~ Powers of Nations: A Countryhumans Chronicle

▶Chapter:36◀

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Warning⚠.

3rd person pov:

The house was a silent battleground, each corner echoing with memories of pain and fear. The siblings lived in a constant state of alertness, their nerves frayed from the relentless storms of their father's anger. Tonight, the storm was fiercer than ever.

Soviet's footsteps, heavy and unsteady from drinking, echoed through the hallways. Russia stood in the living room, bracing himself. His heart pounded in his chest, fear a familiar companion. His siblings watched from their rooms, doors slightly open, their eyes wide with terror.

Soviet's presence filled the room with a suffocating intensity. His eyes, bloodshot and full of rage, locked onto Russia. Without a word, he lunged, fist connecting with Russia's stomach. The force sent him sprawling to the floor, vision blurring as pain exploded across his stomach.

"You're nothing but a disappointment!" Soviet's voice was a slurred roar as he kicked Russia in the ribs.

Russia tried to shield himself, curling into a ball, but the blows kept coming. Soviet's strength was overwhelming, his rage an unstoppable force. Each kick, each punch, drove the breath from Russia's lungs and sent waves of agony through his body.

Soviet grabbed Russia by the collar, lifting him and then hurling him against the wall. The impact was brutal, and Russia's head struck the wall with a sickening thud. Darkness closed in around him as he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Soviet stood over his son, chest heaving, eyes wild. The sight of Russia lying motionless, blood pooling around his head, did nothing to quell his fury. His gaze shifted to Ukraine, who had been watching in silent horror.

"You!" Soviet snarled, stumbling towards Ukraine. "You're just as useless!"

Ukraine tried to back away, but Soviet's hand shot out, grabbing him by the hair. He yanked the boy forward, throwing him to the ground. Ukraine cried out in pain as Soviet's boot connected with his stomach.

"Pathetic," Soviet hissed, kicking him again and again. "You're all pathetic!"

Ukraine's sobs filled the room, mingling with the sound of his father's rage. He tried to shield himself, but Soviet's strength was overwhelming. The pain was unbearable, each blow driving the breath from his lungs.

Finally, Soviet's rage seemed to subside. He stood over his two sons, breathing heavily, face twisted with anger and contempt. Ukraine lay on the ground, tears streaming down his face, his body aching from the beating. He crawled towards Russia, his heart breaking at the sight of his brother lying in a pool of blood.

"Russ... please... wake up..." Ukraine's voice was a desperate whisper, his tears mingling with the blood on the floor.

But Russia remained still, his breathing shallow and labored. The night stretched on, filled with the echoes of pain and fear. Ukraine, overwhelmed by the night's events, eventually lost consciousness, collapsing beside his brother.

Morning came, bringing with it a fragile sense of peace. The house was eerily quiet, the previous night's violence lingering like a dark cloud. Weimar arrived, unaware of the horrors that had unfolded in his absence.

As Weimar entered the house, the sight that greeted him was one of devastation. Russia lay motionless, his body bruised and bloodied, a deep gash on his forehead. Ukraine was beside him, unconscious, his face streaked with tears and blood.

Weimar's heart pounded in his chest as he rushed to their side. He gently checked their pulses, relieved to find that they were still alive, though barely. He lifted Ukraine first, carrying him to the couch and laying him down gently. Then, he turned his attention to Russia, who was in much worse shape.

"Russ, can you hear me?" Weimar's voice was thick with worry as he carefully lifted Russia into his arms.

Russia's eyelids fluttered, and he let out a weak groan. The pain was overwhelming, but the presence of Weimar brought a small measure of comfort. Weimar carried Russia to his room, laying him on the bed and assessing his injuries.

Weimar fetched a basin of water and a cloth, carefully cleaning the blood from Russia's face and tending to the wound on his forehead. He worked with a quiet determination, his mind racing with thoughts of what he had witnessed. The brutality of Soviet's actions left him shaken and angry.

After ensuring that Russia was as comfortable as possible, Weimar returned to Ukraine, who was beginning to stir. He helped him sit up, offering a glass of water and speaking in soothing tones.

"Take it easy, you're safe now," Weimar assured him.

Ukraine's eyes were filled with fear and pain as he looked at Weimar. "Russ... is he...?"

"He's hurt, but he'll be okay," Weimar said gently. "You both need to rest."

Weimar stayed with them, watching over them as they slept. The sight of their battered bodies filled him with a deep sense of sorrow and resolve. He couldn't stand by and let this continue. Something had to change.

Hours passed.
Russia woke slowly, the pain in his head throbbing with each heartbeat. He tried to move, but his body protested with sharp stabs of agony. Blinking through the haze of pain, he realized he was in his room, lying on his bed.

"Russ, can you hear me?" Weimar's voice was a comforting murmur nearby.

Russia turned his head slightly, wincing as the movement sent fresh waves of pain through his skull. "Weimar?" he croaked.

Weimar's face appeared above him, filled with concern. "Yes, it's me. You're safe now."

Russia's eyes flicked to the couch, where Ukraine lay, still unconscious. His heart skipped a beat as he took in the sight of his younger brother's bruised and battered body. Guilt crashed over him like a tidal wave.

"He... he hurt Ukraine too?" Russia's voice was a shaky whisper, filled with horror.

Weimar nodded solemnly. "Yes, but he's going to be okay. You both need to rest."

Tears welled up in Russia's eyes as he struggled to sit up. Every muscle screamed in protest, but he ignored the pain, driven by a desperate need to comfort his brother. Weimar helped him, steadying him as he moved.

Russia reached out, gently cradling Ukraine's head in his lap. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, tears falling onto his brother's face. "I promised to protect you, and I failed."

Ukraine stirred slightly at the touch, his eyes fluttering open. He looked up at Russia, confusion and pain clouding his gaze. "Russ...?"

"It's okay, Ukraine," Russia said, his voice breaking. "I'm here. I'm so sorry."

Weimar watched the scene, his heart aching for the siblings. He could see the guilt and pain etched on Russia's face, and it made his resolve to protect them even stronger.

Hours later, Russia sat by Ukraine's side, holding his brother close. He kissed his forehead, whispered words of comfort, and promised himself he would never let this happen again. The guilt gnawed at him, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the here and now.

Weimar stayed with them, providing silent support. His presence was a balm to their wounds, a reminder that they were not alone.

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End of chapter...