Rating: T

Disclaimer: I do not hold or claim to hold any sort of ownership or rights over the characters in this story: they belong to Hetalia/Hidekaz Himaruya

CHAPTER SEVEN:

I skip breakfast today. I know it's not healthy, but I really don't want to see England right now. (To be fair, I doubt he wants to see me either.) And I have work to do.

I move quickly through the tents, the ones made out of white nylon and with rows of people lying on cots. They're sick-disease spreads fast in cramped places like this-or injured-we are soldiers, after all-or cursed-magic goes awry too often to be comfortable.

"Mia, mon cher! Is Jones still here or do we need somebody to get that curse off him?" I call, steps brisk as I walk through room. People are busy here. Mia, the Practitioner and one of the highest-ranking humans in the two units stationed here, is my direct subordinate. She was trusted with taking care of America, the Major General.

"He's still here, but I'm bad with magic, so if you could do it, sir, that would be a big help," she shouts back. Her brunette head bobs into view and she points with one brown wing to a space near the end of the tent. "He's right over there."

"Bon, merci," I say, immediately changing course, and Mia goes back to her patient.

America was hexed the other day with some sort of sleeping curse-and a powerful one, too. I'm not sure whether I can really deal with this one, but I'll try, and if I can't, I'll fetch… I'll fetch Japan. Japan is a Sorcerer, so he's only a rank below Archmage. He'll be able to undo it, I'm sure, even if he doesn't have the experience England and I do with medical magic.

I plop down beside America-technically my superior. As the Major General, he's in charge of the entire army, though that doesn't mean he's the most powerful-he's just best at looking good on television. (And shush, I can look good on TV too, I just… Didn't want the pressure.) That would be his brother, mon petit Canada, the Treasurer. After all, without the money there would be no one in this army. Canada rules everything from behind the scenes. Makes me proud.

America has a strong aura of magic around him-I can sense it even without touching him. It must be the curse. I take a breath and prepare myself-medical magic is very different from combative magic-then press a hand to his forehead.

Everything goes black.

America is in front of me, suspended midair, wings limp and eyes closed. His skin is tanned and his hair dark blonde, an almost amber color. His wings match, but he has the same golden wingtips the rest of his family has, and that's pretty much the only normal thing about them. The size and shape of his wing is all wrong-much unlike the other Western nations, his wings aren't rounded. They're longer than usual, too. His mother, I assume, gave him those wings.

I know what I have to do.