Disclaimer: In no way do I own Hetalia-Axis Powers.

Rated for violence and others.
Pairings: eventually Russia/Prussia.

Herein Lies

Prologue: From Before

Flakes danced in the pair of fiery pupils and very gasps were frost and mist. Though his bayonet was freezing and heavy in his hand, Gilbert Beilschmidt still glared fearlessly at the vast snow field, the jeering façade of the infamous General Winter.

Daunting as they were, the German armies still weren't as used to contend in the snow lands as the Russian troops, nor were they as well garmented for the immense cold. And that's what they get for his governor's underestimation, a one-sided slaughter of his men.


A single word.

Gilbert didn't really hear it as he looked across the battle field, they were so far apart and the crackling of General Winter drowned everything in its blizzard, but he could see the hurt in those violet eyes and feel Ivan Braginski's accusation drifted and scattered by the wind.


It screamed.

And Gilbert almost laughed at the other nation's simplicity and pain.


So naïve.

They were countries, they could make no promises. Neither from before nor in the foreseeable future.

And somehow the Prussian was reminded of a time from before–der Schlacht auf dem Peipussee, the Battle of Lake Peipus–if remembered correctly it would be on the 5th of April in the year 1242. They were the Republic of Novgorod and the Livonian branch of the Teutonic Knights then as they fought atop the frozen lake. He was also reminded of how he had been over-confident after successfully persuading Eduard to join his crusade, as it wasn't until later did he realize even with the added Estonian soldiers they were still slightly outnumbered. The archers had been a complete surprise and he was forced to retreat with his men in disarray...and that's when the thin ice gave out under his feet.

Gilbert would always remember how Ivan had giggled at him then, like an amused child at other's misfortune, as he struggled uselessly to save his men from drowning. But the heavy armor they wore pulled hundreds to their death.

Fifty or so of his were taken that day. Gilbert never saw them again.

And from that day on, the albino knew there were things that hurt more than flesh. Some wounds would always go deeper and deeper. So he leveled his weapon and pulled the trigger. Though it was somewhat pointless gunning the light blond man, he could always harm where it would hurt.

A shout of shock was lost as Ivan widened his eyes, startled as some sticky substance splashed and dotted his scarf. The man who stood beside him drop with a thump, dead before even registering the pain, and blood started oozing from the forehead where the opposing country had aimed, tainting the pure white scarlet. Ivan snapped his gaze around and could feel the jag end of his firearm bit at his palm through the mitten as he tightened his hold.

Now there's madness flicking in those purplish eyes and Gilbert–no, Prussia–would pay.