Crossing Borders [Hetalia]

двенадцать - lost in time

Given that Valentina has survived months of absurdity while calling this Russian household home, it's reasonable to think that nothing would surprise her, that she should remain unblinking even in the face of their wildest schemes and Arthur's tragic relationship with the kitchen.

Fatal is actually a more apt term, but Arthur's pride is already so delicate, it's more humane to leave it as is.

In any case, no, her experience with this dysfunctional family (wherein Arthur and Alfred are the neighbors who care not for closed doors and barge in whenever they'd like) has not prepared her for the revelation that magic indeed exists and that Arthur is a "distinguished" purveyor of these magical arts. 

(That information is marginally harder to swallow than the whole in part because Alfred seems incapable of keeping a straight face while the Englishman details the extent of his powers and the nature of his magic)

Currently, she stands at the entrance to the living room, studying the faces of all those present, her expression soft, malleable for its uncertainty, as though she's unsure whether to laugh... or frown and exit the room as calmly as possible.

Before she comes to a decision, Alfred's already wrapped his fingers around her wrist and hauled her forward, plopping her down in a seat he's drawn up for the occasion. She's bombarded with his explanation of the situation, entangling his thoughts on the matter erratically into his speech and thoroughly confusing her to an extent she previously thought unreachable.

In steps Arthur, who claps the American on the shoulder and steers him off to the side, into the waiting ranks of the Baltic brothers where he can do no more foreseeable harm to the rapidly waning conversation. He smiles charmingly (and it's widely accepted that British boys have an abundance of unnecessary charm), his hands on her shoulders, comforting glimmer in his eyes. "What that dunce was trying to say" - and Alfred's eyes roll almost from his head - "is that we've found a way to help you reclaim your lost memories."

Heart stuttering, she looks inquiringly at Ivan, her brows pulling together when he only smiles and flaps a hand, her cue to return to Arthur. She does as bid, though begrudgingly, as it's unlike Ivan to interact positively with the green-eye blonde (even less likely is he to even tolerate the American for reasons she isn't quite sure of) and it worries her that something she said may have influenced him.

Swallowing the burgeoning lump stopping up her words, Valentina's form a flighty smile as she tilts her head, beckoning for the Englishman to elaborate. 

"Well, it's simple, really," he says in a tone that suggests he holds a certain amount of superiority over them, "just a small spell to unlock the memories you've suppressed. Won't hurt a bit, I promise." 

She's nodding slowing in a way that more says she's given up on understanding anything that falls from his accented tongue, and Arthur (oblivious dork Valentina's dubbed him to be) moves on, asking for her consent, as he doesn't consider Ivan to be her "guardian" and it would be "morally wrong" of him to--

"Get on with it, Iggy-brows!"

He grits his teeth, trapping his volatile tongue before it can lash out at the brash blonde hollering for him to move the show along or get off the damn stage. He's never regretted being a gentleman in his life, has even cringed when looking upon his unscrupulous past self (pirates are generally unruly and just very unpleasant) - but this bloody git has him wanting to forego his gentlemanly ways and act with all the spontaneity of a Frenchman - or die in the process because of his unholy relations to the French.

But he really is too much of a gentleman at times, brushing aside the annoyance with practiced ease, though not without a heated glare in his direction meant to render the rowdy blonde incapable of speech for a few precious heartbeats. 

It fails, a bit miserably, if pressed for honesty.

"I..." Val picks her words carefully, face scrunched awkwardly, lips moving as her bank of English words is quickly exhausted. She's always taken care to not make an utter fool of herself when speaking the language but now a slip up would only make things more problematic. "I give my consent... I think. I've said that right, haven't I?" she adds sheepishly, her lips turned up in a hesitant, anxious smile.

Arthur waves away her pleading gaze and assures her she's fine, her English is improving. "That's fine then, I suppose. So long as you understand the risks..." He can't help his next sigh. "You're sure? They could come back naturally... Yes, yes, I know I'm stalling Alfred; that was my bloody intention. I want her to be able to say no! Oh? Oh... Alright. I'll yield, just this once. Don't be so bloody persistent, Valentina, it's oddly adorable on you." Coughing conspiciously into his fist, Arthur avoids meeting Ivan's eyes, then, glancing at Valentina's expectant face, he fetches his leather-bound grimoire and thumbs through the weathered pages until his eyes skim over the spell he'd underlined earlier.

"Ah. Yes, just as I remembered. Simple incantation."

Valentina's eyes drift closed as Arthur's warm fingers tangle in her ashen hair, his palm gentle but firm atop her head, applying as little pressure as possible. Her breaths come quick and shallow, her pulse spiking, Arthur's soft, lyrical words thrumming against her throbbing eardrums, slithering through the cotton stopping up her ears. She recognizes Latin amongst more nonsensical phrases, then something more akin to her own language, rougher, potent and humming on Arthur's lips. 

And a veil of black descends over her eyes and she's falling forwards, only upright because of the pressure of Arthur's hand. Before the Englishman can make a move to support her, she's in Alfred's arms and he's laying her out properly on the couch taking up ample residence in the small side room.

All eyes turn to Arthur but he's of no help, slumped against the wall, the heels of his palms digging into his temples, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clamped together stiffly. 

Not a soul dares to move, save Latvia whose shivering has him skittering a bit across the floor.

Arthur's gasp is sharp and dominant as his eyes flutter open and he straightens. His chest heaves with every ragged exhale that shudders past his lips; rivulets of sweat dot his brow, trickle down his profile. A hand is settled above his jumping heart, as though he can't believe it's so wildly beating without having burst.

Then, in a hoarse voice that's come too soon since his last spoken word, he murmurs, "I... know who she is...."

__________________________

Dun dun DUH

I love me some cliffhangers, if ya can't tell. 

And if my recent chapters have sucked writing-wise, I'm sorry. I don't know what's up with me but I feel like these chapters are crap compared to the originals ones from this story. 

Anyway, who do you guys think Val is? What country (or city, or providence, or regions, or whatever). I'm curious if anyone can guess the correct answer~ I mean I won't tell you if you're right but hey, you'll get the satisfaction of knowing you were right when you read the next chapter. That's cool, eh?

 ------> More adorable Ivan to the side (look at that drunk cutie~)