Requiem (Italia Veneziano)

[Deleted]

Roderich had never made a traditional pilgrimage. It was encouraged for humans, of course, and he would see many a pilgrim during his early years walking slowly the long road to Jerusalem and the Holy Land. But the few times he had gone with his early ruling family, the Babenburgs, on the crusades, he had always thought it so odd how everyone knew the path. As if some divine providence was leading the way by a beaten path. The journey had always been an arduous one, but the satisfaction Roderich had felt when touching the soil of Bethlehem had remained imprinted into his mind for the next nine centuries that past.

He had been a small, sullen child back then. Not even yet a duchy, just a territory to be ruled under his brothers’ thumb. Back in his tiny margravate days, Roderich had been able to find his way without a problem. Traversing the Wien Walzer or the Alpine wilderness had been literally child’s play for him and another nation, one with flaxen hair who no longer roamed anywhere with him. Even the ability changed as he had gotten older and found himself lost in hundreds of ties and lines, linking him and all of Europe, and he became something other than tiny Ostarrichi. Later reflecting on it, Roderich thought it was fair that someone who aspired to be an empire that the sun would never set on would be unable to find his way out of it.

Life was funny that way.

The real reason Austria was remembering those early crusades with the Babenburgs and games of hide-and-seek with his former friend was because all of a sudden that strange ability to find his way came back, similar how to people suppose one never forgets how to swim or how to ride a bike. Roderich had just been rounding a corner by himself when suddenly his legs felt slightly heavier and he led himself down the stairs and through some sort of room he’d never been in before. Roderich had plenty of time to muse on this regained ability because he actually had no idea where he was going; just that he was going somewhere. It’s as his sore feet had a mind of their own, or that they just knew that old beaten path to a Bethlehem. Strangely enough, the path didn’t lead him to any nations at all; in fact, he kept going into desolate corridors free of people and, for now, monsters.

And then he found his way outside for the first time in what seemed like years inside that accursed manor. The first thing he noticed was how cold it was outside. It was freezing. One breath his came out like a puff of vapor because of how cold it was. Roderich could only thank his tailor for giving him hunting clothes adapted for the weather back home, as this was comparable. Immediately he began to rub his arms in order to keep his body warm. A stray thought in his mind told him that he should go back in, where it was much warmer, but he shut it down immediately. He came here for some purpose, regardless of whether he knew that purpose or not.

Was it Winter already?

How long ago had he arrived with the other nations, dressed for few days of fun? How long ago had he frowned over the invitation he had been given, remarking that air travel was costly to the nearest nation? He tried to remember the desk he wrote his leave of absence on? The Austrian remembered the paper he had written the notice on. It had been bought by his own government, monogrammed with his initials. He had quickly written it, signing it with his usual flourish. Roderich had left instructions for the maid who came biweekly to water his plants while he was away on vacation as well. His garden, something he got great joy from maintaining, was it still the crown jewel of his street? Surely his boss had noticed his absence by now. All of the Nations’ bosses should have.
Roderich nervously ran his hand over his hair, flattening Mariazell. With as powerful as the manor was, their human bosses probably stood no chance. And none of the nations could blame anyone but themselves for that situation.

Roderich should have known the moment he stepped inside Badeau manor, that decrepit outside but beautiful inside. He should have realized something was wrong when he couldn’t perfectly feel his people. That had not been so out of the usual, as once in a while whatever caused them to feel their people got something like bad reception, or at least, Roderich got bad reception. But feeling it immediately once he got to the Manor? He wanted to hit himself. And because of his idiocy, he was probably never going to leave this place. He was never going to take another ride on the Weiner Riesenrad in the Leopoldstadt, nor spend a day in a Kaffeehause doing nothing but drink coffee and read the newspapers laid out for him, or even swim in the Bohdensee.

The memory of the beautiful Alpine lake on his western border brought Roderich out of his thoughts and back to how freakishly cold it was here. He was still rubbing his arms to stimulate blood flow, but the warmth wasn’t flooding him as well as he had hoped it would. And while Roderich didn’t feel as strong as he used when connected to his people, he severely doubted that he could die of the cold here, unless he was left naked outside. However, just standing around wasn’t very comfortable either, so Roderich came to the conclusion that the only thing to do then was to keep himself active so he didn’t notice how cold it was. He began walking, no longer so sure of his footsteps as he had been moments ago.

The first thing the noticed that the Austrian noticed was that this was not only a courtyard, but a very large one. Out of his eye he could see a path leading to a garden, but he didn’t seem very interested in it at the moment. His eye fell on a small building in the middle of the courtyard, ruined and showing signs of damage made by fire. Not so far from the little chapel itself lay a graveyard, with certainly quite a few grave stones already there. Roderich had little desire to go to the burial ground but his feet began moving of their own accord in that direction as they had done minutes ago. Or hours, since Roderich didn’t understand time in Badeau Manor.

The Chapel got closer and closer, or he supposed he was getting closer to it. It looked wretched from the outside, and he could see that any stained glass windows that had once stood in the windows had long broken and now some of it rested outside the chapel in pieces. Once he got close enough to step on those pieces he bent down, grabbing on. It was colored a light blue with a piece of yellow glass on the edge, resembling how halos used to be drawn on figures. Roderich blinked and looked down for more clues on what the stained glass used to show, but things were such fine pieces that he couldn’t tell. He definitely caught a glimpse of the end of an arrow in one piece.

His body shivering again made him place the piece of glass back and come closer to inspect the walls of the chapel. They really did show signs of damage, but yet for some reason nothing seemed to grow around them. H e had seen many ruined buildings in his day and most had shown signs of life quickly. But this chapel seemed to be untouched by time, as if it had never been a part of the world once it burned. Suddenly Roderich felt a wave of sadness wash over him. He and this chapel were not unlike, in private, as he did feel like he sometimes was frozen in a point of time and the rest of the world had moved on. His thoughts went in this direction for another moment before he went into the chapel.

Just like the outside, the inside of the chapel looked and felt as if it had been untouched by time since whatever caused it to suffer so much damaged ravaged its structure. The air felt almost stale and the silence felt like the one someone would have before trying to take a break. Like one gasp for gulp of air before breathing out, a pause in a sentence, or a rest before a few more measures. It was frozen in time and Roderich’s senses, while only slightly better than other nations, could detect a tiny bit of smoke among the piles of soot lying about.

He crouched down once more to pick up a fistful of soot. He unclenched his hand and let the soot pour down between his fingers back to the ground from whence came.

“Respice te ipsum, quia mortalis es, et quia terra es, et in terram ibis.”[/font] thought Austria. It was a strange line to remember all of a sudden, but Roderich could understand why it was suitable to his situation.

“Look (back) at yourself, that you are mortal, and that which comes from earth, to earth returns.”

Roderich couldn’t remember who had written those words, although the line was certainly familiar and alluding to how man was formed. When first learning of that origin, Roderich had wondered how he had been made. Had he just simply appeared from dust in the wind, plucked by some higher being? He couldn’t look back at himself and acknowledge his own mortality; such rules didn’t apply to him. Austria fully knew that one day he would return to the dust, but he never thought it would be like mortals did. He had seen many die and the light just faded from their eyes or the blood drained away. Nations were different, as Austria had always believed, but now he was not so sure. The manor seemed intent on robbing them of everything they were. At what point would whatever made him realize that the nations were trapped indefinitely and cut them off from that which made them nations?

He wiped the soot off on one the remains of a pew and walked forward down the aisles to where the altar was, or what was left it. Above stood the figure, so familiar yet always so distant. The sources of all the pilgrimages. And Roderich found him.

He sank to the ground to his knees before the crucified figure and crossed himself. He knew it was hopeless, when had he helped before? Certainly not in any occasion had he felt that divine intervention would have been needed. But under all that doubt, and guilt caused by said doubt, laid a tiny ember of hope. And for the first time in months, Roderich blew on that ember. The sound of Roderich's Pater Noster soon filled every inch of the chapel.

SPOILER: Click to show

Eh! I'm sorry its this long and very narrative-like, I just wanted to set the tone. Anyway, yeah, hope you enjoyed. :"D

[Italia Veneziano]

Veneziano couldn't help but wonder what kind of society he and these people had been raised in to wear such odd clothes as he followed this stranger into the courtyard chapel.

Honestly, the brunette didn't particularly enjoy wandering the courtyard; there were so many like him, so many spirits trapped in this place, and they all seemed to congregate to the open space. It felt crowded, because even if they could pass unseen in the physical world, these ghosts were as solid to each other as humans were to one another. The older spirits, the ones wearing dated clothing that looked almost as strange as the costume his own ghost was adorned with, were washed out--what color livening their appearance even in death long since faded away to a strange, opaque blue that wasn't really a color at all. The spirit didn't know how to describe it as anything but a shade of blue, though. Really, being here reminded him of the fact that he was dead. Who wanted to have that fact shoved in their face? No one, that's who. But for some reason, he found himself here, floating above the others and just watching, seeing if there was something amongst the masses that he recognized.

That strange hat caught his attention at first--it was just so green. And that feather, it was still somehow pristine even as he watched it bob on through the varying tints of blue like a brilliant scarlet beacon. The man just had this bearing, it seemed to part the sea of ghosts as if they were all terrified of touching him. Considering how long it's felt since he's seen people, even though the other ghosts tell him that he's hardly dead enough to be cold, like they were, Veneziano felt he could understand. Some of these ghosts had been loitering in this house for over a hundred years, or so they said. They'd be terrified of seeing people. That's what he believed, anyway.

So he floated closer, the lone spirit daring to approach this odd man with his silly-looking hat and stern expression. He didn't particularly care to float down from his slow recline in the air, preferring to bob and weave his way through the shifting breezes almost like a kite. He'd tried speaking to people for ages, but no matter how hard he tried, almost no one seemed willing to see him, and it was frustratingly sad to be completely invisible to these living beings. Best to avoid that punishment, he thought as he swung through a broken windowpane to pad softly on the top of the back pew. This chapel wasn't particularly special, so he wondered why the amythest-eyed man seemed so drawn to the old, burnt piece of wood creaking and cracking against the wall. He watched, carefully, as the man's hat tilted back as he stared up at the figure, one he thought was familiar but wasn't quite sure why, before falling to his knees. Was he just giving in to something? Veneziano didn't understand why he didn't seem to have his guard up. Weren't these living beings supposed to be wary, tired, and scared? That's how he felt--were the dead just more emotional than the living? Did he worry more than the people trapped here?

What caught Veneziano with genuine surprise, though, was the words that began to fill the air around him. "Pater Nostrer, qui eses in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum." They weren't the words he heard the other spirits or even the living ones say to one another, or to him. It was...a more fluid speech, beautiful in its own right.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. The translation came, unbidden, to his mind, and they managed to draw a smile out of him. His steps silent, the ghost hopped closer, from pew to pew. The other brunette's prayer flowed through Veneziano, and while part of him tried to recoil from the subtle power of those words, the rest felt a warmth settle in him that he hadn't realized he could feel, being part of the dead and cold and buried. Once he was settled on that front pew, still some distance away from the stranger knelt upon the floor before the ashen remains of the alter, he smiled a bit more.

"Ave Maria," He began even as the Pater Nostra rang in the air, voice soft as the wind fluttering that silly crimson feather, "gratia plena, dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus." The more of the prayer he sang, the louder his voice grew; still with that faint, ethereal tone that it had taken upon since his "birth" into this new, halfway world between the living and the dead. He felt no fear in letting his words ring out, shifting down to "take a seat" on the pew, feet swinging slightly from side to side as he hovered a few inches above the charred, wooden slab. After all, no one was listening, especially not the higher power he was "calling" for with the "holy words". "Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae..."

Did this mean that the Holy Mother no longer prayed, now that he had died? Is that why he hadn't passed on, as some of the other ghosts had? He trailed off a moment, voice dying out as he stared up at the crucifix himself. The prayer left unfinished, now.

"Ve, does this mean that once this silly man dies, you'll stop praying for him as well, Mater, Iesus?" Veneziano asked the figurine, not worried that his question would go unanswered. Nor did he refer to them in English--he had the translations in hand, but did semantics matter with a being you didn't recognize? "That's not very fair, though, is it? Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto, indeed," The quiet scoff in his voice was evident even in its softness, a subtle shake of the head accenting his derision nicely. "I hope you weren't looking for a guiding hand, signore," he murmured, letting his gaze trail over to the brunette, "because I don't think they really care about us down here."

SPOILER: Click to show

And I'm sorry this took so long~ ;A; I hope you like it--and here if you want to hear the Ave Maria being sung. It's super pretty! :3

[Deleted]

Roderich’s hands were still raised in the air on the same level as his face, clasped together while he kneeled in the spot where the church’s destroyed altar was. He hadn't brought his rosary with him to the party, he wasn't the type to carry it around with him constantly these days. If Austria was honest with himself, it was that he lost so much of his faith in the past century. But of course he knew there was Something, Something There. Whatever made him and his coworkers, his friends, and his family had existed and at times in his life he had been sure that it was the figure he was currently facing, deformed and rotten it might be in this chapel.

Then at times he wasn't so sure.

There was once a day when Roderich screamed out that God did not exist. It was somewhere in the early nineteen twenties and he had been left to his own devices in a wheelchair by a forgetful maid. Crippled and humiliated, and oh so depressed, Roderich had decided to brave the staircase to eat something. Of course he remembered not being able to make it and falling down the stairs and into a crumpled heap on the floor. Curses, denials, they had been what spilled from his lips at that moment. Especially when he realized that when he looked to his upper left while trying to stop the bleeding from his head, he could see a painting he had never bothered to throw out, of himself. Prideful and young, the only thing that diminished him and showed him his true worth was a mustache added on to it by a child who could probably see right through him.

Roderich’s mouth could say that nothing existed, but deep down he knew that only a higher being could give a man the world in his hand and then rip it out and throw him back down to earth.

Perhaps that was why he was praying. Praying wouldn't do much for him, he was sure, but perhaps it could remind whatever created him that there was some worth to him left, that he could be resilient despite the months he may have spent in the Manor. At the very least praying provided some respite from his regular schedule of wandering the long hallways.

“Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.“

Latin was like an old childhood friend. Not like his own old language but almost as old a friend. Sometimes it felt that it had been so long that the Vatican had finally stopped using it in Mass, but if Roderich was correct it was scarcely fifty years. So the words spilled out of his mouth comfortably, causing a soothing feeling to rise through his spine, even in such a wretched place. Even the rotting cross with Jesus looking down on him seemed more alive comforting. Strangely enough, as he went on, he could hear a song, the Latin Ave Maria (He’d always love Schubert’s German version set to the composer's music) being supplied in his mind as well, as if playing outside of it. He paid it no mind, thinking that his mind (or the manor) was playing tricks on him and reminding him of the past.

But then the silence was broken by a voice, the same that had been singing. It had been a familiar song to Roderich, because he’d heard a similar voice, though younger and higher, singing it around him for more than a century. And now that familiar voice was speaking, cutting through the air, though in a tone he hadn't always associated with it.

"Ve, does this mean that once this silly man dies, you'll stop praying for him as well, Mater, Iesus?"

Roderich stopped praying after hearing his Southern neighbor speak. It was definitely him, but the words (and the insult, though to be fair, Roderich and Feliciano had definitely called each other worse throughout the centuries of strife with one another). Though even stranger to Roderich was that Feliciano wasn't talking to him, but to the figure in front of them. Or, as his rational mind supplied, that he had not heard Feliciano come in, nor had he saw him, and that he would have definitely heard him if he set foot in the desolate church.

"That's not very fair, though, is it? Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto, indeed,"

Roderich sucked his teeth quietly, not wishing to get off his knees and thinking of something to say to his former ward. If he hadn't been fully aware that it was Feliciano’s very voice, he would have thought it was Lovino with the slightly bitter tone. Not that his immediate neighbor wasn't capable of such cynicism too, just that Roderich often pictured smiles (and sometimes tears) with the boy, no, man.

"I hope you weren't looking for a guiding hand, signore," Roderich raised his head up finally as he was directly addressed by the man behind him, though Feliciano's words were quieter than a moment ago. "because I don't think they really care about us down here."

How very true and yet, not.

Roderich stood up and dusted himself off, a habit formed by the desire to constantly look presentable and then some. He spoke back to the man in his slightly rusted Italian, also a language he had to use for centuries, and turned to face him.

“Blasphemy does not become you, Nord Ital-.”

The words caught in his throat as he finally looked over the man sitting in the pew. Nein, not sitting. Floating.

Roderich's orchid eyes widened in confusion and slight fear as he took in Feliciano. It was like he was there, but also not. Like a faint radio signal that once in a while became much louder, it was like North Italy’s body became clearer to him at some moments and the fainter and others. But he was translucent; he could see the destroyed pew through him. Austria took in a sharp breath while trying to comprehend what he was seeing. It looked like a …ghost.

“Feliciano, what has happened to you?” he asked, concern filling every word.

“You look like a ghost.”

And all Roderich could think of was that that the Something that was There was laughing at him again.

[Italia Veneziano]

Catching sight of the fear darkening violet eyes drew a small smile across Veneziano's face (even if that faintly upwards curl of a lip could hardly be labeled a smile at all). The expression failed to reach his eyes, however. They were calculating, filled with more than just curiosity as the other man's words mulled about his mind. A long moment's silence fell over them, amber eyes constantly examining this newest source of entertainment. At first, it didn't seem like he'd even grace that ridiculous question with a response. Finally, the ghost rose to his feet. "'Blasphemy doesn't become me'...?" he repeated almost incredulously, tilting his head to one side whilst his gaze bore holes into the other brunette's. Never once in this exchange had he blinked. Were it not for the highly focused set of his eyes, the boy seemed almost like he wasn't paying attention at all. A flurry of choppy, disjointed images flew through his mind, and eventually he'd found a few containing the visage of the Austrian before him. They weren't exactly enlightening, but they were enough to draw a chuckle out of the Italian. He reached out to tap the man's spectacles with his index and middle finger. Flat glass immediately froze over. "Ve, I don't think you have any right to tell me what's blasphemy, or what suits me," he murmured, sounding amused. "Your faith blinds you to the truth. I'd think I'd know more about this than you--after all, he paused a moment, pulling back his outstretched hand and grinning at the other man through his own palm, "I'm the dead one here. You already know that, though. You're scared because you know." That statement was punctuated with another laugh, grin sharpening slightly as his hand fell to his side. He glided closer, the movement slow and predatory as he began to circle his living company. "Though, why has you so scared, silly man? I can hear the tremble of your voice, see the fear in your eyes--but I don't see a reason why. Am I somebody to be feared? I haven't even done anything, though!

"But, maybe, that's because you're not scared of me, ve. At least, not yet."

The temperature plummeted around the strange-costumed Austrian. Frost gathered on the edge of that stupid feather as Veneziano clutched it between a thumb and forefinger. He pulled on that feather, knocking the cap slightly lopsided. The feather was plucked free, but the ghost let the frozen thing fall to the floor with disinterest. Smirking lips passed over and through the pale shell of an ear, his next words a whisper now. "Maybe you're scared because you know I'm right, blasphemy and all. Did you really think that you could escape here when you die? That the Manor would let you slip away, where Heaven opened its arms to accept you? Don't deny it--I saw you kneeling at that altar. everyone could hear you praying to that empty idol."

A brown-haired head and slim shoulders popped through the brunette's chest. "Well," he amended, eyes twinkling with dark amusement, "everyone but Dio. He never really does listen though, does he?" Those cynical words were punctuated with a laugh. The ghost vanished entirely, snuffed out like a lantern.

"If Dio existed, do you really think he'd let us all suffer like this? That wouldn't be very nice of our "all-knowing, benevolent overlord", would it?" The words echoed around the chapel without a source. "Your god left you alone in this place, amico mio. Left you all alone to fend for yourself. There's no guiding hand to save you now. You know that, Mister Roderich, that's why you're scared. You know that I'm not just trying to trick you, ve--when you die, you'll end up just like me~"

Thump!

A shower of charred wood rained down on the Austrian's head. Floating on up in the ruins of the rafters, Veneziano's smirk curled, the sharp edge of a sword. "Don't worry though, I'll help you see the truth, Mister Roderich~ This place blinds you to the truth--so I'll get rid of it!" With his feet solidified, the ghost continued to hop from support beam to support beam. Every harsh landing sent more debris raining down on the other man and the floor beneath him.

Thump! Thump! Thum--Craaaaack!

One beam collapsed and fell apart the moment the dead boy's feet landed, sending both it and part of the roof crashing down in a deafening cacophony of stone and wood. Each piece of debris passed through him as if he wasn't there, giving him the perfect view of his chaos. He crouched low, balancing on the air by the balls of his feet, and laid his forearms across his knees. Were it not for the ethereal glow of his body, and the bright colors of his ragged clothing, the Italian would be all but invisible in the gloom darkening the rafters. His gaze never left the man below, making it easy to keep track of the "hunter". Fortunately--or unfortunately, he couldn't quite decide yet--the brunette managed to avoid injury. "Am I doing a good job helping you, amico mio~? Or does the silly man still need his god to hold his hand and help him cross the rubble?" he simpered, all saccharine sweetness as his words oozed false sympathy. "Mi dispiace, but he's too busy not caring enough to help you, ve! You need to stop hiding behind fake glasses and empty faith. See the truth staring you in the face!

There is no one here who can help you, no one but me! There's no heavenly host, no all-seeing God; you're on your own."

[Deleted]

Even before he said that Feliciano looked like a ghost, Roderich was sure that Feliciano was dead. It wasn’t the first time he’d encountered such specters in the desolate corridors of the manor but it was the first time he’d seen a Nation, like himself, in such a state. There was also a feeling of utter wrongness, with Roderich’s hair on the back of his neck standing up straight much like it had when he had approached the little chapel in the first place. Was it because of Feliciano that he was led here? Did Feliciano will him to appear?

That sense of something menacing only heightened when Feliciano “stood up” slowly after a few seconds of an attempt at smiling. The ghost, it didn’t feel very much like the Feliciano he knew, or at least, was accustomed to. There was a hard look in the spectre’s eyes, but also most as if was disconnected to that around him. And when they met Roderich’s light orchid eyes, Roderich leaned back a little, subconsciously needing to put a little distance between the two of them.

"'Blasphemy doesn't become me'...?" He heard Nord Italien repeat, following with a chuckle. Roderich had said the line as more of knowing wink or joke between between him and his old ward, though there was sliver of truth in it. It wasn’t exactly like Feliciano to be so openly bitter in his tone, though it brought about the personality changes he remembered in beginning or end of the time Roderich had controlled Feliciano’s lands. Of course, the moment Roderich realized that Feliciano was the dead, the instant he saw that floating, transparent body, the Alpine nation realized that undead Feliciano might not be the generally oblivious and passionate boy he was so accustomed to most of the time.

The space he had tried to put between them went to waste when the ghost floated towards him, not blinking once. The closer Feliciano got the more cold it felt and Roderich was very aware of the chill as Veneziano poked his glasses. Ice spread over the glass, clouding it and obscuring his vision. Roderich didn’t move, too chilled by this sudden behavior.

“Ve, I don't think you have any right to tell me what's blasphemy, or what suits me. Your faith blinds you to the truth. I'd think I'd know more about this than you-- I'm the dead one here. You already know that, though. You're scared because you know."

Was he as transparent as Feliciano that the latter could read him? Read his fears?

"Though, why has you so scared, silly man? I can hear the tremble of your voice, see the fear in your eyes--but I don't see a reason why. Am I somebody to be feared? I haven't even done anything, though!”

Roderich parted his lip slightly to disagree. While he was frightened, mostly because of how Feliciano seemed to have change since the lights went out and how menacing he felt, there was a sense of feeling like he was being talked to, patronized even. But he kept silent, not wishing to interrupt Feliciano’s speech.

"But, maybe, that's because you're not scared of me, ve. At least, not yet."

“Feliciano, stop this.” He managed to get out very quietly, taking off his glasses since they were proving useless when this clouded. He stuffed them in his pocket as the ghost resumed speaking.

The cold became even stronger and he could feel ice lightly covering his costume.
The Italian raised his hand to Roderich’s tirolerhut and Roderich could feel it being moved on his head. The feather brush he’d so carefully pinned to it before the party, in his colors of red and white, was yanked off and fell slowly to the floor, Roderich’s eyes watching its slow descent to the cracked stonework.

Suddenly it felt like something small and very, very cold stabbed his ear. Something in Roderich compared the feeling to frostbite. The northern Italian’s whispered words soon followed, “Maybe you're scared because you know I'm right, blasphemy and all. Did you really think that you could escape here when you die? That the Manor would let you slip away, where Heaven opened its arms to accept you? Don't deny it--I saw you kneeling at that altar. Everyone could hear you praying to that empty idol."

Roderich gasped as that ice-cold stabbing feeling intensified as Feliciano popped his verdammt head and shoulders through his chest, the cold squeezing his upper body as it it wanted to pop his head off. The brunette’s teeth started chattering quickly as he looked down into dark amber pools filled with amusement. Roderich’s own widened in disbelief; was he enjoying this? Had Feliciano been reduced to this by the Manor?

"Well," he amended, eyes twinkling with dark amusement, "everyone but Dio. He never really does listen though, does he?"

The manor.

A thought struck Roderich as his neighbor vanished, leaving behind the cold and the sound of laughter. He crouched down and placed the feather back into place while mulling through it. What if this was really what happened to them after they died in this place? They were reduced to cruel imitations of themselves and left to wander the halls forever, but dead. Perhaps the manor even influenced them somehow, making them angrier which each night that passed since their “resurrection”. And of course this was prime entertainment for the evil that lived in the wooden walls of the Manor. Making friends kill friends, family kill family, and lover kill lover was the best entertainment in the world for someone who took so much pleasure from making them suffer. It was the quickest way to break someone. 

Feliciano was wrong that Roderich had expected some reprieve from this hell. Roderich knew that he was probably here forever, for some reason. And yet Austria knew that whatever had made them could unmake them. Make them human. If the Manor could reduce them to almost human, whatever decided walking immortal spirit-nations was a good idea can take away their immortality. Did Roderich expect a heaven with fluffy cumulus clouds and harped angels? No. Neither did he expect fields of asphodel, burning lava, or never ending torture, which sometimes felt like life in general. Maybe this was Hell. But Roderich would not apologize or feel ashamed for praying. Or hoping. Even when situations were hopeless, which it was, Roderich was one to look ahead and say that eventually something worse would happen.

But Feliciano? With every biting word the other said, Roderich felt as if he was hearing a broken man talk.

"If Dio existed, do you really think he'd let us all suffer like this? That wouldn't be very nice of our "all-knowing, benevolent overlord", would it?" The words echoed around the chapel without a source. "Your god left you alone in this place, amico mio. Left you all alone to fend for yourself. There's no guiding hand to save you now. You know that, Mister Roderich, that's why you're scared. You know that I'm not just trying to trick you, ve--when you die, you'll end up just like me~"

“And what do I have to fear from that?” Roderich finally spoke up to his former ward. “That I knew that death here is not permanent? Is it not for us outside this Manor as well? That I wake up to a hellish reality or some limbo every day? That could be taken for the past century of my life, Feliciano.” He ended bitterly, watching the man reappear on the ceiling. Suddenly wood flew down to where Roderich was standing and he immediately spun out of the way, looking up at where Feliciano was currently jumping on the damned beams!

“Verdammt! Diese ist das letzte, was ich brauche!”* muttered Roderich as he tried to place himself away from the beams.

"Don't worry though, I'll help you see the truth, Mister Roderich~ This place blinds you to the truth--so I'll get rid of it!"

As the first pile of wood fell, dust rose up into the air, making Roderich cough into the sleeve of his costume. He glared up at the phantom, coughing in between trying to get the younger man to stop.

“Stop th-“ Hack. “right now!” Another hack, one that made his knees buckle from all the dust he accidentally inhaled. More support beams fell, each one taking more of the wood from the roof with it. Roderich could barely see a cruel smile on the ghost’s face as he landed on each one. Then his feet touched one that felt apart immediately, crashing down to floor with a huge chunk of the roof. Roderich raised his arm to make sure no piece fell upon him and walked backwards to the wall, pressing his back against it as he waited for the debris to settle down. It was pure luck he hadn’t been killed with the amount of wood and stone that had fallen down.

"Am I doing a good job helping you, amico mio~? Or does the silly man still need his god to hold his hand and help him cross the rubble? Mi dispiace, but he's too busy not caring enough to help you, ve! You need to stop hiding behind fake glasses and empty faith. See the truth staring you in the face! There is no one here who can help you, no one but me! There's no heavenly host, no all-seeing God; you're on your own."

Roderich took another gulp of air behind his raised hand and then lowered it, looking down at the ruins. The crucifix he had been praying to still stood, though now it was leaning back from the force the roof falling down. He cast the preacher from Nazareth a glance, almost pitying though not for him or for himself, but for the ghost who had just needlessly destroyed the chapel. He sighed. First thing was first and Roderich had a routine. He met Feliciano’s gaze silently and dusted off his outfit and put back his fake glasses on. Then he adjusted his hat while walking down a charred pew that was missing a quarter of itself thanks to the demolition that Feliciano had adjusted. It was only when he was in the middle of the church that Roderich spoke up.

“You’re frightened.”

“You’re alone, wandering halls with no friend, Feliciano. Perhaps you woke up confused and alone. Perhaps you were hoping for death, some respite from this Manor. Perhaps you also want to wake up and find that this was nothing more than a nightmare and that you are mostly safe in your house with boling pasta in the kitchen and your friends only a phone call away.”

“I don’t need to see the truth, Feliciano, and while I do admire and thank you for your attempts at enlightenment, faith does not work in that. It is blind and endures despite all what is thrown against it. Like hope. And that’s why you are scared Feliciano, you have lost all hope. Instead you float around and angrily demolish things. And I’m sorry, though I know you would hate to hear this from me. I’m sorry you are dead Feliciano, that you are in this state, that the manor can make you into this…thing. I’m sorry that God had left us to rot with the world a long time ago. I’m not sorry, however, about feeling fear, Feliciano, for there is nothing wrong for feeling fear if one still goes on. I’m not sorry that wars, genocides, and plagues didn’t manage to rob me out of every bit of faith and hope and the will to carry on. I’m not sorry for that, Feliciano.”

He paused for breath, kicking away a piece of charred wood near his feet as he did so. He briefly wondered if he should stop here, stop lecturing Feliciano. But the feeling of sorrow that had only intensified as he watched Feliciano destroy those beams had become much stronger, overpowering the fear he had felt previously.

“But I have to amend my previous statement. It is not that blasphemy does not become you, nein,”

Flashes of ships crashing into ships during a war soon to be a century old fluttered towards his mind, memories of anger and swears in a devastating war, a simply devastating war coming into his head as he spoke. This cruel, cold specter did not remind Roderich of a passionate boy who fought him for his freedom after centuries.

“Cowardice does not. And the Feliciano I’ve known for almost a thousand years was never a coward, no matter how much we all mocked you for screwing up in training. So, bitte, mein alter Freund, don’t let Manor make you less of the man you are.”

And Roderich smiled up at him, really smiled, trying to make him see his good intentions.

“Let me help you, Italien, instead.”

SPOILER: Click to show

omg, this is the longest post I'ver written, I don't even know Reedyboo, there was so much to react to! >.<; sorry. I'm pretty sure Roderich just earned himself death from this tongue-lashing

*Verdammt! Diese ist das letzte, was ich brauche! = Damn it! This is the last thing I need!

Oh and some music. Here's what came to mind as Feliciano bursts through Roderich's chest and starts destroying the ceiling: www.youtube.com/watch?v=DdT1Mw4QJT8

And after all the dust settles down: www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1-TrAvp_xs

That's all, get back soon and I'm sorry for the length, I think Rodmuse has been too verbose lately and he needs to stop.

[Italia Veneziano]

There were several ways the ghost had expected this "Mister Roderich" to respond. Some vague memories floated in Veneziano's head, of a man who responded violently to the vandalism of property, of a man who blew up kitchens without a bat of an eye, of a man who retreated from adversity when it grew too tenuous to bear. However, he couldn't say he was quite ready for this. There was no shout of anger, looks of fear, or attempts to flee. Rather, the brunette waited until everything had settled, walked to the middle of the rubble, and began to speak. “You're frightened,” 'Mister Roderich' said, looking straight ahead and not even a glance upwards at the target of his words. Veneziano felt his eyes narrow as those first words drifted through the air around them.

Frightened, he'd said, as if the ghost had anything to fear now! What you fear is what you do not understand, and Veneziano understood exactly everything that he could possibly do--what options were left to him now that he was dead and incorporeal. He could spend the rest of eternity searching through an endless graveyard and pray he found his own, or he could spend the rest of eternity floating around this place, doing as much as his touchless hands could offer. There were no other choices, and while neither really sat with him well, they were his choices to make! Agitation slowly twisted his expression into a sharp frown, eyes pinched at the corners. He crouched lower, staring icy daggers into the back of the man's skull. Obviously this purple-eyed brunette knew more of Veneziano's past than the ghost did himself, and that wasn't fair. Who was he to know what Veneziano couldn't recall? Who was he to leave words of tease, hinting at the kind of things the spirit should be hoping for? Who was this "Mister Roderich" to accuse him of hoping to die? As if anyone in their right mind would--well, maybe he hadn't been when he'd passed, who really knows? But for this stranger to say that he had been hoping for death as a reprieve, when he knew now that those who died had not a moment's peace? He can't sleep, he can't eat, he can't remember his own past or even enjoy anything of the physical world he was trapped in! He couldn't feel the touch of a warm hand, and he wasn't terribly upset by that loss because none of these people meant enough to him to miss them in the first place, but that didn't mean he wouldn't miss being alive and actually knowing something about himself and the people around him. Despite that, this ridiculous man was lecturing him on how he should be behaving, acting as if the ghost didn't know a damn thing!

"...Who do you think you are?" The ghost hissed, glaring down at the other brunette. Dark agitation swirled within him, forcing a quiver to his hands clenched into fists. The words were ignored, the ridiculously-dressed man pressing on as if an interruption never happened. “I don’t need to see the truth, Feliciano, and while I do admire and thank you for your attempts at enlightenment, faith does not work in that. It is blind and endures despite all what is thrown against it. Like hope. And that’s why you are scared Feliciano, you have lost all hope.” Now Veneziano positively bristled. As if the insult to his living self wasn't bad enough, now this uppity little jerk was insulting him as he was now! How dare he! What hope should the dead have in the first place? Death outside of the Manor was final and absolute--if ghosts existed out there, then they didn't have the ability to come back like t he ghosts here. Of course, that option had little chance for success, but it was possible! He simply chose to stick with the statistics for now and see what was around before going back to wasting his time with wailing spirits. He knew how faith worked, but that didn't mean that keeping faith in a powerless idol and false words was smart or by any means worth putting faith in in the first place! Attempting to show the living man his folly and show him there are far better things to focus one's attention on wasn't a sign of lost hope! It was an attempt to help! Yet "Mister Roderich" was not only pushing his help aside, but spitting on it. And what's worse, he was peppering pity in his words as well, as if the sickly sweet sensation would make the rest of his words seem less pretentious.

Roderich really hadn't changed at all from the time that Veneziano lived with him. Caring more about what he thought was right, and ignoring the truth of the matter entirely. Memories long since past fluttered in his mind, awakening old, forgotten anger that only fueled his growing anger. He hadn't even realized the black emotions raging within him weighed the ghost down until he was floating a few scarce feet above the ground. Violet eyes stared up at him with warmth in their depths, alerting him to his change in position even as they made his skin crawl. “Let me help you, Italien, instead.”

It was quick work slapping that proffered hand. "Who the hell do you think you are?!" he reiterated with a snarl. The calm blue glow of him had changed, pulsating with black intentions. The very air around him seemed to throb in time with his aura. "You tell me you used to mock me and that makes you think I would want your help?! You call me a suicidal, hopeless coward and expect me to accept?!" The ghost trembled with rage, hand slashing out to clench around the brunette's throat in an uncompromising grip. As he squeezed the air from Roderich's windpipe, he dragged the brunette close. A forced calm smoothed his voice over now that he was sure the Austrian couldn't interrupt him, his next words flowing from his lips like poisoned water. "I tried to be friendly to you, you stupid jerk. I just wanted to help you. But you just have to be right, don't you, Mister Roderich? I have no hope just because I don't act like you, wandering into an ugly old church to pray at a stupid-looking sculpture with a stick up its butt? Fine! I don't want your stupid hope because I have certainty in my fate! I know what I can do, and that's more than an idiot like you has!" His grip tightened, nails digging into pale flesh. The steady pace of his words faltered a moment, but the intensity of his voice made up for that enraged waver. "Give me one good reason why I should listen to you. Why the hell I should give you the time of day? You take my help and you scorn it. You insulted me and treated me like an idiot when all I wanted to do was show you that you should be focusing more on surviving instead of praying for help from someone that doesn't exist outside of your fat, stupid head! You obviously don't care about me, so why shouldn't I just break your neck and leave you here to rot?"

[Austria]

"Who the hell do you think you are?!"

Perhaps it was the smile (unfortunate since Roderich hardly ever smiled, and it was not even genuine when he did) but neither Gott nor Feliciano seemed receptive to his prayers or offers of help. Perhaps it was one of those days where he just failed to communicate with anyone and would be better off shutting himself off in the music room where no one would bother him and spirits wouldn’t be seething at every word that left his lips.

Oh, and was Nord Italien seething. Roderich recognized the signs of anger in those quivering fists even if they seemed completely alien on the nation’s body, as strange as the translucency and the idea of being dead. Feliciano was dead, Feliciano was angry, something was definitely wrong with the world. But Roderich didn’t flinch away from the other, still holding out that helping hand.

A hand that was suddenly slapped away. Roderich let out a startled noise as the ghostly, see-through hand actually made physical contact, something that distracted him from the idea that Feliciano hit him, hit him of all people. Feliciano was willing to physically harm him, a strange idea that escaped him earlier when the specter collapsed most of the beams in what seemed to be a fit of rage.

For Roderich war and regular life were two different things. The one time he could recall Feliciano and him battling it was through machines and not hand-to-hand combat. In fact, Roderich couldn’t recall a time when the other nation had ever struck him. What Austria could remember is cuffing Feliciano’s ear or bonking him on the head if the nation had made a big mess or had gotten into the sweets larder. Perhaps actual spanking if the transgression called for it, but Roderich had been quite lax with physical punishments according to the older standards and had grown to dislike most corporal punishment in the past century as he studied pediatric psychology. However, Feliciano never seemed to have turned out wrong for the occasional cuffing Roderich had given him. Nations were, after all, made of tougher stuff. Or so Roderich thought.

And so Feliciano slapping away his hand caused a bit of a break with reality in Roderich’s head. Here he was, former ‘disciplinarian’ and, for all intents and purposes, Veneciano’s guardian for centuries, aware that what was standing in front of him was willing to hurt him. A ‘dead’ Feliciano was willing to harm him. A strange feeling that Roderich had never associated with Feliciano, even during the First World War, briefly ran through his body.

Fear.

Roderich was frightened of this Feliciano, who was no longer shrouded by an eerie bluish glow but with a dark and menacing aura. Roderich could feel his hair stand up and goosebumps pebble his skin at the sight.


"Who the hell do you think you are?!" snarled the other nation. The atmosphere shifted, the dreariness of the destroyed chapel at once seemed more alive and more dangerous than it had thanks to the angered spirit in front of him.

“You tell me you used to mock me and that makes you think I would want your help?! You call me a suicidal, hopeless coward and expect me to accept?!"

That sounded so….wrong.

As a nation, prowess at war was important. Enough that showing ineptness at it was asking for someone to invade you and rough you up. Roderich, scrawny as he is, had suffered the titters and jokes throughout all his life and eventually figured out a way to persuade people to not invade him. That plan didn’t seem to work out in the long term, and times had changed, but still it wasn’t uncommon to still hear boasting and bragging of how strong someone was.

For Feliciano to take issue with that so strongly, could it be that was a source of deeply ingrained anxiety that he never let show on the surface? Had all the other nations just ignored signs of Feliciano being troubled by all the jokes? But Roderich was an observant man, even before he’d come across the study of the mind in the form of psychology. And while he was sure Feliciano was nowhere as cheerful as he seemed to be, this bitterness didn’t line up with any of the memories of the other nation throughout the centuries.

And as quickly as the thoughts churned in Roderich’s head, Feliciano’s hand was grabbing his throat, spreading an icy feeling down to his chest that wasn’t helped by the sudden pressure on his neck that was determined to choke the air out of him. To match the cold pressure Roderich was feeling, the dead Feliciano’s voice became collected, more acid than heat.

"I tried to be friendly to you, you stupid jerk. I just wanted to help you. But you just have to be right, don't you, Mister Roderich? I have no hope just because I don't act like you, wandering into an ugly old church to pray at a stupid-looking sculpture with a stick up its butt? Fine! I don't want your stupid hope because I have certainty in my fate! I know what I can do, and that's more than an idiot like you has!"

Roderich could feel the other’s nail dig into his skin, puncturing it with that same feeling of completely unnatural cold but not, as of yet, drawing blood. The pain was distracting; he caught every other word Feliciano uttered and so the overall ranting sounded quite hysteric. Briefly, Roderich wondered how long Feliciano had wandered the halls and courtyard of this Manor. When had he died? How long had everyone ignored him that he would take such leave of his senses?

"Give me one good reason why I should listen to you. Why the hell I should give you the time of day? You take my help and you scorn it. You insulted me and treated me like an idiot when all I wanted to do was show you that you should be focusing more on surviving instead of praying for help from someone that doesn't exist outside of your fat, stupid head! You obviously don't care about me, so why shouldn't I just break your neck and leave you here to rot?"

Wondering if this was the last time he’d see anything, Roderich closed his eyes in thought. The pain around his neck hadn't gotten any looser, though Feliciano made himself very clear in the last minute. While most of his anger seemed focus on Roderich ‘scorning’ his help in the chapel, it honestly felt like the bitterness was from another topic, another era even, and he wondered if the ghost was aware of it.

‘We all did insult you and treated you like an idiot, didn't we?’ thought Roderich. ‘But all of us in your life, even if we were enemies, there was a special place for you, everywhere. And for me… One such as me, who had issues with his closest brothers, it was building my own family that counted. And you were part of that, despite the way everything turned out. I truly felt you were my ward. But this blasted house, it takes family ties and friendships and throws them out.’

“Because we’re family.” Roderich rasped out. It was very hard to give an answer when the ghost’s nails, somehow sharp even if part of a phantasm, were digging into his skin. He tried to finish talking the best he could, even if his throat felt like collapsing by the end. “Even now. Even after the last hundred years. Because when you look to the north, it is me you see, Venedig. And I’ve always been there, Feliciano, apart from our duties as nations, as a person. As a friend. So bitte, stop this and let me go so I can help you in the way you best think I may.”

Having said what he could, Roderich’s breathing became harsher from the pressure on his throat and slight choking noises started to filter out from the Austrian’s throat, all while he looked for mercy from the ghost of his friend.