A third chapter in one day? Wow, that must be a record! Let this make up for any past and/or future waits. And this one actually has some substance to it...
A lanky and very high college student gave them Felicia's apartment number, after making the mistake of flirting with Hungary and nearly getting his brains knocked out. The four searchers stood before an unexceptional oak door with a brass knob. A hurriedly written sign taped over the knocker said: "Sick child. Please be quiet."
Brows wrinkled. Romano sent a suspicious glare Germany's way, but it was no longer serious. Hungary was now very worried. "A sick child," she murmured. The Hungarian woman glanced at Romano. "You haven't seen anything?"
Romano shook his head grimly. "Nothing. Nothing at all."
Germany considered sharing, but decided against it. He would, later. When his friend was safe. For now, they needed to focus on her. After all, whatever was happening to him couldn't be dangerous. Right?
Felicia left the small bedroom, heading towards the kitchen. Holy Rome opened his eyes a crack. A film rested over them, of fog and fire and hazy visions. He opened them much wider, and blinked hard. The visions receded to his peripheral vision, as did the screams that had been ringing in his ears ever since - No. Don't think about it.
Holy Rome managed to pull himself upright. He felt dizzy and sick. It was hard for him to stand the light; it hurt his eyes and burned his sensitive, feverish skin horribly. He couldn't get Italia to turn it off, but he also couldn't tell if his words were effectively traveling the distance from his lungs to his mouth, so that wasn't her fault. He felt cold, so cold, and clammy, and dead. Only his blood was warm, and it was on fire. But he couldn't stay. He couldn't let his love keep him here, not when his presence put her in so much danger.
His room was tiny but lavishly furnished, shelves filled with rag dolls and an overstuffed bergeré crammed into the corner in an effort to make it more homelike. Italia's hard work meant a lot to him, more than he could express in his current state. But she shouldn't be doing this. Italia of all women shouldn't be harboring a fugitive from hunters so gruesome and a hunt so tireless. He could die again, if only he knew she was safe. He could endure all of Hell's tortures, if only he knew for sure that his forever love was secure in the warm and beautiful land of the living.
Holy Rome managed to stumble out of the room, feeling his way through the grey clammy mist that blanketed his field of vision. The whole world smelled like a graveyard. He felt his way along walls that, he could barely see, were wallpapered with faded burgundy patterns and wide swaths of peeling plaster baring themselves to the eye, but to him felt like the painfully cold and sometimes slimy walls of a pitch-black cavern.
The hallway opened up into the living room, which the fugitive knew contained the door. He left the safety of the wall and staggered blindly out into darkness. His vision was rapidly failing, his ears filled once more with the sound of tortured screams, the air stank of death, and the thick metallic taste of blood overwhelmed his palate. With distress, he knew that he wasn't going to make it to the door this time.
Until the echoing crack of the door being kicked in nearly bowled him over.