Magyar gently prods the small girl forward. She looks unwilling, a pout gracing her tiny lips. She leans on her spear, fancily decorated with feathers. She wears a shield on her back and there is a sword sheathed at her waist. She is dressed traditionally, ready for battle.
"Eliza, this is Roderich." Roderich is Austria, stoic and calm. "He is your new teacher."
She scowls and tries to climb back onto Magyar's back. Her tiny fingers are still encased in Magyar's hand as he fades away, leaving her with Austria. This is Elizaveta; Hungary.
She grimaces, reluctantly returning to Austria, a young teenager.
He bows low, catching her hand and gently pressing his lips to it. She immediately yanks it away, holding it to her chest as if it were wounded.
"Stop that," she commands with disregard before she storms away.
Austria follows her, for she is lost and only he can show her the way.
Please, he cries. She turns, fear written into her otherwise harsh stare. She is alone without her 'Grand-pa'.
He wants to help, so he grabs her hand again. They are both young, but Roderich is more mature. He has seen other girls, but they act shy and giggle with him. They wrap themselves around his words, not learning anything, their empires falling when he leaves.
He always leaves. He is only a teacher; and lessons aren't meant to last forever.
Elizaveta has a different kind of beauty. She is not artificial and pink, she is a survivor. She has seen many things and fought many battles in her youth, but her innocence shines through regardless. Because of this, her mind is large. It is an idiosyncrasy, different than others. She is unknowledgeable about politics and the world. She views others as something to be conquered, something she knows she is capable of.
She lets him lead her away, slightly respecting the amiable man.
They spend countless days inside. He teaches her etiquette and manner. He teaches her about the earth and history; what came to pass while she and Magyar were pillaging through what is now Europe.
She is jealous of the kids who play outside, their voices drifting through the open windows. Roderich assures her (warns her) that staying inside with him is better.
In truth, he is scared, nervous by the excitement in her eyes. He is also afraid of going outside, panicked of being lost in the mass. Would she forget about him? Most likely, yes. When there are new and provocative things to focus on, he will become forgotten (yesterdays news).
Instead of complying with her wishes, Roderich teaches her about what is happening out there. He tells her about America's rebellion, making it sound however, tasteless and dull. He fears indulging her and spiking an outbreak of her own. She smiles, oblivious, happy with the stories of gallantry anyways.
He teaches her how to play the piano. He guides her fingers across the keys, over and over again, but she cannot pay attention. The notes and keys are meaningless to her and she cannot make the music play the way she wants to. She continues to try anyways, because Roderich tells her what is right.
They are growing up slowly; days spent lying in the sun that comes through the large windows. Roderich is almost finished his teaching. Lessons are no longer tiring and perpetual, but are rather distinct and new. Each exercise brings new experience for both Roderich and Elizaveta.
He is teaching her how to be refined, remaining aloof; how to act in front of others. Elizaveta is reluctant, but she gives in and lets him show her how to be proper. In turn, she shows him how to let himself go when they are alone. She smiles when he is flustered, for even he is not perfect. Together they learn to see again and are viewing the world anew (this time eyes wide open).
They soon forget about the open windows and the others outside. They forget everything as they are tumbling over each other, lips on cheeks, necks and mouths.
Elizaveta forgets the nervous teacher he has been, while Roderich compares the betrayed nomad, but a child then, to the young woman she has blossomed into.
The soft plinking of keys sends Roderich to the parlour, where Elizaveta has taken up the piano again. She sits nervously, afraid to make a mistake and incur Roderich's harsh admonishment. She strikes the wrong key anyways and flinches as Roderich slides behind the piano with her. Instead of scolding her, he quietly removes her fingers and replaces them with his own.
She is wearing a casual dress, something that is not traditional attire. She has finally relaxed, he notices. She fears the threat of war no longer, safe on Roderich's arm.
He begins to play.
Elizaveta smiles delicately and closes her eyes. She is brought back to a time before, when she was fighting beside Magyar. She remembers the touch and intimacy between herself and her short-handled sword. She yearns for that bond again, but knows she cannot go back.
She is no longer a little girl. She is a lady; and that is how she must show herself, no matter the restless thoughts inside.
Carefully, she smoothes out the front of her dress and tenderly, she rests her head on Roderich's shoulder.
There is a hitch in his playing and his face has grown hot with the sudden affection, but he continues playing collectedly. For she is a lady and he is a gentleman, cool and rested.
They sit side by side, their time together a melody strung across the wind.
…
The final test has been set.
It is the turn of the world, a lavishly decorated ballroom. She dances softly, properly, with Roderich, for this is how they must present themselves to others; pulled together (not restless, as they are when they are alone).
His hand lies on her hip; she smiles shyly up at him. Good girl, he thinks.
He feels her thoughts and knows she is restless still. He senses danger when her eyes flicker away, for a second, only a second. (But a second is all that is needed).
Panic engulfs him, although his face remains passive. If only he had done more, if only there was more time, he wouldn't face this now. The ornamental finesse he had carefully woven was unraveling. She was curious and has no more immediate need of Roderich.
His tapestry had frayed; and was now falling apart.
Softly she draws out of the dance. Their time is coming to a close. She offers him an apologetic smile, showing him that she will be fine, before being immediately whisked into another dance by Germany, who is always serious about his actions.
Roderich is positioned in the middle of the floor, standing without a partner. He is powerless to stop her, but he feels remorse for letting her go. He feels regret and disbelief that she would sign away what they had so quickly. Her radiant figure disappears into the crowd and he wishes he were different, so he would not keep this façade as he watched her walk away.
The party has only just begun, with much more to come, and Roderich is alone once more. He is beguiled by the whirling mass and of bodies and colours. He cannot clear his mind, troubled by thoughts of the woman who had walked away from him.
He watches the dancing couples, around and around the dance floor, stepping in time to the same routine. He spots Germany, solemnly waltzing with Feliciano; Italy. But where is Elizaveta? Is she alone again?
Roderich cranes his neck, worried for the small nation. Although it hurt, he still felt her with him.
There. Her head bobs swiftly, moving at a faster pace than everyone else's. He moves to her, thinking she might be in trouble, but when he sees flashes of Ivan's hand on her waist, he stops and turns away. He misses the look of distress flashing across Elizaveta's face as Ivan grips her hand too tightly.
Roderich removes himself from the floor, unable to stop his infatuation with her.
But, then she is there, standing in front of him. He is no longer alone with his thoughts. He has sudden relief, taking in the sight of her. What strikes him now, though, is the difference. She has been ripped from life again. She is no longer the lady he moulded her to be, Ivan has torn that down. She is also not the brutal nomad she used to be, no, she left that behind when she first accepted Roderich's hand. She is broken, but only she can fix herself the right way.
Her dress has been stained with blood and wine, representing the many savage battles she has waged. Her hair is tousled and her eyes are tired, hands twitching nervously.
"I want to go home Roderich." She whimpers. Ivan, the powerful Russia, shifts through the crowd, grin unrelenting. His eyes are hungry.
Roderich fixes him down with a steely glare, making him slow, eventually coming to a halt.
The clock chimes midnight.
He reaches out his hand, almost as if to take hers. Her face is flooded with relief as she stretches out her own hand, to grasp his. But instead of clutching her hand, to lead her away, Roderich takes it lightly and bows low to the ground. He places his lips gently along her knuckles and releases her hand again. Just like when they first met, but this time Elizaveta is not the first to pull away.
Her eyes speak of betrayal and hurt. He remembers those looks well. Her mouth forms the word 'why'…
He bows again, turns gracefully on his heel; and walks out. His lesson has finally come to an end.