His world was on fire.

Every breath that shivered through him was dry with the heat, dust coating the rawness of his throat - he was drowning in it. Dimly he was aware of his own body, felt himself stretching outward, past the buildings, past the men being dragged into the street like so much cattle. He could feel Poland - feel himself - all the way to his borders. The land screamed to him and he had no air to give it voice. He wished for the rain to fall, to cool him but the clouds overhead were black and they were smoke and he was burning.

Germany's hand had him by the nape, a warning squeeze that wasn't needed. He'd already tried to fight - his uprising had failed... the Allies had left him to fight this battle alone, despite their assurances of support. And he had fought. He'd fought until the Allies had given him up, left him for lost. They'd said nothing, but he knew they'd regarded their pact as less than useless.

But even so...

"Please, Germany," His voice was foreign to his own ears. "I've already surrendered. This isn't necessary..." Not this... never this. Warsaw... his Warsaw...

The grip was merciless, dragging him to his feet. He stumbled, pitched forward, held from falling by the unrelenting hand. His limbs failed him, clothing tearing as Germany lost patience trying to guide him and chose to simply drag him instead. Poland barely noticed the fingers around his throat cutting off his air - he couldn't breathe anyway.

He was flung to the ground, a broken doll, shivering, panting. He pressed his cheek to the road and felt the welcome coolness of begin to seep into his hot skin.

"The city must completely disappear from the surface of the earth." Germany's words ripped through him, shock seeping from his veins like blood. There was no anger in the other nation's voice, only a cold distance. This meant nothing to him. "No stone can remain standing. Every building must be razed to its foundation."

Palms flat against the ground, muscles aching as he pushed himself up. He did not want to see, but he had to know.

Not her. Not Zaluski...

A wealth of knowledge - precious Zaluski - he'd helped lay her foundation with his own hands. In so many ways her worth was greater than his own. Within her walls lay one of the greatest collection of books in all of Europe... How he'd struggled to put her back together in the years after the partition of his country.

"Please..." One hand caught at the edge of Germany's sleeve, words torn from the raw hollow of his throat. "Please no..." He could muster no eloquence for her, not for the books, the manuscripts, the maps. All that he had was his agony of his plea - he would have begged for her if he could have.

In the end, his words made no difference. A hand lashed out, dashing him to the ground. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, vision blurring in and out, but it could not stop him from seeing the tide of soldiers with their torches. The flames rose up into the night, fed by Zaluski's insides - ashes and bits of burning paper on the wind as he doubled up around himself - his screams silent. Poland burned.

He screamed and he burned and the rain did not come.

-

Zaluski Library was the oldest library in Poland - and considered by some to be the first. It was also one of the most extensive libraries in all of Europe. It was burned by Nazi forces after the Warsaw uprising.