The child in his arms stares up at him with wide, questioning blue eyes that take on a vaguely purple hue in the pale morning light. Her pure white bangs quiver furtively, like down on a young bird shielded from the world, in the frigid Alaskan breeze, and tiny crystals of ice cling to her eyelashes. Her skin looks cold and pale, smooth like white porcelain, but the brisk chill in the air brings a warm pink glow to her cheeks and the tip of her nose. She shivers, keeping her gaze fixed on him.
The round blue eyes seem to take in everything with equal fascination as her focus continually shifts to absorb every small detail, and Russia can't help but wonder if she can see it, somehow discern from his face what is about to happen.
Ivan pulls her knitted white scarf up to cover the lower half of her face, then turns her slightly toward him so that the fur-lined hood that surrounds her head like a lion's mane shields her small face from the wind. "He'll be here soon," he says quietly.
After a few seconds, she leans her head against his arm and closes her eyes.
For several minutes, they wait in silence on the bench on the side of the empty road. A snow-softened hill slopes upward behind them, and a few bare trees arch their spidery limbs over the unpaved, winding path, forming a tunnel of dark, knotted branches above them.
The bench stands at a curve in the dirt road, at the base of a narrow "U," so from his position, Ivan can see both ends of the path curving away from him until they run parallel with each other and eventually pass out of his sight, obscured by the trees. He watches the left side of the path with quiet patience, waiting for movement on the road.
The child stirs slightly in his arms, then sleepily opens her frost-sprinkled eyelids and tugs on his scarf with a small, gloved hand. "Daddy?" she says quietly, looking up at him. Her pale eyes shine with water from the cold.
"Hm?" He glances down at her.
She lowers her arm. "What're we doing?" she asks before closing her eyes again and laying her head down on his shoulder. She lets out a long, quiet breath through her nose.
"We're waiting for America," Ivan says softly. "He should be here soon."
The girl keeps her eyes closed. "What's an Amewikuh . . ." she mumbles sleepily.
Russia glances up at the left side of the path again, then looks back down at the small child in his arms. "His name is Alfred," he says after a few seconds. "He'll be taking care of you from now on, okay?" He smiles, a calm lightening of his features, before his face falls expressionless again.
"Okay," she responds, curling up on her side and shifting her head onto his arm. Her eyes remain closed. ". . . Aufwed . . ." she mumbles in a barely audible voice, gathering the fabric of Ivan's coat sleeve into her small fist.
Russia turns his attention back to the path.
By late morning, a light snow begins to fall. Tiny flakes flutter through the frigid air and settle into a thin coating on the hard dirt path, and specks of white pepper the fur lining of the girl's hood. She lays perfectly still except for the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest and the occasional flutter of an eyelid when a snowflake melts on her pale face. Her scarf has slipped down to cover only her mouth, and each slow exhale from her pink-tipped nose stirs the stray bits of fluff in the knitting.
For the most part, Ivan has kept his eyes on the left side of the bent road, watching and waiting. The soft orange sunlight that slanted onto the path this morning has vanished into a world of white, and now the sky is indistinguishable from what he can see of the horizon between the trees. The meeting time passed nearly half an hour ago, and a slight feeling of doubt has begun to eat away at his quiet patience.
Perhaps America has changed his mind? A slight smile again finds its way to Russia's face. That wouldn't be surprising . . . it's a rather useless piece of land, da? At this, he glances down at the sleeping child in his arms. I suppose I could try to contact someone else . . . there's really no use staying here any longer. He stands up with a small sigh.
As if on cue, a figure comes into view on the left side of the road, barely visible through the knotted tree trunks and the thickening snow in the air.
Smiling, Russia sits back down, and the girl stirs again and sits up in his lap, looking up at him questioningly.
Ivan points at the distant figure coming toward them along the road with long, quick strides. "See? That's America," he says quietly, then lowers his arm again. "He'll be your daddy now, okay?"
The girl's scarf slips down from the lower half of her face as she twists around to face the road. After a few seconds, she looks back up at Ivan with round blue eyes. "No," she says with a smile that rounds out her pink-tinged cheeks, "Aufwed is mommy."
Russia frowns slightly, then smiles and looks down at her. "Hm?" he says. "And why is that?"
"Ivan is daddy." She closes her eyes and lays her head on his shoulder again. "So Aufwed is mommy."
After a few minutes, America rounds the bend in the road and pushes his hood back from his head, grinning. Immediately, flecks of snow begin to cling to his messy blond hair. "So, Russia," he says as he strides up to the bench. "What's up?"
Ivan gently sets the girl down on the bench and stands up. "Oh, hello, America," he says with a pleasant smile. "A little late, aren't we?" He clasps his hands together behind his back. "I was beginning to think you had changed your mind."
Alfred shoves his hands into the pockets of his black jacket, still grinning. "Nah, just had some trouble getting here." He glances up at the branches that arch over the narrow path. "Why'd you pick this spot, anyway? It's way out in the middle of nowhere."
"Hm?" Russia says with a slight smile. "I considered arranging to meet at my house." He tilts his head slightly. "Would you have preferred that~?"
America laughs slightly, a little too loudly, and dismisses the idea with a wave of his hand. "Nah, this is good."
"I'm glad that you like it," Ivan says pleasantly. "Now . . ." He leans down and carefully picks up the girl from the wooden bench, then turns back to Alfred. ". . . I know you're young and not exactly intelligent, but . . ." He hands the child to America. "It's yours."
America takes the child, holding her with one arm under her back and one under the backs of her knees. He opens his mouth to respond, but Ivan has already turned away.
As Russia walks away down the path, the girl twists around and extends a small arm, waving enthusiastically. "Bye, Daddy!" she calls as Alfred frantically shifts his grip to keep her from falling.
Ivan pauses on the road. His pleasant smile remains unchanging as he glances back at her and raises his arm slightly to give a small wave, a slight rotation of his wrist, before turning and walking away without a word, his footsteps leaving dark prints in the gossamer layer of white on the ground. The last evidence of his presence is the trailing end of his scarf before he rounds the bend and passes out of sight.
After a few seconds, she turns her attention back to America, staring up at him with round, bright blue eyes. She extends a small, gloved hand up toward his face and gently pokes the side of his chin. "Mommy."
America frowns, but decides not to comment. His grin returns as he carefully brushes a few ice crystals from her white bangs. "Hey, Alaska!" he says. "Nice to meet you!"
The girl giggles and uses both small hands to pull her knitted scarf up over the lower half of her face. Her blue eyes shine with amusement as a grin rounds out her pink-tinged cheeks. "Mommy talks funny," she says in a muffled voice.