Hey everybody! This is my first story going solo that I have posted on here. Yeah it's kinda dark but...yeah. Please no flames! I'm ascared of fire _ Anyway I hope you like it.
^KageBecks27^
Oh and here's my disclaimer I guess. I don't own any of the characters from Hetalia but the other messed up in the head characters are all mine ^^ Enjoy!
Blood of a Lamb, Roar of a Lion
Chapter 1
Arthur was pleasantly looking forward to his time with Francis that afternoon, not having been able to spend much time with his lover in the recent weeks. He grinned softly, folding the rag in his hands as he looked about his home with a critical eye for any dust patches he might have missed. Nothing caught his eyes however and he sauntered into his parlor, right into the warm glow of the late morning sunshine. Arthur paused to bend the crick out his back, soaking in the pleasant warmth. Outside was simply a beautiful day.
Stooping over a chair, he reached and unlocked the window, pushing it out and basking in the mellow breeze, smelling the hints of flowers only just starting to bloom in the bed under the window. Perhaps Francis and I should take a walk later, England thought to himself, stowing the rag into his pant's pocket and heading to the kitchen for a pot of tea before the Frenchman came over. The simple thought of his golden haired lover brought an air of calmness, accompanied by the faintest murmurs of desire and gentle love. He just wanted to see him again, to hold him and be held.
He never saw the shadow pass by.
A smile lit up his face, an expression becoming more and more common these days as opposed to his notorious frown. Humming, he walked through the black and white tiled kitchen and to the pantry, sighing as he went deep inside to stretch for one of his reserve tins. A scornful glance was given as he studied the tin, dubious of its age and therefore taste. Shrugging in the end, he moved back into the confines of his kitchen and placed it on the edge of the counter while a thought began to whirl through his mind. Jogging to the parlor, he switched the TV on to the local news station.
A serious faced woman popped up, her voice describing the recent crime wave to hit England and the gory details that accompanied it. A pang of regret filled Arthur's stomach and he crossed his arms, vigilant as the anchor continued to fill the world in on the recent string of homicides. As she explained about the last five victims, all men, the channel displayed their youthful pictures and England felt the bitter pang fill him again, a deep regret from being unable to keep his own citizens from harm.
Had he not been so engrossed, he would have noticed the visage of the man who flickered through his kitchen.
England glanced back with a wayward thought, only looking to the screen again as another caption showed up, labeling the marks of the killer rampaging through his land. The kettle was crying out though, so Arthur returned to the tiled room, pausing only to shut the window as a chill passed over him. Pulling the red bulbous pot off and letting it cool for the slightest moment, England glanced down at the tin of tea, a small caress of alarm filling him at the odd angle the tin sat. Had he left it like that? Surely he had placed the tin's picture away from him. The picture of the blood red rose on it suddenly seeming garish against the white counter.
"Arthur you fool, you're on edge with this whole case." He 'tisked' lightly, shaking his head and rubbing gently at the bridge of his nose while spooning out the dark shriveled leaves, shutting them into the metal ball as he poured the steaming water over it. The kettle moved back to its home on the stove and England moved over to the small breakfast table, still listening to the susurrations of the television out back.
Tick. Tick. Tick. That's all that accompanied him in his silence as he waited for the leaves to steep, hearing a soft jingle play as the news switched to a commercial break. He drummed his fingers gently, finally taking a sip. Scrunching his face up, Arthur glared at the sepia colored water. There was an odd taste to it, something too saccharine and holding a terrible aftertaste. Brushing it off to the tea being old, Arthur continued to sip the tea gently.
God, he couldn't wait until France got here. He drummed his fingers against the wood again. There had been a break to the world meetings so he couldn't even see him there. In his mind's eyes he could envision the taller man laughing, jesting lightly probably, while lounging in the rare attire of sweat pants and a tee shirt. When Francis had visited him last they both had retired to the couch, watching Doctor Who in pajamas while arguing over their favorite doctor. A touch of heat spread over Arthur's cheeks and he cleared his throat quickly.
Throbs split through his skull, forcing winces at the pain. Rubbing at the skin over his temple, Arthur took another draught of the hot tea. Again, the pain filled him and he grumbled as he began to get up to retrieve some of the medicine. Moving had been a horrible idea. Like a switch being toggled, his muscles seized and he couldn't move. Pure will forced his body to move towards the medicine cabinet as his body responded lethargically. With a jerk, he dropped the cup from his hands, dark liquid pouring onto the floor and porcelain shattering as he crumpled against the wood, then to the floor while his breaths puffed in and out like a fish dying on land. His head lolled to the side, supported only slightly by the slump of his frame. Arthur's vision swam and he darted his eyes over as the cabinet under the sink began to creak.
A dark form seemed to unfold itself from the tiny space, lithe frame straightening fluidly as it reached its full height. The being was covered from head to toe in black, leaving no skin visible except what little the ski mask he wore allowed. Cold steel eyes bore into him, entertainment dancing behind the orbs. A smirk stretched his lips as he silently stalked closer, like a wolf towards an injured rabbit. "Hello, Mr. Kirkland," he said, his voice smooth and almost charismatic.
Nerves, muscles, and bones refused to move no mater how much Arthur suddenly began to shriek in his mind to get the fuck away right now– the only response from what had to be drugging was the flicker of his eyes, the terror racing through his limbs –striking a cold and slimy dead knowing into his gut. The man slithered towards him, every movement closing the precious and brittle space of safety and protection between them. Terrors, screams, nightmares– all the horror manifested in the world swept over his eyes and burned away all rationality as the gap was closed and this creature ascended on him. The sound of a laugh– sickly yellow, putrid, low and throaty like a hunter who had found a prime specimen– echoed hauntingly through his ears as the rough coil of rope began to claw at his skin. He knew that laugh would be branded forever as it seared into his mind, Arthur's world turning black and leaving his physical body prone and prostrate to what evil may have come.
Francis approached the house, a cheerful hop in his gait. A joyful smile was plastered across his face as he ascended the few steps to the front door, a bottle of wine in one hand while the other grasped a tin of Arthur's favorite tea, a sort of celebration present for their long awaited reunion. It seemed to have been a lifetime ago that France had last been here, feeling even longer since his blue eyes saw those shimmering green. The weather promised happy things to come, warm and inviting, as though nature itself was anxiously waiting their reuniting. His longing heart fluttered in both nervousness and excitement.
Finally reaching the door, Francis paused to straighten out his shirt and tuck the tin behind his back. Rapping his knuckles against the door, he waited for his beloved Angleterre to come to him again. When moments passed by with no word or sight from the blonde haired nation, Francis tried again before stepping forward to listen for a dull response. Instead, the sound of the TV greeted him. "Must be too loud to hear me," Francis muttered, in too good a mood to even be irked. Shifting everything in his arms, he merely reached into his pocket and pulled out his own key.
"Mon Cher, I'm here," he called out as the door swung open. Once more he was met with silence. Edging the door shut with his foot, he tossed his keys down on the side table, waiting for any sign of life. "Arthur?" Moving into the living room, he shut of the TV, calling again softly for his lover. Trying the kitchen, ocean eyes widened as he took in the sight before him. Time seemed to slow down, every breath getting harder to take, the color of the world dulling before his eyes. The wine bottle shattered on the floor, joining the still steaming tea and shattered cup. His eyes darted to the open back door, before soaring over everything to look outside for any sign of his England. Drag marks screamed at him as to what had happened here. A picture of Arthur's last TV appearance when he was standing next to the prime minister was taped to the glass door. FAGGOT was written in blood red letters across his face.
Snatching the paper off the door, his recent conversations with Arthur over the telephone about the serial killer that was wreaking havoc on his country ran through his mind. Everything was slowly setting into place. Taking off towards the road, France hoped that he could catch a glimpse of the fiend that had taken Arthur. Finding the road empty, he stood at a lose, unsure of what to do. Arthur was gone! Someone had taken him! Fear and helplessness welled up within him. He looked down at the paper in his hand, fist clenching around it and eyes hardening to cold sapphires. Someone had taken his Angleterre and now someone was going to die.
His body ached, too stiff and unnatural for sleep. Arthur found his world to be as black as pitch as he slowly lumbered from unnatural rest. The only way he knew he had his eyes open was because he could feel the air drying them, watering and forcing him to blink as he stayed submerged in the inky black sea. With a twitch, England could still feel the coils of rope bound around him, tightly imprisoning his ankles, thighs, arms and chest, and wrists. Breathing felt difficult as he lay awkwardly on his stomach, prone to whatever was lurking in the dark, but there was nothing he could do with his body still unresponsive to his panicked thoughts.
Cheek pressed against the cold ground of what felt like cement, Arthur simply tried to quiet his breathing and try to discern if anything else was lurking close by. The air smelled like must, like old fabric and stored wood. He shut his eyes, though it changed nothing and instead unlocked the vision of the black humanoid slithering out of the confines of his own home and taking him.
He knew it wasn't just any kidnapping case. Not this thing.
Arthur would be lucky if he was just killed.
Terrified thoughts whirled viciously though his consciousness, forming horrific postulates and questions. He wondered if there had been any damage from the drug. Maybe he was in fact blind? After letting his breathing quell back to a normal rhythm, chastising himself for letting panic triumphing over him, he noted that he was not gagged or blindfolded. Apparently his kidnapper had no worries for Arthur being heard or seeing anything.
A tingling began to settle into his bones, making him feel weary and timid. The drug was wearing off as he listened to his breaths in silence, the movement coming back to his fingers and toes. Time was measured by the low draughts of air now, and exhales that ghosted along the floor. The headache had not gone, rather, it had joined each frantic and quivering beat of his heart. A half hour since he had awoken, he was able to worm his way up off the ground and come to a sitting position. His body was now so weak that it made him pant.
Hazily, England glanced around, still seeing nothing but a black canvas. The sea of darkness was getting to him slowly, caressing his mind with feverish dark thoughts. Had he heard a voice? A whisper of a breath? Surely that had been a creak of wood above him. Panic began to sink its terrible claws into him, making his breathing short and rapid. The longer Arthur sat there; unable to move in the dark, the more he began to hear and to see.
Every time he felt something, the prickle of skin whispered that it wasn't his mind. Rationality, a thread so quickly beginning to fray countered and objected in a tinny voice. He was alone in the room, for better or for worse, but every slow, drawn out second was setting his patience at edge and Arthur's mind into overdrive. Panic and fear were breading, mutilating all remnants of calm he had been trying to grasp to.
No utterance could calm him now, the icy lance of true fear having pierced his heart. No memory of horrible days, moments or years could bring rest. Nothing. Not wars, not deaths, not sickness. His head arched back as Arthur collapsed to the floor, bindings forcing his limbs to burn angrily in the need to move.
England's head now lay on the hard floor, looking up to what he assumed would be the ceiling. A trickle of a memory came to him, the brush of a feathered wing stirring hope. Francis' words rolled over him, out speaking and taming the panicked gurgle in the back of his thoughts.
Don't show them fear, Angleterre, all it will do is give them power over you.
Wide unseeing eyes watched the patterns his retinas burned into the black abyss. Those words had been uttered so long ago, and for a situation so far from this. But the thought of his voice was comforting enough and with strength evoked once more, he tried to sit up again to look for an escape.
A low creak began to saturate the room, filling England with terror as he stared at the source, eyes watering from the sudden brilliant light emitted. A shadowed human form was illuminated and Arthur felt the hairs on his arm and neck raise in warning. A dark and primal survivalist warning.
Slowly and meticulously, the figure descended the stairs, step after step creaks echoing loudly in the otherwise silent room. The stale air was heavy, thick with age and past events. Pausing as if he could hear the screams of his past victims resonate off the cold walls, be let out a pleased sigh before continuing again. This place held such fond memories as of late, some place that would be his and his alone. The time seemed to pass by painstakingly slow, until the featureless shadowy figure made it to where Arthur lay. All light was left behind him, making him more a phantom of darkness than anything else. "Finally awake are we, Mr. Kirkland. Good," a smooth voice sung to him.
Arthur bristled at the nearly pleasant voice being used on him. "What the bloody fuck do you want?" he snapped, nearly spitting in the anger stemmed from raw fear gurgling through his veins. Each beat of his heart quickened as he tried to see just who he was dealing with, and yet the man stayed dark. The situation was becoming dire, and he knew it.
Tsking comically at Arthur's comment, moving to shaking his head as the shadow of his shoulders shook with suppressed laughter, the assailant merely loomed closer. "Such language, though I shouldn't be surprised coming from a disgusting spawn of Satan like you." The figure paused, when his voice came again, it had lost that smoothing tongue, gaining something darker. "To think that YOU would be one of THEM," he growled, voice harsh. The mere thought of it was unsettling. So they had penetrated further into government than he had realized. His fist began shaking softly as he tried to push the disgust away, while pushing away his calculating, empty persona with it. The dark mass of the figure began pacing back and forth, losing almost all of the chilling authority and conniving presence. The man no longer stood straight, now hunched over and head down, mumbling low words that were drowned out by the sounds of the boot steps.
Them? Arthur's breath caught in this throat swiftly, and he blinked against the darkness that swallowed them. It was starting to become easier to make out the shape of his assailant. He was a man, that much he knew. He felt sick to his stomach as Arthur realized it was one of his own men that was attacking him and his shoulders jolted down for a moment. What did he mean by 'them'? Had his secret as a nation been thrown? England stilled, and then took a soft breath to calm his fears. He had to be rational– he would get out of this. "I have no idea what you're talking about," Arthur bit caustically and truthfully at the man. "I don't even know what the fuck you're on."
The words of denial made Arthur's keeper stop in his track. Sudden harsh steps approached the bound man, stilling only a few feet away. The mass reached up and snatched the dangling chain to click on the only light in the dark basement. He needed to see this…thing's face, to see the fear and horror. The blinding light revealed a clean cut, below average looking man. He had one of those faces that you wouldn't remember, that just blends into the crowd. Dull brown hair matched the bland brown, which looked almost like cold metal, eyes staring down at him. "You wouldn't know me! I would never associate with such a vile wretch as yourself! You and your kind are like a poison in this world, damnation of God's divine rule! I have been sent on a mission from God to eradicate your abominations," he spat, leaning in closer to his captive's face. Rage raced through him, when the thing before him had the nerve to look him in the eye. He would pay for that, very soon.
Arthur winced at the sudden change of light, but stared evenly at his attacker. Those eyes…he blinked and defiantly held his chin up as he listened to the putrid garble that fell from his attacker's lips. "Abominations?" he asked, voice slightly low in confusion. Just what the hell was this man's problem? Suddenly, he realized that he could see more than just his captor's eyes, he wasn't wearing a mask. That wasn't good, that really was not good. Arthur allowed his green eyes to flicker away, noting the rage swelling in those shallow and soulless brown eyes, looking for something to tell him where he was or something to give his bearings. The light was too weak though, and he though he saw the nebulous outline of stacked chairs. "I still don't know what you are talking about. You must be mistaken…" England darted a glance around again– desperate to get away from this man. The hairs on the back of his neck were raised in warning and Arthur suppressed a shiver that tried to claw down his spine.
A smack suddenly rings out in the deathly quiet room, the brown haired man pulling his hand back from striking England across the face. "How dare you suggest such a thing!" he roared, bending down closer, eyes narrowing in malice and hatred. A sneer crossed his face as he watched his captive sprawled across the floor, helpless and weak. "My mission is divine! My mission is blessed by God. I make no mistakes. I know what you really are, just as God does!"
The smack had startled Arthur and his face pressed against the cold concrete as he swore in silence. Head spinning, Arthur forced himself to sit back up again– he would not simply be prone and helpless! Arthur glared, eyes sharp in fear and defiance. "Then what am I?" he said lowly, hoping his voice sounded strong and intimidating rather than the weak and shaky feeling that quelled through his body. He wasn't Alfred– he couldn't simply tear out of these bindings. Coming to the conclusion as he kept his eyes upon the man, he despairingly abandoned the hope of an easy escape. Rubbing his wrist slowly, the island nation began to slowly try to get out of the heavy rope that bound him.
A snarl pulled up the corner of his mouth, losing any once of charisma that he previously had. "A homosexual," he spat out, as though the term burned his tongue. He continued his pacing, running a hand through his hair, making it stand up in unruly tuffs. Going back to mumbling what sounded like prayers and psalms before stopping and moving back to his captive again. "You're a mockery to God's immaculate design!"
Green eyes flickered warily in the putrid light. The man was agitated now and a slick roiling filled Arthur's stomach, squelching and making him feel sick. But with that nausea came a burning anger that slowly flickered back to life and crept heatedly through his veins. England narrowed his eyes, teeth grating lividly. "Do not accuse a man for no reason," he said, fake calm pulsing through his words as he watched the man suddenly still, "when he has done you no harm." The dart of his tongue whetted dry chapped lips in nervous fear. Anger reverberated through his syllables as he muttered, "Proverbs, I believe."
Within a breath, the brown haired man lunged at him, eyes dark in pure rage. Furry coursed hotly through his veins, as his fists and feet struck at the helpless man before him. The sounds of each blow only fuelled his anger; each gasp of air from his captive sent a shiver throughout his body. "NO HARM!" Blood spattered across the ground, some spurted upon the walls. A wet crack reached his ears as he drove a heel kick into the exposed ribcage. "You have no idea the kind of harm you FAGGOTS have brought to the world, making society rot from the inside out!" He kicked harder, resisting the urge to just stomp at the pristine throat, pale and sculpted. Growling again, he gave a blow to Arthur's head. He paused when he heard Arthur gasping for breath, wet hacks bringing up pools of blood. Control began to take over once again as he moved to calm his own panting breaths. He couldn't kill the homo, pausing to smirk. Not just yet.
Suddenly, his cool demeanor returned. He ran a calm hand through his hair, smoothing it out once again. His eyes cooled into a dangerous calm, the emptiness leaving them, only to be filled with a distant joy. "You will die for your existence, for it slanders God himself." He stalked closer, bending down till he was at Arthur's level, a pleased smirk making its way onto his face. He breathing became quick again, this time from excitement. This is what he was born to do, destined to do. "It shall be slow and painful. You will repent and then God will judge whatever is left of your soul."
Fuck. That had fucking hurt, Arthur thought dimly as he spat a wad of blood down to the floor and curled slowly into himself. He bowed his head for a moment, trying to get the world to stop spinning and doubling. It hurt to breathe now and the man knew without a second thought that his ribs had broken. England could already imagine the skin becoming a screaming red and frightened blue. The rope rubbed at his wrists and ankles, making them feel raw and swollen as he tried to stop gasping for air. Dark blood trickled down his chin and absinthe eyes watched the droplets paint abstract flowers on the ground. Taking a long, gurgled breath of air, nearly choking from the pain, Arthur shut his eyes and thought briefly of his lover. At least he wasn't here. ...Maybe Francis would have been tragically trapped in this hell too. Arthur wondered if he knew he was gone– wondered if he was looking for him. The bonds seemed to pull him back into reality as he took another ragged breath, hitching as the pain leapt out and stabbed all over. There would be no escape. Not now. Arthur tried to prepare himself for whatever hell he had been thrust into. He was frightened, but he wasn't about to show this damn bastard.
The smooth voice had returned, his laugh flowing like rich chocolate. One of his hands came to rest on Arthur's back, sugary and soft as he began to caress him. The fabric of his shirt was stained with his captive's sweet blood, excitement turning in his stomach, twisting into something warm and electric. "I'll make you wish you were never born," he hummed, leaning closer to his blonde's ear. He chuckled again as his hot breath ghosting over the pale skin making his captive shake in fear, ecstasy making his movements smooth.
Arthur couldn't look at him as he heard the change of voice, the change from primal anger to something cloying and more twisted and darker than humanity should ever be able to conjure. With a jerk, Arthur tried to pull away from the almost caressing touches of his assailant. His breathing increased, turning jagged and burning with each gulp of the moldy air. Just try it, Arthur growled internally, jerking away and trying to kick at the plain man. Just try it. He writhed, head falling back and cracking onto the cement as a hand was placed heavily on his broken rib. It burned and ached. He wanted to scream but Arthur would never. Never give. He remained silent, staring at the man while panting and mind whipping through ever possible and whimsical idea for escape or defense. The fingers were deftly trailing down.
The religious jargon disappeared completely, his voice rolling again in the deep, flowing tones. A dastardly smirk made its way onto his face as he felt his captive shudder and struggle like a rabbit caught in a snare. "Still have some fight in you I see," he hummed after a chuckle. Arthur's captor pulled back, regarding him with calm and calculating eyes. "Let's see if we can't change that, shall we." Dipping his hand into his pocket, he pulled out a pre-filled syringe. Yanking off the top that covered the needle with his teeth, he quickly leant down and plunged into the soft, meaty flesh of Arthur's neck. Quickly ejecting the clear liquid into the man before him, he pulled back and just watched as the drug took effect. Slowly, he felt the fight leak out of the man, the drug doing well to paralyze him. "There now," he sung, tossing the needle and cap aside. Leaning forward again, he nuzzled against his captive's ear. "Don't worry," he said throatily. His hands began to roam again, stroking and caressing every inch he could reach. "You'll be awake to enjoy every second of it."
The drowsiness hit Arthur like a wave, and with the loss of motion came mind numbing fear as reality finally hit him. The trashes were becoming slower and weaker as the drug took effect, letting his body fall limp and pliant, and yet in horror he realized he could still feel every nerve buzzing and every sickening touch the man placed on him. Slowly, ever so slowly despite the frantic screams in his mind, his limbs slackened towards numb defeat. The world turned nebulous, light burning black at the edges of his vision while he choked out a garbled cry of helplessness. Hands slithered down his back and every touch, each increasingly bolder than the last, felt like molten iron against his skin even through the fabric. Green eyes turned upwards in a heaven sent plea as the hands came to a pause at the belt on his pants. The deranged grin on his captors face was seared into his mind as a low chuckle echoed though the dank room.
Well then...that was my first chapter. Don't worry, this will turn out better in later chapters, I hope. I just realized that I watch way too much Law and Order and Criminal Minds _;
Anyway, reviews would be awesome so I know I'm on the write track! Thanks!