Disclaimer: Hetalia and its characters were recreated by Hidekaz Himaruya.

The Vanishing

Genre: Mystery/thriller/humour (I hope)

Characters: UK, US, Russia, France, Spain, Austria, Italy, Germany, Denmark, Finland, Sweden, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Japan..

Synopsis: A conference in a spooky Scottish castle goes wrong when the Nations start to disappear one by one. Who or what is kidnapping the Nations?

This story is by special request from a few readers - an adaptation from a story in Arthur Kirkland's Diary, but this time written in the third person with some surprises...

Chapter 1: The Arrival

"See that girl, watch her scream, kicking the Dancing Queen... Damn strange lyrics... Now where the bloody hell is this bloody castle?"

The speaker was of course Arthur Kirkland, personification of England. He stopped his 1957 Bentley at a crossroads and ruffled his blond hair. He was on his way to a conference and was feeling very put out. The conference was taking place in Scotland at a castle designated by his brother, Hamish, who had, in Arthur's words 'thrown a hissy fit' insisting on hosting the next Nations Conference in his beloved 'Bonny Scotland'. So be it, Arthur had thought, and he can bloody well pay for it. But Arthur was beginning to regret giving in to his mad older brother. He liked Scotland, he visited at least twice a year, but the weather was, if possible, even more unpredictable than his own country's. The temperature had read a barmy 66 degrees on his smartphone thingy, but now read an ominous 50 and a murky fog was settling around him.

"Turn left at the next roundabout," Darth Vader's voice told him on his sat nav.

"This isn't a roundabout," Arthur told the device.

"Turn left at the roundabout," the sat nav told him again.

"I'm fed up of you, your instructions have been wrong the whole bloody way," Arthur said. In actual fact, he had not taken enough notice of the instructions, believing his own sense of direction was enough. And had thus gone at least 150 miles out of his way.

There was a loud honking behind him.

"Bloody tourists," Arthur muttered, "No bloody respect any more." He patted the steering wheel, "Come on Bessie, old girl, we'll pull over and look at a map," he said and started the engine. The old car spluttered into life, blue smoke chugged out of the exhaust and then 'poof' the engine died.

"Sod," England said and turned the key again.

Behind him, the honking increased.

"Sod off," he yelled, winding down the window.

He looked in the rear view mirror and all he could see was black metal. He frowned. There was tapping on his drivers window. He wound the window down (1950s Bentleys did not have electric windows).

"Yo Artie dude! Why are you driving this museum piece? What is this anyway? It looks like it's just died..."

Arthur summoned up the rage of a 1000 year old very cross ex-Empire. "Bloody America! This is my beloved Bentley! This is a classic car! Not your bloody American rubbish."

"Well it might be some classic antique rubbish, but it's not working is it?" America pointed out.

"Damn and blast..."

"Do you want a lift in my hire car, man?"

Arthur looked at the huge black vehicle America was 'driving'. It was a Hummer.

"What the bloody hell is that thing? It's totally unsuitable for British roads, it looks like it should be in a war zone!"

"Hell yeah, man!" America yelled.

"Stop shouting!"

"So do you want a lift or not?" America asked, a little quieter.

"I suppose so," Arthur said, and with much reluctance, he got his battered old suitcase out of the Bentley's boot/trunk. "Dear Lord, I hope nobody sees me in this wretched thing."

"Mr England! Are you having a problemo with your vehicle?" came an excitable but happy voice behind them.

"Oh no..." England muttered, "He's bloody early."

"Feliciano! Dude! Look at Arty's car, man! It broke... it's probably even older than him," America all but yelled.

Italy waved at them from the driver's seat of a red Lamborghini, "Mr England, Mr England! Do you want a lift with me and Mr Japan?" He yelled, waving maniacally.

"Well..." England weighed up his options - America and his huge Humbug or whatever it was called or Italy's bright red low-slung sports car which England thought once he'd got himself in, he wouldn't be able to get out.

His decision was made for him.

Japan fell out of the passenger seat, shaking and pale. "Italy-kun, your driving is atrocious! I am severely disturbed. I do not think I can continue."

"A bit over-dramatic, Japan old chap," England said, shoved his battered suitcase into the Lamborghini's trunk (he was a little concerned that there were no back seats in the car) and climbed into the passenger seat. "It's a little..." he began but didn't finish his sentence as Italy put his foot on the gas pedal and they shot off.


England was right - he did have trouble getting out of the car. America had to help him, Italy just stood looking helpless and biting his lip, waving his arms around like a windmill. Japan laid on the ground hugging the gravel and saying something about mad drivers.

"Damn and blast it, Alfred. You nearly pulled my bloody arms out of their sockets!"

"I sure did!"

England straightened up with as much dignity as he could muster after being hauled out of the bucket seats of the Italian sports car. It had taken America at least twenty minutes to drag him out.

Arthur felt that his spine would never straighten. He looked up at the castle looming in front of them. It was a less well known castle on the tourist trail, a dark forbidding air clung to it. The stonework looked as if it had seen better days (probably Edward the Third's days, Arthur thought) and the some of the window panes were broken. He sighed.

"Ach, yer bloody early!" came a strong Scottish accent.

"Hamish," England sighed.

"Aye, I am..." the Scotsman said, wiping his hands on his kilt.

Hamish was the personification of Scotland, England's elder brother and, in his eyes, should have been the rightful personification of Great Britain, the United Kingdom. But he wasn't. "Yer all too bloody early. I havenae got the rooms ready yet and my haggis isn't oot of the oven yet. Yer might have to go and do some shopping, Arthur, cos I havenae had time... My back's playing up..."

England was appalled, "You didn't hire any staff did you? You cheapskate!"

Alfred, however, was confused, "What did he say, man?"

Italy was amazed, "Wow, you understood him, Mr England? You must be really clever! That was crazy language."

"Where are we anyway?" America asked.

"Chillingley House," England said.

"I thought this was a castle!" America said, utterly disappointed, "You promised a castle!"

"It is a castle... but it's called a house," England said.

"Your language is crazy!" Italy said. He was distracted from saying any other stupidity by his phone vibrating. "Luddy is on his way!"

"I thought he was coming tomorrow? Why is everyone arriving today? I said to arrive Saturday... what day is it today, Alfred?"

"Saturday..."

"I think, my good man, you will find it is Friday," Arthur said.

"Aye and they weren't supposed to be coming til tomorrow - bloody foreigners!" Scotland all but yelled and slammed back into the castle/house, the large 10 foot oak door slamming behind him - but not before Alfred and Arthur heard the words "I havenae had time to get the exorcist."

"Exorcist? Is that like the movie?" Alfred asked, going a little pale.

"He's been visiting your south coast, Mr England," Italy said, reading his phone screen.

"The exorcist has been visiting Bournemouth?" England said, utterly confused.

"There's a ghost?" America asked.

"No, Luddy-kins has been visiting your South Coast." Italy said with a big smile.

"Oh has he? He bloody did that in 1940... the bloody sod." England grumbled, leading the way up the stone steps to the entrance.

"Who? The ghost?" Alfred asked. He looked up at the castle windows, the tangled ivy, the gargoyles glaring down at him and shivered.

"No, Germany." Italy said, waving his arms around.

"Germany is a ghost?" Alfred asked, completely confused and clutching his Disney suitcase.

"There are no ghosts!" England shouted, "Now come on, blokes. Let's just go in."

But they were shoved aside by two forces of nature.

"Get out of the way, losers! Coming through, two man party pack! I bet you were thinking we weren't coming. Kesese!"

"Damn it all, what in the name of my Aunt Alice are you two doing here?" England was appalled. In fact, England was going to be appalled a lot this weekend.

"We were invited!" Denmark said, humping two dozen crates of beer after Prussia.

"He bloody wasn't. He's a bloody hooligan, nuisance and general vagabond. Why in the name of cricket would I invite him to my country?" England said, pointing at Gilbert.

"Because I'm fucking awesome man!"

"It's not your bloody country!" came a Scottish voice deep in the bowels of the castle.

"Damn..." England muttered, shoving them through the doorway.

"Is there really a ghost in here?" America muttered to England.

"Well there bloody won't be any now will there?" England said as Prussia stomped up the huge staircase, yelling at Denmark (his supposed 'best mate and drinking partner') to follow him.

"No... there's not one ghost here in this here old castle..." Scotland said, suddenly appearing behind America.

America almost leapt into England's arms, but then relaxed.

Scotland sniggered as he took a large swig of his Scotch whisky, "There's at least five!" he said and laughed, horridly and then staggered off.

"I hope he doesn't get bloody drunk..." England muttered and shoved America out of the way.

However, Italy was equally worried, "I wish Luddy was here..." he whined.

"Bloody foreigners," England muttered, stepping inside the cold and damp huge hallway of the castle. He hoped to God that the others wouldn't arrive just yet. His hopes were dashed.

"We saw mad fat commie bastard and two Vikings on the way here," Prussia yelled down the stairs to England and then he yelled, "Fuckin' hell, man. What a shithole! This is worse than Austria's place - I thought he was a stingy bastard... this is freezing. We should have bombed this in the war. Hey Den - beer me!"

The latter remark presumably meant that Denmark was to provide Prussia with a can of beer. England was appalled but was too busy digesting the first comment.

"Russia?! And Vikings? What do you bloody mean by Vikings?" England spluttered. He really needed a cup of tea now. Images of Jorvik and Viking raids back in the 10th Century entered his head and he shoved past a gibbering Italian and a prone Japanese man (Kiku was lying on the floor) and went back outside.

Prussia's foghorn voice echoed down the 16th Century staircase and hit England in the ear, "They were stood next to the road, their hire car had broken down. They were being totally unawesome man!"

Denmark must have said something to him, because Prussia said, "Well... I don't believe in Santa - saying Fin is unawesome doesn't mean he won't visit me this year... Yeah I have been good, I bloody have!"

England narrowed his eyes and looked down the drive and spotted what could only be described as a disaster on wheels - the 'car' Prussia and Denmark had arrived in had duct tape holding one of the wings to the remainder of the car, the exhaust pipe was trailing on the gravel and there was a nasty smell of burning. It was evident that they'd stolen it from some unfortunate person as it was emblazoned with "Lowestoft Driving School" along one side and a battered huge red 'L' on the roof. England shuddered. "You stole this car! I'm going to call the police!" he yelled.

"We borrowed it, the guy didn't want it, did he, Den?" Prussia yelled from an upstairs window.

England shook his head and, much against his own reasoning and propriety, shouted back up to him, "Whereabouts were Finland, Sweden and Russia?"

"By the road, man!" Prussia shouted back.

"Which road?"

"That little bendy one - we followed Alfie on it for a bit - he didn't see us in his big fuckoff Hummer."

"That was the A1!" England said, utterly appalled.

England turned back to the 'house' to find his cup of tea.

Ten minutes later, England was further appalled. Scotland was comatose on the kitchen table, clutching a bottle of Malt Whisky and singing 'Scotland the Brave'. Arthur had been hoping against hope that the Scotsman could keep order (most of the Nations were wary of Hamish - a) because they didn't understand his thick Glaswegian accent and b) because he could outdrink even Russia and Denmark).

He was wrong. He was to be even more appalled when he heard a rabble outside. He poked his head out of the kitchen window and watched in horror as a tiny, bright green (the same colour Kiku's face had turned when he'd stepped out of America's car, England thought) Fiat pulled up erratically on the driveway.

The small Fiat, surely not designed to carry two Vikings, a large Russian and a dozy Spaniard, promptly seemed to collapse - in fact two of its tyres burst.

England watched, utterly puzzled. Why did they insist on putting the two largest Nations - Sweden and Russia - both strapping 6 footers in the back of such a tiny car? England shook his head, ignoring Scotland's medley of Scottish folk songs behind him.

Spain was now stood watching with a gormless grin on his face as Sweden attempted to squeeze himself out of the tiny car. Finland was pulling him by the arms. England didn't know what happened next, but surmised that Russia (still stuck in the car) had said something sinister, as Sweden suddenly shot out of the car and was stood glowering with an axe in his hand.

"Bloody vikings," England muttered but watched, utterly fascinated anyway.

The way in which Russia eventually extricated himself from the tiny Fiat was interesting to say the least. England winced as the back window was smashed and then one of the front seats was thrown out of the car and Russia practically fought his way out and stood on the driveway brandishing a piece of plumbing.

Sweden glowered at him.

Russia glowered back.

Finland stood between the two 6 foot Arctic Nations and seemed to be trying to placate them.

Spain stood to one side smiling goofily.

Before yet another Russo-Swedish War could be started, everyone looked up at a disturbance in the air - out of England's sightline.

England "humphed" to himself, glared at Scotland in disgust and then stomped out.

The 'disturbance' was a helicopter hovering in the air. The door opened and Arthur saw a pallid looking Frenchman who he knew as the French Government's Assistant Ambassador to the UK peering out. Pierre Lucont was a man on the edge, a man now addicted to Prozac and cognac (the only things that got him through the day), a man who was prematurely aged. He was the man whose job it was to deal with Francis, the great Nation of Le France, when he was in Britain. He hated his job. Yet no-one else would do it. The helicopter was now barely ten feet above the ground and Pierre gave the figure next to him a push.

Francis landed rather elegantly (like a bloody cat, England thought) onto the lawn and rolled like the parachutist he really wasn't. He got to his feet and waved at the departing helicopter and the relieved face of Pierre, "Au revoir mon cher! I know you love me! It was really not my fault that the large turnip in my hand poked that large lady up the derriere at Heathrow!"

England shuddered. "What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" he said.

"That is your greeting to me, Angleterre?" Francis asked, brushing himself down and then proceeding to brush down England.

England shoved him away, "Get off me, frog! I didn't just fall out of a bloody helicopter!"

"I did not fall, mon ami! I descended with graceful dignity!"

"It looked like you were pushed by that worried looking man," Finland butted in.

"Pushed? Of course I was not pushed! Who would push me? I, the great Le France?"

"Dear Lord."

"A lot of people would push you..." Russia said quietly and then smiled creepily.

"Right-o, everyone! Let's all get inside..." England said hurriedly.

"Ah oui... I will get inside... somebody's pants!" France exclaimed with a leer, dodging past Russia.

"Bloody hell! Has anyone got any bromide?" England said.

It was some time later that the first of England's 'bright ideas' went disastrously wrong.

He'd hoped that Scotland could be relied on to hire staff to help out - he hadn't.

He'd hoped that Scotland had bought food in to cater for the attendees - he hadn't.

He'd hoped that Scotland could be relied on to stay relatively sober to help him out - he didn't.

So, England decided, whilst the Nations who'd already arrived were exploring the castle (in their various and unique ways) to pin a notice on the fridge.

"Good afternoon everybody, and welcome to Scotland.. Yes I know Scotland is unconscious at the moment... but welcome anyway... Please feel free to make yourselves at home... but not too much." England felt some trepidation at this and hesitated but then continued. "You will notice that this fridge contains some bare provisions..." (It actually contained whisky, a can of Irn Bru that England did not dare move and some very out of date milk.) "... however, I will be making a trip to the local supermarket so if you require more specific provisions, please detail them on the sheet below. Warm regards, Arthur Kirkland." (England gritted his teeth when he wrote warm regards.)

He then informed Italy - the biggest chatterbox - who was currently gazing in awe at the portraits of various bad-tempered looking Scottish Lairds - to tell the others that an important notice was pinned to the fridge in the kitchen. Italy nodded enthusiastically and hurried off, eager to please.

England turned to go, and stopped - did the eyes of that portrait just move? He stopped and stared at the painting of a particularly bilious-looking 6th Earl of Coldbottom. He remembered this Earl - Gordon Coldbottom - an exceptionally bad-tempered and mean-spirited 17th Century Earl who fought against the English and then against his own Scots people and basically pissed off everybody in the British Isles, although England thought the painter had captured the man's grumpiness - the eyes were wrong and looked too 'nice'.

England shrugged, it had been a long day and went up to his room, hoping he wasn't sharing with America - again. The boy would be a nightmare if he thought the castle was haunted. He shivered, still with the feeling that eyes were following him. "Damned painting... creepy..." he muttered to himself.

However, the island Nation did not realise the complete weirdness that would be unleashed by his innocuous note. Feeling that an hour would be enough time for the 'idiots' to have expressed their wishes, he returned to the kitchen. Scotland was gone. England assumed his brother had either staggered off to some dark corner or was in a pub somewhere but the note was no longer on the fridge. He spun around looking wildly and found it - pinned by a kitchen knife to the opposite wall.

Most of what his fellow Nations had written had been crossed out by the final person to write on the sheet. England winced at the general bad spelling and awful writing. However, it was still more or less decipherable.

At the very top, just under Arthur's cheery note was written "hambuggers, beefbuggers, that cheese they put in buggers, bugger buns..." (Arthur visibly winced at each 'bugger') "hotdogs, hot dog buns, ketchup, mustard, fries, coke and potato chips" and then in capitals "THANKS ARTIE DUDE!" Under this in very small almost undecipherable writing were the words "rice and some noodles if this is not too much trouble, England-san. Sorry." The rest of the list was taken up by various Italian-sounding words of which England only recognised "pastaaa". There were also several French-sounding wines and the word 'tomatoes' was also emblazoned ten times.

The only thing not crossed out were the words at the bottom of the note in red ink and big, child-like writing: "Sunflowers, da? Vodka, da? Stolichnaya not Smirnoff. Also some chocolate. Spasiba Mr England. PS Do not buy Amerika's capitalist rubbish, da?" This was accompanied by a doodle of a big, goofy smiley face.

England shuddered, picked up the list, ignored the knife still embedded in the wall and went out.

The options for transport to the supermarket were not great.

Italy's bright red sportscar which England was convinced he would never get out of. Prussia and Denmark's stolen car - England did not feel brave enough to venture behind the wheel, Spain's hire car was slumped on its burst tyres so that was a no-no, so it was just America's Hummer.

England sighed and with much regret climbed (literally) into the Hummer's drivers seat. He slammed the door and thought "How hard can this be? Really?" He was over a thousand years old, surely he could drive an over-large vehicle through the streets of a small Scottish town?

He got as far as an obscure little lane called, incongruously, Bottom End Lane, which he was sure was something France had somehow arranged and was stuck.

The lane was approximately wide enough for a horse and cart but not for an American 'idiotmobile' as Arthur dubbed it. In fact, a horse and cart was heading up the lane towards him. England waved frantically at them and then gave up as the cart-driver stopped his horse and glared at him. "Like a bloody stand-off..." England muttered and then shouted, "This isn't my car! I'm not American!" he yelled apologetically. There was a horrid crunch as England attempted to put the vehicle in reverse gear and then promptly reversed into a lampost. "Sorry, sorry, sorry..." he yelled. "Bugger..." he said.

His salvation came in an unexpected form.

"England! Are you having difficulties?"

England looked around and then down and found three annoyingly familiar faces looking up at him. (Although to be fair, one wasn't annoying, but the other two definitely were.)

"Does it look like I'm having difficulties?" he asked as he attempted to put the bloody thing back in gear.

"Ja."

"Bugger." England said and opened the drivers door and climbed out - not without some difficulty. "I'm too old for this," he said. "Hello Lily, hello Switzerland, Austria..."

"You think you're old? I'm older than you..." Austria began.

"I can drive this for you if you're stuck," Switzerland told England.

"Of course I'm not stuck," England said but then looked at the horse and cart, the car and bus behind it and the growing audience of pedestrians. "Damn..." he said.

With utter humiliation, England was sat in the back of the despicable black 'monstrosity' while Switzerland drove (quite expertly) to the supermarket and then back to the castle.

Arthur had bought everything on the list as well as teabags, cheese (Switzerland insisted on it being the most expensive as England was paying), the cheapest baked beans on offer and apple pie - the closest thing to apple strudel that could be found in a Scottish supermarket.

Austria and Switzerland had argued the whole way back to the castle. Mainly over money. England had tried to ignore them but had got involved, much to his regret.

"The currency exchange was abysmal, wasn't it Vash?"

"Ja, but I told you to go to the bank I usually go to."

"Your bank tried to rob me last time - I only got 38 pounds and 15 pence! I got 39 pounds this time, still very very poor."

Vash was outraged. "My bank does not rob people!"

"It was outrageous," Austria continued ignoring Vash. "And the exchange rate is even worse today. If I'd waited until tomorrow I would have got more..."

"Like 50 pence more?" England said from the back seat.

Austria humphed and said, "Money is money... it pays to save..." he said.

"There's saving and there's being mean," Switzerland told him as he manoeuvred America's huge vehicle around a tiny roundabout.

"Ha! You can talk... You took some cheese back to the supermarket because it wasn't good enough - it was the cheapest brand!"

Lily - sat next to England - shook her head. She was obviously used to her brother and his neighbour arguing.

"Are they always like this?" England asked her.

She nodded, "Last Christmas was awful. Miss Hungary turned up but didn't stay because of their arguing. Mr Prussia prank-called bruder and told him he and Den were coming round with some 'friends' for a party. Switzerland nearly had a heart attack and Mr Austria just laughed. Miss Hungary admitted she'd thought it up and had given them bruder's new number and then bruder ..."

"How utterly ridiculous!" England exclaimed. "Like a bunch of kids... need to grow up." He omitted to tell them that every year, Christmas time at the Kirkland household descended into arguments and chaos with his brothers - none of whom particularly liked him.

The argument - going backwards and forwards all the way to the castle left all of them in quite a bad mood.

But what happened later was totally unexpected..

"I am going to make sure you are well away from these... these... maniacs!" Switzerland told Lily, and pushed her up the stairs, "Mr England where is your west wing? Which wing of this castle is the most secure?" He called back to England.

Arthur sighed, wing was certainly pushing it. "I don't think..." he began. But Switzerland was already going along each of the doors and checking to see which had locks. Lily stood with him, looking very annoyed.

"I really don't understand why you are so worried..." Arthur began but there was a commotion downstairs.

Arthur sighed and went downstairs to find a cacophony of noise.

"Mozart is king!" the author does not need to tell the reader who the speaker was in this instance.

"Mozart is a complete downer, man, can't you play anything else? What about Gershwin?" America said.

"Ja or Beethoven?" Prussia chimed in.

"Tchaikovsky was the best composer ever and Mr Pipe says so as well..."

"I will play only Mozart and perhaps some Strauss... all of you be quiet."

"Bloody specs is a boring fart."

"I do not like you, Gilbert and Mr Pipe does not like you either."

"Sibelius is rather good, isn't he Ber?"

"Hmmm..."

"What does he know? All he listens to is Abba."

"Woowoo livin' on a prayer!"

"That's not Beethoven."

"Bon Jovi rocks man!"

"Is he 19th century?"

"Yer gotta be kiddin' me."

"You're an idiot."

"I don't like you either and neither does Mr Pipe."

"Weird dude man, what's that purply stuff coming out from your head?"

"Wut?"

"I think you're all mad," England said as he stepped into the 'library'. A misnomer if ever there was one. There wasn't a book in the place. There was a large grand piano though - badly tuned - that Austria was sat at. The other Nations were in various locations around the room.

"I'm going to ring my Embassy," said America, "And get some decent DVDs sent here."

"There's no DVD player..." England muttered.

"I'm going to ring mine and tell them... that I'm awesome!" Prussia said.

"Except you're not... and you don't have an embassy..." England said.

"I'm going to ring China!" Russia said.

Most of them (England would try - much later - to remember who went where) walked out to argue over the one phone in the hallway. America yelled down his iphone but then realised there was no cellphone signal.

"I will use the phone first because I am biggest!" Russia was saying.

England shook his head sadly. It was going to be a long weekend.

France patted the sofa beside him, "Monsieur Angleterre, come sit with me and have a glass of wine."

"I don't bloody think so..."

But before he could rant at the Frenchman there was an ear-splitting scream from upstairs.

Everyone (England, later, could not remember who) ran up the stairs - Arthur at the back - like a stampede.

"I saw a ghost!" Lily stuttered and then promptly fainted.