Title: One Last Stand
Pairings: one sided Russia/America, heavy America/UK
Warnings: Character Death, implications of cannibalism, suicide, murder, historical inaccuracies, and mutilation
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

How long as it been he's seen the sun? He can't remember; the darkness has swallowed everything up. 'Father, help me,' he thinks as he claws at the wall, screams silenced only by the fact his voice was used up days ago. Or was it weeks? Maybe it had been months or years even since he's seen the sun. He can't tell if his eyes are open or closed, there've not been any visitors for ages, not even the one who threw him in here.

The light blinds him as the door opens fully instead of its normal little opening to shove a bowl of soup into the cell where he lives. His eyes adjust slowly, blinking to trying and help block out the dazzling light, trying to make out who is making the silhouette by standing in the doorway. He can't register the voice, his ears straining to hear the soft words that are making their way to him. He stumbles towards them, unsure if they'll pushing him away, but instead freezing hands touch his face, pull him up to cradle him. "Amerika," whispers the voice as the owner picks him up as if he's nothing more than a small child, and carries him away from that room.

It's so bright outside the room and his eyes are having a hard time to adjust, he barely makes out a pair of bright lavender eyes that are looking at him in a mixture of concern and childish innocence. He gives a look of despair at that childish face, knowing that its owner is far crueler than he's letting on. After all, it was the man carrying him who threw him in that room in the first place. For his own protection, the other had said, it's for your own protection Amerika. Well damn that, what did this communist bastard know anyways? He tried to fight against the other's arms weakly, but he had lost his strength in that hellhole. That prison for his safety.

Russia's carrying him to a window, a window in a room that overlooks his lands, America's lands. The beautiful lands that once were rolling fields and beautiful deserts, now there were bloodstained battlefields. Bodies lay everywhere, but it's certain bodies that draw the nearly destroyed blonde's little strand of remaining sanity. The dusty ash blonde of England is lying almost at the foot of the building, blood staining the back of his green jacket a sickening brown color, blonde hair matted with it. There's France and Germany and the Italy twins; everyone was out there… except for them… and… "Where's Canada?" he whispers, blood running cold as he twists to look up into those childish eyes. "Where's my brother?"

The cruel giggle he gets in return is like a slap in the face as he's pulled away from the window, though he tries to fight those hands carrying him, tries to get back to the window, to crash through it, to jump to his death to join England… to join everyone. Is this why he was locked up? So Russia could kill everyone, everyone, oh god where's Canada? He allows himself to be dragged along, to be carried into a room where he prompt vomits. Lying on a table, purple-blue eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling, is Canada or what's left of him. It seems his legs have been removed, part of his chest is missing, and something that suspiciously looks like his ribcage is hanging on the wall behind the table where he's laying. "Oh gods Ivan, why?" he asks, horror causing his already weaken voice to be barely nothing more than a movement of lips.

"Because now it is just us," coos the older nation, the one who looks too happy suddenly. "There's no England or Canada to get in our way. There's no one for you to rush away and save now. I kept you safe; I kept you from playing the hero, from getting killed. I protected you Amerika." America's not sure if he wants to hit him or sob and cry for those lying out in the burning fields, for Canada for who has been disrespected in his death. If only he could have remained forgotten by this cold, cruel nation that has him prisoner, then maybe, maybe America wouldn't feel this hopelessness swelling inside of him. The desperation is too much he realizes, and in one last show of strength, he jerks himself away from Russia, stumbles over to the table that holds his dead brother, the knife that's been used to remove his limbs still laying there.

He jerks it up, eyes nearly glowing in madness as he charges the other, knife slipping easily into the other's chest, his life extinguished in that one act of madness. Now, he's all alone, not a soul is still alive; he's just killed the only other one who remained besides himself. Giving a small, almost painful laugh he walks back to the other room, completely in his mind as he looks out the window for a moment, before crossing the room and running back towards it, he doesn't even bother to close his eyes as he raises his arms and throws himself threw the building's window and plummets, dropping to the ground. He feels the thrill in him, flying without the wings of an airplane, and then he's gone, dead of the thrill and the fear that mixed together, all of his bones shattering as he lands next to Arthur, one arm landing to lay on his shoulders as if they've just been gunned down together, Texas crushed into his face as he goes off to join the others wherever they've gone. To that field of everlasting peace.