This time, Germany is hosting the meeting.
It's a vague thought in the back of her consciousness, but she is aware of it nonetheless. This one is a world meeting, not an EU one, so she is, (tentatively), welcome to come.
Of course, she knows that no one wants her there. For some she's too scary, for others- no, wait, everyone thinks she's too creepy and terrifying to be around. It's a fate she's resigned to, and one that everyone (not so) secretly pities her for.
She goes anyway. Not out of her own will, but, well, her brother is sort of a paradox in that he can't live with her, and he can't live without her. Officially, she goes because her elder brother does not fear her enough to hate her company.
It's on her way there that she encounters a field of wild flowers.
'Flowers,' she thinks as she wades through and sits herself down in the dead centre. Lost in a haze of memory, she plucks flowers from the ground and begins to weave.
Flower crown after flower crown falls from her fingertips, and before she knows it, her phone is vibrating at an almost rabid level.
She's late, but no one really wants her there, so she can afford a little 'me-time' as America would put it.
About an hour and a half after the meeting is supposed to start, she wakes from her dazed state.
She checks her phone, surprised to see that people had tried to contact her. Most of the countries did so out of courtesy, one or two concerned messages lighting her screen. Only a few bombarded her with messages and voice-mails, and she was still getting messages as she stared at the LED screen.
'BELA ANSWER DEIN GOTT VERDAMMT HANDY'
'THIS IS SOO UNAWESOME DON'T IGNORE ME!!!'
Well. That's... that's something.
There's a new fragrance in the air, and she knows it's not the flowers. The trees seem to warp, and the air feels like something solid, and, and... it's intoxicating and dizzying and reminds her of things she doesn't want to remember.
Like the sight of a burning village or two, really, they tend to blend together in memory, but the crushing weight in her chest is the same.
Or the feeling of slimy fingers, slimy in the worst way because that's not anything children should feel, anyone should feel, except maybe a doctor, and doctors shouldn't even be needed that far in.
Or the sound of hissing animals, intent on eating anything that they can find because the Russian winter is terrifying and unrepentant.
She doesn't like to remember it, the scent of death. That doesn't mean it ever leaves her though.
(Ghosts are her favorite company because they can't feel. They don't have bodies, so they don't have smells. Logically, they should reek of death, she thinks, and maybe they do.
Maybe she's used to a different kind of deathly scent to place theirs.)
That's odd. She can't smell that awful odour anymore. Yes, very odd.
She blinks, once, twice, then inhales sharply, deeply. Forgetting to breathe is a no-no. Not again, not again.
The pads of her fingers are slightly swollen from overuse, and are tender to the touch. She glances down at the wreaths she's made, and decides they are crowns fit for kings. As much of a king that a king can be, without a throne. She decides it, and so it is.
Plucking the crowns, one by one, she wears them like bracelets, to keep them safe and close until she can properly recognize her kings who have been dethroned.
She stands. Legs a bit too wobbly, heart a bit too fast, lips a bit too numb.
And makes her way out of the field.
But she can't go back the way she came.
For some reason, (that she can't really grasp), but, it has to be a good one. She thinks. She can't know for certain, but she hopes, at least. Somewhere. Deep down. Where she doesn't feel the cold.
So she ventures deeper and deeper into the brush.
Color is... tricky here, she notes, absently.
Nothing is quite as solid as it looks and everything is in a state of mutual disinterest. Almost... sad, she muses, eyes glazed, but focused on something barely there. Cuts appear as fast as they dissolve, leaving blood to stain her clothing without wounds to show for their presence.
Animals don't exist. The foliage is silent. Not the relative silence of the city, but the absolute absence of mortal life.
Nothing is alive here that can die. That... thought, is it? She doesn't really know what 'thought' is anymore. She… she? Who… who is 'she'? Her, what's the 'word,' -name? What… a 'name'? What could that be?
But she has to keep going. She needs to. Whoever this 'she' is and whomever 'she' needs to meet.
'I consume until I am broken. I am revered and feared. I am duality, yet I am a singularity. I am an existence within the all encompassing void. Who am I?'
It's not a voice. It's not… real. It is an echo, but an echo of what could have never been.
'She' doesn't know anything, but somehow the answer spills from between her numb lips, from that deep down place where she can now feel the cold, where she isn't quite that blank as to not feel anymore.
"Silence," she whispers, and chaos erupts from the air itself.
She wakes with a shudder tearing through her body. The wreaths lay abandoned at her side, and her hair is wet with dew, her fingers sticky from tree sap. Tiny braids pepper her hair, and her fingers shimmer with a raw type of magic that never dies and never lives. That only is.
Natalya stands from her bed on the forest floor, leaning on her tree companion for support.
She looks around herself, vaguely weary and overtly wary.
Closing her eyes, she collapses against the tree. And takes that handful of moments, to just breathe.
Her phone is hot. Almost hurtfully so. There are too many messages and incoming calls, and according to her carrier, her inbox is full. Her inbox is never full. She never has more than one phone call -- within a year, (which is being generous).
Not such a good idea to skip a meeting, Natalya thinks, although it is just the one. There will be plenty more in the upcoming month, all in Germany's land, back to back, each day.
She gathers her crowns once more, and, without sparing a glance to the vibrant forest behind her, breaks the tree line surrounding the field of wild flowers. Natalya makes her way through the field, and out on to the pavement. Her heels create twin clicks against the cement.
Which is weird. She doesn't remember wearing heels while standing on the soil. She doesn't-
She can only recall the feel of the damp earth between her toes, and water in her lungs, gravel in her throat, chemicals burning her limbs-
No, she does not remember wearing heels in the forest. But she does recall wearing them the moment before she waded in.
Strange.
Oh, well.
She arrives within a quarter hour at the meeting hall.
It is empty.
Lunch break, Natalya thinks, because Feliciano has Ludwig wrapped around his pinky finger, and the Italian is determined when hungry.
[She witnessed one such incident, and was subsequently sworn to silence by the German. Only by claiming it had been Feliciano's worst episode to date, (although the term 'worst' could be subjective, seeing as Ludwig seemed to almost enjoy it), had she agreed to keep her information private.]
So, yeah. Lunch.
So she sets her wreaths at her assigned spot, sits and waits.
Problem. She doesn't have a chair.
She has a spot, but not a chair. The placard that says 'Belarus' is different, too.
It has been turned face down.
As though her place had been ceded.
Huh.
Well.
"I guess I'm going out for lunch," Natalya speaks to an empty room.
The echo of her voice sounds hollow to her. She's the only one there to hear it, after all.
There's always a café the nations collectively go to when in a given country.
Preselected by her colleagues of the most refined tastes, Unser Kaffeehaus is... not horrible.
She can smell the arouma of crispy pastries and freshly ground coffee. The atmosphere is cozy, but not cramped, and the diners seem content.
She immediately orders an iced fruit tea with coconut milk, one of the few things she lets herself indulge in. She keeps track, too. Indulgence can only be a pleasure for so long until it becomes gluttonous, she believes.
She pays in euros.
Euros.
Heartbreak floods over her in a single, deadening pain, within the instant between her release of the currency and the employee's acceptance of it.
It is gone before it can show.
She is given her drink immediately. The fear in the barista's eyes at the sight of her drinking an iced beverage in the dead of winter is understandable.
She manages a smile, 'I know what I'm doing,' it says, and the poor child behind the counter returns her gesture with worry.
Although it could have been from the numerous but miniscule tears in her clothing, she dismisses the concern as one for her general health.
As she turns, her hair billowing in her motion, an audible gasp resonates from the other end of the café.
Violet eyes flicker to the stricken form of one Feliciano Vargas, somewhat surprised at the sheer attention.
But, as Natalya knows too well, the fear is responsible. The next moment, when she turns to face him, will have him cowering in fear behind his blond companion.
Once more she resigns herself to the bone grinding weight of loneliness, before fully shifting to acknowledge her acquaintance.
She is completely caught off guard by the embrace she is encased in.
(It is not a hug, either. This is a the type of embrace she gave America when he came back okay from the War, their bodies pressed together and his hand in her hair.)
He is trembling, shaking, shuddering with repressed sobs.
He's mumbling in Italian, so rapid and slight that she can't seem to grasp the meaning but the words feel so heavy, on the inside.
He is so full of emotion, so foreign, that all she could do was reach up around his neck with one arm to hold him.
Even if she tells herself it is only to halt his 'wailing,' (he's very near silent, he's never silent, but he's silent).
Natalya's neck is now damp. (She can't find it in herself to care.)
Feliciano doesn't pull himself away. It is Ludwig who pries the Italian's fingers from her side and untangles the other set from her hair.
The brunette has calmed for the most part, but still clutches her free hand in a death grip, holding it against his cheek, the occasional jarring gasp marring his placidity.
"Are you all right?" Natalya asks, out of decency and more than a bit of worry. No one just sought her out for comfort. No one wanted to be near her, really.
Feliciano swallows thickly and nods, squeezing her hand and burying his face in Ludwig's chest.
That's not really an appropriate answer, as it is contradictory on so many levels, so Ludwig takes it upon himself to explain.
"Ah, Belarus," Ludwig begins, before cutting himself off and restarting, "Fraulein," then again, "Natalya."
She is more than a bit startled, heart jumping to pound in her throat, her face coloring to a cherry red, because that's her name. No one wants to speak with her, let alone hold conversations long enough and frequent enough to be comfortable saying her name, the one she chose to call herself.
"You," Ludwig chokes a bit, holding back his own emotions it seems, and continues in a shaky voice, "have been, ah, gone, you see, for a, um - well, a while now." He takes a breath, and glances at the shaking Italian pressed to him.
Natalya is somewhat amused, a great bit touched, and a not very small part confused. "I've only missed one meeting. It could not have been that important."
Feliciano suddenly takes in a stuttering gulp of air, throwing himself back into his sobbing and trying even harder to muffle his cries, which inevitably results in Ludwig babying him and Natalya becoming even more confused.
Once Feli settles a bit, [meaning he's not hyperventilating, and is just sitting with tears streaming down his face, staring at Natalya with big, sad eyes, and curling even closer to Ludwig, Natalya asks her question with extreme care, voice barely a murmur, and hand clenching Feliciano's, "How long have I been gone?"
When Ludwig and Feliciano finally realize that they are late for the reconvening after lunch, they quickly pack up and drag her along with them to the meeting hall, (read: Ludwig realizes the time, throws a hissy fit, and Feli refuses to release her so she's still dragged along). The only problem? Well, none of the three thought to inform the others of one Natalya Arlovskaya's return.
It was the flower crowns. Those traitors.
So what the trio walk in on, is essentially, and most ably called, a shitshow. There are insults and chairs being thrown, both equally hurtful, and more than a few countries have tears in their eyes while they toss accusations and spit vitriol at each other. The only silent country is America, who kneels at Belarus's designated spot, gazing with empty eyes at the vibrant crowns surrounding her overturned placard.
It is probably obvious what happens when the door opens, and Natalya, thought dead, walks in (on those miles long legs, hot damn).