III

Sixty countries knew, even the one of worry, leaving not a single doubt in the Nordic nation’s mind that all will end well. Every perfect precision he could want was given to his grasp; no threat existed while the last point trifles where being cared for, and the weather was pleasant and cooling, although the young country that accompanied him complained it rather cold and displeasing. With each positive condition, the host nation, Norway, was able to ease; considering the event, nothing could have made him more content even if it was indiscernible through his emotionless features, unlike the spirited America.

His contrast of expressed excitement did no harm; rather it seemed almost infectious at some moments, though the lack of graveness did upset the other subtly—petty of characters—and where effortlessly forgotten. The lively nation went about in an airy manner, speaking boisterously aloud of never dry trifles indistinguishably either to himself or to no man in particular, though some of the talk was addressed to the host himself. It divided into enthusiasm and technology, to beauty and knowledge, and in his head Norway agreed to every word; despite the study being trivial, it is possible to end as an impressive thing.

“Isn’t this exciting, Norway?! We’re gonna send a rocket to study one of the most beautiful phenomena on earth,” America has said to him; in honesty, if it was not for science it could have been excused among his ridiculously silly ideas of some unusual sort, however everything was carefully explained before; the Black Brant missile was to be sent bound in chase of the northern lights.
.
.
The war had been long over, more or less, and for some small moments in the four years it has it was if an extraordinary sensation would cross the temperament of Russia; something apparent in his dreams: the bliss of true freedom. It was a foreign pleasure the country’s character knew on seldom occasions; it was an emotion that he felt to never be prolonged enough—always short-lived on the grand measure. Though, he still became wholly and genuinely content, but not many were capable of seeing it either because of his naturally airy, simplistic personality or because their awkwardness in his company, even America did not notice.

After the many passed years it seemed like the two countries where entwined collectively in a cycle of anxiety and discontent, surely after such intimate conflict the young nation would recognize a subtle happening, but it meant nothing to either of them; no thought, no idea. Their histories carried on only to be brought back unexpectedly under questionable circumstances. Initially, the quickness of it all spun around the Russian’s thoughts, thrashing until utter bewilderment; he did not understand, and like fragile glass his happiness crashed and shattered.

Minutes; ten minutes was all he had now to deduce, or, rather, ten minutes was all they had now: Russia, his boss—the president, and the few men collectively doing their job. It was difficult assuring no rash folly, even the one they did not know, because the crisis was a complex one; a missile, launched from northern Norway, was evident on Russian radar, and yet it was not that simple. Though it was rather small, the projectile had enough force to be bound for what could have been the former-enemy’s most prized target, Russia’s beloved capital, which rests many kilometers away.

He suspected, theorized, if America was ever to show postwar grudges or threats, such hostilities would devilishly laugh back at him from the Nordic state in such a resemblance that unfolded before him now; how he loathed it all. From then on betrayal dug its sinful claws of pain into the Slavic man’s core, and he bleed there paralyzed as he listened to the ticking of time fleet by for it was the only thing he was capable of in such helplessness, feeling deceived and irate. The dire anger could not be helped, it was one fault in his contrast, as well as the miscomprehended aggression, and before Russia caused too much trouble he excused himself to become a phantom from the others.

It was not extraordinary to be this way, or different, though, perhaps, he acted from the subconscious when he felt it rain a lone drop on his pallid face, and through the cloud he lashed out his with his fist as if he clenched iron. America promised him, Russia thought, not that long ago that the hostility ended; the heartbreak that the four years where only a lull made the tall Slav doubt the other nation entirely, and in the depths of his head he thought it would be a soothing pleasure to kindle World War III with the foolish, young country. However, that would null the mirrored promise he vowed with the blonde American.

“The war is over then, yes?” he recalled saying pensively to the other; letting the memory wash over in its entirety.

“Yeah, I guess so,” was the reply he remembered. A small smile broke through his lips by then, but it thinned quickly through solemn thinking when he spoke: “America, promise me the struggle is over, promise me the war is over.”

“I will if you will.”—the Russian was taken slightly aback and realized he was akin to his own out of the war’s commonality—“I promise.”

Thick, maroon ooze leaked patiently from the skin of his knuckles and spoiled the wall in imperfect circles. At first the man did not realize he was the one bleeding, for the reverie still vaguely lingered there, but when he eased his arm, almost in a limp, and saw the stain smudge and drag he was not startled in the least. Rather, Russia relapsed into a calm façade, where underneath laid a white blankness; everything he did not know or feel was waiting for him not far away. In his retreat one passer-by casually exclaimed to another workman, “Thankfully, everything ended peacefully. It was a gratifying thing to know the rocket went out to sea.”