Why Sealand Can't Plan a Prank (And Why You Shouldn't Let Belarus Help Him)

Part 5

The room was too beautiful for what it held. It was cathedral-like, with high, arching ceilings and wide windows that reflected panels of saffron-colored sunlight onto the ground. At one end, a military-style tank was still running, but... was the front seat missing? And where was the driver?

Germany recognized the design of that tank. No. No, it couldn't be.

But it was.

On the other side of the room, slouched against the wall, was the personification of North Italy, a skinny trail of red dripping from his mouth. His head was tipping sideways at a bizarre angle, his eyes closed.

Germany hurried over to the body, pulling Italy into his lap and holding him close. He wanted to cry and scream and burn the world down all at the same time as he stared at Italy's lifeless form.

Germany almost expected him to come alive at any moment. The Italian personification had always been so sweet and bubbly and full of life; it seemed impossible for him to be this still. It had to be impossible.

"Wake up, Italy. Wake up," Germany pleaded. He had never been the type of man to delude himself, constantly grounded and fact-oriented, but there was no way that this could be happening.

Someone aggressively shoved his shoulder, and then next thing he knew he was looking right into the eyes of an impossibly miserable Romano.

"Get away from him, potato bastard!"

There was no real fury in the words, only despondence and acceptance. Germany clenched his fists and released Italy, biting back tears. Romano put one hand against his brother's forehead and whispered, "Arrivederci, mio fratello."

A single tear slipped down his face as he stood, avoiding Germany's eyes and striding towards the next door without a moment's hesitation. He was clearly trying to avoid showing weakness.

"Well?" he demanded, though his voice cracked audibly. "Are we going or what?"

Eight nations trailed after him, trying not to stare as Germany crawled back to the body and watched it as if in awe. Again, he lifted Italy into his lap, whispering the things he knew he should have told the man though there was no way he could hear them.

I wish I could have protected you.

I'm sorry.

I never should have let you go.

You mean the world to me.

Finally, he ended the confession with a simple, "I love you."

Setting the body down, he rose and joined the rest of his cohorts. Switzerland gave him a questioning glance, Germany nodded, and Switzerland pushed the door open, leaving the broken body of North Italy behind.

As soon as Germany walked through the entryway, a deafening scream pierced his ears.

"No! No, no, no, goddammit! Not you too!" Romano cried, turning away and pressing his palms against his eyes as if he could push the image from his mind.

Germany felt his throat constrict. The metallic, rotten reek of blood permeated the air, rising from a growing pool of the crimson fluid. South Italy was hunched over, still blocking his eyes, attempting to reign in his raging emotions to no avail.

The blood was almost lapping over his shoes. Spain's blood.

The Spaniard's signature axe was protruding from his stomach, his normally vibrant green eyes fading fast. Romano kneeled by his side, disregarding the redness soaking his dress pants.