Here's a longer chapter for everyone still following this, and we will now resume our official program of Russia torture. Enjoy, and please R&R!
A/N: I own only Babushka, Bohemia, Slovakia (Zdenko), Bosnia, Herzegovina, Montenegro (Davor), Serbia (Slobodanka), Bulgaria (Borislav), Croatia (Vjekoslava), Slovenia (Ljudmila), Macedonia (Aleksander), and Siberia. Peter and the Wolf belongs to Prokofiev (or his estate). The rest of Hetalia belongs to its creator, not to me.
It had been almost a week since Grandpa Germania had brought his grandsons to visit, and the five days since had been relatively quiet. It was now, according to Babushka, December 11th, and December 26th, according to everyone else. However, it was not in the cards for today to be peaceful. After all, according to the grandkids, they'd just missed Christmas and wouldn't celebrate for another two and a half weeks, and they had another three and a half weeks together as a family, much to their private chagrin.
It was midafternoon, and the family had cleared out a spacious living room of sorts with a grandiose fireplace carved from marble in the classical style. Ivan would have shut the door and ushered everyone else into another room, if Babushka hadn't immediately entered and settled herself in a red plush and gilt chair, sweeping her long skirts neatly so the folds fell straight and proper. Ivan's smile was frosty as he smiled at the three youngest, who'd dragooned him (with Babushka's support) into playing with them by making them model horses and troikas. Bosnia, Herzegovina, and Montenegro were too sensible of the ways of all the older siblings and cousins to complain about the quality of the new toys.
It was at this juncture that a Russian entered the room after knocking politely (and nervously, as Babushka had been rather firm with the Russians about good manners). Meeting Babushka's dark eyes for one terrifying instant, he quickly bowed, and mumbled, "The nations of Canada, America, France, Britain, China, Italy, and the Baltic states." He stepped aside as a crew of nations entered. Ivan attempted to flee from a window, but Serbia prudently gripped his coat to dissuade him from escaping.
"Hello, everyone!" America called out cheerfully. The other countries behind America flinched or sighed.
Babushka rose gracefully and stood, fully erect. "Ah, it is a pleasure to see everyone." She looked at the nations as they slowly spilled across the threshold. "Veneziano, how are you and Romano? Britain, is your royal family still doing well? France, dear, as charming as ever. China, it's been so long!" Finally, she looked at America, habitually ignoring the Baltic states and not noticing Canada. "Little America, yes? You've grown quite a bit since last I saw you, I believe it was on your Western Coast."
Italy smiled happily. "He's doing fine." Britain nodded. "Quite well, thank you." France smiled his most dazzling smile and offered a bouquet of roses to Babushka. He'd heard from Ludwig that Babushka was back in town, and he'd always got on swimmingly with her. China bowed, slightly uncertain: Babushka was a Grandmother, so demanded obedience, but he'd been encouraged to ignore cultural histories. Canada and the Baltics weren't deeply disappointed by being ignored. America, however, was delighted at being remembered. "Yes, it has been a while, but I'm doing very well for myself," he said with a laugh that made Ivan want to throttle him, cold war principles of not bombing the other just barely keeping him from homicide.
"Come in, everyone!" Babushka said gaily. "Ivan, Feliks, Borislav, Zdenko, Davor, would you boys be so good as to bring more chairs for our guests?" The boys filed out, obedient to the one will that had always terrorized the winter nation.
It was another ten minutes before everyone was settled in chairs, when Babushka suddenly decided pillows and possibly blankets should be fetched, sending her five present grandsons on another mission that took an additional fifteen minutes. Finally, everyone was resettled around the fireplace, with Babushka at the heart of it all. Something about Babushka must have affected the furniture, because her regal chair now had rockers and a high back. Gentle motions of her legs kept the chair in a sedate, almost hypnotic motion that was certainly subconscious from her expression.
"Why haven't we met you before?" Alfred asked after a few minutes.
"I have been traveling. As much as I love all my dear grandchildren, they do have things they need to do, and I do love seeing the world and visiting the other Grandparents." She smiled, reminiscing.
"What were the Slavic nations like as children?" Canada asked. Babushka looked around for a while before she realized he was sitting unnoticed next to Ukraine, in a way that suggested that her dear Yekaterina and this young nation were in love. "You are Canada, yes? My dear grandchildren were good children. It was almost always winter in the forests where we lived, so it was very cold. Their mothers traveled a great deal from before their children were born, so I had the care of them while they were away. They played outside a great deal."
"Weren't you worried about wolves?" Arthur asked in a puzzled tone. He'd always had a good impression of Ivan's Babushka, but hearing they played outside in a winter forest growing up worried him.
"Ohhh, yes, I was. Winters were so long that the wolves were rarely selective about what they chose to eat. In fact, I remember one winter where little Ivan decided to go wolf hunting."
Ivan attempted to flee at that point. Not Ivan and the Wolf, not Ivan and the Wolf, not Ivan and the Wolf! However, one of his clever cousins or sisters had wisely barred the window, and Feliks, Zdenko, and Borislav had been moved to sit in front of the window, with Vjekoslava, Ljudmila, and Slobodanka sitting near the door to catch any attempt to escape using the door. How had Babushka latched onto the one living room with no secret passages?
Babushka was still speaking, apparently not having noticed that the Soviet nation was trying to make a run for it. "We've told the story so often we call it Ivan and the Wolf. I believe I've heard that Prokofiev composed music to accompany the story."
The United States looked at her in confusion. "Eh? I thought the story was called Peter and the Wolf?" The United Kingdom elbowed his little brother in the ribs to silence him so they could hear a good story.
Babushka laughed. "Oh, it is, but its proper name is Ivan and the Wolf."
Everyone settled down, prepared to listen to the story.
One cold and cruel winter, a wolf started hunting near our house, a humble house in the forest on chicken legs with a fence of bones.
The Slavic nations shivered. The room was cooling off in response to the story, but their shiver was in response to the reminder of their childhood. It had been spent in Baba's cottage, a place of magic of the kind that you always dreaded, no matter how benign it actually was.
Alfred looked surprised. He'd heard of this place as Baba Yaga's hut, but he hadn't realized the Slavic nations had grown up there.
Ivan's older cousin Aleksander had been living for a long time with Greece, making Ivan the little man of the house. Hearing of the wolf, he wanted to go hunt it down. I was most against it and forbade the children from playing beyond the fence of bones, and knew quite a bit more about this wolf than Ivan did. It was General Winter, bringing us a notably harsh winter, but he had no intention of eating the children unless they chose to interfere. My orders were to prevent the children from crossing his path before they understood the world well enough to take care of themselves.
Ivan, Ivan, Ivan. You didn't listen to me. You took your little spear and went out to hunt the wolf. His sisters were spending time with their mother in a mother-daughters activity, and he had waited until I had my afternoon nap to sneak out the door with his spear in hand. I had caught him sneaking out once already that morning, but I was most displeased when I awoke to find that he and three of his cousins had left on this foolish mission.
It was a fortunate thing that almost all of my grandchildren had decided to stay indoors that afternoon. However, Libushe and Feliks were playing outside, as was Slobodanka.
Libushe was the first to see that Ivan was leaving and offered to go with him as a scout. She did take a spear, just in case, but without an intent to use it. Before they'd left the clearing, they heard snow crunching behind them. Turning around with worry, they were relieved to find Feliks trailing them, carrying his toy pony. By the time they reached the next clearing, Slobodanka had caught up to them with her own spear. She and Libushe argued for a few minutes over who would scout and who would watch Feliks, but Ivan moved on, causing them to stop arguing and hurry to rejoin him.
It was not an hour into their little hunt when their path finally crossed General Winter's path. Slobodanka saw him first and panicked, having never met him before. Feliks only panicked when General Winter raised a paw to him. Ivan attempted to attack him with his spear when Feliks fainted from terror, but only angered General Winter, who would have chased him if Feliks hadn't recovered and made a run for it.
It seemed no more than a moment before General Winter returned carrying Feliks' toy pony. Libushe has always taken the very best care of her brothers, so attacked the apparent murderer of her elder brother with her little spear. Surprised, the wolf was driven back for a time, until he got over his surprise. Libushe ran very fast and harried him at every opportunity.
In the meantime, Slobodanka and Ivan had gotten behind General Winter and mounted a rear attack with their spears. Distracted, the wolf attacked his two new little attackers and soon gained the upper hand.
Libushe had slipped into the trees and heard the crunch of three pairs of boots in the snow and women's conversation. Yekaterina, Natalia, and their mother Kievan Rus were returning. By the time she got them and took them to save Ivan and Slobodanka, all that they found of the twosome was Ivan's scarf and Slobodanka's spear.
Then Ivan called down to his sisters, mother, and cousin, showing General Winter, bound and quite irritated. The family carried General Winter bound hand and foot back toward the cottage to show me. We celebrated, after I sent Ivan to cut firewood in the Far Woodpile, which was in the thickest part of the forest.
Libushe came back late. She had wanted to give her fallen older brother a little memorial service and monument. As she sat before the snowman sculpted to look like Feliks, who should breathe over her shoulder but her elder brother Feliks? Happy and safe, they returned home, where we celebrated the victory over General Winter as a family.
As the tale drew to a close, everyone sighed, delighted at the happy ending, except those who'd participated in the story.
Russia remembered that accursed wood pile. It was near the favorite hunting ground of bears, wolves, and all things that loved to eat young nations. It had been his sole responsibility to attend to it, especially since his cousin Macedonia had left to be raised by Greece at an early age.
Poland vaguely remembered the pony. It had been made by Babushka, who'd made General Winter give it back when they got home. He recalled she'd stood next to her giant mortar and pestle, large enough for a full-grown nation to stand in, and General Winter had not argued over the return of the toy pony.
Serbia slipped a hand into her skirt pocket, finding the little charm made of wolf fur she'd been allowed to make after capturing General Winter.
Bohemia sighed very softly and rubbed her eyes. Telling the story to Babushka had been awkward and scary for the four of them, since they'd disobeyed her. At least she and Serbia had come out very friendly with each other since that wolf hunt and had almost never argued ever since.
General Winter sat next to Siberia, quietly clenching and unclenching the arm of the sofa the two sat upon, releasing waves of frozen air. He'd never liked the fact that four very young nations had worked together to capture him. He'd lost his wolf tail to little Serbia when she asked for it, he'd been bullied into returning Poland's painted wood-and-horsehair toy just by Babushka Slava standing next to the mortar and pestle symbolic of her identity as the original Baba Yaga, Russia had gotten bragging rights over the force of nature until the wolf had escaped, intent on making Russia's winters the worst in the world, and the only real mercy he'd been granted was seeing Bohemia being placed on the spot when telling the tale of four young and disobedient nations who'd overpowered winter himself. Siberia quietly stroked his gloved hand and he slowly relaxed.
America spoke first in the ensuing silence. "That was a great story! I had no idea they went off hunting a wolf on their own when they were little. Do you have any other good stories about them when they were little?"
En masse, the Slavic grandchildren looked for the emergency exits, only to find them barred and generally blocked. They turned to Babushka, praying to any and all higher powers that she would have mercy on her grandchildren.
"Why, yes, I do have more stories, stories I told them as children and stories of their own adventures as children."
They were doomed.