A/N Notes: Thank you for all of your encouraging reviews so far. This story will be over in another one to two chapters, so I hope you like the ending^^

Prussia: And then America ate Italy. The End. Kesesese

Germany: *growling* Bruder...

Prussia: *running*

Chapter 14

The smile died on America's face once he saw how unresponsive Italy seemed to be. Careful not to hurt him, America began to pull the air mask and helmet off of his slender face. As he did so, Italy, his voice harsh and shrill, elicited an anguished shriek that rent through the thick air like a chainsaw.

Startled, the young nation fumbled the helmet, turning it around, only to see pieces of flesh and blood seared to its sides.

"Feliciano, I'm sorry." He babbled, near tears. "I didn't mean to." The flames and smoke encroached ever closer as he strove to unpin Italy from the wreckage. Even after he'd pushed it far enough back for the injured brunette to leap out of the debris, he still didn't move an inch.

"Italy!" America begged. "I know you're scared of me, and my sharp teeth, and my really weird looking arms." He waved them up and down for emphasis. "To be honest, I'm a little scared of all that, too. I don't know what I'm becoming…" His eyes widened with alarm when he saw Italy's right sleeve catch fire. "But right now, you really need to leave that wreck. I'll save you. I swear to God I'll get you out of here and then I'll never hurt you again. I'll plead, I'll beg, I'll get on my kneels if I have to. I'll do anything! Just trust-"

Italy leapt out of the plane, just as its interior began to collapse, and into America's arms, embracing him, burying his head into the young nation's broad shoulders as he managed to rasp out, "You're alive! I'm so happy, America. You're alive!"

While doing his best to shield Italy's trembling body from the heat of the fire with his own, America looked down at the nation sobbing in his arms with a soft smile on his face, and said, "Yeah. You too, Italy. I'm really happy you're alive."

His tone changed only slightly when he looked up and added, "Now, let's get out of here."

Billowing black clouds rose from the fiery remains of the mansion, towering ever higher with each passing second. The wave of heat generated by the explosion shook the plane as the various nations struggled to outfit themselves with their parachutes.

Germany had tried to rush out the hanger door the second Italy's F-16 penetrated the mansion's shield. Through England's eyes, it had looked similar to a pen punching through a piece of paper, just louder and quite a bit more violent. But Germany didn't have the Sight like England did. All he saw was his best friend's plane crashing, being enveloped in flame and smoke until its tail disappeared from his sight. For all he knew, Italy could be hurt or in pain, and there was no way he could just sit around helplessly hoping for his safety.

Seeing Germany's desire to break the seal, Prussia gripped him around the waste, whispering, "West! Italy's all right. He's fine. We'll be down there in a minute, just calm down."

Having finally finished depressurizing the cabin and lowered the landing gear in order to disengage the additional security locks on the doors, Japan rushed to unseal the hanger door. At 7,000 feet, the plane was a little higher then he'd wanted them to drop, but if they waited too long, the heat rising from the wreckage could burn up their parachutes. Or worse. The fire was spitting flaming projectiles the same way a volcanic eruption would. If any of those touched a parachute, it'd burn a hole right through the material, and that would be bad enough by itself without the added bonus of likely setting the chute on fire.

"All right" He shouted over the wind. "I need you all to pull your chord after you count to ten. Do your best to stay as far away from the smoke as possible. If you get too close, the heat and burning debris could either make it difficult for you to land or much, much easier. And faster."

"Then why don't we do that?" Romano demanded.

"Because that would mean falling and breaking your bones." Japan replied, his voice betraying the slightest undercurrent of irritation and impatience. "Any other questions?" He stared them down as if daring them to stall him further. "No? Good." Quickly, he asked Tony to take control of the flight. "We need you to camouflage this plane and take it back to brother's home. Do you think you can do that?"

The little gray alien stepped up to take the reins from China, "Bitch, I might be." While not entirely sure if that was an affirmative or a refusal, Japan decided, for the sake of time, to simply take it as a yes. China raised an eyebrow at the exchange, to which his younger brother could only shrug in reply.

It was an American alien. What did he want from him?

While still clearly dubious about the alien's ability to fly his plane, the long-haired man with the ponytail reluctantly relinquished the controls. Japan scooped his brother, who squawked in protest, into his arms bridal style, and then promised Tony with a resolute expression on his young face, "I'll bring America back to you. I swear it."

Tony nodded, then added, " Bitch, you better."

After Japan jumped out, his brother's screams could be heard for a good half a minute. Germany leapt out next, followed by Romano, Spain, and Prussia.

Hesitantly, Canada wavered at the exit. Thousands of feet, filled with searing air, black clouds of smoke, and raging fire yawned before him like some sort of portal into an incineration chamber. However, if Italy really had brought America back by breaking the curse, he needed to jump. Just as he was about to turn around with a question on his lips, a hard kick to the back sent him flailing and spiraling into empty air. Immediately, without even needing to turn around, he knew who'd kicked him.

"Russia" He screamed as the rushing hot air filled his mouth and the wind swept away his words. "I HATE YOU SO MUCH!" Those were the first words he'd spoken since he'd told England about America's disappearance.

Back in the plane, the Russian nation chuckled while England and France looked on with disapproval.

"That was uncalled for, Russia." England said, reproachfully.

France added, "I agree. What has my dear Canada ever done to you?"

There wasn't any need for Russia to answer them, but he did anyway. "If America is truly gone, then Canada will need to take his place. For that, he needs to be made strong."

His words angered France, who didn't believe that Canada should be forced to replace his brother. They were two, very different siblings who were both special in their own ways. No one had any right to force Canada to be anything like his more boisterous brother when he was already perfect the way he was.

"And you think you can make him strong?," demanded England.

In response, Russia shrugged nonchalantly. With what could almost be described as a sad expression on his face, he said, "In my experience, hate is a very strong motivator. If he hates me, he will become strong." Then he leapt out- "VOOODKAAAA!"

France turned to England, saying, "My son is already strong. He doesn't need to be America's replacement."

"And he won't be, France." England replied, with much more gentleness than France had ever expected from him. Then he added, "Let's go."

The two jumped from the plane, and were promptly reminded that skydiving is hardly ever a pleasant experience.

The first full glimpse of the mansion's wreckage took England's breath away. Souls, human souls, raced out of the fire, spreading out into the sky like fireworks. To his eyes, they were blue orb-like sprites similar to the will-o-wisps of his older brother's legends. They spun and danced in the open sky, as though intoxicated on their newfound freedom.

This more than anything proved that America had been telling the truth. Only a very powerful, very malevolent force could keep humans souls captive.

Two orbs bobbed and weaved in front of his face, as though they were trying to communicate with him.

So transfixed was he by the spirits, he almost forgot to pull his cord. Luckily, France kicked him upside the head. Even if the French nation was still angered by England's decision to allow Italy to put himself in danger, he still didn't feel like passing up a chance to kick him upside the head.

Similarly, Germany needed Prussia to pull his chord for him, "Come on, West! Now is not the time to fall apart," though that was more because he was too worried about Italy to focus properly. Only England could see the spirits.

Their stomachs lurched as their parachutes unfurled behind them. The resulting drag slowed their descent considerably. A little too much, actually.

"Sorry, bruder." Germany apologized with a hint of sheepishness. "I was beginning to let my emotions get the better of me. It won't happen again."

"It's not that letting your emotions get the best of you is a bad thing, it's that there's a time and a place for it. And that time is not after you jump out of a plane. Understand, West?"

"Ja. From now on, I will only think rationally." Germany pulled out his gun out of his holster then proceeded to shoot his parachute full of holes.

Prussia freaked out, flailing his arms around like a chicken with its head cut off. His Hawaiian shirt surged around his body as he shrieked, "On what planet would that be considered a rational decision?!"

More shots rang out, followed by Spain's panicked thrashing as Romano's descent sped up to match Germany's.

Three sets of glaring eyes stared back at Prussia when he looked up.

"This is your fault." England and France both said, sparing a glare for each other after they said it. Spain vehemently nodded his agreement, all while keeping an eye on the two blond nations near him.

Not nearly as indignant as he pretended to be, Prussia replied, "How is this my fault?"

"He gets all his recklessness from you."

"And now he's infecting Romano!" Spain interjected as he swung back and forth on his ropes, hoping to keep the banter going long enough to distract both France and England from the tension between them.

"My bruder is not a disease! Therefore, it is not an infection… It's an improvement."

This statement triggered further argument, which was exactly what both he and Spain had hoped for.

Neither of the Asian nations offered their input, but both of them allowed it to continue, since a lighthearted argument can sometimes mean the difference between falling into a pit of despair and climbing out of it. The point was: You can't have an argument if you're alone. So, if you're bickering or yelling or trading insults, know that means you're not alone.

Unlike the other Western nations, who had grown lax in their years of peace, Switzerland refused to wear anything other than his forest green military uniform. Italy's most recent threat only proved that he was right to do so.

Still, though he hadn't really expected anything truly threatening from the Italian nation, he had sent a six-man squad to give him a dose of aggressive hospitality on his behalf. The only reason he hadn't gone himself was because he'd promised Lichtenstein he'd have lunch with her that day.

This being the case, he waited outside his large house for her to arrive at one, just as they had promised to. At five minutes past one, he began to sweat. At ten minutes past one, he ran into the house, calling her name as he checked every room.

Finally, fifteen minutes had passed, and he was ready to leave the house with his shotgun. Just as he was about to step out, his black phone, the only direct line to his military, began to ring.

Dread pooled in his stomach as he slowly approached the pedestal he placed the phone on, and answered, "This is Commander Zwingli speaking. State your business."

"Well, Sir, we've got a major problem." A voice with a distinctly military cadence replied. "Seems a little girl snuck into our squad... and she thinks she's a country. Also, the F-16 that crossed our borders pulled a disappearing act on us. Better alert the other squads, Sir."

The voice sounded like it belonged to one of the pilots he'd sent to patrol the border. What he was saying matched up pretty well with what a human would say if they encountered a nation, but Italy's whereabouts were of minimal importance at the moment.

"The little girl… Doe she have green eyes, blond hair, and a blue ribbon in her hair?"

"Yep." The pilot replied. "That's exactly what she looks like. Sounds to me like you know her. She your crazy sister or something?"

Choosing to ignore his question for the time being, Switzerland continued, "Is she all right? Has anything happened to her?"

"Ah, she got a little banged up after she ejected from her plane. The trees gave her a few scratches here and there, maybe a bruise or two, but nothing major. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure if we should take her to the hospital or take her to her home, wherever that is."

Switzerland drummed his fingers with increasing agitation.

"Her real name is Lili Vogel. She's my adopted sister." He quickly added the last bit before he had to answer for why they didn't share the same last name. "She'll tell you herself if you tell her you contacted me. Now, I ask that you and your men kindly escort her back to my house. Just in case I'm not here when you arrive, I'll leave my doors unlocked. However, before I go, I'd like you to answer this last question for me: Was it the intruder who downed her?"

"Downed? No, Sir. The enemy pilot didn't seem much inclined to hurt us. The only reason she needed to eject was because she got caught up in a jet stream. Speaking of pilots and jets and streams, any chance we can recruit her-"

Before the man could finish his sentence, Switzerland slammed the phone down on its receiver, cutting the pilot off, and likely saving his life.

After staring at the cellphone in his hand for a good minute, the pilot wisely decided it would be detrimental to his health to ask that question again. Even if his gut told him she would be a serious hottie in a few years, his head was an essential part of his body, and he very much preferred that body with its head attached and without lead in it.

Thank you very much.

Once all the nations had their feet planted firmly on solid ground, it became clear that the old mansion had gone up like a box of matches. There was going to be no searching for Italy until the flames died down.

Unfortunately, Germany seemed to have missed the memo on that, because once the others got their bearings, it became clear that Romano tackling the German nation to the ground was the only thing preventing him from running into the searing smoke and flames with his shirt pressed on his mouth.

"Idiot! If I let you run in there, Veneziano will never forgive me. Not after what happened to America…" None of his words seemed to be reaching the German nation, who dauntlessly continued his struggle to free himself without hurting Romano. "You." Romano banged Germany's head against the ground in an attempt knock him out. "Are. Staying." One hard punch on the jaw was all he had time to do before Prussia and Spain managed to pry him off. "Here!" Once Prussia released Romano's arm so he could rush to make sure his brother was okay, Romano haltingly continued, pausing every now and then as he tried to replenish the oxygen levels he'd wasted on Germany by sucking the hot air into his lungs, "I'm Veneziano's brother, you no good potato eater. Do you really think I would be out here if I thought there was even a chance that running into that fire would help me save him? You go in there now, and you'll just get hurt, and that will make my brother cry. I know I don't want that. Do you?"

As Germany gingerly pulled himself into a sitting position, he heard his brother say, "He's right, West. Just wait, we'll figure something out. And if you can't trust us, then trust Italy. Now that you've confessed your undying devotion to him, he'd never just leave you without replying. He's just not that kind of guy, ya know?"

There was a deep darkness in Germany's mind that continued to weigh on him. It swelled and shrunk as rhythmically as the heart that beat strongly in his chest. And yet, his brother and Romano were right. He needed to trust that Italy wouldn't put them through what he'd apparently gone through so many times before, and that the brunette wouldn't leave before telling him if he loved him, too.

If it was only for a little while, he could do that.

Italy had once waited for him.

He could wait, too.

The heat by the remains of the mansion wasn't unbearable, but it wasn't something Russia was much enjoying either. His scarf and long tan coat were doing a great job of frying him like a piece of smoked bacon. If that was their intention, he supposed it was only right that he mentally congratulated his articles of clothing on a job well done.

Well done, clothes. I feel like fried pig.

For the most part, France and China mainly stayed on the sidelines, alternating between watching the others argue and the blaze, with one wearing a look of mild concern and the other wearing a look of complete indifference. At least until China groaned, "We are going nowhere as long as we remain flammable. Me, especially. I'm very flammable. Still, if General Winter were here, this flame would be doused in seconds. Then all we'd have to do is search for Italy, and none of us would have to risk burning alive. Wouldn't that be nice?" He noticed the shocked expressions on the nations around him, and asked, "What? What did I say?"

"He's right" England shouted, then rounded on Russia. "Can you call General Winter here?"

"Da, I can" Russia scratched his neck, betraying the slightest amount of unease, "But Switzerland won't like it."

With a dismissive jerk of his hand, England replied, "He's already going bestow upon us the worst punishment imaginable if he finds out we've crossed his borders. The least we can do is earn it."

After that optimistic little pep talk, Russia did feel slightly better about calling General Winter.

Dark storm clouds formed over the mansion's burning carcass, blocking out the sun with their dense, roiling masses. A large grin on his face, Russia continued to open his arms wide as though to embracing the sky as he called out for snow and ice, enough to put out a flame.

In the storm clouds, a man with a ragged cape, a sharp face, and a neatly trimmed mustache began to form. With him, came the buckets of fire dousing snow they'd been hoping for.

By the time he was done, only five minutes had passed, and the mansion's burning carcass had been reduced to nothing more than a collection of soggy, blackened, and slightly smoldering wood chips.

Russia sincerely thanked him for coming as the clouds began to dissipate, allowing the sun to shine and melt the snow General Winter had literally just made.

This was why the General liked the land of ice and snow so much more than any of other nations, with the possible exception of Canada, who he waved at, much to the bespectacled boy's horror. In Russia, the snow hardly ever melted, and even if it did, it never left the hearts and minds of the Russian people. To them, he was more than just a season. He was their greatest foe and their fiercest ally. That was why he loved Russia more than any other nation, and why Russia feared him almost as much as he admired his strength.

As the others readied their weapons, weary of the monsters America had spoken of, Canada trudged on ahead. The land before him reeked of bitter winter and fire and the ashen remains of beams and furniture crackled and crunched underfoot as he began to rummage through the heavy layer of snow and ice for something he could grab ahold of.

There were still thick, low hanging clouds shielding them from the sun despite the exit of General Winter. A murder of crows sped over their heads as a low howl sang through the tops of the trees that surrounded them. The wind didn't seem to be heading in a particular direction, rather it seemed to be blowing inwards as though it bore them ill will for some grievance they had committed.

Russia decided to voice what the others were thinking, "It would seem Switzerland knows we're here now, and he knows where we are."

"There's no way he could know we're here," replied England. "What's more likely is he knows Italy and you are here. Therefore, we just have to find him and leave before he tries to shoot us."

"Easier said than done," Romano groaned, veins bulging as he managed to lift and toss a large piece of tiled roof.

A massive shadow loomed behind Canada's back, towering over him before he even had time to notice, until a spray of black fluid painted the side of his face. Trembling with fear, he turned to see a grotesque, discolored creature collapse to the ground, a halberd lodged in its neck. Now standing where the creature once stood, Spain stared down at the beast, his green eyes practically glowing with rage.

"Stay alert. We can't afford anymore delays." He shot at Canada, then he proceeded to violently yank his glittering weapon from the corpse of the fallen monster and move on to search someplace else.

Another one charged at Romano a few minutes later, only for Russia to beat it to death with his 'magic stick'.

"It's not a stick!" South Italy shouted. "It's a pipe. You're not fooling anyone!"

"Da, but I save you, yes? Now you must become one with Russia."

The color left Romano's face, running away to someplace farther away from Russia most likely. However, it really didn't have to. Spain strode over, gave Russia his friendliest smile, and said, "It would be prudent of you not to say such suggestive things when your Winter isn't around, mi amigo. You might get hurt."

As America struggled to keep digging up, he could feel Italy's labored breathing on his neck. In the few short minutes since he'd gotten Italy out if the burning F-16, his wounds had already begin to heal, but internal injuries, like burns from inhaling smoke, often took longer to fully recover.

With one arm, he managed to push aside 75% of a couch. Even if he didn't necessarily like what'd been done to him, he couldn't deny there were perks. One of his teeth caught on his gums, shredding it some more as he struggled to keep moving. On the other hand, he though, having normal teeth again, instead of a freakin' cheese grater in his gums, would be nice.

Every now and then, he would shake Italy a little, trying to keep him conscious. Making him talk would only damage his throat more, so instead of that, he tried to talk about flying and see their friends. He talked about some of his favorite memories, his favorite sports, and what games he liked to play with Japan.

There was no guarantee he'd ever be able to go back to a life of he'd once had, not with him looking like some sort of Frankenstein's monster, but he had to make Italy believe that both of them could go back. He had to believe things would go back to normal, because if he didn't, his wounds might not heal. They might even get worse.

After pushing some planks and a curtain out of his path, America smelled the bitter chill of a Russia winter. Fresh air was streaming in through the cracks above him, ridding his nostrils of the acrid smoke he'd been struggling to ignore.

"Italy!" He called, jostling the nation resting over his shoulder slightly. "We're here. We finally made it!"

His disfigured hand reached out to clear their path to freedom, and then-

Russia spotted a purple hand poking out from the snow, so he took his magic stick and bashed it... repeatedly.