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You didn't have to offer your hand
It wasn't necessarily a surprise.
Well, that's a lie. It was a rush, an invasion in the blink of an eye that led to his cities in ruin and flame, a thing Russia had thought he'd been used to--had known how to handle. But he was weakened despite the show he'd made so sure to present. It was always there, remnant from his fall and the corruption of his power and Russia had trusted England.
But they'd been there before, hadn't they? They knew how each other ticked, in such perfect symmetry betwixt the nations. And maybe that trust, no definitely, was what led to this point in time. But whatever the case was, Russia had fallen at England's hands. It had been perfectly timed, perfectly hushed and his protector? Winter? Well, it had come a little too mild and a little too late. In the beginning he'd raged at his father for failing him--but as time passed and he could hear less and less of his father's whispers upon the wind, Russia began to think that maybe this was his fault. Maybe he'd called his father's favor too many times, relied too heavily--and England had seen that though it was never spoken and encouraged it in little ways. A broken captive was so much easier to handle than a fully capable one, after all.
And Russia was not really quite whole anyway, not after that invasion.
It's odd how thankful one can be that a bomb was not nuclear, even as thousands die. But in the end, he's wounded and weak, from invasion and corruption and with his borders and flag wiped out and replaced, well. He's not really Russia now, is he? Just Ivan now, with the yoke of the British about his shoulders.
He'd resisted at first despite his faltering hope and faith, but in the end, it leads to where they are now, a handful of years after the fact.
Russia had always been proud, strong, seemingly impossible to break---but everyone had that point, and perhaps it's their history that gave England an upper hand where others would have failed. Because Russia? Well, he doesn't prove easy to break, but once he does, it's a spiral that winds up with the man seated at England's bidding, meek and silent for the intimidation that he still throws off.
There's a soft look here, gaze blank and attentive as Ivan turns to face England. He speaks nary a word, unless asked to, of course, and though it's "unnecessary", his words spill English instead of his native Russian. If he was capable of it, he'd loathe that. As it is, Ivan finds the notion trivial. He's England's now, his land, his possession, and he's oh so gently treated. How could he do anything but love and protect the man who held the leash to his collar after all that he's given him? And there is a pretty little collar around his scarf-less neck, a slender silver necklace that glints and hides against the pale color of his skin. A mark perhaps, possession, or some idle form of attention to the silent guarding figure he's become. (And it was partially of his own accord, that.)
Well, that's a lie. It was a rush, an invasion in the blink of an eye that led to his cities in ruin and flame, a thing Russia had thought he'd been used to--had known how to handle. But he was weakened despite the show he'd made so sure to present. It was always there, remnant from his fall and the corruption of his power and Russia had trusted England.
But they'd been there before, hadn't they? They knew how each other ticked, in such perfect symmetry betwixt the nations. And maybe that trust, no definitely, was what led to this point in time. But whatever the case was, Russia had fallen at England's hands. It had been perfectly timed, perfectly hushed and his protector? Winter? Well, it had come a little too mild and a little too late. In the beginning he'd raged at his father for failing him--but as time passed and he could hear less and less of his father's whispers upon the wind, Russia began to think that maybe this was his fault. Maybe he'd called his father's favor too many times, relied too heavily--and England had seen that though it was never spoken and encouraged it in little ways. A broken captive was so much easier to handle than a fully capable one, after all.
And Russia was not really quite whole anyway, not after that invasion.
It's odd how thankful one can be that a bomb was not nuclear, even as thousands die. But in the end, he's wounded and weak, from invasion and corruption and with his borders and flag wiped out and replaced, well. He's not really Russia now, is he? Just Ivan now, with the yoke of the British about his shoulders.
He'd resisted at first despite his faltering hope and faith, but in the end, it leads to where they are now, a handful of years after the fact.
Russia had always been proud, strong, seemingly impossible to break---but everyone had that point, and perhaps it's their history that gave England an upper hand where others would have failed. Because Russia? Well, he doesn't prove easy to break, but once he does, it's a spiral that winds up with the man seated at England's bidding, meek and silent for the intimidation that he still throws off.
There's a soft look here, gaze blank and attentive as Ivan turns to face England. He speaks nary a word, unless asked to, of course, and though it's "unnecessary", his words spill English instead of his native Russian. If he was capable of it, he'd loathe that. As it is, Ivan finds the notion trivial. He's England's now, his land, his possession, and he's oh so gently treated. How could he do anything but love and protect the man who held the leash to his collar after all that he's given him? And there is a pretty little collar around his scarf-less neck, a slender silver necklace that glints and hides against the pale color of his skin. A mark perhaps, possession, or some idle form of attention to the silent guarding figure he's become. (And it was partially of his own accord, that.)