The Blessed

A/N: Boy aren't I being productive lately? This story compared to the others is going to be a bit experimental in plot, there are some basic things I need you to know first: When I say this is AU I mean it's not of our world nor the Hetalia world, so any historical elements are not as they're documented in history books because it's a completely different universe to ours. Also, i'm not entirely certain that this will end up as a pairing fic, more of a friendship unless the muses take a different view on everything. I ... think that's all you need to know at the moment. If you have any questions drop me a message. Until then, enjoy!

Chapter 1 - The Burning

"Stop him! The demon child!"

He ran, ran as far and as fast as his feet could carry him. The Florentine nights where dangerous, especially in this day and age, he was an idiot for staying out this long. Ever since the grand inquisitor had come, things had begun to rapidly change in the city. The head merchant and banking families had been thrown from their political thrones made of gold. The artisans and musicians had fled for more accepting lands. The people of the city on the other hand, they were the ones who truly paid the price. If you couldn't beat them, you were killed for attempting to. Everyone was forced to live equally, which would have been great if they were all living on riches, but instead everything of material worth was taken and burnt. 'To live in greed is sin indeed' or so they said. But Florence was used to this, used to the oppression of others. What it wasn't used to was the insanity of others.

With this new fashion of treating sin, there was an increase of insanity. Whoever so much as raises their voice when they were not meant to talk was deemed a witch, a sinner, or a demon. If you had an unusual hair colour, if you did not particularly look like your parents, if you were born out of wedlock or unmarried or lived alone… You were a sinner. And anyone who was a sinner was hunted down to be made an example of until they either begged for forgiveness, or carried the punishment equal to their 'crimes'

This boy wasn't sure why he was running now. He'd been out late to throw sticks in the river, trying to determine where he would stay for the night. But they could be after him for many reasons now. It could be that strange gold glint in his eyes; despite the fact he could state they were just plain hazel. It could be the fact he lived alone and on the street, therefore obviously he must have committed some atrocious crime, otherwise he'd have sought out the help of an orphanage or the church a long time ago. It could be they found out about his family, discovered he was born as part of a set, a duo, unnaturally born together and not separate and because they were no longer here he must have been a demon that lead them all to an early grave. It could even be the fact he had blood in his veins instead of 'divine holiness' for fucks sake. Everyone was insane in this city, he didn't need a reason to be a sinner, and they just had to find someone to point the finger at, the easier the target, the better. It wasn't like there was anyone left to stand up for him.

"Keep running! He can't get much further!"

"Yeahhh! Can't run forever! Either we corner him or chase the demon out!"

He stumbled, old leather shoes tearing on a sharp cobblestone as he tried to sharply turn around the houses; soon he'd be out of the small ally streets and out into the wider market streets, in to open space where he could be seen easily. If he wasn't careful this could all end up turning very sour.

He charged into the open street, eyes squeezed shut as he broke into cold night air. His objective? To get through to the ally across the wide street and back into the cover of buildings. But now that he was out in the wide street his feet gave way beneath him, tripped by a rope set up to catch anyone who was running, because everyone was running these days. There was noise all around him now, and the blue tinted cobblestones under moonlight began to burn orange with the light of over 2 dozen torches gradually surrounding him.

"Get the heathen!"

"Pin him down!"

"Tie him up!"

"Grab the little wriggler!"

Hands grabbed at his arms just as he desperately tried to get back to his feet, get away, get to safety. They snatched at the fabric of his clothing, pulling and tugging him left and right, up and down until he fell back to the cobbled stones with a smack, hood of his cloak torn from his head.

"It's the witch's bastard child!"

His eyes were unveiled, their fierce golden, unearthly glint raw for everyone to see. They bore down on him, growling, snarling and gnashing as they scrutinised their prey; the homeless demon child, the bastard twin who'd survived, the bastard twin who'd driven his whole family to ruin, the boy who had plain old human blood in his veins, just like every fucker in this insane town.

He was dragged to his feet, ears ringing with the screams of the crowd. His arms were dragged out in front of him, bound in rough rope that rubbed his skin where they'd pulled his tattered sleeves away. The binds were tied to a longer stretch of rope that was held by a larger man ahead. He tugged and dragged the boy as they played a game in humiliating him for a while. He was handed from person to person; from full grown men with tough and bruising grips, to elderly women with frail, yet sharp fingers and nails that dragged over the soft flesh of his cheeks and neck, occasionally scratching him. The children grabbed his hair, ripping it where they could, and the others… they just hit him, kicked him, tripped him, until the merry-go-round of violence was ended and the boy pulled back to the centre of the circle, falling ungracefully and crying.

There was a silence for a moment as the verdict was raised.

"Burn him! Burn him just like his whore demon mother who spawned this devil!"

The voice boomed over the rest like a death sentence to the child. He should have given up then and there, let the insane sheep of the lord have their way with him, to taunt and tease him, allow them to get it out of their system instead of screaming, instead of fighting and pulling back on the rope like a child. It was weird, he knew he should be doing all that, but instead he was watching it play out in front of him, watching from above like he was no longer in control of his own body. He was just watching a screaming child been pulled to his doom, dragged through the streets of Florence and out onto the hilltops near the city walls, where the sight that stood in front of him pulled him like an elastic band back into his mind, tears burning on his cheeks were he looked upon the tower.

It stood, with a ladder that would carry him up onto the wooden post, a cross at the top. Simple and plain, no expense spared for a heathen, the only thing he knew was spared for him was the fact that from where he would be stood on the post, he'd be able to see the cross on the cathedral visible over the buildings of Florence plain in sight. It had been set up exactly so the last thing he'd see beyond the flames was that.

They dragged him, threw him against the ladder leading up to his last place of standing on the post, he stared up at it with eyes of horror and fear, too scared to move yet too afraid to try and run. Impatient, the man who had been given the honour of dragging the boy here threw the rope over one of the arms of the cross, using it as a point of leverage to pull the boy up where he refused to go. He dragged him up the ladder whilst the boy scrambled, crying out in pain as his arms strained, and his feet struggled to find footing on the ladder to ease the situation. It didn't matter to the people, the boy's 'guard' soon had him up on the post, looping the rope around the top of the cross so his arms remained above his head and he was incapable of escaping.

Their victim cried, begging them to release him despite his pride, calling them wicked, condemning them for his mothers and soon to be his own death, but the insults fell on deaf ears as hooded members of the cult they'd essentially formed came forth with the dry wood, building it up in piles of bundled twigs at the bottom of the post. It didn't take them long; the Italian boy could feel his time withering, his eyes darting from torch to torch as he tried to find the one that would be his undoing. In the end, he didn't see it; the smell of smoke reaching his nose first as warmth began to lick up behind him, and they hadn't let him see when the fire was lit.

The smoke was suffocating, far more so than a 14 year old boy would have ever been able to imagine. It was like one of the fuckers in the crowd had taken a linen gag and stuffed it into his windpipe. It tasted foul, and soon he felt like the entire of his mouth and nasal passages were filled with a thick layer of the stuff, he could no longer swallow or clear his throat, let alone breathe. He simply coughed, and coughed, and coughed, occasionally screaming out where he could.

His eyes stung, drying far too quickly with a combination of the heat and smoke. His feet burnt, dancing on the wood that was rocketing in temperature, the flames engulfing the wood around him. He squirmed, trying as best he could through the screams to get away from the heat, the heat that was everywhere no matter where he tried to go on that damn post. The sound of the jeering crowd had dulled under the roar of the flames; it was getting harder and harder to see.

The flames were in his sight now, taking over his vision as they licked up his sides. He couldn't see the cross of the cathedral beyond it, he needed to, despite the insanity of the people around them, he needed to know he was in safe hands. But he couldn't see.

In his last moments, his last coughing and screaming moments, the flames turned cold, dancing in front of his vision and taking form. In that second he saw a person before him. It reached out and took him by the very heart, before wrapping its arms around him and engulfing him completely…

Florence was deathly silent by daybreak.

It was cold, and damp, yet no rain had fallen on the city that night.

Lovino Vargas woke up in a pile of ash and burnt debris, and in the sheer silence and chill of the world, he swore he was in purgatory. He blinked for a long while, staring up at the grey sky until he could will his body to move, sitting and staring at the clearing he was surrounded by, the smell of burning in the air. A cool chill ran over him, singeing the burns along his sides like he'd just been dunked in icy water, with a wince he tugged the burnt rags of his clothes that remained closer around him.

"Are you cold?"

The Italian would have jumped a mile high in the air were he able to move beyond the pain of his burns. He turned his head, peeking past matted hair in search of the owner of the voice. If he was in purgatory he should be alone, why was he seemingly with someone?

"Sorry… I'm over here."

Lovino turned his head again, increasingly scared for his safety, dead or not. What met his eyes made his mouth drop open.

There was a blue light, floating about a meter and a half away from him, bobbing in the air. If Lovino were to ever try and imagine what a soul would look like, that's what was in front of him right now. The eerie aqua-marine light ebbed, appearing to thump in time with the boy's heart.

"Sorry… I might end up … flicking about… my form isn't very stable right now."

The voice was definitely coming from the thing. Lovino swallowed, shifting as he still tried so very hard to find words. That blue… orby thing was definitely telling the truth too, it was vibrating slightly and every now and again it would appear in another place before coming back.

"Wh-What… are you…?"

Was he dreaming? Was this all just a part of his last moments? He felt his hand lift, drawn by curiosity up to the light which seemed to still and shake less the closer he got to it. The Italian stared as his skin prickled, the burns on his arms fizzing away, flakes of skin rising in to the air and dissolving into the atmosphere, new paler skin left where the burns had once been. He withdrew sharply, grasping his wrist and staring in disbelief at the orb.

"How did you do that?"

The orb floated closer to Lovino, who in turn leant further and further away until he was at risk of falling back against the ashes again. The orb moved close to the boy's face, fearing for himself he shut his eyes, waiting for pain or something to happen. Maybe this was it; maybe he was going to be moving on, taken to whatever afterlife was in store for him. He was going to meet his Mother and Brother finally again. He was ready, ready to go and leave this insane life behind him. They'd reach their own judgement in the end.

But nothing happened.

However, he wasn't alone, he could feel the soft touch of a hand on his cheek, it was warm, the first comforting warmth he'd felt in a long time, for a moment he leaned in to that touch. Eventually Lovino peeled his eyes open, wondering if it had just happened without him knowing.

Before him was a boy, around the same age as him with sharp green eyes that stood out against the rest of his 'ethereal' look. He was dressed in white clothes, very similar to his own, save from the colour, even burnt in the same way. His short, curly brunette hair blew softly in a wind that was not present in the Italian's world. His soft lips parted and words were uttered, but Lovino did not hear them, instead a voice that was not his echoed in his head.

"I am what you sought; I am the light in your darkness, the hope to end the cruelty of others. We have reached a partition of sorts and now there needs to be unity. I who have brought the Justice you cried for shall receive my recompense, though my presence shall not ail you, for I cannot vex you."

The lips smiled and without parting the voice began again.

"I am Antonio, your spirit of justice."

To be continued...