13. Hidden in the Shadows
Date Written: February 2, 2019
Date Posted: June 8, 2019
Characters: Veneziano
Summary: Italy is busy preparing for a World Meeting at his house when security reports something strange.
Notes:
He had been busy with preparations for a meeting with the rest of the European Nations. As was custom, Veneziano found himself dealing with the hotel staff while Romano called abroad or greeted their guests when they finally made it to Rome. It was during the finalization of seating arrangements when Veneziano heard the security personnel muttering about something.
One of the guest's children had gone missing on the premises.
When Veneziano, completely stressed and anxious about the upcoming meeting, heard about this, he was understandably concerned. Nations, no matter how old or how jaded they had become, loved children—especially if the children in question were those born within their respective Nations. They were sources of light, beacons of hope within times of great duress and sources of pride during peacetime. They could shine like the brightest gems when polished to their highest potential. They were the small cogs that made up the whole of Nations.
Children were precious and guarded.
And Veneziano was worried.
Once he had given a stern talking to the head of security, the Italian personification finished the seating arrangements and the assigned rooms for each of the incoming guests. Satisfied, Italy idly wandered into the kitchens for a cup of gelato.
After a cheerful conversation with one of the charming older ladies—
"Grazie, bella! The gelao looks almost as lovely as you!"
—the Nation headed to the lobby when he heard a strange sort of noise. His senses, already alert due to the distressing news of the missing child, were heightened to the point where he stood still and took stock of his surroundings. Perhaps it was a little silly of him to automatically go into full surveillance mode, but it was the principle of the thing. Even if the hotel was honestly safer than most areas at the moment (Nations were quite particular of where they were staying because dying in foreign territory was not okay, thank you very much), the child had to be somewhere close.
Gathering his wits about him, the Italian Nation moved a little closer to the noise. The noise was like a small keening mewling that sounded scared and—Yes! Right there! Up close, the sound resembled that of a whimpering sound…
Veneziano, with his cup of gelato in hand moved to a little side room. Due to the positioning of the door and the lack of decoration that usually signified a more important door, he could only assume that the room was mostly unused. Or, at the very least, no one was there.
The young man then turned the handle and called out, "Hello! Anybody here?"
Sniffling. There was sniffling.
The stress seemed to melt away as the young man noted that it was as young child. Concern and relief flooded his form as he made his way to a light switch and flipped it on. Immediately, the room was lit with an almost a striking fluorescence. Once Veneziano blinked through the haze of tears that accompanied the stark brightness, he observed that there were a lot of cardboard boxes in several unorganized piles alongside a few dusty tables and broken chairs.
A strange room.
"It's okay, little one," Veneziano cooed.
The crying had quieted down, but the child would not appear. That was all right. He had time. With a sigh, he crossed into the room and plopped down on the flooring. A part of him moaned about suit he wore becoming soiled, but a stronger, more sympathetic side of him knew that the child was scared.
"Would you like some gelato?" When that yielded no response, Veneziano let out a little huff of breath; he was a little disappointed. But then, he took a decisive bite into his gelato and began to speak. "Oooh! Have you tried gelato, caro? So sweet, so yummy! It's like eating snow, but with frozen cream and sugar and—"
The thing that most Nations knew about Italy was that he liked to talk. Talk about sports—football! Talk about culture. Talk about art. Talk about food—pasta, pizza, sushi, wurst, and so much more. The young man would talk for hours if left unprompted for an unimaginable amount of time. However, when he spoke to his fellow countries, he only spoke to entertain, to settle disputes by adding stupid hilarity to a dredge of tension.
But, in the presence of a child, be it one of his own or not, he spoke with a low, melodic timbre. This was a voice that had raised morale for his troops, that chanted alongside the Pope in ages long past. It was a voice that calmed and soothed. Encouraged and emboldened. His voice rose and fell, as if he were singing a long lost lullaby.
He talked of his friends and family. He complained about work and how much trouble he was going to be in when his brother finds out he wrinkled his suit— "He hates spending money on me!" But mostly, he just talked of the most insane things until…his voice petered out.
And then.
He heard it.
It was the sound that signalled that end to every parent's nightmare: the low, even breathing of a child.
Carefully, the Nation picked himself off the floor and placed his cup of gelato (now empty) onto one of the tables. With his mission almost complete, he followed instinct and stepped near silently towards one of the far corners of the storage room. Behind a pile of boxes lay a small child no older than six if Veneziano were to hazard a guess.
He tutted a little at the sorry sight, but immediately took her in his arms and headed to the lobby.
He was going to have a talk with his security.
Just how could a small child hope to evade the best of his security forces?