Tʜᴇ Isʟᴀɴᴅ Iɴ Bᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ

Dᴏᴡɴ Fʀᴏᴍ Tʜᴇ Bʀɪᴅɢᴇ

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 11

Russia stared into the calm water below.

The blue ripples chugging past, parting against rocks, dragging leaves and sticks in its path. The gurgle of a small waterfall bellowed from elsewhere, the rush of water in his ears— the beat of the Sun on his skin.

He shuffled his weight onto the other leg. Hands meeting each other with loose fingers, a cigarette between two. Ash fell slowly, then became entrapped in the waters current, following it downstream.

He leaned his elbows further on the bridge, hunching his shoulders as he sighed, taking another pull.

From way below him, in the race of the water, he could see his own reflection— his white eyes staring up at him, as though it were someone else.

The day was resplendent, the Sun high, the birds chirping, the water warm.

But he was opposed.

Today was his first meeting in the UN since his father died. His first time having to speak for himself, in front of so many like him— yet so glaringly different.

He dressed up well for the occasion— a black and white wool suit he inherited from his father. He wanted to look presentable, so they thought much more of him. So he could sit back after it was all over and feel proud he was him— not anyone else.

For the past ten minutes, he had been stood there, going through cigarette after cigarette, practising what to say to the other Countries over and over again— until it was all he could hear in the back of his mind.

But all the good that did him was make him more nervous. He had gone in before, sure, but back then he was there with his father, a hand at the cuff of his pockets, his face hidden behind the older man's legs. Back then he didn't have to speak, but now, as he stood there, waiting for his anxiety to quell like it was a dying fire, he knew he would have to introduce himself.

All his brothers did— but that didn't make him feel less jittery.

He could feel his heart pounding in his head and his mind aching in his stomach. He could feel the grass under his dress shoes, the bridge under his elbows, the smoke in his eyes.

He could feel the breeze and the Sun on every inch of his skin— over the expense of his tailored suit.

He had to calm himself before he went in, he couldn't let anyone see him so worked up. What time was it anyway? It must be nearing the moment he would have to introduce himself to everyone— new and old, those who had met him as a child and those who were as new as he was.

Russia closed his eyes and drew a breath of his fag, the shadow of someone else falling to his left.

He opened his eyes again, and looked to see the person next to him.

"It's a lovely day, isn't it?"

You smiled at him, a pastry in your hands, your back against the bench the two of you sat on together. Russia parted his lips to answer, but was cut off by your excited voice exclaiming, "Red!" As another coloured boat sailed past.

Russia looked back out to sea, the waves bet against the body of the little rowboat— a crimson dot against the vast blue of depths beyond land. "It is." He answered, watching as the little rowboat went on— drifting like the clouds in the sky, off to some unknown land, its journey easy.

As an oddity to winter— it was a lovely day. The Sun couldn't stop smiling— hadn't stopped since he arrived. Clouds were thin and sparse, more like decoration in the blue sky than anything more. Jewels stitched into a garment of cobalt linen far above the reach of hands. The waves quiet and calm, lapping at the alcove— swinging by its lonesome at the horizon.