Reality has shit the bed.

Warning: Angst, violence, frightening images, FrUK, death scene, demonic forces, RusAme.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

Internal Immolation

Arthur was crawling through the grass, his head snapping side to side, searching for other members of his group. He shouldn't be the only one, he knew that much—there was something else in the grass with him. Something else, because Arthur could only identify that its mind was present and working… alive. He kept moving, kept looking, not sure whether he should be afraid of what he might find.

And then a shadow caught his attention. He whipped his head around, muscles stiffening. The thing moved toward him, a virtually shapeless mass of black. As tense as he was, he could not run. For some reason he knew that wasn't an option. If he stood above the grasses, he would be seen. He knew that he would be dead then. He didn't even have the courage to peer above at the sky.

All he could do was watch and wait. He could practically hear his heart pounding in his chest, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. Then his mind touched whatever it was that was coming toward him and he realized…

This was not human. It wasn't animal either. It was something that had a mind so clouded with black, choking smoke that Arthur could not penetrate it for more than a moment without going faint.

But it felt strangely familiar to him, though he knew it shouldn't rightfully be. This thing wasn't a part of his mind. It belonged to a creature totally different, and no one had ever been able to occupy his mind so much that he felt an intimate connection with them, like they were a part of his consciousness…

And that may have scared the shit out of him more than the thing that was slinking toward him through the grass, now only a few feet away. Arthur held his breath, putting up barriers in his mind, but finding with much alarm that he hadn't the strength or ability to do so. His very self was now open for anyone to take over.

Before he could try to protect himself some other way, the thing before him stopped moving altogether. It sat there for what seemed like hours, and Arthur stared, feeling it staring right back at him. He held his breath.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the thing launched itself forward through the grass and right at him. It was so black, it seemed to swallow what little light there was surrounding it. He saw two, milk-white eyes, the pupils nonexistent, the orbs themselves large and pale. Blood dripped from the eyes down bony cheeks. The skin was stretched over the bones, as if there wasn't enough to cover the entire face, torn and ragged. The thing had a muzzle akin to that of a crocodile jutting out of a face that looked practically like a human skeleton. Horns curled over its head, blood red.

Arthur immediately tried to put up barriers to protect himself, but then he saw the creature's forehead open into a large, red orb. The third eye stared into his soul, paralyzing him with fright, and just like that he was incapacitated.

The crocodile jaws opened, and three rows of six-inch fangs closed around him.

"Arthur!" Francis cried out and ran toward the flames. He heard Matthew yelling behind him, but he didn't stop. Arthur had fallen into the grass, and the fire was quickly going through it, burning up the dry strands every heartbeat. It popped and sizzled with magical energy, feeding off of it and the fuel it was consuming as it surrounded its maker.

The Frenchman reached a wall of flames and stared at it, the heat stinging his eyes and the smoke clogging his lungs. Summoning his courage, he dashed through, feeling parts of his clothes catch fire but not bothering to stop long enough to put it out. He looked frantically around for the Briton, hoping to God he wasn't burned alive, and he found him, a crumpled mass lying prostrate in the field a few feet away. Flames were beginning to extend their tendrils toward his body, touching his clothes, his hair.

Francis ran toward him, patting out the fire that had gotten to him and grabbing him under his arms, dragging him to an opening in the flames for it only to close up the moment he arrived. Francis yelped and looked around, but there was no other way out.

He would have to go through the flames again.

So he held his breath—what little of it he had—and dove through, pulling Arthur with him. He screamed as he felt his skin burn, but he didn't stop, dragging Arthur away from the fire until he was too tired to drag him anymore.

By then, fortunately, Alfred had run up to help him.

"You okay?" Alfred asked, though even he knew it was a stupid question.

Francis nodded despite his burns. "Oui—Arthur," He was patting out the flames that had caught on Arthur's clothes and hair. He barely tended to himself before his own body was burned.

"I know," Alfred told him and picked the Briton up in his arms, throwing him over his shoulder. He ran, and he hoped Francis was following him because his legs would not stop, especially not when Arthur was dying.

The Briton flapped listlessly against his back as he ran through the field. Alfred didn't have time to stop and feel for a pulse or even feel him breathe, but he refused to believe that Arthur was dead, because how could he be? Arthur had always been there, always…

When he reached the rest of his group, who had been standing there watching the scene play out, Alfred didn't stop and yelled at them, "Move!"

No one protested that order, and they were running as far away from the field as they could. Behind them, the fire spread, though it slowed after it reached the end of the tall grasses and did not attempt to pursue them. And then something peculiar happened.

It just… went out.

"Stop," Ivan said, and everyone did so. He scrutinized the field and its lack of flames for a moment before turning to Alfred. "Lay him down."

Alfred's heart jumped into his throat as he laid Arthur down on the ground and was finally able to examine his pale, expressionless face. There was a nervous edge in Ivan's voice that was worrying. He noticed that the Russian's scarf was wrapped around his torso, and he was holding his left side, wincing as he moved. Ivan knelt down beside Arthur. He looked like he was asleep.

"What's wrong with him?" Alfred asked tremulously. Please, don't be dead. Please… He didn't know what he would do if Arthur died. He remembered how devastated Matthew had been when he thought that Francis had died, and he was afraid that that would soon be him.

Ivan touched the Briton's forehead. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He performed magic himself, and he knew from the moment that Arthur had lit that field on fire that he was in over his head. What had he been thinking? Had he even been thinking at all? "That fire went out so suddenly for a reason… magic runs on energy. And when its energy source goes out, it goes out."

"'Goes out'?" Alfred asked, feeling his stomach sink. "Oh, no… no, he can't be, he can't… I won't let him!" Alfred resorted back to the defiant behavior of his earlier childhood, but how could he help it? He had practically lost a parent. His eyes burned with tears. "No," He crouched down next to Arthur and shook his shoulder. "Iggy, bro, wake up. Stop faking this shit, it's not funny…"

Francis came to stand behind him, running his fingers comfortingly through Alfred's hair. "Is he breathing? Is there a pulse?" He was holding his breath.

Ivan placed his fingers on Arthur's lips. Nothing. They trailed down to press at his throat. "He used too much energy. He didn't remember he was weaker than before… he's gone."

Feliciano broke out in tears and Ludwig had to console him. Francis started to cry as well, albeit more quietly. But Alfred… Alfred didn't do anything, just sat there, staring down at Arthur's pale, burned form.

Ivan couldn't stop himself. He reached over and covered Alfred's hand with his own. But Alfred snatched his hand back and glared at him. His eyes held such loathing and scorn that Ivan felt his heart break. And very few people could do that to him.

"Liar," Alfred hissed. "You're lying! You're lying! I know you are!"

Ivan blinked at him. "Alfred… feel for yourself." He snagged one of Alfred's hands and tried to pull it down so that the American could feel Arthur's absent pulse. But Alfred pulled away, ducking his head and shaking it.

"No, no, goddammit, I don't want to feel it!" He was crying now, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. He wiped them grudgingly with the heel of a gloved hand. "He's not dead, he's not dead, he can't be, he's not dead…" He kept repeating the words over and over again, as if saying them would bring Arthur back.

"Al…" Matthew said, making his way toward him, tears in his eyes. "Oh, Al," He knew how it felt. He knew the hurt. He wrapped his arms around Alfred's shoulders and pulled him to him, letting Alfred bury his head in his face and sob.

Ivan ached to hold him. But he knew he couldn't. It wouldn't do any good if he exposed he and Alfred's relationship in this moment of grief. It would just be more to deal with.

Francis knelt down beside Arthur, struggling to hold back sobs as he took Arthur's hand, squeezed it, and slipped off the man's glove. He took off his own and interlaced their fingers.

"Je t'aimerai toujours, ma belle." He brought the back of Arthur's hand to his lips. He felt the coldness of the skin, and he broke down. He sat there on his knees and clutched Arthur's hand to his chest, never wanting to let go.

It was too soon to let go.

You have left me so soon, Arthur. I love you. I love you so much. Why couldn't we have more time?

Alfred reached over and grabbed Arthur's other hand. He held it, squeezing it multiple times. His heart sank when it did not squeeze back.

He really was gone.

Forever.

"Why did you have to save us, you dumbass?" Alfred cried and laid Arthur's hand on the Briton's chest. He brushed Arthur's singed hair out of his face, touched his eyebrows. "I liked them… I've always liked them, and I made fun of him for them, and he never knew," he muttered to himself. He didn't know so much. You told me not to be a hero, Arthur. Why did you do it? Why did you die for us?

It wasn't fair. Francis kept thinking it over and over as he smoothed out Arthur's clothes and stared down at his face. Such a beautiful, peaceful face. It wasn't fair that they had discovered each other so soon before he'd died. God was playing tricks on him again, but this time the blow cut him deeper than he could ever imagine.

Is this what Arthur had felt like when he thought that Francis had died?

Oh, mon amour, that must have been so hard… Tears dropped from off his cheeks to soak into Arthur's pant leg. So very hard.

Alfred lifted Arthur's hand and turned it over. His palms were a bright red, burned from the fire they had expelled. He choked down another sob. "You idiot."

Francis didn't care who saw. He bent down and pressed his lips to Arthur's. He pulled back and ran a thumb over the Briton's burned cheek. "C'est ne pas juste."

No one was crying as much as Francis and Alfred were (maybe except Feliciano), but there wasn't a dry eye around. Arthur had come to mean so much more to them all since they had come together in the terminal back in Queens so very long ago. He had become their leader, had protected them, had died to ensure their safety. He symbolized all those people who had given everything to shield their families, their co-workers, their friends, even complete strangers from the Uprising. And suddenly, Alfred did understand what Francis had said, despite the language barrier.

It really wasn't fair.

All the while this was going on, Arthur was watching from somewhere deep inside his head. He was trapped, entangled and held down by blackened tendrils of his own mind, staring at the back of his eyelids, the only way of knowing what was going on gained solely through his hearing. And what he heard broke his heart and frightened him to no end.

"I'm not dead," Arthur said, though it was obvious no one heard him. He jerked in his bonds and tried to get away, tried to open his eyes, tried to live. "You guys, I'm not dead!" he yelled.

But his words only echoed and were thrust back at him. He wasn't the one controlling himself now. And he wasn't supposed to talk, not even move.

A taloned hand flashed out of the darkness and wrapped around his throat, squeezing mercilessly. Arthur gagged and gasped, feeling his head throb and his lungs scream for air.

"Silence," was the only command given, and he was released, gulping down as much air as he could. He looked up. He could not see anything outside of the spotlight shining down on him, but he looked in the direction of Britannia's voice.

"You're not my mother, you bastard." The thing had been using Britannia's form to get inside his head, to better affect him. "How dare you impersonate her?"

The creature appeared out of the dark. It was cloaked in the form of his mother, and Arthur scowled. Its eyes—large, pale, owl-like eyes—stared down at him. Blood red lips parted to reveal long, pointed teeth.

"You are finally mine now, Arthur Blackheart," the demon hissed in a deep, rattling voice.

"Dead men say no words."

They had no choice. They had to keep going. They didn't see any men behind them, but they didn't want to take that risk, especially when Arthur had given his life so that they could escape.

Alfred refused to let them bury Arthur right there. It seemed so cruel to leave him within seeing distance of the place he had died, of where it all had gone so very wrong. He also insisted on carrying him, but it was clear within the first few minutes that his limbs were so shaky from the grief he was experiencing, that he was incapable of bearing Arthur's weight. Ivan took the limp Arthur into his arms instead. Alfred stayed close to Arthur's side, always touching the Briton in some way. The contact was so precious to him; within the hour, Arthur would be far beneath the earth, and Alfred would not be able to reach him.

Francis hung back from the rest of the group, trying to keep as quiet as he could. He didn't want Matthew to see him breaking down—he needed to be strong for the Canadian because who else would be? Alfred had already closed himself to everything and everyone outside of his mourning. And yet, every now and then, Francis wouldn't be able to keep his emotions in, and his lungs would suddenly contract in a loud sob of agony. And then he would catch himself, go silent again. That was what ultimately got to him—the silence. It brought back so many memories of broken things and bereavement. Except that this wouldn't be just another memory. He would live what had happened here every day for the rest of his life.

The only thing that comforted him was that Arthur was out of danger. Was it selfish of him to want him to be here, beside him, holding his hand?

Silence held dominion over them all until they were far enough away from the field to see it only as a smudge of yellow and black on the darkening horizon. By now, the sun had set, and the clouds were rolling in. It was going to rain again, but none of them cared to make camp. Too much had been taken out of them by their recent experience to do much of anything but sit there and stare at Arthur's body which Ivan had laid on the ground.

When the thunder began, though, everyone started to move around. It got really cold at night, and wet clothes would not help them battle it in the least.

They worked around Arthur's body, which didn't seem so grotesque in their mind. To them, every moment Arthur was not under the ground the longer his spirit lived. That and Alfred snapped at anyone who suggested they bury him before they were settled, otherwise doing so would just seem like another chore connected with setting up camp. And Arthur deserved so much more respect than that.

To watch the Briton more closely, Alfred set up his tent near his body, occasionally looking down to check that he was still there. He eventually just settled with sitting down, cross-legged, on the ground and staring at Arthur while Ivan took over the task of pitching their tent because he was so distracted he couldn't do much. Alfred looked at Arthur's face, taking in every little detail, worrying that he may forget what his older brother looked like despite centuries of knowing him. Francis would have gladly joined him, but the Frenchman doubted Alfred would take that kindly. Besides, the younger man needed to be alone with Arthur for a while; that much Francis perceived by his behavior.

When Ivan was finished, he said, "Alfred… we should put him to rest now, da?"

Alfred whipped his head around to look at him, getting to his feet and glaring. "I'll decide when we do that. You have no right to take him away from me!"

Ivan opened his mouth, fully prepared to tell him he would do no such thing, when he saw something move behind Alfred. It got closer as the deaf American continued to chew him out. When the thing lunged toward Alfred, Ivan grabbed hold of him, pulling him away. "Alfred—!"

Ivan stepped backward, tripping over one of the pegs holding the tent down and fell onto his back, Alfred giving a grunt as he collapsed on top of him. Everyone turned around to see what was going on, and Francis couldn't believe his eyes. "Arthur?"

"What?" Alfred rolled off of Ivan and sat up, staring up at the Briton—yes, up, he was standing—blinking in shock. "Artie? You're alive?" When Arthur didn't answer, only stared down at him with myopic eyes, Alfred snapped, "You bastard, why would you fucking fake that?" Alfred got to his feet and pushed Arthur back, completely furious. "You sonofabitch. Why would you do something like that? Do you know how fucking devastated I was? You're such a douche. I hate you!"

Ivan saw something uncharacteristic flash behind Arthur's eyes, and he said, "Alfred… I don't think—"

"Shut up, Ivan. This is my fight!" Alfred growled, and he was distracted enough not to notice Arthur making a lunge toward him again.

"Idiot!" Ivan called, but this time he could not snatch Alfred out of the way in time. The younger man was bowled over by Arthur, and they wrestled for a good amount of time, Alfred a bit shocked at how strong Arthur suddenly was. Alfred found himself beneath him.

"What the hell are you doing, bro? Get the fuck off me!"

Ivan jumped in to help, but when his fingers came within inches of brushing Arthur's shoulders to try and pull him off, the Briton whipped his head around and growled in an unearthly voice, "Stay back!"

Ivan's instincts told him to do just that as quickly as he possibly could, but something was wrong with Arthur, and whatever it was he knew that Alfred was in danger. He lunged forward, intending to wrap his arms around Arthur when he wasn't looking. But the Briton's reflexes were lightning fast, and with a flick of his wrist Arthur put up a force field that flung Ivan (who never got flung) a good yard or two away. Below Arthur, Alfred stopped squirming and watched with wide eyes.

Alfred glanced over in mild concern at Ivan. Meh, he was Russian. He would live. "A-Artie? Bro, are you all right?" When Arthur's gaze snapped back to him—an angry, ruthless gaze—Alfred rattled off, "Dude, I just got a little angry that you fucked with my mind, ya know? Nothing personal. You know I don't hate you, right? Right, Igs?"

But Arthur didn't answer him, only kept staring down at him in a way that made Alfred tense. Those weren't Arthur's eyes. They were green, yes, and topped with those bushy caterpillars he called eyebrows, but there was something in them that he knew Arthur would never show to Alfred himself.

It was hate. A deep, murderous hate. And also an insidious spark of lustful hunger. Alfred didn't want to admit it to himself, but Arthur had definitely won the fight. And on top of that, who knew the Briton could be such a good actor?

Ludwig took a step forward. "You two, stop fooling around. Arthur, get off of him. This isn't like you." The German took another step, and Arthur raised his head so fast, they all flinched.

"Stay back," he hissed. Alfred tensed, finally realizing after hearing his voice…

This wasn't Arthur at all.

It was too late, as Arthur leaned down, his face inches from Alfred's own. The American squirmed beneath Arthur's weight, but the older man soon cast a binding spell that had him completely paralyzed. And it scared the absolute shit out of Alfred.

Ivan saw what was happening after he recovered. Good thing he hadn't landed on his wounded side. He rushed toward them. "Get off of him!"

At this, Arthur laughed. A high, rattling laugh that had them all stiffening. He looked directly at Ivan. "Foolish Russia. You know, I used to be so fond of you. No matter what, throughout the centuries you never feared anything. But this Uprising has been your downfall. Or rather he has." He motioned to Alfred, and Ivan's eyes went wide. "Allow me to show you what you've been missing out on for all of your life."

Ivan was at first confused, then braced himself for an attack. Sure enough, he could feel a strong force pierce his mind. Ivan tried to focus and block it out, but the blackness of it was so stifling and the prods so sharp that he couldn't hold the barriers up for very long. Once the thing entered his mind, he knew instantly what it was and tried to fight it. But it delved deep, seizing his memories before he could even land the first blow. The memories were pulled to the forefront of his mind and played back like a tape. First there was he and Alfred having that fight before their little 'war' had ended—with Ivan taking liberties with a completely compliant Alfred against his own personal judgment but purely out of desire—followed by their fight at the terminal, which he felt guilty for, then the sleeping bag incident that started it all, their first true kiss, Alfred's rather forced 'I love you', Ivan holding him in his sleep, comforting him, reassuring him…

Driving a knife through Alfred's skull, blood splattering from the wound, men abducting him, torturing him, raping him, putting fifty bullets in his body before they let him bleed out, naked and used on the floor. The violence got so gruesome, that soon all Ivan could see was a perpetual frame of red. He usually would have not been fazed by this display—more unimpressed—but the scenes got to him and for the first time in his life, Ivan was scared to pieces.

And angry as all hell.

He finally managed to push the loathsome creature from his head (though he suspected it just let him) and he growled, "How dare you intrude upon my memories, tainting them with your lies?" He was disappointed to find that he had an obvious tremor in his voice.

"Lies?" Arthur laughed again. No, that thing laughed. The thing that delighted in the pain and gore of others. "They are only tokens of the future. Tell me, Ivan, how much do you love him? Will your mind finally break for me when his end comes?"

There was no hiding it. Everything was out now. Ivan could feel everyone's eyes on him, and Alfred's own were wide as he also stared at him. But Ivan could give no answer. He was still too shocked from what he had seen that he was incapable of anything more than blinking and breathing. Nothing had gotten to him as much as that had, and as a result he didn't know how to deal with the emotions it brought.

Knowing he would get no answer, the creature taking Arthur as its host leaned down again. Alfred jerked away, but nails dug into his shoulder, locking him in place. Teeth closed around the skin on his neck, and Alfred yelped with alarm. He could feel blood well from the small wound, and a tongue darted out of lap it up. Alfred's stomach churned as Arthur pulled back to a sitting position, testing the blood in his mouth.

Everyone jumped when he turned his head and spat it out.

"Not witchblood," he hissed, then looked down at Alfred again. "And rather dim as well. You are useless to me." Then his voice lowered. "But your lover isn't. Though he needs some breaking, I can tell. There are so many fun ways I can toy with you that will have him on his knees, screaming—"

Ivan had had enough. Rage filled him, and he held out a hand in the creature's direction.

He drew his power to his core and focused on the action in his mind, as saying it aloud would alert the creature. A great gust of wind blasted from his palm and sent Arthur flying onto his back a few feet away. Alfred took the opportunity to get to his feet and back into the safety of the rest of the group.

Arthur growled and attempted to find his footing and rush at Alfred, but Ivan wouldn't allow it. With another unspoken word and a snap of his fingers he erected tall bars of solid ice conjured from the freezing of moisture in the air that trapped the creature inside a frigid ring. But the wound in Ivan's side gave a sharp sting of pain that made him grit his teeth, and his focus on holding the spell wavered. Arthur didn't even move, only glared at the ice and it shattered into a million frosty shards, scattering at his feet.

It gave another laugh. "Your efforts are folly. Arthur may not have used up all of his energy conjuring that wall of flame, but I certainly will. By the time I'm through he will be dead, and I will have this body all to myself."

Artie's still alive. Alfred stared and couldn't believe it. The fucker had decided to nearly kill himself saving them and now he'd gone and got possessed?

The creature held out Arthur's hands, obviously preparing to launch a formidable attack. Ivan did the same, but he aimed for defense. Arthur may not be able to control his functions at the moment, but Ivan certainly could. And since he was a mortal now, he had to be very careful about how much energy he burned away on this. He would only defend until the creature had run itself ragged, but that was a risk—Arthur could very well die in the process. As in every situation like this, Ivan decided to spin the cylinder on his figurative revolver. Six chambers, one bullet.

He figured he had a pretty good chance.

And then, as if puppet's strings pulled him back, Arthur dropped his hands and swayed. He stumbled a bit, caught himself, and looked at Ivan. The Russian was about to try and subdue him, but then he remembered that in doing so he could hurt or kill Arthur, who was defenseless, trapped somewhere inside.

The thing dropped to its knees and crouched there, panting for a minute, grunting, fighting something internally. Arthur's hands clenched and unclenched in the dirt. Gilbert began to move forward as if to subdue him, but Ivan said, "Stop," and a stern look had Gilbert falling back in line.

Alfred watched with worry. Come on, Artie. I know you're in there. Fight, goddammit. Who do you think taught me how?

Francis forgot to blink. "Arthur?" he ventured hopefully.

"… ible… Bible!" Arthur gasped out, his face red and straining as he fought to keep the creature from taking over again. He looked at the person closest to his pack, which was laying an unfortunately good distance outside of camp and said, "In my pack… a Bible. Get it… hurry!" He knew no magic could kill this thing, and that scared him. Magic had always been his defense and now it was all but useless.

Kiku took off running, his heart pounding as he rummaged through the pack, every second that he was looking, every sound of Arthur's labored breathing, making his fingers tremble with anxiety. He eventually found it, an older, small book, with a torn brown cover and gold writing on the front.

"Here!" Kiku tossed it to Yao, who in turn shoved it to Matthew, and further down the line it went at lightning speed until it reached Gilbert, who stood closest to the struggling Arthur.

"You have to tell us what to do, Arthur," the Prussian said with obvious frustration.

Arthur's lungs felt like they were caving in, his head was throbbing, and he knew he didn't have long before he'd be stuck under that spotlight in his mind again. "Demon… page b-bookmarked… br-bright red tab…"

Gilbert raised an eyebrow as he flicked through the Bible to the referenced page. So, Arthur had been prepared for this? The Briton must have known that he was playing with fire… or so to speak.

Everyone held their breaths as Gilbert reached the page, and he frowned. "It's in Latin…" He opened his mouth to speak the words written, but Ivan held out a hand.

"Nyet! This is a very powerful exorcism rite. If the words are pronounced wrong, just a little, we could give the demon control or kill Arthur."

"Who here knows Latin well?" Gilbert asked, but no one responded. "There has to be someone!"

Lovino stepped forward and snatched the Bible from Gilbert's pale hands, his own shaking with fright. "I-I can, d-dammit." Then he looked at Arthur.

"Do you know anything a-about the d-demon that we can use?"

Arthur wheezed and managed to get out, "Agramon," before collapsing into the dirt. Not a moment later, he picked himself up, panting. He lifted his head, his hateful eyes boring into everyone around him.

"Hm, Arthur does have nice power, and I wouldn't mind keeping him for fun~

"Too bad his damned mouth has done him in."

Translations:

Je t'aimerai toujours, ma belle-I will always love you, my beautiful one.

A Word From the Writer: So sad! England dying is a pretty big thing, plus I like to make America cry. He needs to just cry sometimes, ya know? XD Okay, so a whole mindfuck of stuff is happening here: A, England used too much magic to the point of near death, B, Because he used so much and became so weak, he is now possessed by a demon and getting his freak on, C America and Russia's relationship is now exposed. Ah, I love clustering all this stuff together. So, now we know the source of England's freaky dreams and actions in the past few chapters; whatever he did in the past, it's certainly caught up with him now, and it's certainly doing more than biting him in the ass. The possession surprising much? Hmm, somewhat. And is it surprising that I chose Russia as the other magic-user? Considering his history (which involves much early dabbling with witchcraft), not really. And you got a nice little magic showdown. But not even Russia can win by himself against something that can get inside his head and scare him that much. Because that was really fucking freaky. Then again, I do enjoy writing freaky stuff...

Let's see if Romano can't fuck shit up for once.