Chapter Text
In the dark and the cold, the mind starts to wander.
And when at the conclusion of one's life, this is ever more so the case.
Slender and smooth fingers wrap around the thin metal chain, golden in color like the cross to which it was attached. The same fingers fiddle absentmindedly with the delicate item, a thumb gliding smoothly over the thin shape of the Russian Orthodox cross, assuaging the turbulent thoughts of the man, seated on the hard stone floor. His eyes were wandering around the tiny "room", which would be more correctly described as a holding cell; it was at most five by five meters, completely empty with a thick metal door centered on the opposite wall... the same door through which death would be delivered to him.
The once elegant and powerful man, who was now reduced to a curled-up lump on the ground, had already spent what he could only assume to be weeks in this cell, waiting, and waiting for the inevitable fate that had become his destiny, however displeasing it would turn out to be.
Imprisoned, trapped, contained and without anything to do, he could only reminisce about better times in days long past.
Just as he tilted back his head, feeling the back of his skull press rather painfully against the bare wall, shutting his eyes in silent acceptance, he picked up on the faintest noise approaching from a distance. His eyes flicked open in an instant, his back straightening as he sat up with his gaze concentrated intently on that metal door. The sound disappeared, and for a mere moment he imagined that he may have hallucinated it, considering his detestable mental deterioration... but then it came again—more consistently this time, one muffled thump after another...
His eyes widened as the sounds approached, getting closer and closer by the second... and then, as suddenly as they began, the footsteps halted, right in front of the door. When, after a few seconds, there was still no additional movement from the other side, the man felt a spontaneous influx of dread and despair—his heart began to race, his skin growing unpleasantly sticky as sweat perspired on its surface, his fight-or-flight response kicking into high gear.
Then, a clinking, almost twinkling noise, followed by the clanking of metal as something was inserted into the lock, and twisted. A bolt somewhere moved out of place, and a gut-wrenching creak could be heard as the heavy door rotated on its hinge.
Despite the circumstances, and despite the panic, the man on the floor sat straighter still, bringing himself to as tall a height as he could in his weakened state, and looked on with as neutral and unbothered of an expression as he could.
As the door gave way and revealed the full view of the open doorway, a strange feeling overcame the man. Suddenly, he felt... calm. His heart rate slowed down once more, his previously firm expression softening ever so slightly, his fingers gently unclenching as his grip loosened around the cross, still resting in his hand. What he had experienced, though bizarre, was perfectly reasonable, in line with all laws of the universe. It was nothing profound, but rather simple... the person he saw before him, appearing like a shadow in the darkness, was none other than his...
"Сын." He spoke softly, barely above a whisper as he looked up at the expected, yet unexpected visitor.
The man in the doorway appeared not to respond, or react. He simply stepped forward, and shut the door behind himself without a word.
There was a moment of heavy silence, in which they simply stared at one another, neither opening his mouth to speak. After a while of this unbearable stalemate, the captive looked up at his captor, and said, calmly,
"You're here to kill me."
He watched carefully, observing the change in expression on the face of the man towering over him. His son had grown so much over the years, he couldn't help but notice, and he even, despite it all, felt a warm sense of pride deep in his chest. Still, the feeling was brief and would soon fade into something entirely different: disappointment. Instead of the son he'd envisioned in his dreams, one dressed in an elegant, royal outfit with golden details and embellishments of the finest silver, he saw his sole issue, his solitary offspring, in thick, heavy winter clothing of a dark tan coloration and tall winter boots, on which he only just now noticed was some residue which appeared to be dried mud.
He dressed like a serf, not a tsarevitch, as he should.
"Don't make things difficult."
The father looked up at the son when he spoke, quiet for a moment as he processed the words. And then, he simply smiled. Smiled, either in response to the absurdity of his predicament, or because even now he still saw a young, naive boy in front of him.
"Is that really the last thing you have to say to me?" His tone was steady and unwavering, even as he felt the suffocating shroud of death close in around him. A pair of golden irises directed their gaze down to him, burning into him as he sat there in quite the pitiful state.
"What else is there to say?" The younger answered coldly, fists discreetly clenching at his sides.
"Surely you have not forgotten, everything that I've taught you..." The older murmured softly, shutting his eyes with a silent sigh. As expected, the other man frowned in response to the reminder of the past, eyebrows furrowing in an intense scowl.
"I have no time for pointless niceties."
"Other than that." His eyes flicked open once more, and he now stared at the other with a more confident, self-assured look. "I hope you have not forgotten the skills I taught you to survive in this world."
His son stood motionless for a moment, then asked: "Like what?"
This time, the man actually chuckled at the younger. He was never much of a cheerful man throughout his long life, but he must be near the brink of insanity at this point, waiting patiently for Death's scythe to come and sweep up his soul. Either way, there was not much of his image left to blemish, and so he spoke:
"Everything. Literature, archery, piano, chess, manners, how to be a gentleman..."
The other man's golden eyes narrowed dangerously.
"I suppose you categorize oppression as a gentlemanly activity."
"As will you, some day." The man with the more slender figure yet frailer body suddenly arose to his feet, knees unbending shakily as he leaned against the wall for support. "All great empires must keep the masses in check. You will learn."
"I'm not an empire," replied his son, the dangerous expression unchanged.
As the now weaker man stood precariously before his heir, he took yet another look at the other's general appearance. The aforementioned golden irises stood out sharply from the dark red expanse of his face, the top left corner of which contained golden lettering matching his eyes. Compared to his father, he had a much stronger build, broad shoulders and muscly arms, large hands with calloused palms and thick fingers... no jewelry adorned any part of his body, save for an emblem depicting the hammer and sickle secured to his right breast pocket, and a red star with a golden outline on the front of his hat.
He stared at the emblem on the pocket for a few moments more, and then the corner of his mouth twitched upwards, betraying the bitter smile he attempted to hide.
There it was. What he had been warned about for years, an idea so seemingly improbable and yet here he was, face-to-face with any nation's greatest fear...
Ideology.
Either it works for you, or it facilitates your downfall. Either you master it to kill for you, or it destroys you instead.
But by the hand of his own son...
Once a mere child, sitting at the piano and working through his practice book... fingers pressed upon the keys rather clumsily, occasionally the boy would flinch at an incorrect note, before hurrying to remedy the error. Behind him stood the Russian Empire, then at his full glory, sipping from a cup of tea before setting it down upon the saucer in his other hand. He reached his now empty hand forward and placed his finger on the correct key, and the younger Russian looked up at him.
"When will you teach me how to fight?" Asked the little one, eyes glistening with unrestrained interest.
"Culture first," replied the elder, placing his hand gently upon his son's shoulder, "you must hone your familiarity with the substance of our people, through music, the arts, literature... then we can talk military strength."
The boy didn't hide his disappointment, looking down at his feet with a frown. After a moment, his gaze returned to the book upon the music rack and his fingers returned to the keyboard, starting to produce beautiful albeit sometimes imperfect melodies once again.
The Russian Empire shook his head slightly, stepping away and leaving his son to his practice.
The boy could barely contain his excitement at the dish in front of him, a plate full of his favorite food, пельмени. Picking up his fork, he stabbed one of the Russian-style dumplings with its prongs and raised it to his mouth as fast as he could, as if it might run away—
Someone cleared their throat, and his hand stopped where it was, dumpling halfway to his mouth, which was still wide open. He glanced to the side and was met with his father's disapproving look. Lowering the fork slowly, he dropped his head in shame, not daring to meet that stern gaze again.
"Fix your posture," his father ordered him, and so he straightened out his back, sitting up to his fullest height.
"Take your elbows off of the table," and of course, he complied.
"Move slowly and with purpose. If you keep rushing, you'll choke, or make a fool of yourself. The way you eat makes you look utterly uncivilized." The criticism was, of course, not unexpected by any means, but the words still stung.
At that moment, the young boy felt a mixture of unpleasant emotions: fear, confusion, and... hatred.
Nevertheless, he picked up his fork again, this time as delicately as he could, tapping it lightly on the sour cream located on the far side of the plate.
"Yes, отец."
On a bright summer day, the preteen boy was seated at his desk, poring over the book on mathematics his father had given him. He was just untangling the fundamental theorems of calculus in his head when he heard a knock on his door.
He looked up as his father entered. He already knew why he was here, but still waited for the man at the door to speak.
"It's time to attend church."
The boy nodded, shutting the book with a light thump and standing up from his chair. After pushing the chair up to his desk, he followed his father out of the room.
Now a few years older and a great deal taller, the young man had developed an even greater interest in... books. Which, of course, was encouraged by his father, but something about it made him uneasy. More and more, his son neglected duties vital to his role as an heir... instead of speaking to the people, attending important events, or learning the intricacies of diplomatic relations with the other countries, his attention was divided, his time spent in his room or their family library, reading, and reading, and reading...
And thinking.
He felt even more uneasy about this.
His son started to question, to object, to refuse. Worst of all, he argued, he contested, he challenged. His doubts and blasphemous opinions about religion had even led the older Russian to call him a 'heathen'... just once, and in the heat of the moment, but he saw it all happen right before his eyes... his son's expression, falling slowly from anger into eerie calm, a dull and emotionless look in his eyes as the flames of passion died like a candlelight in a draft of wind. His face hardened, and from that moment on, the Russian Empire never saw his son again... not the one he knew.
But he still remembered his words that day.
And a chill ran down his spine each and every time he recalled that phrase...
"Then let Him punish me."
He should have never let him go abroad to study, much less to the birthplace of such radical ideas.
Looking out the window, fists clenched behind his back, the empire thought hatefully about his German counterpart. Did he do this intentionally? Plant seeds of rebellion and revolution in his own son? Was it all part of some grand strategy of his?
Now that the war was in full force, and his son very clearly and adamantly opposed their involvement, he found this possibility increasingly believable, despite his lack of any evidence at all.
In a moment of uncontrollable fury, the Russian impulsively knocked the small table beside him to the ground, hearing the vase shatter and its pieces scatter across the floor. Gritting his teeth and with his face twisted into a snarl, he ran his hands through his hair quickly and erratically, allowing his composure to break in the privacy of his own room...
The bastard... and his bastard, and his bastard's bastard... damn them all!
And everything got worse from there.
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard a clicking sound, and despite the fear that began to well up inside the depths of his stomach, he looked towards its source.
As expected, a loaded pistol, cocked and ready to fire.
Then, all of a sudden, all the anguish in his body transitioned quickly into bitter resentment.
"You animal," he muttered spitefully, his eyes were gleaming with the same golden color as his son's, "I will not allow you to do this."
The Red tilted his head slightly, eyes half-lidded in thought and contemplation of the crumpled man before him, the one who he had once looked up to in his earlier years. Silently, he grabbed the man's shoulder with his free hand, forcing him into a sitting position as he himself proceeded to crouch down to his eye-level.
"Allow?" Asked the younger, tone almost curious and wondering.
"I will not allow you," continued the Russian Empire, emphasizing the word this time, "to insult your forefathers this way... No! A country blessed by the hand of God, endowed with a rich history and everlasting legacy, envied by those who witness its greatness... you have no right to tear it all down! None!" He was just about shouting by the end, face distorted in rage and hiding the feral desperation gnawing at his bones. The young man kneeling before him simply watched him, eyes blank and expression unyielding of any emotion.
"A rich history..." said the communist, tone flat, "in which the wealthy and the affluent exploited and lived off the backs of the peasantry..."
"It's nature! It has always been this way, and it will always be this way!" Snapped the eldest Russian, eyes glistening with unshed tears of fury and frustration. "You are a fool to think you could change this state of matters... you will end up doing everything I did, as did your grandfather, and his father, and—"
"Shut up," his voice sounded almost tired, unfeeling eyes studying the man he once called 'father', "you are a dead man speaking."
Standing up, he raised his pistol and aimed it at the man's head.
At this, the empire's mouth shut with aggressive speed, but rather than beg for his life or for forgiveness, or cower in fear of the bullet awaiting him in the chamber, he felt his heart fill with indignation... he could even disregard the terror, just for a moment.
"You are my son."
The other stayed completely still, and the Russian Empire let out a choked laugh, not forced, but suppressed.
"I raised you with my own hands," he went on, and even held up his hands as though seeing them would force the younger one to remember... the long, slender fingers, the unblemished hands which, up until recently, were never seen outside of a pair of snow-white gloves. "My blood is in you... as is my legacy."
No response.
"You can kill me... but I will survive through you."
Their eyes were now locked together.
His son's fingers fidgeted slightly, but the index finger still came closer to the trigger.
"You're making a terrible mistake... but I still love you." After all, he was about to die... why not speak his mind, and speak truthfully for once? Especially when this is his last chance to speak to his heir... his successor... his... son. "Nothing will change that. Even if you plan to commit this great sin and take my life, I have my best interests still... in your future."
Would he get through to him? Probably not. And he didn't much care anymore.
"Life finds a way to punish those who act incorrectly, those who sin... God finds a way."
"You can't change your fate anymore, папа..." said the one with the gun. "It's as you once told me... meet death gracefully, and unite with Him with dignity."
Russian Empire chuckled once again, lowering and shaking his head. Being told to heed his own advice... only his son could have thought of telling him such a thing.
Still, he felt that the end was near. His son, ever the impatient child, seemed to be aching to finish the job, to dispose of him at last in a pool of blood. Perhaps the mindset was inherited from him as well... despite everything... and he meant everything... his son still resembled him in many small ways...
Well.
He supposed it was high time to depart this world anyway. Maybe the duties assigned to him by God have already been fulfilled... and it was time for him to go.
The empire garnered up the last bit of his energy and willpower to look up once again, eyes meeting his son's as a smile, subtle yet sincere, spread across his lips.
"God will not forgive you for this."
...
"I'll have to forgive Him first."
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Subconsciously, the son matched the rhythm of his footsteps with that of the clock in the hall. A perfect, steady rhythm, two steps per tick.
The meeting room was up ahead, hidden behind two tall, dark mahogany doors. As he approached, the golden embellishments of the frame and similar details on the doorknobs became more visible, more refined in his vision. He paused momentarily outside the room, observing the graceful curves of the handles and their glistening glow beneath the chandelier light.
Finally, he placed his large hand upon it and pressed down, the clicking open of the door coincidentally matching, once again, with the ticking of the clock.
Immediately upon stepping inside, a short draft of wind flowed through him, followed by the herbal scent of tea. The tail end of a conversation was cut short as the occupants of the room noticed him, turning where they stood and staring. Watching.
The Russian closed the door slowly behind him.
"Good day."
He approached the table and swiftly found his seat, sitting down in a straightforward manner yet without indecent haste. His hands folded before him on the desk, upon which papers were already laid out in their designated spots.
Among the other four present, the one with the double eyepatches was the first to reply.
"Ah, good day... pleasant day, really, isn't it?" Austria-Hungary was nodding to himself, smiling. "The scenery around this city, Brest-Litovsk, is very beautiful indeed. Wouldn't you agree so too, Germany?"
The German Empire hummed, looking as stiff-necked as ever. Austria-Hungary continued,
"I'm sure the city itself was lovely too... had it not been burned down by your dear father."
The Russian didn't respond. He was never quite sure how to deal with Austria-Hungary, who never seemed to be intentionally malicious, but nonetheless spoke with such unrestrained honesty that it could easily be interpreted as such.
A few moments passed between them in silence.
"Care for some tea?" The Austro-Hungarian proposed, hand reaching for the teapot resting in the center of the table, from which the floral aroma in the room originated.
"No, thank you," replied the Russian. Internally, he recalled the overwhelming sweetness of the tea he had once accepted from the Austrian in the past, and how it didn't quite suit his taste.
Austria-Hungary nodded in understanding and seated himself across the table. The German was quick to do the same, situating himself between the Austro-Hungarian and the Ottoman Empire, the latter having remained silent since his arrival, contemplating the papers in his hand while glancing up discreetly at the Russian. Next to him was the Kingdom of Bulgaria, who likewise seemed more interested in the documents than pointless small talk. Austria-Hungary proceeded to pour some more tea for the German, who instantly accepted.
"Well then... shall we begin?" The Austrian clasped his fingers together delicately, head turned toward the Russian expectantly.
* * *
Negotiations went on as expected, if they could even be considered that. It was mostly the Central Powers outlining their demands and conditions, many of which he had no real option but to acquiesce to. He understood, very clearly, the risks and losses that came with withdrawing his nation from the war... though he had delayed talks knowing that the war could hardly drag on much longer with both sides exhausted, consequential developments occurring on the Western front, and a load of logistical and political problems that the Central Powers have to reckon with.
In the end, much of the land his father had claimed for his empire had to be surrendered... but that would be an issue for another day.
Eyes trailing over the treaty papers, transcribed in Russian for his ease of understanding, his gaze stopped on the line at the bottom of the page, upon which a signature was evidently expected.
He raised his hand, pen propped up between his fingers, and lowered its tip to the surface of the paper.
"Your father..." he looked up when the German Empire spoke to him, meeting his crimson red eyes. "The Russian Empire... is he..?"
Rarely did the German ever show signs of hesitance, or admit to not knowing something crucial... but now...
The Russian felt four pairs of eyes on him, even those of Austria-Hungary, who was certainly looking at him askance through those one-sided, diaphanous eyepatches.
He would offer an answer, if he knew how to formulate one. What could he say, really? They already knew.
The country, now possessing full control of all matters of the Russian state, simply turned his head aside, glancing outside the window. The light snowfall of late winter and early spring blanketed the torn city, now a standing fortress, with a layer of soft white. He turned his head back to the table, gripping the pen firmly in his hand, and proceeding to sign the document in front of him.
Советской России
Soviet Russia.
The message was clear.
Austria-Hungary tilted his head slightly, perhaps staring at the signature in contemplation as his finger traced absentmindedly around the rim of his teacup. The others remained mostly motionless, yet even the ever-composed German betrayed some emotion with a slight twitch of his brow. It was no secret that those powers seated before him were not exactly on good terms or even cordial with his late father, quite the contrary really—they despised him. Especially the German Empire, after the disastrous results for the Central Powers and in particular the Austro-Hungarian empire following the Brusilov Offensive, courtesy of the Russian's father, of course. Still, they had one thing in common: they were empires. And empires don't usually like to see others collapse, enemy or ally... after all, how often does a single empire fall on its own?
The Ottoman Empire cleared his throat.
"I suppose that concludes our meeting." He arose from his chair, and everyone else replicated this action.
As Austria-Hungary was standing up, one of his legs unexpectedly gave out, causing him to stumble somewhat ungracefully and, most importantly, uncharacteristically. The German at his side quickly extended an arm and held him tightly, allowing the shorter empire to regain his balance and composure. Evidently, the war was weakening him... weakening just about everyone... but the Austro-Hungarian seemed especially affected. Despite this, Austria-Hungary managed to smile as if nothing had happened, brushing off the minor mishap like it wasn't damning evidence of the end, rapidly approaching...
Managing to face his fate with dignity... meet death with grace...
What allowed him the contentment that his deceased father did not possess?
The Russian watched as the German whispered something to the Austro-Hungarian, still holding onto him tightly, as though unwilling to let go.
The sight reminded him of warmth, of comfort, of ideas and concepts irreconcilable with the image of his own father.
And despite it all... despite being at odds with them in every aspect, he felt... a certain kind of... happiness for them.
The last warm beams of the evening sun filtered through the windows, basking the halls in amber light.
Later that day, boots crunching on fresh snow, the Soviet saw them off, unaware that this would be the last he would see of the pair.