Book 4 - Spring

III - Cold

Russia takes to counting as he drops people into a pile. His vision blurs and his legs cramp. He forces his bloody limbs to keep moving. His stomach twists.

'I need to eat.'

He grabs someone else from the ground. He slowly treks over to the new spot over prickly vines and large rocks.

'...16...'

He ignores the pulling in his heart while he looks on at the frozen faces below him. He spins around and returns for the last in the previous pile, trying to ignore the approaching smell of enemies.

He stumbles forward and snatches them up, too tired to be careful to keep from banging them around. Guilt does numbly eat at him with every impact, but he can't stop now.

He drops them more gently into the pile of people, but Russia finds it easier to stomach had he just thought of them as statues. He crouched for a moment.

'...17.'

Russia stands and the world spins for a moment. Russia gasps and straightens himself, forcing his eyes back open.

He stumbles forward and tries his hand at grabbing a deer.

It runs just out of his grip.

He falls into the brush within earshot of the pile and huffs. He squints his eyes, his stomach tied in knots.

He spots a pair of moose fighting violently. He watches, his eyes sliding close against his will. He forces them back open and creeps forward when one of the moose falls to the ground and stops struggling.

The other struts out of view.  Russia snatches the corpse. He drags it back to his makeshift camp, as much of a camp as he could make.

He eats quickly, stripping the animal of meat. His stomach relaxes for a moment.

'Okay. I'm okay.'

Russia resists the instinct to hide the meat up a tree when his stomach burns and the back of his throat spasms.

'Shit. I overate. How do I keep not noticing?!'

Russia pants before gagging. The meal makes its way back into his throat and he chokes. He scampers a little ways away into the trees and vomits. He stares miserably at the mess.

'So much for that.'

He turns back to the carcass and scavenges what's left. It isn't enough to be filling, but it's enough to keep him alive.

He walks over to the people and sees America's dead eyes staring up at him. The longer Russia looks back, the more his heart clenches.

'He can't be dead. He can't be. Please.'

Russia closes his eyes and collapses to the ground, his legs tucked underneath him.

Russia yawns and tries to lick the blood from his paws. He winces internally at the burning the injuries caused. The world spins with every movement of his head.

'I can't keep doing this...'

His legs ache and his head pounds from exhaustion.

'What other choice do I have? Could I leave anyone behind?'

Russia's heart drops at the suggestion. He feels guilt hit him at just the suggestion.

'It's just triage. It's just triage,' he tries to justify.

His heart doesn't seem to agree with the sentiment.

'I can't leave Ukraine, Meri, or any of the kids. And Mexico seems close to America, and Brazil kept Texas' group alive.'

Russia shakes his head.

'They could all still be alive. I can't...'

Russia swallows back nausea from exhaustion and stress.

'But they could also all be... gone.'

Russia nuzzles America. America feels so cold.

'No, they can't be. I can't lose them. I can't...'

Russia curls up tighter and begins desperately nuzzling against America's chest. The sky rumbles above them. Russia forces himself up and drags the 'statues' under a nearby shelf of rocks.

'I should keep them out of the rain,' Russia thinks numbly.

Russia finds himself pulling America out from the pile. Russia tries to sit America up against the ground, only for him to fall over. Russia growls and tries again, the rain hitting his back. The water is freezing against his pelt.

America stays motionless, offering a strange, now everpresent, grimace. Russia lays him out and puts his face onto America's chest. Memories flit past his mind's eye.

Dancing in the grass in Georgia is shaken by the fridged wind.

America's giggling rings in Russia's ears, only to be drowned out by the rain.

The slow morning they had at the hotel when the states started debating about his role as a parent is interrupted by the rumbling of thunder that leaves Russia's ears ringing.

Russia shivers, closing his eyes and pinning his ears.

The games filled with laughter fade with grief.

Russia gathers the states, Alberta, and Ukraine as well. He holds them to his chest. His back is pelted with sleet and rain.

'My brother can't be gone. Our family can't die. It can't. Papa said we wouldn't be broken apart like this.'

The magic that sticks to them makes Russia feel fuzzy and sick.

The antics that Russia and Ukraine would pull flit in his minds eye.

The cookies and liquor sour with the blood against Russia's tongue.

The pictures they had drawn on the walls reveal themselves to Russia's memory. His mind is filled with laughter and paint, but the colors disappear with a flash of lightning.

Ukraine's teasing rings, but the words are lost to the sleet hitting trees.

The smells of food fights they would cause are taken by the smell of mud and rain. Even the scolding they would receive was better than this.

A gust of winter wipes any warmth from the memories.

Russia shivers against the weather, the weight in his heart pinning him in place.

'I have to keep going,' he decides desperately, 'they have to be alive. They have to be. I need to make sure that they can be.'

He grabs Mexico and Brazil, hugging everyone as close to him as he can.

'I have to warm them up.'

Water streams down Russia's cheeks.

'It's just magic,' he tells himself, 'they will wake up. It's just magic. They will wake up.'

He wishes that he really knew. He drifts off to his mantra.

'It's just magic. They will wake up.'