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Lithuania closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the warm aroma of the freshly cooked dishes, especially that of the sweet poppy milk before him, as Poland said a hushed prayer. It was the first Christmas Eve they had spent together in many years, and the first in an even longer eternity they had done so in such fashion, in the way they had passed their first Christmases together. It was a strange, but familiar, feeling. Familiar, in that this was how Lithuania had come to know Christmas as it used to be, and how he had celebrated it for almost three centuries. Strange, in that so much had changed since then, and that it was nothing like how he remembered. They had washed at the sink, though it had been customary to bathe in rivers, which was pretty unfeasible now. They couldn’t see the stars as clearly either, for the cityscape obscured the sky with its smoke and skyscrapers and ruined its tranquility with garish technicoloured lights strung on every lamp and edifice. Thus, instead of starting the tradition when the first star, symbolising Christ and the souls that have passed on before them, shone, they simply started at nightfall. The grand ornate halls and crowded tables, too, was replaced by a cosy kitchen and a dining table for four. Lithuania remembered how Poland almost always had to shout to make the Christmas prayer audible to everyone in the household, and how he had struggled time and time again to get Belarus, then just a child, to stay in her seat like a proper lady. Back then the halls were never big enough, and he smiled ruefully at the thought of the two vacant seats beside him. They still placed utensils on there though. It only seemed right to do so.
It wasn’t long before Poland finished his prayer, and the room fell silent again, with the exception of the faint buzz of street carollers sounding beyond the window. If this was anything like the old days the Pole would have reached for the honey and begun to circle the table(s), anointing each member of their commonwealth while giving them blessings. Yet again, this happened to be nothing like it. The blond man was indeed holding the dish sacredly, but made no attempt to do anything with it, to Lithuania’s bafflement.
Poland seemed to have noticed his partner’s confusion, but refused to break the silence. He motioned for Lithuania to reach out his hands, and placed the dish in the other Nation’s palms, before leaning back on his own seat, his lucent emerald eyes shrouded with an indecipherable haze.
The head of the house led and performed these rituals. Empires may rise and fall, their people may come and go, even the dishes may vary between twelve or thirteen, but this was one time-honoured tradition that had remain unchanged. No, that had not changed at all, Lithuania realised. It was the Nations themselves who had changed. No matter what the political or economical playing fields may look like on the international stage, there were no longer masters or subordinates among them, or at least between the two of them. Whatever kingdoms or duchies or empires there had been, it no longer mattered. They were equal now.
Lithuania stood up sombrely, slightly leaning across the dining table to touch the Pole’s forehead with his honey-coated finger, leaving a sugary sign of the Cross on his partner’s pallid skin.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit: may you have sweetness and many good things in life, and in the new year,” he whispered, carefully enunciating each syllable in his best Polish. When it was done, he grabbed the other Nation’s wrist and placed the dish in his hand. He was on the verge of saying something, but quickly figured it would be unnecessary. They were too old to waste their breaths on things better left unsaid, and too young to dwell on them.
Those emerald eyes had widened in response to hearing his native tongue, however rusty it might be, and even more so when a calloused hand wrapped around his and stuffed into it the vessel. He had half the heart to refuse, but his partner insisted, a firm gaze of deep turquoise piercing into him. Poland instinctively bit his lip as Lithuania’s mouth twitched, his mind churning with a thousand ugly words or questions that could spill from them. He had mentally prepared a thousand more replies, retorts or excuses he could possibly use to defend himself, but decided on silence. There was nothing he could say that could change the past, and it seemed to have never occurred to the blond Nation that his dearest friend had, in fact, forgiven every one of his misgivings decades ago, just as he himself had done.
When no words came from the other side of the table, Poland sighed resignedly and dipped a manicured finger into the unguent, performing the ritual in turn. He watched a surprised beam spread across Lithuania’s reddening complexion as he made his best effort to deliver the blessing in Lithuanian, his disquietude dissipating at the sight. The couple remained speechless when the rite was complete, and they were once again seated across each other, in the dim, flickering candlelight.
As the distant carol bells continued to ring, Lithuania picked an apple from the basket placed in the centre of the table, halved it, and offered Poland one. The Nation received it with downcast eyes, and with his first bite, signified the commencement of the dinner, and broke the prolonged silence.
“It’s weird. Like, I didn’t know I could miss this so much.”
“To be honest, me neither.”
“... Thank you.”
“Same to you.”
“Linksmų Kalėdų, Litwa.”
“Wesołych Świąt, Lenkija.”