~ Powers of Nations: A Countryhumans Chronicle

▶Chapter:42◀

There is a warning, if you don't like it, don't read it.

The chapter:

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The day after Kazakhstan left.

Warning⚠.

3rd person pov:

The basement, a cold and unforgiving space, bore silent witness to the violence that had transpired. Soviet's rage had finally ebbed, his fists and the relentless blows giving way to sheer exhaustion. Russia lay crumpled on the floor, his battered body and sagging wings a poignant testament to the brutality he had endured.

Soviet, gasping for breath, his face streaked with sweat and fatigue, stared down at his son. The anger that had consumed him seemed to have dissipated, leaving behind only a profound sense of regret. The cracks in Soviet’s skin deepened, a physical manifestation of his internal turmoil.

Russia, barely conscious and trembling, managed to extend a frail hand towards Soviet. His fingers, slick with blood and pain, reached out to touch Soviet’s face. The gesture was weak but desperate, a plea for connection amidst the overwhelming agony.

Soviet’s eyes softened as he felt the trembling touch. The contact jolted him from his anger-fueled haze, making him confront the reality of his actions. The touch was a small but potent reminder of the bond they once shared, now painfully strained.

Russia’s voice, strained and barely audible, was filled with sorrow and pleading. “Father… please,” he whispered, his body shivering uncontrollably. His wings, once so full of life and now battered and limp, seemed to echo the broken state of their relationship.

Soviet looked down at Russia, his heart aching with guilt and regret. The fragile state of his son was almost too much to bear. His hands trembled as he gently lifted Russia into his arms, feeling the startling lightness of his body. The contrast to the strength he had once known was heart-wrenching.

As Soviet  held Russia, he could feel the delicate frame of his son, a stark reminder of how much he had been hurt. The closeness was a bittersweet reminder of the bond they had once shared, now strained and frayed.

“Dove,” Soviet said softly, the term of endearment feeling both tender and sorrowful. “I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you. I didn’t mean for any of this. I just… I didn’t know how to control it. I was afraid… and angry.”

Soviet got up and moved with great care as he lifted his son, placing him down on a nearby chair. He crouched beside him, trying to make eye contact. “I’m sorry,” Soviet murmured, his voice choked with emotion. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I lost myself.”

Russia’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Soviet’s gaze with a mixture of pain and confusion. “Why… why do you hurt me?” he asked weakly, his voice barely a whisper. His hand remained on Soviet’s face, a plea for understanding amidst the suffering.

“I don’t know,” Soviet admitted, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. I’ve lost my way. I didn’t mean for any of this. I’m just… I don’t know how to fix it.”

Soviet’s expression softened further as he gathered Russia into his arms, carrying him outside the basement.He moved with utmost care, cradling Russia as though he were the most fragile thing in the world. The lightness of Russia’s body was a stark contrast to the strength Soviet had once known.

“Dove,” Soviet repeated softly, his voice filled with regret and tenderness. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how much I’ve hurt you. I was afraid, and I let my fear turn into anger.”

Soviet carried Russia to the bathroom, where the warm, soothing environment was a stark contrast to the harsh basement. The room was filled with the gentle steam of a hot bath, a soft light illuminating the space with a comforting glow.

Soviet carefully helped Russia into the tub, the warmth of the water a soothing balm against his bruised skin. Soviet joined him, their bodies submerged in the comforting heat. He began to clean Russia’s wounds with tender care, each touch gentle yet deliberate.

As Soviet worked, he spoke softly, his voice laden with concern. “Does it hurt a lot?” he asked, his tone gentle as he cleaned each wound with careful precision.

Russia winced but managed a small, pained nod. “It hurts… but it’s not just the pain,” he whispered. “It’s the… the way you look at me. The way you’ve treated me.”

Soviet’s hands trembled as he worked. “I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he admitted, his voice heavy with regret. “I’ve lost my way. I’m so sorry for what I’ve done. I didn’t know how to control my anger.”

“I still… wanted you to stop,” Russia murmured, his eyes meeting Soviet’s with a mixture of longing and sorrow. “Even when it hurt so much, I just wanted you to stop. I wanted to believe you cared.”

“I do care,” Soviet said, his voice breaking. “I know I’ve failed you. I didn’t mean for any of this. I just… I didn’t know how to fix it.”

After the bath, Soviet helped Russia out of the tub and wrapped him in a soft, dry towel. His touch remained gentle, though the earlier harshness still lingered in the air. Soviet noticed how thin and fragile Russia looked.

Soviet led Russia to a small table where he had prepared a simple meal. The sight of Russia’s emaciated frame and the pitiful state of his health stirred a sense of urgency within him. “You need to eat,” Soviet said, his voice firm but concerned. “You’re too thin. You need to regain your strength.”

Russia, exhausted and weak, could barely manage to sit up. Soviet placed the food before him, his expression a mix of sternness and worry. “Eat. You need to regain your strength. You’re not going to get better if you don’t eat.”

Russia’s hand trembled as he attempted to reach for the food, but his exhaustion and pain made the task nearly impossible. Soviet’s frustration boiled over. “Come on! Eat!” he shouted, his voice harsh and demanding. “You’re making this worse by not eating!”

Russia flinched at the outburst, instinctively covering himself as if bracing for more punishment. His eyes were wide with a mix of fear and resignation, expecting further violence. Soviet’s harsh tone cut through the air, but no further violence followed. Instead, Soviet watched with a mix of regret and frustration as Russia tried to eat.

Seeing Russia’s fear and the way he shrank back at the harsh tone, Soviet’s anger dissipated into deep, aching guilt. He saw the impact of his actions and the fear in Russia’s eyes. With a sigh, Soviet’s voice softened. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone now laden with regret. “Please, just eat. I need you to get better.”

Russia’s trembling hands took the food, and with great effort, he began to eat. Each bite was a struggle against his fatigue, but he managed to swallow a few mouthfuls before he felt too weak to continue. Soviet watched, his expression a mix of guilt and concern, as Russia slowly ate.

After the meal, Soviet prepared the bed for them both. He was careful in his movements, trying to ensure that Russia was comfortable. The room was quiet, the only sounds being the soft rustle of sheets and the faint, rhythmic hum of a clock ticking.

Soviet lay beside Russia, his presence a reassuring, if conflicted, comfort. As Russia drifted off to sleep, the exhaustion and pain finally overtaking him, Soviet held him close. The night was quiet, marked only by the soft sounds of their breathing and the faint echoes of a day filled with conflict and sorrow.

Soviet’s thoughts were filled with deep, aching regret. The cracks in his own skin seemed to mirror the fractures in their relationship.

The night passed slowly, a somber backdrop to the fragile bond between father and son.

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End of chapter...