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Warning⚠.
3rd person pov:
The day after.
The morning air was thick with tension as Soviet departed, his expression a storm cloud of grim determination. Russia watched from the doorway, the shadow of worry darkening his features. He knew his father’s departure wasn’t just routine; it carried an ominous weight. The turmoil between Soviet and the USA had grown intense, and the foreboding presence that Soviet left behind lingered in the house.
The absence of Soviet stretched into a long, anxious week. The house, while quieter, seemed to pulse with an uneasy calm. Russia took on the mantle of responsibility, caring for his siblings and maintaining the household. Despite his efforts to keep the atmosphere light, a persistent feeling of dread gnawed at him. The conflict with the USA had left a mark on him, a fear of what might happen when his father returned.
The seventh night arrived with a violent storm, wind howling and rain slashing against the windows. Inside, the siblings huddled together around the fire, seeking warmth and comfort. The storm outside seemed to reflect the turmoil that had been brewing over the past week.
Late into the night, the front door burst open with a crash. Soviet stormed in, drenched and furious, his clothes clinging to his body and his eyes blazing with rage. The force of the wind and rain seemed to follow him into the house, creating a palpable tension in the air.
Russia’s heart sank at the sight. He knew immediately that something had gone terribly wrong. The storm outside seemed to pale in comparison to the tempest within his father.
“Everyone, go to your rooms,” Russia commanded, his voice steady despite the fear gripping his heart. The younger siblings looked at him with wide, fearful eyes.
“But—” Estonia began, his voice trembling with worry.
“Now,” Russia insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument. The siblings, though reluctant, retreated to their rooms, casting worried glances back at him as they went.
With his siblings safely out of sight, Russia faced his father. Soviet stood in the living room, the flickering firelight casting harsh shadows on his face. The storm outside raged on, its fury mirroring Soviet’s internal chaos.
“Father,” Russia said softly, trying to read the storm in his father's eyes. “Is everything alright?”
Soviet’s eyes narrowed, his anger barely contained. “Do I look like everything is alright?” he snarled, his voice sharp as a blade.
Russia flinched but held his ground. “What happened?” he asked, his voice steady despite the anxiety curling in his chest.
“The Americans,” Soviet spat, his voice seething with hatred, “they’ve pushed us too far. They think they can humiliate us, that they can undermine our strength.”
Russia’s heart ached at his father’s words. “What did they do?”
“They sabotaged our plans,” Soviet growled. “Made a mockery of our efforts. They want to prove that we are weak, that we can be humiliated and taken down.”
Russia took a deep breath, trying to keep his composure. “Father, please, let’s talk about this calmly.”
Soviet’s eyes flashed with anger. “You think talking will solve this? You think words can undo what they’ve done?”
The room grew colder as Soviet’s anger escalated. “You don’t understand,” Soviet hissed, “the weight of this burden. The responsibility, the pressure. And now, we’re on the brink of disaster.”
Russia’s heart raced, and he tried to calm his father. “Father, I know it’s difficult, but we can face this together.”
Soviet’s eyes bore into Russia’s, filled with a mix of rage and despair. “Together?” he growled. “Do you know the sacrifices I’ve made? The things I’ve done to protect you all?”
The storm outside howled louder, matching the fury within Soviet. “You think it’s easy, don’t you? Sitting here, safe and warm, while I fight to keep us alive.”
Before Russia could react, Soviet lunged at him. The impact knocked Russia off balance, sending him crashing into the wall with a painful thud. Soviet’s hands gripped Russia’s shoulders, shaking him roughly.
“Do you think you can save us? Do you think you can take on the world?”
Russia braced himself for the impact, but the force of Soviet’s attack was overwhelming. He stumbled back, hitting the floor hard. Pain surged through him as he struggled to get up. “Father, please,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath.
Soviet’s face twisted with rage. “You’re weak,” he spat. “Just like the rest of them.”
Soviet’s foot came down hard on Russia’s chest, pinning him to the ground. Russia gasped for air, his body curling in on itself as he tried to shield himself from the blows. “Please, stop,” he begged, his voice weak and trembling.
Soviet’s rage seemed insatiable. He continued to kick Russia mercilessly, each blow landing with a sickening thud. Russia cried out in pain, his body wracked with the intensity of the assault.
The pain was overwhelming. Each kick sent waves of agony through Russia’s already battered body. The screams that escaped his lips were desperate, pleading for mercy. But Soviet’s anger was a storm that wouldn’t abate, his fury channeling into every blow he landed.
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Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Soviet stopped. He stood over Russia, his chest heaving with exertion, his face a mask of anger and despair. Russia lay on the floor, bloodied and bruised, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.
Soviet’s rage had left him exhausted, and for a moment, he seemed to come to his senses. He looked down at his son’s battered form, a flicker of regret crossing his features.
Without a word, Soviet turned and walked away, his anger still simmering beneath the surface. He slammed the door to his study behind him, leaving Russia lying on the floor.
Russia lay there, the pain coursing through his body, his mind reeling from the violence and hatred. He pulled himself to his feet with great effort, the pain in his body nearly overwhelming him. He stumbled to the bathroom, washed the blood from his face, and cleaned his wounds.
He had to be strong—for himself and for his siblings. They needed him, and he couldn’t let his father’s rage destroy everything.
The storm outside continued to rage, the wind howling and the rain battering the windows. Inside, Russia found a small, fragile hope. He had survived the storm within his home, and he clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, they could weather this tempest together- if they could survive the chaos within their own family.
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End of chapter...
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~ Powers of Nations: A Countryhumans Chronicle
General Fictionso well, this is just a ch story Read to find out There are warnings ⚠⚠⚠ Art cover isn't mine All credits to the artist
