There were a lot of people that Zoe could go to to ask for help with this. She had thought of just asking Jack, but he had a habit of ruffling her hair and blowing stuff off. So, she'd put a lot of thought into this, and how she would go about it. She wasn't stupid. Even though she knew she could win a fight with Klaus, or Erik or Peter if she really tried (mostly cause he seemed afraid to hit her), and Benjamin, Henry and Fedrico were never willing to fight her.. she also knew that some actual self defense could never hurt, and she wanted to be able to really take care of herself.
Asking was harder though, Zoe had tried to do it twice at meetings, but it never seemed to work just right. She always got scared. Erik would have suggested an e-mail, but Zoe wasn't really sure she could see Natalya Arlovskaya checking a personal e-mail from someone like her. So, after a meeting, when everyone was leaving the building to head back to their hotels, Zoe slipped away from her friends and ran ahead, "Miss Arlovskaya!"
There was a bit of a silence that fell over the nations that had been walking in the same direction, a few turning their heads to look at Zoe. Natalya had stopped and turned, her brother slipping away while he had the chance, and Miss Kateryna standing just beside Natalya.
Zoe came to a slow stop in front of her, breath a not heavy, but a smile on her face, "I- I wanted to ask you something. Something important."
"What?" Natalya was eyeing her a bit, as if trying to gauge what this child could want from her.
"Well... um.." Zoe felt a bit shy suddenly, knowing that there were so many others watching them. Worse then that, she could hear Jack not too far away, talking too loudly with Alfred, like always. "Um..."
"I don't have all day." Natalya stated, her voice a bit cold, but not particularly mean.
"I was wondering if you could teach me... how to... um... fight." The words were a bit of a mess, and she lost confidence as she spoke, and Natalya's eyes stared at her, cold and pale blue and never wavering.
"Sister.." Miss Kateryna said, voice soft, looking between the two.
Zoe was half ready to be declined, but she was really not ready for the little white card that was held up for her. She took it gingerly, flipping it over to look at it, seeing the nation of Belarus' human name, e-mail and a phone number she could be contacted in, all written neatly underneath their Cyrillic forms.
It wasn't really a yes, but it was better than a no, and Zoe beamed, "Thank you!"
She didn't get an answer, just a quick nod, as Natalya turned on her heel, and began to walk again. Miss Kateryna paused, then smiled at Zoe, "Just e-mail her, she'll talk to you through that- she's much sweeter that way!"
Zoe doubted the sweet thing, but if it was a chance to be able to ask and talk and figure out when would be best for them both, Zoe would take it without complaint.
Angelique was only three when her mother passed, so she didn’t much have any memory of her. Being so young, she only vaguely could grasp at the feel of being picked up and held by a woman who smelled like summer flowers and freshly baked bread. She knew, of course, what her mother looked and sounded like, she could find that in pictures and home videos… her family told her stories about her, about her cheery personality and gentle touch, but they weren’t Angelique’s memories.
The other kids at school pitied her for it. They told her how weird it was she didn’t have a mommy, and always asked why she didn’t have one, why didn’t she get a new one. One of the boys in class said that when his mommy left, his daddy got a new girlfriend and she was just as good as his mommy had been, so shouldn’t Angelique have a new one by now?
But she didn’t want a mommy. She didn’t feel like she needed one. Viane helped her with all the girly stuff Papa didn’t know quite how to do, and her Papa really didn’t seem to need much help, anyway. She didn’t feel like she was missing out. Not when she was so happy with her family as it was. With or without a mommy involved.
They had things just right, adding someone new would just ruin it. What if Papa liked the new woman more than he liked her or Viane or Mattie? What if that new mommy was like the new mommies in all the movies and stories, mean and cruel as soon as Papa looked away, and only sweet and nice when he was right there? What if they were horrible and pulled her hair too much when they brushed it like Viane did sometimes, or didn’t know how to cook or tell stories? What if they yelled a lot?
No, Angelique thought her family was just fine. They didn’t need a mommy.
She liked Papa’s cooking, and Viane doing her hair. She liked when Mattie told her stories from his story books, and she liked when they all did things together, like going to the park or watching movies or even just staying home and doing nothing.
It was good like it was, and at the age of six, she didn’t want it to change. So, after spring break, when all the kids went back to school for that short stretch before summer break, when a little girl with long red hair told Angelique she needed a mommy or her family wasn’t complete, Angelique pulled her hair so hard she cried, and the teacher had to put her in time out, but no one in class mentioned it again, and that red haired girl was moved to a seat on the other side of the room, and Angelique felt rather proud of herself until Papa scolded her for hurting someone else.
She wouldn’t say what she’d done, and she didn’t get dessert at dinner that night because of it- but that was okay, because she didn’t much like chocolate ice cream. And the next time she went to school she apologized to the other girl for pulling her hair, so the grownups would be happy, but they both knew she didn’t mean it, and that she’d do it again if they all kept picking on her.
Viane had accepted the invitation to play poker before she'd realized just who all would be there. Of course, she likely would have done so anyway, given how hopeful Angelique had been when she'd asked her, all bright smiles and rapid gestures about how it would be such a great idea. She didn't mind it, really, poker was her strong point, if Viane had any, and she knew she could wipe the floor with any nation who tried to beat her at the game.
Miss Natalya had mentioned earlier that she was quite good at poker. And ideally, Viane supposed, she was. Certainly, she had the 'poker face' down just right. However, she had other, small ticks that an untrained eye might not have caught. Viane could tell whether she had good cards or not, not by the expression on Miss Natalya's face, for it never seemed to change... but by the slightest twitch in her fingers when she got a card she wanted, the way she tapped her cards on the table when she got one she really didn't.
Viane had the game in the bag, her hand was excellent, and everyone else had pulled out by this point. She had carefully avoided going directly against Miss Natalya, not sure what the other nation might do if she lost. She had taken it well when Miss Erika had managed to get a good hand- but who could really react poorly to Liechtenstein? Viane feared she might not get away so easily. She watched uneasily as Angelique pulled back, and Miss Anh Diu did the same.
Her eyes flickered over to Miss Natalya, nervously, trying to catch something else. Anything else that might tip her off to the other nation's state of mine, but other than having picked up that she'd gotten a bad hand, Viane couldn't decipher. She was being watched by the others, they were waiting for her to lay her hand down, and it was only a great deal of talent and years of practice that kept the shake from her hands and the fear from her face.
Finally, Miss Natalya gave an annoyed huff (Viane had to work not to flinch), and laid down her cards. It wasn't as awful a hand as Viane had feared, but now she had no choice. Laying out her own for the others to see, Viane watched Miss Natalya nervously, fearing she'd lurch across the table- Francis had told her she'd done that once at a meeting, and Viane was not very good at confrontations, certainly not physical ones. It didn't happen though, Miss Natalya collected her cards, and added them to Angelique's to be collected with all the rest, and pushed the small pile of chips in Viane's direction.
That seemed to be it.
Viane gave a quiet sigh of relief, and brushed off the confused look Angelique sent her way, trying to collect herself, as Miss Erika asked if anyone would like to play again.
It was technically nice to see that Klaus was making friends- Roderich had had high hopes, after all, two of them were related to Arthur, and Arthur always had a good head on his shoulders- well, most of the time. But the yelling coming from the micronation's room was loud enough to interrupt Roderich's afternoon piano practice. He just couldn't focus with it!
The door to Klaus' room was open, as was expected when he had guests, and Roderich was surprised to find Peter and Erik standing in the hall, looking annoyed, peering into the room. When Roderich looked himself, he could finally separate the yelling from one loud noise to two separate voices.
Standing in the center of the room, Klaus was red in the face, hair a little frazzled, his fists clenched around a sketchbook and a dripping paint brush. In front of him, Zoey stood, just as red faced and just as loud, looking about ready to tackle the boy for her book back.
"It isn't right!"
"It's ART. You can't do ART wrong." She snapped back.
"You can and you ARE. This isn't ART, it's a mess of colors that don't even go together! You have no actual plan here! Just blurred colors!"
"It is not just blurred colors! Just cause you're too stuck up to see it for what it is, doesn't mean it isn't art!"
Roderich gave an aggravated huff, not really wanting to get between the two, especially when Klaus flung his arm forward and splattered green paint against Zoe's pink jacket. Erik snickered at his side when Zoe finally flung herself at the silver-haired micronation. Klaus gave an panicked yelp as they both fell to the ground in a mess of limbs and the book was flung aside.
Later, when Elizabeta was helping Roderich get the paint stains out of his gloves and off his face, while Klaus sulked in his room with a bruised cheek over losing a fight to Zoe, Roderich would decide he preferred when Klaus was more prone to being a loner.
"You," Natalya stated, voice the only sign of her annoyance, "Have no idea what true cold is."
"I do!" Erik stated, glaring at her with no sense of fear. "Far better than you."
"Tell me, little boy," Natalya spoke, her voice suddenly as cold as the air around her seemed to be, "Have you ever felt death nipping at your toes and fingers?" She moved close, "Have you ever felt fear over whether or not there will be enough firewood to keep the heat for the night? To be stuck in the snow with no foreseeable hope of finding so much as a spark of warmth even when you left the outside?"
Erik gulped, and took a nervous step back, and she moved to match it, and he found himself looking for anyone else. Peter or Zoe, or Papa Tino or Berwald, and found himself alone, even Klaus had disappeared from where he'd been just moments before at Erik's side.
"I.. I..." The answer was no. Sweden was cold, but Erik was young, he'd never truly known the cold of winter like the older nations did. Even before he'd been found, he'd been well taken care, and the internet lacked any sense of hot or cold. Just codes and numbers and screens. When he came out in winter, it was always to a warm and cozy house that kept the cold of winter firmly outside.
"Belarus."
Both micronation and nation turned to look and see Tino standing a few feet away, Berwald just behind him. It was Tino who moved forward, stepping between Erik and Natalya, and Berwald who rested a hand on Erik's shoulder. Erik didn't shy away for once, instead leaning back into the safety of the other's touch.
"I think it would be best if you went to rejoin your brother, don't you?" Tino's voice was cold, enough so that Erik shivered away from it, and Natalya eyed him for a long time before turning on her heel, hair whipping out around her in a whirl of platinum blonde, before she stalked off. When Tino turned to face him again, he had that same soft sweet smile that Erik preferred, "You have to learn to pick your fights better, Erik."
Erik nodded, solemnly, averting his eyes. In the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Klaus and Peter, not too far away, peeking around a corner, looking relieved.
He thought for sure he was losing his mind. He’d wake up out in the woods with blood on his hands, or curled in a corner of his house, as if he was afraid something was going to get him. No one knew where he was, he’d made sure to hide well, so well his people couldn’t seek him out.
But he knew where they were. He could feel them dying, fighting, burning.
It wasn’t like the pain he’d felt in the Revolutionary war or the war of 1812. Nothing like when he’d fought against Arthur and Matt. When it wasn’t his people killing his own people. That he’d been able to take. It hadn’t ached like this.
He could hear their yells and cries, echoes in his head that got louder with each passing day.
He wanted to go deaf.
Never in Alfred’s life had he so longed for silence. For numbness.
The pain he felt now was worse then the burn in 1812 when Matthew burnt his white house down in retaliation- it was worse then when he held Arthur at gun point and demanded his freedom all the while hating himself for hurting someone he’d cared so much about. He woke up bleeding and burned and so badly broken that some days he didn’t move.
Some days, he fought with himself. Yelling at himself for picking sides, and day to day the side he chose changed. Was he with the North or the South? He couldn’t say. But he yelled at himself, hurt himself, he couldn’t tell half of the time if the injuries inflicted on him were from battles being fought by his people, or during the brief blackouts he suffered alone in his cabin, waking up with the iron poker from the fireplace in one hand, red hot, and a vicious burn on his skin, or a bloody knife and words etched into skin in vibrant wet red letters.
Matt was the one that found him. Half way through the war, his brother came down and looked for him- found him the same way he’d always been able too. That bond as children they’d had before they were split up, before Spain and England and France and all the others had seen their lands. When they were alone, just them.
He showed up at the cabin one day to find Al laying on the floor, clothes soaked in blood, and looking battered, muttering to himself about freedom and slavery and goddamned fucking yanks and fucking greedy southerners. And god, did it hurt. Matt cleaned him up, and wrapped his wounds, and not once did Al snap out of it to see he was there. The American hissed like a rabid cat and whined like a kicked dog, threw insults at people that weren’t there and when he did finally realize and react to Matthew’s presence, it was only to lash out.
He yelled and screamed and cried until his throat hurt and the salt from his tears burned down his face. And Matthew waited, listened and stayed still, until Alfred dissolved into apologies and weak insults.
By the next day, Matthew was gone, and Alfred was lost to voices and images and didn’t know if his brother had been an illusion or not. He didn’t hear from him again, though he thought for sure he’d seen blue-violet eyes and felt that gentle touch between blood red stains and blistering burnt skin that filled his dreams and bombarded him every time he closed his eyes.
Alfred had lost his mind. From 1861 to 1865, he lived in a constant state of confusion and violence and self destruction. And when it ended, he was pale and weak and scarred. But he smiled and laughed and tried to forget those years and the horror that they’d created and hoped it would never happen again.
He was told he had an accent by most people he talked to. Even people in Germany, they all heard that odd sound added to his words, and they were always confused by it. People who could usually tell an Austrian accent from a Swiss accent, were always especially confused by his.
There were so few people left who could name his accent at all. They tried, and he let them, it was fun to see how many things they’d guess at. But it usually went south. When they began to name other nations languages, when they looked at him for some hint of being a foreigner, he always started to feel a bit down. And when he finally said, “It’s Prussian," the responses that came ("Is Prussian a language?" or “Aren’t you a bit young to speak prussian German?" and worst of all from the younger people, “What’s Prussian?") always left him depressed for days.
If he had less pride, he’d probably try and match his brother’s speech more, cut out the differences. Since he hadn’t lost that pride, though, he kept it, and just made himself walk away before getting too sad or angry when people couldn’t figure out his accent.
(I think this is actually really inaccurate… but I don’t know for sure since I’ve never heard the difference between Prussian-German and German-German. >.>)
The day he leaves, Amelia cries for the first time since
the night his birthday was drawn in that goddamned
lottery, tears flowed freely with not even an attempt to stop them. She had tried to convince him to run away, to go- she had friends in Canada, he could stay with them, and be safe.
But Al was stubborn, it was a quality they shared. For once, though, they don't part ways with screamed words and slamming doors. She hugs him so tight the air is dragged from both of them, clings and buries her face in his shoulder. She could feel his tears as they fell on her neck, it made her hold him all the tighter. The idea of him leaving like this was terrifying, loosing a piece of herself for some stupid war.
If she could have, Lia knew she would have taken Al's place. But even if they could have, he never would have allowed it.
When he pulled away, Al's eyes were red, and his face was wet with tears. Her hands shook as they reached up with a handkerchief to wipe his face dry.
"Write me," Her voice shook worse then her hands, but her eyes met his and didn't waver, "Be strong, and come home."
He nodded, but didn't say anything. He was close to crying more, and for the first time since they were little Lia had nothing she could say or do to make it easier. She couldn't take his hand and offer him a place to hide from this thing that scared him, he couldn't hug her and erase the fear in her. All he could do, is give a weak, watery smile, that she mirrored.
Amelia's hands slipped away from him as he turned to board the bus that would take him to where he would be trained. As he disappeared onto it, all she could do was stand there and watch, think of the brother who still woke her up in the middle of the night afraid of ghosts, of the way he'd blushed the first time he'd confessed to holding Madeline Williams' hand in 9th grade like he'd done something scandalous. Her brother, who'd never held a gun in his life, and tried to be the best person he could, and who was no going to fight pointless war for a country that he loved, but likely wouldn't remember his name.
She stayed at the station until the bus was gone, and others had come and gone; not wanting to go home, she sat on a bench and waited until an hour had passed, then two... eventually she got up and went home, to a mother who had yet to stop crying and a father that didn't know what to say.
