Chapter 5
There was something terribly, terribly wrong with the world. And Heracles Karpusi, otherwise known as Greece, felt as though he was part of it.
It had taken him quite a while to accept that fact; it took him quite a while to accept most facts. But there was no more denying that everything was falling apart. The past had caught up to him, it seemed, along with a certain Turkish nation . . . and because of that Heracles had lost so much. First the well-being of his country, then his own well-being, then the well-being of his family.
Even Cyprus had drifted away from him. Even Cyprus, the only real family Heracles had left. And that was mostly Heracles' fault . . . although he really did want to pin the blame on the two Turks in his brother's life, even if that was useless.
Everything seemed useless. Listless. Broken.
Oh, how he did wish for a bottle of ouzo right now.
But he had no desire to go inside and look through Cyprus's store of alcohol, because yes, he still was here in Cyprus's home, sitting under a tree in the back garden and staring depressedly at the ridiculously bright flowers. The only comforting fact was that he was still here; he hadn't been driven out by the likes of that little Turkish brat and his stupid older guardian. As if they could do anything to him . . . but yes, theyhad done something to him.
He didn't care to think about that right now, though. All he wanted was a rest, just a short rest—or maybe a long one, because otherwise he'd never recover, never come back from the mess he'd been dealing with day in and day out.
Yes, he decided, that was what he would do. Sleep always helped; he only hoped Cyprus wouldn't mind his staying here, if he collapsed before he got very far...
. . . Come to think of it, where was Cyprus?
It had been almost an hour since his running battle with Turkey (which Heracles had not lost, mind), and yet there still had been no sign of the Cypriot. But then Heracles finally remembered something he'd said.
If you're my brother you won't have anything to do with him, or that kid of his, you hear me?
He had said that in anger, the most anger he'd ever felt in a long while, but now his heart sank. It couldn't be. Cyprus couldn't have taken that to heart and left. He was the gentlest and most peaceful nation of them all; he was still Heracles' younger brother; he couldn't have.
He couldn't have.
Heracles began running back through the garden, the trees' waving branches getting in his way, the garish flowers mocking him everywhere he turned. But he couldn't bring himself to believe it. Because if it was true, then the worst had happened—Cyprus really had left him, and joined the Turks, and Heracles was alone, alone in the world, without a family member to turn to.
No, no, he was just overly worried, that was all. When he reached the house he would most likely find Cyprus sitting on the couch, looking discontent and unhappy. They might ignore each other for a while, but then Heracles would apologize and things would be all right again . . . all right . . .
Nothing had ever been all right, not from the beginning.
The ornately fashioned back door came into view before him, half open, beckoning him in, and he rushed inside without a second thought. It never occurred to him that he'd closed it behind him when he'd first run out this way, and that if it was open it meant someone must have entered from the garden . . .
A pair of strong hands caught hold of him and slammed him against the wall, knocking the breath out of him. Furious brown eyes glared down at him from behind a mask as the other man tightened the stranglehold on his collar.
"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO NORTHERN CYPRUS!?"
"I . . . I didn't do anything!" Heracles choked out, pushing the Turk away. "What are you talking about!?"
But Turkey was having none of it. He almost throttled Heracles again. "You'd better tell me where he is now, you worthless Greek, or I'm going to—"
"The hell!" Heracles shouted back, angry now. "I don't give a damn where the kid went, you tell me where Cyprus is!"
"You think I would fucking know?"
"You'd better not be—"
"What did you think, I—"
They both fell silent suddenly and stared at each other. Turkey still had ahold of Heracles' collar, and Heracles had just been preparing to punch him, but as realization slowly dawned on them they both subsided.
"You don't mean . . ." Heracles whispered.
"They can't have fucking left!" Turkey paced up and down, looking angrier by the minute. "It was all because of you . . . You just as good as told Cyprus to get out, and TRNC must have gone with him—Goddamn you, bastard—!"
"Well, if you hadn't come here none of this would've happened!" Heracles snarled, grabbing the Turk's arm before the other man could land a punch. "You think I wanted all of this? Hell no—you've been corrupting Cyprus and bringing him over to your side!"
"Oho, so it's 'Pin the blame on Turkey' day, isn't it?" Turkey gave a harsh laugh. "What is this corruption you speak of, anyway? Is it me taking him back, or is it you pushing him away?"
For the first time Heracles was lost for words.
"Answer me," said the Turk.
But Heracles couldn't. He couldn't answer because it was true. He had been pushing everyone away—and now, it seemed, things had reached the point where the only one who understood him at all was his archenemy.
How pitiful was he?
". . . Well, I thought so too." Turkey snorted and let go of him. "You tire me, Greece, you really do. Do something more meaningful with your life than wallow around in misery alone. Get up and let's go."
His words, though true, nevertheless rankled, and Heracles started in anger.
"What the hell do you mean?"
"I mean that we are going to find the Cypriots right now, together. That equals the two of us," said Turkey slowly and deliberately, as though speaking to a child. But his next words stopped Heracles from punching him; in fact, they made him stop short. "If you don't want to go with me, though, I'll retrieve them both myself—and whatever happens then is out of your hands."
Heracles could only stare at him in shock.
". . . Well?"
At last Heracles recovered and gave his answer—the three most appropriate words under the circumstances.
"Fuck you, Turkey."
The Turk turned back to give him an unfathomable look.
"Sure thing, as long as it's not you," he said derisively, and stalked out, leaving a speechless Heracles behind in the room. The Greek stared (or rather glared) after Turkey's retreating form for a long moment before finally getting up and following, as quickly as his tired limbs would allow.
There was no way he could let the Turk get to the young Cypriots first; the other nation had practically stated his intention to claim them, the nerve of him!
. . . But it had sounded like he would rather look for them with Heracles.
Perhaps that was a good sign. Just perhaps. Heracles knew better, though, than to truly expect that much from his longtime rival.
He was proven right when he reached the front door, found it was being held open by a certain Turk, gave him the evil eye, stepped outside and nearly tripped over the other man's foot.
Turkey smirked.
Heracles glared.
