Canada, Russia, America, England and France were all huddled in a tight circle. Both Canada and Russia held their bloody faces, as the new nation had already torn a strip off them in her creation. Arctic was huddled in a pile of snow, looking up at her family. Her violet eyes, filled with fear, peeked up at them each in turn through her blond, almost white hair. The only way the others knew she was blond was because against the snow, her hair had a tinge of yellow in it.

"So who's gonna raise her?"

America asked. France immediately slapped him upside the head.

"Stay out of this. You think you have a cut because you own Alaska, but I'd see you burn before I gave her over to you. She belongs to Matthieu and Ivan. They will raise her."

Deterred, America shrunk back a bit.

"I vill take her."

Russia said firmly.

"But, she's my daughter too!"

Matthew protested lightly. Ivan's eyes narrowed at the younger nation. He shrunk back, but with a nudge from Francis, he took another stand. His family's support for him was seldom seen (mostly because they could seldom see him), and it definitely helped bolster his confidence. He drew himself up to his full height and everyone was a little surprised to see he was actually taller than Alfred, though not by much.

"I'll take her one week, you can take her another."

He said with a new sort of passion. It shocked everyone there but France, who gazed down proudly at his son. It had been more of a command than a question, so the other nations simply nodded. Ivan removed his coat and wrapped it around the girl, lifting her into his arms. She was far too light for someone meant to survive endless winter.

"I vill take her home first. It is closer, and shay vill get hypozermia if shay does not get varm."

The four men glared at him, suspicious and untrusting. Only Alfred was brave (or stupid) enough to test the waters

"Ya know Russia, your English sounds a lot better from the last time we 'hung out'."

Russia's look was one of cold hatred. In the wake of the collapse of the Soviet Union, the United States of America had remained a dominant military power. Russia's chance to hear the egocentric blond scream for mercy in his freezing basement while he beat him senseless had slipped through his grasp. In that moment though, he felt that opportunity coming slowly back within reach…

Sensing the possible and sudden explosion of tension drawing near, England decided it would be a good time to cut in. This day did not need to end in more blood.

"She needs a name. A human one."

Russia turned his cold stare on the short blond, who stared back, a look of indifference gracing his features, emerald eyes similarly unreadable. Russia softened his gaze. Tussling with America and battling England were two very different things; the smaller nation had once been in control of nearly the entire world for centuries simply by mastering the seas. And everyone had just gone along with it. Russia had to admit, he was a little impressed, but just a little. At the Englishman's side, America snorted, pouting. If he were to be forced to stand outside in the frozen north, then he could at least be allowed to have a little fun.

"Blanchette. Little White One."

Francis interjected while wrapping his scarf around his new granddaughter's neck. No one dared challenge him, for the serious look on his face as the oldest among them spoke. Canada sighed the sigh of relief and nearly collapsed in the snow, barely being kept on his feet by his brother. The anger and anxiety that had seeped into his bones was replaced by fatigue, but he had forced himself to stay awake long enough to watch what was possibly the most dangerous being in the world walk away with his daughter…

"Papa?"

Blanchette's voice snapped him from his day dream.

"Ques-qui'll-y a mon Puce?"

"The pain doré is on fire."

She said calmly as Matthew panicked and dropped the pan into the sink, spinning the tap to full blast and dousing the flames in cold water. A hiss and a lot of grey smoke erupted from the cast iron dish.

The pair stared at the ruined food for a moment.

"Pizza?"

Blanchette asked.

"Pizza."

Matthew confirmed with a giggle as he picked up the phone and dialled the local 241.

"Pepe's here!"

She blurted, and ran for the door. She opened the door and flung herself into her grandfather's arms.

"I haven't even knocked yet!"

Francis laughed as he snatched his granddaughter from the freezing air around them.

"Get inside Ma Petite, before you catch cold."

He told her. Inside Matthew was sitting on the couch, looking fondly at the pair through the open door.

"I hate to be a buzz kill, but you're letting the heat out."

Embarrassed, the two came in.

"Blanche, could you please put my scarf in the dryer? Merci ma chère."

Francis handed Blanche the sopping piece of material which she brought promptly to the laundry room. Inside, she stopped and took a deep breath of it. Although it was mostly wet, the dry parts smelt of Francis. It was a comforting scent, somewhere between rich red wine and dewy grass. This was the scarf he had first wrapped around her when she'd been born, and Russia had taken her away. Hesitantly, for she didn't really want to let go, she threw it in the dryer and set it for sensory dry.

She was reminded of that day, lying cold, naked, and in pain on the ice, with five blonds looking down at her. She had been afraid, so afraid. Was she dying? No, she couldn't be, she felt life in her, though it was small. But the life wasn't really in her but on her, all around, for miles and miles, little pinpoints dotting the floating mass of ice that was her. She was so horribly lost and confused...

Wait, the men were talking, but what were they saying? All she heard was the whistling of the wind, the creaking of the ice, and the sloshing of the freezing sea. She looked around; there was no sea to be had, just endless white fields of snow…What was happening to her?

She looked again to the men, they looked angry. Very angry. At her? She could see hatred in their eyes, but it wasn't for her, it was for each other. Suddenly, a coat was placed over her bare frame and she was lifted into the air by the tallest of the blonds. She breathed in his scent, a mix of sunflowers, snow, metal, and blood. She looked up at him, though he wasn't looking back. She had the feeling she should feel afraid, but instead she felt awed and safe since the first time she had woken up. She didn't know how, but she knew this man. She didn't know his name, but she knew for sure it wasn't Father.

More bickering, the air tensing and releasing, and then suddenly…

"Blanchette. Little White One."

She could hear them! More specifically, that deep, silky voice…Who's was it? A scarf was placed around her. It was his scent, she knew, the one that spoke. But he wasn't Mother. She looked at the other blonds. There. He looked so small next to the other men who radiated strength and power. His dark blue eyes reflected fatigue but also a deep sadness. She realised she was being carried away. No, she wanted to go back, she wanted to see that man up close. She was too weak to put up a struggle…

There was a small clank and a tink, catching Blanche's attention again and turning it back to the dryer.

Blanche skipped off to the laundry room and Matthew welcomed his father into his home with a hug. Francis kissed his forehead and sat down beside him on the couch.

"How has she been?"

He asked in a low voice so as not to alert Blanchette she was being talked about.

"She's good, but I get scared every time she goes to Ivan's. Each time she comes back colder, and with another useful skill Ivan has taught her."

"The knowing I'm here before I knock is new."

Francis noted, stroking his constantly stubbled chin.

"I don't know how he's doing it! Every time I ask about it she tells me it's against the rules to speak of it. It's so frustrating."

Matthew sighed and leaned into his father's chest. The wheels in Francis' head began to rotate at an amazing speed.

Knowing Ivan, he was probably training her as he would one of his Spetsnaz units. Why shouldn't he? She would constantly be fighting against invasions by Demark, Norway, Iceland, even America wanted to get his hands on her.

"She'll be fine."

He said reassuringly, though he didn't know if he believed it himself. Ivan had gotten his hands on her first, meaning she was more likely to merge with him. He had attempted to break the bond even slightly by giving Blanche his scarf, to give her his sent, and it had worked. For the time being at least.

"Ummm, Papa? The dryer's on fire."

"Again!"

"What do you mean again!"

Francis roared as he jumped up to follow his son to the laundry room. Yellow flames shot up from the dryer, much to the family's dismay.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to!"

Blanche screamed as she batted the flames with her coat. Matthew just screamed incoherently. The two voices were drowned out by the sound of the fire extinguisher.

"You're both pathetic."

Francis said bluntly, though there was humour dancing in his sky blue eyes. Blanche turned her eyes towards her father.

"Pizza?"

Matthew wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or scream, so he settled on a weak smile.

"So this happened before?"

Francis asked, brushing foam from Blanche's face.

"Papa burnt the pain doré this morning."

She said quietly.

"And let me guess, you haven't eaten yet have you."

Francis stated more than asked. The nation sighed as Blanche looked over sadly at her Papa.

"We ordered pizza, but it never came."

Francis rolled his eyes and took it upon himself to clean the laundry room while his son helped Blanchette clean herself up.

"You're coming over to my place for some food, so make sure you get all the soap out of her hair."

He called to them, as the bathroom was just down the hall.

"But Ivan's picking her up today, it's his week with her starting tomorrow."

Matthew yelled back, out of character for the usually quiet nation. Francis could hear the annoyance in his voice. He didn't need reminding that Russia was coming over again to take away his baby girl. Truth was, he couldn't blame Matthew, because he felt the exact same way, and as far as he was concerned, there wasn't any way someone could feel otherwise about Russia.

"If he has a problem with it, he'll have to go through me."

France threatened. Upon hearing this, Blanchette grew quite nervous. Ivan would have no problem going through France. Straight through.

Blanchette had always liked France's house. It wasn't so small that you felt cramped, but it wasn't so big as to have a ton of unnecessary space. The smell of Francis' cooking was wafting all over the house, and soon it became impossible for Blanche to resist. She crept down the stairs, and snuck into the kitchen, stealing a small piece of carrot from the chopping board that France had his back turned to.

"And just what do you think you're doing?"

France asked just as Blanche had reached the door on socked tip-toe. She shoved the carrot piece in her mouth and turned.

"Nothing."

She said, the vegetable pressed against her cheek.

"You know the rules Petite Blanche."

He said tapping his cheek. The young girl sighed but obliged her grandfather with a kiss on the cheek. That was always the rule of the house. If you come into the kitchen, you give the chef a kiss on the cheek. Originally it was to let him know when the kids were in the room, so he would pay extra attention to them, but now it was a challenge to see who could get by unnoticed. No one ever did.

"Supper's just about ready. Vas laver tes mai-"

"FRANCIS!"

The voice that rang through the mansion was strong. More demanding than angry, but powerful none the less.

"Ya Zdes' Ivan!"

Blanchette replied firmly, knowing it was she who was being looked for. France was somewhat stunned at her transformation. Ivan's voice could make even his knees knock together, but it seemed to call up a strength in Blanchette he hadn't expected from her, being Matthew's daughter. He wasn't the fighting sort, he knew that, but perhaps Blanchette had more of Ivan in her than he wanted to admit. The girl dashed forward, knowing the older nation had little patience.

She offered no greeting to him, simply stood at his side, arms at her side, back straight and head held high. As Russia came to a halt in the kitchen, he had almost had to duck to pass through the doorway.

Matthew came running down from the upstairs living room as soon as he heard the booming voice. He skidded to a halt beside his father, only to find Blanche standing at attention beside Ivan.

"Vhy ver you not at home ven I vent?"

He demanded.

"Pepe invited us here to eat when Papa burnt the breakfast."

Blanche explained, still not looking at Russia. The nation nodded, and turned his violet eyes towards Canada.

"Ve vill be goihink then. Here, take zis, Marushka. Your hends vill fall off visout zem."

He said, handing Blanche his leather gloves. She slipped them on, albeit they were much too big. They still held the warmth of Russia's hands. Unbeknown to Arctic, her cheeks flushed red at the feeling of what was left over of Ivan's body heat.

France managed to refrain from showing any discontentment, unfortunately Matthew wasn't so disciplined.

"What gives you the right to barge in here and leave with her! She's not packed!"

He yelled.

"Shay has clothes at my house, now say goodbye to Canada, Marushka."

Ivan said, pulling a spare set of gloves from his pocket. Blanchette crept up to Matthew and Francis and hugged them each in turn.

"At least let me pack her something to eat."

"Don't bother. It vill freeze before it reaches zee end of zee drive."

Russia said, completely shutting Matthew down. He turned and opened the door for Blanchette, and stepped out himself.

"She hasn't eaten all day!"

Francis exclaimed. Russia's cold eyes pierced into the very depths of his soul.

"And whose fault is zat?"

He asked venomously before closing the door on the defeated pair. They both stood there in the kitchen, unmoving, for some time before Matthew sunk to his knees and began sobbing.

Translation Notes:

All the french words here are translated by the writers, so they should be fairly accurate. When it comes to the russian words, we're using a translator as well as putting it into a romanized version, instead of using the russian alphebet to facilitate reading. If you spot any grammar related mistakes in our work, please message us.

Ques-qui'll-Y a mon puce? (French Slang) - What's is it my love? (Puce actually means tic. It's a term of endearment for children.)

Pain Doré (French) - French Toast (Litteraly it translates to golden bread)

Pepe (French Slang) - Grandfather

Ma Petite (French) - My little girl (Petite with the e is indicative of a female person, for a boy it would be Mon Petit)

Merci ma chère (French) - Thank you my dear.

Spetsnaz (Russian) - Russian Special Purpose Regiment (Apparently it's an acronym)

Petite Blanche (French) - Little White Girl (Again, the e at the end of both petite and blanche are indicitive of a female)

Vas laver tes mai- (French) - Go wash your han- (Francis gets cut off before he sais "mains" which is hands.)

Ya Zdes' Ivan (Russian) - I'm coming Ivan

Marushka (Polish) - Little Mary (Marushka is another term of endearment used for children. Technically this version is Polish, however variations of it are used in Russia, Austria, all those countries in that general area)