An Unlikely Rescue [Serion]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign,top][atrb=cellspacing,0][atrb=style,width: 125px; background-color: #333; border-left: 28px solid #f2f2f2; -moz-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em; -webkit-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em;][STYLE= float:left; color: #f2f2f2; font-size: 30px; opacity: 1; margin-left: 50px;]I'M[/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 35px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(-20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; margin-left:-10px] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style]

[STYLE= float:left; color: #555; font-size: 18px; opacity: 1; margin-top: -20px; text-align: justify;]i n h i d i n g[/style][STYLE= background-color: #f2f2f2; border-top: dashed 1px #333; border-bottom: dashed 1px #333; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px; padding: 20px; width: 300px;] Earlier in the spring, the United States Army Air Forces intensified bombing over targets in Eastern Europe. As a nation, Alfred felt it was his duty to fight alongside his own army in most wars that he was in, and World War II was no different. He did not fight in just one area either. He'd been sent to missions in both Europe and the Pacific - Or, rather, he'd volunteered for them. One of the perks of being what he was. At first, Alfred wasn't even sure that he'd be taken on as a pilot, seeing as he wore glasses. He wanted to be one, though. He wanted to at least be able to do some flying during this war. He greatly enjoyed the feeling of soaring through the air (no doubt as a result of his country's involvement with the history of flight), and would have been devastated were he not able to fly at some point. Alfred had no need to worry. He was accepted as a pilot. His most recent mission involved flying over Romania. All was going well until the plane was struck by enemy fire. While the damage was not enough to kill anyone on board the plane, it was too damaged to keep flying. Alfred, along with the rest of the crew, bailed out of the plane, not actually knowing what they were dropping themselves into. They could very well be giving themselves up to the enemy. Still, staying the plane was certain death. Bailing out meant that they still had some hope, however small. In Alfred's case, he knew that he would be alright. Being a nation, he could handle whatever the enemy threw at him. The boys he was with? Not so much. He was worried for their sake. They were behind enemy lines. Who knew what might happen to them if they fell into the wrong hands? Alfred's heart hammered in his chest. Alfred was known for his almost eternal optimism, but even he had to admit this looked bleak. And yet, in the midst of such bleak circumstances, a silver lining came. They were found, but not by the Nazis, or Nazi sympathizers. They were rescued, and given a place to stay. Alfred didn't understand it at first. Hadn't they landed over occupied territory? Discovering they'd landed in Serbia only confused him more. He began to listen around for more information. As their rescuers conversed in a language other than English, Alfred found he could not make heads or tails of most of it. He did learn a few small bits. Apparently, they were being kept in a village by the name of Velika Draguša. Their rescuers were sympathetic, though Alfred wondered why. This group was going against the status quo, and not turning American soldiers over to the Germans. There was something more to what was happening here, and Alfred itched to know what. He cursed the language barrier, yet, in the end, he was resigned to an overwhelming feeling of relief. They were still in the dark about a lot of things, but one thing was certain - They'd made the right choice bailing from that Liberator. They were safe. These men had not only rescued them, but they'd given them shelter. They'd given them medical care. Alfred knew he wasn't the only one who was grateful. Just because he was grateful, though, didn't mean that he wasn't curious. He was also worried. Who was to say that they were out of danger? For all Alfred and the other Americans knew, they may still be handed over to the Germans. On a more personal note, he wondered what might happen if Roosevelt received word that he was missing in action. Either way, Alfred didn't think they were out of the woods yet, and had every intent of remaining vigilant until he received confirmation that he and his boys were safe. Unfortunately, so long as that language barrier was present, he'd be waiting a while. [/style] [STYLE= font-size:9; margin: 5px; margin-top: -30px; color: #888;] TAGS: Stefan/Serbiaxxxxxxxxxx WORDS: 686 Early 1944 [/style][atrb=style,width: 350px; background-color: #f2f2f2; border-right: 28px solid #333; -moz-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em; -webkit-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em;][STYLE= float:right; color: #555; font-size: 25px; -moz-transform: rotate(-90deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-90deg); opacity: .8; margin-top: -250px; margin-right: -122px]sinceI'vebeenaground[/style]

[STYLE= font-size: 9px; text-font: arial; color: #666; margin-left: -320px]By Riazey of BTN and GS[/style]

[STEFAN STOJKOVIC, SERBIA]

Tags: America
Outfit: Peasant clothes
Word Count: 985
Date: January 1944
Location: Serbia
Notes: I'm guessing a little bit at the exact weather and not all of this is completely historically accurate, though major events are.

---

Ever since December 1942, Serbia had been lying very low. He was wanted by the German Wehrmacht and he had heard that there was a good price for him alive. Besides Ludwig and Gilbert, only one person knew what Serbia was and that man was known as Draza Mihailovich. It had taken a long time for Serbia to even connect with enough favors to escape the German grasp. Now, in January of 1944, Serbia was living the life of a peasant. It had almost been three years since that first invasion. April 6, 1941 would always been engrained in his memory. As soon as he was fit for work, Serbia had been loaded onto a train northbound for Norway where he spent several grueling months laying track for the Nazis. In hopes that his spirit would be crushed, Germany had assigned him to the worst hell hole available--Beisfjord. Instead, he continued to rebel forcing Germany to take more drastic measures. Wounds from war do not fade quickly whether inflicted by national crisis or not.

In part financed by the Chetniks, Stefan now had a simple home just outside Velika Draguša with a bit of subsistence farming and a small flock of sheep. Though he consumed some of it to merely survive, any surplus was delivered to the Chetniks for their war efforts. Without his government, the nation's usual monetary reserve meant nothing and Germany had made sure that assets were confiscated shortly after the invasion. In short, he had been left with literally nothing. The dogs he owned before the war had died in the bombing and the herding dogs he had now had been procured from various friends and former clients.

Thinking about the current situation, Serbia realized how grim it was. Croatia had been quick to ally with the Nazis and now was a prominent members of the Ustaše. Concentration camps had been taking their toll on the Serb with the sickening feeling of many hearts go cold not far from home. The Partisans under Tito were dangerous and Mihailovic had been forced on a few ocassions to ally himself with the Germans in the fight against the Partisans. Thankfully, Serbia's own whereabouts remained hidden. That January morning, Stefan continued to think while he dressed himself, layering clothes to hide the scars and wounds from the German occupation. He pulled a hat low over his eyes, partially obscuring his face. The people he was meeting may have been aligned with Chetniks, but Serbia had a rather huge sum of money offered for him. Prussia would not want to admit that he had lost a very valuable asset in the form of a nation who had a major grudge against the Nazi party. He whistled for his dogs and the small pack came bounding up to him. Silently, he knelt down and clipped a leash onto his favorite, a female by the name of Katya.

Two days ago, the Serb had been informed that several Americans had been rescued a few days prior and that they didn't speak Serbian and the villagers didn't speak English. Serbia was far from fluent in English, but he spoke more than most. The Chetnik leaders didn't speak English either, so the language barrier was definitely a problem. He was also asked to bring some wool that the women could spin into thread. Bringing a couple potato sacks filled with wool was hardly a problem and Serbia had agreed to it.

The walk to the village was uneventful. Few people were out and about today. It wasn't snowing, but it had snowed earlier and there was a layer of powdery snow covering everything. The dogs loved it, but finding sheep in the snow was hard. He entered the house he was supposed to meet these Americans at to cheerful greetings by friends and allies. There was still a bit of lingering Christmas cheer left over from the holiday season. A shot glass of brandy was handed to Serbia and in their own language, made a few toasts and drank to each other's health. Coming here was always a welcome relief from the hours spent in agony of the poor war effort.

The conversation quickly turned into Stefan and his friends swapping stories for several minutes and the whole group laughing and taking more shots of brandy. Eventually, the tone of the conversation turned rather solemn and a few of the Serbs pointed at the Americans on the other side of the room. Their voices dropped significantly to secret whisperings which other people clearly weren't supposed to hear. Serbia passed the two sacks to a woman who had just entered and after a brief exchange, she left. The hound was sitting quietly at her master's feet content to ignore everything around her.

Finally, they dispersed and Serbia walked over towards one of the Americans. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, a set of features Stefan had learned to despise. Oddly, he wore glasses. He didn't really know anything about the American air force, but it struck him as unusual that such a powerful country didn't have enough men with good vision to fly the planes. Serbia had met American briefly on one ocassion, but it was a small incident in the eighteen hundreds and the times had certainly changed. Serbia was unrecognizable now from those who only barely knew him. The hearth was roaring and the room was rather warm, but the Serb left his coat and boots on, content to lean against the wall opposite the American.

"Zdravo. Eh...you are...American?" His voice carried a thick Serbian accent and he spoke slowly, carefully trying to translate his native language into a foreign one. These past few years, the study of the English language was hardly one of Serbia's priorities. He was struggling to stay alive. Stefan didn't seem to recognize America and the ahoge barely registered as anything unusual.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign,top][atrb=cellspacing,0][atrb=style,width: 125px; background-color: #333; border-left: 28px solid #f2f2f2; -moz-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em; -webkit-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em;][STYLE= float:left; color: #f2f2f2; font-size: 30px; opacity: 1; margin-left: 50px;]I'M[/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 35px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(-20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; margin-left:-10px] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style]

[STYLE= float:left; color: #555; font-size: 18px; opacity: 1; margin-top: -20px; text-align: justify;]i n h i d i n g[/style][STYLE= background-color: #f2f2f2; border-top: dashed 1px #333; border-bottom: dashed 1px #333; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px; padding: 20px; width: 300px;] As it turned out, lying low and simply waiting for news to come didn't suit Alfred well at all. He was already starting to grow stir crazy. The world was at war, and now that Alfred was involved in said war, he was a man of action. Biding his time in a village full of (admittedly helpful) foreigners wasn't in the plans. He'd meant for this to be a simple bombing operation - Go in, drop some bombs on the Nazis, then head back out. Getting nearly shot down was not in the equation. Losing contact with the outside world was not part of the equation. One day, a couple of weeks after their rescue, Alfred and his fellow soldiers were instructed to congregate at one of the houses in the village. Though perhaps 'instructed' wasn't the best word. The language barrier meant that gestures were the only way of communicating sufficiently, and that was just barely sufficient enough to get the word across. Alfred and the other Americans were lead to the home, only to be cast to the side of the room once they arrived. Alfred wondered what the point of this was. If it was to try to get the Americans to mingle with their rescuers, it failed miserably - Again, because of that dratted language barrier. Peering at some of his fellow, Alfred could tell that they wanted to join in the festivities, and Alfred felt for them. He wanted to join in too. He wanted to know what was going on. He watched as a new man entered the room, one he had yet to see around the village, and looked on as the other men greeted him like an old friend. The group made toasts and laughed - That was one thing that transcended language barriers. He might not be able to understand a word that they were saying, but he could tell that the atmosphere was cheerful and festive. He also couldn't deny that he longed to be a part of it. Granted, the Americans weren't alone - They had each other. But they were all in the same boat. They were fish out of water here, and as nice as it was to watch the other men celebrate, it was a painful reminder of the unfortunate circumstances that befell he and his soldiers. Alfred continued to watch as the group dispersed, his eyes on the newcomer as he headed in the direction of Alfred and the other soldiers. Most of the other soldiers were talking amongst themselves at this point, which Alfred surmised was the reason why the stranger chose to approach him. Nevertheless, a few of the other airmen looked up in curiosity at the sight. Cripes almighty, he spoke English! Suddenly, it all became clear. That was the reason why the Americans had been asked to tag along. Finally, there was someone to break that pesky language barrier. A huge grin swept across Alfred's face as he greeted the other man in return. "Sure am! I'm Alfred F. Jones, of the USAAF! Pleasure to meet ya!" In his excitement, Alfred very nearly forgot the importance of having a translator - He could now get details about what was going on. Once his excitement subsided just enough to register these thoughts, Alfred decided that there was no time to waste! "I, on behalf of my me...my fellow airmen," He'd nearly slipped and called the boys 'his men'. The peculiarity of such a statement likely would not even phase the non-native English speaker standing before him, but he did not want to make such a slip in front of the other airmen. So far as they knew, he was just another volunteer who'd enlisted shortly after Pearl Harbor was bombed. They didn't realize that the unassuming blond-haired, blue-eyed, bespectacled pilot was actually the personification of their country. And Alfred preferred to keep it that way. "...would like to thank you." He finished, with a small smile. "If we had not been rescued by the men of this village, who knows where we might be now." At this, he looked around at all of the other Serbs in the room. He knew full well that they didn't understand a word of what he was saying, though he hoped that the other man, the one who could speak English, would translate to the others. It was directed to all of them, after all. [/style] [STYLE= font-size:9; margin: 5px; margin-top: -30px; color: #888;] TAGS: Stefan/Serbiaxxxxxxxxxx WORDS: 744 Early 1944 [/style][atrb=style,width: 350px; background-color: #f2f2f2; border-right: 28px solid #333; -moz-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em; -webkit-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em;][STYLE= float:right; color: #555; font-size: 25px; -moz-transform: rotate(-90deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-90deg); opacity: .8; margin-top: -250px; margin-right: -122px]since I'vebeenaground[/style]

[STYLE= font-size: 9px; text-font: arial; color: #666; margin-left: -320px]By Riazey of BTN and GS[/style]

[STEFAN STOJKOVIC, SERBIA]

Tags: America
Outfit: Peasant clothes
Word Count: 1091
Date: January 1944
Location: Serbia
Notes: Introducing Dragan Nikolic. Sorry about the length.

---

Serbia quietly relayed the directions he was given him his head. He was supposed to be there to make the Americans feel 'more at home', but the Ser highly doubted that was possible. They were stranded for an infinite amount of time in a country they had never been in before with people who didn't speak their language. Serbia wasn't going to translate everything they said nor was he going to embarass himself with his, in his opinion, pathetic English skills. In truth, he could understand most of what was said to him so long it was at a slower pace. Forming words was harder. Still, he could manage and his ability to speak English made him very valuable.

Though he enjoyed the company of friends, Serbia had made it clear from the beginning that they weren't allowed to touch him. He purposely remained vague on the subject, only explaining that he had been 'north' in the early part of the war. To his fellow Chetniks, he was simply Stefan Stojkovic, a friend of Mihailovic. Mihailovic was the only one who knew what Serbia really was and had sworn an oath to keep that secret. Stefan's best friend in the Chetniks, a young man by the name of Dragan Nikolic, was the closest to figuring out that something was not as it seemed. However, like Mihailovic, Serbia had persuaded his friend to say nothing of it. With the Serb, it was better to just nod one's head and not question his antics. Everyone knew that their fellow was a bit queer at times.

Stefan cared little of the Americans that were in 'his' village. They were only staying there because no one was going to turn them in to the Germans and because their leader wanted to try and improve foreign relations with America. Serbia was just following orders and trying to make sure that he lived to see a new day. Just thinking about the horrors of the Norwegian work camps was painful. It didn't help that Norway himself would sometimes visit and oversee work wearing a German uniform and that cold, hard expression all the time. His only redeeming quality to the Serb was his tendency to sneak in extra food for the prisoners.

The scars from hell didn't fade however and Stefan always made sure to wear lots of layers so that no one would notice the pain he was almost always in. Gloves covered his hands even though most everyone else had taken off all their heavy winter wear. A few more Serbs entered the house, but didn't stop to chat with anyone. Two of the resident women of the home hurried over and took the gentlemen's coats from them. Oddly, Serbia had been entirely ignored and he still wore a thick brown overcoat lined with fur. It was buttoned all the way up and the collar was up, covering the Serb's neck.

The American seemed to be far too happy for Stefan's liking. So there was a Serb who knew English, it didn't call for a reaction like one had just won a million dollars in the lottery. Also, Serbia thought he English was horrible, so there was not much point to the exchange anyways. He tried to understand, he really did, but the American spoke way too fast and didn't enunciate clearly enough for Serbia to catch everything. Actually, most of it was lost on him. There seemed to be too much unknown excitement radiating from the American. Stefan didn't know that the pilots had essentially been alienated by the language barrier. Didn't they know Serbian? They were in Serbia after all and the language wasn't that hard to learn. The accent and overall hyperness of the American reminded Serbia of someone he had met about half a century ago. The details were fuzzy since very little time had been spent socializing and all the English just spoken had pretty much blurred together in Serbia's mind. Still...the accent was somewhat familiar.

"Sorry...eh...could you...repeat that? Eh...more slowly...please...Gospodin Alfred Jones. My English...it no good..." Serbia had gotten lost after the first sentence. He took a couple steps closer to the American and away from the hearth. Stefan was feeling quite warm, but he still refused to remove any layers. Unintentionally, he had mangled the American's name somewhat. The 'a' was given a much taller sound, the 'f' forgotten entirely (Serbia hadn't been able to distinguish its sound), and the 'j' pronounced similar to a 'y'. Even though Serbia was speaking English, understanding him was likely not easy through the thick Slavic accent.

"Zovem se...eh...my name is Stefan Stojkovic of...sorry...I do not know the English...Jugoslovenska vojska u otadžbini by Dragoljub Mihailović. I have...instructions to tell you that the JVUO welcomes you to Serbija until...eh...contact can be made with...eh...your...leaders in Italija." While other people may have been able to go into more detail, Serbia wasn't at all sure how to proceed. It was hard translating ideas from Serbian into English. Besides, he hadn't practiced since before the war. However, he really tried to do his job even if it did take awhile to get all the ideas conveyed.

Another Serb walked in carrying a tray loaded with bottles of brandy and shot glasses. He set it down on a bare section of the mantle above the fire. Part of it was leaning off the edge and the Serb backed away slowly, muttering a few things in his own language, though the idea was easy to understand. Don't let it drop. This newcomer was Serbia's friend, Dragan Nikolic. Dragan stood slightly taller than Serbia, but was similar in about every other way. Cheerfully, he went to go wrap his arm around his friend, but stopped short just shy of making contact. There was a silent conversation consisting of Stefan shooting his friend a warning glare and Dragan shrinking slightly, replying with an apologetic look. There was a moment's silence and Serbia softened his expression, an unspoken way of giving forgiveness.

Without a moment's hesitation, Dragan started talking happily in Serbian, though the word 'Amerikanac' was spoken several times. Stefan nodded a few times and turned back to Alfred. "My friend would like to know if you and eh...if you and the other 'airmen' want something to drink. Your host has given us brandy if you like it." Serbia motioned to the precariously balanced tray of brandy and shot glasses.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign,top][atrb=cellspacing,0][atrb=style,width: 125px; background-color: #333; border-left: 28px solid #f2f2f2; -moz-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em; -webkit-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em;][STYLE= float:left; color: #f2f2f2; font-size: 30px; opacity: 1; margin-left: 50px;]I'M[/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 35px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(-20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; margin-left:-10px] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style]

[STYLE= float:left; color: #555; font-size: 18px; opacity: 1; margin-top: -20px; text-align: justify;]i n h i d i n g[/style][STYLE= background-color: #f2f2f2; border-top: dashed 1px #333; border-bottom: dashed 1px #333; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px; padding: 20px; width: 300px;] The American had a tendency to overreact to pretty much everything, and this instance was no different. In fact, if anything, Alfred was even more eager than he usually was in conversation, simply because this man seemed like his key to finally learning what was going on. These men were protecting the Americans for a reason. They could have just as easily handed Alfred and his men over to the Germans, and the blonde nation damn well knew it. His frown faded just slightly as he listened to the other man struggle with his English. Clearly, the other man wasn't fluent, but at least they were getting somewhere. Alfred could understand what he was saying, even though his accent was thick, even though his pronunciation was off in various places (especially his name...but again, Alfred couldn't hold it against him too much). Stefan Stojkovic. Alfred finally had a name to match with the man's face. His grin faltered once again when Stefan instructed him to slow down and speak more clearly, but he did his best to honor the other man's requests. He nodded as Stefan explained that he was there to welcome them to Serbia until his leaders could be contacted. Alfred swallowed hard at this. Surely they'd been reported missing in action by this point. He wondered just how long it would take. Again, he wasn't so worried about himself, but rather the men that he was with. "What is JVUO?" Alfred asked in curiosity. He didn't even know if Stefan would be able to answer the question, given his limited control of the English language, but he figured it was worth a shot. The more answers the better. "Thank you for your hospitality...we hope not to burden you too long." Alfred tried to speak as slowly and as evenly as possible, but it was clear that it took something of a conscious effort on Alfred's part. He didn't even think he was talking that fast! It was best not to argue that point, though, not when he finally had someone who could provide translations for him. Alfred observed as a newcomer approached, carrying drinks. Though he could not understand a word of the language that was being spoken, he could interpret the gist through the men's actions. Most of the time, Alfred failed to take a second look at body language unless it was rather obvious, but here he had no choice but to do so. It was the only way he'd been able to work out what little he already had. What he observed was rather odd. It seemed as though the two men were close, but Stefan glared at the other man when he came close to touching him. Alfred, of course, found this peculiar, though he didn't know exactly why Stefan behaved the way that he did. It was pretty damn clear that he didn't want to be touched, though, and Alfred was determined to find out why. Something had been bothering the blond since the other man's arrival. It was a vague feeling of familiarity coming from the Serb that had yet to dissipate. Alfred was trying to grapple with its meaning in his head. He was fairly certain that he'd never met this man in his life - almost 100% certain, in fact. Having been largely isolationist in the two decades prior to Pearl Harbor, Alfred rarely interacted with nations on the other side of the ocean, let alone humans. ...wait... Another possibility nestled into Alfred's brain. What if Stefan wasn't human? It would explain those peculiar feelings Alfred kept getting. Alfred decided it was worth a shot to try and find out. "Can you understand me?" Alfred's voice was a rare whisper. The words that came out of his mouth were not English, nor were they Serbian. They were in a language that, if Alfred's crazy theory was correct, only the two of them out of everyone present would comprehend. If the man before him didn't understand, then he could easily play it off. Most humans didn't even recognize the language, let alone understand it. He wasn't worried, but he was curious. Would Stefan understand the words? If so, who exactly was he? [/style] [STYLE= font-size:9; margin: 5px; margin-top: -30px; color: #888;] TAGS: Stefan/Serbiaxxxxxxxxxx WORDS: 703 Early 1944 [/style][atrb=style,width: 350px; background-color: #f2f2f2; border-right: 28px solid #333; -moz-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em; -webkit-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em;][STYLE= float:right; color: #555; font-size: 25px; -moz-transform: rotate(-90deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-90deg); opacity: .8; margin-top: -250px; margin-right: -122px]since I'vebeenaground[/style]

[STYLE= font-size: 9px; text-font: arial; color: #666; margin-left: -320px]By Riazey of BTN and GS[/style]

[STEFAN STOJKOVIC, SERBIA]

Tags: America
Outfit: Peasant clothes
Word Count: 877
Date: January 1944
Location: Serbia
Notes: Dogs, Nations, and Brandy.

---

Stefan's dog had spent most of the time lying at her master's feet, resting. She was young, but very well trained. The family who bred her had done an excellent job training the puppies for an additional price at the time of sale. Serbia wasn't able to pay the price in full initially, but had eventually worked off the debt and paid them with useful supplies such as wool, wood, and lamb meat. Though still not as solid as some of Serbia's dogs, she had a lot of potential, that much was clear.

Yet again, the door opened and this time, Katya leaped to her feet, barking fiercely at the newcomer. The newcomer's coat was more akin to a light jacket, hardly appropriate for the weather. When the door opened, snow flew in, reminding everyone that it had once again started to snow. His light brown hair was covered in a dusting of snow as melted quickly in the warm house. His face was red and Nikolic could clearly see him shiver a few times. He seemed ill-equipped for the weather and very confused when one of the women asked him if he wanted a drink and a place by the fire. It was obvious it was another American pilot as he made a beeline for the already clustered airment sitting near the fire. He looked flustered and accidentally bumped into the tray of brandy while passing the mantle causing Nikolic to rush over and save the tray as well as a few shot glasses which had nearly rolled off. The Serb scolded the American in his own language about being more careful, though his frustration was met with blank stares and confused glances by those who were paying attention.

Katya was still barking and growling at the American and Stefan was forced to kneel down and roughly grab the scruff of her neck and yank her off her feet. She yelped at the suddenness of his actions, but it had the desired result. Katya was content to sit next to Stefan, but still showed teeth at the American strangers. Meanwhile, Dragan finally started passing out shot glasses, most of the airmen accepting it, a few refusing. Even though Serbia had heard Alfred, he didn't have the vocabulary to really answer them in full and the whole scene with his dog meant that thinking in English was shoved to the back of his mind.

Serbia was surprised when Alfred switched to a largely unknown language. Only nations were supposed to know that language. It was the default when human languages failed. He paused before responding, trying to make sure that what he heard was correct. "Yes, I can. I did not expect you to know this language, but it does answer a few questions, namely, how your got into the air force with glasses." He dropped his voice to a barely audible whisper. At least, Stefan now knew that he was dealing with America. What other American would know the secret language of nations?

Finally, Dragan offered the brandy to Alfred and Stefan. Serbia took the shot glass and drank slowly, content to savor the taste of the drink. He could feel the familiar burn in his chest followed by the subtle plum flavor. Clearly this was one of the family's better brews. Though Serbia would usually drink rakija with a meal, it wasn't necessary. The alcohol content wasn't nearly as strong as normal, but it was a warm drink and perfect for a snowy January day. Stefan doubted that the other Americans would be familiar with the drink. He calmly instructed Nikolic to fill the empty glasses and decided that perhaps, these stranded American pilots could get a bit of a cultural lesson. He raised his voice somewhat so that the other Americans could hear him. "My friend is passing out rakija, šljivovica, specifically. In English...it would be called...plum brandy. It was made by the family here...which is common. Eh...almost all families brew their own brandy out of...everything. It usually is with no color, but eh...things can be added to the rakija to give it color. We use special...eh..." He held up the shot glass he was holding, unsure of its English name, "we call this čokanji-čokanjčići. Šljivovica is usually served cold, but this is winter and the šljivovica has been heated, or kuvana."

He always felt better after drinking. Rakia was particularly good especially if the brewer did a good job. Stefan used to make his own rakia all the time until the war started. Someday, he'd start brewing again and entertaining guests was very enjoyable especially with compliments about his skill in making rakia. Though, he was able to cheat the system a bit in that he'd been brewing for longer than most of them were alive. Being a nation had allowed him to perfect his technique. As Nikolic continued working his way through the group of Americans, a few drops hit the table to a muttered phrase in Serbian. Now, Stefan could turn his attention back to America. They had a lot in common and a lot to talk about so long as it was a neutral topic and not something too personal.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign,top][atrb=cellspacing,0][atrb=style,width: 125px; background-color: #333; border-left: 28px solid #f2f2f2; -moz-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em; -webkit-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em;][STYLE= float:left; color: #f2f2f2; font-size: 30px; opacity: 1; margin-left: 50px;]I'M[/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 35px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(-20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; margin-left:-10px] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style]

[STYLE= float:left; color: #555; font-size: 18px; opacity: 1; margin-top: -20px; text-align: justify;]i n h i d i n g[/style][STYLE= background-color: #f2f2f2; border-top: dashed 1px #333; border-bottom: dashed 1px #333; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px; padding: 20px; width: 300px;] Alfred's eyes darted to the door as he heard it creak open once again. If he hadn't noticed this, the dog barking would have drawn his attention, just as it drew everyone else's. The American airmen huddled in the corner shouted out a few greetings, and Alfred himself lifted his hand and waved with gusto. Though he watched what took place, the only reaction he showed was various changes in his facial expression. The whole time, he looked slightly uncomfortable, as if he was itching to communicate with the Serbs, but knew that his words would register to them as akin to gibberish. If Alfred had to be honest with himself, he was less frustrated about the situation he found himself in than he was about the language barrier. This wasn't his first war, and he'd met worse conditions. The difference was that said conditions were on his own soil, not foreign soil, where they could not even speak with their rescuers. That was why he was excited for Stefan's entrance - It was a chance to finally break out and communicate! Thus, one could easily imagine his excitement when he discovered that the man standing before him understood that largely unknown language! Not only was he thrilled that they had a common language, but he was also quite pleased that he was conversing with another personification. It would make this whole process a lot easier, and he could get more in depth with his questions. Alfred now wore a huge grin on his face, a visual hint as to the excitement that he was experiencing. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose at the comment about them - It wasn't the first time someone remarked on how odd it was that he could fly with glasses. Alfred accepted the brandy offered to him by Dragan, not one to turn down a free drink. Alfred was by no means a heavy drinker (with the exception of during Prohibition, somewhat ironically). He watched as the other raised the glass to his lips and drank slowly. Alfred followed suit, opting not to throw it back as a shot as he'd originally intended to do. He was surprised (and pleased) to discover that it was warm. He listened as Stefan explained in his shaky English what it was that they were drinking. He knew it was directed primarily toward his pilots, but he liked to know what he was drinking as well. He took a few more drinks from his glass, before he realized that Stefan had turned his attention to him once more. It was extremely tempting to start rambling away in their shared language right then and there, but Alfred used as much self control as he could muster to prevent himself from doing so. He wasn't so concerned about the Serbs, oddly enough, but rather his own men. Though he knew the language shouldn't be used often around humans period. "Let's take this outside." Alfred stated with a smile, before addressing his men - The only people in the room other than Stefan that he could efficiently communicate with. "We're gonna go out for a smoke. Don't miss me too much while I'm gone." Alfred winked, causing the nearest pilot to roll his eyes, yet grin. Alfred had that habit on most of his fellow pilots. Sure, he could be obnoxious at times, but his optimism and charisma was contagious. Every single American airman could sense that there was something about him, something that drew them to him, they just lacked the information to know exactly what it was. Hoping that the other man would follow his lead, Alfred headed toward the door. Once outside, he held his bomber jacket close to him, shivering a little. Like the rest of the pilots, Alfred was ill-equipped for the Serbian winter. He reached into the pocket of his bomber jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, retrieving one for himself and holding the box out toward Stefan. "Want one?" He switched back to their common language, relieved that they could communicate without any pesky barriers at last. At this realization, Alfred decided to let loose about what was on his mind. This, of course, meant a barrage of questions. "We're in Serbia, right? Are you Serbia himself or someone else? Why are you helping us? I thought Serbia was occupied territory." Alfred found himself speaking so fast that he barely took a breath between his sentences. [/style] [STYLE= font-size:9; margin: 5px; margin-top: -30px; color: #888;] TAGS: Stefan/Serbiaxxxxxxxxxx WORDS: 748 Early 1944 [/style][atrb=style,width: 350px; background-color: #f2f2f2; border-right: 28px solid #333; -moz-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em; -webkit-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em;][STYLE= float:right; color: #555; font-size: 25px; -moz-transform: rotate(-90deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-90deg); opacity: .8; margin-top: -250px; margin-right: -122px]since I'vebeenaground[/style]

[STYLE= font-size: 9px; text-font: arial; color: #666; margin-left: -320px]By Riazey of BTN and GS[/style]

[STEFAN STOJKOVIC, SERBIA]

Tags: America
Outfit: Peasant clothes
Word Count: 1141
Date: January 1944
Location: Serbia
Notes: A history lesson, a lot of talking and rambling, and a snowball fight

---

Unlike America, Serbia was far more level headed and serious given the situation. It was nice to know that there was another personification to talk to, this being the first personification he had seen since being occupied. However, he maintained an emotionless expression. Stefan was simply happy to be among friends from time to time. His need for socializing was far lower than America's and he still wanted to get home to his sheep and dogs soon. Though Serbia didn't always agree with excessive emotions, he could understand what a relief it must have been to be able to communicate with more people. Language barriers would always be a problem, something Serbia had first hand experience with when Germany and Prussia started giving orders only in German. There was a minority German population in his country, but Serbia had never needed to know German for anything. It took time, but the initial frustration of not knowing what was going on was something Serbia could relate to. The difference was that the Americans couldn't communicate with their rescuers while Serbia couldn't communicate with his occupiers.

At the suggestion to go outside, Serbia was initially going to protest. It was snowing and cold and the Americans certainly didn't have the right equipment to manage in the cold for long. The Serbs all had thick coats and this being home, were quite used to the winters. Stefan would happily march through the snow and ice going about his own business and barely notice the cold temperature. After any significant length of time, Stefan would start to feel the cold, but that was inevitable.

Stefan started to head towards the door, but paused noticing that Alfred only had a bomber jacket to keep out the cold. Were American winters milder than Serbian winters? Nikolic noticed his friend starting to leave and hastily set the tray of brandy down, apologizing quickly in his own language to the pilots. He quickly caught up with Serbia and jumped right into expressing his concerns in rapid, and worried Serbian. Dragan distrusted the Americans even though he seemed to be fine serving them drinks. Many of the pilots looked 'Aryan' which only heightened Dragan's concern.

To ease his friend's nerves, Serbia assured Nikolic that he could come as well and handed the younger man the dog leash, instructing him to take Katya on a walk. One of the women in the house brought out Nikolic's coat and the two left the house, drawing the collars close to keep out the snow. Nikolic walked in one direction with Katya bouncing with energy at his side. Stefan made his way through ankle deep snow towards Alfred, glancing from time to time at his friend and dog. The young Šarplaninac seemed to be enjoying the weather, her thick coat doing well to keep out the snow. Though her primary task would always be that of a herding dog, she was turning into a useful guard dog as well.

Serbia had never been much of a smoker. Before the war, he would smoke from time to time to calm his nerves, but it had never turned into a serious habit. Since the occupation, smoking had never been an option nor had it crossed his mind. He had always been too busy to think about cigarettes and since joining the Chetniks, isolation in the mountains meant that cigarettes weren't readily available. "No, but thanks for the offer." He declined as politely as he could. Stefan was still in poor health and he doubted that smoking would really be able to make the general aching go away.

The bombardment of questions was expected. Back inside, Stefan had noticed that America seemed to be exploding with questions and it was only natural that away from other people, the curiosity would be released. "Slow down. You'll pass out if you don't breathe. And yes, this is Serbia and I am he. My country is being occupied by the Germans and has been since April, 1941. The entire situation isn't so black and white as you Americans would like to think." Even in a language he was fluent in, Stefan wasn't quite sure he could properly explain what all had happened in the Balkan region. News rarely reached him and his capital was missing entirely. The only information Serbia could rely on was when his health took a serious turn for the worse with mass executions of his people.

He picked up a short stick and started sketching a rough outline of the former Yugoslavia, making various divisions made by the Axis. He made a few notations of which region belonged to whom, not noticing that he had written the abbreviations with the Cyrillic alphabet. "Slovenia is divided between Germany and Italy...Montenegro went to Italy...Vojvodina was annexed by Hungary, I'll miss that girl....Kosovo went back to Albania, Macedonia was annexed by Bulgaria, but that's hardly surprising. The bastard Croat took Bosnia and has sworn loyalty to Germany. We're here." He circled a small section within the outline of his own country.

Serbia opened his mouth as though to begin lecturing again, but quickly turned away from America, coughing violently into the sleeve of his grey greatcoat, an item he had stolen from a fellow German soldier shortly before fleeing to the mountains. Stefan glanced up to see Nikolic running back with Katya leading the way. Serbia liked Dragan's company, but the young man could sometimes be far too protective. Stefan apologized quickly to Alfred for the disruption even though it was no one's fault.

"Anyways, Mikhailovic needs American support. There's another rebel faction of Communists who pose a greater threat than the Germans. For as much as I respect the USSR, their style of government isn't for my country. Everyone hates the Germans, but they can't possibly hang on to us forever. As a show of good will, the Serbs will provide you with what you and your pilots need in hopes that when you go home, you can put in a good word for us later."

The wind picked up and started blowing the powdery snow back into the air. The snow was falling horizontally and despite the collar being upturned and buttoned completely, some flakes still managed to land inside Serbia's greatcoat. With his attention primarily on America, Stefan was hardly prepared for a snowball to be launched at him, striking the back of his shoulder. A second snowball was lobbed in Alfred's direction. Serbia turned sharply, catching his friend Nikolic in the act of forming a third. Stefan took a direct hit to the neck, shivering as the snow melted and soaked the collar of his shirt. He kneeled and made a snowball of his own, launching it hard at his friend who ducked, but not before getting grazed in the head with snow.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign,top][atrb=cellspacing,0][atrb=style,width: 125px; background-color: #333; border-left: 28px solid #f2f2f2; -moz-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em; -webkit-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em;][STYLE= float:left; color: #f2f2f2; font-size: 30px; opacity: 1; margin-left: 50px;]I'M[/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 35px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(-20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; margin-left:-10px] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style]

[STYLE= float:left; color: #555; font-size: 18px; opacity: 1; margin-top: -20px; text-align: justify;]i n h i d i n g[/style][STYLE= background-color: #f2f2f2; border-top: dashed 1px #333; border-bottom: dashed 1px #333; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px; padding: 20px; width: 300px;] Even Alfred maintained a more serious attitude than usual, given the situation. He understood that he and his fellow Americans were in a foreign land, in German occupied territory nonetheless, with no way to communicate to their commanders. They were lost and confused, and it made Alfred antsy beyond belief. He liked having some semblance of control over a situation, not feeling helpless and sealed off. Nevertheless, he maintained a smile and a chipper attitude in front of most. He refused to lose hope, and he didn't want his men to lose hope either. Where would they be without it? They'd been rescued, hadn't they? Fate smiled kindly on them in this instance, so who was to say it wouldn't again? Alfred smoked more out of habit than anything else. It was seen as almost a status symbol in his country, with celebrities sponsoring and promoting the favored cigarette brands. Of course he smoked. The negative health effects of smoking still remained largely unknown. He was not bothered when Stefan turned down his offer, and instead lit his own cigarette before sticking his free hand into the pocket of his bomber jacket as a particularly cold breeze struck. It was cold, but Alfred would deal, for the chance to have a nice chat with Serbia without prying eyes. Once again, Alfred wasn't even aware that he was talking fast. The only indications he'd had were his need to gasp for breath after blurting out all of those questions, and Stefan drawing attention to it. Alfred watched, taking an occasional puff from his cigarette, as the other nation proceeded to draw an outline in the snow. He listened as Stefan explained where they were, and what the surrounding areas were. He watched with interest, admittedly relieved that he could now picture on a map where he and his men were located. They were still by and large cut off, but knowing where they were and who they were with was more of a relief than someone on the outside probably realized. A look of concern crossed America's face at once when he noted that Stefan was coughing violently. "You okay?" He knew the answer was, of course, no, but there was another question hidden within that seemingly silly question - He wanted to know why Serbia was coughing. He realized it could be something as simple as an illness, but he also recognized that Serbia was a fellow nation, and that such symptoms could be symbolic of something on a national level. They were in the midst of a world war, just coming out of a global depression. There were many reasons why Serbia could be ailing. When a name hit Alfred's ears, Alfred quirked his head a little in confusion. "Who is Mikhailovic?" He recognized the name as one of importance, otherwise Serbia would not have used it in the context of this conversation. Yes, Alfred was largely oblivious most of the time, because he could be. In situations like this, however? He knew that he had to consciously pay attention, and thus did. The look of contempt that came across Alfred's face at the mention of Communists and the USSR was unmistakable. There was the crux of it all. Alfred knew that there was a reason why they were being helped, why this group was taking such risks in occupied territory, and now he had it. Fortunately, he was also rather sympathetic. The corners of Alfred's mouth turned up into a small smile, pleased to know that Serbia did not agree with that particular choice of government. That made things a lot easier. "I'll put in a good word for you when I get back. If it weren't for a greater common enemy in the Axis, I can say with confidence that we and the Soviets would not be on the same side." Of course, those words would turn out to be awfully prophetic. And to think, he and Ivan were on good terms once upon a time... Alfred took another puff of his cigarette, blowing out the smoke just in time to see a snowball hitting the other nation. He jumped in surprise, dropping his cigarette when a second snowball hit him in the side. His gaze followed Stefan's just in time to see the young man who offered them brandy inside lobbing a snowball at the other nation's neck. At this, Alfred started grinning. Not long after Stefan bent down, Alfred scooped up a handful of snow and sculpted his own snowball. He then proceeded to whip it as hard as he could at the young Serb. Thankfully, it missed the young man, for as it hit a tree located behind him, it hit with such force that a large dent was left in the trunk of the tree, which let out a resounding crack from the force behind the throw. If the snowball hadn't reverted back to powder as it hit the tree, it was very likely it might have gone through the trunk. Per usual, Alfred had forgotten to let up on his strength. [/style] [STYLE= font-size:9; margin: 5px; margin-top: -30px; color: #888;] TAGS: Stefan/Serbiaxxxxxxxxxx WORDS: 849 Early 1944 [/style][atrb=style,width: 350px; background-color: #f2f2f2; border-right: 28px solid #333; -moz-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em; -webkit-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em;][STYLE= float:right; color: #555; font-size: 25px; -moz-transform: rotate(-90deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-90deg); opacity: .8; margin-top: -250px; margin-right: -122px]since I'vebeenaground[/style]

[STYLE= font-size: 9px; text-font: arial; color: #666; margin-left: -320px]By Riazey of BTN and GS[/style]

[STEFAN STOJKOVIC, SERBIA]

Tags: America
Outfit: Peasant clothes
Word Count: 837
Date: January 1944
Location: Serbia
Notes: We seem to be the queens of very long posts.

---

Stefan personally didn't know or care about American brands of cigarettes or their symbolism in America. Though unknown at the time, when Serbia would resume smoking, it would be Russian brands he got imported from Russian party stores. There would always be benefits to being best friends with the one guy who had connections to the top of the Soviet government. War meant that everything that might otherwise be important was shoved to the backburner while more pressing needs to precedence.

Underneath the greatcoat, Serbia wore rather informal clothes. He owned something that resembled a uniform, a gift from Mihailovic, but rarely wore it. The German coat was probably the most expensive item Serbia owned. He had a jacket from the Royal Yugoslav Army, but since the occupation, Stefan had been stripped of all ranks and decoratios he might have otherwise had. It was quite a shock to go from being a respected general to being a private. The jacket now served no purpose and Stefan planned on getting a new one eventually when the Germans were pushed out. Whenever that was. What Serbia didn't know was that in ten months time, Ivan and Tito would free his country. He also didn't know that in nine months, he'd be swapping sides even if only because his king said to.

For Serbia, coughing was rarely nothing, but he tried to pass it off as nothing but the cold air. In actuality, he was trying to hide the feeling of more death. No one needed to know the exact reason why he was coughing. How even does one explain the feeling of death, or hundreds of hearts going still in agony? Some nights, the Serb could barely even sleep as his dreams were plagued with hazy images of his people being drowned and tortured. "I'm fine. Really, it's nothing to worry about." He tried to sound calm, but the slight shakiness in his voice betrayed the cool facade. It was obvious that Serbia was not fine, that there was more to the story, more he didn't want to talk about.

Stefan was slightly stunned that Alfred didn't know how Mihailovic was. Then again, these were Americans. It took the Serb several moments to even comprehend the question and by that time, the American had already launched into more rapid speech. It was a slight relief to know that there were some assurances from the Allies. No one liked occupation or a government they didn't believe in. The future would play out differently from the ideals bouncing around in Serbia's mind. Eventually, unthinkable acts would transpire, but in the mountains away from everything else, thoughts of the coming year were still mere fantasies.

The thicker overcoats Stefan and Dragan wore were both a blessing and a curse. They would keep the wearer warmer and better protected from the snow, but at the same time, they were heavy and tended to be a bit more cumbersome with activities such as running and dodging flying snowballs. Serbia winced slightly as Alfred's snowball nearly felled a nearby tree. He was thankful that Dragan had been spared, but gave his friend no chance to fire a counter attack. The younger man was more fit and healthier than Serbia and was able to dodge one snowball, it exploding harmlessly against a building, but was clipped in the shoulder by a second. Katya meanwhile was thoroughly enjoying bounding through the snow trying to catch it in her mouth. if dogs could grin, then she was grinning from ear to ear.

Inside, someone had turned on the radio and war music could be heard through the window. The Serbs all knew the tune and sang along to the refrain. No one thought about the Americans who still had no idea what exactly was going on nor could they understand the lyrics of the music. Language barriers were rather pesky to deal with.

Torn between ethnic loyalties and loyalties to a fellow personification, Serbia had no idea whose side to take in the snowball fight. Eventually, he decided that Alfred could hold his own and he couldn't really fight against his own people. Stefan sprinted to Dragan's side, bending over about half way between the two men and formed a snowball, wheeled around, and threw it hard at Alfred. He then proceeded to join his friend and continue the volley of snowballs in Alfred's direction. For a few moments, Serbia could forget about all the pain in his country.

By now, some people had taken interest in what was going on outside. Some stayed indoors, others were brave enough to venture outside a little bit, but never straying far from the threshhold of whatever building they were in. Someone had also turned up the radio to a song the Chetniks all knew and liked. Though rakija was carrying them all through the winter, everyone knew to drink enough to get pleasantly tipsy, but not completely drunk. Various encouragements were yelled in Serbian interspersed with some distinct American voices.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign,top][atrb=cellspacing,0][atrb=style,width: 125px; background-color: #333; border-left: 28px solid #f2f2f2; -moz-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em; -webkit-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em;][STYLE= float:left; color: #f2f2f2; font-size: 30px; opacity: 1; margin-left: 50px;]I'M[/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 35px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(-20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; margin-left:-10px] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style]

[STYLE= float:left; color: #555; font-size: 18px; opacity: 1; margin-top: -20px; text-align: justify;]i n h i d i n g[/style][STYLE= background-color: #f2f2f2; border-top: dashed 1px #333; border-bottom: dashed 1px #333; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px; padding: 20px; width: 300px;] Alfred's presumed rank in his military changed depending on who he was surrounded by. On the battlefield, he would most often take a low rank, such as private. He didn't want any of the special treatment that might come with a higher rank - He wanted to fight alongside his men, as if he were just another soldier. Off the battlefield, he was content to take the higher rank bestowed upon him. To the vast majority of those in the armed services, the highest rank, the General of the Armies, had only been bestowed on one person in the history of the country - John Pershing. Only a select few realized that Alfred F. Jones also held the position. Serbia's insistence that he was fine did not convince Alfred in the least. In a time of relative peace it might have, but not when the world was in the midst of a war. "No you're not." Alfred said simply in response. "Your country is occupied, and we're in the middle of a war. Of course you're not fine. But don't worry, the Allies are going to win and we'll kick those damn Nazis all the way back to Berlin!" Alfred spoke with a tone of unmistakable confidence. It was the sort of tone that would cause his fellow airmen to cheer, though it remained to be seen how Serbia would react. Honestly, Alfred was still a little worried himself - The Allies were pushing back, but the war was not a decisive win for them yet. However, Alfred hardly thought he'd be cheering anyone up if he stated that the Allies might win, so he might as well go for broke! The longer Alfred stood in the cold winter air, the colder he found himself getting. He held his coat close to himself, feeling a shiver go through his body. The airmen hardly thought to bring thick winter clothes on what they thought would be a fly over attack in Romania. It wasn't as though they planned on sticking around, or even leaving their planes until they landed back in Italy. Bailing out over Serbia was the last way they saw their mission ending when it first began. Alfred was only vaguely aware of the music in the background as he watched Stefan opt to join Dragan in the small snowball fight that was occurring. Alfred, of course, found the opposite advantages and disadvantages to his situation as the other two men. His relatively light clothing left him chilled, although he found it easier to move and dodge without all of those bulky clothes. His bomber jacket was his most bulky article of clothing, and he could maneuver in that fairly easy. The blond did face one challenge that the other two did not - The battle with his own strength. The two of them could lob snowballs as hard as they could at him without having to worry about knocking someone's block off - Figuratively and literally. Too, he had to make certain that he didn't hold back on his strength too much and give a weak throw. The key was finding a happy medium, a force at which he could do some damage and yet still hold back from causing serious injury. Serbia was most definitely correct to assume that Alfred could hold his own, however. Alfred let out a shout. Though he'd ducked down in order to prepare his own snowball, Serbia managed to hit him in the shoulder. By now he could hear the voices of their spectators, most of them in a language he could not comprehend, but some in English. Alfred smirked as their words reached his ears, aiming his next snowball at Stefan. This time, however, he refrained from throwing at full strength. Wouldn't make for very good international relations if he knocked out Serbia himself with a snowball, now would it? That didn't mean he was going to get away scot free if he was going to enter a snowball fight against the United States of America, however - Alfred reached down with a grin, already preparing another snowball. This one he'd likely aim at Dragan. [/style] [STYLE= font-size:9; margin: 5px; margin-top: -30px; color: #888;] TAGS: Stefan/Serbiaxxxxxxxxxx WORDS: 714 Early 1944 [/style][atrb=style,width: 350px; background-color: #f2f2f2; border-right: 28px solid #333; -moz-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em; -webkit-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em;][STYLE= float:right; color: #555; font-size: 25px; -moz-transform: rotate(-90deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-90deg); opacity: .8; margin-top: -250px; margin-right: -122px]since I'vebeenaground[/style]

[STYLE= font-size: 9px; text-font: arial; color: #666; margin-left: -320px]By Riazey of BTN and GS[/style]

[STEFAN STOJKOVIC, SERBIA]

Tags: America
Outfit: Peasant clothes
Word Count: 850
Date: January 1944
Location: Serbia
Notes:

---

Stefan was determined to carry the weight of the war on his own shoulders alone. He didn't want anyone to know that he hadn't seen Belgrade since 10 April 1941. He didn't think anyone would understand how much it hurt to not know where he was or what sort of condition he was in. The boy had nearly lost his life to the Axis bombs and Serbia could only imagine what sort of hell he lived in. As long as the Axis controlled Belgrade, they could wave the boy's fate over Serbia's head and Stefan would have no choice but to submit. Each night, Stefan prayed to God that Beograd was alright and that he'd live another day. He prayed to the saints and anyone else who would listen. He knew that Albania loved Kosovo, so that boy was probably in good care. Hungary too was a good parent and would likely treat Vojvodina well. After all, Vojvodina used to belong to Hungary.

Also, he knew that Croatia was on the side of the Germans and if there was one thing to predict about Croatia, it was that he hated Serbs. The Germans had told Stefan about the existence of the Jasenovac camps when they were built, but no specific details. Sometimes, hazy images of the place would seep into Serbia's dreams and the pain of death filled in the rest of the gaps for Stefan. He refused to talk about it with anyone for fear of being forced to reveal all that he knew which was very little.

The wool coat was excellent at trapping body heat. Dragan had a similar coat on, but his was more of a military coat and hit about half way down the thigh. Nikolic made slight recognition to his friend switching sides and kept throwing snowballs at and around Alfred. Not all of them hit their mark, some in part due poor aim. Though initially deterred by America's incredible strength, Nikolic didn't stay concerned. He enjoyed launching snowballs with full force at the American with the full understanding that he would get hit as well.

Serbia had turned his back on Alfred, jogging back a few paces to obtain better snow for a snowball. He was in no way prepared for getting hit between the shoulderblades. Though his coat primarily protected Stefan from the cold and sting of getting hit, the war had made its mark and snowball hit near a particularly sore area. He stumbled, but didn't completely lose balance. Dragan glanced at his friend, slightly concerned, but also aware that Serbia would not back down easily. Serbs tended to see themselves as strong individuals and they possessed a strong sense of nationalism. Nikolic found himself getting hit in the chest by a well aimed throw. There was a slight recoil from the impact because even at half strength, America's strength still wasn't fully subdued.

The two Serbs made a good team together and the ability to communicate in a language unknown to the American helped in only the fly decision making. Their goal was in part to overwhelm Alfred by not giving him a chance to rest or make a strong counter offensive. It seemed to be agreed upon that their best defense was to be a difficult target to hit. Stefan and Dragan were constantly in motion and their knowledge of the surrounding geography allowed them to make use of buildings and trees as shields.

Ordinarily, Serbia may have been more atuned to his people, but the snowball fight had shoved most of the warning feelings aside. It felt sudden, even if in actuality he had received plenty of warning. Hazy images of death swam before Stefan's eyes as yet more hundreds of his people were gassed to death. There was also the horrifying image of a train and the cars being unloaded. Though all the details were rough, Serbia could feel hearts stop almost at random from the group. The scene was barely recognizable, but the presence of his people was strong. It was clear that where ever these people were, death was among them.

He fell heavily against the side of a tree, wincing as he hit a particularly sore area. Stefan badly wanted to clear his head of everything, but his place as a personification prevented that. The images were more feelings and notions than sharp photographs. Colors were blurred heavily and much of the time, Serbia had no idea where, why, or how his people were being slaughtered. He was breathing heavily, but seemed to hate the idea of exposing any weakness. The more the Serb fought against the pain of his people, the worse he felt. At times, he trult thought that the feeling of death would overwhelm any other instinct he had. Nikolic was almost immediately at his friend's side and his calm attitude despite the internal turmoil Stefan felt hinted that Dragan had seen this before. As much as Serbia wanted to come off as 'fine', it was no impossible to refute the fact that something was wrong. The only question was 'how bad?'

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign,top][atrb=cellspacing,0][atrb=style,width: 125px; background-color: #333; border-left: 28px solid #f2f2f2; -moz-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em; -webkit-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em;][STYLE= float:left; color: #f2f2f2; font-size: 30px; opacity: 1; margin-left: 50px;]I'M[/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 35px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(-20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; margin-left:-10px] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style]

[STYLE= float:left; color: #555; font-size: 18px; opacity: 1; margin-top: -20px; text-align: justify;]i n h i d i n g[/style][STYLE= background-color: #f2f2f2; border-top: dashed 1px #333; border-bottom: dashed 1px #333; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px; padding: 20px; width: 300px;] The more Alfred moved about in attempt to dodge the snowballs being whipped at him, the more body heat he generated. He was still considerably colder than the two Serbs were nonetheless. The body parts covered by clothing were faring better than his face, which was currently a dark shade of pink from the cold nipping at it. The blond was unable to dodge every snowball aimed at him. Two against one made for pretty good odds on their part. Most of the hits were on his chest, arms, and shoulders, although a few landed on his legs and one particularly well aimed one hit him square in the stomach. Alfred scarcely noticed his surroundings as the snowball fight continued on, though he glanced up at once when he heard voices shouting in English. One of the airmen was asking Alfred if he wanted help to even up the odds. Alfred grinned, shaking his head. "Nah, I can take them both on." The perfect time for a snowball to graze Alfred in the shoulder. He turned his attention back to the other men, smirking as he quickly formed another snowball in his hands and prepared to launch it at Dragan. The snowball fight served as a welcome distraction. World War II was still raging on the outside, and Alfred and men were still stranded in unfamiliar territory. Yet here they were, able to take a few minutes away from fighting to enjoy simple fun in a snowball fight. Alfred didn't want it to end. He was enjoying himself, and he was fairly certain that his fellow personification, as well as Dragan, were enjoying themselves as well. Unfortunately, the carefree reverie was not meant to last. Alfred's smile faded abruptly as he watched Serbia fall against a nearby tree. He dropped the half-formed snowball in his hands at once. "Serbia!" He called out on reflex in their common language, not in the least bit concerned at the moment that his men were hearing him shout in a language that was not English. Besides, it was one outburst. He could pass that off if worse came to worse - It wasn't as though they were watching him actively converse in that secret language. No, he was more concerned with finding out what was happening. He darted over to his fellow personification at once, kneeling down in the snow so that he could take a closer look at the extent of Serbia's injuries. Fortunately, Alfred had not aimed a snowball at Serbia before he collapsed - Otherwise, he might have jumped to blaming himself. "What's going on?" Alfred blurted out, this time having the presence of mind to keep his voice quiet. It was still likely that Dragan would overhear their exchange (though the likelihood of him actually understanding it when it was neither in English nor in Serbian was extremely slim), but Alfred was not very concerned about one man overhearing. Not when there was a more pressing matter to take care of. "Is there anything you need we can get for ya? Water? Bandages?" Alfred didn't know what to do, and that made him antsy. One thing was for certain though - He needed to help. He needed to do something. Moreover, he needed to find out what exactly happened. It was likely that the humans would remain in the dark, but Alfred knew that Stefan was not being impacted by events in their immediate environment. He recognized the signs. Something was happening on a national level. And as a fellow personification, Alfred wanted to know what. [/style] [STYLE= font-size:9; margin: 5px; margin-top: -30px; color: #888;] TAGS: Stefan/Serbiaxxxxxxxxxx WORDS: 608 Early 1944 [/style][atrb=style,width: 350px; background-color: #f2f2f2; border-right: 28px solid #333; -moz-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em; -webkit-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em;][STYLE= float:right; color: #555; font-size: 25px; -moz-transform: rotate(-90deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-90deg); opacity: .8; margin-top: -250px; margin-right: -122px]since I'vebeenaground[/style]

[STYLE= font-size: 9px; text-font: arial; color: #666; margin-left: -320px]By Riazey of BTN and GS[/style]

[STEFAN STOJKOVIC, SERBIA]

Tags: America
Outfit: Peasant clothes
Word Count: 567
Date: January 1944
Location: Serbia
Notes: A lot of narrative and stuff. I hope it isn't too boring.

---

Dragan as well was doing his share of snowball dodging. He was fast and managed to avoid some of the snowballs whipped at him, but even coat was flecked with snow. Even though America had been trying to cut down on strength, Dragan still suspected that he would be quite sore for awhile had his wool coat not offered some protection. Still, he had been hit one or twice in the leg and those, he was fairly sure, would bruise. Nikolic was a bit taller than the American, so ducking was rarely an option.

The hit was directly to his chest, the product of hesitation. The hit forced him to take a few steps back just to maintain balance. Velika Dragusa remained a rather peaceful bubble within a country that suffered under the weight of German rule. However, Dragan and his companions knew that they were fighting a war and while they may have been partially ignorant to the war being fought in Europe, Germany still remained the enemy. The Serbs watching on mostly yelled encouragement to their comrades. The split was along ethnic lines, Serb versus American.

When he saw his friend fall heavily against the tree, Dragan immediately stopped what he was doing and ran over to him. True, he had witnessed similar spells before, but most weren't that bad. He spoke quietly to Stefan in Serbian, fully aware that Serbia would not respond. After waiting a few more seconds, Nikolic made the decision to help his friend inside. There, it would be warm and the nation could lie down for awhile. Stefan had often passed these spells off as bad memories from the north and there was no reason to question it. Dragan wrapped his friend's arm over his shoulder, but struggled to manage the weight. He yelled at the American to help. Though the language barrier would prevent either one from fully understanding the other, the tone carried a sense of urgency not to mention it was quite obvious that Nikolic would manage to support Stefan's dead weight the twenty or so meters to the house they were staying at.

Still, one way or another, Nikolic knew he needed to get his friend inside. Serbia only seemed vaguely aware of what was going on. Once inside, Nikolic helped lead, though drag/carry would be a more accurate description, Serbia to a small bedroom farther within the house. There was a fireplace in the far corner, but it was obvious no one had been using it for awhile. Carefully, Dragan unbuttoned and pulled the heavy coat off Stefan who offered no resistence, but made no movement to help either. It was only then that Nikolic noticed the small slash of blood along his friend's neck. Though the young Serb had noticed it before, this was the first time he really noticed the bleeding.

Eventually, Stefan seemed to regain enough sense to take into account his surroundings. Blood was starting to stain the surprisingly thin shirt Serbia was wearing, but the nation did his best to ignore it. Dragan on the other hand looked concerned for several moments before turning and leaving the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. He was off to get a pitcher of water and a towel for his friend. Serbia looked on after him, sitting on the side of the bed, still dazed. He still hadn't noticed the American's presence.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=valign,top][atrb=cellspacing,0][atrb=style,width: 125px; background-color: #333; border-left: 28px solid #f2f2f2; -moz-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em; -webkit-border-radius: 5em 0em 0em 5em;][STYLE= float:left; color: #f2f2f2; font-size: 30px; opacity: 1; margin-left: 50px;]I'M[/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 35px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(-20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; margin-left:-10px] [/style] [STYLE= width: 100px; height: 100px; background: url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v674/girlgok/Hetalia/Hetalia%20Icons/Alfred_n.png); margin-top: 5px; border: 10px #333 solid; -moz-transform: rotate(20deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(20deg); opacity: .2;] [/style]

[STYLE= float:left; color: #555; font-size: 18px; opacity: 1; margin-top: -20px; text-align: justify;]i n h i d i n g[/style][STYLE= background-color: #f2f2f2; border-top: dashed 1px #333; border-bottom: dashed 1px #333; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px; padding: 20px; width: 300px;]The American men watching similarly noticed something was amiss, and stopped cheering immediately. Alfred grew more worried as Stefan failed to respond to his questions, noting that Stefan's companion was shouting at him. Though Alfred could not understood what precisely was being said, the fact that Dragan was struggling to carry Stefan made it clear regardless. He would have offered to help even without being asked. The blond could have easily carried Stefan on his own, though he saw no need to bring this up as he and the Serb jointly carried Stefan into the household (not that he would have been able to communicate the message with the language barrier anyway). Dragan, nevertheless, would likely notice the difference in how easy it was to carry Stefan with Alfred's help. As Alfred stepped into the house, a young American airman stepped up to offer his help. Alfred waved him off, managing a small smile of gratitude at the young man, before continuing through the house with Dragan and Serbia. He allowed Dragan to take the lead, as Dragan knew this unfamiliar house far better than he did and therefore likely knew exactly where he was taking Stefan. Sure enough, they reached a bedroom, where they set the injured nation onto the bed gently. Alfred stood awkwardly to the side while Dragan began to study Serbia's injuries. He, like Dragan, noticed the thin line of blood on Stefan's neck, seeming to cement his theory. This wasn't something that happened to him physically. A snowball fight would not result in such injuries. No, this had something to do with the war, Alfred knew it. His fists clenched, wishing that there was something he could do. He hated being in the dark and feeling helpless! His eyes could not help but dart to Dragan, wondering what he thought. Had he witnessed such episodes before? Surely he had to realize that something was peculiar about his friend's injuries. If only he could soothe his own curiosity by asking the man himself. Unfortunately, such a loaded question was hard to convey with just facial expressions and gestures, so it went unasked. As several achingly long minutes passed, Serbia's condition appeared to improve. Alfred let out a small sigh of relief -Though he was near positive that the other would pull through in the end, he could not deny that he was worried. He took a seat in a chair near the bed, brushing off the remainder of snow on his shoulder that had not yet melted as a result of the heat within the house. Alfred's blue eyes followed Dragan as he headed for the door, likely to get a few more things for his friend. It was the only thing that Alfred could think of - After all, none of Serbia's wounds had been patched up yet. This left Alfred alone with Stefan. A mild pause ensued, even with their common language, and even though Alfred usually was never at a loss for words. This situation was different, and even he recognized that. Nevertheless, he could not go against his very nature forever - Eventually he had to speak up. "How ou feeling?" Alfred asked out of curiosity, unable to stop his eyes from drifting down toward the wound on the other nation's neck. "What happened?" [/style] [STYLE= font-size:9; margin: 5px; margin-top: -30px; color: #888;] TAGS: Stefan/Serbiaxxxxxxxxxx WORDS: 564 Early 1944 [/style][atrb=style,width: 350px; background-color: #f2f2f2; border-right: 28px solid #333; -moz-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em; -webkit-border-radius: 0em 5em 5em 0em;][STYLE= float:right; color: #555; font-size: 25px; -moz-transform: rotate(-90deg); -webkit-transform: rotate(-90deg); opacity: .8; margin-top: -250px; margin-right: -122px]since I'vebeenaground[/style]

[STYLE= font-size: 9px; text-font: arial; color: #666; margin-left: -320px]By Riazey of BTN and GS[/style]