Hell's Hostage

The darkness spread against every corner of the tiny cell, and from within the darkness sat a broken man. His eyes were closed, his blood splattered against the sterile white wall. The bars against the doorway and window did nothing to stop the chill as it consumed at his bones. His midnight blue suit, which was in tatters, did nothing to stop the wind from whipping against his bones, and the shivers were racking through his frame. His lips were turning a light blue, and the skin felt like a thousand tiny needles running along his arm. Ruby hues were hidden behind chopped up white bangs watching the shadows cascade past his bars. Movement, he could still hear the sound of the heavy leather smacking against cold concrete. He made no motion to his dingy cot, bolted to the wall, the springs poking out to stab at him in his deepest sleep. How could someone at the top, fall so hard? He spat at the ground at the sound of approaching boots, blood mingling with saliva in a splatter against the dirty ground. He could still see the outline of dirt from which he spent a week just laying on the ground, unclean, his wounds infected.

"Privyet, Beilschmidt."

The ruby glance met a lilac stare. The fallen man raised his chin in defiance at the towering figure in front of him. The familiar white scarf dangled down towards the ground against the tan cloth as the sandy blonde man approached. Each step threatened death even from the distance of an iron barred door. Still, the albino stood staggering and sputtering blood…his chin still highly raised, he was not going to let anyone think they had knocked him from his own self-conceited pedestal of "awesome".

"Hallo, Braginsky," Prussia spat at the name, blood mingled with mucus, but there seemed to be no reaction at all to the act. Russia only seemed to be amused, the lilac eyes glittering with malevolence.

"Given in yet, zakljuchennij?" The Russian stood close to the doorway, the iron bars casting shadows against his eyes…a deep red glow that scared smaller nations to tears. Prussia stood his ground, his ankle exposed by his frayed pant leg, and bits of his skin lost due to the grips of iron manacles. Grinding his teeth against the pain, his deep purple gaze was viciously aimed at Ivan's eyes.

"Never, Braginsky, I'm far too awesome to give up to the likes of you." A smug smirk washed over chapped lips, the blood dried and cracked against the surface. "I'm Prussia, not some whipping boy like Toris."

"Not a whipping boy, net? I will see about that, da? As I did last time, of do you forget so soon, Beilschmidt?" The lilac stare was pinching at Prussia's nerves, but he stood defiant and strong. His red stare locking with purple, even as the gloved hand touched against the cold steel and opened the door…he knew this was to become far worse as time went on. This had been his fate since the day the conference had renounced him as one of them.


His heart raced as he stood at the conference room's oak doors. The same oak doors he passed through a thousand times, carelessly pushing it and stepping in with a smug demeanor. Now he could feel his Adams apple bob up and down as he swallowed the lump in his throat, Germany had been defeated in the past few days, and the allies had been concerned about Prussia's state. A strong and powerful country, Gilbert had always been one of the forerunning strengths in his brother's arsenal. A strong older brother, headstrong, and rushing into battle with sword or gun raised, blood splattering in the wake. Now, he stood planted in one spot, afraid to touch an oak door, but it wasn't long that he was being summoned in by America's voice. "Hey dude! Hurry up, I want to get a cheeseburger and milkshake and this meeting is holding me up from getting it!"

He stepped softly, touching his palm to the door, and then turned the knob with his right hand. Coming into the room fully, he kept his composure and graced the conference room with his confident smile. A smirk and even a look of self importance stealing away the tension in his eyes, after all he was awesome!

"How terribly tactful of you, Alfred, we're deciding his fate and all you care about is your bloody cheeseburger."

"Can you two quit arguing and get the show on the road, no?"


It was usually during this time that Germany would stand at attention and cause everyone to fall into silence by his loud and commanding vocals but he was in no condition to command anything after the last time Prussia saw him. He was held back from the conference room, still held as a gentleman instead of a prisoner, unlike Prussia. He had been the first to be judged, and he knew he would suffer the higher price, for he had a stronger command than his brother. He moved to stand in front of the nations that would be the ones to sentence him to his horrid fate, his own personal jury.

"Can we get on with it, da? I do have plans today, guys…"Russia was glowing with some malevolent look, a glow of lilac hatred surrounding his shadowing. The sandy haired blonde was sitting back in his chair, a self important smirk rising up on his lips, under his bulbous nose.

"Prussia. You are here today as a result of your involvement in the war lead by Germany," England seemed to have gained his composure after a moment or two, and mostly because of the intensive stare of Ivan Braginsky, and yet the serious stare of the British nation was very ill placed at the moment, and almost ominous. "World War II's atrocities were at the hands of Germany, Italy, Japan, and various other countries and foremost, you. As a result of the damage left behind due to your actions in the war, we, The Allies, have decided to remove your status in the conference room. You no longer have a place among us, and in addition to that, we have decided that stripes you of any rights to your property and self. You are now the property of Russia and Poland, and Germany may retain some rights to you. However, you are no longer your own person."

Slavery; he had been sentenced to slavery…something against many of the nations beliefs, but Russia's evil smile, and Poland's greedy glance at Russia said all it needed to. Their cooperation with the war was to gather pieces of his property and his very body. He was the current object in their war against each other.

It was at that moment that Russia stood, along with Poland. Each country grabbing one of Prussia's arms with a possessive glare and tugging for more reach than the other. During the struggle, Feliks pulled at pieces of his clothing, his Germanic cross, ripping it off of his person and it landed on the conference room floor. During this point in time, Russia was enraged, and his anger had the Baltic nations shivering in their steps as they followed the great nation with fear, huddled together, as each word he uttered was " Ubitj, Ubitj, Ubitj. "

Later that night, Poland had first rights to him in a dingy prison cell. Poland had torn his clothing off his body, and driven himself into him, taking his virginity and taking what vital pieces of his person he could. The sweat had poured, and he had been left in a sickly state of blood, sweat and shivering pain…but he refused to beg and he had fought hard against the Pol. Feliks had been mildly gentle, wanting to hear how amazing he was…but Prussia would have nothing of that.

"Tell me how large and wonderful my vital regions are, Gilbert," Feliks purred into his ear, and Gilbert had responded by spitting in his face.

"I'm bigger than you, arschloch,and I'm better all around too," Gilbert took that moment to elbow Poland in the chest.

It was only when Russia had made his presence known from the shadows that the fight had been lost, but he didn't go down without bruising the Pol. Still, it was under this agreement; that the Pol had left the room, taking the pocket change that Prussia had, when he had had his fill, and Russia had been the one to covet his prize, ripping into his back with a whip—blood pouring out of fresh lines that the whip cracked and making him scream at the sure size of the Russian's vital regions. The pure pain that came of that thrust, had Gilbert arching his back and screaming as loud as he could, his throat giving out on him midway through and causing him to go hoarse, in the silent prison ward, where only the chill of the night would offer him an embrace.

After the Russian had left him practically begging, a shivering mess on the ground, he had been smiling with the darkest of intents. The man promised to return, leaving only a breath mint on the ground and walking away with the sounds of heavy boots before calling out for Lithuania to come to him and change his clothing due to the filth of a Germanic touch.

-Flashback over-

Now he knew that Russia was coming to finish up degrading him, as he promised, but he wasn't going to go down without a fight. He was a prisoner to the cold and cruel Ivan Braginsky, but he was not a coward. In tatters, his midnight blue suit was doing nothing to make him feel proud and strong in front of the fully clothed nation. He looked the lesser of a man, more the slave than anything else, and the wounds from the last encounter glaring angrily on his back.

"I remember, Braginsky, and so will Germany when he gets a hold of you," he spat out, spitting into the Russian's face, who wiped the spittle away with his gloved fingertips.

( End of Chapter Notes):


Privyet: Hello.

zakljuchennij: Prisoner.

Da: Yes.

Net: No.

Ubitj: Kill



( Thanks one of my readers for correcting me! Helps with the realism of the story!)