The hour was almost upon them.

Hundreds of thousands of men were lined up, dressed in soldier's gear with rifles and rucksacks slung across their backs. Many hugged their wives for what they believed would be the last time; many promised their children they would be home before they knew it as great heroes—defenders of their homeland, beloved by all. Songs and stories would ring out to the heavens above upon their return!

But as Ivan watched from the third story window, the gravity of the situation was a stone in his heart. History was bound to repeat itself; that was something he learned and learned fast throughout his many years of life. Wars were inevitable and humans, amazing, confusing, and determined as they may have been, were fragile. Their lives came and went in the blink of an eye. Generations passed; the children of yesterday were the hardened grandparents of today no longer fit to serve and it was their grandchildren wearing the uniforms of their country—of his very being—ready to pay the ultimate price.

So many of these men would not be returning.

Not even thirty years had passed since the Great War had nearly destroyed him. The casualties became too many to count and as families mourned the losses of their loved ones—many of whom whose bodies still were never recovered—he felt the pain of not only the loss of life, but the sorrow that death carried with it straight down to his core. So many men, young men, good men, perishing needlessly in a war neither he nor his people wanted. So many lives lost, so much suffering at the hands of a ruler who refused to listen to the public. A ruler who was entirely incapable of leading. The numbers reported did not do them the justice they deserved; all they had were friends and family who kept them alive in memory and himself, for every single death, whether it was reported or not, affected him.

Such heavy losses not only drained him of his physical strength, bringing him the closest to mortality he had ever been, but had severe adverse effects on his mental health as well. A country torn by war and then brought to its knees by internal fighting and civil unrest almost immediately afterwards…

It seemed like a moment of respite was out of the question. Could he survive another set of heavy casualties? Could he bear the weight of years of fighting and exhaustion again after such a short time?

Do they deserve this? Should I not have been able to do more for them? What has changed since then? Again I will watch another group of my men depart on their very own death march.

The group standing before him now, waiting, was hardly discernable from the men who stood in their place thirty years ago. Soldiers always wore the same expression in one way or another. They carried themselves the same way. Then and now…were they not supposed to be making progress?

If only you were not so full of yourself, you would have considered this before it ever happened. Then I would not be standing here now, watching more of this.

He had seen more than enough death throughout the past four decades alone to last a lifetime.

Was it right? Was it right for him to demand they give their already short lives for a man who death couldn't touch? A man who was eternal, a man who didn't even exist? Wasn't it the duty of the country to protect their citizens? If he could fight the invading armies single-handedly, he would. If he could give these men another day, another hour with their families, he would. This inability to do anything manifested itself in the form of helplessness eating away at him from the inside out; it was a disgusting feeling he absolutely abhorred.

Is there nothing I can do…? Have I been so weak that I can do nothing but constantly fail them? They deserve better than this.

His boss had made it clear there was no other way. All available fighters were to be sent to combat the enemy offensive and nothing short of unwavering loyalty would be accepted. Most were expected to perish—as far as the higher-ups were concerned, they were expendable—and anything short of giving their life and their all in the battles to come were considered acts of treason.

For Russia, for glory, for life as they knew it, they either took their last breath or returned a hero.

Even still, there must be something within my power to do. One last thing.

If he was in their position, what would he want? What would ease his nerves before marching into the great unknown? What would give him the strength to do whatever had to be done to survive?

Stopping this was out of the question. Whether he liked it or not, his boss was superior to him; whatever orders he gave had to be carried out even if it meant forcing back his own personal opinions on the matter.

Stopping this meant that he capitulated; that Russia would roll over like a pathetic dog and allow the Germans to have their way with him.

Stopping this meant his destruction—the one he only narrowly managed to avoid thirty years ago.

He stared out at the sea of soldiers lined up in the street, barely able to decipher anything as the countless voices blended into a hum in his ears. His fingers unconsciously curled around the railing, his grip getting tighter and tighter as the weight in his chest grew heavier and heavier. There was barely any time left before they set off; if he didn't act fast, he would lose his window forever.

For me you are about to make the ultimate sacrifice. I…

For him.

I will not allow any of these sacrifices to be in vain.

He hardly finished that thought when the realisation dawned on him. Himself. For centuries he had been nothing but a rumour, a legend, an idea created by his people long ago. In this situation, for these men about to stand face-to-face with death, did he not owe them that much? Did he not owe them the truth and an expression of his eternal gratitude? Keeping it a secret was no longer acceptable. They deserved to know that their homeland, that Russia himself, was with them.

Turning quickly on his heel, he hurried out of the empty room and downstairs to where the crowd of people were waiting. Families were pulling away as soldiers were being ordered to assume formations. At this rate, he would have mere minutes to say everything he needed. Trying to plan out anything would waste time he didn't have and detract from the message he would try and convey; anything that came out of his mouth had to be from the heart, no matter how difficult or foreign it may be.

Once he finally made it outside, he took his position at the forefront of the crowd and climbed up the steps of the podium where several men had finished giving speeches what felt like an eternity ago. Slowly but surely everyone began to quiet as they noticed Ivan standing before them and—save for the odd whisper here and there about the 'strange man'—gave him their full attention.

Never before did he have to reveal his identity to humans in such a manner… Would they even believe him if he tried?

Speak! You have so little time.

"I know many of you must have countless things running through your mind right now. Questions about your fate, about your families, about yourself. Some of you I would not be surprised to hear are second-guessing your position as you stand, waiting for the inevitable. Some, if not all of you, are likely wondering who I am."

He paused as a soft murmur rose up from the crowd. "It is not an easy task for anybody to stand and fight for their homeland. You all know that in your minds and in your hearts that this is no trivial thing that is asked of you. Our hopes and our future lie with you; without you, Russia will exist no more. I will exist no more."

Some of the soldiers began looking around, their brows furrowed in a mixture of thought and confusion.

"Many of you have grown up with the stories told by your parents or your grandparents of these beings who are not so easily explained. The Motherland, the Fatherland—Russia—who exist among you, walking as a human so that nobody knows who they are or what they look like. I have no doubt that some of you were told that your family members have met this very Russia for themselves. Perhaps they described to you what they looked like if they were lucky enough to meet him." At the mention of 'him,' the murmurs began to grow louder. "Or for some, they know only through another party."

There was no going back.

"For those of you who were given a description, you must know of a man with silver hair and violet eyes. A man whose presence cannot easily be explained with words," for even he does not know the answers, "yet whose presence evokes a certain feeling among humans. A man who has watched so very many of you bravely give the most valuable thing you have as a human for his sake.

"I stand before you now to leave you with these final words. I am that man from the stories—I am Russia itself, the one who has done all he could for you and now must ask for this, for your help, in return. Know that when you are out there, Russia has not forgotten you. We—myself and your fellow men—look upon you as the brave soldiers that you are. And for everything you will give for us in the fight to come, I wish for you to all know that it means a great deal to me."

This time, he stayed silent for a few moments, watching the look on the soldiers' faces change as they absorbed everything he said. "In your hearts, know that Russia is always with you."

For what was he without his people?

So it's been a very long time since I uploaded anything and I return with a short and crappy drabble.

Without going too heavy on the historical facts, this is set during WWII, centred more around the Battle of Stalingrad, one of, if not the bloodiest battle during that war. It was a massive standoff between Hitler and Stalin, the former of which would be defeated largely due to his own hubris and the constant underestimation of the Soviet armies. Despite all odds, after being initially weakened by the German army, the Soviet forces managed to hold their ground at Stalingrad until the bitter end, using down and dirty street fighting tactics to keep the Germans out of the city; after the city was reduced to rubble, the fighting still continued ( dubbed Rattenkrieg ) due to the fact men were crawling around in cellars and among the destroyed buildings, much like rats.

After quite some time and persuasion, Stalin finally agreed that new measures had to be taken, meaning that he was willing to place some trust in his generals ( after so long refusing to believe the reports they provided him and basically ignoring all advice ) He and the famous/brilliant Zhukov planned an entire offensive dubbed Operation Uranus, a series of entrapments/encirclements, maskirovka, and mobilisation of newly deployed forces that would bring about a decisive Soviet victory and with it turn the tides of the war.

Well, I guess that's still not too heavy on the facts.