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Berlin, Ostzone (Soviet-occupied Germany)
20 March 1948
Germany wasn't sure how long he'd been in this damp cell.
Has it been weeks, months, years? The routine here was usual and predictable, a meal a day that wouldn't be enough to sustain a human, and a lack of view to the world above for him to discern the time of the day. He'd lost count how many times he'd been fed already, hence, his lack of knowledge.
Did it even matter in the first place? Perhaps it didn't, and he was just pondering for no other reason than to put his head away on other thoughts. Thoughts which wouldn't involve a peculiar visitor eyeing—was that accurate, considering the other was blind?—him from beyond those bars.
He didn't usually get visitors in the first place. His own Personifications were barred from seeing him, apparently. Hence, visitors were far in between, and those who end up visiting him, he could count in just one hand.
The first was United States, and his visit here wasn't anything too interesting to give mind to, despite the fact that that was the first time he had heard a human's voice in ages. Then it was United Kingdom, who did nothing but glare at him with distaste.
All the allies were too disgusted of his existence to bother meeting with him once more. A stark difference, compared to the rest they normally converse with every day. He was an exception because all those atrocities were committed to the Great Powers. What hypocrites. He himself was a hypocrite, so it was still hilarious for him to still think about that in the first place.
He had no voice here, anyway. It was clear, with the The Blasphemous' presence right in front of him.
This was the third visit, and perhaps the final one he would receive.
"Why are you here?" His voice croaked awfully. Gone was the pride he held so closely in his chest, he was nothing but a broken man as he lost the war. He couldn't even relieve himself of a quick death. His crimson eyes met the golden pair which stared right into his soul.
Everything was dark in here, and all that he could see was just those eyes. He wasn't sure how the other got in without him realising in the first place. Though it wasn't much of a surprise to him, that it was something The Blasphemous could do in the first place.
"Can I not go here of my own volition?" That voice, so much like silk while as cold as the unforgiving winter, retorted to him with an impasse tone. "I simply realised that among the 'Big Three'," her hesitance on the term only made him curious. "it was only I that have not visited you," those glowing marbles shifted its gaze not to his eyes anymore, but to his chest. Or was it his abdomen? "Worry not, you would not find me visiting anymore."
Russia's presence always felt like an omen to him. He wasn't shocked over the fact that his expectation over her visit was true. "Have you come to kill me?" He asked, not hiding the curiosity lined with that question. "I applaud you for doing something the other two hadn't the will to do."
"I need no applaud from the likes of you." She replied, fully ignoring his original question. Or rather, placed it as something for her to answer later on. The silence that came after felt suffocating, as if it tugged away all the air from his lungs with a force so strong, he couldn't help but his breathing to tremble under that gaze.
Those eyes of hers was something he had always found to be so captivating. Unlike his scarlet eyes, which seemed to absorb light, creating a strange effect around them; hers shone with an relentless light like the Sun had doubled and found itself present, shrouded behind one's eyelids.
Her presence accompanied with those irises only made the air around her feel even more otherworldly than it already was. It demanded not only attention from anyone who stared at her, but fear, and a challenge for those who dare to conquer her.
He had dared to do so, and he had failed to do so.
Now, he found himself under an immense pressure. It was as if he was strapped on to the rails, where a train had appeared in a sudden, pulling his body apart as it ran over him. That was how her gaze felt like to her. It threatened his being, even more so than when he first met her, so long ago.
"Do you understand my view on Mercy, Agilulf?" Soviet asked, those eyes tilted to one way. He'd heard her say his name several times, he was no stranger to that, but this one felt different. He found the probable reason be tied to her own query which came before. Was that supposed to be her reply to his question?
It was an ominous response as well. 'The Blasphemous' was not her only epithet, she had another one—The Merciful—inherited from the Russian Empire. That woman was far from a merciful being, and so, no, he hadn't an inkling over what she even considered to be mercy in the first place. All of his attempts of finding out had failed, after all. "No."
The way she suddenly appeared right in front of him had startled him. The glow in her eyes were the only source of illumination in the room, and it went to the extent of even presenting that familiar look of her near him, however inscrutable it may be, with only those tight bars separating their faces apart. He had never seen her face this closely. Well, he had once, but it was to stab her weak point, the face. It had worked, that was why she was blind, but that left him no time to fully discern what was on her face. He had all the time in the world for that now.
"Death is a peculiar thing, Agilulf," she paused, perhaps noticing how his nose had perked up at the intoxicating smell of salt coming from her way. It felt to him like he wasn't within a dingy and claustrophobic cell, but rather in the beaches by the Baltic Sea. "Many reasons I have on thinking of it that way, but one stands out more than the rest. For Death is Merciful."
Something had clicked in his mind when she said that. He hadn't missed the way those eyes turned away from him, facing the other way, almost like she was asking him to think about what she had just spoken of thoroughly. He was a quick man, and so, she didn't even need to do that for him to understand. But the Soviet was a dramatic, why wouldn't she do that?
A fire had started out of thin air, and the sudden brightness had him narrow his sensitive eyes. He could see her figure better now, noting how she wore that same white trench coat he'd seen her wear so many times, topped over her dark green field uniform, those insignias patched on to her collar making her position as a marshal clear for all to see. So much different compared to whatever dark rags he wore.
He failed to realise the fact that the fire was simply emitted on nothing. He certainly did now, though, perplexed over the fact that something of that property was floating over all but something he could see.
He'd known the woman was able to control the winter and ice—he still had the scars to prove that—but fire? That was something new. Did anyone else even know she could do that in the first place?
The sudden bang had his eyes shift at the cell's door which flew open, with her walking through them. "I hope you do not find this surprising," well, it was a vague remark, but that was exactly what the Russian in front of him was. The fire seemed to follow her, inching closer to him in the process. "But before this, I have something I wish to know of further."
"It isn't like I have any choice to deny." He quipped, a defeated chuckle echoed within the cramped room's walls. He had all the chance to attack her despite the shackles, he knew—he also knew that she did as well. Her lack of care only showed him that she also knew he couldn't overpower her in any way. He lacked the strength to do that, proven further by his response.
"You said something which caught my attention, while you were still the republic," she referenced on a conversation they had long ago. The two had many extensive talks in not only his time under the dictator's reign, but also before. He wasn't sure what she was talking about in the first place. "In passing, and I had not asked further. It still remains in my head, truly."
"Just say what you want to say," he spoke, noting the fact that Soviet had this habit of beating around the bush. So much like him, really. Or was it him which imitated her? "I'll answer whatever."
"When you say that the German Empire had died in the revolution, you meant that?"
The way she looked at him as she asked that question rattled him. The woman was always known to be adept with souls, and he could feel it within his own that she was discerning his whole being. And her words only made him blink rather idiotically, perhaps chipping away at her patience with every second. Or maybe not, Russia was known for her patience, after all. He knew this being was capable of playing the long game, whatever it may be.
"I do," he replied rather uneventfully. "I had killed her," he specified, which had elicited a rather intriguing reaction from her. It wasn't a common sight to see her be surprised, however mild it may be. "I remember it vividly. I don't think I could ever forget how I wedged my bayonet into her heart. I couldn't see her face, but from her breathing, I inherently knew she hadn't expected that."
Her head tilted at that statement, face fully calculative over what he had confessed. It wasn't something he'd spoken of to anyone, it was something he wasn't able to explain, after all. But he knew very well that it had happened, and that it wasn't a mere hallucination. There was a lone witness, after all. "She is alive," she stated something everyone knew. "Peculiar."
"You aren't asking whether or not I was dreaming when it happened?" She didn't bother on responding to that question. That was enough of a response to him. She had believed every word he had just said to her. "Is that all?" His question was done with a sharp tone, which he knew would've peeved anyone else. But not her, not someone of her constitution.
He would have never admitted it in any other place, just like his mother. But he was alike her, in the way that he was envious of this exact calm demeanour the Russian held.
It terrified him, yes, but that was what set her apart from the rest, and he knew how he truly felt about it. It wasn't anything like the rest, who held that cold look in their face. They still held the same fear that everyone held, but not her. How was it that she was able to stay so calm, even in the face of death?
What a useless question. He knew why, he'd killed her twice already.
The fact that she was here—alive—was enough of an answer to him.
"Yes," she replied rather late. "I appreciate your cooperation. You provided the proof I needed for a question that had plagued me for so long." It brought him an odd sense of misery, that he would never get to be aware of what that question was. He prided himself for his understanding of the unknown, but the Soviet was someone he would never understand.
He originally reckoned it to be due to her age. But that thought was quickly shoved away, considering he could understand what lied behind Spain's mind so predictably. He then shifted the blame to her proximity with unexplainable things. Yet, just like the previous reasoning, he was able to crack open Luxembourg's behaviour rather effortlessly.
So, what was it that set her apart?
Was it perhaps that her Reason was kept a secret for no one to figure out?
It had caught him off guard when a sharp pain spread from left hand, his mind focusing back on reality that the woman had kept her proximity close to him, with a familiar sickle slashed its way through his wrists. And she made sure to do it rather excruciatingly, almost as if she was skinning him alive, with how the tool was wedged into his skin.
Blood had pooled beneath his hand, and he was visibly struggling on not making a sound. His jaw clenched hardly, as his eyes could see clearly with the fire, on how she was tearing apart his hand, his flesh mangled as the pale red colour showed through.
The fire wasn't the only thing that gave warmth to him, but his own blood was as well. It soaked through his pants rather uncomfortably, as Soviet pulled on the sickle rather suddenly, as Germany let out a painful groan at that. The blade had met his own bones, and it wasn't just something he could feel, he could see its prominent colour under the embers. The red liquid kept seeping through—or rather, bursting—the opening, even more so when her cold hands touched his with a harsh tug to her way.
Bits of his skin were being pulled away with her forceful treatment, which revealed even more of that reddish colour beneath his pale skin. He couldn't help the instinct to pull his hand away from the pain, and it only brought the sensation tenfold, as it ripped through more of the skin when he did. Her eyes remained unwavering at this move, before she twisted his hand in a slow and calculated shift, which brought her a scream over the action.
He'd known what it felt like to be stabbed and slashed, he was no stranger to it, rather. But never was the pain prolonged, as it would usually be a quick thing that would pass. Not this one, though. A loud crack resounded in the room as the blade pulled through with less force than he knew she was capable of. The sickle was sharp, and she had the strength to decapitate man in one strike. This was something she was doing with purpose.
The way his exposed innards met the cold air only stung the wound further. The fire didn't quite help, seeing as it found its way too close to him, that it had started to strike his arm with an uncomfortable heat. He was in a sorry state, really, and the struggling sounds he was making only made it worse for himself, more so that he wasn't able to feel his hand fully, as it limped pathetically, with its bones and skin being ripped apart, hanging only by a thread of flesh she hadn't yet cut through.
When she finally struck on the sickle, severing his hand cleanly, after all the pain he went through, did he let out a sputtering breath of relief. Yet he knew it wasn't yet to end so quickly. He still wasn't sure what Russia would do with the fire. The woman wouldn't have lit that just for illumination, after all.
The sight of his hand resulted in an uneasy feeling by his gut. Not over the sight of how utterly ugly the skin looked, torn apart in ways it should be impossible in, or on how the bone poked out with a jagged line, over how she broke it with minimal force rather than a clean cut. It was more on the fact that it was done to him, a person as perfect as he was, forced to be presented with the sight of something so unappealing, something that was a part of him. Well, it wasn't now. The damp feeling by his legs only made it worse. He didn't even have the will to move away from the pool in the first place.
It took a long while for him to figure out why she had opted to take his hand into her own, and to start letting it close to the fire, before it was enveloped fully by it. Strange, that he couldn't figure out why she would even do so in the first place. Surely she didn't just cut off his hand to burn it for him to witness, did she? If she wanted to see a part of him burn, like how he once did with her, she should've just burned him the same way. Why his hand?
She took his hand away from the fire after a while. It looked perfectly roast, as if he was staring at a piece of pork that looked very well-cooked by the chef. Perhaps he would mistake it as some unassuming peace of meat, if not for the fact that it was still shaped like a human hand. His hand. It was shameful of him as it clicked only when she began to inspect his hand closely.
Her hands pulled the skin between her fingers, as if feeling the texture beneath them. She brought it unnecessarily close to her nose, breathing into it, tasting the way it smelled into her lungs. A noncommittal hum felt out of place, before her mouth opened and her tongue licked into his hand in an unsettling manner.
Usually, when one would devour through a large piece of meat, they'd bite into it and rip it apart. But not this one. She was licking at it, the surface of her tongue meeting with every part of his skin, as he knew she was doing this to make sure he was way too surprised to look away. Her lips sucked on to his palm, those white teeth of hers peering through them as it sank into his skin softly. Saying that she bit into it wasn't a correct term, either. She was rather testing its softness, on how easily it would be ripped apart.
As more of her teeth tasted the texture, her eyes remained stuck onto that hand of his, not batting a look toward him, as if she cared not over his reaction. Only when did her jaw began to close, did those captivating eyes snap their way on to his own, and stayed there for as long as it could, remaining unblinking. His attention was split between keeping eye contact with her, and on the sight of the brown flesh on his hand being pulled apart, piece by piece.
The way it looked so easily peeled from the rest of his skin made him uneasy. That was her intention, of course. She was chewing on to his hand slowly, yet so thoroughly at the same time. His stomach had actually churned at that move. Her tongue kept lapping at it uncomfortably as well, parts of his hand being pulled further back into her throat, before it found itself swallowed by her throat.
His bones were starting to peek through with ever piece of him she was biting into. His hand was cooked to the point his blood would've dried, noting how some of its red colour had began to stain her white lips. Her teeth bit through even more, pushing and pulling into the flesh as it was ripped out rather violently, much of the skin dragged into her mouth, as her head tilted a few degrees to the side, analysing every shift of his expression made.
She seemed to be enjoying whatever face he was making, it seemed. He wasn't sure what, but all he knew was that he was washed by an overwhelming feeling of discomfort over the whole event. Who would wish to see their own hand be eaten away, in the first place? It didn't make it better over how she purposefully left parts of the flesh on the bone, rather than devouring it cleanly, leaving nothing behind.
It felt like eternity until she finally put that hand out of her mouth. Her breathing remained steady, the only sound he could hear other than what sounds he was making the whole time. Her tongue licked her own lips, tasting his blood, leaving them clean with no stain left behind. Her hold on his hand still remained unwavering, before she promptly pulled it back to suck on the bones, with no flesh left on them.
"Agilulf," she called out to him, after satisfying herself of his hand. Likely. Her voice still stayed in that same tone, that velvety, rich sensation, yet so chilling at the same time. "this is not yet the end, do not think of it that way." She spoke, as his hand was discarded to the cold floor below, his eyes staring at it with nothing behind the pair.
There seemed to be nothing behind her eyes as well. They always looked like he was staring into the abyss, despite the alluring colours it held.
Russia may be known with the epithet of 'The Merciful', but Germany knew very well that he wouldn't receive the Mercy that she believed in. Some may perceive the word to be interpreted as to have one's life be spared in the face of death, but no, that was not her view of Mercy.
To her, Mercy meant Death, and he wouldn't meet such an end by her hands. Such was his own fate.