A/N: What have I done?! Whelp, here is eleven thousand words of weirdness I wrote partially to celebrate the Olympics! It's slightly historically based but only barely. Obviously I know like everything was made up and that Italy and America were never at Dunkirk. None the less, I could not get this idea out of my head, so God let me write it down. There are no pairings and I own nothing. This is strictly made out of live for the series! Anyways, please enjoy!
In the depths of his heart, he knows there is a house in the woods where he keeps all his shiny tools and gadgets.
Now, behind the cupboard that holds the screwdrivers and a very old rusty axe, there is a secret wooden door that leads to the basement.
In a very dark corner, there is a giant iron drain the size of an African elephant.
In this drain lives a little girl. She has been sleeping for a while now.
Underneath, there is a food bowl that he used to use to feed his dogs.
Whatever he finds in that bowl every morning, he coats his and his friends food with for breakfast, lunch and dinner and he will never be satisfied.
"Ora lo pongo mi scolo per dormire."
"Io prego il signore la mia anima per mantenere."
"Se muoio prima che lo svegli."
"Preghi il signore la mia anima per prendere."
September Thirteenth 1943. The Year Of The White Panther.
Through the halls, the deep deep cellar, the dining room, the kitchen, the library, the study, the ballroom, the conservatory, the billiard room and the lounge and whatever other rooms and secret passageways that existed in this grand house echoed with the screams of an Englishman as the head of a thirty five pound hammer met the bone of his right leg over and over and over again.
The man was probably far too pained to be shocked that the wielder even had the strength to wield such a weapon.
The weilder had grown far stronger than the boy they once knew and looked down upon in the past. He became thier expectations, thier dreams, thier hopes.
But when did he cross the line from unreachable dream to the inescapable nightmare?
Said Englishman, who lay with arms and legs bound with paper tailsman from Japan and his body bloody and broken, was located in the very depths of the incredibly expansive cellar.
Yet despite this, he still managed to disturb any remaining occupant's sleep gaurded by even the most soundproof walls.
That was because this Englishman, who will remain nameless, was very very loud when in pain.
But there was a war being fought. No one was sleeping tonight.
And one could not blame him entirely. The wielder of the hammer thought the dull sound of his legs shattering into millions of pieces was not satisfying. It was a melody far too weak like a mere slap to the face so until he was convinced that he was doing any real damage, he would not stop even if his victim was long passed out.
He asked him to scream for him, even removed his gag to make it easier for him and his obedience would have saved him a great deal of pain but here they were, the wielder with saliva on his cheek and the Englishman with rusty metal crushing his bones.
The wielder wanted his scream to act as an invitation because, despite him being one of the most hated people in the current world, he was expecting a visit from an old friend and he wanted him to know exactly where he was.
A radio with connections to every line in all of Venice was set up beside his crippled body.
"...undici... dodici... tredici...".
Just then, the iron cellar door whined as it was opened by the hands of a young soldier.
His grey uniform was filthy with oil, blood and smoke because he had seen battle and had come face to face with death and yet he shook in his boots at the mere presence of the personification of the country he fought for.
"S-Signore Italia?" He stated, straightening his posture to the point of injury and saluting him sternly.
The young wielder, Italy released the hammer's handle and let it fall on the Englishman's hip. The crack and the weak whimper that followed was enough to quench his thirst.
He met the amber brown eyes of his officer with his own tainted violet ones.
"What is it, Seborga?" He hissed bitterly.
Italy picked the radio from the ground and crushed it in one form clench of his fist. The static ceased immediately and shards of metal and plastic hit the concrete floor.
The principality of Seborga flinched, knowing to choose his next words carefully.
He had once seen Italy tare out the spine of a man several time his size like he was lifting a paperclip from his desk. When he thought the others could not see, he would strike a three ton stone pillar from its eight hundred year old place in the palace. He could do so much even when he spent his days without food or water in this torture chamber, this castle of blood and rust.
This war had transformed his brother with white hands into a superpower who's hands where stained red, and he was not currently able to understand why or how it came to this.
"Th-The n-northern defenses have collapsed, signore."
Italy lifted himself from the ground.
A loud tremor he knew to be a bomb from the Allies fighter planes shook the room violently like this whole world they built for themselves was but a dream hanging on by a very thin thread as it blew in the wind.
The hanging light swung from side to side, illuminating but a fraction of Italy's grim smile at a time.
His eyes, those tragically haunting violet eyes illuminated were the light could not.
The sunken in cheekbones, the grey leathery skin, the self inflicted scratched and the greasy unkempt hair that tickled his shoulders.
What was left of the Italy from before the war? Where did he go? Where was he when the world needed him most?
"Signore, the Allies have made it inside."
"I know, Seborga."
Italy put his small hand on Seborga's shoulder and he flinched under his touch.
Seborga despised the physical contact most of all, the knowledge that thier skin was just a moment apart. Every time he touched him, he felt as though a part of him died but Italy knew this and that was exactly why he touched him so frequently.
"I had wanted this, you see." He leaned in and whispered in his ear "It's all part of my plan."
"Plan, Signore?".
"Tell me, Seborga," The words suddenly tumbled from his lips "Why don't you treat me like your brother anymore?".
Seborga shuttered violently and his heartbeat pounded in his chest. The emotion and hurt in his voice was so thick, it seemingly cut him.
Italy's hand gripped his shoulder tightly so that he could not be free because he knew how much he wished to be. He kept him close on this leash because what right did he have to leave him? How was he the innocent one out of the bunch? How could he hold his head high and pass the blame onto everyone else like some hypocrite?
"You know, you should really forgive me." His voice shook like he was unstable and tears blurred his vision "God does not like it when you hold a grudge against your brothers and I thought we raised you to know better then that, Seborga..."
His body felt numb and his fingertips turned cold. He shook like a reed in the wind, knowing what he was capable of and why he could never think of him as his brother ever again.
The things he'd done, the things his allies had done, the things he made him do.
All of it was unacceptable entropy.
But before he knew it, he was released and those violets cast thier gazes elsewhere.
The danger of war still lingered and yet Seborga could not shake the feeling that the true danger was here, in this room.
He breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that, at least for today, he could be himself. Every moment he thought thoughts and felt things that belonged to him, he could have hope.
"Where is Sardinia?".
"Si-Sardinia is holding back the Ally, China as we speak, Signore Italia."
"Good girl. Now, Shall we join her, Seborga?" Italy then flashed his winning sparkling smile that brought back so many painful memories.
"Y-Yes, Signore Italia." He said, because he had no choice but to submit.
Once in his life, Italy was a rather weak and cowardly nation, but those days had long passed. In thier place stood the glorious Italian empire.
"Veneciano, do you have any idea what you've done?!".
No.
"How long do you intend to let them look down on us, Romano? How long do you intend to be so weak?!".
Not this.
"We were at peace!".
Anything but this.
"And is that what we were supposed to be? Just cowards running from even the simplest fights? How can we even call ourselves grandsons of Rome, if we-!".
"And are those your words or that man's words?".
"You cannot stop me, Romano. No one can. Not anymore."
"Oh, shut up. You know, even for you, this is a whole new level of stupid! You've really dug yourself deep this time!".
"Stupid?! This is who we are supposed to be! Why can't you see that!?".
"You mean what 'you' were supposed to do. I will have no part of this monstrous scheme of yours...".
"...What...What are you saying, Romano?".
"You know exactly what I'm saying. I will not follow this...evil path you have chosen. If you continue, you will be alone...".
"Romano, no!".
"...And you will no longer be my brother!".
Anything but this.
"How...".
Not this.
"How could you...".
No.
"How could you say that to me?! I did this for you! I did this all for you! If you won't except that you're wrong and a coward, then leave! Go get yourself killed by the Allies for all I care! I hate you! I never want to see you ever again and I will become a world power whether you like it or not!".
He inhaled the scent as though expecting fresh air, knowing full well that Seborga had only taken but a shard of the broken city when he found him. The heavy amount of smoke and rust made the scent practicly unbearable and sent a black cloud over the indigo horizon, giving the illusion of midnight when it could not have been any later than eight pm.
With his hands on the cold balcony railing, Italy saw before him an innumerable number of men atop bulky iron dragons with a single white lily painted on thier foreheads, the newest technology. Every time one of his soldiers was face to face with the sword of an ally, the giant lizards body would come apart, leaving but the seat of the driver levitating to operate as sharp shards of metal orbiting at seemingly impossible speeds, blocking attacks and slaying men at all angles.
But the allys weren't completely defenseless. Each man wielded a seven foot spine like sword masterfully like they had trained thier whole lives for this moment. Each blade was converted with little pores that spewed either red hot flames, liquid nitrogen or tear gas that could melt steal when commanded to.
They also held a variety of bombs, guns, compasses and poison that all let thier effect when the owner died. That was a royal shame, but Italy had something similar so he didn't fuss.
But here was the real spectacle.
Battle flooded his city like water, seemingly setting fire and ice to all they could.
The micronation held an iron cutlass in his shaking right hand while the grand empire and their to the Roman empires throne held a simple push broom in his left.
He asked several times if that was his weapon of choice and Italy said yes and returned the question to which the micronation also replied yes to. The silence that followed was rather akward but, deep down, Seborga was relieved that even after all the, Italy was still really wierd.
He cast a glance to Seborga who returned it with a slight nod and both men pushed themselves on to the railing and leaped off in one swift motion.
They did not fall.
They landed gracefully on a seemingly violet tainted barrier that stood just a good fifty feet above the battlefield and the toppled buildings in a perfectly flat and expensive terrain. It could easily be missed if you didn't look at the right angle.
It was because the personifications of these nations were not of this world and could not mix thier presence with humans and so this barrier existed. It was a natural thing that could be neither changed nor removed under any circumstances.
It was something Italy hardly noticed but an inexperienced micronation like Seborga could hardly get used to it.
Italy reached into his auburn leather coat pocket and pulled from an inside pocket a simple card that appeared rather worn with age. It was a simple jack of hearts barring an inked image of a young man with a dagger and the inscription "Benedetto il filosofo".
"Benedetto il filosofo!" He said in the loudest and most unshakable voice he had "Attivare!".
The ink on the card began to glow violet, the same colour as the wielder eyes and seemed to pass into the veins in his left hand, alighting it in a purple glow and grew brighter until it dissipated with his hand in a dark purple glove a black heart symbol on the back.
Italy had just activated his utopian pathogen, a power only wielded by countries when an event they could take pride in took place. It was thier most powerful weapon in war and the symbol of thier influence on other countries when it came to trade and pop culture.
Italy just happened to be the lowest of the heart noble class. The weakest but still, the strategist.
"tutta la potenza!" He swung his arm to the side in a demanding motion and the pathogen obeyed it's master.
As he ordered, the five of hearts card in his brother's breast pocket and the eight of hearts card in his sister's shirt gave them but a fragment of the pathogen thier older brother possessed.
With one last heavy sigh, the Italian brothers were prepared for battle.
And they weren't the only ones.
Like two strong young lions stalking thier pray, two men lurked in between the building in from of them, moving thier feet in preparation to manuvier and arms tensed as the held thier weapons close.
Clad in the colour of dirt, Italy's expected party guest had arrived in all his glory and he brought a friend.
One could not properly describe this scene in scientific ways or the way things seemed because something much deeper was at work.
It was a rather cloudy May in 1940 in which all the solid ground turned to liquid mud.
The allies and thier troops were pulling out from the battle in Dunkirk in the iron aircraft, proudly titled "The Roosevelt", victorious and happy to live another day.
With the massive twin blades spinning faster than the eyes could see, artificial wind tore at the ground and all the injured souls that remained on it violently.
The solid platform that let the Allies on board was lifting quickly and thier escape was successful, thier casualties low and thier morales high.
But Italy was not so quick to except the shame of defeat.
He pushed a trained rider from his air bike and took it himself.
With his taser hookshot in hand, he narrowly manuviered through the Allies fighter plains, determined to reach the Allies before the platform closed.
And he did, as always and he aimed his hookshot right at the heart of thier hero, America.
He would have, except that certain nuisance of an Englishman caught sight of this and interfered. As soon as the shot was fired, he pushed him far away and called him some semblance of insults just to receive the hook straight through the chest.
At first, he was indescribably angry but then he realized just how brilliant this was.
In that split second that he caught sight of the look of pure horror on the hero's face, he knew he could not hit him any harder, so he retreated his bike back to camp and reelled the Englishman in with the promise that if the hero should come for him, he just might give him back.
"Ciao, America!" He declared with an energetic wave "Did you get my message?".
The young nation, America snarled angrily like a wild dog on the loose and lunged forward at the speed of a bullet train only to be stopped abruptly by the outstretched hand of the one he came with.
Canada, the young unnoticeable beast tamer and his brother.
"Brother, don't!" He hastily whispered.
"What did you do to him!" America yelled "Where is he, you monster!".
"Ah," Italy nodded thoughtfully "The grand united States of America and his brother, Canada."
The boy's gaze darkened. He was clearly far more mature than his brother could ever hope to be and would not put up with any agrivation after all he lost in this war.
Through they were some of the strongest nations in the world, they were both like children wandering aimlessly without the guidance of thier parents and Italy was not even mildly threatened.
"Tell me, Canada," He remarked with a hand on his hip "Are you not the chosen catalyst heir to both France's and that Englishman's pathogen?".
"Thats right."
"And if the two are out of commission, you inherit everything?".
"You've learned of the alliance?".
Italy just smiled a smile all to familiar to them "Yes. I must admit, I'm afraid your little Englishman is not as loose lipped as one might think. Am I not right, Seborga?".
Seborga, shocked at suddenly being addressed, just nodded quickly.
"I practically had to use up every technique I had and nothing seemed to have any effect on him. I practically spilled his guts to get him to spill his guts and he didn't say a word, but that was before I learned his weakness." He plainly stated "The recreation of certain events of the past through hypnotism and blood witchcraft".
"No..." Canada gasped "No, you didn't...".
"With my own artistic touch, of course." The Italian continued with a smile now as grim as the black plague "They just didn't seem effective enough without a little more... Pain."
Now the normally cool headed Canada was angry, his brow furrowed and jaw clenched bitterly.
"So you can imagine," Seborga now started, his cutlass that he had stolen from the Englishman himself withdrawn in the hand that wore that little green ring America remembered so well from his childhood "Once we found out his weakness, he told the axis all kinds of secrets, including everything about your catalyst alliance and much much more."
"In fact," And then Italy uttered the words laced in bitter poison that truly shattered any hope of price negotiations "The real trouble was getting him to shut up after we broke his weak little mind!".
It was over now.
America reached into his coat pocket to pull out a king of spades card inscribed with the picture of a rich man with white hair and his brother followed suit, but instead, he pulled from around his neck two amethyst hanging from a golden chain, one being a Rose de France amethyst to connect him with France and the other being the cursed amethyst which connected him with the Englishman.
"Tyrant king George!" declared strongly "Activate!".
The ink inscription pulsed and his blue eyes lit up momentarily. Navy blue leather coated his once bare hand with the black symbol on the back and the card dissolved into a handheld machine gun of pure silver, a necklace of gold bullet casings hanging low to to the ground.
"God, grant me strength!" Canada whispered as he held the gems close "Bloody Mary!".
The cursed gem dissolved into a perfectly round clock of pure gold. As he wrapped his arms around himself, the clock floated above his head until it levitated in-between his shoulder blades. A pair of angel like wings that could easily be mistaken for a trick of light then emerged from the sides of the clock and the bot was lifted from the ground. After that, the clock reappeared in front of him and the wings stayed in place.
"Dieu me donne la force!" He then said, louder this time 'Napoléon le conquérant!".
And the second gem flashed bright like some sort of calling device and the ground seemed to reverse the flow of glimmering snowfall that had never been there to begin with. It shone white because of the nobility of the beast.
He was beast calling. Something taught to him by his father after the alliance who he would save from German rule.
"Kumijiro." He said "Come to me."
And from the white shimmers emerged the muscular and strong body of a giant pure white bear that stood at least fifteen feet tall with paws the size of manhole covers and black claws a foot long. He snarled violently through a muzzle of jaws with iron teeth like a sharks.
Once he fully appeared, Canada dropped at ts side and stroked it's white fur.
The great beast reared back with a mighty roar and Seborga shook in his boots.
The North American brothers were more powerful.
Italy leaned into his brothers ear and whispered "You take Canada. My dance partner is America."
Seborga was about to protest strongly, even betrayal had crossed his frazzled thought.
When a dissolved nation was cut down, the rebirth process did not put another personification in thier place. They disappeared forever, without a trace and that idea terrified him to his core.
"Don't worry." Italy continued "God will give you the courage and power. You will do well."
Though he wanted to resist, he knew to disobey meant a fate far worse than death.
At least if he died by the hand of this westerner, his soul would go to heaven.
And wth that thought, he took up his arm and lunged with just one regret. That he didn't find a way to kill Italy when he had the chance.
He leaped and a light appeared at his step with the appearance of a white lily that boosted him three times higher than any normal human could jump.
He clashed his blade with Canada's clock that now floated protectively above his head. Sparks flew and metal grinded but not a moment later, Seborga was swiped away by the deformed white bear.
He was thrown away but he countered well and soon enough, he leaped high above the ground, completely over the charging bear and clashed with Canada again.
America hesitantly had it in mind to help his brother, knowing he could take a guy like that down easily in just a few minutes but Italy must have sensed this.
"Don't look that way, America, you're fighting me." He chimed in.
America scoffed "Like I'd let you split us up that easily!".
Italy sighed as America proceeded to the aid of his brother.
"How silly." He growled "You should know better than to defy me on my own land!".
And with a single clench of his fist, the ground shook violently and, to America's utter shock and horror, split.
It was wide, at least two hundred feet wide and as long as the eye could see in the barrier that sepperated the humans from them. Neither brothers had powers strong enough to cross that.
But that was just it. It was against his moral code to kill those who lost thier wars but if Italy kept things up this way, he might not be able to save him.
He had no choice but to do what he wanted and defeat the axis power in his own terms.
He inwardly shrunk, purely disturbed at what he just witnessed but the momentary hot aching agony Italy felt was nothing compared to the torment he had to suffer through every moment of the day since he made the decision to become a world power.
He unclenched his shaking hand to wipe away the heavy stream of blood dripping from his nose.
Even Seborga and Canada stopped to see what exactly happened.
"Brother..." He whispered under his breath, fearing the worst had happened to him "Signore Italia!".
But over the drumming of his pulse, Italy did not hear him.
"H-How could you..." America gasped, amazed at both his power and his ability to even stand "That was you're...".
"My heart? What was left of it, anyway."
"Don't do that! That's horrible!".
Italy suppressed a laugh as began to take steps backwards, neither worried nor warry because he knew this place better than anyone.
"Don't look at me that way, America." He said through a sick smile dripping with his own blood "It's nothing like what your friend must have suffered during the blitz."
America ground his teeth together in that way he knew the Englishman hated and would scold him for doing.
He had to remind himself that this was not the guy he knew before.
This was not the nation that Spain raised with a strong passion for tomatoes. This was not that fowl mouthed coward with amazing cooking, flirting and dancing skills that everyone could not help but love. This was not Romano.
Before he came to the battlefield, he was called by the imprisoned Spain who was practically in tears. He begged him that, even after all he had done, to spare Romano's life. He even offered to trade his life for the boys and America just could not say no.
He had seen quite enough fathers loose thier sons to this war and he wasn't about to be the cause of another.
But war had changed Romano and he was not sure if even he, the hero was capable of saving him.
When he decided to follow, he could no longer see Italy.
The steady steps he took forward sounded so loud, people in his country could hear them.
Without the silencer, he fired four anti illusion shots to his north, right, left and south respectively to make sure he wasn't hiding behind a trick of light.
He wasn't. The air around America was completely pure of everything except smoke and that awful scent of blood.
The silence was unnerving and almost creepy.
His anxiety led him to charge his blue emblem in his gun.
The toppled buildings, scattered corpses, twisted metal and dirt created a sort of beautiful picture with the indigo horizon as it's canvas. It was sickeningly captivating that no matter how much man tried to break away, they'd always come back to this violence almost as though it was natural and they were incapable of doing right. Even those who desired peace were confused in that they desired order to keep thier high place in where ever they lived. That's why it was hard to be cheerful about the Allies winning the war when another would follow in just a few centuries. Humans were dishonest, violent and sinful creatures and it was no wonder that thier stink reached heaven.
It was revolting. It was beautiful. It was natural. It was life.
And yet it was so wrong.
At that moment, an old wooden push broom came crashing into him with twice the force of a bullet.
Debris flew in every direction rapidly but the nation shielded himself with the bladed side of his gun.
Of course the one behind the broom was Italy and as soon he was blocked, he stepped back to attack a second time at his legs.
America dodged narrowly but openly and his opponent used this opportunity to strike him hard in the stomach, sending him flying several feet back.
He recovered nicely and, with his hand on the ground and his rifle raised and aimed for the limbs if the Italian, he declared loudly "Croatoan!".
A single blue emblem of a flame emerged from the barrel and he fired three shots which shattered straight through it like glass. Like flashes of lightning, they dashed across the field.
Italy narrowly dodged the one aiming for his shoulder, the one for his hip and by the time he dodged the one flying for his knee, he was smiling because every dodge got him one step closer to the American.
Said American had seen this coming and spent a few seconds forming a bounce pad, a yellow circle of light underneath him. Italy lunged to attack but before he could, America stomped on the ground and he was sent up in the air, the bounce pad vanishing.
He flipped through the air and reaimed his gun on his enemy's back but as soon as he fired, he had a fan of gothic dagger projectiles floating like the gateway arch over his hunched over body. Then, with a finger pointed to the sky, every one of them went flying America's way, seemingly at the speed if light.
One by one, he was pounded down to the ground like a bird hit by hail. His uniform was slashed repeatedly and the daggers pinned him to the earth. He received several wounds that hurt like heck but we're just fleashwounds in the end.
But then he noticed something familiar about those daggers. They looked straight out of an old vampire movie.
And that's when it hit him.
"You know," He stated bluntly "It's reasons like this that Romania's on our side now."
He could not look up because a dagger snagged his colar but he knew Italy was approaching him slowly.
"It does not matter anymore."
"He's such a mess right now and all because you stole a portion of him."
"It was his duty to lend us power. He failed, of course. He always seemed to."
He now stood over him, holding his broom in his right and the steaming bullet America fired in his left. With a single flick of it's wooden end, the dagger was plucked from his colar, leaving behind a stream of blood from where it nicked him.
It was known to most that one of Romania's daggers were especially dangerous when plunged through ones chest and that was exactly what Italy intended to do to him, or so he thought.
He flicked his broom again and cast the blade to the side and it clanked about before stilling in the dirt.
"Even if that would kill you," he muttered "There's still something I need from you."
"Figures." With a flash of light the same shade as his jump pad, America lifted himself from the ground and all the little daggers falling from thier place in his uniform and joining thier companion in the dirt before disappearing into crimson red dust.
"But I just have to wonder," He said, glaring holes in his back as he fixed his glasses and reached his gun once more "Are those your words or that man's words?".
Italy froze suddenly like an ice sculpture.
"Wh-What did you say...?".
It was explained to America by his brother that because Italy was naturally a weak nation and suddenly came to power in unnatural ways, he was an unstable superpower who had no control of what he built up or tore down, cast away or consumed. He did not have the mental power to do so and the other axis members hardly had the sanity.
That's why America did not think it was in his best interests to provoke him.
Instead, he needed to persuade him.
"Romania did not keep secrets when he switched sides, Italy." He said carefully "He told us all about the true source of your blood witchcraft. Who was it? Who's blood did you need to consume to become world powers?".
His broom hit the floor dryly and his knees followed weak and brittle bones hardly felt the impact but his heart felt every bit of it.
Deep down, he did not speak because he feared that every word he spoke were one of that man's words. As much as he wanted to insist over and over that he himself was in control, he felt it, that foreign influence, that madness crawling like termites in his fleash.
The sins he had committed, though gone and washed away, were branded onto his eyes. He could never forget or get used to it and he could never see anything passed them because they seemed t be more numerous than the stars in the sky.
He just couldn't bare it.
His hand clawed at his own throat as he gasped. It hurt so much that he could hardly breath.
That man, his old comrade, his current enemy, the country known as Germany was not in control. He couldn't control him anymore. He had given Italy strength and he would betray him and use it like a true nation.
It wasn't much, but the least he could do was tell all thier of Germany's secrets to the world.
"Israel."
"I beg your pardon?".
"It was Israel!" He declared loudly, his arms spread out in fained glee "Silly silly Israel!".
America blinked.
Israel, that little homeless girl with the short hair and the long skirt who spent her time occupying the guestrooms of every nation in Europe. She was cynical, loud, obnoxious, nosy, paranoid and incredibly religious. She practicly religiously practiced the idea that Jesus Christ was just a man even though, deep down, she knew it wasn't true. She was confused, lonely, small but most of all, she was a loveable little girl that they would not trade for the world. America heard a few things from the European countries but for the most part, it was that certain Englishman that spoke so highly of her.
He had seen her a few times but she mainly kept to herself. She was so very small and, despite being older then most, geld the appearance of an elegant year old girl and to think that pure little Israel was in some dark room being drained of her bodily fluids was purely sickening.
It just could not have been true in his mind.
"Sorry, D-Did you say Israel?" America tripped over his own words nervously, making sure he heard the Italian correctly "Did you say Israel?".
"Yes, Israel! Poor defenseless silly girl and Germany was too weak to catch anybody else! 'It had to be her' he said 'I had to!'".
"And did you know?" America hastily asked with blood cold as ice "Did you know the whole time that it was her?".
Italy dropped his acts of delusionary splendor.
"No..." He stated plainly and somewhat gloomily "I only learned of it a couple months ago."
There was a silence.
"Hey, America. Do you know the true reason why America chose her?".
"Why?".
"I think it was because he was jealous. She was God's chosen people so no matter how many times she was defeated, she could always stand up again. A loss never broke her the way it broke him. So, when the Englishman sealed his pathogen, he went to hers and stole it from her one Jewish life at a time."
"A cruel man, your comrade."
"He's not my comrade. Not anymore."
He rose to his feet and took up his broom once more.
Somehow America felt like he understood him just a little.
Japan slaughtered his beloved collie puppy, pearl and he entered the war because of his grief. He believed that the entirety of the axis was a bunch of mindless blood thirsty monsters with no semblance of thought but the more he communicated with Italy, he started to see a remnant of humanity in the man like he wasn't entirely gone.
"Quit this war, Italy." He said suddenly.
"I probably will."
"You don't have to fight anymore. Surrender to the Allies."
"I probably should."
And that's when it happened. The two people he connected with his pathogen flow was suddenly cut off. He could no longer feeling them at all. It was shocking yet so normal like waking up from a dream where a long dead relative was still with you. He was no longer comforted by the warmth of his siblings.
He could hardly breath for a moment. It felt like a bullet of Cedric's to his stone cold heart.
He assumed he could no longer feel any more pain after all he had been through but he was wrong.
Whether they betrayed him or lay dead on the floor, he now felt the chill of truly standing alone.
He expected this to happen and yet it hurt him so dearly.
It was amazing how when we fall away, God leads us carefully through life to witness the fruits of your actions. Its horrible and yet so beautiful.
It was also horrible and beautiful when he looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the person who stared back at him. When he looked looked from side to side and saw no one to hold his hand, when he looked foreward and did not know where he was heading and when he looked back at the person he was and wondered how he even came to this.
He lost everything just because one very convincing man told him he had nothing when he truly held all this heathen world could offer. In attempt to become stronger, he enslaved himself to weak nations who'd slaughter a little girl for thier own gain and he became small. He hurt his family, friends and everyone.
And yet he was presented with this chance.
He whispered a single thank you to the cloud covered sky as he remembered that he was not as alone as he thought.
A violent chuckle rippled through his chest.
"I probably shouldn't fight, but you see," He grinned with a gloved hand pointed skyward "I was never supposed to."
America's eyes followed where he pointed. He shielded his eyes because the orange horizon was far to bright to look straight into but he quickly noticed what appeared to be the figure of a human silhouette fringed by that golden light.
But his eyes quickly adjusted and widened for one simple reason.
"No..." He gasped "England?!"
That was true. Standing at the very edge of a church tower over four hundred feet above the ground was the Englishman, the very personification of great Britain and possibly one of the strongest pathogen wielders of all time.
His eyes were covered with a tan blindfold caked with blood and dirt and his mouth was shut with a leather muzzle like a dog. His broken arms were exposed and bleeding being that he received many injections there and his hands were bound behind the back with rope, the tailsman discarded. His weak and shattered legs would not hold him up if it weren't for a vine like gold wire that grew up his leg and wrapped around his body. The wire was infected with Italy's pathogen so it was controlled by him.
But the most disturbing thing was not this but rather how he just stood there like it was a warm summer day in his garden with a single foot dangled over the edge.
He knew full well what this meant but America did his best to keep Italy from sensing his panic by keeping a straight face
"The reincarnation process won't stop." He said coldly "Even if you kill him, the next personification will take his place."
"Yes, America," He smiled as he ran his hand through his hair "But the next one to come will not be the one you always knew. They won't be the one who raised you and watched you grow. They won't be your older brother and they certainly won't be the one you need to apologize to after all this time."
He knew full well how dear his older brother was to him. Even after all the two had done to eachother, the bond between family was not broken.
America's facade fell at his words.
"Why are you doing this...?".
"Like I said, I want something from you."
"Well you're not getting it!".
"Don't!" Italy blurted, suppressing his rage "Don't test me, America. I am an axis member and I will kill him!"
At this America was stumped because he knew how true those words were. When he cast a glance over his shoulder, he saw a glimmer of purple in the air and he knew full well that Italy had split his heart there, to. No matter how quick he was, he could not catch him and England, especially in that state, would not survive the fall.
For a moment, he was scared. He didn't really know how to save him but he really didn't know how to go on letting him die. He just couldn't.
Midnight had come and a new day had begun on a calm start sky as the smoke and dirt began to clear. Perhaps it was his naivety but he could not see that happening if he let any of his friends die.
It was seemingly impossible and that's why he gave in to him.
"If I give you what you want," He asked "Will you not kill him?".
"I won't. You have my word."
"You'll let him and the others go and quit the war?".
"I will."
"You promise?".
"Yes."
America did not trust the man before him He his illuminated violet eyes. He had pity for him but he did not trust him. All axis members where liars and broke thier treaties on a daily basis so he had no reason to trust him but what choice did he have?
The voices of men at each others throats and fire burning all in its path had long left, leaving nothing but an empty and cold silence. The battle was dying down and America knew that no one was coming to save him from this choice. he had to be strong because the lives of those he lived hung in the balance.
All was seemingly consumed by the darkness of night except for him, Italy and this very important moment.
He finally understood the meaning of war.
"What I want is simple. In the time of the Englishmans stay here, he told me something rather interesting. He said that you and your comrades were working on a project. A weapon unlike any the world had ever seen. A gun so lethal, that it could kill a nation for good and disrupt the reincarnation process if fired properly. Does such a thing exist, America?".
"No!" Was America's first reaction.
If he had asked for anything else; A get out of jail free card for all his crimes, a pony, one of his own states; It would have been his in a second in exchange for England's life but he could not give him that awful gun. Even if he did save England and stop the war, who's to say even more would not die because of that weapon.
It should never have been created but to let it fall into the wrong hands would mean the end of the world as they knew it.
His mind rejected the mere thought of such a thing.
"I could never do that!".
"Ah," Italy said "So it does exist."
"What would you even want with it?!".
"That's classified~!".
It was difficult to even comprehend what he was asking of him. The utter impact that it would have would be disturbing and millions would die and he could and would not let that happen.
But his mind went to Germany, the one person the world probably hated more than anyone about now. If he truly wanted to keep his word than Germany was probably the only reason he wished to have it.
"If this is because of Germany, that-!".
But then his heart skipped a beat because Italy was suddenly just two inches away from his face, his violet flaming eyes practicly staring into his soul and the sent of rotten blood in his breath very strong.
"Germany's not in controll!" He screamed, bloodied spit flying about and his words laced with the very poison that caused people to murder in the first place "No one is!".
"No, I'd like him to die, but I'd prefer he lived, because once he gets off his blood high, death will be the only thing he'll ask for."
Somehow he didn't even sound human. It was then that America realized that he had gone completely insane. From the look in his eyes to his suppressed cackle, he knew that the one before him was not the little Italy he knew but a madman and it was all because of blood.
The shock nearly sent America off his feet and sent him immediately into defensive mode.
"You've list your mind, Romano...".
And that's when he just let it slip. It was hushed and quiet, practically a whisper but Italy heard it so very loud and clear.
But those were not simply just words. It was knowledge like that feeling you get when you know you're dying. It echoed through his very being and he rejected it.
His expression softened as he thought about how silly America was.
"Ve~! America,no," He smiled wildly "You are mistaken! I'm Veneciano, you see!".
Thoroughly freaked out, America immediately labeled that as bull. From the description Spain gave him, Romano had darker hair and a rather odd curl on the right side of his head. The Italian he saw before him had one on his left and right but that wasn't important, right?
"No, I'm pretty sure you're not."
"No, I am, you see!" The cheer in his voice was undeniably real "But we do look really similar so I understand why you'd get confu-!".
That's when he stopped, the words jammed violently in his throat. He felt conviction because he knew that wasn't true. It was shocking but he knew he was lying.
He was Romano. He remembered growing up with Spain to raise him. He remembered picking tomatoes on a Sunday afternoon. He remembered sitting out the world war for the sake of his younger brother. He remembered seeing the world through Romano's eyes and filtered by Romano's opinions. He remembered everything.
"No. I'm was Romano, right?".
Wait, no. That's not right. He remembered Germany very clearly. He remembered how he met him for the first time during the party to celebrate the end of the first world war. He remembered living with Austria in a maids gown until he realized just how much he had been wronged. He remembered meeting his brothers and sisters for the first time and how happy he was. He remembered seeing the world through Veneciano's eyes and filtered by his thoughts and feelings. He remembered everything.
"Wait, I'm Veneciano aren't I?".
No, he could not be both. That was impossible.
Even if he remembered both sides of the events they experienced.
It was almost as though he experienced both.
But that was not possible, right?
If not, then who was he?
And that's when he remembered.
As America, the Englishman, tall towers, toppled buildings and his broken heart disappeared around him, he remembered everything and could do nothing to stop the shrill and agonized scream that erupted from his strangled throat.
"Ve~! Germany! I woke up this morning and my eyes were purple! Why is that, Germany?".
"Ve~! Ve~! Germany! I punched a hole in a guy's chest with my bare hands! Thats so wierd!".
"Hey Germany! Why are you looking at me that way? Did I do something wrong?".
"Germany, I'm sad... What should I do?".
"Germany, I got in a really bad fight with Romano. He called our plan stupid but I feel really bad. Can I go tell him I'm sorry?".
"Germany, I've been feeling funny and I really want to apologize to him! Please let me see him!".
"Germany, I feel bad. I probably made him cry."
"Germany, please. I feel really really really gross and I really miss my brother!".
"... Germany? What is wrong with me?".
"Germany! Stop ignoring me!".
"Germany! Why can I see my brothers memories!? Where is he?!".
"Germany... Somethings inside me... I don't feel right... Please let me see my brother...Please...".
"I don't care about winning. I don't want an empire anymore. I miss my brother so much, it hurts."
"Germany... I have Romano's pathogen. Vuoto and Innocenza combined and then I got something called Intero. I don't know what to do. What if he's mad at me. What if Spain is mad at me..." .
"Germany?".
"Germany, answer me!".
"Merged?! German, what does that mean?! Germany, don't walk away! I can't-! I can't breath! I feel wierd! Germany! Germany! Help me! Germany!".
He now remembered why he loathed Germany so utterly.
It was not because of his monstrous acts. It was not because of his inhumanity. It was not because of the slaughter of innocent nations.
Truthfully, the kind and good hearted Italy could hardly care less. He was a jack and that meant that a large amount of his emotions were blocked.
No, the true reason he felt this way was for one reason. That deceived him by withholding one peice of vital information from him because of sick curiosity.
That piece of information that would have changed everything.
The fact that a world power could never be two. It was just that simple.
Israel's blood was intended to raise them up and it did, oh how it did. He never felt power like that before.
The path to becoming a world power and making all who looked down on him suffer was clear but as soon as he made the choice, Italy was united.
There was no longer Veneciano or Romano, but simply one Italy. Veneciano had eaten his brother and ingerited a nation.
Now He could do nothing to get rid of the spiders under his skin or the worms in his toes that kept him from sleeping for days.
On some days, he could take it but on the rest, he could hardly breath.
His skin was too thick, his eyes too sharp, his muscles too strong, his voice too loud. For once in his life, he could do things right but the fact that it was all due to the fact that he had absorbed every good trait in his own beloved brother made him sabotage himself purposely.
He could not bare it. He felt him in his wrists, behind his eyes, in his stomach, in his knees, in the ankles and yet no matter how deep he dug, he could never get him out. He had become a grave for the better half of himself he could do nothing to fix it.
It was the human soup of fleash, hair, organs and eyelids inside his being and he just wanted it out. He'd do anything, he'd give anything to have it out, but he seemingly could do nothing.
This was not a price he was willing to pay for a facade of perfection. He would rather have killed his brother than done this to him. At least he would have gone to heaven and not have been eaten.
This entropy was a nightmare. The kind that made you claw off your skin and squeeze your own throat till you choked up blood. It was inescapable and to think that at one point in life, he prayed for it, he begged for it.
Not his brother. Not his beloved older brother who he had been connected to since birth.
Despite being whole, he had never felt more broken.
It was an unswollowable truth and he just couldn't do it anymore.
The flowers wilted and rivers dried up.
He felt the tears fall and his mind slipping as his hand tightened around his own throat.
No one would forgive him. Not ever.
When he thought of Spain or Austria, he could not think. He was not strong enough. He just couldn't do it.
"Snap out of it!".
And that's when he felt something slap him firmly across the cheek and suddenly, he was back in the light.
Here was the alleyway. Here was the church tower with the Englishman on top. Here was America with his had outstretched to stretched to strike again.
It was America who struck him and somehow, he felt hopeful.
Of course, the other looked far from it.
He appeared exasperated, afraid and upset to the point of tears.
Everything came back into focus and somehow his heart town seemed brighter, colorful, vibrant.
It's always odd when you realize the most amazing things after the weirdest of occurrences. Thus was definitely one of the times.
An odd peaceful impulse came over him. He felt giddy. He wanted to sing and dance. He wanted to fall asleep under an apple tree with a smile on his face.
There is always forgiveness for those who seek it. There is always good after the storm.
Was it because he came to terms with what he had done that he could suddenly breath? Was it because he finally saw himself as the abomination he was that he felt alive again?
He was not quite sure, honestly.
Would he ever know?
"What the heck was that, dude?!" America spat.
"Not quite sure."
"Wha-?!".
He rose to his feet quickly and steady brushed the dirt off his coat as he grinned wildly. Aftera steady breath, ye picked up his broom as though the whole episode didn't even happen.
He looked normal, happy, cheerful. Truthfully, he looked like Veneciano.
"Now," He said "About our little deal-".
"You're not getting it!".
"Very well."
At that, Italy tossed his push broom up in the air and, after a gentle twirl on his heel caught one end in the palm of his right hand. He began to balance the thing to the best of his ability.
America was shocked with his weapon at the ready, seemingly captivated by what he was witnessing but unable to understand what it meant.
That was until he cast a glance to the rather wobbly figure over head that he realized that the edge of the broom was crested with gold and Italy now controlled whether he fell or not.
Panic whelled up inside America as he now held out his hands in an attempt to keep it from falling.
"Look Veneciano, please don't do this!".
"We've never been much good at balancing~!".
"I'm legitimately begging you!".
"I'll I ask is the gun~!".
"I can't do it!".
"If your brother ever meant anything to you, you will!".
Somehow this just felt so silly and easily like soft cotton fluff on a wound. What he wanted was right here in his grasp and that was why he smiled.
"I can't hold it anymore!".
And with that, his patience and sanity drained to the minimum, he at last let the wooden broom fall.
The few moments it took to fall were practically deafening until the sound of it breaking in three filled the alleyway.
It was that seemingly eternal pause that over took ones whole world when a loved one was pronounced dead.
And the next thing Italy knew, in shaking hands that held great power was a small black revolver presented to him like he were the subject of a king.
There was a pause, then an akward deranged giggle, and a chilfish snatch.
Flowers would bloom in the spring and the rivers would flow again when the ice melted to crystal clear water.
Italy snatched it straight from America's trembling hands and laughed so so very genuinely like a child on Christmas day. It was soft and simple like a melody that when through his heart like a cleansing wind. As soon as he felt the cold but powerful metal in his hands, all the walls and barriers he put up in Venice disappeared like the last snowfall of winter.
War was so simple when it came down to human emotions. When it came down to those, a weak nation like himself defeated the mighty united States of America. Perhaps he wasn't so weak after all.
He began to pace frantically. He was ready. There was no holding him back, now. His hands shook with enthusiasm as he took unsteady steps all around the alley way.
"Ah, America!" He cried in joy "Changing the world one weapon of mass destruction at a time!".
He cast a glance over his shoulder to see that the man he spoke of looked about to his knees. He could not help but scoff.
He scoffed at the utter sadness America must have felt at the thought of loosing this specific personification. Italy wasn't weak, he was weak. He was weak and Germany was wrong all along.
He, Veneciano had defeated America, kidnapped the united kingdom and proved Germany wrong.
He knew that if Romano could see or think, he'd be so proud of him.
And that's what truly made him happy.
Enemies would come and go, lovers are fleet but the bond between family can last forever.
"Don't be so glum." He whispered bitterly "At least you still have a brother."
He knew full well England didn't hit the floor.
He moved two gloved fingers as though he was painting in the wind and soon enough, A bright yellow transparent globe large enough to fit a grown man. It swirled about in a manner similar to the planet known as Jupiter until he dropped his fingers down and sent it to the groud slowly like a balloon and once it was in safe dropping distance, he snapped his fingers.
The globe popped and from it dropped none other than the beloved Englishman right at America's feet.
His head shot up, a mix between joy and shock visible on his pale expression.
He took him up in his arms immediately and yelled his name over and over until he at last put his ear to his chest, relieved beyond words that he could hear a heartbeat. Soft and weak, but still audible.
He lay with one name fresh on his blue lips. "America...".
He was utterly disturbed by the damage to his person and the lack of very much strength and connection in his legs, all that's mattered was his well being.
That was all that mattered.
"Very well, America. You have my unconditional surrender."
If America had looked up at that very moment, he would have seen Italy turn the gun on himself.
It was the beginning of the end of this grand world war and a new day had begun. The sun was high and all was seemingly at peace.
Italy was finished. Italy was at rest. Italy was happy.
At that very moment, an injured China turned the corner, holding a knife to young Sardinia's throat, Canada turned the corner with a surrendered Seborga in tow and America looked up to the surrendered nation just to catch sight of the barrel in Italy's mouth and his finger as he pulled the trigger.
"Nooooo-!".
Canada's shrill cry was cut off by the sound of a muffled gunshot.
Italy swallowed a bullet.
His siblings and the Allies watched.
His blood watered nearby lilies in full bloom.
He hit the ground, dead and the gun skid away sharply and shrilly.
That was just it. There was no scary music, no mournful violins, nothing. Blood did not gush everywhere like a river and wounds did not bloom like flowers. Nothing was exaggerated and it was certainly not picturesque. Death has never been that way. It was serene, calm and so very sad.
He just lay there and it was odd for the people who had seen him alive not a minute ago.
It hit America rather hard actually.
"Wh-What?" Was all he could say, incredibly upset.
"This... This wasn't..."
"Y-You weren't supposed to...".
"I was supposed to save you!".
He spoke to him as though he could hear because, despite seeing much war, he still went into shock over little things like this.
China did his best to restrain Sardinia who violently struggled with all her might to claw his eyes out. Even a scratch to the cheek would have satisfied her. In the end, he ended up striking her in the neck and nocking her out cold. She fell limp into his open arms.
Canada did not breath as though fearing that would kill him for good. His hand went over his mouth as he just stared.
To some countries, war was just a game of life. Why would he do this to himself? Was defeat truly so horrible?
America was still list in his own tangled thoughts. He'd just given him the gun and he, England in return. He'd given him the gun, not entirely sure what he'd even do with it. You know what, what else was he gonna do with i? Being an axis member, of course he would kill innocent countries to gain power. But he didn't. He shot himself. But why? Shame? Conviction? Fear? He did not want to continue the reincarnation process, he wanted to die.
But he could not actually be dead in America's mind. The gun had only been tested effective on small and supposedly uninhabited islands so there was no way this could be, right?
Italy was defeated but was he really? His blood still boiled and his heart still raced. He was not ready to except it.
And yet he still didn't get up and dust off his coat and smile like the madman he was. The blood in the lilies remained and there was nothing to stop Seborga's tears.
Once he had confidence in his legs, the micronation found himself stumbling towards where Italy- no, Veneciano lay.
As his kingdom was built on slaughter, so he wore the crown of blood to match but this kingdom of his was not built on a solid foundation. Every axis member built themselves up with blood but soon it would become to thick and every one would down, one by one.
None would stand.
"Accidenti a lui ... Maggio Germania bruciare per questo ... Quel mostro ... Che diavolo ..." He muttered through bitter tears as he stroked his brothers still warm cheek as though trying to keep it that way for as long as possible "Oh , Veneciano ... io sono così così dispiace ... mi dispiace ...".
He wept because of how he treated him. He was led astray by that awful man and he treated his own brother like he should die.
He blamed himself, truthfully.
They looked down upon the Italian brothers and Italy knew quite well why.
Thier troops had died on the battlefield but he had Romano had stayed in the comfort of thier own home.
They must have thought of them as cowards for what they did.
It was the first word meeting Veneciano had ever attended and he was deeply saddened because his dear older brother suffered this horrible treatment.
He couldn't help but feeling responsible. If only he hadn't been so weak and cowardly. Maybe then he could help them in the war and no one would ever bully his beloved brother again.
He was at America's house, hugging his knees in the corner of the balcony.
Rome was gone and he was but a disappointment. That dream of being a brave and strong world power would never be a reality.
And that's when it happened.
"Why are you crying?".
He heard a very intimidating voice.
He looked up and who should be looking down on him but a very scary man. Truthfully, he stronger, prettier and whiter than anybody he'd ever seen.
But he got scared. He was very shy and did not really talk to anyone outside his country so he got up and tried to leave.
"I'm sorry," He muttered "I have to go find my brother-!".
But he was stopped by the mans muscular tree trunk of in arm.
"How weak," The man hissed bitterly "Crying when you don't even know the meaning of pain."
And that's when it all started. Little Veneciano would never know how msuch that encounter would change his fate.
Odd Germany, that scary yet kind man who'd buy him all the pasta he wanted but now that he thought about it, that pasta was probably laced with Israel's blood.
Everything always was.
That was when he truly died. He knows that now.
The rain fell down heavily on the morning of the sixteenth of September as though God was crying for the lost a certain man suffered not a day previous to the now.
There Spain sat in an old wooden chair, his shoulders slumped and his head in his hands. He had shed his tears and made his peace but he knew he'd never be okay.
In this wooden shed, he kept Vebeciano's body in a simple white casket, surrounded by the lillies he loved so much.
Now that he saw him, it was hard to believe he was responsible for so many deaths and he was actually strong enough to be called Germany's greatest ally. It seemed more like something Romano to do and that's why he first accused him of the crime. He could not believe it so he could always forgive the cute little boy no matter where he ran off to.
He was not entirely sure where Romano was but where ever he may be, he just inherited a whole nation. He was probably crying and he highly doubted he held a thing against his dear brother anymore.
He'd search for him because he knew he needed him right now but for now, Spain just wanted to be alone.
He got the news when a broken America came to him. For once, America painted himself as the bad guy but, for some reason he just could not hold it against him. He was so young and he tried so hard and Spain admired that.
He has seen Austria after that on his trip here. The poor man could hardly stand. He truly loved little Veneciano as his own son. No parent should have to suffer such a thing.
So to be truthful, Spain was not mad really at anyone.
He did not need the boy.
The sun would still set and the sun would still rise. The stars were still in thier place and the moon would not move.
The grass was still green and the tomatoes would still grow as tasty as ever.
Wars would come, wars would be fought and wars would be won.
Kingdoms would come and disappear like sand slipping through his fingers.
He would be okay. Everyone would be okay.
But that didn't stop the sadness so heavy it felt as though it would crush his very being.
Just because he was not necessary to anyone's existence, that would not mean he wouldn't miss him terribly.
So for now, he cried.
And that's when he heard it. A single breath that did not belong to him.
He jumped and began searching the room for another occupant but found none. He was alone wth a dead nation.
And that's when it hit him.
His heart seemingly stopped in that short pause when he leaned close to the supposed corpse and placed a shaking hand over the boys cold lips.
Warm breath blew on his hand and he nearly had a heart attack of relief and confusion.
"Vene-!?".
Suddenly, the boys hand snapped up and grabbed him.
"N-Non mi toccare !" He growled before suddenly choking and releasing Spain's hand.
He lunged forward and sat up, regurgitating into his hand, blooded bile slipping through his thin spider like fingers.
He stopped and looked only to see amongst the spit and regurgitated black ink a single black bullet.
For a moment, Spain was overjoyed. The gun was a failure. Veneciano was alive. He and Romano were okay.
Everything was gonna be okay, just like it used to be.
But that was until the boy looked up to him with olive green eyes filled with odd and fresh tears.
"Idiota spagna ?" He whispered, his lip quivering "What is this?
And that's when the realization came over Spain like a tidal wave. Veneciano was dead. Romano was here.
That's when he took Romano- No, the nation of Italy into his arms because he knew this boy would not be okay for years to come.
And that's why Venice sinks and when the personification comes to terms with his brothers death, the city will be fully submerged but until that day, he will waist away in straightjackets and solitude.
"Ora lo pongo mi scolo per dormire."
"Io prego il signore la mia anima per mantenere."
"Se muoio prima che lo svegli."
"Preghi il signore la mia anima per prendere."