Fire crackled in the hearth, the air heating and causing the wood to snap, embers raining down from the fuel. The gentle creak of the rocking chair soothed him comfortably, the warmth of the orange glow washing over him. The dark mansion was made of wood, despite the era of metal and machines. The book in his lap captured the light of the small inferno, seeming to store it in glimmering jewels that encrusted the face. "Dear earthly children of heaven's design, you've fallen from the grace of the divine. Your lord hath forsaken you to eternity, watch as you descend into the night of insanity." The steady rocking never slowed casting a long, wavering shadow across the room. Eyes seemed to peer out from the dark beings that danced in the wavering light of the flames, his own seeming to grin brightly.

A plush rug at his feet, spread over the dark wood floor, was the only bright article in the house. The furniture stained ebony and finished with crimson cushions, the colour of blood. The carpeting spread out over the sitting place a brilliant yellow, the colour of the sunflowers he remembered many years ago. A pale, thin hand grazed over the book once more, "Bastard children from the bowels of the earth, from blood, and tears, and hope you were birthed. Your beauty has withered with hatred and time, counting down to the church bell's final chime. You are the body of evil in this place, with your rotten, smiling face." The fire jumped at the last line, crackling madly with what could be called malice.

The rhythmic swaying of the chair came to a complete halt, the sitter appearing asleep even as a door in some other room was hurled open. "Braginsky!" his visitor shouted, echoing through the great house, "Where are you!?"

"In the parlour Master Beilschmidt," he called back, ignoring the obvious rage in the newcomer's voice. The partially open glass doors were hurled wide as the man stormed in, heavy boots loudly clomping across the wood panels. He didn't even bother opening his eyes even as hands viciously grappled at the article of cloth about his neck.

"What are you playing at Braginsky?"

A plastic smile graced the Russian's features as he made no response to the potentially violent action, placidly running his fingertips over the stiff leather, "Whatever do you mean? Isn't it a bit rude to barge into someone's home and then go so far as to accuse them of some crime?"

"Don't start with me; you swore the spell I purchased from you would keep Kirkland out of the capital!" the angry voice hissed, heated, moist breath pelting his face.

Magenta eyes closed into half-moons, "Aha~, so I did. I'll simply assume Arthur did appear and you desperately want an explanation as to how that happened." Taking the brief silence as an affirmative, he continued, "I have the guess he made a counter-spell that needed to be activated from the inside. Tell me, did one of his allies somehow make it inside the city?"

There was a beat before the German roughly released the carmine scarf with an affirmative grunt. Settling back into the rocking chair, Ivan opened his eyes half-mast, watching the man cast in heavy shadows from under thick eyelashes. The fire seemed to become captured in those luminous irises, dancing with some hidden evil. "Master Jones was it?" he spoke as if this was all of little interest with the same emotionless smile, "Don't worry, there is no chance for him to enter again as long as there is not a repeat of such an incident. By the way, doesn't your brother wonder why Arthur never faces him directly?"

". . . No."

"Lied about that too I see," Ivan giggled, eyes sliding shut returning to rocking gently in his chair, the old creak of the wood muffled by the out-of-place rug.

He glared, arms crossed; his black uniform melded into the shadow, making him almost disappear in the dark before turning away, heading back out the doors. "I'm simply . . . repaying what I can."

"Ah yes, what sacrifices, but they don't seem quite selfless."

"What is your point in saying that?" he grumbled, turning once more, nothing more than an indistinct silhouette.

Chuckling softly to himself, pinkish irises fluttered open, Ivan's fake grin became a threatening smirk, though he made no move to get up from the seat, or even turn his head, watching the German from the corner of his eye, "A sacrifice may not always be selfless, yet selflessness is always a sacrifice. A father may send his son to war and give him up to the government, then the young soldier dies for some ruler who's face he has never born witness to."

"Your analogy makes no sense."

"Or perhaps you are simply blind to the meaning."

There was a pregnant pause between the two, the only sound being the smothered creak of the seat and the crackling of the fire. A log lifted in the air, hurling itself into the dying flames with a shower of sparks and cinders. The guest pulled a peak cap over his head, "Any more ominous words of wisdom to pass on?"

"Try looking in a mirror."

"You damned git, don't go dying on me!"

". . . hurts . . ."

"Serves you right for not listening, now shut up and drink this."

". . . why?"

"Because you shouldn't be here much longer and if you still plan on being useful to me, you'll do as I say."

It tasted salty and bitter at first before dulling into a sweet flavour, some sort of fruit. Forcefully swallowing the concoction, he felt a tiredness enveloping his body, numbing the agony as well as darkening his sight. His weak heart jumped in a panicked struggle to stay beating as he fought the effects, trying to spit out the rest of the drink. Finally it ended, his body feeling like lead, his eyes wanting to roll into his skull.

"Are you . . . trying to kill me . . ?"

"No. And when have I ever lied to you?"

A sort of peace came over him as all went black.

Shooting upright, clothes sticking to him in a cold sweat, America trembled, staring into the darkness. What the hell kind of dream was that!? A crazy England, evil German Empire. WWI in the year 2013, and . . . whatever the fuck that was! It seriously felt like he was dying in that moment, like he was being disconnected from his body by some invisible force. Oh thank god it was all over, he seriously regretted his recreation of the sixties.

He must have been tired, his sweat-drenched dress shirt sticking to his body; at least sometime during all this he found the decency to remove his jacket and shoes. The pitch darkness of the room indicated that he probably missed his flight, winding up at some hotel and slept off the flashback. Reaching to the side, he felt for a table and, in effect, his glasses. Maybe a light also. Unsurprisingly, he found both, grabbing the specs and finding the switch to the lamp, he noted how stiff he felt. Every movement was clumsy and slow, even getting drunk wasn't this bad; even more, he felt thoroughly disoriented. Where was he? He wanted to guess some place in England, but at the same time there was the familiarity that came with being back home.

"What the heck?" he finally managed to twist the switch, the bulb blinding him for a moment as the pitch darkness was instantly replaced by the light. Looking away, an arm shielding his face, America groaned lowly, this definitely wasn't home. Turning his back to the bedside table and scooting over to the far other side of the mattress, he rubbed the inner corners of his eyes, scratching the grit out before sighing, slipping the arms of Texas over his ears. Maybe he should call in sick or something, he felt seriously out of it; any debriefing could wait until he sorted everything out.

Reluctantly opening his eyes, the cramped quarters looked nothing like any hotel he had been to in the recent century. The polished cherry wood floor and cream walls with matching wood trimming were so . . . old fashioned. Rather, very reminiscent to some far away memory he would like to keep suppressed. "Where . . . ?"

"Well, well, welcome back to the living."

America turned in surprise, just in time to see something coming at his head.

He glanced at the tea set before him, unsure whether or not it was really worth the taste, even to satisfy his undying curiosity. It smelt delicious, but he already knew of the other's deadly hobby and the possibility that he would find himself severely ill somewhere was ever present. Ignoring the cup, he glanced back up to his host. "What's the matter Francis? Are you not thirsty?"

Sapphire eyes narrowed slightly at the charming smile cast his way, "No, not particularly. I just needed to confirm some things with you before I continue on my trip."

"Oh?" Arthur chimed, freezing the cup halfway to his lip, deciding to place it back into its saucer, "What trip might that be?"

The urge to snap that his affairs were none of the man's business was most certainly there, but the Frenchman held back, keeping eye contact as he took a long drag on the cigarette, embers glowing as he inhaled. The ash in his lungs and nicotine through his veins calmed him significantly as he sighed, rancid smoke leaving his lips, "Just price negotiations with Yao. Nothing too serious, so don't get the wrong idea."

"Whatever do you mean Francis?" the Englishman hummed, folding an arm over his chest and balancing his elbow on his wrist, tilting his head to rest against his knuckles as he leaned back in the chair, smile never faltering, "your business is always your own, that was simply out of curiosity."

'Bullshit,' he thought bitterly, the butt expertly balanced between his lips, the urge to break the facade was strong, but he knew Arthur was taunting him. "Of course, enough about me however. I caught wind down the grapevine that you managed to get into Berlin, I thought you said there was something keeping you from doing so."

"Ah, that finally trickled down, huh? I would have thought that man would have wanted to keep it quiet. He's getting rather cocky, hopefully I can knock him down a few pegs."

"And how do you plan to do that?" the Frenchman enquired, tapping the ash into the teacup, the liquid changing from neon green to a sickly pale colour, "I also heard your boy didn't make it."

Shoulders shook slightly as the Brit laughed, drawing his gaze, "So that's why yours wanted to come so bad. Well, I'll have you know-."

A loud crash upstairs drew Francis' eyes away from his host entirely, the blonde looking up as the sounds of a fight broke out. Confusion and anxious caution tickled his spine as a cold feeling entered his stomach, what the hell was going on up there? Arthur's laughing only increased as he covered his mouth, the other arm wrapped about his abdomen in pain. "What is that!?" the mainland country demanded, rising to his feet and reaching for the gun in his jacket.

"Calm down Francis," he giggled, "it's only the boys playing rough again."