Tʜᴇ Pᴀᴛʜ Tᴏ Hɪɢʜɢᴀᴛᴇs

Wʜᴇɴ Tɪᴍᴇ Rᴜɴs Oᴜᴛ

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 42

The Sun rattled above its abendrot blanket. The world a reddened haze of mercurial patchwork, lemon komorebi seeping through the branches like rings around Saturn. Brushstrokes of pink laced the passing clouds as envious orange bled through the narrowing horizon. The house before you a cold and empty city grazing the sky, all lights snuffed, shadows jutting out as the terminal Sun flared behind it.

You, Reich and Soviet stood guiltily in a line. The car keys hidden in your bag, your head low with shame, but your eyes aiming up in a final act of defiance. It was as though a firing squad was facing the three of you. Your shared pride tying your souls together before they would be blown out of you. Your dignity going down with your mortal body. Seeping out of your skin along with your blood. The inside you held in high regard spilt onto the outside world that took your life.

Only there was no firing squad. Just the look of disappointment from two men, seated on the front steps, bottles in their hands, cigarettes in their fingers.

You stared with that dignified animosity towards German Empire, who shared your look, but aimed it towards Reich. Soviet refused to look up and meet his father's gaze, which copied the exact vexation that the Empire had, if not more.

You breathed in, then approached the firing squad, all scopes moved to aim at you. Your breath caught in your throat.

Reich and Soviet watched you approach them as if you were crazy for a second. Then admitted defeat and walked in shame with you.

As you approached, Russian Empire seemed to loosen up, his grip on his Vodka slackening. "I hope my Son didn't bother you." He spoke softly, bringing his fingers up to take a pull of his cigarette. "No, he never does." You replied, drawing a weak nod from the Tsar.

Soviet stopped beside you, instantly shifting Russian Empire's mood back to what his gaze had suggested before. He leaned down to snuff his cigarette out, then stood up, towering over the lot of you. His body shrouded in deep shadows. "Давай, мне нужно поговорить с тобой." He snarled to his son, who clenched his fist tight, his chest expanding. "Нет, мне нечего вам сказать."

The Russian monarch drew his lips back, standing straighter, his shadow expanding, awning Soviet who seemed minuscule in comparison. "Не спорь со мной." He spat deeply, his muscles tensing in anger. In his mind, he seemed to revel in the idea of hitting his son, his readied fist acting as a smoking gun. Maybe he would have, but not with you watching, not with Reich nor especially with his attempted ally. He was a smart man, and chose against it, opting instead to turn his back to Soviet, beginning to walk back to the front door.

"Я не пойду с тобой!" Soviet declared, his body throwing itself forward in refusal, his voice reverberating around the still evening. Disturbing the silence with the thickness of his own rage. No birds sang for him, the wind quieted down.

Russian Empire stopped in his tracks. His back turned indefinitely. "Красная Россия," muttered he. "Сейчас."

Soviet stopped. His expression fell, his spirit falling lower. He stared at his father with wide eyes, his lips agape. Then relented, his head low. "Zanks for today (𝚈/𝙽)." He said, then began to follow his father.

You couldn't think of what to say to him. So you said nothing at all, you just watched him leave, the silence endless. Broken only by the wind, which seemed to be almost afraid of being too loud. It could sense the tension, so it stayed away.