I shall try to update this at least one more time before I start camp. And thank you Roderica Edelstein for being a fabulous reviewer! :D I shall indeed keep up the awesomeness, thankee :D
On a less happy note I've really ticked off my mom so whenever I use my laptop, it's in "undercover computer mode" which means setting it up under my pillow and hiding it the rest of the time so she won't take it to work and leave it there again. :P
Contains: sort-of-not-really 2p Iggy, and Italy and the FIELD-CEPTION! MUAHAHAHA okay not really. Let's have a rundown of nightmares, shall we?
Inside his head there were nightmares. Rags of yellow and red and black streamed past, a hurricane scooping up dust and stars and cleaning the flesh from his bones, and when he awoke, drenched in cold sweat, there were green and blue afterimages twirling across his vision.
Italy felt very small and very alone. He felt his thoughts dancing out of reach, his mind slipping away on wings of pasta. They'll come up with a plan! he chanted to himself, and briefly felt better.
But then the big cloud of loneliness felt like it was slowly strangling him. Italy had always been afraid of being alone. He had monophobia. He'd gotten Germany to look it up for him.
A high pitched chirp distracted him, and he saw a bird in the corner of his cell. It was small, and fat, and quite obviously wasn't there. If it were, it'd be implausibly tangible, as he'd heard Japan say before. He was bad at recognizing birds. This one was no different. It was white with gray and black feathers on the wings, and a narrow black beak. It hopped back and forth and tapped at the floor with its beak, searching in vain for food.
Enthralled, Italy slowly reached out to it, hoping it would come near him. To his great delight, it did, and even hopped onto his arm. He was hungry and tired and his mouth ached, and the floor of the cell was colder than the air, but the touch of the bird was soothing, and the least he could do was provide it a warm place to hide. It began nesting in his hair. Its little feet were warm against his scalp, a remembrance of life.
He closed its eyes. Almost instantly the cyclone of fire spun up behind his eyes, peeling his skin away and-
The bird pecked his head and hopped forwards to look into his eyes, which were actually open for once. It stared at him solemnly, and maybe it was just the moment, but Italy felt as if it were staring into his soul.
On a whim, he asked "Do you understand me?"
The bird chirped.
Italy's face lit up with a trace of the old cheerfulness. "Really?" And he found himself telling the whole story to the bird (who sat on his leg and watched him like a good listening complain does), about his life, about how much he missed HRE, about how he wished someone (preferably Germany, the rest were kinda scary) would rescue him…
And when all the words were dried up and empty, the bird hopped back onto his head and nestled securely in his hair.
It fell asleep. Determined not to be left alone, Italy also fell asleep, dreaming of a big field to fall asleep in.
Germany's nightmare was full of darkness and inhuman wails, fiery eyes glinting from the shadows. He wasn't quite sure where he was, but darkness was all there was, and the things that growled and snapped at his ankles seemed very much real. Is it only a dream? he thought worriedly, and then tried to force his thoughts into order. First things first, to find out where I am... he seemed to be on a small platform suspended above a pit of writhing creatures that hissed and screeched, and perhaps had wings, from the leathery flapping noises he heard. The platform he was on shuddered as something landed on the edge and hissed. He saw reflections off of fangs, and claws, and then it was upon him.
He fended it off with the barest of luck, the only injuries being several deep pinholes from the claws and fangs, and with a mighty kick forced it off the edge. Panting, he crouched where he felt the edge of it and tried to pierce the darkness with his eyes, only withdrawing when a set of jaws snapped shut inches from his face. Disheartened, he sat in the middle of his platform and tried to discover any feasible method of escape that wouldn't get him mauled. He leaned back and looked up to where tiny windows gleamed, spilling barely visible dusky light down onto his face.
Germany sighed, and as if on cue, a silhouette fluttered down from the windows. It was an awfully long drop, and the silhouette wasn't much but a dust mote that slowly got larger until a bird landed on his face. He blinked in surprise before looking at it straight in the eyes. The way the eyes were shaped and the crooked smile on the beak almost reminded him of Italy, and he almost laughed out loud. Instead of laughing, a smile came to his face, and with the smile, the realization that the unearthly sounds from below had ceased, and more light had filtered through the windows. He could see the ground. It was a dark beige, and dusty, but there were no sign of the beasts.
There was a door. He slid off the platform, reaching out for the bird, but it was gone. Gone? Germany shrugged, though he felt a little sad, and, after a good heave, pushed the door open and left.
Japan was being buried alive. He was battered and dazed and his hair was matted with dried mud, a filthy rag stuffed into his mouth. His hands were tied behind his back, and his ankles were roped as well. He writhed in panic, stretching the bindings as familiar faces leered down at him, flinging shovelfuls of dirt down the pit until his vision was dark and he was confined to twisting, undignified, like a worm. Why am I even here? he thought wildly, and strained with the soil's oppressing weight. This can't be happening, there's nothing wrong with my economy and I haven't angered the others, have I?He kept yanking at the bindings, and when he opened his mouth to scream, dirt slipped in around the edges and filled his throat with mud.
Calm down. This isn't like you. With much effort, he forced himself to be still and try to breathe as calmly as possible. The soil was still loose, time not having compressed it into a more solid block, and he was barely able to breathe. At least he could. It was a small comfort, though, since the little air he could breathe was quickly becoming stale, and there were colored lights at the edges of his vision.
He thrashed, but weaker now, and when he finally slumped in defeat, there was something warm by his neck. It pecked him, twice, as if to say 'Wake up!'
And the dream abruptly changed. The dirt slid off him like water, and he rose up and out. Am I dead? He wondered with no small amount of trepidation. But no, it wasn't to be. He wasn't dead.
He remembered the bamboo forests surrounding China's house, and found that he was young again. These dreams work in mysterious ways. I'm reliving another memory, I see...And so Japan exchanged a nightmare for a bittersweet memory.
China was still running from the murderer, breathe rasping loudly in his lungs as the malicious laugh seemed to emanate from everywhere. He whirled around again, legs screaming for a break, and saw the silhouette appear, the teeth gleaming white stained with red, even if the rest of the creature was indistinct. The eyes were heavy in his pocket as he ran on.
The pipe swung over his head and he missed it, barely. The murderer was gaining, and China feared to imagine what would happen to him if the murderer caught him. It was hard to distinguish between the nightmare and the nightmarish reality, and he found it surprisingly hard to pick which place he preferred.
There was a building ahead, solidly built, and even a strong creature like the murderer would take time to break his way in. Hope soared in his chest, only to be quenched viciously as the pipe snagged the back of his jacket. China tripped before he could shrug out of it and landed wrong on a sharp shard of metal. Warm blood flowed down his leg, and the murderer laughed and bent to catch a few dribbles in his hand. Repulsed by this action, the Asian nation shuddered and yanked away, drawing on hidden reserves of strength he'd never known he'd had, or had perhaps forgotten about.
I'm still not going to make it, aru...
A bird flitted past him, and the sight was so startling that he slowed to a stop to stare at it. Behind the bird came a trail of almost impossible color, a swath of red and gold friendlier than the surrounding red-gold light widening to engulf him, embrace him. It was a good light, and the murderer was left behind in the dust.
He was drowning when he awoke in the space of his dream, though at the time, he was not aware it was a dream. In his cell, water ran from the top corners, a methodical drip, drip, drip that scared him. The water was already pooling around his knees, the narrow-spaced bars acting as a sort of invisible barrier. In the time it took to blink, France was up to his knees in water.
The water wasn't too cold, or too hot. It was just right, and that scared him more than it would've if the water was on either side of the heat spectrum.
Another blink. Flash flood up to his belly button. And then his shoulders. And then-
He was up to his head, and the water was turning darker around him until he couldn't see. France knew he was supposed to look for the bubbles, but it was too dark for the bubbles. He swam in the direction his head was, expecting to bump into the ceiling, but his hands met air and then found a rough, jagged surface. He pulled himself out - nevermind his hands, cuts heal - thanking all the gods he could think of, and rubbed the water from his eyes.
He wished he hadn't.
It wasn't water he was swimming in after all. It was blood, a great tide of it, as if every person who'd ever lived expired and vomited their blood up and out. He was perched on a fragment of a building, tossed and turned over and around the sides of ruined buildings. The sky was full of burgundy-tan clouds that tainted the light mauve. Everything was wrong with it...
France gasped. He knew this place.
He turned around, and just knew he'd see the shape of the Eiffel Tower, drowned as well in blood. He let himself give in to despair, not even sparing a moment to wash the blood from himself. His tears did that well enough.
By and by there was a bird, small, black and white. He picked it up, leaving sticky red fingerprints on it, and wished himself back to his beautiful, normal, not blood filled city.
As if by magic, his wish came true.
England screamed again as the fiery iron branded him again, shredding his already ragged green uniform for the umpteenth time. The pain was instant, a rocket to the brain. Another one.
His captor looked almost like him. Almost, but not quite. The basic build was the same, and the blond hair was nearly the same shade. Their faces were equally proportioned, but this not-him's eyes were a bright, dazzling turquoise, and there were pale freckles across his paler cheeks. This demon's teeth were pointed, and the ears were as well, as if he were an elf. Also, he had a hat, and was dressed in peculiar pink and blue clothes that were now painted crimson with blood.
"Some artists use pastels, and some paint. Some sketch with charcoal on starched white canvases. But only the best-" the demon paused and giggled, a shrill keening sound that hurt his brain, "paint with blood on the canvas of a human body." England was used to this intonation, having heard it several times.
If you thought about it, England thought, I am a painting in that way. But that's his point. Instead of acknowledging the apparition's truth, he spat "You're mad!"
"Completely!" giggled the other. "Absolutely! Stellar realization, sir, it's not as if it's obvious." The breath was driven from England's lungs as the creature danced forwards and jammed the iron into his ribs again. England only barely stifled his scream. His throat hurt, and he wouldn't give the other the satisfaction.
"Never will you take me!" hissed England, glaring as blood dripped into his face. He could at least pretend to be defiant, even if he were quaking inside.
"Never will you take me!" mocked the other in a truly impressive copy of his voice. The brand dove in for the third time, possibly cracking some ribs, and England broke his promise not to scream.
As if he'd screamed it out, a bird with a wet red thumbprint on its chest flapped and landed in the hollow of England's caved-in ribs. The pain, sharp at first, healed him, a cool wave blanketing his senses.
He was sitting on a bench, staring into the water. He leapt up. "The water! It's absolutely filthy! God bless the Thames!" England had never been happier to be home.
America could always recall the Revolutionary War like it was yesterday. One of the worst conflicts, and it had severed his trust with his brother. The muddy ground, the rain, a terrible half-torrent half drizzle that left everybody disheartened and miserable. The air was out of focus, because he'd not yet acquired much of Texas, the vague horizon dashed into the mud. This was an old nightmare, one he'd been plagued with many times, though he'd tried to bury it in his subconscious.
Against the backdrop of mud and sky was a smear of red. England. All the hurt and betrayal and loss gathered up into his eyes until they shone darkly with tears.
There was the speech America gave, about freedom and independence, his mouth moving against his will to the inexorable ending. England charged forwards, bayonet pointing straight at him. America's general gave the order to fire. America braced himself, startled by the mad grief in the green eyes that had raised him. The inner America also braced himself, but for a different thing.
As it had been in life, the blade of England's bayonet skittered along America's musket, leaving a scar in the wood.
And here, a divergence, the nightmare rearing its ugly head.
The gun didn't fly in the air as it had in life. Instead, it jerked in his hands as if it had a mind of its own. The blade crooked sideways and in the force of the charge, England impaled himself on the bayonet, sliding up it with a bemused expression on his face. "America..." he rasped, blood gurgling in his lungs, one hand reached out to his ex-younger brother as if to smooth the rain-soggy hair out of his eyes. Blood hosed from the wound, spattering America's revolutionary uniform with an arc of scarlet.
And then England's hand dropped, and the life went out of him. The weight at the end dragged the blade out of his hands and down, and England sprawled in a crumpled heap, the mud around him turning pinkish.
"No..." gasped America. "No, I didn't mean..." He fell to his knees next to the other nation. "This isn't how it's supposed to be..." The mud and blood and rain disguised the tears that he told himself weren't there. This felt all too real, and doubt crawled into his mind.
What if this is real?
No. It can't be.
A small bird alighted on England's corpse. It was a monochrome gray, like the world felt. As he looked at it, the world shimmered around him until a familiar clamor met his ears. Ah, NYC at its finest.
America didn't understand what had happened, but he didn't care. The smoky scent of Times Square mixed with the food from so many restaurants and the babble of voices and loud music into a welcoming potpourri. He was home, if only for the space of a dream.
Russia's dream was full of the ever-present burning. His sisters, the Baltics, the sunflowers. Tails of fire leapt from their every pore. It was a repeat. He hated it. It hurt, it was devastating, as if someone had ripped his heart out and was squeezing it. He didn't want to go further into detail, as there was too much blood in the flames now. Not like any of the revolts, rebellions scattered through his history. Those had their own sting, their own poison. He used to think nothing hurt more than those, but once again he was proven wrong.
As his world collapsed around him, he was breaking.
A plump little bird landed in front of him as he lay motionless in flames. It peeped at him and pecked his face, trying to rouse him.
Russia didn't move, floating far out in the blackness beyond the smoke. Something was near him. His nerves talked to him from a far, echoey distance. Go away! Leave me to die in peace!
More annoyed, the bird sprang onto his face and jumped up and down.
The blackness around him dispelled, Russia opened one eye to the bird. It was cooler now, and to his surprise and joy he was covered in snow. Pure, beautiful white snow. Not ashes, but snow. He laughed for joy, his dream spinning off into snow and sunflowers and a crystalline blue sky, with the minarets of St. Basil's Cathedral poking up in the distance.
Russia frowned, briefly perplexed. He didn't know of any endless fields of sunflowers near the cathedral. But it was too good to not believe, and he spun in circles, knocking the snow off the sunflowers, smiling.
And Italy's dreams and words and general goodwill eased the nightmares of all the nations. It wasn't magic as England would define it, but perhaps a sort of link between the nations, a connection broadcasted out when they truly needed it. The imaginary bird brought solace to the weary minds of the battered nations, if only for a short while, and maybe even healed a few mental scrapes.
They all slept peacefully.
For now.