68. Needs, Wants, and Heroism

Date Written: July 6, 2019

Date Posted: November 15, 2020

Characters: Veneziano, Seychelles

Summary: Guilt consumes Seychelles as she confronts a fellow Nation who had unwittingly saved one of her children from harm.

Notes:


The waves rocked against the shore, the sound of which was rhythmic and soothing to the ears. Families, both from the locals and tourists, were clustered all over the beach; small children played among the sand while parents watched over them with tired, but amused eyes. Among the families, an old man rested upon the sand, his eyes closed, his breathing calm.

Upon spying him close to the waves, a young woman with locks of curly, voluminous hair in loose pigtails approached him. Seychelles, for that was her name, spoke to him for a couple minutes. Her voice didn't carry across the beach, but it was apparent from the way she spoke hurriedly and the tears that streamed down her cheeks that she wasn't all right. Concerned, the old man offered her a handkerchief, but she waved him away, a laugh in her voice. Their conversation carried on for a few more minutes before Seychelles retired to another part of the beach.

Usually light on her feet, Seychelles collapsed onto her little spot where she had laid down a blanket and where her guest of the day was sitting. As she sat down, she sighed and rubbed her eyes, her movements slow and sluggish.

For the most part, she looked put out. Her normally smiling face was twisted into an unbecoming frown. The twists and curls of her flowing hair hung like limp seaweed that decorated her shores. Her dress, usually a cheery light blue, hung heavy around her shoulders and had darkened into a dull haze of dark to deep navy.

"You know," she began slowly. She sat on the ground and resolutely refused to look at the man who stood at her side. "I could have saved him."

Petulant and low, her voice was something that was quite unlike her usual vibrant nature. She balled her fists and bowed so low, she looked like a turtle trying to burrow into her shell. As a Nation, it was unbecoming of her to act so childishly in this manner. However, in the presence of a Nation with the wisdom and experience of thousands of years tucked neatly under his belt, she felt that she was expected to act like a child if she felt like it. After all, Italy was more or less one of the nicest of the European Nations, and was regarded to be one of the most pleasant in general.

… which was precisely the main reason why Seychelles felt so-so—

A hand on her shoulder startled her out of her spiraling thoughts. Once she looked up, she found herself staring up into the eyes of one that was so old, she could have buckled down in fear and awe.

Italy looked wise, grandfatherly almost.

"If you were present," he offers gently, "you would have surely saved him." She felt the sand under her toes shift form the man settling next to her.

For a moment, the waves upon the shore were louder than their silence, but it was still not as thick as the atmosphere between them. When Seychelles refused to speak—or rather, couldn't find the will or the words, Veneziano decided to fill the silence on her behalf.

"You weren't present, yes, but those things… it wasn't your fault."

The truth of the matter was, none of what had happened was anyone's fault.

The tide was rushing forward.

The old man was too weak.

The sun too bright, the crowd too loud.

The answer was obvious, yet it hung between them like it was trivial to say out loud.

Even under her curtain of hair—her hair ribbons had long since fallen off in the sudden onslaught of waves—and with her face pressed against her knees, she could feel his warm brown gaze down at her. Deep down, she knew that he meant well. While she had been preoccupied with answering questions that several tourists had provided her, her special guest, Italy, had been busy observing the waves and the people swimming in her waters.

It wasn't her fault.

It wasn't even the old man's fault who had wandered too far.

Truly, it was no one's fault that an incident was narrowly avoided by Italian aid. Yet…

Seychelles shuddered with shame. Her balled up fists were probably forming crescent moons on the fleshy meat of her palms. "I'm his Nation… what does that say about me?"

The matter should have been over and done with. The African Nation could have easily thanked the Italian and the issue would have escaped their scrutiny. Yet… it was a Nation thing.

A pride thing.

A territorial thing.

Italy was Italy.

Seychelles was Seychelles.

The man was of Seychelles.

He was her child and she had not been there for him.

She should have saved him. Not Italy.

Never Italy.

"I think…" Italy raised an outstretched hand, but thought better of trying to physically comfort her. "I think it shows how much you truly care for your citizens."

Seychelles buried herself deeper into her knees and didn't speak.

Beyond them, the waves roared louder until nothing could be heard other than water pounding sand.