Author's blah: Hetalia isn't mine. -nodnod-


It was already night when he had knocked on her door, with his scarf fluttering by behind him as the harsh winter winds beat against his face and everything it touched. Moments passed before the door finally opened. Under the light of the moon, he could see her clearly, and felt himself smiling while doing so. She was a living porcelain doll, with her skin smooth and fair, her cheekbones well-defined and finely sculpted, her hair raven black and flowing, her lips thin, yet red, and her eyes so old, so wise, yet at the same time so mesmerizing, of a color as dark as the bottom of a deep lake.

She led him in without a smile, with small gasps escaping her breath every now and then, seemingly from pain. She walked slowly, with a queer grace to it, and he trailed behind her patiently, letting her lead the way.

At long last, they reached a room by the end of a hallway, and upon entering it, she immediately sat down, whispering what sounded like curse words rapidly. He, on the other hand, remained standing, whilst looking about him with awe. The walls were painted a deep, dark red, with hints of gold, and jade statues adorned the room, together with silken curtains and graceful paintings. Scattered about the room were at least a dozen pairs of small, lotus-shaped shoes, silken in appearance, all of bright, elegant colors.

He turned to look at her feet, the shock of seeing them so small and fragile eliciting a soft gasp from his lips. Trudging towards her slowly, he could not help but wonder as to how that came to be.

He knelt in front of her, as she watched with curious eyes, then held and raised one of her feet, which drew a sharp wince from her. He muttered a sincere apology, afterwards treating the foot with more care, holding it, as well as gazing at it, as if it were the most delicate flower in the world.

"N-no, Ivan, don't. It's…disgusting, repulsive. Please, don't…"

She looked as if she were about to cry, with her dark eyes laden with tears, with her hands clutching desperately at the air, at nothingness, to try to stop him. His reply was a small smile, though his purple eyes twinkled, as if to reassure her that everything would be alright.

Slowly, cleverly woven silk was pulled away from the feet that they encased, and bandages were unrolled. All that was left for the eye to see were a couple of feet, so small they could have belonged to a baby, all twisted and bent, seemingly broken.

He touched and caressed her tiny, deformed feet with great care, not minding the fact that the dry cracks in her skin were rough against his smooth, pale hands, not minding her protests of how ugly and perverse her feet were.

To him, she was beautiful. She always was.


More author's blah: ... 8D /headdesk