A/N: OH JEEZ! I realized AFTER this month rolled in and was well settled that I was so horrible with my cliff-hanger and tied because I had to write my other story I promised for this moth. To correct the situation, I asked the minimum of chapters and I settled for six, well the six are up and I can write this! Oh please forgive me. XD

Alfred looked up as he heard the door close. Arthur had been out a while that day; Alfred wondered what was going on. He shrugged, waiting for Peter to come bursting through his door and pester him about why he was packing and the works, being the child that he was. When the blonde child failed to appear of cue, the American was getting worried. He opened his door to see the rooms were dark and it sounded like someone was crying. Fear gripped his stomach, was it Arthur? The lights flicked on with the snap of the switch to show the Englishman hugging a piece of cloth to his chest and crying freely, at closer inspection, it was Peter's hat. Alfred approached slowly, not wanting to believe it was real.

"Arthur?" he whispered, "Where's Peter?"

"I don't know," he whimpered, burying his face in the hat and curling up against Alfred who quickly wrapped an arm around him. "He was there, I turned around a moment and then he was gone. I-I don't know what happened. Oh god Alfred, where could he be? He was right behind me, I swear. H-how could he be gone?" He wailed a sob as he tried to comprehend what had happened. Where was his little brother?

Alfred didn't know what to say. Could it be Whyntir, he didn't know. He felt his own panic rising, wherever Peter was, he could be anywhere from across the border to another state! What could he do?

"Perhaps I can help?" a voice on the wind inquired. The American felt his blood run cold. He knew this voice. He turned to where he had heard it from and saw the window. It was slightly open, despite the cold air rushing through, but he didn't notice it until now. His eyes widened as he saw, in the frost on the window, a circle with two dots and a smiling face. It was something a child would do. It smiled at him happily, despite how scared he was over everything. Then a little, smiling face popped into the window. Alfred found himself standing against his will and opening the widow.

Through a gust of wind and snow, a boy appeared in their living room smiling innocently, but a gleam in his eyes spoke volumes of a different sort. He looked quite malicious actually. Arthur stared at the boy before getting on his knees before the specter. "Peter, do you know what happened to him? Please, please tell me he's safe!" he pleaded to the ghost.

"Alive," he affirmed, "Alive . . . for now. He's no longer here, and he'll be with me soon enough."

"Don't say that," Alfred glared to the boy. Ivan appeared to be six now, but as wise as any hundred-year-old man. Well, a man from hell. The child's eyes held that demonic gleam of someone who wants to hurt you and torment you in any unorthodox way he could imagine. Alfred needed his help, but didn't trust him any more than he could, well, touch him.

The child looked reproached, "I'm sorry, I was simply telling you where he was."

"So Whyntir did take him?" the Englishman asked, looking almost dead with how pale his face and hands had become.

"I am afraid so."

Alfred paced, wringing his hands nervously. "What did you mean with you? Do you think they'll kill him that fast?"

"No," he shook his head before closing his eyes, "He's asleep, drugged to keep him from fighting. It's cold, he's already across the border."

Alfred left the room. He knew where to go.

The car pulled up to the two story house that Matthew owned, as it was, the older brother was in his front yard, scattering salt on the newly scraped pavement as to soak up the water to keep it from freezing any more. Alfred stepped out of the driver's side door, and raised his hand in greeting. The two hadn't seen each other since their mother had died when they were twelve. Their father was Canadian and Mattie went to live with him, but Alfred never really liked the man since the divorce when they were really young. As such, he opted to live with his mother's sister and Arthur.

Matthew walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, "I'm sorry about Peter. We'll find him. I have no doubts."

"I wish we had a bit more help though," Alfred muttered. He caught the sight of Ivan in front of the house, now eighteen. Couldn't the ghost stay one age, and it had a gross incapability of talking in anything less than riddles. All he could say straight out was that Peter was still alive, it was plain really.

Matthew nodded, "How about we take a look at those files I got and then head out?"

"Sounds good." When Alfred turned back to look at the ghost, he was gone.

How did he get here? He was scared! Could he go home now? The people here looked so mean; one even backhanded him across the face. The bruise on his right cheek lingered and the pain felt fresh, even if it had been three days since then. Three days since he had been with Arthur buying éclairs. He couldn't remember anything really.

"Arthur?" he called timidly as his elder brother headed towards the bakery, "Can I look in the toy store?"

The green eyes watched him carefully, "Alright, don't get lost. And don't take anything without paying like you did last time."

"It was an acc-!"

"I know. You were three. Go on ahead, but be out here in five."

Peter nodded and went into the toy store. There were so many cool toys! Toy guns and soldiers, play aeroplanes and tanks, but those would be for another day. He wanted to get Arthur something since he would be going away to a boarding school come May. He highly doubted he would see his big brother again, so maybe something to be remembered by wasn't a bad idea. He inched out of the toy store and ran across the street to a jewelry shop. He looked around before settling on a procaine plate with a unicorn carved into the back with small fairies flying by. It was hand painted and looked great. He peeked at the price tag: thirty-two dollars. He grinned; he had saved up forty from his allowance at home and rummaging through the couch cushions. He turned to be met with the window and a boy watching his from the outside. He looked tiny, smaller than him, and tired, perhaps nervous.

What made his blood go cold was the fact that the child wasn't looking at the displays, but at him, the violet eyes warning him of something he couldn't understand. He had seen the boy before; through his window one night, before he started seeing the images. The boy had been calling his name, but when he went to go see what he wanted, he disappeared and a white owl flew away. Then the images and messages started coming. He told Arthur about the pictures that tormented him, but the older said it was nothing, so he left the words alone. Every night though, they told him, they told him and he didn't listen.

'Don't go out alone.'

'You are in danger.'

'Don't open your windows.'

'Lock all entrances at night.'

'Don't go to any strangers.'

'He is watching you.'

The boy watched him now, saddened. He lifted his hand and, using his finger, wrote on the slush-covered window.

'I told you to never be alone.'

He hesitantly stepped closer to the window and whispered to the other boy, "Why? I don't understand. Who is watching me?"

'Whyntir.'

He wanted to ask more, but the boy suddenly grabbed at his own face. First, it looked as though he was rubbing his eyes, then blood started to seep between his fingers, his nails digging into his soft flesh and ripping it open with his bare hands. Peter backed away in fright as the child began screaming in agony and frustration. The English boy wanted the other to stop wailing. He covered his ears from the terrible noise and looked around to see if anybody was coming to help, but no one heard the screams. He looked back to the boy on the other side of the window, now watching him with gaping holes instead of eyes, blood trailing down his face like tears and staining his scarf as he smiled sadly to Peter. What frightened the blonde even more was the fact that the ashen haired boy was now inside the store; when had he come inside? He hadn't heard the bell ring for someone to enter.

"Why didn't you listen to me?" the eyeless asked in a voice that seemed as cold as ice.

"What-what?"

The boy sighed, the blood running faster, "I thought I could save one of you; at least one. Why do none of you listen?"

Peter blinked, not knowing what to say to this eyeless, demonic child. He began to back away only to have the smaller boy grip his jacket roughly, "Why! Why do none of you listen! You're all naïve and now you'll die, just like the others! All of you, none listened to me, why?" the child screamed, the blood staining Peter's clothing as they flowed down his face in streams. Peter dropped the gift he was holding in his hands and it shattered upon the ground.

"Get away from me!" the blonde boy screamed, shoving the other away before running out the door. He never saw the man waiting outside the door for him to exit with a cloth in hand. He couldn't comprehend the darkness that blocked out the dying light of the sun, nor understand why he was no longer off his feet. Still, being in his panicked state, Peter fought against whoever held him. He kicked and attempted to scream only to have a hand placed over his mouth. He bit down as hard as he could and the man loosened his grip, pulling his hand away. Peter managed to squirm away for a moment ad could see the ashen haired boy, the only witness with his gaping eye sockets. Then everything went black.

The only thing left was a hat in the snow.

"Are you alright?" a child-like voice asked from the shadows. Peter jumped and turned to the origin of the voice. A boy, around his age, sat in the shadows. The blonde's breath caught in his throat. He had the same violet eyes and ashen hair as the other boy he saw before him, but he was taller and dirty, and still with his eyes. His scarf had seen much better days and the clothes he wore had holes and worn thin. He seemed more approachable than the younger boy who had physically assaulted him at the jewelry store so he moved closer and nodded.

"Yes, I'm alright," Peter muttered, sitting beside the taller boy, "What's your name?"

"Ivan Braginsky. Who are you?"

He smiled, despite himself, "Peter Kirkland. What are we doing here?"

"I'm not sure exactly," Ivan shrugged, "They usually hold you until you let your guard down, then they start hurting you."

"Hurting! How?"

"Depends. They'll beat you, or perhaps rape you hard and dry. It is a painful place here where they scare and beat you into submission," the older explained with a sigh, but he looked defiantly out the window, "Though, there is a way out."

Peter's eyes lit up, "How?"

"Many of the guards are just as scared as we are, and some of them are willing to help us break out. It's been done quite recently too, though I'd wait a while before trying. Guards will be tight for a while," Ivan annotated, "Tino Väinämöinen and one of the guards, Berwald Oxenstierna, ran away together. Tino was eight when he was brought here nine years ago. I was surprised he lived this long, probably because Berwald liked him and everyone is scared of Berwald. Or was, 'was' is more appropriate since he is gone."

Peter nodded as he listened to the other ramble on before interjecting, "I'm eight!"

"I'm ten. Been here four years."

"I won't be here for that long," Peter said defiantly, more to himself than to Ivan, "Alfred and my big brother Arthur will come find me. They're detectives. They'll come and get me."

Ivan smiled softly, "I'm sure they will."

"And they'll save everybody, and you too Ivan. You'll be free too."

"I hope so."

They sat together for a while in silence before Peter lay his head on Ivan's shoulder, burying his face in his scarf and closing his eyes. He was fast asleep in no time from the stress on his juvenile mind. Ivan stared out the window a while after, a song on his lips.

A/N: LOVE ME! IT IS DONE!