Sov Gott

Reaching out to take the clipper in hand, Iceland let silence return to the room, save the slight thrum of electricity that brought life to the lights. As he walked over to the trash bin and began clipping, Iceland lost all sense of his surroundings, thinking back to the sound of Denmark's voice that had led him to the ring.

That was, at least, before Prussia cut through the silence as smoothly as a knife cut through butter: "I'm on the last leg of my life, I can tell you that much."

"What do you mean?"

"Iceland, if I die, I won't come back. That's what I mean."

"How did you get to that point?"

Prussia leaned his head back, a grunt of frustration leaving his lips. "What part of 'I don't know' do you not understand? Maybe it's because my name corresponds to a nation that isn't even a state. I'm a memory, Iceland. Or have you forgotten that I represent a nation that is no longer on the map?"

Iceland's eyebrows furrowed together as he began clipping, his violet eyes clouded with questions. Then how—

"I know what you're thinking," Prussia interjected, returning his attention to Iceland as he stood up and stretched out his back, a satisfying crack coming from somewhere along his spine.

"And what's that, exactly?" Iceland quipped, his guarded expression falling victim to defensiveness.

"Why are you alive when he's not," Prussia answered, distorting his voice to mimick a spoiled brat and going so far as to twist his face to match the voice. "Oh, oh, oh, wait... how could someone like me, who's no longer even on the map, be walking and talking while the personification of a healthy nation is dormant? Glad you asked," the scarlet-eyed man said, grinning grimly. "Still don't know. Sorry Iceland. There's never really been any studies on this before."

Iceland said nothing and clenched his jaw tightly as he inspected his handiwork before putting the clipper back. "I'm sorry. There simply has to be information somewhere."

Prussia came up behind Iceland and wrapped his arm around the Nordic's shoulders. "It's not like we don't have time to figure it out, Iceland. Today, we need to focus on getting your brother back. He probably knows something that could help us. When he was young he was well practiced in the magical arts—maybe he knows how to fix this. We can't find out until we get him back, though. Look alive," the Prussian said, firmly clapping Iceland on the back, "we're heading out soon."

The morning cloak of darkness hung over them as they left. Jones had been contacted, and despite the early hour, had come to Sweden's home shortly after Finland. Directly following Jones' arrival was the appearance of more police backup, crammed into a handful of cars that would accompany them on their journey. After enduring copious amounts of complaining, Jones had agreed to let Prussia lead the way in his motorcycle on the condition that he wear a bulletproof vest and a helmet for the duration of the trip. "I'm sure that Norway wouldn't want you to be killed for his sake," had been the reasoning that had finally won the Prussian over. That, and the sleek black helmet he had been given admittedly looked badass.

"We're tied on our scoreboard for chess. There's no way I'm dying until we can settle who's best," the Prussian had replied, cracking a grin. "Besides, I'm pretty sure Norway would hunt me down in the spirit world and kill me again if I died for him, the idiot."

Iceland had chuckled at the interaction, shaking his head in mock disapproval. Finland cracked a smirk and simply nodded, knowing that the Prussian had a rather accurate understanding of the Norwegian. After having spent so long in gloom, the Prussian's humor– however dark in origin–was incredibly welcome. Prussia's scarlet gaze was fixed on the ground as Iceland approached, his helmet tucked carefully under his arm. Gravel crunched under Iceland's feet as he came nearer, and soon that intense stare became focused on his own.