’t pleasant at all. In the silence, Feliks kept still sans shifting his weight uncomfortably, finding the quiet moment unbearable.


“I think Ludwig and his men killed these Poles, Feliks.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Ivan!” he barked unexpectedly, and then gasped for breath and coughed into his sleeve. He was not in the mood to laugh at all, but in a lighter circumstance Russia pointing his finger at the other schoolyard bully across the hallway was almost comic. Pretending to be innocent when Feliks could practically see his people’s blood on his exceptionally big and meaty hands… Here Russia was, having led Feliks to the very spot of their burial, information he could only have realistically gotten from knowing originally where they were going to be buried. The thought process was very clear in Poland’s head, and even though Ivan continued to nag at him in that consistently innocuous tone. It got under Poland’s skin and made it crawl; but no matter what he did or said, it only kept going on and on and on, endlessly and deceitfully peaceful. As if they weren’t standing next to a grave—how could Russia even stand to be so… so horrible?


“You know, if you wanted to know the exact number of Polish prisoners we are standing on right now, you could always dig and count them. It would take you awhile I imagine, but then you would know for sure. Of course, who’s saying this mass killing that the Nazis did was limited to this area. There could be dead Poles in graves like this all over Europe for all you know.”

Feliks closed his eyes and held his ringing head still. “My God, don’t you ever shut up? I will not—“ He shuddered very visibly, holding himself and feeling chills seep into his skin. Digging up his own people? Bodies all over Europe? Russia was surely just trying to scare him, and Feliks dug his heel into the moist ground; he wasn’t going to give in to that. “The Nazis could not ha-have possibly done this. I know that! You—you know that. Don’t give me that bull. I know it was you and your…” An idea dawned him, slowly, but then spread like wildfire. It was only a notion, but…

“I know!” He shouted, voice nearing that distinct tone of small triumph. He pointed accusingly at Russia, an uncertain smile of victory crossing his face. “I’m going to tell Arthur. And… and Churchill. And then they won’t help you—they definitely won’t help you once they learn that you did this—and don’t lie to me, god damn it, you totally did this.”

Russia needed all the support he could get. Poland hadn’t forgotten the first Great War, wherein Russia had suffered copiously versus Germany… why would the outcome be any different nowadays? A few things had changed, but going to war virtually alone against such military power was sure to make a nation fall under considerable strife. Feliks knew firsthand, after all. And if England hadn't lifted so much as a finger to help completely innocent if not slightly daft Poland, why should he assist a cruel, awful, horrible lunatic like Russia?

[Russia]

“My God, don’t you ever shut up? I will not—“

Pleased to see his former foe so bothered and upset by his words, Russia merely watched in silent fascination as Poland shuddered. Why should he shut up, when Poland was so readily playing right into his fun game? So long as Ivan was having fun, then all was well in his world. Whether or not Feliks wanted him to continue speaking up was besides the point.

“You will not, what, Feliks? Dig for your people? I don’t blame you, with that smell.” The unwittingly cruel Russian noted softly.

“The Nazis could not ha-have possibly done this. I know that! You—you know that. Don’t give me that bull. I know it was you and your…”

My NKVD? He refused to give voice to that thought for the time being. Instead he continued to stare at Poland with that deceptively innocent smile, wondering how much of the truth the other nation had pieced together already.

“I know!”

The triumph in the other nation’s voice was irritatingly familiar, and Ivan found himself wondering where the shovel was. He didn’t care for the sudden change of demeanor in Poland, and already his mind was piecing together violent images of himself seizing the shovel, beating Poland to a bloody heap with it, and then tossing his broken form into the very whole that he had so painstakingly dug. The wrongly triumphant sounding country could use another good thrashing it seemed, if he was foolish enough to get plucky with Russia.

“I’m going to tell Arthur. And… and Churchill. And then they won’t help you—they definitely won’t help you once they learn that you did this—and don’t lie to me, god damn it, you totally did this.”

“You’re being silly now, Poland. Really what do dead Polish prisoners matter to them? Not everyone gets so worked up over a few bodies.” Of course it was more than “a few” bodies, but still, he doubted Arthur and his boss would care too much. Why should they? It wasn’t their men who had been shot and then dumped unceremoniously into a trench. He saw no reason why they would be losing sleep over the issue. Felik’s dismay had been expected. It was why he had been so delighted to bring his former enemy out to this place. But England was not Polish, and as a result, Ivan could not begin to grasp why he would be upset enough to try and duck out of the war over a mass grave or two. As far as the violet-eyed nation could tell, Arthur hated Germany just as much as he did, or at least somewhere close to it.

“Besides, I don’t need help winning this war.” He informed Poland as though he should know this already. “Times change, Poland. I’m a strong nation now, I am sure I could take the Axis on by myself if I need to.” Russia ignored the fact that the Germans had already claimed some important areas of Soviet turf- mainly in Ukraine- and that they were actually doing rather well so far in their invasion. He was sure that his people would manage to force the Germans back soon enough and then from there everything would go his way. Surely Ludwig’s forces would not reach Moscow. For all his issues with logic though, Ivan was not stupid by any means, and was not without his slight worry and doubts. He was not however about to let Feliks in on them. Best to outwardly cling to his belief that all would be well and he was more than capable of fighting off the Nazi foes.

He looked back to the hole thoughtfully. “You really think I would stand here all night shooting Poles and tossing them in trenches, Feliks? That would get monotonous, and just think of how sore it would make the trigger finger.”

Closing the distance between himself and Poland, Russia lashed out and grabbed onto the other nation’s wrists. Forcing Feliks’ slender arms behind his back as though he were a policeman trying to make an arrest, Russia secured them both with one of his hands and moved his prisoner closer to the freshly dug hole. “Although, the smell of freshly spilt blood was much more agreeable than what you dug up.” A vice-like grip on Poland’s wrists, he pushed the Pole so that he was right up on the edge of the fairly deep opening. His thoughts raced back to the bloody event itself, and the way the NKVD had went through with the executions, holding the doomed prisoners in such a similar fashion.

[Poland]

“You’re being silly now, Poland. Really what do dead Polish prisoners matter to them? Not everyone gets so worked up over a few bodies.”

Feliks didn’t even say anything. He stared right at the Russian, right through him really, staring at what appeared to be a godawful truth. It’s not a few bodies, was what occurred to him first within his mind, laced with a bitterness at the other’s careless Honestly, he was fairly certain that he hadn’t shed much sympathy towards many bodies on the battle grounds— he even might have been overjoyed, at points, to see dead bodies if they were in Russian or German uniforms. The only times corpses really seemed to disturb him were if they were the bodies of his children, or if they were sprawled out in a distinctively perturbing manner. Or if they were particularly gruesome. Or mass graves. He recalled a time where mass graves had been widespread due to an awful sickness, but his lands had escaped them—Feliks had shuddered when he learned of them. The thought of pits filled with corpses strewn about so inhumanly… Ah, and then, the reality…

Feliks managed to tear his eyes away from Russia and, with a sharp inhalation, catch a glimpse of the lugubrious depths below. He was way too close to it for comfort. Hastily turning his head from the ugly sight hiding a much uglier crime, he shuffled farther from it as Russia went on. Now he was too close to Russia. And too susceptible to his words. There was never any damn winning, was there? His horror kept him from trying to pick a fight, his pride kept him from barreling through the forests in search of solace, of peace, of respite from Russia, at least. But instead, he stood there and had a hell of a time contemplating his enemy’s uninterested response to his threat. And contemplation on his end was difficult.

While realizing that he himself hadn’t paid much attention to corpses so long as they weren’t Polish, he didn’t quite grasp what Russia was saying. How could England not condemn Russia when he heard of this? There had to be some guiding moral compass, something that would make it an absolute necessity if England didn’t have a heart and didn’t empathize with them. There was no way he wouldn’t, there was just no way. Not when they saw how ugly—how awful, how unfair, how horrible it was. How they had been prisoners of war—didn’t that count for anything? Didn’t that guarantee some degree of safety? There was something—there had to be something—

But deep down, while he frantically sought some inner affirmation that Russia would get his just desserts from the international community, he was aware that Russia’s absolute indifference to his threat was unfeigned. He wasn’t sure if what Russia said was necessarily true, or if he had some other kind of ace in the hole…

Russia then claimed he was strong, that he needed no assistance so Poland’s threat was invalid and foolish. Feliks huffed, but his claims weren’t so incredulous as the Pole would have liked. There had been a time when… Well, Russia was right. Times did change; the world kept spinning on anyway, cruising on leisurely and threatening to tear everyone’s hopes from them at the same time. Nations changed. Poland changed. For better or worse, he couldn’t quite say. He had gotten so much weaker, and he had found an incredible strength, a stubborn will to survive that he was certain could drag him out of all of this, somehow. He would survive, the memories of those soldiers would survive, at least within him. He could carry them up upon his shoulders…


“You really think I would stand here all night shooting Poles and tossing them in trenches, Feliks? That would get monotonous, and just think of how sore it would make the trigger finger.”

Poland felt a flare of rage at how very eloquently, how innocuously, he was able to address such a subject. It was as if he was musing upon it, finding the prospect of shooting multitudes of Poles somehow laughable. He quivered in that very same rage, following Russia’s eyes back to the hole, back to those pungent odors of death….

Poland’s eyes widened, his pulse quickened, Russia was suddenly holding his hands and that was not okay. He squirmed, twisted his body and pulled his shoulders forward but Russia was vastly superior in size and, for the moment, in physical strength. Feliks was disgusted with how effortlessly the other seemed to hold him captive, but Russia had never been able to do that for long, anyway. There was always struggling to be had. Still , Feliks turned his head to yell at Russia but then the other was roughly moving him forward, and it dawned upon the smaller nation that they were moving in a less than desirable direction: towards the hole. He swore, if he was put within its earthen confines one more time he was going to—

”Stop! Stop, quit it, Russia! Oh my God—“ there was a shrill, almost unfamiliar note of panic in his voice, quite possibly music to Ivan’s ears. It was one thing to be in a small space. It was another to be in a small space underground that was filled with the decaying corpses of his people. He translated that panic into some kind of mix between grim determination and crazed movement. He had been so hoping for a chance at violence, but he hadn't anticipated it, or that it would be initiated by Russia-- Surprise, surprise. Again.

“Although, the smell of freshly spilt blood was much more agreeable than what you dug up.”

Those words could very possibly have been that long-awaited confession, and Poland would have jumped on them, gathered them up, captured them in his hands and mind and heart as if they were tangible, if he wasn’t currently bucking against Russia like a captured animal. Feliks felt his toes upon nothing, and he stopped trying to face Russia in favor of balking at his close proximity to a hole full of dead Poles. Obviously he wouldn’t die just from being shoved into a pit, even a pit full of death, but he would rather not join his men in the scarring dirt. And if Russia had a gun on him, well, then doubly so. He struggled almost thoughtlessly, shoving back against Russia and trying to stomp on his feet, something, anything, to get out of that grasp. Was this how they had suffered? Then he was damn proud of them, the whole lot of them. Just like how he was going to be damn proud of himself when he broke free of Russia's clutches and then turned everyone against him. Well, that was the plan, anyway, but the odds looked slim. Again. But the odds had never stopped him before!

"--it. You asshole!" He spat viciously, catching his breath in the midst of his struggle. "Let me go, let me go, let me go!" Anything more threatening or sensible than that was totally lost to him.

At this point, he had already cemented the notion that reasoning with Russia was nigh impossible, a waste of time. All he could do was grunt and scream, though no one could hear him, kick and push back, though it was pathetically futile, and shriek cutting curses at Russia, though he was fully aware it made no difference to the bigger nation so long as fun was to be had. It wasn’t really so different from those detested days away from the map. Old habits really did die hard…


(( Oh my gosh... yeah... life got a bit frantic and I got blindsided by some block. But then it all came out in... this. I promise you faster replies! I PROMISE ALL OF YOU. ;A; ))

[Russia]

Russia struggled slightly to maintain his grip on Poland as he leaned him over the unearthed bit of grave. He had not honestly expected such an injured, beaten nation to be able to fight so much. In his mind, he was so vastly superior to Poland at this point, that he should not have been able to even feel the other nation struggle in his clutches. And yet, Poland was struggling and bucking against his grasp like some wild animal freshly caught. He would not show it, but Ivan found it somewhat of a challenge to keep the Pole’s hand secured behind his back with only one of his.

In his stomping, Feliks caught Russia’s right foot, but he did not weigh enough or posses enough strength to do more than cause slight discomfort. More out of annoyance than pain, Russia moved his foot back a little, and out of the stomping range.

“You asshole!”


Ivan chuckled softly, not at all taking the insult to heart. He knew he was not an asshole, so what did it matter to him if Poland thought so? All he had done was take Poland to his missing POWs, just as he had promised he would. He had never outright stated that Poland’s men were alive. He had not stated they were dead either, but that was just part of the game. It gave their little journey through the woods an air of mystery. Well, it did for Poland anyway. Russia had known all the details before even leaving England with Feliks, since he had been present not long ago at the executions themselves.

"Let me go, let me go, let me go!"

“So eager to join your men, Feliks?” He shoved his Polish captive over the hole even more, giving the man another good view as to what was down there. “Do you really want me to let you go? It doesn’t look too inviting down there to me.”

Tightening his grip on Feliks’ wrists until it was a bit painful for himself, the larger country slid his free hand back into his coat. Unfastening his handgun, he removed the shiny black weapon and cocked it. It was the makings of a dream, to have Feliks helpless in his grasp, and a decently powered pistol in the other hand.

Russia examined his gun fondly, looking at it in much the same way that someone might look at a lover. With a gentleness that was completely out of place with the entire situation, the Russian brought the weapon to rest at a slight upwards angle against the base of Poland’s spine, right where the neck met the base of his skull. Digging the steel barrel against the other man's flesh, he spared a glance down into the putrid pit before them.

“I brought you here at your own request Poland. This is what you wanted to see. This is what happens to enemies of the Soviet Union.” And anyone that my rather frightening leader views as too intelligent and skilled, apparently.[/i] He flinched a bit at the thought that many of his own people had ended up in similar graves because of his leader. Thanks to his and Germany’s bosses, he figured that all of Europe would probably be filled with these sorts of mass graves by the time the war was won. Some with Russians, some with Germans, many with Poles. If all went well however, most of those mass graves would be for the Axis’ soldiers.

“I think your people want you to join them, Feliks. They want their nation spirit to rest with them.”

Loosening his grip on Poland’s wrists a tiny bit, the violet eyed sadist had to wonder how many bullets he still even had in his gun. He had had six not long ago, but that was before the meeting in England. Quietly he tried to recall the number he had used. At least three had been used on Germans recently off on the front lines. He had used one bullet on a small rabbit that had crossed his path while he had been in a particularly foul mood. The other two he was unsure about. He could have swore he had shot something else right before the meeting at England’s but he had been drinking more than usual that day, and he could not remember what it had been or how many bullets he had used. For all he knew, he was holding an empty gun at the Pole’s head.

It did not really matter though. He was just playing with the injured nation right now. His boss had not given him the clear to go shooting even a remotely allied nation for the time being. Whether Poland knew it or not, he was safe from the exact same fate that his people had suffered.

[Poland]

This.

This was so not right.

And here he thought his recent change of ties with Russia would mean something, but, as he internally scolded himself more frantically than he would have liked, he should have known that Russia’s inherent insanity would lead him to forget or disregard all of that complicated diplomacy stuff. Evidently, the man had a lust for Polish blood or something, and probably did not give one damn about the consequences—if there were to be any consequences. Poland’s blood boiled at the thought. No, his being invaded had started the war, and he had given up more people than anyone and he had fought Germany with all the strength he could manage and he was still trying to do that even though it looked pretty hopeless, but globally no one cared much about his cause or his nation or even his people. It was a bitter thought, but an even bitterer reality—and it hit him like a ton of bricks. He had been aware of everyone else’s reluctance in helping him earlier, but he had likely been foolish to think it would have changed in a few years’ time. But Russia wasn’t dumb, conscience-lacking as he may be, so he must have known that Poland’s threats really held no substance. He paused in his thrashing for a moment, deeply troubled, mind folding off into childishly sulky thoughts of dying solely to spite everyone. He'd like to see everyone's guilt weighing down on them when they heard their absolute failure to do anything for him had actually culminated in his death, the first death of their kind for a while now.

But he was too strong for that.

And, sour and bitter as life may taste, he didn’t want to be dead. No, not one bit. He loved living. And even if he did want to end his long, long, long life—and he didn’t!—there wasn’t much anyone or anything could do to kill him. He started to shove backwards again, distantly aware that Russia was taking one hand off of him and vaguely upset with the fact that he could be held so efficiently with merely one of Russia’s all-too meaty, large, cold, stupid hands.

And then he felt it.

The cold steel of a small gun digging into his skin, his neck, his spine. He blanched for only a second—only a fraction of a moment—and then steeled himself in resolute determination. Fearlessness. Faithfulness. He could be fearless in his foolishness very well by now—he hadn’t even batted an eye when the initial invasion had begun, so why should he now? It wasn’t a decision so much as the force of habit, and the remnants of that feeling of invincibility he had held in centuries long past that he was still clinging to overriding his base fears. By all means, of course, he still wasn’t calm, and he was pissed as he could be and he couldn’t stop thinking up ways that Russia would get his comeuppance, from God or the international community or wherever as long as he got it somehow. Soon, preferably. Right now, even. A lightning bolt would help. Or an enraged bear.

Above all, he couldn’t believe that they were fighting on the same force. He usually wasn’t one for paranoia but when it came to Russia, to hell with his usual carefree characteristics— what if he really was still on Germany’s side and they were just staging the whole ‘Russian front’ thing and they were really working together to screw everyone over again? His heart thudded; it was a silly but nonetheless frightening thought. Unlikely and impossible, too, but it seemed pretty impossible that Russia was supposedly on his side when here he was, torturing him again, shoving his face in a tragedy without the slightest ounce of remorse.

“…I’m not gonna die just ‘cause of that gun,” he reminded Russia tersely, viciously, resisting now with less terror but absolutely no decrease in temerity. Amazingly, his voice didn’t shake, didn’t quaver in the least—it exuded a snarky confidence Poland had almost forgotten possessing. It held a strength he had lost a while ago, but his people still held tight. The bold thickheadedness in there, however, was all his, bred from years and years of being himself. “You don’t scare me now any more than you did when you were like, tiny!” Then on a sick impulse, he turned his head around as far as he could, then very much aware of the frigid steel pushing threateningly against his skin—and he actually spat at Russia’s face. Spitting was not something he did regularly considering how icky he found it, but at that moment, it felt as though it was the most wonderful, glorious thing he had ever done, showcasing his disgust and utter abhorrence with Russia and his ideals and the things he did. It was so satisfying that Poland took time to pause, smiling audaciously and fiercely at his captor—Even looking at Russia’s face was better than looking down there again. So much better.

Still, looking away did not change the fact that it was there, the stench of rot stinging at his eyes.

[Russia]

“…I’m not gonna die just ‘cause of that gun.”

A shadow of disappointment showed itself on the Russian's face as those words. He had been hoping for fear, but Poland’s voice was strangely unwavering. Where had Feliks found enough bravery to act as though Russia was holding nothing more than a flower at his back? He wanted to reduce the other nation to tears, to hear him plead for some sort of mercy. To hear him beg not to join the corpses that rotted in the ground under their very feet.

But Feliks did not indulge him, and the Russian was highly disappointed. The game was no fun with Poland being so difficult. The confidence that the other man exuded, even whilst in Russia’s firm grasp, was downright irritating.

“No, sadly, I can’t kill you that way. I imagine a bullet through the skull hurts a lot though, even for one of us.” His discontentment had found its way into his voice, and he squeezed Feliks’ wrists tighter in annoyance. The Pole would not have been so cocky if he had witnessed his POWs’ executions first hand. Perhaps then Ivan would have gotten to see those tears. Perhaps then Poland would have done some sort of begging. It took a strong stomach to watch a mass execution take place. He doubted Poland had such a strong stomach for death.

With so many years of war and bloodshed, Russia himself had become somewhat numb to the whole thing. He had seen a few bodies, watched a few of the unfortunate Polish men get drug off into the main execution room. He had heard the shots and seen corpses piled in the trench. He had witnessed, and mildly partook in the execution of a few somber looking men who had been lined up along the edge of the grave. These men had been killed humanly by his standards though. A quick bullet to the skull and they had moved on, to wherever it was that men were supposed to go now after death. If religion was the opium of the masses as his boss had claimed, then he preferred not to think about the afterlife. It all seemed that much more depressing without his previous belief system and a part of him secretly hoped that Marx had been wrong about that.

“You don’t scare me now any more than you did when you were like, tiny!”

He was now convinced that the only thing the Pole was begging for was some serious pain. Then Poland somehow gathered the nerve to turn in Russia’s iron grasp and actually spit at him. Such lack of respect for his superiors was simply not tolerable! The action awoke a fury within the tall, violet-eyed blonde, and his mind clouded over with rage and nonsensical Russian words of violence and chaos. He had went from idly wanting to play around with Feliks, to wanting to shoot him at point blank range and bury him with the Polish prisoners. Then again, shooting might be too kind of an action for such a bold sign of disrespect. Again, beating him with the shovel sounded very appealing.

Releasing Poland’s wrists, Russia gave a violent shove to the other nation, in an attempt to send him tumbling down to his dead people. Reaching up to his cheek, he wiped away any spit that had caught him there. Having flecks of blood on his face was fine by him, but spit from an overly cocky nation was another thing altogether. Blood could be worn with some amount of pride, but spit could not.

“Such a lack of respect for your superiors will come back to get you, Poland. If all your people are like you, then it really is no wonder that they are always being killed and dumped in graves like this.” Aiming his pistol, he took a shot down the pit in the general vicinity of Poland’s feet. He honestly could care less if he actually hit the other nation. He had not previously even been sure that the pistol had still had any ammunition in it. Just the sound of the weapon being fired was comfort enough for him.

“I kept my word and brought you to your people, Pole.” Without another word, Ivan turned on his heel and started off in the direction they had originally came from. If the other nation was not going to play by his, unspoken rules, then he could just stay there and have the corpses for company. Hopefully, next time they met face to face, their governments would be on even worse terms, and Stalin would give Russia the okay to beat that defiant Pole into a bloody heap. It would be amusing to see him try and keep his cocky demeanor when every bone in his body was shattered by Ivan’s pipe. The encouraging thought spread a smile once more on his young boyish features.
________________________________
((Many thanks for the permission to knock you into the grave, Poland. ~ I apologize for the post being shorter than usual. I have been drowning in stuff this last week.))

[Poland]

The sound of bones breaking under him was more dizzying than the fall itself.

He was distantly aware of it after the initial shock that he had been pushed into a pit of corpses subsided, that his all-too thin stomach was right over a rotting skull, and that the impact of his body had probably broken the unearthed body’s neck. Feliks cringed, breath heavy and increasingly so, and lifted his head up from the frigid earth as if stirring from an unpleasantly deep nap. His body twitched slightly as it instinctively made to turn over—but then Feliks realized that consequently, a corpse would be brushing up against his back and the thought stilled him, even his breath seemed frozen in the air. No different from the surrounding bodies, the pieces of flesh beneath him. Almost as if he was a corpse in a sinking sea of corpses…

He heard something from Russia, but it sounded as though it came from another world entirely and Feliks couldn’t make out any words—but he was ever so slightly pleased by the absence of Russia’s regularly feigned innocence in those otherworldly noises, by the very real tone of his displeasure. The only movement in Poland’s entire body at that moment was the upward curl of his mouth at its corners. He had broken Russia’s calm demeanor; a twisted, pyrrhic victory, but nonetheless, a victory when there was none else to be had.

Quickly, then, a fierce trepidation came over him, and before he had even recognized the piercing sound, he had pulled his legs to himself to avoid a bullet to the kneecap. Now he lay in a fetal position, glowering upwards at the origin of the bullet, trying to see past the glint of morning light in his eyes, the misplaced light in an otherwise dark, dark space.

“I kept my word and brought you to your people, Pole.”

This he heard clearly.

It boiled his blood to new levels. Whatever disappointment he held for himself was directed towards the Russian man with intensity tenfold. He was angry, but his anger could only manifest itself in clenched fists and shuddering breaths, closed eyes and the feeling of dissatisfaction raging in the pit of his stomach. After a few moments, he came to the realization that Russia had left. And subsequently, that he was alone in the middle of a Russian forest where the cold bit and held. He calmed gradually, his head full of a burning numbness because he knew very well that in a sick sense, he wasn’t completely alone. Feliks steadily propped himself up on his elbows, wavering, tottering to the side slowly—the stench of rot was dizzying, and he resolved to inhale through his mouth though the mustiness still remained on his tongue and in his eyes—and after a few moments of groggy struggle he was able to sit up completely, knees pressing against his torso, boots digging into the dirt, where just below lay great numbers of Poles lost to him forever. He felt it. But he didn’t want to see it—from the time of his fall, he had intentionally shut his eyes. They had opened in surprise, flickered for a fraction of a second at the resounding noise of the gunshot, but at that point he had been staring up and had been spared the ugly sight of corpses half-buried, sprawled out before him like morbid dolls.

The thought was making him shudder—eyes still stubbornly closed, he pulled his coat tighter against his body and tried to formulate a plan. Firstly… he should get out of the hole, right? And yet, he couldn’t move to do so. Something was weighing him down, and it was, quite frankly, freaking Poland out that his limbs were laden with such a horrid weight when they were so skinny, so scrawny, so frail. He took a deep breath. All that came in was death. He let out that breath. The dirty feeling remained. He had a feeling it would stay that way no matter what. There was no point in keeping his eyes closed—the faces of this particular occurrence of death were already carved into his memory like so much else. So he opened them in one sharp movement. Ripping off the bandaid was better, right?

His sight adjusted, shook like a leaf in the wind, and then refocused on the faces he had so recently uncovered. The men’s bodies from the shoulders down were still interred in the earth, and Poland had no intention of fully digging out the corpses. That wouldn’t change anything, only make him sicker—his heart thudded enough as it was, his eyes refusing to move from the sight of agony writ on the man’s face. Maybe it was imagined now, but at one point it had surely been there. And Poland had not been. Not for the first time, he wondered if leaving his own home at the start of the war with his government and the few others had been such a good idea. He should have stayed behind. He was Poland, after all, how could he even think to leave Poland again?

The filthy stench of rot was burning his eyes again. That’s why they were watering. Poland wouldn’t cry twice. He wasn’t that emotional—he wasn’t that delicate. He wasn’t, he wasn’t, he wasn’t. He was just thickheaded enough to ignore suffering like this. He was… he wasn’t…

“…I’m really sorry.” He choked on his words, struggled with them quietly. No one was around to hear his desperate apologies, his absurdly belated realizations. No one was around to hear the helpless sorrow dripping from his voice that seemed too small, too weak to be his. This kind of weakness was something he'd never show someone but... there was no one around now, was there? “I’m really sorry. I’m so, so sorry this happened.”

It was just prior to morning’s end that he gathered enough strength to whisper a solemn goodbye and climb out of the pit. He stared at it a little longer even after that, standing at its edge, nervously twiddling his thumbs, biting his lip, balling his hands. And then he turned on his heel and left the clearing with a shuddering, burning determination, as fiery as ever though his knees shook as he walked and he gasped for breath as if he had been drowning in death the last few hours. Life was cruel like that, he supposed sullenly, that it could inspire such diligent tenacity with such a horrendous sight, such a terrible experience. And it did—again, and again, and again. If that was life, Feliks didn’t ever want it to end. Because it could get better.

(( And now thread is end /o/ ))