I don't own Hetalia

The grass swayed gently as he stared down at it blankly with flat green eyes, the oddly warm autumn breeze doing little else - never mind melting the ice in his veins. The land around him was deserted, bare of anyone bar himself; only the birds, the trees and the rolling hills to keep him company. The half empty bottle of Żubrówka held carelessly in his hand, the swig he had just taken still mulling around in his mouth as he seemed to savour the flavour.

His crisp uniform, so newly washed and pressed, hadn't yet shaped itself around him and hindered more than it helped. His black military boots were shined to perfection, and if he squinted, he could see his reflection in them. His rifle which sat at his side was new yet unloaded, all the ammunition he could possibly need to defend himself still packed carefully into the small satchel that was tied tightly around his waist. His blond hair was secured in a firm ponytail, high enough so no strands would fall in his eyes and potentially cause him to falter in a fight.

All in all he was sure he looked, disregarding the alcohol, like a soldier ready to wage war.

Poland couldn't help but scoff, before swallowing his current mouthful and greedily gulping another. He steadfastly ignored his shaking hand that jumped every so often, at every slight noise which might be unnatural.

The battle was lost, and he hadn't even gotten to fight personally.

In the beginning, he had been optimistic. Germany had invaded, but his children had held him off well, dealing some heavy blows that made Poland more than proud. The other man had lost thousands of men, a whole armoured division and at least a quarter of his air forces. It hadn't been exactly easy, but he had been hopeful, that with effort he could continue to hold him off until the allies finally pulled themselves together and delivered the help they promised.

One of the things the general public weren't aware of was precisely how painful invasions were for a nation. It felt like you were being violated, like someone had successfully gained access to your deepest secrets and were raking around, ripping pieces of you apart with each step they took further into your territory. It felt... like a fungus, like a disease you could never recover from, like you were dirty and tainted.

So every single time the unwanted guests were forced back a step, it felt like a massive victory. They were that much closer to being thrown out, to being eradicated. Whenever Poland had felt his people push the German line back, a wave of relief swept through him, and his entire life seemed so much brighter, shining with an innocence he hadn't actually had in around a thousand years. He smiled.

But things had only gotten rapidly worse after that brief instant when Poland - like the fool he was - thought he might have been able to win.

Germany had then concentrated his attention ever so slightly more on his Fall Weiss, and abuptly, Poland couldn't keep up. The German had a near limitless supply of men, especially when one considered both his allies' numbers and the significantly smaller army Poland himself held. The bullets, the tanks and the artillery just kept coming, and nothing seemed to be able to hold it back. And, of course, that albino matkojebca took his chance to get back for some few centuries old slights.

His empty hand traced his black eye delicately, trying not to aggravate the tender skin.

Things had gone down the drain in sixteen days and Poland had accepted that with the largest pinch of salt, and a very bruised ego. He had lost, and now Germany would come to collect him, encompassing the territory into his Reich. There were a lot of things Poland would do to avoid such a grim fate, but it wouldn't kill him. He could survive it, and he would do his very best to save his people. It wouldn't be the first time he had been one of those scraping a life along with the other bottom feeders, and as much as his pride raged, he would keep quiet, do what he was told and cast a spell of havoc from the inside - do what he did best. Adapt.

Despite the fact it would be very difficult, Poland could cope with Germany.

He did not count on what had to be the most dysfunctional and frightening partnership in the history of nations.

The Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact.

Fascist Germany and Communist Russia, together.

He knew of the pact, of course. Everyone did - it had been an outrageous and controversial topic for months; how could two countries with such opposing regimes possibly hope to cooperate?

But it had only been a non-aggression agreement, so eventually, things calmed down. They only didn't want to fight one another, after all. It wasn't as if they had more sinister plans!

Poland spat defiantly onto the ground as he remembered with a shudder reminiscent of nails being scraped down a blackboard, the sensation when he had felt Russia jump playfully onto his land with that sickening grin, along with a few divisions of armed soldiers with foul, vicious minds ready to inflict damage on a country that was already on his last legs.

He had collapsed right there, in the war room with his remaining generals and had vomited on the floor without any apparent cause. None of them had known what was wrong, until he had croaked out 'Rosja', and they had choked in horror.

Two different sides with the same goal, and Poland was in the middle, the prize they were both gunning for and willing to share.

Partition.

He hated that word and everything it stood for.

Civil war was something every nation had dealt with at some time or another, the impression of having two voices in your minds that were out to kill each other.

But this was different.

This was being physically torn apart with no way to stop it.

Poland recalled the feeling of his heart being crushed by two delicate hands the day Lithuania found out about their impending union so many years ago - and he would rather suffer though a thousand of those harsh words than have to be tortured like this.

That was why, he supposed, he was hiding out here, in the barren countryside. Just because he had acquiesced to his fate, did not mean he was in any hurry to embrace it.

It was futile, he wasn't stupid.

But each second that passed and he was still free - those were gifts he would cherish until the war was over, and into a distant future in which he prayed he still held a place.

He felt them coming before he saw them, but his eyes were closed, so it wasn't that impressive.

Each blade of the grass he had previously found so captivating that was squashed under their boots, just like he would be. The low mumble of heavily accented voices that spoke French with ease, since neither would lower themselves to using the other's language. Never mistake cooperation for friendship, or even tolerance - Poland had learned this many wars ago.

His bottle was empty now, and he threw it swiftly over his shoulder. It didn't smash, but the air that rushed in and out of the neck created a humming noise that obviously caught the attention of his pursuers - although that word implied they were actively trying to find him, and really, no effort was needed.

He wasn't making it hard.

The footsteps got closer, and his breathing sped.

The footsteps stopped, and as did his lungs.

O mój Boże.

Everything he had contemplated in the minutes beforehand left him. His plans to walk into hell with dignity were thrown out the window.

He couldn't do it. God, he couldn't just accept this! He had to run, get away, fight - anything! He would die under those two evil bastards! They would destroy him-

"Privyet, Polsha. We've been looking for you."

"Polen. You will be coming with us now, Verstehen Sie?"

He did end up trying to bolt.

Russia's hand nearly ripped his hair off when he grabbed his ponytail with a cackle, and Germany's hands as he disarmed him of all his blades and the small pistol hidden in his sock were merciless.

They dragged him away immediately. The bite he left on Russia's arm was rewarded with a broken nose, and the kick with which he managed to catch Germany's ribs earned him all of the bones in his left hand snapped one by one.

Eventually, by the time they reached the nearest village where a mixed race convoy was waiting, he was drooping over Russia's shoulder with blood running down from his nose to drip rhythmically from his forehead, his hairline stained crimson. His hand felt numb with both the cold and the shock of the breaks, and he was sure his bottom lip was trembling.

O mój Boże.

He barely noticed when he was thrown roughly into the back of one of the trucks, but he did faintly recognise the frantic, fast words in his ear.

Feliks tried to smile, but his body wouldn't let him.

"To-To-"

"Shhhhh!" The other person shushed him, and his head was suddenly pillowed on someone's lap. "Dievas, I'm so sorry! I'm here, Feliks, I'm here. Oh Dievas, I'm here."

Poland couldn't help but feel the faintest flutters of hope.

Liet was here. He didn't know how, but Liet was here.

Maybe he could make it.

Unbetaed, and written in two hours. Not bad for a day's work, lol - but I'd appreciate it if anyone could point out mistakes.

Any history confusion (there's quite a bit in here), please ask. Yes, there's some LietPol, deal with it.

Żubrówka is a type of Polish vodka.

matkojebca - Polish, motherf*cker.

Fall Weiss - German, Case White. (What the Germans called the Invasion of Poland.)

Rosja - Polish, Russia.

O Moj Boze - Polish, Oh my God.

Privyet, Polsha - Russian, Hello, Poland.

Polen - German, Poland.

Verstehen Sie - German, Do you understand?

Dievas - Lithuanian, God.

I hope I caught the whole Hetalia aspect of this moment of history well, and that you enjoy it!

Please review, I would really appreciate it!

Review!