Summary: Alfred goes where he should not. Ivan follows.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Warnings: This chapter is as dark as the story gets. It's REALLY dark. Horror, gore, violence, implied rape, scary spider


The edges of Alfred's feathers gleamed gold as he flew. Two hours east of the palace, before you hit the River of Lost Souls. The entrance is under a canopy of blood-red leaves, hidden in the roots of the Suicide Grove. My, Alfred, you should have seen how scared he was when he saw what was inside…

Alfred forced the memory out of his mind and refocused his searching gaze.

Ah! There.

He adjusted his grip on the shining sword and descended.


Ivan knew that something was wrong the second he stepped into the den and saw the untouched plate of sliced plums on the table.

"Jones!" He barked, ignoring the pounding in his head. "Get out here. Now."

There was no response. Growling, Ivan strode to his bedroom and threw open the door.

The glass balcony doors were ajar. On top of the dresser near the bed, a long, flat box was open. Beside it, Ivan made out the glint of sunlight on a pair of keys, one copper, one brass.

The angel was nowhere in sight.

Hungover or not, he was going to slaughter Alfred.


The final sunbeams of the afternoon shone straight into Ivan's eyes, but he was too distracted to avert his gaze. The patrols that he had sent out shortly after lunch had returned minutes ago with empty hands and no clue of where Alfred could had gone. There was not so much as a stray feather.

Ivan turned to the cellarette with a pang of longing. Should he…? No, not until Alfred was found and secured. After the former general was chained to his bed with more than a few broken bones, Ivan would treat himself to a nice night of forgetting regrets.

To think that he had welcomed—willingly!—the celestial nuisance into his life. The gold seemed like a more appealing choice by the day.

Really, he should have clipped Jones' wings after the last escape attempt. Ivan cursed his oversight under his breath. He wouldn't make the same mistake again.

Where was the damn brat?

As far as he knew, Alfred had only been to Francis' palace and Ivan's own castle, and had seen little else beyond the two areas. How well did the angel know the Underworld? He wasn't one of the generals sent to infiltrate the Dark realm; the Vargases had been in charge of that, and Kirkland, later, after the brothers had been captured.

Ivan's men had done a thorough sweep of the castle grounds. There had been nothing. Did Alfred head to Francis' palace, then? It was a carriage ride of several hours, but perhaps quicker if Jones flew. Maybe he was just getting there—maybe he wanted to plead for Francis to take him back, or to complain to Arthur, or to get more of those precious strawberries that he was apparently obsessed with.

Ivan left his chambers. There was a phone in his office that connected directly to the king's personal line.


"General Braginsky!" Francis' voice was pleasantly surprised. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

"Jones is gone. He vanished this morning. Has anyone in your palace seen him around?"

Francis pursed his lips, thoughtful. Ivan must be in quite a mood, to forgo the usual formalities. Across from him, Arthur arched a large eyebrow.

The demon monarch covered the mouthpiece of the French rotary phone with an elegant hand.

"Alfred is missing," he said lowly.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Of course he is."

"He's been gone for the whole day. Ivan hasn't seen him at all."

"Well, he hasn't come here. Emma and Lucille would have mentioned if he had."

The two exchanged a troubled look.

"Do you think—" Francis began.

"The lad has always been impulsive, quicker to act than to think," the corner of Arthur's mouth twisted in dismay. "Moreover, he possesses a complete disregard for his own safety. I sincerely hope not, but I anticipate the worst."

Shaking his head, Francis unclasped his fingers from the transmitter.

"General Braginsky," he said, voice light, "has our dear Alfred told you about Davie?"


Ivan urged Ladya faster. Beneath him, the jet-black pegasus whinnied in protest, but obediently flapped her wings.

Dusk was falling, and he didn't have much time left. If Ivan was too late, if he couldn't retrieve Alfred before the night ended, then there would be nothing left to find.

As Ivan headed to Tartarus, Francis' words echoed in his head.

"When he first arrived at the palace, Alfred was rather difficult. Constant escape attempts, the…creativity of which you might be acquainted with. We had no luck with calming him down, until we discovered that he had a soft spot for his aide-de-camp. Davie was his name.

"Davie was a lovely boy, and Alfred and he were very close. The best of friends. He was captured and taken to the palace a few days after Alfred, so I suppose it was only a matter of time until Alfred roped Davie into one of his foolhardy breaks for freedom. Alfred almost made it to one of the portals before my soldiers managed to catch him.

"He didn't think things through, of course—the portal led to another part of the Underworld, where he would have been promptly restrained and returned—but the fact that he was able to leave the grounds at all was concerning. To teach Alfred a lesson about the consequences of his actions, we decided to punish Davie.

"We threw Davie into Tartarus with a rifle and bayonet to defend himself. The next day, all we found was a hollowed out head. Eyes plucked, tongue ripped out. When Alfred saw what remained of his personal assistant, he grew understandably upset. Afterwards, however, he was much more agreeable to his role…"

The fading sunset cast a dim glow over the top of the forest. In the distance, Ivan could faintly make out a patch of crimson.

"Land at the base of the red trees, Ladya," Ivan said, nudging the mare's sides.


Ladya was tied up to the trunk of a tree about thirty meters from the entrance of Tartarus. Ivan hoped that the distance was enough to keep her from any harm; the creatures within would not hesitate to devour the pegasus if they caught her.

Dark magic permeated every corner of the Underworld, but Tartarus was saturated in evil magic. It was a dangerous place, even for a demon. For an angel, it was practically a death sentence.

As the last light of the day disappeared, the darkness within the pit seemed to come alive. Around him, the air shifted with rustles and the slimy drip of liquids, the brush of scales against a hard surface and, very far away, a persistent clicking sound.

Ivan summoned a flame to his palm. The weak, frosty glow barely illuminated the space ahead of him, but he could not afford to draw more attention to himself here. His other hand clutched his sword.

Ivan suppressed a shudder as he passed through the grotesque mass of curling roots.


No use.

Ivan had wandered around Tartarus for what seemed like hours, and there had been no sign of Alfred at all. The pit had turned maze-like the farther that Ivan had walked, its monstrous inhabitants all the more strange. The stench of rot and evil magic was almost overwhelming.

The gossamer wings of a centipede-bat flashed. Ivan ducked, but not fast enough. The creature skimmed the top of his head. He felt the minute tugs of its many pointed legs in his hair.

The distant clicking sound was closer. Much closer.

His fingers tightened around the sword hilt.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Ivan saw a flash of white. Ivan whirled around, sword held out in front of him.

"Show yourself," he snarled.

The clicking sound abruptly stopped. A low, raspy laugh reverberated through the airless darkness.

"So aggressive! I mean no harm."

An enormous spider the color of blanched corpses emerged from the shadows. Its back was thick was pustules—no, not pustules, eyes, Ivan realized—and it had eight gnashing jaws where its eyes should have been. The clicking sound had been from the teeth as the mouths opened and closed.

One of the jaws, the only one with a tongue, was speaking.

"Back from the war, General Braginsky?" Its front legs shot forward as the spider dipped into a low bow. Ivan stepped back in disgust. "Such a rare occasion that one of the highest-ranking demons would deign to visit us poor denizens of Tartarus," the spider wheedled. "What can this common one aid you with, noble sir?"

"I am looking for an angel," Ivan hissed.

The irises on the spider's back rolled in different directions. Another raspy laugh bounced off the walls of the claustrophobic space.

"The delicious little morsel that arrived earlier? We had been so sure that he was another gift from kind, generous King Bonnefoy. He put up quite a fight—cut down a whole herd of Baphomet-Satyrs, wouldn't you know? But I believe one of the Minotaurs bested him, eventually. It must be bored of him by now." A cacophony of clicks.

"To think that you, General Braginsky, had been the one to grace us with such a treat…" The spider crept closer, eight legs skittering across the slick ground. "We are grateful. If I go soon, I might even be able to get a bite. Oh," the long, blue tongue swiped across rotting teeth, "I'm positively salivating already."

The tongue stopped its obscene motion when the tip of a sword wedged itself between the jaws.

"Take me to the angel," Ivan commanded coldly. "If he's dead…" The threat hung in the stale air.

Four of the spider's back legs raised in surrender. "No need for violence, General Braginsky! I will gladly serve as your guide. Follow me." It turned so that its many eyeballs stared directly at Ivan. "And not to worry—we down here like to play with our food. No nibbles until the darling has given up out of despair, and only when it's still alive. Only the freshest for us!" A loud, clanking cackle rang through the pit.

"Perhaps I will be a bit self-indulgent, after all," the spider rumbled under its breath as it started to crawl along the side of a wall.

Grimacing, Ivan followed.


Ivan's boots were damp from sloshing around in putrid mud by the time that the spider halted. They were in another part of Tartarus now, but Ivan could not tell whether they had gone deeper within the pit, or closer to its aboveground entrance. The winding paths and suffocating darkness, the constant rustles and drips, confused all sense of direction.

Ivan saw a soft light a few meters away. It carried the distinctive purity of a Light-created object. That must be Alfred's sword. Ivan made to move closer when the spider spoke.

"You may not want to be too hasty, General Braginsky."

Ivan held up his hand higher and called forth more of his magic. The numbing glow in his palm flared, casting long shadows around the moist cavern.

Ivan inhaled sharply.

In front of him was a writhing mass of coal-black tentacles, each studded with spikes and cruel talons. Several were wrapped around the divine blade. More were wound around the outline of a figure—a figure with wings that hung at odd angles. Ivan caught the flame's reflection on metallic gold, a flash of dull blue.

Alfred.

"Well, there goes my meal," the spider sighed, disappointed. "An Aves-Kraken. It'll never share. Best of luck, General Braginsky!" With a final roll of its numerous eyes, the spider vanished, clicking, back into the darkness.

Ivan angled his blade at the monstrosity that entangled Alfred. "Drop him," the demon ordered.

The Aves-Kraken released a high-pitched shriek and constricted its hold on the angel. Alfred twitched weakly. In the middle of the bundle of oily tentacles, a curved beak split open, exposing rows of needle-like teeth.

Gritting his teeth, Ivan awakened the ice in his marrow and invoked the snowmelt of his blood. He had refrained from using his frozen magic for so long—the bitterness of the warfront at Heaven's hyperborean outskirts perpetually haunted him—but he had no other choice now. The kraken would rip Alfred apart before he could swing his sword.

Ivan raised his aglow hand. Hail battered the walls of the pit as a blizzard brewed. The kraken's thrashing slowed, its tentacles stiffening under hard, clear layers of ice. Ivan narrowed his eyes in concentration as the ice spread to coat the entire mass of the beast, careful to keep the chill from harming Alfred.

When the kraken was completely still, Ivan closed his hand. The creature shattered with a loud crack.

Alfred collapsed, face up, into the crystalline dust.

Ivan quickly made his way over, stooping down only to pick up the divine blade and the pair of blue-framed glasses next to it. The lenses didn't have so much as a scratch, Ivan noted with surprise as he slipped them into his pocket. They must have been enchanted with a charm to render them indestructible.

Hovering over Alfred, Ivan grimly wished that a similar spell had been cast on the angel. He was pale, body littered with deep gouges and wounds. Not only were his wings dirtied with dark sludge and grime, but feathers had been torn out in clumps and numerous fine bones snapped. A viscous, foul-smelling black liquid dribbled from between Alfred's lips and thighs. His right hand was closed tightly around something.

Ivan hoisted the unresponsive angel into his arms—Jones was far too light—and hunted for a way out of Tartarus.


Ladya took off for the stables the moment that Ivan dismounted. Barely sparing a glance at the pegasus, Ivan hurried through the halls of his castle. Soon he was at the highest tower in the most isolated wing.

Ivan knocked at the inlaid rosewood door. When no one answered, he knocked louder, practically hammering the copper handle against the wood.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," an annoyed voice called from within. The door opened to reveal a dark-haired man with delicate features, jeweled antlers, and a large stuffed cartoon cat in his arms.

"Ivan," he yawned. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Sorry, Yao," the demon general replied. He shoved Alfred forward, and the qilin's eyes widened. "I have an absolute birdbrain of an angel who requires medical attention."