So here we are...the exciting feast ! More Hetalians are in danger, and we're getting closer to the winner...but who will it be ? Only a couple more chapter left :D
Thank you all for the reviews last chapter, they were so kind !
Chapter 30: The Feast.
Belarus gave out a grunt of pain, tugging the iron weapon out of her shoulder. She gritted her teeth as her shirt instantly stained with scarlet blood. Growling, the nation ripped off her sleeve, then tied it tightly around the wound, staunching the blood flow. There. THat would be good until Russia and her could get back to their base, at least. Luckily, whichever country who had hit her did not fire again, so she grabbed her five remaining throwing knives and her close combat knife, then peeked out of the bushes.
Brother Russia was locked in combat with the rascal England, who'd earned a twelve on training, beating out everyone else. He was smaller than his enemy, but faster, being able to dodge more blows. Meanwhile, Russia barely batted an eye as England panted and heaved, thrusting his spear at the large nation, only for him to block the Brit's strikes with relative ease. Russia stood in the man's way of the bountiful supply table, making anyone who wanted to snatch something for themselves have to get through him first...or be clever and quick enough to sneak past him.
Someone was. While all the tribute's attention was placed on the fight in front of the gazing eyes, Belgium leaped out of her bush, sprinting in a wide arc across the Cornucopia plain. While Russia's attention was diverted, she snuck up to the table, and snatched a pack of it's surface, then continued running for all she was worth into the thick, promising woods...yet right past Belarus.
The after mentioned nation gave a quirky grin, then reached for a sharp throwing knife. As the blond girl came closer, she drew back her arm and threw the weapon in a neat line. A look of fear and shock filled Belgium's eyes, and she paused, stepping back to avoid the knife's deadly line. At once, Belarus stood up, then rushed towards the other nation, who was only now dawning what was happening. The former soviet nation was only a few yards away when she launched her next knife...and this one was smiled upon by luck. With a pang, it stuck into Belgium's thigh, making the girl shriek in pain, then gingerly raise her blowgun as the danger ran closer. Taking a deep breath past the pain in her upper right leg, she fired right back at the aggressor, landing a clean hit with the dart on Belarus's forehead, the projectile sticking out of it like a small unicorn horn, with more blood dripping down her face.
"You bitch!" Belarus roared, throwing her next knife at point blank range. Eyes widening, Belgium raised her long blow gun once more, and fired with a steady, focused stream of air. The dart and knife left their holders at exactly the same moment.
...
Germany would not allow anyone, or anything, get in the way of him killing England. It just had to be done...England HAD to die, hopefully quite painfully, and at Germany's avenging hands. As the Brit fought Russia, both using spears, Germany shimmied out of the Cornucopia, slowly edging his way to the supply table where the battle raged. By this time, both combatants had gotten several wounds, blood flowing freely to the ground. England darted around Russia's latest strike, then stuck his own spear into the tall man's backside, causing him to grunt in pain. But, being the enormous superpower he was, Russia was not down quite yet. As he straightened out, England backed away slightly, looking tired and weary. Sweat and blood glistened on his sun baked skin.
The tall European nation raised his sword, and sprinted toward Russia. As Germany approached, the man turned, a look of amusement on his face, recognizing Germany, with who he'd fought two bloody wars.
Russia never spilled any words out.
Germany gnashed his teeth, then waved his sword with all the strength in his right arm. Due to being about the same height as his target, the deadly instrument slashed its way straight into Russia's neck, blood spewing out of the opened skin and windpipe like an overexcited garden hose, splashing itself all over Russia, Germany, England, and the grassy grounds. Giving on last ominous smile, but no cry of pain, Russia wilted to his knees, then tipped over, his blood everywhere. Boom.Hardly anyone paid attention to the canon.
...
Bewilderment and fear passed through Hungary, who sat on her haunches, hidden behind a leafy green bush. Her ally had just gone out to fight Russia, who, in turn, had been worn out before his neck was slashed open by Germany. Behind the trio, the bushes shook and quivered slightly. She guessed another fight must be happening there, between Belarus and Belgium, most likely. England's face portrayed a look of shock and relief as Germany kicked the fallen carcass that used to be one of the most fearsome forces in the Game aside. A hot fire blazed in Germany's piercing blue eyes as he stared the Brit down. Then the sword was ready to taste more thick, hot, and fresh blood of a dying nation.
Hungary gave off a small smile. Currently, there were only five tributes left, four of whom were engaged in fights, and one of whom was sitting still and waiting...her. If all went well, the remaining Hetalian tributes could soon be finished...and Hungary could be left.
..
"Time to finish you off, fiend!" Germany bellowed, barreling towards England. The blond man raised his spear, but Germany, fueled by adrenaline and not having just fought someone else, was stronger and faster. He slammed into England, and wrested him the the ground, punching the living hell out of him. England could only let out an occasional scream as Germany's fists pummeled his windpipe to smithereens.
As cold, harsh iron pressed against Britain's soft throat, his eyes clouded with tears. He'd failed everything. Protecting Sealand... winning for himself...even protecting his fickle ally Hungary...he hadn't done anything he was supposed to. Maybe he deserved death full well. Yes, that was it.
"You'll be with Sealand very, very soon..." England murmured under his breath. His voice was hoarse with blood, dust, dirt, and tears. "Sealand..."
...
The arms were easy enough for Germany to break. He took each one, twisted it, and then chopped them with his fists, relishing England's slight squeals of pain, and the tears flowing out of his emerald eyes. What a weakling. How did he earn a twelve in training. Cracks and snaps of shattering bones were music to the man's ears as he continued breaking his victim's bones, bringing on searing pain which he'd earned for himself. Germany than lay the limp, shaking man on the hot grass, and sat on his knees on top of his chest, the cage of bones sagging under his weight. If he stayed like this, Britain's heart would be crushed, just like Italy's death had crushed Germany's.
The German took the flat, heavy iron hilt of his sword, and bashed it into England's chest, caving in the bones and chest cavity around his heart and lungs. Those teasing green eyes were now dilated in fear and pain, as Germany let out a guffaw of delight. He lifted his knee a few inches off Britain's chest, then slammed it downward. More sickening cracks sang out across the field, blood flowing out of England's mouth and sides, blending with his tears. Next, Germany lifted his hands up, and brought the heels of the appendages down on the cracked chest as well, smashing the hard bones straight into the Brit's heart.
"There...how does a crushed heart feel, eh?" Germany hissed in England's ear. As he twisted himself around, England's ribs stuck out of his side like elongated, grotesque white fingers in the wrong place.
Germany's prey rasped, blood gurgling at the back of his throat. "It...hurts like bloody hell...ahhh..."
A smile flashing across his otherwise emotionless face like a rising sun, Germany lifted himself from England's chest, sneering at the dying nation. One last tear fell from the emerald eyes before they shut for good. One last, rasping breath full of saliva and blood rattled in a deathly plethora of noise from the biggest threat in the Games. England gave one last thought before blackness stole him from the pain of a crushed heart in so many ways. Sealand...I'm coming...
The sun set on the British Empire.
That loud, firm canon firing verified the fallen world power who would never come back.
...
"NOOOOOOOOO!" Belarus's yawp of sorrow and rage screeched through the entire arena.
Brother Russia was dead and cold. Her eyes narrowed at once between the feeling exploding with the force of atomic bombs in her chest.
Germany.
After picking off poor Brother, he'd killed another, the blond haired Brit, England. Well, Belarus really only cared about Russia...
Germany. He was going to die a painful death. Right now.
Hardly knowing or caring that Belgium had escaped, albeit bleeding heavily from her knife wounds, Belarus flew like wildfire into the open grass, ignoring the open cuts from where the darts had hit her. Germany was standing over England, looking smug and defiant. With a blazing passion, Belarus's knife came right towards Germany.