Chapter Ten

The false sense of slow motion disappeared with the blows to everyone's backs from the beaks and claws of the birds. After the initial blast of pain, everything became fast-paced. The predicaments of any other person became lost in a blur of feathers and sharp beaks and claws. America swung his bat wildly, occasionally hearing the squawk from a direct hit. Germany slashed this way and that with his axe, sometimes cutting a bird down, sometimes missing, and sometimes striking a bird with the flat sides of the blade. Pooky, who had separated himself from Italy, was pouncing on birds left and right, swatting them and biting them, but more often than not, jumped on a different one before he'd finished one off. The effect being several wounded birds, but none dead on Pooky's account. Through the dense fog of yellow, America found himself in a tussle with Prussia. He swung his bat just as a bird pulled the thread that held his glove to his sleeve. His hand detached, still clutching the bat, and flew through the air, hitting Prussia square in the face. Despite the blood pouring from his nose, he lunged at America. America kicked and punched as well as he could with one of his hands missing. However, once again he found himself slipping away as the birds picked at his straw.

Germany was hand-to-hand with Spain. He swung his axe this way and that, but in the mass of birds, most of his attacks missed. He raised his axe to his shoulder, preparing to swing again, and stopped.

"Italy," he whispered.

"Germany!" Italy shrieked from above.

Germany swiftly turned his head in the direction of Italy's voice. Above his head, France had a hold of Italy. There were birds clinging to his robe and flying him up toward the castle, the effect being that the robe was holding him in the air, mooning Germany. After his momentary distraction by France's ass, Germany's attention shifted back to Italy. Pooky peeked out over Italy's collar.

"Italy!" Germany shouted.

"Germany!" Italy screamed back.

Spain, out of the cluster of birds, tackled Germany, redirecting his attention to the fight. Germany was on the ground, dented and dinged, his thoughts of Italy distracting him constantly. Finally, he gave up. Spain punched him repeatedly, but Germany couldn't feel a thing. He was numb all over, and a slow, cold sensation was creeping over him. A lump formed in his throat as he stared into space, looking to the left and to the right depending on where Spain's punches directed his face. A roar suddenly broke out, and Spain stopped punching. The remaining birds scattered, and Spain was suddenly off of Germany. Still, Germany just lay there.

It doesn't matter, he thought. It doesn't matter anymore.

He heard the words Romano was shouting, but they didn't register.

"Go shove a churro up your ass and feed it to France! I swear to all that is holy I'll chop your pecker off and replace it with a pencil!" he roared again.

Germany lay on his back looking at the sky, waiting, but for what, he didn't know. Death, perhaps.

"Hey, Tin-can potato," said Romano, standing over Germany.

Germany didn't reply.

"Get your metal ass up! They're gone, and we need to get to my brother."

Again, Germany said nothing.

"Are you just going to lie there like you're dead? Get up! Get up! Get the hell up!"

Leave me alone, Germany thought. Leave me alone to… to what?

"You should've asked the wizards for a pair of balls instead. Get off your back and help me find America! We still have a chance to help Feliciano, but if you don't get up now he's done for. Please, Germany."

This detail, the fact that Romano had called him 'Germany' rather than some German racial slur, called him back from the void.

"What are we going to do?" Germany asked, trying to tamp down the lump in his throat.

"First, wipe you face," Romano offered him his mane. "It's all wet."

Germany wiped his face and hoped Romano wouldn't say anything more about it. As soon as his face was dry, he and Romano went to find America. Once again, he had been nearly picked clean of his straw. Hurriedly, they repacked him.

Meanwhile, Italy stood trembling in France's presence. "Little Italy," France kept muttering. "New French territory, honhonhon…"

Italy held his cat close, and occasionally Pooky would struggle to get away. Scared as he was, Italy managed to find his voice. "G-Germany won't let you get away with this. H-he'll… he's on his way now, with Romano and… and America."

"I don't think so," France dismissed. "The birds, Spain and Prussia have taken care of them for sure."

France, however, had spoken too soon. Not three seconds after the sentence had left his lips, Spain and Prussia threw themselves through the door, looking very haggard, bruised and bloody.

"Hermano!" Spain cried. "We… the lion… he…"

"You two are useless!" France declared. "Come on, you need to be bandaged."

He strolled toward the door, ushered them out and slammed the door, locking Italy inside. Italy strolled to the window. Looking out, he could tell he was on the ground floor, and could see the drawbridge and the sentry post, which was empty. It occurred to him to escape, but a quick test of his legs through the window showed it was way too thin for him to get out through.

Suddenly, with a shrill meow, Pooky jumped free and leapt out the window, running as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

"Pooky!" Italy cried after him.

Pooky paid no attention to Italy. He just ran as quickly as his furry legs would allow him, leaving Italy behind in a dank and rather scary room. Italy shied away from the window and curled up into a ball, pressing his back against the chilly cinderblock wall of the room. "I hope Germany gets here soon," he whispered to himself.

Germany and Romano had just finished stuffing America when Pooky ran through the clearing, howling and meowing like a frightened cat will do. When America approached him, however, he jumped back in the direction that he came. Germany took the hint.

"He wants us to follow him," he declared.

With that, they ran after the cat as he led him to the castle. Once there, Pooky jumped back through the window.

"Pooky!" Italy cried when the cat jumped back into his lap.

"Italy!" they all said upon hearing his voice.

"You guys!" Italy's face appeared in the window. "Germany."

Although they were all smiling, Germany's grin was by far the widest. Very quickly, the smiles faded as Italy grew more frantic.

"You've got to help me get out of here," Italy insisted.

"Okay," America said. "But how?"

"Try your axe, Germany," Italy said.

"I'd have to go around and break the door from the outside," Germany said.

"I don't want to be left alone," Italy whimpered.

"I can stay here," Romano offered.

"Nein; I'll stay here," Germany said. He handed his axe to America. They exchanged short nods, and America grabbed hold of Romano's paw, pulling him along to find the door.

"Summon all of your courage, dude," America told him. "We might run into trouble."

Romano growled like the lion he was and gently pulled his paw away. Rather than running away like he would have done before, he walked alongside America, tensing what muscle he had and preparing for anything.

Germany watched them go, then turned his gaze to Italy. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine; it's just scary in here."

"Don't worry. We'll get you out, and we'll get you home." Germany was surprised at how sad he was to promise that.

"I'll miss you guys when I go back home," Italy muttered. "But maybe I can come back to visit."

"Not without another tornado," said Germany.

"I guess not. Um, Germany?"

"Ja?"

Italy leaned as far as he could through the window, and Germany followed his example. The last thing he saw was Italy's face growing ever closer, and then he shut his eyes. Without sight, he was more vulnerable to feel, and what he felt was warmth on his lips.