Quietly, with an unspoken hesitancy in his step, the man waited. Hidden behind a wall of a building in a darker part of an alleyway, waiting for a perfect opportunity to strike as he heard the heavy footsteps echoing against the rock floor and through the empty street.
He should've known that this was going to happen. His subconscience was telling him that he should've done something to prevent this, fearing what conflict the anti-Polish laws in the Province of Posen might cause. But, it was too late, before he could even think about creating any new laws the bicoloured nation caught wind of the German's rising fear... and so, he used his moment of weakness against him.
This must've been what his uncle had warned him of all along.
There was tension lingering in the air just a few days prior.
Within weeks the German went from fear over a conflict that he was anticipating to an outright denial of the Pole's ownership of the land.
Who could've blamed him, when his dignity was hurt by a country which in his opinion shouldn't even exist in the first place? He thought, remembering the first day that the Pole captured the town hall, booting him out of the office.
It's not like he was tortured or brutalised, it was almost like the bicoloured nation tried keeping his hands as clean as possible in a messy conflict. Was he going easy on him?
The German furrowed his brows, tightly clutching his rifle.
He felt shame. What would his father think if he were still alive?
Not to mention that he was now losing the battle...
Losing a battle against a country that was unarmed in comparison to him...
A country that his father didn't allow to get into a higher military rank just to prevent yet another uprising from breaking out.
The tricoloured country's jaw tightened in frustration.
Did the First World War really leave him in such an exhausted and helpless condition?
How pittiful of him...
Was this the future Kaiser that his father wanted him to be?
Maybe causing more chaos, tearing down the Polish flags, randomly shooting at the buildings and antagonising the Pole right after he had technically taken over the area wasn't such a strategically good move on his part after all... But it was one that he deemed appropriate at that moment.
It hurt his pride to lose even more territory to the other's benefit.
Everything would've been fine...
Everything would've been fine if his father wasn't taken away from him during the war.
No debts. No territorial loses. No grief.
He would still be the heir to everything that his father had once owned.
A sudden silence.
The footsteps stopped.
The tricoloured country felt a cold sweat running down his forehead, he was sweating bullets, his palms wet against the cool metal of his weapon. His fingers twitching with anticipation and anxiety.
Then, he felt it.
A jab of a thin, long metal against his back.
A barrel of a mouser rifle that once had belonged to him.
That very same rifle he surrendered into the hands of his enemy not so long ago.
It made the hair on his neck stand up.
He shuddered.
"Drop your gun, Weimar." Called out the lower voice behind him. The harsh, ice-cold tone sending unpleasant shivers down the tricoloured nation's back. It was him afterall.
"I thought you were unarmed." Hissed the German, dropping the rifle to the floor and raising his hands up into the air.
"I'd have to be stupid to destroy your firearms instead of using them myself."
In an attempt to turn the tables, the other man spun around, nudging the rifle out of the other man's hand, but within seconds of being engaged in hand to hand combat he found himself apprehended, pressed up against the brick wall.
"Don't make this harder on yourself than it has to be. Your father stood in the way of me claiming what's rightfully mine but face it, you're weak in comparison to him." Growled the Pole.
Weak?
Sudden rage surged through his veins. How dare he call him weak?
A man that lived under his and his family's rule all that time.
" You know I don't want any more bloodshed than the needs be." The Polish man's voice grew unnoticeably less gruff, but kept its decisive tone.
"This is my property." He stated dryly, letting go of the other country's wrists and stepping away from the wall.
"It's over."
His final words hit German harder than they should have.
Only now has he realised that he really has lost the conflict.
The tricoloured nation turned to face the other man as he rubbed his cheek, a small streak of blood ran down his face.
"Psh! 'your land'? Nothing is truly yours. If not the French and the British you would still be nothing. You still are nothing." He mocked with a bitter, hateful expression.
"Celebrate your victory while it lasts.
France might be supporting your ownership of this land for now, but I wonder how long will that French whore and my sticky-fingered thieving cousin help you out for." The Germanic nation spat venomously, his strong glare burning with scorching hot hatred, as he promptly turned his back to the man, marching away.
If only his father were still alive...
He couldn't quite believe it.
He just lost the province of Posen...
to a lesser man.
_________________________________________
Author's note:
Short chapter, I know (slightly below 1k words)
No spell checks, can't be bothered as always. Will check in the morning. QwQ
I'm bacc beans!!
And as I promised, a historical chapter
:3
Thank you for all of my dumplings still sticking by me and the weird shit that I write 💗💗💗💗🥺🥺🥺🥺
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