AN- Well, this is the combination of a few ideas I've been tossing around, but really, it's just to satisfy my craving to write a more lighthearted Hetalia story. Considering the subject matter, that might be a bit hard to believe, but trust me, the tone of the beginning isn't indicative of the rest. Might not go anywhere, and it's more of a concept for an AU/alternate history thing at the moment than anything. Regardless, thank you, remember I only own my own ideas, and enjoy! -Twilight Joltik

Spectralia Chronicles

Chapter One

He opened the door to see Germany standing there, eyes as lifeless as ever. As he stood there, unsure of what to say, he noted he was holding onto a crumpled piece of paper. Combined with the stench of cheap beer on his breath and the uncharacteristically disheveled state of his clothes, England was only certain of one thing: the conversation that would ensue would be far from pleasant.

"Is everything alright?", he hastily asked the man, who just stood there as if even he wasn't sure why he was there.

"I-", Germany started a sentence a few times before sighing. "I need your help. Please."

Raising an eyebrow, England opened the door, motioning for his fellow Nation to enter. Germany slowly lowered himself onto the armchair America used to favor on his visits and didn't say another word until prompted.

"So, what is it you need?"

"Oh, I, er…" He looked away, at the corner of the room, and then sighed. "Tell me I'm being irrational or foolish all you want, but no matter how hard I try, I can't- c-can't..."

Despite his hesitation, England knew exactly what he was saying. Everyone knew that Prussia's death weighed heavily on the mind of his younger brother; everyone knew that Italy's during the Venice Incident so soon after had cracked Germany almost completely. "Of course not, and that's natural," he assured him, praying whatever came out of his mouth wasn't insensitive. "You have every right to mourn."

Germany shook his head. "Mourning is one thing, but I can barely think straight any more. Everything was so hectic for so long, I was able to ignore it, but now that it's calmed down, everything just feels, well, empty."

Given his state, that was fairly obvious, and it had been for ages. Compared to the composed Nation he'd once knew, he'd say the man sitting in front of him was a total stranger.

"But, what can I do for you?", England questioned. "Certainly, I am happy to help you, but truth be told I didn't know either of them very well. France may be a better person to ask, loathsome as it is to admit it."

"No, it has to be you," Germany stated with the blunt certainty he was used to hearing from him. "You're the most qualified, I trust you the most with this."

All the unease in the conversation melted into confusion. "Pardon?"

Looking up at the ceiling, Germany let out something that sounded between a laugh and a sob. "You're a skilled mage, I've seen you dabble in such things. And the one thing I need, I think, is closure. To bid them farewell properly so I can move on with my life."

England's breath caught in his throat. No, surely not, he couldn't be implying that, right?

But he went on. "Is there a way to summon their spirits, just for a moment? Because I need to say some things, I need to get them off my chest." He smoothed out the paper in his hand and glanced at it before looking at England straight on. "Please. I need to-"

"This isn't just something you can ask someone," England huffed. "Any magic involving the deceased is incredibly dangerous and can go wrong easily."

"I know," Germany muttered. "Believe me when I say I would have never asked you if I thought there was another way. But, I need to be there for my people, for everyone. And as I am now, I'm no good to this world."

He looked intently at the floor, and England was overcome with the urge to comfort him. He forgot how young he was at times; even moreso than America, even, but he was positive he was looking at a confused child in the moment. All he could see was one of his younger brothers pleading with him for flowers or sweets or some other childish want, not a man asking for him to tear through the walls of reality for a few parting words.

And in that moment, England realized he could not say no. "Yes, alright," he agreed with a sigh. "Just… one moment."

He rushed for the old bookshelf in the study, grabbing the thick, leather-bound volume Romania had once given him. God, it'd been ages since he'd used anything in there, as useful as they might have been. But frankly, he doubted his skills after one too many accidental summoning of Russia.

Surely, this time, after decades more experience, he could do something to the effect properly.

Crossing back into the sitting room, he gestured for Germany to follow him into the basement and grabbed the matchbook on the coffee table.

Germany seemed to gasp a bit halfway down the stairwell. "This place," he muttered. "Is this where you perform spells?"

Lighting a match, England bent down to light a few of the candles lining the spell circle. "It's convenient to keep it all out of the way."

"It could use a bit of cleaning up, you know…"

Despite himself, England felt like smiling. What a very Germany thing to say, perhaps he would be alright regardless. As he sat down, cross-legged, he motioned for Germany to the same and flipped open the book.

Finding the spell for communicating with the dead didn't take long; seems he'd bookmarked it at some point. But, as he went over the specifications, he frowned.

"Ah, seems you need belongings of those you mean to summon to use it…"

A necklace with a cross pendant and a torn scrap of dark blue cloth were thrown into the spell circle. "I expected as much," said Germany.

Very nice, so rare people came prepared, even when those people knew a few things about magic. "Lovely. Shall we begin?"

Smoothing out the crumpled piece of paper again and holding it in front of himself, Germany nodded.

The incantation slipped off England's tongue easily: "Flare, o flames of dusk… Burn every wall to dust… Leave no trace, leave nothing to remain… O crimson flame, heed my call… Speak to us, specters of the darkest night…"

A bright glow, blindingly white filled the room and every line on the floor. Yes, it was working! England struggled to keep the energy flowing, throwing out the first phrase to come into his head over and over. "Azarath Metrion Zinthos! Azarath Metrion Zinthos! Azarath Metrio-"

He was stopped by the blinding light, he found a few chuckles escaping his mouth instead. Power sparked through the air like static. It worked, it had to have.

But, as the light cleared, there were no spirits in front of him. Just the book and a confused-looking Germany.

"I…"

Germany shook his head and stood up. "Forget it," he said, sounding more tired than upset. "It was silly. It was foolish. Sorry for wasting your time."

England wanted to call after him, tell him that they could try again, but he heard the basement door slam shut before anything could come out of his mouth.

Before he could go after him, though, he heard a familiar voice laughing behind him. "Did I really raise him to have such little patience?"

Turning around, England came face-to-face with the translucent form of Prussia, and all the breath left his body.

"Yeah, think we should go after him?", another voice added.

On his other side was a spectral Italy, frowning slightly.