Apparently I drifted off to sleep at some point, for I woke to the quiet, yet disturbing sound of a knife being sharpened. I opened my eyes quickly, adrenaline flooding my body. I suppose it was the fact of growing up with Russia as my neighbour, or just always having to be aware, that made me react in such a manner, but I tried to relax once again. Russia was not the type to knife a person in the middle of the night, and especially not in his own bedroom; blood stains, after all.
After a few minutes, I sighed and stretched. It was useless trying to get back to sleep. Might as well get up early. I sat up and looked around the bedroom. Russia had been in here, obviously; he had take my old clothes and replaced them with some of Belarus' old dresses. I touched the homespun wool gingerly; I had no fond memories of Belarus, only cruel ones. I shook my head. If he wouldn't give me back my clothing, I certainly wouldn't wear Belarus'.
I came downstairs in some of Latvia's old clothing; Russia raised an eyebrow, but offered no comment. He had every bayonet, knife, sword, and axe in the house, it seemed, on the table in front of him. Swipe, swipe the blades went, first on the rough, then on the smooth, sharpening surface. Three strokes for each side, and he was done. It was a fascinating process, actually; he was a master craftsman at it. I watched from the doorway for a while, then came closer to see the process in more detail.
"You didn't wear Belarus' old dress," he said lightly, after finishing the last of the knives. "I put it over your chair this morning."
"I don't want to have anything to do with Belarus," I said crossly. "She was nasty when I lived here, and is still nasty when we meet in committees."
Russia's brow creased, but he said nothing else. I looked at him curiously, waiting for him to speak, to say anything, but he remained silent. I could sense he was saddened by something. Was it something that had happened last night? A forgotten memory, like mine, perhaps? I've never been a patient person, and I couldn't stand the absence of dialogue any longer. "What's wrong?"
He glanced at me as if he had just remembered I was there. I noticed half a bottle of vodka open in his pocket, but I didn't smell it on him. That didn't mean anything, though; I had known him to go through four bottles without even a slurring of speech.
"Russia? Are you all right?" I was becoming alarmed now—he was never this calm. Even when asleep, he had an air of watchfulness, of walls built up, that seemed gone now. It was as if the walls of his heart had been torn down, or at least breached. "I don't know what's wrong, but is it something I can help with?"
Russia looked at me again, with that absentminded manner that I found so frightening. "It has nothing to do with you. And everything to do with you. I was remembering a dance." He smiled softly, gently. "Belarus' dress reminded me of it."
I smiled a little. We had been thinking of the same event last night, then. "Who's the lucky lady you were thinking of, then? Belarus?"
Russia's gaze caught me full-on; his violet eyes sent a wave of irrational fear into my heart. "You, Georgia."
I tried to shake the feeling of deep-seated fear off. "Russia, what are you—"
He swung around, and grabbed my hands lightly. "You're the only nation I have ever encountered that resisted me so strongly. Do you know how attractive that is to me? America? Pah! Diplomacy and dancing around on lines. Belarus? Frightens me somewhat. Ukraine? A sweet girl, but easy to talk into becoming one with Mother Russia. But you..." and his eyes blazed through my soul, "you, Georgia, were the only one to constantly resist me, try to counter my every move, refuse every help I ever offered, going so far as to sanction my trade with you."
He smiled; there was an insane twitch to him now. I stood, pulling my hands free, backing up as far as I could, running into the wall behind me; "Russia, what is your meaning?"
"It's simple, little one. You will become one with Mother Russia." And he smiled his soft smile once again.