blood_winged (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blood_winged) wrote2011-09-20 03:05 pm
blood_winged) wrote2011-09-20 03:05 pm
Entry tags:
[Finland/Russia] The Winter War [Fanfic]
Title: The Winter War.
Genre: Historical.
Characters: Finland, Russia.
Rating/Warnings: PG, psychological torture, death, implied almost-non-con, badass!Finland, history abuse.
Summary: In the Second World War, Russia invaded Finland and were royally trounced by a force several times smaller than their own. Ivan Braginski learns a valuable lesson.
Over the past three hours the number of people in Ivan’s group had dwindled from half a dozen to two. There was no warning as the other man went down, dropping like a puppet with cut strings into the soft white snow that was quickly stained red. Ivan’s grip tightened on his weapon and he narrowed his eyes, unable to pierce the white screen of the steadily worsening snowstorm around him. General Winter had always been an ally of his, but this Finnish weather was different, and he had seen thousands of his men fall in the sights of enemy snipers.
Somebody was following him – the trail of bodies left in his wake and the occasional, torturously fleeting glimpses of a white shape moving from tree to tree attested to that – but surely it could not be only one man.
Nearby, unseen by his quarry, the single sniper who had taken down the Russian scouting party was watching from behind a snowdrift. Dressed in white, tongue and lips numbed by the snow in his mouth and clutching his rifle close to his chest he moved silently between the trees, circling, quietly compacting the snow around the muzzle of his gun to muffle the sound and hide the shot. On his stomach, feeling the cold damp sinking into his clothes, he took aim. This one, he didn’t want to kill. The falling snow dulled the sound as he fired and saw the man stagger, one hand pressed to his shoulder.
At first, Ivan had felt as if somebody had set a battering ram to his chest, sending him reeling. He gritted his teeth and clapped a hand over his shoulder, dropping his weapon and losing it almost instantly under a carpet of white. Spitting out a curse, he felt the pain start as a dull, searing burn deep inside the flesh, slowly spreading until it was a sickening throb throughout his entire body. One knee hit the snow as he dropped, his only sound being a low grunt as he hauled himself back to his feet, stumbling for a few steps before his jaw set and he continued on, his right arm hanging near-useless at his side. The storm was easing, and now and then he could make out shadows amidst the trees between thick flurries of snow. His breathing came hard and heavy, the adrenaline pulsing through him easing the pain, warmth spreading slowly down his side as the first spots of blood began to soak through the front of his coat.
The second shot was just as unexpected, and this time Ivan fell, struggling to lift himself from the snow as the back of his left thigh burned. With the throbbing ache from the first bullet still unabated the Russian couldn’t hold back the low sound of pain that escaped him as he pulled himself to his knees, panting. His first attempt to stand landed him on the ground once again, the pain like a white-hot poker lash across his leg, and the following only succeeded with the aid of a nearby tree. Placing his back against it he listened intently through the wind and his heartbeat pounding in his ears, straining to pick up any sound to give away his assailant’s position, to no avail. He swallowed, and for a moment rested his head against the rough bark, not daring to close his eyes for a moment as pain continued to pulsate from the bullet wounds. His hands shook as he awkwardly pulled a compass from his pocket and squinted at it, holding it tightly and smearing the face with blood as he set off with a hobbled, faltering gait that threatened his balance with every step.
He didn’t notice the spots of blood he left behind nor the shadow that trailed him, and soon the pain numbed, though it was not a comforting development. With his arm a dead weight and defenceless save for the short knife in his boot Ivan began to feel a creeping sense of vulnerability that he hadn’t experienced for a long time. Almost certain that he was heading in the right direction, it was the niggling doubt that he wasn’t which caused more than one hesitation, a faint sigh of relief escaping him as he spotted a figure standing sentry between two trees ahead. He didn’t call out, though a prickling at the back of his leg announced new blood flow to punish his quickened pace, the immobile soldier ahead piquing his suspicion as he drew nearer.
What he found when he reached the man chilled his blood. Glassy eyes stared at him from a face drawn of all its colour, blood dried to the side of his head and matted into his hair. For a long moment, Ivan could do nothing but return that vacant gaze, and then slowly, the corpse toppled forwards, falling against him. Moments later he would pretend that he had not uttered that strained sound of panic as the weight almost knocked him to the ground, unable to shake the feel of the man’s skin against his as he looked down at him. Eyes a little wild he span around, regretting it instantly as agony shot through his leg. Leaning against a tree and clutching his shoulder he tried to catch his breath through the pain and rising panic fixing a vice around his chest.
Moving again, a second corpse carefully placed was given a wide berth, the Russian watching it out of the corner of his eye as if any moment it might lurch towards him. Watching him, the Finnish sniper had been counting on his being so quick to learn, and when the other fell again, into a pit lined with dull spikes, he couldn’t help but smirk at the soft cry he heard filtering through the still air.
Ivan pulled himself free of the pit and sat, shaking, in the snow. Darkness was falling and he groped at his pockets for his compass, finding it absent and closing his eyes, biting his lower lip hard and tasting copper on his tongue. His breath fogged in front of him as he looked up, finding the stars obscured by trees and clouds and the last remains of the falling snow, and slowly, determinedly, using a tree for support, he once again pulled himself to his feet. No longer able to be certain of which way he was going he continued in the direction that he had been heading when he fell, using the pain to keep him focused from the steadily growing numbness in his extremities.
It could have been minutes, hours, even days before his body finally betrayed him, overcome by exhaustion, his knees hitting the snow and sinking into it. Once down, he knew that he couldn’t get up, and it was with his eyes fixed blearily on his knees that he heard the snow crunching under soft footsteps. He tried to lift his head and instantly saw stars as something solid struck against his temple, knocking him onto his side in the snow where he lay, feeling warmth spreading slowly down his cheek. In front of him, a pair of white boots appeared, and he slanted his eyes upwards, fixing unsteadily on where his assailant’s face was hidden behind a snow-crusted balaclava. As he watched, the sniper lifted one hand and tugged the balaclava back, revealing a head of blonde hair and cold violet eyes, white cheeks pinched red with cold.
“Finlyandiya.” Ivan managed to cough the name out, following it with a grim smile and a soft near-laugh. “You show yourself to finally finish me, da? An honourable gesture.” Above him, Tino Väinämöinen looked down dispassionately, his rifle resting against his shoulder.
“You have given me some trouble, Venäjä,” he said, crouching down and pulling a knife from his boot, using the blade to force Ivan to lift his head from the snow, as if he was checking that he did indeed have the right man. ”But if I had intended to kill you, you would have been dead long ago.” Sheathing the knife again, he took one end of the Russian nation’s scarf in his hand and tugged, tightening the fabric around the larger man’s neck and dragging him an inch across the snow. ”If this war continues to go the way that it has, I will not need to kill you. You are doing an admirable job of performing the deed yourself.” Another tug, another inch, and Ivan let out a choked sound. Tino smirked, shifting around the man and pulling the long ends of the scarf down, deftly tying Ivan’s hands up behind his back.
He forced him up onto his knees, forehead against the ground, one hand clamped hard over his shoulder, and Ivan saw stars as pain blossomed once again from the bullet would there. The Finn leaned forwards, pressing his knee into the base of the larger man’s spine, resting his full weight on his back. Ivan shook but refused to buckle, not wishing to give the other the idea that he might have beaten him, though there was a sinking suspicion in his gut that he already knew. Every wound and bruise had flared in pain again, making him feel hot despite the frozen chill in the air, and he coughed, spattering the snow underneath him with flecks of red.
”You are pathetic,” he heard Tino say, the weight lifting for just a moment before a kick to his back sent him sprawling. Ivan started to laugh, dark and low and a shade away from the well-known kolkolkol that had sent many fleeing in terror. Tino wasn’t afraid, and the smirk on his face could be heard in his voice as he spoke again. “It is almost a waste of my time to have followed you. Almost.”
Easily, far too easily for one so small, he forced the Russian nation to his feet, pushing him bodily against the nearest tree and pressing one thumb against the hole in the back of his coat. Ivan felt the explosion of pain followed by a hot numbness in his arm and he wasn’t certain which was worse. The coat was stripped from him, dropped by his feet and the cold began to eat through the remaining layers like pinpricks against his skin. There was barely the strength in him to stand, let alone struggle, left in a thin shirt, and his trousers and boots before it finally dawned on his sluggish mind exactly what the Finn may have intended to do. He held his breath, eyes wide and fixed in front of him, and then he heard a soft chuckle beside his ear.
“You are not worth it,” the Finn’s voice was mocking, and then suddenly the support behind him was gone and he dropped to his knees, shaking. Numbed, still tied fingers groped for his coat as Tino stepped away from him, pulling his balaclava back up over his head, and as Ivan looked up at him, never feeling smaller than in that moment, he could almost see the smile in the other man’s eyes. Ivan hurt. Every inch of him hurt and he could not remember the last time he had felt so much like a child.
Tino picked up his rifle from the snow, resting it against his shoulder. “I have some advice for you,” he said, and Ivan could do nothing but stare. “Do not underestimate me.” He turned his back, and began to walk away, leaving the Russian nation crumpled at the base of the tree, his final parting words drifting back through the still, cold air. “And never attack Finland in winter.”
Genre: Historical.
Characters: Finland, Russia.
Rating/Warnings: PG, psychological torture, death, implied almost-non-con, badass!Finland, history abuse.
Summary: In the Second World War, Russia invaded Finland and were royally trounced by a force several times smaller than their own. Ivan Braginski learns a valuable lesson.
*****
Over the past three hours the number of people in Ivan’s group had dwindled from half a dozen to two. There was no warning as the other man went down, dropping like a puppet with cut strings into the soft white snow that was quickly stained red. Ivan’s grip tightened on his weapon and he narrowed his eyes, unable to pierce the white screen of the steadily worsening snowstorm around him. General Winter had always been an ally of his, but this Finnish weather was different, and he had seen thousands of his men fall in the sights of enemy snipers.
Somebody was following him – the trail of bodies left in his wake and the occasional, torturously fleeting glimpses of a white shape moving from tree to tree attested to that – but surely it could not be only one man.
Nearby, unseen by his quarry, the single sniper who had taken down the Russian scouting party was watching from behind a snowdrift. Dressed in white, tongue and lips numbed by the snow in his mouth and clutching his rifle close to his chest he moved silently between the trees, circling, quietly compacting the snow around the muzzle of his gun to muffle the sound and hide the shot. On his stomach, feeling the cold damp sinking into his clothes, he took aim. This one, he didn’t want to kill. The falling snow dulled the sound as he fired and saw the man stagger, one hand pressed to his shoulder.
At first, Ivan had felt as if somebody had set a battering ram to his chest, sending him reeling. He gritted his teeth and clapped a hand over his shoulder, dropping his weapon and losing it almost instantly under a carpet of white. Spitting out a curse, he felt the pain start as a dull, searing burn deep inside the flesh, slowly spreading until it was a sickening throb throughout his entire body. One knee hit the snow as he dropped, his only sound being a low grunt as he hauled himself back to his feet, stumbling for a few steps before his jaw set and he continued on, his right arm hanging near-useless at his side. The storm was easing, and now and then he could make out shadows amidst the trees between thick flurries of snow. His breathing came hard and heavy, the adrenaline pulsing through him easing the pain, warmth spreading slowly down his side as the first spots of blood began to soak through the front of his coat.
The second shot was just as unexpected, and this time Ivan fell, struggling to lift himself from the snow as the back of his left thigh burned. With the throbbing ache from the first bullet still unabated the Russian couldn’t hold back the low sound of pain that escaped him as he pulled himself to his knees, panting. His first attempt to stand landed him on the ground once again, the pain like a white-hot poker lash across his leg, and the following only succeeded with the aid of a nearby tree. Placing his back against it he listened intently through the wind and his heartbeat pounding in his ears, straining to pick up any sound to give away his assailant’s position, to no avail. He swallowed, and for a moment rested his head against the rough bark, not daring to close his eyes for a moment as pain continued to pulsate from the bullet wounds. His hands shook as he awkwardly pulled a compass from his pocket and squinted at it, holding it tightly and smearing the face with blood as he set off with a hobbled, faltering gait that threatened his balance with every step.
He didn’t notice the spots of blood he left behind nor the shadow that trailed him, and soon the pain numbed, though it was not a comforting development. With his arm a dead weight and defenceless save for the short knife in his boot Ivan began to feel a creeping sense of vulnerability that he hadn’t experienced for a long time. Almost certain that he was heading in the right direction, it was the niggling doubt that he wasn’t which caused more than one hesitation, a faint sigh of relief escaping him as he spotted a figure standing sentry between two trees ahead. He didn’t call out, though a prickling at the back of his leg announced new blood flow to punish his quickened pace, the immobile soldier ahead piquing his suspicion as he drew nearer.
What he found when he reached the man chilled his blood. Glassy eyes stared at him from a face drawn of all its colour, blood dried to the side of his head and matted into his hair. For a long moment, Ivan could do nothing but return that vacant gaze, and then slowly, the corpse toppled forwards, falling against him. Moments later he would pretend that he had not uttered that strained sound of panic as the weight almost knocked him to the ground, unable to shake the feel of the man’s skin against his as he looked down at him. Eyes a little wild he span around, regretting it instantly as agony shot through his leg. Leaning against a tree and clutching his shoulder he tried to catch his breath through the pain and rising panic fixing a vice around his chest.
Moving again, a second corpse carefully placed was given a wide berth, the Russian watching it out of the corner of his eye as if any moment it might lurch towards him. Watching him, the Finnish sniper had been counting on his being so quick to learn, and when the other fell again, into a pit lined with dull spikes, he couldn’t help but smirk at the soft cry he heard filtering through the still air.
Ivan pulled himself free of the pit and sat, shaking, in the snow. Darkness was falling and he groped at his pockets for his compass, finding it absent and closing his eyes, biting his lower lip hard and tasting copper on his tongue. His breath fogged in front of him as he looked up, finding the stars obscured by trees and clouds and the last remains of the falling snow, and slowly, determinedly, using a tree for support, he once again pulled himself to his feet. No longer able to be certain of which way he was going he continued in the direction that he had been heading when he fell, using the pain to keep him focused from the steadily growing numbness in his extremities.
It could have been minutes, hours, even days before his body finally betrayed him, overcome by exhaustion, his knees hitting the snow and sinking into it. Once down, he knew that he couldn’t get up, and it was with his eyes fixed blearily on his knees that he heard the snow crunching under soft footsteps. He tried to lift his head and instantly saw stars as something solid struck against his temple, knocking him onto his side in the snow where he lay, feeling warmth spreading slowly down his cheek. In front of him, a pair of white boots appeared, and he slanted his eyes upwards, fixing unsteadily on where his assailant’s face was hidden behind a snow-crusted balaclava. As he watched, the sniper lifted one hand and tugged the balaclava back, revealing a head of blonde hair and cold violet eyes, white cheeks pinched red with cold.
“Finlyandiya.” Ivan managed to cough the name out, following it with a grim smile and a soft near-laugh. “You show yourself to finally finish me, da? An honourable gesture.” Above him, Tino Väinämöinen looked down dispassionately, his rifle resting against his shoulder.
“You have given me some trouble, Venäjä,” he said, crouching down and pulling a knife from his boot, using the blade to force Ivan to lift his head from the snow, as if he was checking that he did indeed have the right man. ”But if I had intended to kill you, you would have been dead long ago.” Sheathing the knife again, he took one end of the Russian nation’s scarf in his hand and tugged, tightening the fabric around the larger man’s neck and dragging him an inch across the snow. ”If this war continues to go the way that it has, I will not need to kill you. You are doing an admirable job of performing the deed yourself.” Another tug, another inch, and Ivan let out a choked sound. Tino smirked, shifting around the man and pulling the long ends of the scarf down, deftly tying Ivan’s hands up behind his back.
He forced him up onto his knees, forehead against the ground, one hand clamped hard over his shoulder, and Ivan saw stars as pain blossomed once again from the bullet would there. The Finn leaned forwards, pressing his knee into the base of the larger man’s spine, resting his full weight on his back. Ivan shook but refused to buckle, not wishing to give the other the idea that he might have beaten him, though there was a sinking suspicion in his gut that he already knew. Every wound and bruise had flared in pain again, making him feel hot despite the frozen chill in the air, and he coughed, spattering the snow underneath him with flecks of red.
”You are pathetic,” he heard Tino say, the weight lifting for just a moment before a kick to his back sent him sprawling. Ivan started to laugh, dark and low and a shade away from the well-known kolkolkol that had sent many fleeing in terror. Tino wasn’t afraid, and the smirk on his face could be heard in his voice as he spoke again. “It is almost a waste of my time to have followed you. Almost.”
Easily, far too easily for one so small, he forced the Russian nation to his feet, pushing him bodily against the nearest tree and pressing one thumb against the hole in the back of his coat. Ivan felt the explosion of pain followed by a hot numbness in his arm and he wasn’t certain which was worse. The coat was stripped from him, dropped by his feet and the cold began to eat through the remaining layers like pinpricks against his skin. There was barely the strength in him to stand, let alone struggle, left in a thin shirt, and his trousers and boots before it finally dawned on his sluggish mind exactly what the Finn may have intended to do. He held his breath, eyes wide and fixed in front of him, and then he heard a soft chuckle beside his ear.
“You are not worth it,” the Finn’s voice was mocking, and then suddenly the support behind him was gone and he dropped to his knees, shaking. Numbed, still tied fingers groped for his coat as Tino stepped away from him, pulling his balaclava back up over his head, and as Ivan looked up at him, never feeling smaller than in that moment, he could almost see the smile in the other man’s eyes. Ivan hurt. Every inch of him hurt and he could not remember the last time he had felt so much like a child.
Tino picked up his rifle from the snow, resting it against his shoulder. “I have some advice for you,” he said, and Ivan could do nothing but stare. “Do not underestimate me.” He turned his back, and began to walk away, leaving the Russian nation crumpled at the base of the tree, his final parting words drifting back through the still, cold air. “And never attack Finland in winter.”
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Oh my god
this is just
just
perfect
/sends to her Russias.
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It never fails to make me grin to read fics about the Winter War. Never. Especially if it's done this well. :>
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