Chapter 4: Our Ship is Overwhelmed
Thursday, October 17th, 1991 : 69 days until Christmas
As my eyes slowly open, and the light gray world begins to become clear, I notice I'm staring at the back of a carseat. I blink a few times and sit up, putting together that I had just been sleeping in Canada's lap.
"Sorry." I say.
"It's alright. You need as much sleep as you can get." He answers simply.
I look around the parking lot we are in and furrow my eyebrows.
"Where are we?" I ask.
"A hotel in Poland." Germany answers from the front seat without looking at me.
"Poland?" I ask mostly to myself.
"I have a bad feeling about this." Italy whispers.
"It'll be okay. It's been awhile, hasn't it?" Germany reassures.
"A while yes, but nations have long memories." She says before getting out of the car.
Walking from the parking lot to the front entrance of the hotel tires me considerably, causing me to lean a bit on Canada to help me get there.
I get nervous as we check in and get directions to the meeting room. It's been so long since I've seen these people, what are they going to think of me? Will they notice how emaciated and ill I look? Will they be frightened of me? Taunt me? Ignore me?
"The seats are assigned. . . Will you be okay?" Canada asks, pulling me from my anxieties.
"I should be. . . Why?" I ask as we approach our side of the large meeting table.
"Because my name is over there." He says while gesturing to the far end of the room.
"Oh. . . Yeah, I'll be okay."
He gives me a light smile before turning and walking toward his seat.
I look at the seat in front of me and the sign that says: Democratic Republic of Germany.
This causes me to sigh. I'm not going to argue with them about what to call me, so I just take a seat and stifle another sigh. I shouldn't really expect Kingdom of Prussia to be written there. . . I know, but. . .
I look over at Germany's sign to my right : Federal Republic of Germany
And then to Italy's to my left : Republic of Italy
The age of republics, I see.
To the left of Italy is empty with a sign that reads : Southern Italy/ Mezzogiorno
To the right of Germany reads : Kingdom of Denmark
It's been a long time since I've thought about Denmark. . . I'm embarrassed now. Embarrassed by my absence, my horrible physical state, and. . .
Italy places a hand on mine.
"Are you going to be okay?" She asks.
"This. . . feels so weird to me." I admit. She squeezes my hand and nods.
"It probably will be really weird for you for some time. If you get too uncomfortable we can leave, don't hesitate to ask." She offers. I nod and say thank you.
In the next ten minutes the meeting room fills up considerably. Almost all of the seats are filled by the time Poland stands up and begins the meeting.
He starts by introducing himself and the city, the talking points, who will be speaking and when, etc. I run my eyes across the room to take in all the nations I haven't seen since 1947. So much has changed about them.
England and France were both clinging to each other so much in the forties I thought the endless fighting between them would stop, and that they would embrace the obvious feelings they have for each other. Now, their relationship is what it was pre-Great War but swapped. Before, England seemed annoyed by France's affections and now, France seems annoyed by his. . . I wonder if something happened between the two of them that I am missing. . . Which is entirely plausible.
Next to France is Canada naturally, and next to him is America. Now that is a change.
He has aged a bit; probably because of how powerful he has gotten (his accent is a little different now too, none of that deep south influence it had in the 40s). Everyone is silent when he speaks. His presence alone commands respect and obedience. It's hard to imagine that he used to be that little colony, fighting desperately to be free from England. I'm rather proud of him, not that he would care that I think that, but I am nonetheless.
A little down the line are the Baltics. I can see Latvia shivering from here. Lithuania wraps a comforting arm around him, but the poor boy is practically inconsolable. The seat next to Lithuania is empty and reads : Republic of Estonia.
A pang of nervousness washes through me as I think about all the reasons Estonia could be absent. My eyes shift to the seat next to where he should be and land on : Soviet Union.
I allow myself to slowly look up and stare at the man who has been the main cause of all of my suffering for almost six decades.
He looks pale, sick. But is holding himself with the usual amount of grace and power, like he doesn't feel the least bit unwell.
His purple gaze slowly finds its way to me and I freeze as a few emotions run across his face in less than second..
First, shock. His eyes widen a bit and he blinks twice. Is he shocked to see me? Did I catch him off guard?
Second, concern. His head tilts just slightly to the left. He always does that if he's asking someone if they are alright, need help, or if someone is struggling and he is about to help them.
Third, and finally, aloofness. His look turns cold and uncaring just as fast as the warmth appeared in him. His eyes flicker to Germany then back to me. I feel like I've betrayed him.
China says something to him and he breaks eye contact with me in favor of looking at the other nation. As far as I know, the Soviet Union doesn't look at me again.
I'm saddened by this. Does he not care about me? Have I lost meaning to him? Did I hurt him?
I can't stand any of these questions.
The table is a multitude of gray, light and dark shades interwoven to create a beautiful granite-like design. If I stare at it long enough the different shades of gray begin to dance and squiggle, move and bend, losing their concrete lines and differences to blend into a monolith of gray.
Blue then fizzle, green then fizzle, red then fizzle.
Color explodes around the corner of my vision, blue dots embedded in a green nebulous, rolling and moving, expanding and contracting.
Strange symmetrical shapes form and move, and. . . I'm thoroughly entertained.
A tanned, delicate hand is placed on the table in front of my line of vision. It moves to the right then the left, but I'm focused on the dancing gray lines behind it. The hand pulls away and I can finally see the entirety of the show before me.
"He's unresponsive." A siren sings from deep within the ocean. The grey lines must be part of the boat. . . I'd like to look over at the water, but I find myself utterly transfixed to the view of the gray.
Something touches my shoulder and I move a bit.
"We need to leave before the others notice." Sings the siren.
"Wouldn't that be suspicious?" A man says. He must be a crew member on the ship. I should warn him of the dangers of talking to sirens.
I move my hand to my right, landing on something warm. Must be the man.
"They are dangerous, you know? Don't speak to them, they will only drag you down to your death." I warn him.
"What?" The man says, confused. Silly boy, he must be infatuated already.
"It sounds like it's too late for you." I comment.
"Don't try to reason with him while he's like this Germany, you won't be able to make any sense of it. Us leaving will be the talk of the day, however if it were just him and I, it might ease things a little. I will take him to the room and make sure he lies down." The siren sings.
"Alright. . . But the last time he was like this, he refused to walk. You can't carry him out of here, and if he did get up, he needs a lot of help." The man sings back. He's too young to be taken by the siren. I pity the poor boy, he knows no better.
Perhaps I shall take his place. I am an old sailor, breaking down and becoming tired. To save this young man's life would be an honor for my old soul. At least my death will be blissful, as I'm dragged down to the bottom of the sea with the most beautiful of creatures.
"Cause a fight." The siren says.
"What? You want me to cause a fight?"
"Yes. Cause a commotion, a distraction, so I can slip out of here with Gilbert."
". . . How would I?" The man begins before the siren interrupts him.
"What was that, France?"
"Excuse me?" Another beautiful voice. This is bad news. There is more than one siren!
"Sorry, I thought you were just commemorating America on his success with The Wall." The first siren sings.
"No, I-"
"You know that it wasn't only him." a man's voice adds. Another one of my sailors! Our ship is being overrun! I have to do something!
"Oh, sure, you definitely helped." Another masculine voice.
"Do we really want to get into the specifics here?"
"I never said anything to America, I hope you know."
"Sure, you're just backtracking now."
"I swear, I never said anything."
"Why would Italy lie?"
"Oh, like Italy isn't prone to lying? Hello?"
"Don't accuse her like that."
"Why the hell are you coming to her defense?"
"I'm just saying, it's a bit rude."
"I'm rude? I never said anything!"
"You continue to refuse to acknowledge my participation in the peace built on this continent!"
"Peace? You call this peace?"
There are so many voices, male, female, raised, whispered, the boat is starting to erupt in chaos. The sirens have attacked. My crew is hopeless. Who will save us now?
A loud sound snaps me back into reality. I find myself looking across the table at Russia who has just stood up rather abruptly.
"I am continually shocked by the civility that you display in my presence. While squabbling like lost chickens seems to be the name of this game, I must regretfully decline to be involved in it anymore. Disappointment is all I have for Europe." Russia says in a calm, yet authoritative voice. The entire room is silent, watching him intently.
"Gilbert, we have to leave, now." Italy whispers to me while taking my hand. I let her pull me from my seat and we sneak over to the door.
"Yet before I make my leave, I want to make one more thing particularly clear. The only reason Eastern Europe is here right now and not in my home or dead is because I decided so. You self proclaimed western heroes had a negligible at best role in the wall coming down."
Italy and I leave the room as Russia finishes up his last statement.
"What is going on?" I ask Italy.
"You were having another episode and we needed to get you out of there. The other nations can't see you when you're like that, you utter random things and call people by different names." She says while leading me to the elevators.
". . . I see."
October 18th, 1991
I wake up earlier than the sun. Earlier than Italy and Germany, even. My stomach growls painfully at me and I sit up in the bed. Perhaps I can buy some food in the lobby. It isn't too early, is it?
I change into a better set of clothes and quietly leave the hotel room. The elevators open up right next to the lobby and I approach the woman at the small desk.
Polish, Polish, I haven't spoken Polish in decades.
"Good morning. How much for this." I ask while gesturing to some of the food she has behind the glass.
"Twenty." She answers simply. I give her the money and she hands me a sandwich.
I almost say thank you in Russian before correcting myself and saying it in the appropriate language.
I decide to wander around the hotel while eating, looking at the paintings on the walls, observing the garden, noticing the different cars in the parking lot, admiring the group of young women that just walked past.
"Gorgeous, hm?" A deep voice asks me. I look to my left and see Russia standing there.
"Yes." I answer, ignoring the cold chill that runs through my body.
"Where is your western half?" He asks.
"Upstairs."
"Why are you not with him?"
"Must I always be with him?"
"Must you always talk back to me?"
I look down and mutter an apology. He just gives me a soft laugh in return. I can never tell when he's joking.
"You look a bit better." He comments.
"Thank you. . . As do you."
"Don't lie to me, little one. Decades of starvation take a toll on one's face." He says while placing a hand on his cheek. A lot more gaunt than it used to be before the Revolution, that's for sure.
"You're still attractive." I admit. He looks away, a small smile appearing on his face.
"Flattery will get you nowhere," he looks back to me with a look of concern, "seriously, how have you been? I saw how you got during yesterday's meeting. Italy's little rouse didn't fool me."
"I. . . I'm fine. . . I space out sometimes but I'm okay otherwise. . . Are you alright? You seemed rather upset at the meeting."
"Well of course I was, did you see those western idiots fighting over who was more heroic? I can only stand so many of their voices before I want to get violent."
"What is going on here?" We both turn and see Germany standing near the entrance of the lobby.
"I was just talking to him. . ." I start. Ludwig walks up to us, putting himself slightly in front of me, almost like a barrier between Russia and I.
"Why would you want to talk to him?" Germany asks in a malicious voice I haven't heard from him in decades.
"Because he's not a coward, Paris." Russia comments equally as harsh.
"I don't want you speaking to him, understand?" Germany practically growls. I'm shocked at his animosity.
"Oh? Now you'll fight me for him? I'm pretty sure the last time you just let it all happen and ran to the west crying for mercy."
Germany grabs my arm and pulls me away, leading me back to the elevators. I look back at Russia who gives me a cold look before turning and walking the other direction.
Once in the elevator Germany lets my arm go and I wrap my hand around where he was holding. I'm sure a bruise is going to form.
"What was all that about?" I ask in a meek voice. I'm frightened by the flash of 1940s Germany that I saw. The voice, the look, the strength.
"I hate when he brings up what I did." His voice is tense.
"You're not a coward, I made you go to the west."
"I should have gone with you to Berlin." The elevator opens and he walks out. Sighing, I follow him.
"Gone with me so you could have died too?" He turns around to face me after I say this. I have to look up at him. His hand comes to my cheek as he looks into my eyes.
"This was the last thing I ever wanted. . . Your life was worth so much more. . . So much more than mine." He turns around and keeps walking back to the room. I'm too shocked by his words to follow.