Crossing Borders [Hetalia]

четырнадцать - crime and punishment

A war is raging.

It's not a physical war, mind you (though of course there always seems to be several of those going on out in the world), but a wild storm inside the head of one recently comatose Valentina, who, admittedly, is handling the strain rather admirably. 

She's been reduced to a huddled mass curled up among the forest of blankets atop Toris' bed, her head burrowed beneath a mound of pillows Alfred pilfered from a nearby closet - but it's admirable, according to Arthur. 

"With the amount of pressure those memories are exerting on her mind, we're lucky she woke up at all," was his reasoning. It did little to ease the worry gnawing at nearly everyone's stomachs.

The war is uncomplicated, a straightforward battle of wills involving the past and the present. 

Siberia is screaming, begging her to reconsider her feelings for the Russian, to remember his wrath and his terror, to seek recompense and flee.

Valentina, the girl who can only claim a name through Ivan's influence, whose only sense of comfort and warmth comes when Ivan is close at hand, is firm in her stance that their feelings are just and sound and that he should be given a clean slate, just as they were, if only temporarily. 

And the girl, the oh-so unlucky girl without a name, the very same who collapsed in the snow and welcomed the blissful, quiet darkness, without a clue as to who she really was, is trapped in a tug-o-war of feuding partisans. Her throbbing head whips from side to side, both coaxing voices equally as convincing, both equally as demanding. 

Who to listen to, who to listen to?

She throws her body to the side, sending an avalanche of pillows to the ground in the process. Her arms flop down on either side of her, then curl inwards as she gives in to the urge to rub tender circles into her temples again.

Why was everything so much simpler when I was ignorant? Isn't knoweldge supposed to lessen one's suffering? 

No, no, that's not what I should be lamenting...

Why did I whine so pitifully to Ivan about my missing memories?

Ah, yes, if only she'd refrained from acting like a child and burdening Ivan with all her troubles, she could have continued on without this jagged knife ripping her thoroughly in half. She allows her lashes to fall, tangling as they meet the damp lashes lining her lower lids, unable to raise them again.

The exhaustion is potent to the point of acting like poison, dulling her senses, numbing her limbs. 

The words form on her lips, but pass no further: "I can't endure this much longer."

"At last! We agree on something!"

The girl's eyes fly open and a world of pure white greets her. Vile, violent winds whip glittering ice around her, cutting through the thin material of her dress and eliciting a cruel shiver from her battered body. The gray sky above her brings with it the promise of bitter cold and clogging snowstorms.

She stumbles forward a few steps, her bare feet wading through the knee-high snow with little ease. Clutching the sweater close around her, she lifts her head, squinting through the veil of ice.

A lone figure stands opposite her, looking none-the-worse for their surroundings. They're wrapped up in a heavy gray coat that somehow resists the wind's incessant tugging to remain securely against their body, as well as thick, dark pants that disappear into the snowfield. She can't see them, but the girl can imagine the fur-lined boots encasing the stranger's feet, warming their fiercely curled toes despite the conditions.