Japan thinks about his sister's name often.

Really, it suits her. Ryuukyuu, beneath a blue sky in the middle of a cerulean ocean, a gemstone of matching beauty and richness. It is a name that brings to Japan's mind youthfulness and elegance, both of which she possesses. But at the same time, he does not like it. It looks and sounds strange, and he dislikes the balance. No matter how well it suits her, it has to go. His sister will have a name that both suits her and holds significance to him. She is no longer her own nation, after all; she is becoming part of him. He has the right to call her whatever he wishes.

And so, he thinks about her name often, endlessly, even after he comes up with something he likes.

"Okinawa," he tells her one day as he prepares her to leave the house and come with him to see his country. "Your name is Okinawa. A cord in the open sea."

She does not like it at first. It is evident from her frown in the mirror. Okinawa feels as though Japan is insinuating that she is nothing more than a means to an end to him, or that she is bound to him and always has been. But Japan has decided, and he will not change his mind.

Still, he thinks about her name often.

China tries to greet her with a smile, but it is strained, stretched painfully and reluctantly across his face. He looks at Ryuukyuu with her geisha makeup and Japanese robes, every trace of independence and identity gone, and he knows that this is the last time he can call her "sister."

"Hello, brother," she says, eyes on the floor. This is the last time for her, as well. She holds up the robes in her arms. "Japan gave me these, but I cannot put them on alone." She does not say that she is afraid to go to Japan for fear of incurring his disappointment, and he does not have to hear it to know that it's the truth.

After today, she is Okinawa, and no longer of any relation to him. Japan is carving her in his image, and it bothers China. Can't he see, he thinks, that she is her own nation? That she is already beautiful the way she is? That she doesn't need Japan to tell her what to do, because she was doing just fine until he came along? Can't he see that she is all the family China has left?

He can, China realizes, he can see that. That's exactly why he is doing this slowly, removing every part of her that he can't claim as his own before his eyes, all the parts that resemble China in any way.

Little Ryuukyuu's wrists flash at him as she drowns in the garment, silk patterned with waves and ripples, and China holds her waist and helps her tie the obi the way he has seen his brother do before. She is still young, still so small, just a child compared to them, really, with a brightness in her eyes despite being mistreated so badly. China hopes she will hold onto it as he stands back to look at her, all exposed skin painted white and her long hair tied up on her head, her resemblance to Japan all the more obvious now. She is not meant to look like that, he thinks, not meant to look only like Japan. She is meant to look like him as well, but now she is unrecognizable.

"Thank you, brother," she says, bowing and turning to leave, and China catches her wrist in his hand. She stops and turns to look at him over her shoulder and he doesn't meet her eyes.

It doesn't have to end like this. He could fight Japan, could maybe even win, could definitely put this off for a little longer, just a little longer. But he looks at Ryuukyuu now, into eyes that fear violence more than anything. He doesn't want to let her go, but the idea of more fighting with Japan, more bitterness, losing her love like he has already lost Japan's, makes him hesitate. He squeezes her hand, bends to kiss her forehead, and slowly, one finger at a time, he lets her go.

"Goodbye...sister." He watches her open her parasol and leave him forever, though he does not mourn. He will not be like Japan. He will not force her into an uncomfortable position where she feels she must choose loyalties. He will not destroy the gentle light in her eyes with war.

He has lost family before; he will not do it again.

Russia sees her during the fighting. Somewhere between counting victories and losses and the bodies of the fallen, between exchanging glares with Japan across the battlefield and gazing at the sun as it passes overhead, he looks south and sees her. She is small, not even a nation of her own, but Russia sees her. He sees the relation first, their faces so much alike, but he also sees how she is different. She is the pacifist to Japan's warrior, the yin to his yang, and he wants to rip Japan apart, wants to see him tremble helplessly as his precious sister is taken from him. He wants her to be one with him.

Even when he loses, he still presses forward. "Northern Sakhalin is yours," Russia says, "But I don't understand why you want it so badly when you have such beautiful islands already." He doesn't have to specify. Japan looks into his eyes and sees his visions of Okinawa and her gentle smile, her worried face at the sight of his ships, the way she shook and looked to her brother for answers and comfort, and fury burns in Japan's eyes.

Neither side wants to fight again, though Japan looks like he might if pushed, so Russia doesn't comment further. He lets it go for now. After all, he is very patient. He can wait. He has seen Japan in battle, and he can assume how he is outside of it.

One day, she will tire of him, and then he will come for her.

Germany has taken note of her once before, many years ago, during the war when Japan had invited them over to discuss the future. She was hidden away in another room, but sometimes peeked in curiously at him and Italy. Her eyes were dark like Japan's but clear as water, and they hated war. He suspected that someone so young and meek had never hated anything before in her life, and so war was something she could give all of her negative emotion to. With each meeting, she looked less and less, and every glimpse he caught was not a glare but blankness, apathy, a lack of any care for him and anyone else involved in the war. She hated war, and by extension, he thought, she hated him as well.

He wonders what she must think of him now; Germany, who cannot appreciate the intricacies of the east. Germany, whose cruelty was subhuman. Germany, who can only prosper in times of war. Her eyes are brighter now and the hatred is gone, though sometimes she still trembles at the reminder of those days, fists shaking at her sides. Japan does not let her come to meetings, but she waits outside, and he dreads passing her and feeling those eyes on his back. Surely, she cannot help but think of those days when she sees him.

He thinks a proper introduction followed by an apology is the best course of action, something simple but meaningful so that she can understand that he, too, has regrets, something so that she does not resent him any longer. But when he finally brings himself to face her before a meeting, lingering in the hallway and finding her there, he can't bring himself to speak. Matters of emotion have always made Germany uncomfortable. Italy has told him before that he doesn't know how to express himself, and now he wishes he'd learned how.

She stares up at him patiently, waiting for him to make the first move, and Germany tries, but he just can't find the words. "We were never introduced," he says at last, just to break the uncomfortable silence that he suspects she would maintain if he doesn't speak first.

She nods and then bows. "I am Okinawa," she says.

"Germany." He sees her hands trembling out of the corner of his eye and wonders if she intends to strike him, if she wants to take out her anger from all those years ago out on someone. He might let her.

But she never does. Germany looks at her face and is startled to see that there is no hatred there, only tears and sympathy. He doesn't know what else to do, so he embraces her.

Okinawa trembles not in anger, but in grief, he realizes.

There is nothing simple about foreign relations, Japan knows, no matter what an outsider might say.

America says it's simple. "Just rewrite the textbooks," he shrugs, absent from his words the struggle he himself experienced when attempting such a thing. It's not that he doesn't want to rewrite them; he does, he wants to show his sister that he cares and that he recognizes how much her people have suffered at the hands of his. But there are always problems along the way; he is always met with resistance in one form or another, politicking that goes on for months until his will to fight is drained. It is never simple. And when he is told that it is, he simply bites his tongue and nods and says that he will think about it because America does not understand.

China says it's simple. "Just tell your boss to stop going to Yasukuni Shrine," like he's never tried to tell his boss what he should or should not do. China is not alone when he says this; there are others who agree. And really, Japan has nothing against the suggestion. He thinks it would be best if his boss doesn't go anymore, as well, but the problem is more complicated than that. There is the separation of church and state that allows the shrine to refuse to hear his suggestions, bizarre debates over merging superstition and politics, and the Bereaved Families Association to take into account when making such decisions, and Japan thinks that if others knew this, they would no longer think it such a simple matter. All he can say when China tells him such things is that he will think about it because China does not understand.

Okinawa does not say that it's a simple matter because she does understand. She has seen the unrest of his people, how leaders fall out of favor at the slightest provocation and cultural pressure drives so many to an early grave. It's not so simple, not just about being kind, because she is all he has and only now, looking out into the big, open world, does he realize how alone he is and how many he has driven away. So he holds onto her, tightly, in a grip that causes bruises and political tension, and she bears the discomfort because now, he is all that she has left, too.

It is only much later, after many years apart, that Okinawa returns to him and finally asks why that name. "Why a cord in the sea?"

"I thought you were afraid," Japan tells her, "Standing in the middle of the ocean by yourself. I wanted to remind you that we are connected. If you need me, pull on the cord, and I will come to you."

Okinawa looks at him with surprise, and then her eyes soften. "I like it," she says, at last, and Japan can finally stop thinking about her name.