hetalia_kink

[Request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/15068.html?thread=42437852

Set in a universe where average citizens know about their nations' personifications. Some citizens of a certain country decide that they don't like their nation-tan's personality, and that the only way to get a new one is to kill them so that a replacement is born. The citizens in question attempt assassination, not understanding that nation-tans are immortal unless their nation itself falls.

Parts 1-7: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/17465.html?thread=56504889#t56504889]

--

I've been thinking, Janusz texted him, that we really ought to worry about more than tuition hikes. They're just a symptom.

Which was true, of course, but what could they do?

Their little circle of friends talked about it, once the fall semester began. There was no formal agreement, no grim blood oath, but an understanding grew that Janusz had Ideas and Connections, and if he needed help, they'd do whatever they could. They all agreed that Christian principles would help. The country was a mess. The government couldn't shoulder all the blame; people should be able to rely on their neighbors, and trust them not to act offensively. The welfare state wasn't helping. All the money was going to the wrong places.

Romana and Mirosław could write, very persuasively. Janusz had his Connections. Tadeusz had a tireless knack for getting people to do them little favors. But they could demonstrate, agitate, and persuade for years, and not make more than a dent. The news chattered eagerly about Janusz's flashmob protests. The government made conciliatory noises, then went on as before.

It was Graźyna who suggested they had a powerful resource: Poland. "You get on with him," she told Mirosław. "He might listen to you."

Mirosław frowned. They were gathered in Romana's living room, which was halfway through its nightly transformation to Orek's bedroom; there was a rainstorm pounding on the windows. Orek was on the couch, drowsily rearranging his pillows. Graźyna was perched on the coffee table, her third coffee in both hands for warmth. "I don't know that he listens to anyone," he said. "Or what good it would do, if he did. He's got no sense of responsibility, he's incredibly arrogant, he just ignores the church now that it doesn't suit him - "

"Those are the problems with everyone, don't you think? Well, apart from the arrogance. But you said yourself yesterday, the country would be in much better shape if people had a little sense of responsibility."

Orek blinked. "It's a habit," he mumbled. He hadn't been drinking any coffee. "Not something you can talk someone into."

The strange, calculating expression was back on Romana's face. "Habits can be taught, though. And people can change. There's just the question of cause and effect. But either way - Mirek, he told you the president listened to him, right? We might as well try."

Mirosław half-shrugged. The idea felt wrong, but Romana was so rarely wrong, and what did they have to lose?

--

Being persuasive was easy. Poland seemed more and more on edge as autumn wore on, and Mirosław was a good conversationalist. It was easy, to work things around to politics, to enquire, to make gentle suggestions. Poland only seemed amused, still, whenever Mirosław mentioned his faith, but he seemed to pay attention when Mirosław talked about upholding principles, the importance of family.

In late October, a bill reducing tax deductions for couples with children unexpectedly failed in the Sejm. It wasn't that important, but it was the first sign his efforts were having some effect. Mirosław felt giddily hopeful. Maybe the cause-and-effect did run both ways. The Sejm then got distracted by rising Russian oil prices and a doomed crusade to privatize government-owned wind farms, and Mirosław spent a lot of time fretting at Graźyna.

Think of yourself as his spiritual advisor, Mirosław told himself. He surely needs one. Be kind, be forgiving, but help him make things right with God.He found himself praying more than usual, just out of nervousness at his own hubris. But, he reasoned, there was a reason for everything. If God had given him the apartment next to Poland's, maybe he was what Poland needed.

--

--

He went over alone one evening, while Graźyna was home with a cold, to find Poland's door ajar and a strident voice, speaking what sounded like Russian, drifting out of the kitchen. The voice turned out to be Poland, dressed in a well-cut red raincoat, phone in one hand and gesturing angrily with the other. When he saw Mirosław he pointed at the coffee machine without pausing in his rant.

The coffee was just finishing when Poland finally snapped the phone shut, after a breathless scream of obscenities. Mirosław handed him a cup wordlessly, and Poland took it in both hands and tipped it back like a vodka bottle. He set it down a few seconds after and shook his head, wincing. "Fuck it," he said hoarsely. "She's such a bitch."

"Who?"

"Belarus. I swear she just does this shit to piss off the EU. If I'd known she was gonna leap into Russia's arms like that I never would have poisoned Lukashenko."

Lukashenko? Was that what had happened? The official investigation had called it heart failure -

Mirosław's horrified confusion must have shown in his face, because Poland laughed and patted him on the cheek. His hand was still hot from the coffee mug. "Relax, it was a joke. I didn't kill him, okay? I didn't, like, cry at his funeral, but neither did Belarus."

"He - had a terrible reputation," Mirosław managed.

Poland nodded, leaning against the table and folding his arms. "He was an utter asshole, you mean."

"I wouldn't put it like that."

"Only 'cause you're too nice for your own good, Mirek." Poland suddenly grinned, broad and bright. "You had dinner yet? No? Good, we're going out and not talking about politics for a few hours."

'Out' turned out to be a low-lit Italian restaurant-cum-nightclub, the sort just a bit more expensive than he ever would have thought to go to, in a district just a bit out of his way. Mirosław felt terribly underdressed. The hostess beamed at Poland, and greeted him as 'Lech'. When she left them to read the menus Mirosław raised an eyebrow. Poland shrugged. "Nobody can be themselves all the time," he muttered. "Especially not our kind. It's exhausting."

The veal parmesan was divine. Mirosław had a small glass of chianti and Poland had the bottle, plus two bright-coloured cocktails. He didn't talk much; when he did it was in cryptic one-liners, or encouragements for Mirosław to go on at length about some class he was taking, or his job at the university library.

Mirosław hadn't found much on the web about the personifications, but he had found a blog in Italian, by a girl who - as far as he could tell from babelfishing - had met the Italy brothers on vacation in Croatia, and become friends. There was a photo of the three, arms around each other's shoulders. One of the brothers had just looked happy, one slightly embarassed. The date had been two weeks after the last Italian prime minister had resigned in disgrace. Maybe it was no coincidence they'd been in Croatia, and eager to talk to a girl whose major life interests were Baroque music and volleyball.

Outside their breath left clouds in the air, and snowflakes were drifting down, catching the streetlight and vanishing on the damp pavement. Poland laughed, and spun around, hands out and head tilted back. "First snow! Isn't it pretty, Mirek?"

He couldn't help but smile. Poland looked so happy, so hopeful; it reminded him of his brother. "It is. Nice night after all, I suppose."

"Yeah. I guess." Poland stopped abruptly, and tugged his scarf tighter. His smile twisted, and then he grabbed Mirosław by the shoulders amd kissed him. He had to stand on tiptoe to do it. His lips were warm and dry.

Mirosław didn't know how to react. He stood dead-still until Poland let him go, and then took a few deep breaths. Poland looked at him, hands still on his shoulders. "Poland," he said. "I have a fianceé."

"I know. That wasn't a come-on."

"What was it, then?"

"A thank-you." His smile now was only sad. "For loving me anyway."

--

The next morning's news announced that, following a breakdown in price negotiations, the Union State had shut down the Druzhba and Northern Lights pipelines at the Polish border.

--

SHIIIT - I mean, that looks pretty bad *cough* Belarus you bitch *cough cough*

This fic has it all. Interesting character interaction? Check. Cool world building? Check. Cutest mental images about the Italies vacationing in Croatia and Poland being overall just Poland? Check. Dead Lukashenko? Check.

I seriously love this.

I''m new to this fill, but it's seriously amazing.
I love the way you develop it- just the right amount of detail without it being off the point or cryptic but still leaving the feeling you must know what happens.

In fact, this is so wonderful I think I can only express my joy through heart-spam :D
♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

--

Nobody panicked right away. They had ninety days reserve, after all; they were required to. There were other suppliers. Gazprom had always been difficult, and they always backed down in the end. Half the EU got their gas from the Northern Lights pipeline, and nobody in the EU wanted their neighbors to freeze.

Mirosław went on with his life. He studied. He spent long hours writing articles for Janusz, and long letters to his brother. He bought a new coat for Graźyna, white with broad green trim, in a fashionable cut - even with Orek's rent, money was starting to worry her, and the winter was turning cold. They celebrated his twenty-first birthday at the townhouse, and Janusz turned up with a whole roast turkey and five hundred euros, which he handed to Romana. Gas money, he said. No one could quite bring themselves to ask.

His train back to Warsaw, after the Christmas break, was delayed twelve hours by snow. Anya's was delayed three days.

--

Poland acquired a coat in the same cut as Grażyna's, green with gold trim, and took to wearing it constantly, even indoors. He did the same with his long red scarf, loosening it but never removing it. His drinking got heavier. Mirosław did his best, but there seemed nothing to be done. "I fucking need it, okay?" Poland snapped, the one time Mirosław dared to bring up the issue directly. "It's not like my liver can give out."

Mirosław wasn't even worried about that, really. What worried him was that the Gazprom negotiations were going nowhere, and he kept hearing his neighbor yelling on the phone and he was sure that was connected, and the reserves kept going lower, and the winter kept getting colder. People kept asking if they should have developed the shale-gas drilling more. His groceries were creeping up in price - fuel costs. The university was talking about using a four-day week for a while, to save on heating. Orek's seminary had already made the switch.

--

Mirosław was alarmingly close to broke; he'd started having the library's horrible breakroom coffee for lunch, and staying late for hours rather than go home and turn on the heater. He found himself obsessively searching for articles on the national personifications, browsing through the musty magazine stacks they were going to digitize any decade now, abusing his staffer's free-xerox privledges for the sake of odd paragraphs. Poland, it seemed, had nothing interesting to say to his people between 1950 and 1989. Russia had given speeches on a regular basis. Mirosław spent his exams fretting and shivering, with a dark suspicion he'd bombed the lot.

On Friday he met Janusz for a thank-god-it's over drink. They were just finishing when he saw the flash of a red scarf outside, moving at speed. He half-stood in surprise, chair scraping back. Janusz blinked at him, and Mirosław's fingers tightened on his glass. "I think my neighbor just went past," he said.

"Ah." Janusz blinked, then peered out the window. "Over there? In the little mob of people with the 'We Freeze While You Bicker' signs?"

Mirosław craned to see. He spotted the red scarf and blond hair, but they were on a woman, shoulders hunched and hands waving. "Ah - no. Wasn't him. Are they yours?"

"Please, credit me with a bit more subtlety. I havn't called a mob together since the Gazprom business started. It would scarcely help; there are greater forces at work. God, I miss it. Shall we go lend our screaming voices to the throng?"

By the time the throng arrived outside the PGNiG offices ("Thank the Lord, at least they can aim," Janusz muttered, sotto voce) it had grown to a few hundred. Mirosław's toes were freezing, but the press of bodies kept him warm, otherwise. There was chanting, and he wasn't sure, afterwards, if he joined in or not. But he remembered the chanting, and the noise. Some men in suits emerged from the building, and the throng pressed forward to greet them.

He saw the woman in the red scarf again, raising her hand, and then Janusz caught him by the elbow and held him back against the tide, and then things got rather disjointed.

The news reports, later, tried to analyze it. They blamed the rising food prices, rumours of fresh drilling in Kazakhstan, someone's aunt dying of hypothermia in her apartment.

But Mirosław doubted anyone in the throng could have explained it. He remembered flashes. The noise of breaking windows. A red scarf trampled in the slush. The crackle of a police radio. He remembered someone wrenching a stick out of someone's hands. He remembered Janusz laughing madly. But he did not remember events in sequence again, until a point somewhere after dark, staring at a fog-shrouded streetlamp, he and Janusz huddled close together and Janusz's arm hanging limply. They were alone, then. He opened his phone to work out where they were, but its screen was cleanly cracked in half.

--

That was the first of them. A week later their little circle of friends were in Romana's living room, half-listening to the radio
drone about the third riot. Fuel prices, it seemed, were being shoved aside by general accusations of corruption. The President had appealed for calm, which she was almost certainly not going to get.

When the news moved on - the Pope was in the hospital again, to no one's surprise - Tadeusz clicked the radio off. "So," he said, voice flat, hands clenching. "What can we do?"

Mirosław thought of his neighbor, who he hadn't seen or heard all week, or the week before.

"Pray," he suggested.

--

He and Graźyna were planning to go to Mass together, the next morning, but when she showed up at his apartment she just pointed at his neighbor's open door. They walked in clutching each other's hands, like children poking into their parents' bedroom.

Poland was sprawled on the sofa, coat open and scarf nowhere in sight. On the table were three vodka bottles, and a full glass. He blinked at them glassily, then grinned. "Hey! Help yorself, I've got lots."

Grażyna sighed and sat down next to him. "How much have you had already?"

"Lots!" He grinned and waved at the bottles. He was in a well-cut suit, Mirosław noticed, but rumpled and dingy, like he'd been wearing it for days on end, and sleeping in it. "Liet wants me to stop," he added, in a tone like a confession. "He's fine, though. He's on a branch line. But he never had it cheap."

That probably made perfect sense to him, but it made none to Mirosław. He frowned, and leaned on a chair back. "Where have you been? You know there've been riots? God -" It came out harsher than he meant.

But Poland just threw back his head, and waved left-handed at the celing. "God! You wanna know a secret?"

Graźyna took his hand, rubbed her thumb over his knuckles. "You can tell us," she said, and didn't say trust.

"I gave up on God. Long time back. A thousand years and he never showed up. Never said anything. So I gave up." Poland leaned forward, grabbed a bottle. "We have to help ourselves," he said.

"People are dying," Graźyna said quietly. "We need the pipelines back. We can rebuild our infrastructure later, but we need the pipelines back now."

Poland grinned. "Like I can go turn them on. Go talk to my boss. Or just keep throwing stones. You were going to church, weren't you? Go! Go and leave me alone." And he began to giggle, curled around the vodka bottle.

They went. There seemed nothing else to do.

--

Mirosław was daydreaming through an afternoon class when his phone buzzed. He just ran out, not caring that the professor tried to call him back; school had barely seemed important of late. Thirty-five minutes later he and Graźyna stood in the lobby of a police station, as Romana handed an officer a piece of paper. Her hair was knotted up; she looked like she'd just stepped out of a meeting room, not a holding cell.

"Did it have something to with the demonstration this morning?"

"Not exactly." Romana stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Graźyna, almost melting into her. Mirosław realized two things then. The first was that Romana was in love with his fianceé. The realization was hot and uncomfortable, and was swept aside by the even more surprising thought that he didn't care. She was his friend. He stepped in to join the hug, and so Romana whispered in both their ears, "They're not pressing charges, and they think I didn't get anything. Tell you later."

Graźyna hissed, "Why?"

"I care about this country." Romana's expression had turned calculating again.

--

I love the way you build this up. Can't wait for more!

This reads like a good twenty-minutes-into-the-future book, not kidding. I loved the atmosphere, the whole "things going worse and worse and everybody subtly realizing they aren't going to get better", the riot felt like a riot (you were implying the police shoot on the people, or is it just me?) and the thing with Romana was a revelation and at the same time gives me some hope for Miroslaw.

Also the part with Poland and the kids... they just don't get it, don't they? And they're going to regret it.

I'm liking this buildup so much.

--

March weather was little improvement on February's. They sat cross-legged on Graźyna's bed, just the three of them: Mirosław, Graźyna, Romana. The wind rattled the window and lumps of snow clung to its edge. Romana wore two coats; Mirosław and Graźyna huddled together under a blanket. From time to time, when the wind died down, they could hear Orek downstairs snoring.

"Why do we have to do this?" Mirosław whispered. "How badly have things fallen apart that a bunch of college students are trying to drive the government sane? Janusz - it's ridiculous. He could spend his life in jail for some of that cracking."

"He likes to think he's Julian Assange." Romana shrugged. "He knows the risks. But somebody has to clean up. Someone has to have principles. We can't live on two-thirds energy forever, and we can't risk another disaster." She reached over and brushed his hair from his face. "We're just the people willing to act."

He shook his head - not to deny anything, just to clear it. He'd had weeks, and still it felt strange, that this little conspiracy had gone on under his nose, that the friend who organized protests had been reading minister's email and going over their bank accounts, had Connections in high places. That Romana had snuck into the Sejm building three times, leaving bugs.

Graźyna pawed absently at her braid. "But we can't. You - you tried so hard, and we don't have enough." There were dark circles under her eyes. Romana had lost her job when she was arrested; Graźyna had been doing extra shifts, trying to cover their rent. Janusz had arranged an accounting error to cover the gas bill. No point in discretion now, he said.

"How much is enough?" Mirosław took deep breaths. "Those recordings - We could force out a couple of deputies and the Minister for Infrastructure. At least it would grab everyone's attention."

"And then they'd get replaced and nothing would happen." Graźyna's voice was ragged.

"Right." Romana bit her lip. "We need regime change. But even if we started shooting people we wouldn't get enough to do any good."

Mirosław would have been aghast at her voice, how she seemed to regard the prospect of assassination with only annoyance, if he'd been warmer.

"No." Graźyna's fingers tightened on his. "No, there is one we could shoot, and it would change things."

"Who?"

"Poland. Mirek lives next door to him."

Romana didn't even blink. The calculating expression was back. "Do we know what would happen if he died? He certainly hasn't been helping, but I don't want to cause unnecessary damage. We're trying to save this country."

I gave up on God, said the voice in his memory, and Mirosław clutched Graźyna's hand. He thought of an old photograph he'd seen, the oldest of the United Kingdom that seemed to exist, a soft-faced man with dark, wavy hair standing behind Queen Victoria, hand on her chair. Later ones, with an annoyed-looking blond fellow. He'd guessed the first one was mislabeled. He remembered Poland talking about the last Greece.

"I don't think so," he said. "I think - maybe it's necessary. We need God on our side. We need faith. He's given up."

Romana nodded, perfectly calm. "It would be easy. We'll think a little, and see if things improve. We can't tell Janusz. He's too moral."

It occurred to Mirosław that they were contemplating a mortal sin, but it occurred distantly. What did their souls matter, against the future of Poland?

"Anya?" asked Graźyna. "She's helped us before. She's reliable."

"She's Ukrainian," Romana answered. "This is a matter for Poles."

--

Nobody suggested asking Orek or Tadeusz. They were good men, ordinary men, not the kind of patriot this job required.

They went over Mirosław's articles, that he'd copied from sheer curiosity. If nations had been killed before, no fuss had been made. Reasonable enough. Everyone knew they existed, but hardly anyone knew much about them. They had more folklore as history, to draw on.

But they became sure, at least, that Mirosław's neighbor could die, and their country would not fall.

Mirosław no longer prayed. He only wondered who would replace Poland, and the answer struck him like a vision.

--

Yay, an update! This is one of the best stories I've read. I usually don't comment on stories, but I've been following this one from the start and it always brightens my day (or night in this case) to see an update.

My favorite parts are where Poland interacts with the other countries and when the humans are discussing the nature of personifications. I also love the storyline, it just leaves me craving more. I can't wait to see Poland's reaction to his own people plotting against him.

I knew something was up with Romana, but I wasn't expecting the violent soul from Grazyna - then again, her name hinted at a warrior's soul IIRC. And there's probably some hints at who Miroslaw is thinking of as a replacement but I'm not sure...

Ah, and in your universe can nations be killed? Because I was sure they could not, but now...oh well, all will be revealed in due time...

Oh, poor kids... they just don't understand. Not like I could expect them to, but I doubt much would happen if Poland got shot. I'm sure it's happened before, and worse. I'm still thinking about that scar on Poland's hand from a few chapters back.

I'm betting that the other United Kingdom guy is actually Scotland, or Wales, or actually mislabeled. Anyhow, nations can't really be killed - they just fade away. It's nothing humans can do about it at all. Even other nations can only speed up the process.

Aww, Poland~~ He needs to be visited by Hungary and Lithuania.

--

The protestors showed up every Friday, bedraggled and damp. It did no good. Their ninety days reserve had been rationed out much longer than ninety days, as soon as it became obvious that Gazprom was going to make this difficult, but it finally ran out, and they were stuck with domestic sources and whatever could be sent over from Scandanavia.

Two-thirds, or a little less. They could try to make it up from the shale gas, they could use solar power for electricity, but that would take time to build.

Not to mention downstream.

--

They walked hand in hand, Mirosław and Graźyna, down a deserted street. No one watching would guess that they were planning a murder tomorrow. They did not smile like young lovers, but the shadows under their eyes would be enough to explain that. Graźyna's coat was buttoned tight, gone grey with much use.

"You have to do it," he said. "It's important."

Graźyna nodded, small and tight. No argument. "Tell me why."

He took a careful breath. "It's only an idea. I'm not sure of this."

"Mirek, tell me."

She looked at him steadily, and he closed his eyes. "I wondered where the replacement will come from, and - I think whoever does it, maybe, will be the replacement. And if that's so, it should be you. You would do better than I would."

She didn't ask what would happen if it wasn't so. They both knew the gamble they were taking. Instead she said quietly, "I hope no one asks too many questions. I expect nations get immunity. They can hardly prosecute one for murder. But people might resent it, even so."

"Tell them it was me," he offered evenly. "I don't think anyone knows how it works. Let me take the fall. I deserve it."

"Mirek. Romana thinks this is a holy cause, you know."

Mirosław felt a bitter smile twist his cheek. "So what? We confess, have our sins absolved?"

"You havn't set foot in a church since we decided," Graźyna whispered, calm. Mirosław hadn't thought she had noticed, and he trembled at her touch. "Neither have I. We don't deserve to be forgiven, and I won't ask. I'm not sorry. It has to be done."

"Then our souls are forfiet. But let me take whatever punishment there is on this earth."

He felt her arms wrap suddenly around him, then, and her breath warm in his ear, and opened his eyes in surprise. "We're in this together," she declared, full of sudden ferocity. "Remember that. Whatever happens, we're in this together. I won't leave you, no matter what."

The city around them was still gray and empty, none of the green that should be dotting the ground, four days before Easter, nothing but decrepit buildings, concrete and glass and ancient, faded windowshades.

"Graźyna," he began, uncertain how to answer that conviction. "Whyat are you doing this afternoon?"

"Literature seminar." She half-shrugged. "Half the class will be be gone home for the Easter break already."

"Skip it. Let's get married. We'll go down to the registry office right now."

She went still for a second, then nodded again, tight and small and perfectly certain.

There was supposed to be a waiting period, but the registry clerk was as short on grocery money as anyone; she took the few hundred euros Mirosław quietly handed her without a murmur, and returned with a paper swearing they'd applied for a marriage liscence on March 11, 2031. He didn't regret the loss of the next few week's rent. He would only need the apartment until tomorrow.

--

A little after midnight Mirosław awoke to the noise of a buzzing phone. It had been a long time since his neighbor woke him with drunken revelry; he jerked in surprise, no longer accustomed to it. Graźyna went tense beside him, huddled under the quilt, and her breathing sped up as he scrabbled for the phone. It was her phone, and the text was from Romana: Where are you? Worried.

Graźyna reached over to take the phone, and began tapping out a reply. Today, he thought, it would be today. Thursday. The reserve was gone. They could wait no longer.

--

--

The door to Poland's apartment was ajar, which wasn't odd. Mirosław knocked anyway, for form's sake, before they crept in.

Poland was sprawled on the couch, flipping through a newspaper. (Yesterday's Naša Niva, Mirosław noted, and wondered why.) When he saw them he looked up and grinned. It was all so perfectly, painfully familiar. "Hey! Put the kettle on, would you?"

"Alright," answered Graźyna, and moved toward the kitchen. Miroslaw shoved the door almost-shut. It was almost noon; he hoped distantly Poland didn't have a lunch-date who would miss him. Poland always dressed fashionably, but he almost looked dressed-up - grey suit, white shirt, silky red scarf worn like a necktie, a feminine affectation. Like a trail of blood down his chest. Mirosław took a deep breath.

Poland tossed the newspaper aside. "Haven't seen you lately," he declared, and grinned. "Buried in homework?"

"No. Not really."

"What's up, then?" Poland threw his head back and blinked. "Mirek? You look pretty terrible."

"It's nothing."

"Huh." Poland frowned at him, but then he peeled himself from the sofa and padded into the kitchen. Mirosław trailed behind him. The kettle was sitting on the stove, and Graźyna was fiddling with the stove controls, pretending to have trouble getting it to light. "You should really relax more, you know? Stress is bad for
you. I don't like my people getting grey hair early - "

He couldn't delay, or he would lose his nerve. He grabbed Poland by the wrists, first. That got a pained screech, but they were thin wrists and Mirosław had the advantage of height and surprise - Poland tried to claw and kick, but Mirosław managed to evade it. In a moment he had Poland held tight, one hand pinning his arms against his chest, one hand over his mouth. Mirosław's shoulders bumped against the wall as he stepped back, trying to make sure Poland couldn't step on his feet, but he'd stopped fighting, only shivering violently.

"If you ever wanted to reconcile with God," Mirosław said, "do it now." He heard his own voice as if from a long way off; he almost felt dizzy, and wasn't sure why.

Graźyna emerged from her purposeful ruffle though the kitchen drawers with a small carving knife and a purposeful expression that didn't really sit right on her face. Poland went still. Mirosław was suddenly very grateful that he couldn't see Poland's face.

"Nothing personal," Graźyna said gently. "But your people need a change. May God have mercy on your soul."

Poland made a noise like a protest at that, but Mirosław didn't dare let him speak.

She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, while Mirosław held on tight and Poland trembled, and then Graźyna lifted the knife and, in a smooth and easy motion, drove it through his left eye. It went in almost half the leength of the blade. Poland jerked one last time and then went limp, and blood dribbled down his shirt.

Not as much blood, really, as he'd been expecting. Mirosław tried to keep his breaths even - his neighbor seemed a lot heavier dead
than he had been alive, limp in his arms. The refrigerator buzzed, and the windows rattled, and somewhere outside a truck rumbled past. The muzzy light-headedness was still there, the sense that he was watching from far off. He carefully lifted the body onto the kitchen table, closed its one remaining eye and wiped the blood from his hand onto its shirt, while Grazyna began to rinse the carving knife off in the sink.

She dried it off, put it away in the drawer, then stood beside him, taking his hand. "Well," she finally said, "it seems nations do leave bodies." There was no expression on her face at all.

Had it worked? Who would take Poland's place now? "Plan B, then," he said. It was amazing, how calculating he could be, when he had to. "We'll hide it in my place until Romana can bring the car tonight. Check the hallway and I'll -"

He felt the impact on the side of his skull, and it shook through his whole body. He tried to cry out a warning, cursing himself for standing with his back to the door, for thinking this could ever really work. His knees buckled, and he caught a glimpse - dark blue suit, long pale hair, a face twisted in fury, and a flash of red as she brought the pipe down a second time on his head.

--

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so

so

I have no idea where this is going now

I love it. Oh, so fucked up, Mirek...

Oh, God. I. want. more. *Speechless*

.....is.......is that Belarus there at the end? The dark blue and long pale hair's what got me. O__O If so, or even if not, then I don't know what to think...


But still - whoa. Poor Poland. It isn't like he's not accustomed to pain, but through his eye? That's new. I wonder when he'll wake up.

SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT

Okay: that could be

a) Belarus outta fucking nowhere

b) Fem!Russia or Russia being mistaken for female somehow

c) something else entirely (maybe the famed replacement?)

d) Poland himself, somehow

e) I really have no idea (Pet theory: Romana)

Ah, and Poland stopped fighting! Yes, this makes sense - he's probably stronger than a normal human, he could've escaped, but on some level maybe he doesn't want to hurt his citizens, and maybe he knows he isn't going to die or there's something else...

I had half-guessed Miroslaw was thinking of Grazyna - but I'm beginning to not be so sure about Grazyna's and especially Romana's motivations. That text after the marriage was very weird to me for some reason. I think sweet little Mirek is being played.

Or maybe that's just that he's the most sympathetic of the murderers. Stupid little boy, I'm almost sad for him.

Poland, oh God. Nations can't die, right? And he's a survivor, right? He'll be okay. Sure he'll be okay!...?

....It's Hungary, isn't it. That's why Poland was dressed up.

I just started reading this story when it was only the first chapter or two, so I only now read most of it.
Verrry interesting. One of the most twisted and fang-ey (in a good way (?)) Poland fics I've ever read. I will definitely be following from now on!

But, um. Just a note. That name is spelled Grażyna, the "źy" sound does not exist in Polish.

--

When Mirosław woke up, it took him a few seconds to realize that he had no idea where he was. He opened his eyes onto something soft and cream-coloured. Blanket, he decided, after a little more thought. Blanket, meaning he was on a bed. With a considerable effort he sat up. Big bed, with - a sudden tension eased, and then came flooding back - Grażyna lying beside him, eyes closed.

He blinked, and tried to take in more details. A green splotch resolved itself into a hanging bathrobe. There was a window, yellowing curtains closed. A little bedside table, piled high with books and knicknacks. Small photos, hung up like family pictures - he squinted at them, and recognized one, with what might have been surprise if his head didn't hurt so much, as Saint John Paul. The photo in the center -

That must be whose bedroom he was in. Poland's. The photo was of Poland and Hungary and a skinny man he realized must be Lithuania, although his hair was just past his ears, and it had hung to his shoulders in the photos Mirosław had seen. The three were in battered-looking work clothes, and Poland had his arms slung over Hungary and Lithuania's shoulders, grinning. Hungary was tucking back her hair, with an expression of breathless laughter; Lithuania looked nervous and proud at once. Mirosław didn't recognize the buildings in the background.

He took a deep breath before turning to look at the door. It was shut, and sitting on a too-small chair in front of it was a tall man in coat and scarf, who Mirosław's anxious mind took several seconds to identify as the Russian Federation.

He had a length of pipe leaning against his chair, so ridiculous and incongruous Mirosław gaped at it. His arms were crossed. Then Russia opened up with a broad grin. "Ah! Good. You are awake."

Mirosław tried to arrange his thoughts. He felt vaugely that he should say something defiant, but nothing came to mind. He was too cold, he noticed, far too cold. "Whuh?"

"Belarus wanted to kill you," Russia informed him cheerfully. "But she is always impulsive. I said we should wait for Poland, and let him decide what to do. You are his people, yes?"

"We're Polish," said Grażyna. Mirosław was too tired to wonder how long she had been awake.

Russia nodded. "Then we will wait. It should not take long. You woke up fast," he added, making it sound like a confidence. "Belarus hit you very hard! She was angry. She says she does not like Poland, but I think she likes him better than she does humans."

He felt a hand on his shoulder. "Not long?" Grażyna asked. "Do you mean his replacement will be nearby?" It was amazing she was still so much in control, Mirosław thought.

"Replacement?" Russia tilted his head.

"We killed him. No one could survive a knife through the brain. So there must be a new Poland. Don't play - " Grażyna broke off. Russia was laughing.

Not loud, side-splitting laughter, but a quiet huffing, that might have sounded like crying were it not for his broad grin. "You killed him," he managed. "You know how he got that scar on his hand?"

"No. He never mentioned it."

"I gave it to him. Two hundred years ago, it was. I drove my sword right through his hand and pinned him to a wall. Then I ripped his heart out. So much blood!" He sounded pleased with the memory, like a child happy to have so much cake at a party. "I burned the heart, and scattered the ashes, and I buried the rest of him under the biggest rock I could find. With my own hands, I did this. The next morning it was still there, and I thought maybe it had worked, the little upstart was gone. The morning after that, the stone had fallen over and there was just a hole in the ground. Two days after I saw him in the streets. So you see, he should wake up soon from just a knife wound from a human." Russia chuckled fondly at this. "Even then, I suspect he only waited so long for dramatic effect."

Mirosław could find no answer to this. All he felt was anger, that nothing would change, that they accomplished nothing, they comitted the greatest sin and didn't even - He decided not to think about that; it only made his head hurt more, the hot helplessness.

"You can die, though," Grażyna said, as calm as ever.

"Oh, yes! But we are difficult to kill. Only if our country falls, and our people are slain, or so changed they are not really ours. Poland is stubborn," Russia went on, still sounding cheerful and fond. "If he were not he would have died a very long time ago, I think."

Neither of them said anything to that.

He seemed a little put off by their silence, but then he broke into a broad grin. "But you did very well! Most humans would not have thought to try, you know, no matter what the reason. There is a - how would you put it? A psychological block, that keeps them thinking about us. You must be special, to have avoided it."

Mirosław almost winced at the way Grażyna's hand tightened on his shoulder. He was grateful for the sudden knock on the door.

They followed Russia back out to the living room. Poland was on the sofa, looking like - well, like a recently revived corpse; his skin was too pale, and there was still blood on his shirt, and he'd pulled his hair to hang over the left side of his face.

The woman in the blue suit - Belarus, she had to be, from what Russia had said - hovered behind him. She looked no less menacing without the pipe, but that was in large part because she was toying with a large hunting knife. Mirosław's mouth went dry with fear. Russia padded over to stand beside her; they were nothing like a matched set, but the impression was still that of a pair of bodyguards.

Poland stared at them in silence for a few seconds, and then he pointed at the low table beneath his television. "Sit."

They sat.

"That's better. Now." Poland crossed his arms and sank down into his seat. "Belarus thinks I should kill you. I don't want to abuse my privledges that way; I'd rather give you a fair trial. That won't happen - it would involve admitting too much, to explain how someone could accuse anyone of his own murder. Still. You should get a chance to explain yourself. Explain."

It was the flattest and calmest Mirosław had ever heard Poland's voice. He swallowed. Grażyna was staying quiet. Well, he was better at being persuasive; she just had ideas, firm, passionate ideas, she had faith, and - Mirosław realized, abruptly, that there were things Poland had told them, in an excess of feeling and after too much vodka, that he did not doubt were true - that had driven their decision - but that he did not care to speak of before the Russia and Belarus. He might have betrayed his nation, but Mirosław would not betray his confidences.

"We were driven to it," he said instead, and did not bother to hide his bitterness. "Our government is doing nothing about the energy crisis. They've been wasteful and slow for a long time, but letting matters degenrate to the point of the Union State cutting off our pipelines was unbearable. You were doing nothing to help. We thought you had given up, or just stopped caring, and that - that maybe, if you were replaced, if Poland cared a little more, the people would start caring, and the government would change. Before anyone else froze to death becuase they couldn't get heating gas, or starved because they couldn't afford groceries because the trucks that should have brought it to the city couldn't get any fuel, or set their house on fire trying to run a fifty-year-old woodstove. Before people took to the streets with anything more dangerous than picket signs." He realized he was almost shouting, and took a few steadying breaths. "Something had to change. You were the simplest. We did it for the good of the people of our nation. At least - at least we thought it would help them."

Poland stared intently at him, through his one visible eye, just long enough for Mirosław to think he was going to laugh, or tell Belarus to go ahead and stab them. But instead, he just nodded abruptly. "You thought I was failing in my responsibilities."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

This was not at all what Mirosław had expected to hear. It was not what the Union State had expected to hear either, it seemed; their voices rose in protest, Belarus insistently repeating the offer to stab them and Russia querulously demanding to know why he was sorry. Poland raised a hand, and they fell silent. "I'm sorry," he went on, "that you were driven to it. Please believe me, I've done everything I can. But we are more at the mercy of our government than the reverse, whatever the media says."

Grażyna tightend her hand on his knee, and leaned forward. "I won't insult you with an apology, then," she said, voice steady. Dead calm. "We would do worse, if we thought it would help. Are you going to kill us for that, now that your murder is undone?"

"Please." And it was almost a relief, to hear that casual fearlessness again. "Like I want you dead."

"You cannot mean to let them go," Russia said, clutching at his coat.

"No." Poland sighed, and pressed his hands to his eyes. There was silence for a few seconds, as he took deep, careful breaths - there was an odd catch in them, only audible in the quiet. Finally he let his hands fall. "Okay," he said to Grażyna. "Were you and your fiancé the only ones in on this? Sheesh, I thought you were such nice kids." It would have been a joke, from someone not so pale, without the blood still splashed over his jacket.

"My husband and I," she answered, voice still even, "came up with the plan alone."

Poland's expression was familiar. Calculating. It was an expression he had seen before, Mirosław thought, but he had seen it on Romana's face. "Good, that keeps things simple. I've got to make some calls." He half-turned, looking wearily at Russia and Belarus. "Our bosses'll want something. I'm in no state to negotiate. Can you come back with something, you know, half-sensible in a couple hours?"

"You are trusting us with a unilateral agreement?" Russia kept blinking.

"Well, I'll read it before I sign anything but it's not like you don't know what I'd say, right?"

"I don't want to leave you alone with them," Belarus said, and fiddled with her knife.

"So put them in the bedroom again and shove a chair under the doorknob. They're not gonna have another go." His voice was rough with exhaustion, edged with something Mirosław could put no name to. Whatever it was, it sufficed to draw a reluctant agreement from his guards.

In his bedroom they didn't speak. Instead Grażyna and Mirosław just fell into each other's arms, clinging tight. Mirosław hid his face agaist the crook of his wife's neck and listened to the noise of voices outside and running water in the kitchen and tried to feel nothing but her hands firm on his back.

--

By the time Poland reappeared it had begun to rain, rattling the windows and too loud on the concrete walls. He was in the green-and-gold coat, buttoned up to the neck, hiding the evidence. His hair was tucked behind his ears, and only a red line remained across his clear left eye. Poland didn't come in, just leaned in the doorway. "It's all settled," he announced. "Real convenient that your dad's Australian, Grazia."

Grażyna frowned. "My father is from Scotland, and he moved back when I was two."

"Nope. Australian. In a few hours there'll be papers to prove it. Wonderful things, papers." He grinned, and crossed his arms. It wasn't until he did that Mirosław realized his hands had been shaking. "Sadly, he just died. But lucky you, you have a half-brother who wants to meet you, so you're flying down for the funeral. Did I mention that the children of Australian citizens are automatically eligible for citizenship?"

"And Mirek?"

"Is going with you for moral support. It's pretty easy for spouses to get citizenship, too. Relax. You'll like it there. Nobody freezes to death in Canberra. Your flight leaves in six hours."

So that was it. Mirosław let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. On some level, it seemed like a terrible punishment, the most terrible possible. He'd always been proud to be Polish. He loved his country. That was something he had never questioned, whatever desperate times there were. He loved his country, as deep down as he loved God, and it would never have occured to him to leave.

On another, it made perfect sense. He hoped that God would forgive him. He wouldn't ask it of Poland.

"Is that what always happens to people who try this?" Grażyna said, still calm. Inquiring, even now. She must have picked it up from Romana.

"What do you mean, always?"

"Surely you've been targeted before."

Poland almost barrked with laughter. "Nope. Bit it by accident a few times, way back when. Civil wars, that sort of thing. But nobody's tried killing one of our kind, outside a war, for, like, more than a century." He shrugged. "Bunch of Serbians figured the best way to get out of the Austro-Hungarian Empire was to off Austria and Hungary. But Austria and Hungary changed their minds at the last minute. Didn't even show up in Sarejevo. So the poor nutcases decided to go after their Archduke instead. Didn't end well."

There was nothing to say to that, so they didn't try.

"I just have one question." Poland slumped against the doorframe, suddenly looking more tired. "Why did you do it?"
y
"We told you already," Grażyna answered.

"So tell me the bits you were leaving out in front of the Ominous Couple out there." His expression didn't change, but something about the set of his shoulders did. "You owe me that much. As my people."

That hung quietly in the air for a while, until Mirosław decided he might as well be honest. "We thought," he said softly, "that we needed someone with faith. I could tell you'd - drifted away. Given up, and we thought maybe that's why everyone else was drifting away. People don't realize how important it is. How can we look after one another without something to tie us together? How can people feel any sense of responsibility?" It sounded weak, set out like that, and he cursed his headache and his honest nature.

But Poland didn't laugh at him. He just sighed, and stood there, silent, looking as if he were thinking something over. When he finally spoke, it was with a smile. "I gave up on God," he said. "God never helped. I just figured I'd have faith in my people, instead."

--

Romana was still at the townhouse; they hadn't sent the message for her to come provide an alibi. The car she'd borrowed was parked outside, amd she was in the kitchen, making Turkish coffee, calm as always. When she saw the suitcase in Mirosław's hand she just went dead still, not even dropping her cup.

They explained matters as quickly as they could, as simply. The only question Romana asked was, "Shall I pack too?"

"No," Grażyna answered, suddenly harsh and vehement. "No, you shouldn't. He doesn't know. Or wasn't saying, at least. Stay here. Do what you can. We can't give up. Romana - " She grabbed Romana's arms. The look that passed between them, then, made Mirosław feel like an intruder. He remembered the moment when he'd realized Romana was in love with Grażyna; he wondered, for half a panicked second, whether Grażyna loved her back. But the moment passed, and they stepped apart.

Romana drove them to the airport. They didn't speak much; there wasn't time to speak enough. Mirosław did not look away or protest when Romana kissed Grażyna goodbye. After everything, he could not begrudge a kiss.

He thought he saw Poland, leaning against a pillar, as they boarded the plane. But when he looked again, there was no one there at all.

--

--

The flight should have taken twenty-two hours; it took two days. They sat on the tarmac in Baghdad while mechanics replaced a fuel pump and Mirosław fiddled with his phone, wondering if he should turn it on, wondering what he would say if someone called. By the time they reached Mumbai their two-hour layover had turned into twenty, from missing their flight, the next two being full. They left the airport and wandered the streets. The heat beat through their thick jackets. A man with a pedal-cart sold them fried vegtables on a stick, happily taking the Euros that were the only cash they had. "Wonderful spice, is it not?" he declared, in odd-accented English. "My older brother's recipe. He is a wonderful cook."

It was at this point Mirosław broke down crying, with the realization he would probably never see his brother again.

In Singapore they stared at the murals on the airport walls. "We could walk out," Grażyna said. "We could just walk away. Find work here, or walk into Malaysia, or Thailand, or Laos, find something there. Nobody could find us or follow us, if we took a little care."

"We could," Mirosław answered. They kept walking down the terminal halls.

By the time they disembarked in Canberra, it was Easter morning, technically. The man who met them had the same air of manic cheer as Poland in his cups. He wore a Hawaiian shirt and sandals, and assured them immediately that it had all been taken care of, he had their residency papers, that Grażyna's father had left them a bit of cash, to tide them over. "Gotta say, though," he added, as they climbed into the back of his battered Kia, "you picked the wrong season to emigrate. Just had winter in Poland, and now you're getting another one. You'll be fine, though. It might not even snow."

Mirosław finally turned his phone on, while Grażyna talked to the cheerful man - if he was a man; he hadn't introduced himself, and somehow Mirosław suspected that whatever strings Poland gad pulled, they ended on the necks only of others of 'our kind'. No messages from friends, yet; they must assume he'd only gone home for Easter.

His breath caught. He hastily pulled up the news. It informed him that the Northern Lights and Druzhba pipelines had been turned on again. The crisis was over. In late megotiations, the Union State had revealed - he read that over, but it said Union State, not 'Gazprom' or 'Union State's government', and he wondered how attuned these journalists had been to the nuance - had revealed that their own fields were running dry. Promising drilling locations had failed, time and again. They had natural gas enough, but they were running out of oil.

In the interest of pan-Slavic unity, of helping their neighbors adjust, of good stewardship of the remnants - for all those high-minded reasons, they were offering Poland domestic prices for five years. Still higher than the old price. They would all freeze together. The Baltic States and Ukraine were being offered similar deals.

Five years, Mirosław thought. He wondered if, after all, they had bought some time for their country, and bought it cheaply, considering. He turned his phone off, and looked out the window at the pinkening sunrise.

--