Let's get freaky.
Warning: Angst, some RusAme and GerIta fluff, gruesome scene, and an attempted rape.
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though
What's Left Behind and What Follows
Everyone was tense after Gilbert's outburst, and it was still palpable with the Prussian walking among them, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. Ludwig seriously hoped he hadn't cracked. As for now, though, there was nothing he could do to get through to his brother. He had slid too far into himself, and it scared Ludwig.
Lost. Ludwig thought nostalgically. Lost, just like he was under the Third Reich. Then again, Ludwig had also been lost. If Gilbert was more experienced, older, wiser than Ludwig, how soon then would Ludwig also succumb to silence and brooding?
"Ludwig?"
Feliciano's voice snapped him out of his daze. "Ja, Feli?"
The Italian looked concerned. Deeply concerned. He saw how Gilbert was, and he didn't think he could stand Ludwig being the same way. It was like everyone had left him, forgotten about him. Lovino wouldn't talk to him—he couldn't afford to lose Ludwig, too. "Are you okay?"
"Ja, I'm fine." Ludwig replied, surprised at how hollow his voice sounded.
Feliciano didn't say anything. His gaze dropped downward. Ludwig felt something brush up against his hand. He looked up at Feliciano as the Italian clasped his hand. But Feliciano didn't look at him, only kept staring at the ground. The German continued to look ahead, a small smile on his face.
Alfred noticed their pair's hands, and he felt a surge of longing. He looked over at Ivan, who was walking a ways away from him, eyes forward. Alfred felt guilty about not being as close to Ivan as the Russian deserved. He wanted to be with him, but… there was just so much shit going on. Then again, he could understand the man's urgency. Everyday was a gamble with their lives. And if he or Ivan happened to die before they could get close, then… Alfred didn't even want to think about it.
They found Wynston waiting for them at the edge of the treeline. He gave them a small, weary smile as they approached. His eyes were swollen and red.
"Well, guys, this is it." he said, his voice solemn and wavering. "The Great Plains."
"Let's just call it 'The Plains.' The 'Great' part is kind of off-putting." Sadiq said, and everyone gave small laughter. Though their voices sounded more anxious than amused.
Arthur examined the landscape before him: miles upon miles of dry, yellow grass and rolling hills. There was no sign of life for who knew how far. The sky was a solid, slate gray. But the Briton wouldn't let the plains intimidate him, just like he didn't let the never-ending expanse of open sea intimidate him. "Come on. Before the full glare of winter is upon us." And he started forward.
The whole group followed after him, and Alfred passed Wynston, giving him a small, reassuring smile. But Wynston remained where he was, watching them go. He had tears in his eyes.
Alfred stopped. "Winnie?"
He was expecting Wynston to tell him not to call him that, but he only took a deep, shuddering breath and said, "Bye, Pa."
Alfred stared at him, and by now everyone had stopped along with him to watch the exchange.
"You can't leave us," Feliciano said, looking terrified. "You know the plains. We'll get lost without you."
Wynston shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I have responsibilities elsewhere. Before I found y'all at the bunker, I was protectin' a town nearby with a group of refugees. I sensed it was you, Pa, and before I set off, I told everyone that I'd be back within a week. And I keep my promises."
Alfred blinked at him and said, "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
Wynston gave a watery smile. "'Cause I knew you'd tell me to get my ass back there."
Alfred laughed, but tears were welling in his own eyes. "You should."
"I know."
They just stood there and looked at each other. Alfred wanted nothing more than to hug his son, but he knew it would only make the parting all the more difficult. So, with a dip of his head, he said, "Good luck, son. We're going to fix this, I promise."
"I know." Wynston replied. He slipped a Stetson hat out of his pack and put it on. Alfred smiled. It completed Wynston. "I've been hiding this because of the people huntin' me." Wynston explained. "But now… I'm with ya. I'm not gonna let 'em intimidate me any longer. this is the day I take back what's mine." He tipped his hat to him. "Whatever it takes."
Alfred smiled back. "Whatever it takes."
They continued on after that, down by one member. Alfred kept looking back over his shoulder, watching his son as he waved them farewell until his form molded into the shadows of the trees. His heart ached after that. Two states dead, one left behind. When would it end?
He stiffened as a hand grabbed his own. He looked up to see Ivan gazing down at him.
"He will be fine, da? Cowboys are tough from what I know."
Alfred smiled. "Yeah… yeah, he'll be fine."
No one noticed their hand holding. They were all too busy worrying over the approaching thunderheads.
Into the storm. Lovino thought. How fucking fitting. But it looked like nothing compared to the storm going on in his head.
He still couldn't believe he let Gilbert fuck him. The bastard was the last person he would have chosen, but no one was there at his moment of need but the Prussian.
Antonio was out of his mind now. That was all he got from it. Lovino could sleep peacefully now without waking up from a dream about his lost lover, crying over him, missing him. He was stronger now. And although it hurt him to think that he had all but forgotten about the Spaniard, he knew that he couldn't afford to grieve anymore. He needed to focus on more important things—like surviving.
And even though he told himself again and again that what he did with Gilbert was right, was imperative to his survival and sanity, he couldn't help but feel a bit guilty. He'd taken advantage of Gilbert. He knew that. But then again, did the Prussian really care? Lovino had watched throughout the centuries, had seen how Gilbert slept around and didn't care about the consequences. Why was it now that Gilbert suddenly decided to act all fucking hurt by sleeping with someone randomly?
But the more and more Lovino watched Gilbert, the more he began to suspect it wasn't an act. The albino was uptight, angry, and… torn. Torn between what, Lovino didn't know, but it was obvious in Gilbert's eyes. Earlier that day, Lovino had thought that Gilbert would give what they did away, and that terrified him. But now, he was more worried about it being his fault that the Prussian was slipping over the edge.
Goddammit. He had passed on his hurts. He hadn't meant to, but he had. In a stupid, desperate act, Lovino had relieved his own pain, but at the same time burdened Gilbert with it. Lovino was such a fuck up. Had always been a fuck up. No wonder Rome had liked Feliciano better. Hell, everyone liked Feliciano better. Feliciano didn't hurt anyone. Feliciano was perfect.
How the hell did someone as fucked up as me survive this long? Lovino thought. This is my punishment: to fuck everything up and suffer the consequences for an eternity. What a fucking kick in the ass…
Arthur gave a huff of frustration as he studied the approaching storm clouds. He'd thought that they'd be able to get at least a little farther before the storm was upon them, but with the winds whipping at this rate, it would happen within the hour. He stopped and everyone stopped with him.
"We can't afford to get wet when it's this cold." Arthur told them. He longed to be among the trees, but they were a mile or so behind them, and he didn't want to backtrack. Never look back. Always look forward. No matter the tempest that lay before, always look ahead. "We'll camp here."
He set down his pack and examined the plains. Still so far to go. He could feel his bones aching already. And then his eyes found something peculiar.
A figure. Standing alone, shrouded in black. Arthur's heart felt like it had stopped. Was it one of the Organization? Why did no one else notice it? Why weren't they running?
As he continued to stare, frozen with shock, the person began to become clearer. He blinked in rapid succession, shaking his head. A mirage. But didn't mirages only happen in deserts? The only other explanation was that it was a figment of his imagination.
And then there she was: Britannia. He knew it even though he could only see the back of her. Golden hair fell in ringlets down her back, stopping just above her thighs. She had flowers and leaves woven into the strands. She was how Arthur liked to remember her: without helm or shield or trident or lion. She was a pure spirit, given life from the earth and giving it back with her magic. This was how she first emerged, how she presented herself to Arthur when he was young. Arthur felt a need to run to her and tell her all of his problems, allow her to wash them all away…
His heart nearly jumped into his throat when Britannia turned around. Skin gray, melting right off her bones. Hair turning to a nest of slippery, writhing worms. Her eyes were coal black. Long talons curled from her fingers, beckoning to him. And when she opened her mouth, a river of blood gushed out, sluicing toward him, ready to swallow him up…
He wanted to scream, to run, but he was frozen where he stood. All he could do was stare as corpses washed up to him, the blood carrying mutilated bodies. He looked down and felt faint when he saw Kiku with his eyes jabbed out and his lower jaw ripped from his skull, torn bits of flesh and tendons surrounding the lolling tongue.
They are waiting for you, my love. Britannia cooed. The damned are waiting for you to join them.
But first, you will make their blood run.
A hand on Arthur's shoulder made him sway. He stumbled a bit as Francis said, "Arthur, cher, are you all right? You look sick."
Arthur quickly righted himself, his head snapping to the place where Britannia was standing. But she was gone. Nothing of her remained. No Britannia, no blood, and no bodies. Dear Lord, what's happening to me?
"Arthur?"
"I'm fine, Francis." Am I? Arthur fought to get his pulse and breathing under control, turning back to the group. He was afraid that if he continued to survey the land, he would see other… horrible things.
Francis was still staring at him. The look on Arthur's face was sheer terror. It wasn't often that he saw that… or that Arthur allowed him to see it. He was about to ask Arthur if he wanted to lie down for a bit, if Francis could pitch their tent by himself so that Arthur could rest, but Arthur looked at him and said, "Come on, let's get this thing up."
Francis continued to stare at him, watching his shaky movements as Arthur unrolled the tent and began to put it up. When Arthur noticed that Francis was not helping him, he felt annoyed—no, that wasn't the word, angry. Arthur was so angry at Francis, murderously so, and he didn't know why, but he knew he should be.
"Stop standing there staring like a fucking idiot, and help me with this goddamn thing!" Arthur yelled, and Francis snapped out of it, lunging forward to help. The Frenchman's heart was in his throat, and his fingers were trembling as they struggled to untie the bundle of tentpoles. That look in Arthur's eyes, that voice… for all the years Francis had known him, he had never seen or heard Arthur in this manner. It was frightening.
Now everyone was staring. And Arthur rounded on them. "What are you all fucking looking at? I said make camp!"
Everyone quickly looked away and got back to work. Alfred had heard Arthur get angry before—he'd done plenty to make that happen—but he knew instantly that this was different. Arthur's voice sounded cold and not his own. It might just be the pressure of the mission getting to him, but Alfred highly doubted the Brit would break so easily with his history. A man who built an empire couldn't just snap out of the blue one day. At the least Alfred expected a slow descent into madness, but even that possibility seemed unlikely.
And there went the tension again. Talk about drop-kicking it up a whole fucking mile. Now they had Gilbert and Arthur to worry about. Fucking great.
Alfred and Ivan exchanged glances, and it was obvious that the Russian was feeling a bit uneasy. It wasn't the fact that he was afraid of what Gilbert and Arthur might do—no, he wouldn't be afraid of them in any situation. But if the men happened to act out, they could end up splitting the group, and they needed more than ever to stick together.
The first drops of rain began to fall when the last of the tents was pitched. Everyone was quiet for fear of further pissing Arthur off. Francis was a bit hesitant about crawling into the same tent with Arthur, and it hurt him that he was. Just the night before, Arthur had made sweet love to him. What had happened to that Arthur? This wasn't the same one. This wasn't Arthur.
Francis could feel Arthur's eyes on him as he slipped into his sleeping bag. He glanced over, and his blood froze at how sinister Arthur's gaze looked. The Briton was leering—though it wasn't the sort of leer Francis preferred. It was dark, lustful, and—foreboding.
Before Francis could clamber out of his sleeping bag and out of the tent, Arthur had pounced, pinning him to the ground. Francis struggled beneath him, alarmed that he could not throw the man off. Surely since they were now reduced to human strength Francis would be a match for Arthur?
His hands were held above his head, Arthur's grip vicelike. The Briton's hand pushed up Francis's shirt.
"I know you want it, fucking whore." Arthur hissed. "I'm going to hollow you out really good. And you'll like it, won't you, slut?" His tongue darted out, snaking over Francis's closed lips. Beneath his shirt, Arthur's nails dug into one of Francis's wounds, ripping it open.
Francis whimpered and writhed beneath him. "Stop! Arthur, what are you doing? Get off of me! Stop!"
"I'll do what I goddamn please!" Arthur growled, taking a fistful of Francis's hair and pulling viciously.
Francis let out another cry, tears gathering in his eyes. Not this. Not again. Not so soon, when he was just starting to feel happy, just when he was forgetting… "Please," it was barely a whisper.
Arthur blinked and looked him over. "Francis? What the hell…?" The Briton felt something warm and liquid on his fingers, and he pulled his hand out of Francis's shirt. Blood. "Jesus Christ…"
Francis sat up, rubbing his wrists as Arthur released and clambered off of him. He sat there, staring at the blood soaking through the Frenchman's shirt. "Shit… let me—" He slipped a roll of gauze out of his pack and hiked up Francis's shirt, proceeding to wrap it around the open wound. Francis just watched, too shocked to do or say anything.
When Arthur was done, he sat back and asked, "Did… did I do that?"
Francis found his voice. "Arthur—"
"Just tell me."
"Yes," Francis croaked, his eyes going downcast.
"Oh…" Arthur's voice was shot with disbelief. "Oh God, th-that wasn't me… I blacked out."
Francis moved over to him, willing away his fright. The sting of his reopened wound barely registered. He reached out to him, needed to feel if this was still Arthur. "Cher—"
But the Briton scrambled out of his reach and across the tent. "Out. Go to Matthew's and Sadiq's tent. You're not safe here. I don't know if I can…" His eyes widened as he trailed off, realizing something. "Go on. Move!"
Francis stiffened and left, dragging his stuff with him. Arthur hated being so stern with him, but he couldn't control his own actions anymore. Something's wrong. Arthur thought. Very wrong.
When he could no longer hear Francis's footsteps, Arthur dug through his pack. He found the dream catcher and tossed it away. It wouldn't help now. Whatever it was that was in him had enough power to overcome the safeguard. He eventually found his spell book—an old, black tome, shrunk down with magic, with torn and yellowed pages—and he set it before him. The pages flew by beneath his fingers as he searched for a ward powerful enough to protect him. He found one and willed his mind to focus, repeating the ancient words verbatim. If he said one wrong, held a single syllable too long, it could backfire and kill him. He knew this, but he trusted himself despite his state.
The air popped and fizzed around him, but other than that the evidence of magic was not visible. He was, after all, directing the ward to manifest in his own mind. When it was done, Arthur held his breath, expecting a sharp lash in his mind. But nothing came.
He took a deep breath and let it slowly out. He hadn't heard the blood roaring in his ears. The ward was powerful; to even create it required a great deal of Arthur's energy, and it would slowly continue to sap him of it as long as it was activated. The Briton was drowsy and felt faint. He had forgotten that he had a human's strength now. Normally that ward would have left him feeling a bit winded; now it felt like he'd run nonstop for days.
Arthur was forced to extinguish the ward or else slip into the void. He barely had the strength to say the parting words, and when he was done he collapsed onto his sleeping bag. Fatigue tugged at his eyelids.
The ward was gone, but surely something that powerful would have scared whatever it was that had been tormenting Arthur away. There were plenty of magic users out there who could sense Arthur's considerable presence from across oceans, and it hadn't been the first time some mediocre warlock had tried to seize and control his mind. He was, after all, very powerful and wise, and, as a result, more than desirable. But Arthur could shield his mind very well, though he'd been neglecting that to focus on other things in the past few days, one of those things being survival. Normally a good jab at the attacker's mind would send them reeling out of his head and into a month-long headache of their own. That wouldn't happen again, however. Arthur would be more vigilant now.
Still, from his experience with magic Arthur adamantly believed in superstition. He snatched up the dream catcher and once again held it to his chest as he dozed off.
No nightmares came to Arthur that night, and he was happy.
No translations
A Word From the Writer: Okay, so maybe England's getting a little too kooky to lead anyone, but I'll keep him in such a position just to keep up conflict. And Britannia keeps trolling him wherever he goes. Troll on, my good lady, troll on~
And say goodbye to my OC. He was good while he lasted, and I'll miss him. Him and his signature Stetson hat. But I'll just tell you now, there will be one more state to show up. And they will be key to our boys' final stand.
