Crossing Borders [Hetalia]

десять - she who is not a soldier

The day's turmoils are finished, beaten back by the rays of slanting moonlight that cast whimsical shadows across the weathered wooden floor of the Russian home. It's become common knowledge - even to the ignorant Alfred and Valentina - the horrors faced by Ivan in these past hours. And Alfred - never one to forget his grudge against the country for his former communist ways - was even the first to express his sympathies for the man after the pair had witnessed him slinking back into the house some time ago. He disappeared into a vacant room and hasn't resurfaced since.

Valentina sits at the windowsill, her nose pressed against the frosty glass; it fogs over with every gentle breath puffed from her lips, obscuring her view of the village for a moment before it dissipates. Without a veil of clouds to restrain it, the moonlight glitters brilliantly off the ice and snow speckling the treetops and roads below; the village glows with the ethereal light of frozen flames.

The Russian home's other residents have all since turned in for the night, leaving Valentina the only one awake now at close to midnight.

Her thoughts have been wandering for hours, picking through topics absently, events of the day clamoring for attention. Her hangover still lingers in her throbbing temple and churning stomach. She's refrained from barricading herself in the bathroom for the past several hours, though, so she supposes that's progress. 

The night is still, stagnant, even; so terribly breathless that she finds it difficult to occupy her attention for more than a few, fleeting moments. She's unable to pin down a single thought for closer examination, and nothing serves as an adequate distraction from her inconstant musings. 

Valentina hasn't been this restless in ages. Her time in this house has brought her peace of mind and a light heart; now, however, it feels as though a string around her heart has pulled taut, bringing it down to the depths of some murky sea.

Why is that? she wonders, twisting in her seat to brace her back against the frosty window. What should be so different about tonight? I don't believe it's the alcohol, though Arthur told me it's a depressant... Something's changed. I'm not sure what, but... Wrangling in her uncooperative thoughts, she casts her mind back to the day's beginnings - no, further back, to the day before. The day had been eventful, certainly, but to such an extent that her nerves had yet to calm? No, something else...

"...it must be nice, to have someone go so far for you, to love you so unconditionally..."

She starts, a hand pressing over her jolting heart, eyes darting about the room in search of the whisper's source, only to realize it's her own voice, calling to her from a forgotten moment of her walk with Ivan. The alcohol had brought with it a curtain of roiling fog that blanketed her memories of recent days, wiping clean her euphoric, drunken slate. But this - this memory, stirs something in her chest, a feeling so achingly hollow it steals the breath from her lungs as compensation.

Loneliness. 

Even now, immersed in this Russian world with company round every corner, she is no stranger to this feeling of isolation. But this is different. A deeper, darker loneliness, so eternal, so ingrained into her psyche, she thinks it a miracle she hasn't gone mad with grief.

Is this... who I was before? 

Was I... this desolate, this wanting for another's voice?

I can hardly breathe... Such an oppressive loneliness... 

The sill creaks.

Valentina becomes aware of a heat source pressed casually to her side, of something soft draped snuggly around her neck. Her hands are trembling, her teeth chattering. In an instant, she's curling into the warmth beside her in an unconsious attempt to suppress the shiver rolling down her spine. A chuckle seeps through the veil of quiet, quirking her quivering lips into a tender smile even as her cheeks flame with embarrassment.