Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or any of its characters.

Summary: AU: "Imagination is the only weapon in the war against humanity."- Lewis Carrol, Alice in Wonderland."

Status: Complete.

Warning: Feliciano may be a little different here, as I have a head cannon for him that is different than what much of works involving him portray him as. There may be OCC-ness, so you are warned.

A/N: This is my first time doing a setting in a library. I just love libraries and I do hope this little tidbit, will be represented well in this work.

Enjoy!

Pure Imagination

A slow, quiet sigh slipped from Feliciano's lips and sent dust motes swirling through the musty library air. Beneath his fingertips, crisp white pages creaked open with the satisfying cracking noise of a new binding being broken before releasing the subtle scent of untouched ink and paper into the otherwise scentless air. Feliciano breathed, and read, and smiled.

Along the rafters of the old town library scuttled spiders, trailing thin strands of fine, milky web behind them. Dust drifted over everything and the light slanting through it shone down as if pushing through fog, so that it reached the floor in thin, displaced shafts of mist. There was a scurrying sound to Feliciano's left that could have been either a librarian or a mouse, but in the intimate atmosphere of the library it was impossible to take note of such trivial things. The presence of others in his private and isolated sanctuary was hardly any of his concern. They passed through his awareness like ghosts on the periphery of a small and lonely graveyard, the few lingering remnants of an otherwise abandoned house of knowledge.

Hardly anyone visited the library these days. Summer was hovering over the town, smothering the citizens in heat, humidity, and a blistering streak of sunshine that had been hidden for months before the season change. The heat inside the building was even more sweltering than it was outside, and no one dared be caught inside. Feliciano Vargas, however, had never quite been like everyone else.

Another sigh stirred the air as he leaned back in the hard, wooden reading chair and closed the thick new paperback on the table in front of him. Vague thoughts pulled at the edges of his consciousness, but he had long ago surpassed the need to attach physical words to the intangible and inexplicable feelings that overtook him at the completion of a novel. After reading all but the most uninteresting of the Biblioteca Marciana Library's meager stock of fiction, he felt he had an understanding with literature that couldn't be explained with the limitations of his own vocabulary. He appreciated writers' innate ability to capture the world with the stroke of a pen, but he didn't trust his own mind to be so adept and when it came to the emotions a good book could stir within him, and Feliciano didn't want to ruin the peaceful, thoughtful moment with inadequate words. He was no writer; just a very dedicated reader and lover of the craft.

The chair grated roughly against the hard-wooden floor as he rose to his feet, gazing around the shelves with the wistful feeling of someone surrounded by his superiors. If only…if only he was the hero of one of those novels, living a life of intrigue and adventure. There was a sense of magic within the folds of fiction that repeatedly ignored his subpar life, and his active and observant mind was only making things worse. He had lately begun to realize that he was comparing the townsfolk of Marciana to his beloved characters, and the real world was woefully unable to live up to the grand images of nobility and heroism that thrived so happily in fantasy novels. Nor were they as clever as the scientists of science fiction, or as passionate as a romance's heroine. They couldn't possibly hope to match the compelling voice of a satirical narrator, and the courage of historical fiction characters bypassed Marciana completely. The town was mediocre, and its inhabitants had never had to live up to anything more than that.

Feliciano would be different. Each new read filled him with more determination than ever—determination to leave the perfectly average town in which he'd been born and make a name for himself. He could never delve into the world of his novels, and so he had promised himself that he would make them come to the real world. The thought of living such a dull life until the day of his death was a prospect too bleak to bear, and Feliciano refused to allow it to happen to him. Let the citizens of Marciana have their bland and routine daily lives. Feliciano Vargas was going to be someone.

One of the elderly librarians, a woman called Mrs. Waters, pushed a cart full of recent returns around a corner and in an instant, the sense of communion with the library was gone. Feliciano blinked himself back to reality and moved away from the reading table to return his book to the shelf on which he'd found it. The librarians had tried to tell him not to worry about it, but since he intended to go back and pick up another book anyway, it seemed pointless to leave the books lying unattended on the table for who knew how many hours. He didn't mind making their jobs a little easier.

The book, an epic fantasy involving a quest and the typical motley crew of characters (elf, wizard, warrior, spy), slid effortlessly between a thin volume of fairytales and a thick, intimidating sci-fi novel detailing a technological war between two opposing factions of scientific faith. Feliciano had read both. It was no surprise, considering that he had read every book in the small alcove he now stood in. If it was fiction, it was desired reading.

Mrs. Waters smiled at him as he turned away from the shelf and met her wrinkled, pale-eyed gaze. Feliciano returned the expression and sauntered over toward her, glancing into the cart for a quick perusal before deciding that he'd read everything of interest.

"Read anything good today?" she asked. Feliciano had always liked Mrs. Waters' voice. It was soft and grandmotherly, creaking like the bindings of the books he so enjoyed opening. There was comfort and warmth in there that seemed inherent to her nature.

"Sì, Signora Waters, Feliciano said, grinning, "but I think I'm all out."

Mrs. Waters laughed. "Are you now? What have you read lately? I'll see if I can think of anything."

Figuring that it would be quicker to cover genres than individual titles, Feliciano began to tick them off on his fingers. "Fantasy, science fiction, most of the westerns, and about half of the romances. The other half was a little…" He blushed and pushed on. "…adult. I don't think there's a single crime novel in the world that I haven't completed. I also read those three literary fiction novels you got last month, and I wiped out the classics ages ago, excluding Sense and Sensibility, which has been missing practically since I was born." He eyed the old woman skeptically. "What more could there possibly be?"

The old woman smiled again, more widely. "Ah, you've completely missed my favorite genre!"

Feliciano frowned. Missed a genre? How was that possible? The only books he'd intentionally skipped (excluding those questionable romance novels) had all been nonfiction titles. He'd been considering reading a few of the autobiographies and anonymous journals, but otherwise couldn't find anything eye-catching on those shelves. So, what had he missed?

He voiced the question aloud.

"Horror!" Mrs. Waters exclaimed with undue excitement.

Feliciano's frown deepened. "Horror?" He raised an eyebrow. "You mean gross-out slasher-fests and creepy monsters?" He shuddered. "No thanks Signora Waters, I'll pass on that one."

"Senza senso! You should give it a try, Feliciano. You might enjoy it, and- "She paused, taking in a breath of air, "What ever are you going to read in the meantime? Come along, I'll help you find a few titles."

Shrugging his consent, he followed the old librarian down to the opposite end of the library—hardly more than a 30 second walk considering how small the place was—and into a grim and dusty corner stacked high with books in varying shades of black and red. Feliciano stopped and looked appraisingly at the titles: The Black Book of Horror; Deathbringer; The Dead Shall Inherit the Earth; Baroness of Blood. "Cheery," he muttered, glancing briefly at a book titled simply, Doom.

He turned to Mrs. Waters again as he slid the book back on the shelf. "You read this stuff?"

She cackled evilly, a sound that didn't match her kindly voice and therefore lost most of its menace. It certainly didn't help that her smile hadn't dropped since she had invited him to browse the genre. "All the time. It makes for excellent nighttime reading."

"I guess…."

"Come on, try it out. I promise it doesn't bite. Usually."

Feliciano rolled his eyes at the ancient joke, but he followed Mrs. Waters deeper into the shelves nevertheless.

"Now let's see," she mumbled, scanning titles with well-trained eyes that already knew the shelves by heart. "Meraviglioso!" The dust kicked into a frenzy at the sudden breathy disturbance as Mrs. Waters' hand launched forward and seized a title from the middle of the shelf.

"Here you are," she said as she turned to Feliciano again. "One of my favorites."

He took the book, a heavy hardcover, and studied the cover. A large and stately cabin stood at its center, surrounded by trees that leaned inward as though being pulled by some invisible force. The windows glared like darkened eyes and blood dripped from the sills and stained the curtains. The title read, The Dead House.

Feliciano laughed. "I can't believe you read this stuff." He shook his head. "Well, if it's good enough for you, I'll give it a try."

"You won't be disappointed, I promise," the old lady said with a grin. "Now let's get that checked out for you so I can close up and head home. It's almost seven o'clock already. Don't your parents wonder where you are?"

"Non proprio. It's a small town, and they know I spend all my time reading; how much trouble can I get myself into?"

Mrs. Waters smiled. "'How much,' indeed?"

On the streets of Marciana, with The Dead House swinging along like a rectangular extension of Feliciano's arm, the summer heat fell with unforgiving weight that seemed determined to press him flat to the scorched earth.

Feliciano stopped to wipe sweat from his forehead while he gazed at the blazing sun above. At first, it had almost been a relief to emerge from the oven-like walls of the library and into the slightly more docile warmth that lingered outside, but the feeling had quickly vanished. The library may have been warmer than the sun outside—there was no funding for an air conditioner, and so the wood walls soaked up heat like toaster coils—but it had the advantage of providing shade. After only fifteen minutes of being in the open, Feliciano could already feel his pale skin beginning to succumb to a sunburn. His normally light brown hair had been bleached to an ashen blond over the course of his many trips to the library during the summer, and if it had been possible for eyes to turn paler under the harsh light overhead, he was certain that his hazel eyes would have been devoid of color by now. The only part of him that seemed to gain color in the overwhelming weather was his skin, but red wasn't a look he was especially keen on getting.

Turning his eyes back to the road ahead, Feliciano was suddenly confronted with the unexpected presence of Giulia Arena, a redhead around his own age who was known across town as the "beauty queen of Marciana." It was a reputation coveted by every girl in town, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that the title would belong to Giulia until the day she died. The girl was an effortless beauty.

"Ciao, Feli!"

He fought the urge to roll his eyes at the loathsome nickname. "Ciao, Giulia."

Her brilliant green eyes shot to the book under his arm. "Un premio molto speciale che hai! Got another one, huh? Do you ever stop reading?" She grinned and the slight wrinkling around her eyes proved the words to be a joke.

Feliciano shrugged. "Guess not." Santa Maria, will you go away, you self-absorbed Medusa?

"Scrittura, Feliciano!" He was startled by her sudden outburst. You should think about writing one of your own one day. Sì, sì! I bet it would be really good, with all that inspiration to draw from."

Becoming more agitated by her presence, Feliciano only resorted to a simple response. "Sì."

Giulia shifted uncomfortably, clearly aware that the conversation was over. "Well, I should get going. The sun's starting to set, so…I'll, uh, see you around." The grin that had started to fade from her face returned with a vengeance. "Arrivederci!"

Feliciano waved silently as the red-head skipped across the street. No doubt she was going down to the local store to pick up some cream for her mother. Giulia herself had never needed anything of the sort.

Thankful to be rid of the noisy intrusion on his otherwise peaceful return home, Feliciano released a quiet breath and walked the last block and a half home as the sun began to set behind him.

If there was one good part about returning to his house, it was air conditioning. His mother had insisted on one, or so his father said, after only a week of coping with the constant summer heat. That had been before Feliciano was born, but he could just see his mother nagging at his father to buy the appliance; annoying though her harping on may have been, he was grateful for the reprieve from the blistering sun that had marked his path to and from the house for the past two months. Now, in late July, the air conditioning was proving its worth: Despite the triple-digit weather outside, the indoor temperature rested at a comfortable 70 degrees.

The door clicked closed and Feliciano absent-mindedly locked it. He was already lost in thought about the unusual world that doubtlessly awaited him within the bindings of The Dead House, and couldn't be bothered to focus on the reality that filled the home around him.

He was stepping forward into the blissfully isolated realm of his bedroom when the voice caught his attention.

"Did you get burned again?"

Feliciano turned, dragging his eyes away from the eerily intriguing cover of The Dead House, and met the frustrated and concerned eyes of Allison Vargas.

His mother had always been a worrier, the kind of person who prattled on endlessly about ways to get tough stains out of carpets or keep from getting bug bites while camping or the proper way to escape a riptide in the ocean. She could have written a book on the small avoidances that made up her daily life, a series of concerns that ranged from mundane to life threatening. She rarely encountered the latter.

Feliciano sighed with an exaggerated burst of noise. "Sì, momma. Sorry." It was typical of her to notice something as completely unimportant and subtle as the vague reddening of his skin from the walk home.

Allison sighed, the concern in her eyes increasing. "I wish you'd start using that sun block I bought you. It would only take you five minutes, and I even bought the spray-on kind so it would be easier to use. Or at least wear long sleeves when you go out. I know it's hot, but anything's better than melanoma."

Fighting hard not to roll his eyes, Feliciano muttered a quick, " Sì, I will," before disappearing into the confines of his room.

With the door shut against his mother's proclamations of disapproval, a wave of relaxation rushed over him and he dropped heavily onto his bed, cracking open The Dead House as he fell.

Allison Vargas frequently kept him from his books with her incessant nagging. She called it "maternal instinct", but Feliciano was fonder of the term "worrywart" when it came to describing his mother. And after spending the last 20 minutes walking home in the all but lethal heat of July in Marciana, he was loath to spend any more time away from fiction.

Briefly, he wondered who Allison would be cast as if she were a character in one of his novels. One of those nagging witches who never knew when to shut up and died early, he supposed. Those kinds of characters cropped up occasionally in books and were usually taken out during a tense situation after giving the main character away to his enemies and initiating some ridiculous fight to the death that might otherwise have been avoided.

'Incredibilmente! Momma, you're so worried about me getting a sunburn, why don't you light yourself on fire and worry about a real burn for once?'

Shaking his head and forcing the irritating thoughts of his mother away, Feliciano settled down to read. He had grown increasingly curious about the book Mrs. Waters had recommended and he was eager to begin unraveling its mysteries and, perhaps, a few of the librarian's own secrets. The books a person read, their reaction to them, and the way they spoke of the events within those pages later were in Feliciano's mind the most interesting and useful indicators of a person's personality. He was sure to learn something new about Mrs. Waters this way.

Smiling and pleased to have something new to read—in spite of its creepy nature—Feliciano lay against his headboard and flipped to the first page of The Dead House.

"Annie Luthor's first impression of the old Cherrywood Manor was that it looked like the sort of place where a murder might be committed…"

"You look tired."

Feliciano jerked back into awareness as Mrs. Waters' voice floated across his consciousness. He turned to look at her, and though he was clearly groggy there was an expression of excitement on his face that belied his exhaustion.

"Yes," he said, smiling. "I was up all-night reading." The pale outlines of half circles under his eyes and the tousled appearance of his normally neat hair seemed to give the fact away on their own.

Mrs. Waters grinned in return. "Good! You liked it then?"

"I loved it! I can't believe I never read any of these before. It was…" He shook his head thoughtfully as he tried to come up with precisely the right word to describe The Dead House. It had been a tale of hauntings and violence, a maddening story of a woman who chose to ignore the danger and magic of the world around her, failing to realize the peril she was in until it was much too late. Feliciano closed his eyes as he remembered the chills that had raced along his spine at the novel's conclusion: Annie Luthor, alone and helpless, had acknowledged the phantoms of Cherrywood Manor at last and been chased into the swamp by their desperate pleas for life—life they had tried to steal from her breathing body—and fallen into a bog, where she drowned. The epilogue had revealed that the ghosts got what they wanted after all, for when the cops arrived to investigate her mysterious disappearance, Cherrywood Manor had a new owner, one who had lived there for nearly 300 years. How could he explain the sense of satisfaction that had filled him then? "Overpowering. I've never read anything like it."

Mrs. Waters had frowned at his unusual word choice but the smile returned to the old librarian's face at his obvious enjoyment of the novel. "Well, I'm glad you've enjoyed it. That book has always been one of my favorites." She sighed and gazed at the ceiling. "Poor Annie. I can never help but mourn her fate when I read her story."

Feliciano looked at her, confused. "But didn't she deserve it? If she had paid attention to what was around her…I mean, she had an experience that was more exciting than any of us in the real world will ever so much as dream of having, and she tried to pretend that it wasn't happening or that the ghosts didn't exist. She dug her own grave. Or ran into it, anyway."

There was something vague and troubled in Mrs. Waters' eyes when she shrugged. "I suppose you could see it that way. Now, shall we go find a few more?"

"Of course!" He could already anticipate the horrific stories that would fill the next novel. The thought of waiting any longer to read them was unbearable, a fate even worse than Annie's for the simple fact that it was smothered in reality.

Unwilling to wait, Feliciano led the way to the horror section of the Marciana Public Library. He moved so quickly that Mrs. Waters was hard pressed to keep up, and he was left bouncing restlessly on the balls of his feet and scanning the shelves intently until she arrived. The moment she entered the small alcove he spun to face her, watching expectantly as Mrs. Waters searched for precisely the right titles to offer him next. Several times, she seemed to reach for a book only to decide that it was inadequate in some way, and impatience welled within Feliciano as he waited for her to select her newest recommendations.

After what felt like hours, she finally handed them to him—a small stack of three paperbacks, two black, one gray. Feliciano read the titles eagerly: Remembering Death; Zombies on Cedar Avenue; It's Only Murder. His eyes rested on the last one, fascinated by its implications. Only murder? A captivating concept.

"Here we are," she said as he took them and began to study the covers. "This should give you a nice variety; a little supernatural, a little of the classics, and a little of the real world, which is always nice and scary on a dark night."

Feliciano hardly listened. He was entranced by the visions of terror that leapt forth from the covers of his new books. Hands clawing desperately at the earth; a ghost hovering over a man with their hands stretched out like claws; a woman slumped over a table, blood streaming from her open throat. In a horrifying way, it was all beautiful. He couldn't look away.

"Thanks, Signora. Waters," he murmured, still staring at the books. "I'll bring them back tomorrow."

She laughed. "Now don't read them too quickly! We'll run out before the week's out. Now, let's get these checked out."

The moment they were safely checked out and in his hands, Feliciano raced for the door and down the street to his house. He hardly even had time to be bothered by sweltering heat outside. Only the books mattered; only the horror contained therein meant anything at all.

So, when he bumped into Markus Hennessy and Rion Del Santo from the high school marching team, he wasted no time being apologetic, and found it in him only to be annoyed at the delay.

"Merda! Sorry, Feliciano, didn't mean to go knocking into you like that," Markus said as he bent down to pick up the books that had been resting securely in Feliciano's arms and now sprawled in a small pile on the concrete.

"Yeah, don't worry about it," Feliciano said as he took the books back. He was eager to get back to the house and start reading, but his mother had ingrained it into his mind long ago that it was rude to rush off on someone. The courtesy was practically instinct now. "Thanks for picking these up," he continued, gesturing vaguely at the books.

" Nessun problema, Feli." Rion smiled, having answered before Markus did- even though he had done nothing to help gather them.

Feliciano forced a smile. Idiot. If you behemoths would watch where you're going, it wouldn't be a problem, would it? Drop dead. "Where are you guys heading?"

"Football field," Mark said. "We would like to get in more practice before daily doubles start in August."

"I won't keep you then," Feliciano said, grateful for the excuse to leave. "Have fun."

"Avere un buon riposo della giornata." Rion and Markus grinned and continued, tossing a baton back and forth between them as they walked.

Annoyed at the interruption, Feliciano moved on and was back home in no time. He headed to his room with a single-minded determination to begin reading without any more delays like the obnoxious meeting with the resident giants of Marciana, but he was abruptly stopped by the sound of his father calling from the computer room.

Fighting back mounting frustration, he rushed down the hallway and thrust his head into the doorway. "What?"

"Oh. I thought your mother was home." Arrigo Vargas frowned at the sight of Feliciano's face in the door, then turned to face the computer again. He was constantly working on his project—he ran a home business through the internet, and rarely left his desk. "When she gets back, would you let her know we're out of milk?"

" Sì padre."

" Grazie." The response was a clear dismissal, and Feliciano left immediately.

Work. That was all his father ever did. Nothing exciting, nothing intriguing and filled with danger, nothing intended to better the planet and save the downtrodden, nothing of any interest whatsoever. It was pathetic. Feliciano sent a glare back toward the computer room. He would never allow something so mundane to happen to him. He was better than that, and he intended to make it known.

He was almost thankful that Arrigo paid him so little mind. At least he didn't have to waste his day with lectures on the importance of business and finance or how to turn oneself into a proper, upper-middle class bore. That people were so impressed by such a pitiful enterprise never ceased to amaze him. Useless, mindless idiots. They were precisely the kind of people who died in the painful, self-created situations that Annie Luthor had found herself in upon arriving at Cherrywood Manor. If only it was so easy to get rid of the dullards of the world. But that was what Feliciano had fiction for.

In his room, Feliciano glanced over the books, wondering which to read first. Each was calling to him, pulling him in, seeming almost to speak with physical whispers of sound that advertised their horrifying wares. Each had something different to offer, a unique tale of terror all its own. He wanted to know all of them, and to know them now, but he could only read one novel at a time. It was one of the various downfalls of human limitation.

After nearly ten minutes of debating, he pulled Remembering Death from the collection and settled back to read. Of all the cover images, Remembering Death's was the least appealing, the least horrific. He would leave It's Only Murder for the end. After all, there was just something so wonderful about saving the best for last, and he was certain that a gruesome story of grisly murder would be better than anything he'd read in a very long time.

When he returned to the library two days later, Mrs. Waters was visibly worried.

" Mio Dio! Are you all right, Feliciano?" she asked, frowning. "You look even more exhausted than you did a few days ago."

" Sto bene," he said vaguely. "Just a little tired." He blinked roughly as his eyes threatened to droop closed, then offered Mrs. Waters a smile. "I stayed up reading again."

"Feliciano, maybe you should take a break," she said slowly. "I don't want you to damage your health over a few books."

He laughed. "Books? You should know as well as I do that they're so much more than that." His eyes, still darkened by exhaustion, gleamed.

"Are you sure you're okay?" The concern that had rested lightly on Mrs. Waters' voice before was now so thick that it was impossible to ignore.

Feliciano smiled. "I'm better than ever." He didn't wait for her as he turned to the far end of the library, where new realms of horror waited to pull him in and consume him.

Even if she wouldn't recommend anything new—this stupid worrying, it was just like his mother; Mrs. Waters was so much better than her! How could she show such a damning similarity? —even if she insisted on pressing the insignificant issue of his health, he would find the books on his own. How had he gone so long without knowing the joys that filled a good horror novel? How was it possible that he had lived his entire, boring life without understanding what it was to be frightened or disgusted or mortified by the written word? Let her try to take the books from him. Let them all go on failing to understand. He needed more.

Mrs. Waters appeared in the small opening that led to the rest of the library, and when she saw Feliciano's face, she stopped dead. Hunger had nestled on his features and woven its way to the core of his expression; it wasn't the harmless, innocent and unfortunate hunger that plagued those at the brink of poverty, and it wasn't the driving hunger of motivation that could bring out the best of a person even in their darkest moments. It was bestial, desperate, and demanding all at once. It paced in his eyes like a caged animal and rested on the tension of his lips like fury waiting to be born. In the eerie light emanating from his pale skin, danger lurked and threatened to unleash itself at any given moment. He looked thinner than he was, almost sickly, under the cloak of need that the hunger left draped over his body.

"Feliciano…."

He spun to face her and the force of his hunger launched at her like a physical blast. Mrs. Waters took a step back, away from that overwhelming expression of desire, and found that she was afraid.

"Please," he said. There was nothing special in the word, no violence of emotion to suggest that it could strike like a knife to the chest, but that was how it felt when the word hit Mrs. Waters' ears. "Help me find more."

Swallowing fear and hesitation, she stepped forward amidst the shelves. "Okay." She nodded. "I will."

Seven volumes were cradled in Feliciano's arms when he left. He seemed to be whispering to them as he left, without ever saying a word.

It wasn't long before Feliciano's parents grew worried.

"Tesoro," Allison Vargas said, "are you getting enough sleep? You don't look well." Concern settled richly in her voice and wrinkled the skin around her eyes and lips.

"I'm fine," he answered shortly. "I'm going to the library. I'll be back soon."

His father, on one of his rare forays out of the computer room, frowned at the sight of the dark, almost black circles that rested under Feliciano's eyes. He seemed appalled at the gaunt, ghostly paleness that haunted his son's face. "Has your mother taken you to doctor?"

"I don't need one. Let me read."

He grew increasingly impatient with the citizens of Marciana. His neighbors across the street, bickering on their lawn one afternoon, sent him into such a rage that he threw the book he was reading against the wall in sheer frustration. He was cradling it in his arms a moment later, apologizing profusely as though it were a small child that he'd badly frightened.

A week later, when he was dragged to the store by his mother to pick up some medicine for a cold Feliciano knew he didn't have, he ran into his 6th grade teacher, a woman named Mrs. Arietta who had taken a leave of absence from the end of the school year due to her pregnancy. She spent nearly half an hour chatting with his mother about the various pros and cons of bearing a child, while Feliciano sighed and rolled his eyes impatiently, urging his mother to leave. When they were finally able to head home, Mrs. Arietta called after them, "I'll send you an invitation to the shower!" Allison remarked that that would be lovely. Feliciano hoped her baby would be as hideous as that disgusting, sentimental, mindless conversation.

Passing a young couple exhibiting a gratuitous expression of PDA, Feliciano found himself wishing that they would either realize how sickening such a display was, or else that he could somehow make them suffer for not being aware of the wretched nature of their indiscretion.

That was what his horror novels had that the real world would always so desperately lack: a clear sense of power, of being better than everyone else. In horror novels, it was always the normal, average, boring citizens that paid with a grisly fate; the fantastic, gruesome, horrific subjects of opposition almost always got exactly what they wanted, forcing mundanity into ultimate submission as the impossible, the desired realm of surrealism, took control.

If only. If only he was one of those characters taking over, exerting control, displaying the breadth of his power. Was there anything he coveted more than that single word? Power. It carried magic on its syllables, the same way he had once thought that fantasy tales could carry magic. How pitiful he'd been then. Reading drivel in which the real world was not only protected, but valued. How many characters in those idiotic novels had wished that they were normal, bound by limitations and trapped in an unsatisfying world of powerlessness? And he had once valued such pathetic creations as true works of art to be admired and idolized. What a fool he'd been. Like the rest of Marciana, he had been wandering through daily life in a dream, never knowing that he could never attain the excitement he craved if he continued on in such a way, and he had been content to live like that. It was mortifying to think of those days now. What he had been was weak and naïve. What he had become was so much more than that.

His hate for the town he was confined in spiraled outward like a living creature, searching for victims. No one escaped his loathing gaze, and no one was deemed unworthy of his fury. They were all inadequate and undeserving, yet they dared judge him! Feliciano had noticed the way people in Marciana were looking at him—like he was something to be feared or pitied. The sickliness of his appearance, the way his clothes hung like they were several sizes too big for his thinning frame and the way his eyes seemed sunken into the pools of black exhaustion that now surrounded them, had convinced many in the town that he had come down with some strange and terrifying illness. It was almost enough to make Feliciano laugh aloud at times, though he rarely expressed such mirth these days. They skittered away like spiders into their homes when he passed, or else they looked at him with such concern that he thought their bleeding hearts must be choking them by now. And wouldn't it be funny if they were?

Even Mrs. Waters looked increasingly concerned when he frequented her library. But she understood. She must understand. She had led him to this magnificent land where boring reality was made to suffer as he had always wished it would. She was only better than him at putting on the false face that would please the outside world. He hadn't learned that yet. He would, though. Feliciano Vargas refused to be inadequate to anyone.

At home, his father, who was always boring anyway, began to look even duller. His wardrobe was turning into nothing more than varied shades of gray. Even his facial features looked drab and pale, almost like they were disappearing into his face. There was nothing distinguishing about him anymore, and Feliciano found himself amused by this outward expression of the boredom that filled Marciana. His mother had somehow received a sunburn, too, which filled Feliciano with mirth every time he saw it. That's what she got for endlessly nagging, wasn't it?

It was several days later, walking home with a fresh load of library books, that he truly began to notice the changes taking place in Marciana.

"Dannazione!"

The voice pulled Feliciano's attention away from the gruesome cover of Killer in Somerset and up to the frustrated face of Giulia Arena. The redhead sat on the curb in front of her house and was itching furiously at a small patch of skin on her arm.

Feliciano frowned. He didn't think Giulia had ever had a rash in her life. It would have been all over town if anything out of the ordinary had dared to mar her perfect skin, and he had never heard of any such thing. Well, that's what you get, beauty queen. He stifled his grin as he walked forward to get a closer look.

"Come va?"

"Huh?" Mary looked up, startled. "Oh, hi, Feliciano." She sighed hugely. "It's nothing, I just got this…. well, I don't really know what it is. Mom thinks it's a sunburn starting to peel, but I haven't even tanned this summer, so I don't know how—"

"Mind if I look?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure, why not?" She held her arm out toward him, revealing the source of her concern.

A small spot on her arm looked rough and discolored, and the skin appeared to be peeling. And was it blackening around the edges? Feliciano blinked. That couldn't be right. But there it was, a dry patch at the edge of the rash where the skin had peeled up and almost looked to have hardened, turning as black as ebony.

"Yeah, it looks like a sunburn," he said, straightening up. Of course, it looked nothing of the sort, but what might that little rash turn into if it was left untreated? It was too intriguing a possibility to pass up.

Giulia frowned, but nodded anyway. "Forse. I guess so. Maybe I'm just overreacting. Thanks for looking, Feli."

Again, that obnoxious, horrible moniker. The smile he offered was so fake it was almost painful. "No problem. Good luck with that."

"Yeah. Thanks."

As Feliciano began walking away, he saw Giulia Arena begin scratching her arm again as she gazed absently into the distance. The image brought a smile to his face.

Feliciano had read almost half of the horror section in less than three weeks. His eyes had sunken so deep into their sockets and his body had lost so much weight and color that he looked more like a corpse wandering the streets of Marciana than a living, breathing boy. His hair hung in lank strands that were growing thinner by the day, almost as though it was falling out. The clothes that had fit him only a month ago now looked like sacks hanging from his pale and sickly frame, in spite of all the food his mother was constantly shoving in his direction.

As for Allison and Arrigo Vargas, they weren't looking too much better. Allison's burn had only worsened in the days that had passed since she'd first received it, so that it was now a deep, impressive shade of red. Arrigo's features had been growing less and less distinct, as though his son's slow physical degeneration was a contagion that was now violently attacking Arrigo's face. The couple was rarely seen out of the house these days, though neighbors would later report seeing Allison pacing repeatedly back and forth in front of the open windows at the front of the house. Arrigo remained seated firmly at his desk; he seemed under the false impression that if he continued work as though all was well, he could miraculously change their circumstances.

Allison couldn't leave Feliciano alone. Feliciano didn't want her help. Arrigo continued to ignore them both, desperately immersing himself in work. No one could explain the sudden change that had come over the family, but they were certain that it was a spreading disease. The neighbors, in short order, noticed small differences in their own homes. It was never anything especially outrageous: just a small rash, like Giulia Arena's, which had grown worse and worse as the days passed and now covered most of her body; others seemed determined that their bodies were changing before their eyes, though no one could quite pinpoint the alleged alterations later. For reasons that neither could explain, Rain Graves and David Hartwell—the very couple that Feliciano had passed a week ago—found that they couldn't spend any time apart. Through no physical force or conscious decision, they found themselves moving closer and closer, until finally they couldn't even separate their hands from one another's. Mrs. Arietta began to complain of stomachaches almost constantly, creating a stir of worry throughout Marciana that things were not going well with the pregnancy. The infuriating neighbors that so often fought on their front lawn were no longer seen or heard. Many wondered if they'd moved, but the lights remained on in their house and their car still lingered in the driveway.

Feliciano continued reading. He found books on vampires, books on serial killers, books on vengeful ghosts and victims of hideous crimes. There were books about madness and power and violence so incredible that he had to stretch to the utmost reaches of his imagination to grasp it.

Mrs. Waters said nothing about the change, but she stopped offering him books. When Feliciano visited the library, she waited at the checkout counter as though the small wooden barrier could protect her from the strange new boy who had grown so captivated by tales of horror. Hours later when he finally left, she would watch him walk away, staring at his new novels as though they held the answer to the universe, and she would shiver in the stifling summer heat.

The changes continued, growing more and more dramatic. Feliciano moved through the streets like a ghost, ignored by everyone who happened across him. Fear spread along every avenue and alley and filtered under doorways until it reached the nervous minds of the townsfolk. "There's something strange about the Vargas boy," they whispered in quiet circles when they thought no one was listening. "These changes are connected to him. I know it."

Feliciano may not have heard the claims directly, but he knew of their effects on others. Mary hardly glanced at him. When he next met Rion and Markus, they crossed the street to avoid him. People peered out their windows as he passed and shops seemed to close mysteriously whenever he was near. Everyone watched him. Everyone feared him. And Feliciano Vargas learned what power was. Giulia Arena seemed to be withering. Her rash, which had already overtaken her skin, had begun to peel and blacken like the small, conspicuous piece of flesh that had first caught Feliciano's attention and caused Giulia's concern. She hardly left the house anymore. Her once beautiful face now fell to the ground in flakes, a never-ending cycle that began anew each morning as her skin seemed incapable of being shed completely.

Mrs. Arrieta walked with a constant grimace, her hands cradling her distended stomach that bulged forward like a hornet's nest. It kicked outward in all the wrong places, so that it looked lumpy and stretched at all times. The rumors that her pregnancy was over increased tenfold.

David and Rain seemed even larger and more imposing than usual, and their bones seemed to jut outward at the most impossible angles.

Slowly, Marciana was becoming a town of monsters.

Feliciano stood alone on the street. No one dared emerge anymore, either because they were afraid of the consequences (as though the changes were being caused by a toxin in the air) or because they had fallen victim to the hideous afflictions. For once, Marciana was quiet, isolated. Feliciano Vargas smiled. He liked the peace that floated through the town now.

Bearing a new load of books in his arms, he entered the house. It was the only place in town where he could still find himself bothered by the voices of other human beings, the petty and irritating intrusions that dared to impede his reading.

Almost as if responding to his thoughts, the voice of Allison Vargas called from down the hall. "Feliciano?" she rasped. "Is that you?" Her voice had grown weaker over the last few weeks, in tandem with the worsening of her sunburn, which was now one of the most brilliant shades of red Feliciano had ever witnessed. When she spoke, it was like a small ball of smoke sat lodged in her throat, so dry and harsh was the sound of her voice.

"Si Mamma. Cosa vuoi?" His own voice was just as weak. Night after night of sleeplessness, the lack of proper food, and the mental devotion he poured upon the books he brought home seemed to be eating away at him physically as well as psychically. The family was wasting away.

"You got burned again." She had appeared in the hallway and was now watching him with dull concern hiding somewhere just out of reach of her eyes. "I told you to use the sunscreen…. won't you listen?"

Anger rose in Feliciano in a sudden wave. This was the trivial sort of information she chose to bother him with? It made him want to puke and laugh at the same time. Didn't she realize how insignificant she was? How useless? Feliciano had discovered fictional hell, and the matters of the real world were no longer his concern. Just burn already, would you? he thought furiously. Nobody cares about you and your stupid sunburn obsessions!

"Feliciano…" his mother murmured. Thin, Vargas wisps of smoke trickled from her mouth with the words and were whisked away by a nearby vent.

Feliciano stared. Smoke? That couldn't be right. He must have imagined it.

"You should listen to your mother." She reached toward him, and this time Allison Vargas's sleeve actually caught fire. She moved forward, oblivious to the danger. "Why don't you?" This time, when she spoke, Feliciano caught sight of small lick of flame flickering in the back of her throat, and the smoke that emerged with each word was no longer a weak shred but a vivid river that poured forth and colored the air in front of her in a cloud of Vargas so dark that it was nearly black.

He stepped back, alarmed, as the fire that had consumed Allison's sleeve spread up her arm and flames kicked forth from her mouth to envelop her face and catch at her hair. The woman had become a living body of flame and she didn't even notice. Amidst the crackling sounds of fire eating away at her, Allison's voice rasped onward. "You should listen to your mother. Why don't you? Why don't you? You should listen."

Still holding his books to his chest, Feliciano turned and fled back outside to the 100-degree safety of the streets. His mother followed him to the doorway but seemed unwilling to leave the house. He was left in peace.

What had happened? She had been fine one moment, and then…. Just burn already, would you? Feliciano's mouth fell open as realization crashed into him. Shock turned to pleasure mere seconds later and a smile twisted his thin, cracked lips.

It was him.

Everything—Mrs. Arrieta's apparently failed pregnancy, Giulia Arena's blackened flesh, the various plagues that had latched onto the rest of the town—it was all him. What else could explain his mother's mysterious and sudden combustion, an event that occurred at precisely the moment that he had wished it so? The rumors were right, and nothing had ever made Feliciano happier.

Mrs. Waters. He had to reach her, to tell her, because she of all people would understand and praise his achievements. Someone had to know how powerful and incredible he had become. Some had to tell him he'd done a good job, and that the town had finally received what it deserved. There was still work to be done. Mrs. Waters could help him, give him ideas, inspire his punishments until they were more than he could ever have managed on his own. She needed to know.

Feliciano would have run to the library if his body had still been capable of such a movement. He had to settle for little more than a brisk walk in his current state, but he still managed to get to the Marciana Public Library in under ten minutes. He arrived panting and nearly collapsed from the exertion before Mrs. Waters caught him and steadied him on his own feet again.

"My goodness, Feliciano, are you, all right? You look deathly pale. What was the rush to get here? Oh, I'm prattling, none of that is important; here, come sit down." She led him to a chair and Feliciano rested gratefully while he waited to regain his breath.

When his breathing slowed at last, Mrs. Waters sat down in front of him. She had been rubbing his back while he tried to catch his breath; the sentimental touch would have annoyed him in any other situation, but Mrs. Waters understood him. They had a bond.

"Now what's going on?" she asked, concerned. "I thought I was going to have to call the hospital when you came in here."

"I'm fine." Feliciano grinned as he stared at his hands, then at Mrs. Waters. "I'm better than fine. The best I've ever been."

She remembered when she had seen Feliciano so many weeks ago in the racks of the horror section. The hunger that had consumed him then had been enough to nearly knock the old lady off her feet, but it was nothing compared to his current expression. His face was just…blank. Devoid of emotion. His voice, when he spoke, was a monotone of attempted excitement, but that had been bearable. She had been able to attribute that to whatever illness had gripped him recently, but she couldn't say the same about his face. Even when he smiled, there was no life behind it, no suggestion of a soul inside. Death had made its home in his eyes.

"Really?" she asked, trying to hide the tremble that threatened to enter her voice. There was something dangerous about Feliciano now, something she didn't want to risk upsetting. "Why is that?"

"I…I think I've changed, Mrs. Waters." He was staring at his hands again, with the same reverent look that he had given to the horror novels he checked out. "I'm so much more now."

"I'm not sure I understand. Have you done something, Feliciano?"

He laughed, and it was just as empty of life as his face. "I've done everything, Mrs. Waters!" He looked at her and something that almost looked like eagerness flashed in his eyes. "The whole town—everything that's been happening—I've done it all!" He laughed again, and the sound sent chills down Mrs. Waters' spine.

"What do you mean?"

"That skin disease that infected Giulia's Arena, Rain and David's inability to separate from one another, Mrs. Arrieta's miscarriage…it was all me." It seemed as though Feliciano was no longer able to control himself; the laughter trickled from his mouth with every word, so that it was almost impossible to understand anything he said. But Mrs. Waters did understand, and the knowledge filled her with more terror than anything she'd ever felt before. "Just before coming here, you know what I did? Dio, it was amazing….it was so amazing! I lit my mother on fire. Can you believe it? Without even touching her, without any matches or gas or anything, just by…just by thinking it! And she just kept moving. She's a living flame. She's a work of art, and it's all because of me."

"Feliciano, I don't think you realize what you're telling me. That can't be right. I know you, you wouldn't do any such thing even if it were possible." And under any other circumstances, she would have discounted the story as the mad ravings of a troubled mind, but no one could deny the spell that had fallen over Marciana. What other explanation made sense but the one that made no sense at all?

The false joy on Feliciano's face fell away in an instant. "What do you mean?"

"It's just not you, Feliciano, you're too kind for that…."

"What do you mean? I did it! All of it! Aren't you proud of me?"

Mrs. Waters stared. There was fear and hurt and something close to fury lurking like dead shades of their usual glory on the pale, gaunt stretches of Feliciano's face. He had expected her to condone this? To be proud, no less! What had happened? "What have I done?" she muttered. It was the horror stories, it had to be. That was when he'd begun to change. She couldn't blame herself, she couldn't have known, it was impossible, what was happening and what was becoming of Feliciano Vargas. But she had done it. She had started it all, this terrible transformation that was swiftly infecting everything in Marciana.

"What you've done is created the most powerful force in the world!" He paused and glee returned. "That's right. The world. Just think of what I could do…. what we could do! Mrs. Waters, you have to understand. You've read them, too. Didn't you want it? The power…the sense of control…the ability to paralyze someone else with terror…didn't you want any of it? You must have. You've read them, too."

She shook her head. "No…no, I…"

"What do you mean, no?" Anger was back on his face. "You must! You're the only person who could, so why don't you understand?"

Nearby, a bookshelf caught abrupt fire. Feliciano steadied himself as he watched the flames, then turned to Mrs. Waters again. "Why don't you understand?"

"Feliciano…the things you're doing, they're horrible. You must know that. The boy you were would have been horrified to see you now."

"The boy, I was…was weak! But I'm not. I have power. And I intend to use it." He rose to his feet slowly, his eyes never leaving Mrs. Waters. "You're just like them, so you can join them."

Fear pierced her heart like ice. "Wait. Feliciano, I can help you, you just have to let me—"

"No!" He was shaking his head, fury resting in his eyes alongside death and pain. "I don't want your help. I don't need it."

The transformation didn't take place in slow, agonizing stages. When Mrs. Waters began to change, there was no hope of stopping things or turning back time. Her head started first. Her hair fell away in thick, matted clumps and was closely followed by her clothes. She seemed to be shrinking, growing smaller and smaller as her skin hardened and began to resemble wood; in fact, it was almost identical to the hard panels of the library floor. Mrs. Waters would have screamed, but her mouth had been sealed shut by her swiftly changing flesh as she was pulled down into the library floor and her body began to flatten and expand around her. As Feliciano watched with pure, gleeful contempt, Mrs. Waters melted away.

In less than a minute, it was done.

For a while, Feliciano just stood watching, unable to believe the true extent of what he was capable of. It was magic in its finest form. It was art.

He emerged from the library, and what little expression had remained on his face was gone forever. So much power at his disposal. What to do first?

Well…he may as well finish the jobs he'd already started.

The first sign of the transformations was the screams. They echoed through the streets like a chorus from hell, a cacophony that the Devil himself would have been proud to cause. Then the townsfolk stepped into the streets.

Giulia Arena, with her skin falling from her body like ash, was the first to step forward. Her eyes were empty, and after a moment Feliciano realized that her eyes had simply burned away.

Mrs. Arrieta came next, with her eyes streaming tears of blood. Her baby had burst forth from her stomach, a giant, pale white thing like a maggot with a head like an enormous red marble, filled with fangs that dripped blood. It curled up, limbless, to stare at its mother, who was unable to look away.

Markus and Rion lumbered forward, pale giants with no eyes, hideous masses of disjointed bones and jutting limbs and stretched flesh that seemed ready to burst at any moment from the strain.

Rain and David, the lovers, were unrecognizable. David's face struck out in a giant bird's beak and his eyes were sunken into small, beady pits. His hands stretched forward like claws, and they were completely embedded in Rain's naked flesh. Clasped in a permanent lovers' embrace, they moved with awkward, disorganized movements down the streets of Marciana.

Last to emerge were his mother and father. Still burning, his mother sauntered down the streets crying her plaintive message: "You should listen. Why won't you? You should listen…." His father moved blindly beside her. His face had smoothed over into one flat, unmarred surface, and his clothes, seemingly melded with his skin, were a uniform Vargas. Mist flared from him and obscured him further.

One by one, the townspeople came forth and converged on Feliciano—on their creator.

And in the middle of it all, Feliciano smiled. He had known what power was, and he had unleashed it upon everyone who had ever failed to live up to his expectations. In the town of Marciana, he was a god.

What gods sometimes fail to realize, however, is that the people under their control may not agree with their methods. Feliciano, watching his creations make their painful way toward him, never thought that they might be angry over their fates. In his self-absorption over his own power, he never once realized that it was not obedience with which they marched determinedly forward, but hate. A single-minded sense of purpose had filled Marciana, and it had struck everyone except Feliciano himself.

He was surrounded before he realized what was happening. Then the smile on his face slowly melted away and he began to scream. "What are you doing? No! Stop it! I command you! You have to!"

Imagination and a small gift had never meant total control. Freewill gave the citizens the right to murder. In the longest, slowest process they could manage in their painful and awkward states of existence, the people of Marciana tore Feliciano apart. His last gift to the town he had loathed for so many years—a town that had accepted and appreciated and taken care of him—was a small, wordless sob of pain. Some chose to take it as an apology. Many others were wiser.

There is a town called Marciana that is spoken of in myths and legends when dark nights come and storms strike fear in the hearts of men. Long ago, it is said, a young boy lost his perspective and mixed the world of fiction with the land of the living, oblivious to the pain he was causing and blinded by his misconceptions of the way the world ought to work. He forced horrible visions upon the people who had loved him, and when they had turned on him, he had cursed them for failing to realize the breadth of his power; for failing to treat him like the god he believed himself to be. In less than a month, a single boy turned a thriving, loving town to dust and the threads of legends, for no reason other than that it was more interesting than perfect reality. Even in the end, he never acknowledged his faults.

But he certainly paid for them.

END OF STORY

Inspiration

My inspiration for the work comes from Italy's massive influence in the Arts. From majestic paintings of religious scrunity, to guilt-ridden literatures of long-standing issues, the country of Italy, has been the dipping pit of the world's cultural revovultion. Look around: based on the Italian's influence from mere centuries ago, they still remain as a primary figure in Earth's cultural revovultion.

Because of this achievement, I developed a headcannon that Italy is not the gullible, happy-go-lucky person that we all formed an opinion on. My headcannon is that because of the revovultions in Italy, Feliciano here developed a passion for literature. As evident through the various works of written language that the Italians skilled in, it can be agreeable that Italy, to some degree, has a deep passion for culture, ranging from the Arts, to the thriving pot that is Venice.

Recommended Works of Fiction

Lewis Caroll's Alice in Wonderland; Pure Imagination by Gene Wilder; The Black Book of Horror; Deathbringer; The Dead Shall Inherit the Earth, and the Baroness of Blood. Note: These are all real titles. Go check out these works, to have a better understanding on this story. You will understand this story so much better if you were to look at these works. Be advised: because they are dark, they may not be suitable for general audiences. These works will surely put a rise of fear in you, pull on your heartstrings, and hopefully, will help you gain a better insight into the mind of Feliciano, and the theme of Imagination.

Analysis:

Woah. I can't believe I wrote that. It was so unlike the other stories I written, that I could not foresee where it was going. I just could NOT! That was… terrifying, disturbing, intriguing, and so imaginative, I can't put it in words. I just can't. But enough of my trailing thoughts, let's go into the explanations!

Imagination

Imagination is considered "a power of the mind," "a creative faculty of the mind," "the mind" itself when in use, and a "process" of the mind used for thinking, scheming, contriving, remembering creating, fantasizing, and forming opinion. The term imagination comes from the Latin verb imaginari meaning "to picture oneself." This root definition of the term indicates the self-reflexive property of imagination, emphasizing the imagination as a private sphere. As a medium, imagination is a world where thought and images are nested in the mind to "form a mental concept of what is not actually present to the senses." In the sense of the word as a process, imagination is a form of mediation between what is considered "externalized" reality and internalized man (with regard to Manovich and Lacan). The term is considered "often with the implication that the (mental) conception does not correspond to the reality of things." Finally, imagination is a term that circulates forms of mass media when the "internalized" private imagination is presented as public, or expressed in a media form, such as film or in virtual reality technology.

The concept of imagination challenges our sense of what we consider private and essentially humanistic. Imagination challenges technology to explore what media can do: how far inside man can media extend itself, and how far outside man can man bring what is considered his internalized self? Are these processes transmutable through media, and if so, what kinds? Can imagination be coded? Does technology employ imagination in its productive and innovative capabilities? Or is imagination a human faculty only? If the latter, then to what extent can media technologies mimic imaginative functions and/or expressions? And, if media technologies can mimic 'products' of the imagination, what is the essential difference between 'having' imagination and producing imaginative qualities?

In Aristotle, the imagination bridges the gap between "images" and "ideas," implying that rational thought takes place in the form of images, and are stored and combined in the imagination. Thus, imagination is implied as an actual space or medium in the individual's mind, and in this space, it has a power to combine images and ideas to do the work of reason.

Feliciano

I told you I'll write Feliciano different, didn't I? With Feliciano, imagination was both a master and a slave to him. At first, he enjoyed the creativity that it brought to him. He could imagine, visualize, and project his thoughts and visions into reality. But as time went on, it became apparent that it was slowly corrupting him. The quote, "Imagination rules the world," was brought quite forcibly, into reality by Feliciano. He was no longer living in a fanatical world of make-believe, but now, a very real world, with horrific consequences.

Thank you for reading this very long work; I hoped you enjoyed it.

Because this fic was very long, and I posted many stories in August, I probably won't return to Fanfiction- Hetalia in general- until, Mid-September, or even past that. I apologize to this who wanted to see updates for my stories. I sincerely thank you for all the readers this month, we made over 730 views! I couldn't have done this without you!

I hope to see you some time again next month, and until that time arrives, have a good night!

~Enchanting Grace