Thanks to Miss Akiyata and Dragonfire78 for reviewing.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

Chapter 18: Dreamcatcher

As the game progresses, things get more and more intense.

…

Gilbert and Gilen were still fighting, both proving formidable swordsmen. Gilbert had a few scrapes, but so did Gilen.

"You didn't think I would be so awesome with a sword, did you?" Gilbert said, as their swords locked.

Gilen smirked as he kicked his counterpart away.

"Ja, I'll admit you're good," Gilen said. "But not as good as me."

"Bitte. I'm more awesome than you."

Gilen closed his eyes, and when he opened them, Gilbert was caught off guard when he saw the absolutely bloodthirsty look in the blue eyes.

"I was just warming up," Gilen said, charging again, with more force that Gilbert thought possible.

Gilbert blocked, and he was alarmed by the pain that suddenly shot in his wrist. That was not good.

…

Felic smirked. So, that was the significance of the phoenix. Well then, it was time that the cycle be broken.

He kicked the chair backwards, letting it fall. Feliks yelped, right before the chair landed on the ground, Feliks's head along with the chair.

"Let's see how long it takes you to break," he said, looking into the dazed green eyes. "This would really be fun."

…

Wales entered Poland and Lithuania's room. Poland was whimpering in pain, and Lithuania was shivering, his lips taking on a blue hue, his entire face scrunched up in pain.

Wales was immediately concerned, feeling Lithuania's skin. He was as cold as ice.

He went to the closet to see if there were any extra blankets, hoping that they would be able to help. After that, he pulled out his cell phone.

…

Scotland went into Spain and France's room. Spain was screaming, and France was whimpering as well, tossing his head side to side, biting his lip as well.

Scotland frowned. There was no obvious sign of what was happening, but he could see that both of them were in pain. He deduced that from the scrunched faces, and the tears rolling down France's face.

He turned to the jug of water on the bedside table and poured it out over the two of them. He growled in frustration when it didn't do anything but make them wet.

"This is getting really annoying," he muttered.

…

Ireland went to Norway and Romania's room. Lukas's face was scrunched in pain, and Romania's was consumed by fear.

The scent of blood managed to reach him, and he went towards Lukas, pulling away the covers, where Lukas's hands were clutched tightly against his chest. He saw that the knuckles of his left hand were bloody.

"Great," he said. "Here we go again."

…

Jamaica was relaxing in his room, listening to soothing music.

He had dark skin and dreadlocks tied in a ponytail, and his eyes were a dark brown, almost black. He was tall and skinny. He wore an oversized green shirt with a pair of jeans and he usually walked around barefoot.

And contrary to popular belief, he wasn't always smoking marijuana. Only when he and Netherlands were in the same room together, asides from meetings. There would be too many Nations that would want to kill them if they did that.

He looked up when he heard a familiar jingle. Don't worry, be happy. It was his cell phone.

He stood up from the bed and walked over to the desk in his room, where he kept his phone.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Jamaica, this is Wales."

He frowned. Why would Wales call him?

"What can I help you with?" he asked.

"What do you know about dream magic? Specifically, how do you stop someone from being attacked in their dreams?"

Before he could ask, he heard a scream of pain.

"Wales, what's going on?"

"I don't have time to explain. Just, please. You told me that someone would have to have a strong magic touch and ill-intentions to use this kind of spell. Now, how do you stop it? Please, England is under this as well, along with seven other Nations."

Jamaica sighed. Bring in the family, why don't you?

"The best advice I could give is go to America and ask if he could give you a dreamcatcher. He'd have to look around, but if I remember right his mother made him a few. Unless you want to make your own? They'll be stronger."

"There's not exactly time to make them. I'll see if I can get to America. Thank you."

"No problem."

Wales hung up on him, and Jamaica immediately moved to call America.

"Yo, what's up? Need a job again?"

"No. You still have your mother's dreamcatchers, right?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Wales would be coming soon. You know, England's older brother, in case you're confused. It sounds like England's in trouble."

"Why, having nightmares?"

"Just, help him out, okay."

"Okay, but I'll have to go to my storage room. Could always ask Mexico to do that. It would be decent payback."

"I heard you," a voice came from the other end.

"Anyway, gotta go," America said, hanging up.

Jamaica sighed as he went through his old CDs. Now, he had a reason to want to relax.

And then he'll see if he can enter the astral plane and help out with whatever it is.

…

Northern Ireland tried to return to where he was, but an unfamiliar castle in the dark was a hard place to navigate.

His chest stung, and so did his face. The salt of his tears managed to mix with the wounds, causing them to sting even more.

He needed to get to the others. He could still hear the screams, and knew that he would have to return to them. They needed his help.

…

America sneezed as he dug into the box. The items were old, and he hadn't opened the box since England took him in.

"America," Mexico said, entering the room. "Wales is here."

America looked up to see a brunet with the same green eyes as England, and his thick eyebrows was just a little thinner.

"So, you're Iggy's brother?" America asked.

"Yes," Wales said. "William Kirkland, also known as Wales. So, have you found those dreamcatchers yet?"

"I'm looking," America said. "So, what was England like as a little kid? I bet you have a few funny stories."

"We didn't like him back then," Wales said. "We still sometimes like to mess with him, particularly Ireland and Scotland, but it's nothing compared to when we were younger. I'm sometimes just a little embarrassed."

"I bet his imaginary friends got him teased a lot," America said, finding one dreamcatcher.

"They're not imaginary. We can't tease him because we can see them too."

America looked at the older Nation, and Wales sighed.

"We have the magic touch, so we can see things that others can't. We hold onto the wonder longer. There are other Nations as well. England's closer with fairies and Flying Mint Bunny, which is a Celtic spirit. Scotland's got a few pet unicorns. One of them likes to spend time around England, and another was given to you as a gift."

"Oh yeah, I remember. Didn't believe that, but I played along. Tony did tell me once that there was something."

"Yeah. Then the Ireland twins have leprechauns."

America handed the four dreamcatchers that he had to the Welshman.

"And what about you?" he asked.

Wales smiled, as he turned to leave.

"Dragons," he said. "I have a lot of pet dragons."

And America and Mexico shuddered. They will remember not to make Wales angry.

…

Arthur was surrounded by flames. They were closing in on him, and made the smile on Oliver's face look more menacing than it was. And it was menacing to begin with.

"Let's bake you, shall we?" Oliver asked.

…

Patrick jumped when he heard England scream. It would seem it has started there as well.

…

Scotland rushed into England's room, and the scent of burning flesh reached him.

Arthur was writhing, screaming in pain. His face appeared to be becoming red, and when Scotland touched him, he was extremely hot, as though he was on fire.

"Come on, wake up," he said, grabbing the water on the bedside table and pouring it over his brother.

…

Oliver chuckled as he watched Arthur burn. He felt satisfied, and decided that this would be the ideal time to depart, before something came up that would interfere. Again.

…

Scotland jumped when England's eyes opened. He was gasping for breath, his green eyes unfocussed.

"Are you alright, Artie?" Alistair asked gently.

Arthur's response was to cough.

Now Scotland regretted pouring out the water over his brother.

…

Wales returned to Poland and Lithuania's room. He immediately attached one of the dreamcatchers to the bedposts. He hoped this would work, otherwise he would be clueless about how to help them.

He went to Spain and France's room next. He wasn't sure where Scotland disappeared to, but he didn't care. The other two still seemed to be in pain.

Ireland looked at him oddly when he went to Norway and Romania's room. He explained that this was Jamaica's suggestion, and Ireland nodded in understanding.

Lastly, he went to England and Prussia's room, and he was surprised to see Scotland there, comforting a now-awake England, who was trembling violently, his eyes unfocussed.

"Is he alright?" Wales asked.

Scotland looked to him and shrugged.

"I think he got burned," Scotland said, rocking his younger brother. "He's hot, and his skin was turning red. And… I smelt burning flesh."

It was then that Scotland noticed the dreamcatcher.

"What's that?" Scotland asked.

"I asked Jamaica if he knew what to do," Wales explained. "I remember that he was especially gifted with dream magic. The only suggestion he could make was this thing from America."

"Let's hope it works then," Scotland sighed, looking at the sleeping Prussian, whose face was scrunched up in distress.

…

Gilbert was disarmed, pinned to the ground with Gilen's sword pointed at his throat. The other still had an insane gleam in his eyes.

"What are you going to do now?" Gilbert asked.

Gilen arched his brow, and the sword went from the throat to his shoulder, where he started to press it down.

Gilbert refused to scream, and tried to struggle away, but Gilen's boot found its way on his chest, preventing Gilbert from moving away.

Gilen had angled the sword just so, that the blade slipped between the two bones.

Gilbert winced when he felt the blade grind down between two different bones. This was being done deliberately, with care. It wasn't like any other battle wound he received before. Other times, it was always done fast, and it was always in the heat of the moment. Now: it was cold, calculated, and slow.

"It's unfair," Gilen said, his voice void of emotion. "I'm broken, but you're not. Let's fix that, shall we?"

The sword was plunged in deeper, and Gilbert grunted.

Gilen smirked as he removed the sword. He had only narrowly avoided severing the other's arm, but that wouldn't take much more. Instead, he would leave it as is. Let's see how reckless Gilbert was.

"There's something missing," Gilen mused. "I know."

He brought the tip of the sword towards Gilbert's cheek, and made a slice, shallow enough, but the wound mirrored his own scar.

"Auf Wiedersehen," Gilen said, and Gilbert started to black out.

…

Vlad kept running, hoping to escape.

He was so caught up that he didn't see when he ran into something. And with his hands still tied behind his back, he couldn't stop his fall.

He opened his eyes, expecting to see the ceiling, but his eyes caught a pair of red eyes framed by a pale face with black hair.

"Where did you think you were going?" Marius asked.

…

Gilbert opened his eyes, cradling his left arm at the shoulder.

"Are you alright?" Wales asked.

"Nein," he whispered. "That arschloch almost severed my arm."

"Your face is bleeding," Scotland said.

Prussia then took notice of the shaken Englishman and sighed.

"Any of the others awake yet?" he asked.

"Not that I'm aware of," Wales said. "I'll go check."

"And I'll go clean up."

…

While Feliks was still stuck on the ground, strapped to the chair, Felic had conjured several bottles of vodka. He had created a large bowl where he proceeded to crush the bottles. The shards were very small, almost invisible. The largest was around the same size as a fingernail.

He then conjured another large bottle, empty this time, and proceeded to carefully tip the contents of the bowl into the bottle.

When Feliks saw the contents of the bottle, he paled, and started to struggle, in spite of his aching head.

Felic smirked and crouched down beside Feliks, forcing his mouth open and tilting the bottle so that the contents poured down his throat.

And Feliks was forced to swallow, unless he wanted to drown.

…

Toris couldn't shiver anymore. His limbs ached, and his back became numb. Tolys had reopened every single one of the scars. At first they stung, but as the temperature continued to drop, he could no longer feel it.

He looked up to Tolys, who watched him with amusement.

"W-why?" he whispered.

"Because I enjoy seeing others in pain," Tolys said.

"W-why d-d-do y-you h-ha-ate m-me?"

Tolys's eyes narrowed.

"Your eyes," he said. "They're the eyes of someone that would bow down to anyone. I hate it. You're too submissive. And I hate those eyes in my face. They're the opposite of what I always see."

Toris sighed, and he saw his breath in front of him. So, that was why he was doing it?

The opposite. They couldn't take it that the opposite of themselves are reflected.

…

Francis was finally released, and he spit the vile thing out of his mouth, gasping for breath as well.

Quite a lot of the tobacco had gone down his throat, both as smoke and as a solid.

"Stop, s'il vous plaît," Francis whispered, before he started to cough.

Francois's eyes narrowed before he punched Francis in the stomach, winding him while he was already gasping for breath.

"I won't," Francois said, grabbing Francis's hair and pulling him along the hall, towards a window.

Francis's eyes widened. They weren't exactly on the first floor, and there was quite a drop below them.

Francois opened the window, and stepped towards the balcony. He pushed Francis over so that his upper body leant over the railing. He applied pressure on his back while pulling on his hair, causing the Frenchman to cry out in pain.

"Let's see how strong your hair is," Francois said as he applied more pressure to the other's back, causing his feet to lift off the ground, and pulling harder on the hair.

And Francis knew what was going on. If his hair was pulled out by the strain, he would fall.

…

Jamaica had finally arrived through the astral plane. He had tried England's home first, but there was no one there. He finally attempted to track the Brit down, and had found him at Romania's castle.

In a bed with Prussia.

And both of them looked rather shaken, and England seemed mildly burned. Well, Nations healed fast from burns.

He then went to the next room. France and Spain were sharing a bed, and he could see the dreamcatcher on the bedpost glowing. That meant that one, or both of them, were having a nightmare.

He decided to help out, but whom?

A scream made up his mind.

…

"No more!" Antonio shouted, his limbs stretched to the limit.

"Aw," Alejandro said. "But you sound so wonderful. I want to hear more of it."

He attempted to turn the crank again, but a hand stopped him. He looked up with wide eyes when he saw a pair of dark eyes looking at him with anger.

"Who are you?" Alejandro demanded.

"Jamaica," the newcomer answered. "The Nation with the magic touch of dreams."

Alejandro growled, before he looked towards Antonio.

"You're lucky this time, amigo," he said, before he smirked. "See you tomorrow."

And with that, he was gone.

Jamaica moved to free Antonio from his bonds.

"Alright," he sighed. "You should be waking up now any moment."

"Gracias," Antonio said.

"I'll ask later what's going on. Right now, it seems the others need my help too."

…

Spain awoke with a start, breathing heavily. His arms and legs ached terribly, and his hands were trembling.

He looked towards France and saw that his face was also twisted in pain.

He looked up when Wales entered the room, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Are you okay?" William asked.

"I don't know," Spain said, trying to stand, but failing.

Wales was at his side in an instant, helping him back in the bed.

"Jamaica came to help," Spain said. "At least, I think it was him. I hope it wasn't just a dream."

"Jamaica is an expert on dream magic," Wales said. "Let's hope he can help."

…

Francis tried to get his feet on the ground again, but Francois kept pushing harder. Francis grabbed the railing with his hands, hoping that it could at least prevent him from being pushed farther.

How was Francois even doing it?

"I've had a lot of practice with focussing two different muscles in different directions," Francois said, as though he could read his thoughts. "I've done this many times before. I've done it with Italy's curl before, when he was still a young Nation. Long story short, never doing that again."

Francis suddenly felt the pressure being released, and he almost fell, if someone didn't grab him from around the waist to help him up.

"Interruptions aren't fun," Francois said.

Francis was trembling, but the one that held him massaged his back soothingly.

"Don't worry, he's gone."

…

Jamaica left France's dream a moment before the Frenchman woke. Wales asked if he was alright, but France shook his head, holding his hand over his mouth, and rushing out of the room, most likely to a bathroom.

Jamaica noticed that the dreamcatcher stopped glowing, and sighed in relief.

He was good with dream magic, but it helped if his target had a dream charm nearby, such as the dreamcatchers.

Now, he had to help the others. It wasn't lost on him that the intruders looked nearly identical to the Nations they were attacking, but he had no time to wonder about it.

There were others that needed his help.

Ok, so I didn't want to go with the stereotype that Jamaicans were always high, and instead just made him easy going. I mentioned in a previous chapter that he had the magic touch, and I figured giving someone easy going a specialty over dreams would fit.

Also, sorry if things seem rushed. Real world is making a lot of demands at the moment.