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.
"Roma..." Spain whispered, his emerald gaze focused solely on the Italian.
"Wh—what do you want, bastardo?" Romano sniffled.
Spain's arm twitched just slightly, reaching for his boyfriend's hand. South Italy's personification took Spain's hand, giving him the most tender, loving look anyone had ever seen on the cranky Italian.
"Goodbye," he said softly. His lover nodded, mouth curling into the slightest trace of his familiar smile, and exhaled for the last time.
There, Romano had finally lost it all. He was not only the sole personification of Italy, left to run the entire country by himself, but he had lost both his beloved and his brother in the space of five minutes. It was too much to take in.
A dry, thunderous crack resonated through the room; the nations recoiled as one. The countries' heads snapped towards the source of the noise; ears ringing, high-pitched, and distracting. Every nation who had been in a war before, and even those who hadn't, could recognize that sound as easily as their own name.
Gunfire.
The shots continued one after another. By the time it was over, the group had counted at least 4 shots. Who was it now? Could any of them even dare to hope that their loved ones were still safe?
Most of the nations could barely bring their own feet to move forward after the most recent onslaught of death.
Quite the opposite of his fellow countries, Russia seemed to have accepted that he would lose everything, probably including his own life, and he only had one mission to complete before he died: To destroy the monsters who had killed his America.
The only way to do that was to keep moving until he found Belarus's demon, so he practically knocked the door down and marched into the hallway.
This one was dark as night, prompting several nations to pull out phones and turn on flashlights once more. The walkway seemed to go on forever, nothing but smooth marble floor and narrow walls that felt as though they were closing in. The thick cloud of nervousness threading among the nations became more and more prominent.
There was nothing in the hallway, right? So where had the gunshots come from?
The hallway stretched on... and on... and on. There was no end in sight.
Finally, Lithuania spotted a door and informed the others in the group. They all swarmed to the exit, eager to escape the confines of the hall, but no one could bring themself to open the door. Not knowing who or what they would find was pinning their hands against their sides.
It was unsurprisingly Russia who set foot inside first. Sweden and Norway, still grieving and despondent, came in last and were confused by the frightened, pitying glances that other nations were throwing them.
The crowd of personifications parted like the Red Sea before the two Nordics, revealing the fallen body of none other than Finland. One of his arms lay across his chest, his hand pressed over one of 3 gunshot wounds leaking blood onto the floor.
Sweden walked silently over to him, lifting his body almost reverently and being as cautious of the injuries as he could.
Reflexively, Finland curled closer to him, then winced and drew back.
"Don't. You'll hurt yerself," Sweden reminded him in a hushed voice.
"I don't mind. I'm a little hurt already, if you couldn't see," Finland murmured.
"Don' talk like that. Y'll be alright."
Finland shook his head weakly. "No. I won't," he said, slowly raising one hand and placing it on Sweden's chest.
The Swede immediately took his hand and pressed his lips to it.
"I'll see y' someday, then," he whispered.
Finland nodded once more. He closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of Sweden's arms around him, and let himself drift into the sweet lull of sleep.
Sweden put two fingers against Finland's neck, feeling his pulse grow slower and slower until... Nothing.
Sweden was expressionless as he informed his companions, "Y' should all go 'n withou' me. I don't want to leave 'im."
"But it's dangerous here!" Lithuania protested.
"I'll b' fine. I j'st need a minute. I'll catch up," Sweden assured him. The nations still appeared apprehensive, so Sweden went on, "I want t' stay alive. F'r Seal'nd."
That seemed to nullify their concerns, and the others began filing into the next area. Norway stopped to put a hand on Sweden's shoulder and told him, "We'll see them again, Sve."
The imposing Swede inclined his head and urged Norway to leave with the rest of the countries. Norway nodded, using his sleeve to wipe several tears from his face, and stood to follow the group.
Tomorrow's chapter will definitely be happier! We're sorry for all the angst! (not really lol)