Smoke and Mirrors -- [Open]

[Prussia]

The voices were quieter up on the roof. Gilbert had been pleased to discover this when he found his way up there, climbing up onto the top of the structure. There were no stars to be seen. No moon even, not when the fog was this thick. He couldn't even be sure that there was a moon anymore. Something big and bad might have already eaten it. Slurped it right up the same way that everything and everyone else around here disappeared.

There was something he'd lost. Gilbert couldn't put his finger on it. Retaining any sense of memory was beyond recovery for him. He was looping in five minute intervals (or at least he thought it was five minutes. For all he knew, he could have been resetting after three.) and it was a struggle just to recall where he was going, what he was looking for, who he was or how he had come to be in this place. The Prussian figured he was likely fully mad. Oddly, this didn't bother him too much. He felt a serenity that had eluded him when he'd been spending so much energy worrying over the state of his sanity.

Acceptance was the first step to recovery. Right?

The albino rested his head down upon the rough texture of the roof's tiling, red eyes gazing upwards into the mists. Staying up here sounded like a good idea. Then again, jumping off the roof to see what would break also had its merits, if the voice in his head was worth believing. It's suggestions tended towards fatalistic. Gilbert had no way of knowing anymore if it was his own voice or someone else's. Trying to puzzle through it only confused him. He opted to do nothing except lie there.

Someone or something would eventually find him, he told himself. No need to rush, or stumble along, wandering through the corridors he'd been prowling in circles without any sign of life. If no one did turn up then Gilbert figured he had a few more days before starvation or exposure to the cold claimed him. Surprisingly, the concept of this fate didn't bother him either. He was completely short on bothers.

There was a scraping sound further along the roof. His thoughts had managed to summon something to the roof in the misty spaces nearby. The Prussian slowly sat up from his reclining position, hands braced upon the roof tiles behind him. He squinted red eyes in the direction of those noises yet could not make out what the cause of those sounds was. Gilbert was tempted to remain perfectly silent. Let them go fumbling around in this mess blind. Maybe they'd even fall of the roof. That would be worth a laugh.

Despite toying with the idea of remaining silent, Gilbert's mouth opened anyway, unable to stay quiet for long. "Keep that up and you're going to end up taking a long drop to the ground."

[Italia Veneziano]

How long could he resist the pull he felt in his gut to go down to the courtyard? The spirit didn't quite know, and really he didn't mind pushing himself to his limits because he really didn't know why he'd want to go back. After all, what would finding his body even do? Just rub in the fact that he was dead? No, no, this little ghostling didn't particularly need that reminder, he knew his status well enough on his own.

He'd floated on up through the halls for ages; not that time had much of an effect on him anymore. All that had done was make the brunette surly. He couldn't touch anything, not without more effort than he could handle using for something as simple as shifting a picture frame or turning a simple doorknob. Were all the ghost this helpless? Was this why they tore through the halls, trying to find something that made them feel more than just dead? The other ghosts were violent, though--he had watched, startled, as one particularly aged spirit had completely destroyed the Men's Lounge with just one burst of such immense hatred and jealousy that it had even moved him into dark thoughts. Then the room just...crawled back into one piece. The sight had disturbed him, sent him fleeing on up to the "safety" of the empty roof before he ran into anymore dangerous sights.

Would he end up like those spirits, eventually? There were whispers as he floated by, of how he had been one of the many living being trapped here, before dragged to an untimely death. So that had to mean he wasn't dead for very long, right? After all, everyone else was still alive, and they didn't seem particularly aged. Maybe haunted, a description which made him giggle a bit at the irony, but certainly not old, like a few of the "newer" ghosts had been. Well, they seemed newer, even if they were even fainter in color than the old ghosts who were fueled with centuries of ill-thoughts. Would he end up like them, completely lost and without purpose, not even with a drive to hurt the ones still lucky enough to cling to that spark of life? Honestly, he didn't know, and it was frightening. He didn't want to hurt the scared little people darting about like flies, though. This ghostie wanted to help them escape, be free of the fate he was now saddled with. But how could he do that if he couldn't do anything?

He trained. And trained and trained until he felt so faint that he wondered if he just needed to exhaust himself to pass on. There was plenty he could push around if he wanted to--he started with the pebbles, though, since they were the smallest and easiest to move. Plus they made the most satisfying rumble once he actually managed to get those little things tumbling down shingle and over the tapered edge of the roof. Veneziano, as he remembered he'd been called, had a bit of fun with this training--though if he hated it before, he couldn't quite recall. Time was fuzzy, even more inconsistent than the images occasionally fluttering through his mind. It could have been hours, weeks, eons since he'd begun, who even cares? What mattered was the fun, the sense of purpose that grew with each increasingly large pebble and shingle-piece that managed to succumb to his desires for power and movement. Soon it became a game--how clean could the roof become before he grew bored and floated back down to his brethren?

By the time those pebbles were gone, he fretted over cleaning up entirely without growing bored. What would he do if he wanted to stay and there was nothing there? Silent please were answered once one of his shingles sent metacarpals and an ulna tumbling to the ground. He'd come across something even more fun than some dinky rocks--the remains of a skeleton scattered all across the roof. Veneziano guessed that the bones had been gnawed on by some of the large black birds loitering around with their beady black eyes. Or maybe some winged beast he hadn't seen? Who knew what laid beyond the walls he had been floating in? Unfortunately, they laid well-stuck, as if melded to the surface beneath each shining white bone. "Moooooove," The ghost whined, trying to wrap his fingers around a shin-bone and failing as fingers passed down into hollows and dried marrow without sensation.

After another eon or three, finally ethereal fingers solidified just enough to catch the end of a joint. If he had skin, it'd probably crawl with the skrrrrch it made as he dragged the hardened carbon limb around like a particularly pleased dog with a treat, giggling. He was too gleeful to tell that he had a visitor to his little shelter. So only when that gravelly "Keep that up and you're going to end up taking a long tumble to the ground," reached his "ears", that bone clattered down the roof as shock made him go intangible once more. He turned around with all the grace of a feather floating on the wind, hands fluttering in surprise.

"Veeeee, you're not allowed up here!" He called out helplessly at that hoarse voice, trying to put his invisible self between it and the skeleton he was playing with. "It's not clean yet, and I'm not bored yet and you can't even see me so it's not fair that you get to be here when I can't talk to you!" The pout was evident in his voice as he gave in to temptation and floated closer, trying to catch sight of this living person. Obviously it wasn't one of the dead--they didn't care if someone fell off the roof. "Maybe once I've cleaned up you can come back, but now you have to go away~"

[Prussia]

Gilbert was stunned. The albino stood, facing the area of the roof where that other man was currently warding him off. His memory was patchy, yes. Almost beyond the point of retrieval at this point. The recent event of Feliciano's death was too emblazoned in his mind for him to forget so soon what the Italian's fate had been when they had fought against the plant monster. Now here he was, in the company of that same man. His face -- impossibly paler than usual -- was slack as he tried to decide what the best reaction was to this situation.

Had that death been an illusion? Here was Feliciano not more than steps away, speaking to him and shooing him off. Gilbert lifted both of his hands to rub at red eyes to check that it wasn't fatigue playing tricks on him. When he peeked over the top of his fingers the image was still there. Feliciano, here in his presence. Just like Lud-- er. Luddell? Ludwig? Someone. The ghost in the tree that he'd made a solemn promise to where it hung by its noose in the wind. Lowering his hands to hang motionless at his sides, Gilbert finally found his voice again. "Who? I mean -- how did you get here? You're dead. I know you're dead. I saw you die."

This was wrong. Very wrong. When people died, they didn't return. Not like this. Definitely not this shadow image of Feliciano. He frowned, hand flashing forward to point an accusing finger at the phantom. "You shouldn't be here. You're supposed to be off resting peacefully in Heaven with that arrogant arschloch macho man who I can't remember the name of right now. So you need to stop playing around with that skeleton and get back there right now!"

[Italia Veneziano]

"You're dead. I know you're dead. I saw you die."

Those words stood out amidst the rest of the strange snow-blonde's ramblings. Caught his attention, they did, and his eyes widened a bit. Only a few people he'd seen wandering the Manor had even been able to see the ghost, and most didn't have very much to say to him. In fact, ever since he'd died, it seemed almost like no one even knew who he was, which was irritating in and of itself. So, not only did he not know much of what he'd been like before the Manor, but he didn't even know what he'd been up to while he'd been alive here. But this strange man, looking more like a ghost scared back to life than a living person, said he'd seen Veneziano die. That gaunt face seemed honest enough, with a genuinely surprised expression bordering on confusion, and horror, the brunette noticed eagerly. Large fingers also rubbed at blood-shot eyes as if attempting to scare away the sight before him, another sign that he could very well believe this newcomer had indeed been around for his untimely death.

The surprise came next when the other switched gears entirely, going from shocked to angry. One of those fingers was now jabbing at him, thin lips saying something about "resting peacefully in Heaven" and blah blah blah. He was acting as if Veneziano had affronted him by existing on Earth past the point of death. The ghost's surprise turned to humor. Him, in heaven? That concept reminded him far too much of the man in the chapel. He began to snigger a bit, settling back as if to seat himself upon an invisible chair a half-foot in the air. The sound, despite its amused and mocking nature, was quiet and airy, too thin to come from a healthy, living person. "Resting in Heaven?" He asked, grinning down at the red-eyed ghoul. "Veeeee, what would I do in a place that doesn't exist? You're so silly~ I'm stuck down here, just like everybody else!" A pale arm, ethereal in nature and clothed in the tattered, ripped remains of orange and gold cloth, slashed through the air in one sweeping movement. There were ghosts everywhere on the grounds beneath their feet, silver beacons that shone like empyreal lights in the surrounding darkness. The courtyard between this half of the building and the next was lit up almost like daytime, there were so many spirits clamoring about, trying to find their graves. Even all the way up here, there were still the echoes of their laments carried on the wind, little whispers to tickle their ears. Veneziano paid them no mind, he'd learned to drown them out hours ago, and he doubted this "living ghost" before him could even hear them at all. "I can't leave here even if I tried. What kind of ghosts tries to leave the place they died, anyway? Leaving your haunting ground, that's just ridiculous~" Despite his words, though, the ghost's smile faded, and his arm fell to his side. "I can't go, but you're not trapped here like I am. You can at least try to leave, si? So why don't you try to escape? There's nothing for you here, this is hell for those who are dead. Heaven wouldn't let us in even if we knew where to go."

As he spoke now, Veneziano leaned forward, face a few scant inches from that visage almost as pale as the dead Italian. That accusatory finger passed through his chest, poking into the insubstantial remains of his heart. "Are you too guilty to leave, ve? Is this supposed to be your hell, too?" He asked curiously, amber eyes locked on garnet as a wrinkle grew between his eyebrows. "You said you saw me die, so...why are you alive and I'm not, ve? Did you even try to help me? Or am I looking at my own murderer?" With some extra concentration, Veneziano gently swept white-blonde hair from a pale-white face, his icy touch stealing the warmth from the man's skin. "You can tell me if you killed me, you know. I won't get mad if you did, I can't remember it anyway." The faintest smile came to his lips, even if that little wrinkle grew just a bit deeper. "I can't remember very much, si? And you can't get mad at what you can't remember. So, per favore, will you tell me what happened? It's not fair that you know what happened to me and I don't, but you got to live and I had to die." That amber shade took a turn for the cold, hardening as his expression tensed. He cupped the Prussian's cheek, all but freezing it under his touch. "Tell me how I died."

[Prussia]

Gilbert's lips tugged down into a heavy frown, matching the surfacing furrow of his brow as he listened to the response of the spectral creature. He didn't like what he heard. In fact, on some level deep inside of him, he felt an emergence of zealous offense at that dismissal of Heaven. His exasperation remained concealed while the Prussian's eyes tracked the sweep of the ghost's arm to where the empty world was below. No, he could not see the wandering spirits there. Gilbert's mind was strained enough that he could sense the presence of energies down below yet they remained beyond his visual capacity. He drew his shoulders up when answering the ghost.

"Of course Heaven exists. It's just turned its eye away from this place. That doesn't mean that we're abandoned in this pit; it means that we need to search a little harder to find it." Gilbert stated with confidence. "And what do you mean that you can't leave your 'haunting ground'? Spirits can leave. I know they can. Or maybe you're just too afraid to let go completely? You don't have to haunt if you don't want to. Go rest instead."

The albino stood his ground when Feliciano's ghost came so close. He wasn't going to back down from such a thing even if it was seriously creeping him out. His pride was too strong to lose that much face in front of a spirit. Gilbert didn't want to look uncool. However, when Feliciano's spirit implicated him as a murderer he dropped his mouth open to gape at the entity. He was torn in how to respond, veering between angry, offended and hurt by the accusation. "I didn't kill you. Don't be an arschloch. It was the... It was a plant thing. A plant thing with lots of arms and teeth. You were crying when I found you because you'd lost..."

Here was when the inconvenience of his lost memories worked against him. He couldn't recall the sequence of events leading up to Feliciano's death. There had been somewhere they were going, or maybe just looking for someone? Even the plant was a phantom terror that the Prussian couldn't describe if asked. He roughly shook his head to remove that freezing touch from his person, chasing off the sensation of that contact. "It ate you and it nearly killed me. I couldn't save you. I don't remember how it was that I failed but I know I did. You needed saving and I failed. I can't even recall it well enough to remember how but this guilt in me tells me that I couldn't save you from a monster. So I might feel guilty enough to remain here. I sure as hell didn't kill you. I know that for sure. Now you tell me why you're up here on the roof instead of seeking your way to resting in peace."

[Italia Veneziano]

Once the white-haired man started speaking, Veneziano's serious face fell into a petulant frown, letting his hand fall back to his side. It must say something for the ghost's luck when he keeps running into people who like to tell him he's wrong. [Then again, it should say something about his luck that he'd found the man who'd been with him when he died, without even having to search for him.] That's what made skeleton behind him so much better. He could play around with it as he pleased, and it kept its mouth shut. [Well, metaphorically speaking. The jaw had fallen away ages ago, and it was probably tumbling into the courtyard.] He didn't have to worry about it giving him lip, or telling him that he's not living his afterlife properly. It was dead, and didn't even have a ghost to go with it anymore. "Ve, why can't anyone else be as nice to me as Ludwig was?" he asked himself in a grumble. He might've been lucky enough to find out that Mister Ghost-man had seen his death, but that's where his luck ended, it seems. So much for thinking he could learn more about what happened to him. His only source of information had worse memory than an amnesic ghost. "What do you know about being a spirit? Have you died before? Your memory's bad enough that you could've. But if you were dead, you'd know that there's no path to heaven from here, there is no heaven for us." The Italian's cheeks puffed out in irritation. "Ve, you look like one of us, Mister Ghost-man, but you haven't died yet. Maybe when you're dead, you can tell me what I'm supposed to do. I don't want to hear it until then."

With another huff, he turned to face towards the edge of the roof, staring over the grounds. "Especially since you think I'd choose to stay here. You don't know me very well at all if you really think that, ve." He sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm not here because I'm too scared of something to leave--I'm not scared at all. I'm not here because I'm lost, or I can't "let go". I can't leave--if I could, I would, but I just can't. How can I let go of something I don't remember having in the first place, anyway?" Honestly, it wasn't all that hard to understand. But people cling to the silliest of ideas when they're in trouble, he supposed. With a quiet huff, he reached forward and through the pouch of the leather holster strapped to the man's chest. The spirit made quick work of plucking a .40 caliber bullet free. He pulled away with his prize, floating back a few feet.

"You wanna know why I'm up here?" He asked, turning his gaze down to focus on his hand. That made it simpler to twirl the bullet between his knuckles. It was just another game, something to help him focus on staying tangible for longer. I'm up here because I was bored. The other ghosts hardly talk, most of you living people can't even see me, and the graveyard's too big for me to find my body--I already wasted a bunch of time on that." That last item came out as a scoff, his flux of irritation making him lose control of the bullet in his hand. He managed to catch it, but having lost interest in the exercise, he lifted his fingers and flicked the frost-covered metal back at the albino, striking him right between the eyes. "Does that answer your question, ve? So why are you up here? I don't gotta worry about falling, but you do."

[Prussia]

The tirade from the spirit was a blend of words that Gilbert didn't respond to right away. He was too busy watching the ghost close in on him, steal that bullet from him, and make it into a plaything. When that projectile came launching at his face to hit him, the albino went stumbling back a couple of steps. His heel scraped on the edge of the roof to send debris littering down to the ground far below. Gilbert managed to right his balance at the last second, arms spreading out in either direction to prevent tumbling backwards to a guaranteed ending.

It was a close call. He'd let himself get distracted from the danger of his predicament. He had allowed Feliciano's taunting to ruin his focus. Gilbert's eyes dropped to where his heel was hanging just over the eave. What are you doing? His brain supplied for him in a sharp demand. What was he doing? Was this how he was going to meet his end? On the retreat from a phantom, heavy with guilt and the knowledge of his failure? The Prussian's eyes slowly swung back to Feliciano's spectral face.

Just a game. It was all just a game. This ghost, the Manor, all of it. And Gilbert was tired. Tired in his body, tired in his mind, and tired of playing. Clarity blossomed inside him, anchoring the Prussian as his scattered brain pulled itself together. Here he was being foolish enough to let this place put him on the edge of death.

He had forgotten something very important. Now he remembered it.

Prussia had been on the edge of death for over eighty years now. On his own terms.

No way in hell was he going to let someone other than him decide how he was going to live or die this far down the line.

Gilbert's spine slowly straightened from its slouch, thin shoulders squaring themselves with the pride of a soldier and the will of an empire. His weight buoyed forward as he took a step away from the roof's edge. Then another. Wine dark eyes were locked upon Feliciano's distorted image as the albino's slack mouth formed a sharp smile. "Seems to me that you're the one with the memory problems here, kiddo. You're asking me if I know what it's like to be a spirit? If I know what it's like to die? You snot-nosed little bastard -- I am the walking dead."

The Prussian rolled his shoulders in their sockets, loosening the tension that had made them ache when he'd let his spine get bowed from the weight of all the crap this place had been piling on top of him. No more of that. No more. Pieces were locking into alignment now with logic that had escaped him before. He stood near the remnants of the skeleton there on the roof, hands on his hips. "If you can't leave, then neither can West. You said that you saw Ludwig? Then that means that whatever I saw out there on that tree probably wasn't him. So that means chances are good I'll see him again. I didn't lose him. That's the best news I've had in -- well. However long it is I've been here."

He turned on the Italian, crouching down above the withered remains of some unfortunate person that had had the misfortune of dying here. A pale hand rested on the fragile rib bones of that human shell as Gilbert gazed pityingly upon it. "I know that Heaven exists. It does, because Fritz is there. So are the kind faced monks from my youth. And the Teutonics with their righteous cause. And every single person that lived and died under mein schwarzen Adler.  So is a part of me that died many years ago." His face lifted to narrow his gaze on Feliciano's ghost.

"You want to tell me that Heaven doesn't exist? That there's nowhere for us to go? That you're not the least bit afraid being a wandering spirit? You're bored? You stopped looking for your body? All that means is that you've given up, Feliciano. Surrendered. You won't move forward because you've lost your drive to continue. I had lost mine there, too, I'll admit. Thinking that I had lost West, hating that I failed to save you. If you're not going to try to save yourself then I'm not going to mourn that loss any longer. I've never been invested in lost causes except for myself.

Because unlike you, Italien, I've got a fighting spirit in me. Even when bullshit like this knocks me down I eventually shake it off and I get back up. I keep moving. I fight everyday to hang on to what I've got left in this world and of myself. If I die here then I will come back. I'm not letting anyone here set my terms for me. And it pisses me off that you are. The Feliciano that I remember presses on even when he doesn't want to. Even if he whines incessantly. Even if he causes a fuss or makes me give up my blanket to him when he's cold or bawls his eyes out over a paper cut -- he keeps moving forward too."

Gilbert slowly stood up, straightening to his full stature. No more skulking around like a loser. He twisted his head around on his shoulders until the bones popped loudly. "Maybe I came up here to give you the kick in the ass that you need. So here's what we're going to do, kiddo. We're going to go down to that graveyard. We're going to find your body. If that's what it takes to get you back to life like you imply then I'll drag your ghostly ass down there if I have to and stomp you into the dirt myself. Because if I'm not giving up here, Feliciano, then neither are you."

[Italia Veneziano]

It had been surprising to see this sudden change in the white-haired man before him--the very energy radiating from the other had morphed from confused and sad to proud and, dare he say, vindictive. Obviously he'd taken major offence to something Veneziano had said--what, exactly, the ghost wasn't entirely sure, but it had to be something. Maybe he'd been upset with getting hit between the eyes and sent nearly tumbling off the roof? That could be it; the living didn't particularly enjoy nearly losing their life. The ghost was curious about how the other was going to respond, but once the albino opened his mouth and started babbling stupid nonsense, he frowned. It was a bunch of insults and rude things--he wasn't sure why his heart twanged as painfully as it did, but it certainly wasn't anything he wanted to listen to. The spirit, attempting to be unaffected by the man's words, pretended to pay only half an ear's worth of attention to the words being spat at him, as if they didn't mean anything. Instead, he knelt down to scoop that discarded bullet and once more continuing to roll it between his knuckles. Back and forth, back and forth--it was a soothing distraction. "...Ve, am I supposed to be impressed, or shaking in my shoes?" Veneziano asked once the albino was finished with his speech, bare toes wiggling in the space between them. "Because it's kinda hard to take you 'offer to help' seriously. First you say that I'm a lost cause, and you don't care enough to be sad that I'm dead, but now you're threatening to drag me to my grave and 'force me back to life'? It doesn't make very much sense to me."

Amber eyes finally lifted up from the bullet to stare into garnet--despite the calm flowing from his voice, irritation bubbled heatedly in his gaze. "You don't really like to listen to people, either." The wrinkle between his eyebrows grew more pronounced. It was hard to focus between speaking and his little exercise, and his head was starting to hurt. "Maybe once you're dead, you can tell me everything you want about Heaven and being a spirit--maybe you could even lead me out of this place, so I can rest in peace, like you say I'm supposed to be. You say you're the 'walking dead', what does that even mean? Does it mean you're destined to die? Because everyone is going to die eventually, Mister Wannabe-Ghost, so that would make all of us the walking dead." Veneziano shook his head, having to fight against gritting his teeth. This man had gotten under his skin, and it was infuriating to hear the pale blonde speak like he was entitled to pass his judgement on others. It pissed him off even more that he was losing his temper over it. "If you're going to die, then just die already, or stop talking about it, ve. There is no 'in between'--either you're dead, or you're not. You label yourself as the walking dead, as some weird little creature that's not quite alive but not quite dead yet; that doesn't make it sound like you have a 'fighting spirit', or that it's something to be proud of. It makes you sound stupid, ve. Like you need some sort of special label to feel good about yourself, which is even dumber. Especially to the people who are dead." He scoffed, eyebrow twitching slightly as he roughly jabbed the pale blonde in the chest with one accusatory finger, other hand clenched into a fist. "You're one of of the living, so don't act like you're not and that makes you special somehow.

There's no gravestone for you out there. There's no corpse of yours buried six feet underground and rotting in its coffin. You're not a spirit floating around who has to bend and break the laws of nature just so he can touch a person on the shoulder, or feel a bit of dirt under his feet! You can get up and fight your way out of here, whenever you want! You don't have to waste your time hunting through thousands of graves, just hoping that someday you'll trip over one that's yours! I don't even know what happens once you find your grave, for all I know I was lied to and you don't come back to life at all!  There are ghosts here that have been around for decades, some even a century or two, and they still haven't come back to life, not even once! I have almost no chance of finding my body, so I wanted to go see what was out here, see if I could remember something about myself, and in the event that I do end up trapped here for the rest of eternity, I can at least be able to pretend that I can feel, touch, eat; pretend that I'm alive!" The ghost wasn't entirely sure when he'd started shouting at the pale blonde. He didn't particularly care that he was, though. Ice quickly formed a thin, but thickening shell around the bullet now clenched tightly in a trembling fist. Veneziano lifted his hands and this time roughly shoved the albino back a step, glaring daggers into dark red eyes. "You don't know anything about my reasoning, you judgmental jerk! Just because I got bored searching through a massive graveyard doesn't make me a quitter, a bad person, or someone you can look down on! It just means I got bored, and that I left until I found a reason to go back and search some more. So don't start lecturing me about how I have no fighting spirit when I'm just trying to live the life I'm stuck with as best I can! Just because you suddenly got out of your funk doesn't mean that you're somehow a better person than me! And stop talking about the 'Feliciano' you know! I don't need to be reminded about how Veneziano is different because I don't even know the 'me' you miss so damn much! Dying can change a lot about a person, especially when that person can't even remember being alive in the first place!!"

[Prussia]

With all of the words coming out of Feliciano's spirit and the tone in which they were delivered, Gilbert had gone silent in a state of confusion. He reached up to rub at a pale eyebrow sticky with a mix of dirt, sweat and blood. The Italian's shove had pushed him back slightly but not enough to put him in any danger again. Gilbert quickly recovered his ground from that to fix a narrowing look on the spirit's face. He finally shook his head, swinging the strap of the beretta higher on his shoulder and then shoved both freezing hands into the pockets of his tattered trouser pockets. "Schiesse. Ja, I'd say you're right about being changed. This is just like talking to your Sour Puss brother. Romano's temper is cute, though."

His shoulders rose and fell in a dismissive shrug. "I've died more times than I can remember. That's what happens when you're a soldier nation. The only difference between my deaths and your one death here is that I didn't have to do any searching for my body. I could only wait, powerless and paralyzed, until my heart started to beat again. Or my limbs grew back. Or for whatever mortal injury I'd received to heal itself. So stop trying to tell me that I don't know anything about dying or death. I've experienced it far more times than your pampered little Italian ass can comprehend; don't start crying to me because that plant ambushed us and ate your face off. Ja, it blows balls that it happened. I'll still beat myself up about not being able to save you. If you keep being a vicious little brat, then I will learn to get over it."

Gilbert turned for the door of the roof that would take him back down into the Manor. "If you want my help finding your gravestone then check that temper and let's get out of here. If you want to stay up here and wait for the next person to complain to about how much it sucks to be you right now then you can do that too. I'll go down to the cemetery myself and look for it until I find it. Since you're adamant that we're stuck here then it seems to me that I'll have plenty of time to look. I will look until I find it because I owe you for the plant thing. After that, you're giving me little incentive to want to stick around, if this is how you're going to be now. I'd prefer to just hang around the Priss and listen to him complain instead or tell me all the ways I'm wrong about stuff."

"Either way, I'm out of here." The Prussian said over his shoulder as he pulled the door open. It was cold out here and the company had left a sour taste in his mouth. If he couldn't do anything for Feliciano -- and every second that he was getting more pissed off was making him less inclined to help -- then he'd go hunt down Ludwig until he found him. This hellhole was changing the people that he'd considered friends far too much. Maybe it was time to just stick with family and leave the rest to fend for themselves. "Stay or go; keep kicking skeletons in your tantrum if that's what you want. I'll mark your gravestone and then be on my way, kiddo."

[The Second Inhabitant]

He had watched most of the Nations from the time they were turned into ghosts, and most he was satisfied with. They were all fearful and eager to get to their graves once they found out they could return to life. Not this one though, no. This nation was comfortable as he was a ghost. This Italia Veneziano was starting to succumb to the evil in the manor. For yes, he did look into the Nations thoughts and saw exactly what was going though that head of his. The time to put his ghostly existence to an end was now. A swirling fog appeared near them and solidified slowly, black cloak billowing with an unfelt breeze, the hood up and the face visible for them to see . He relished the fact that they were fighting, but loved even more the damage he was about to cause. Turing those empty eyes to stare at the man, he reached out a boney hand and wrapped his fingers around the Italian’s neck.

“Well well well, look here, little ghostie Italian getting to big for his britches. Time for you go find your body, not much fun if you stay a ghostie the whole time~”

Throwing the Italian off the roof and in the direction of the graveyard, he kept his hand raised. Flexing his fingers, he sealed the graveyard to the Northern Italian. He would not be allowed to leave. Only once he was flesh and blood again would he be allowed to leave the graveyard. Turning to the Prussian, he eyed him up and down and spoke one phrase before vanishing.

“Are you dead or alive?”

[Italia Veneziano]

Veneziano couldn't help but pause at the mention of his brother, eyebrows furrowing in confusion even as agitation set his fingers clenching into fists. He'd spoken with Lovino...however long ago that had been, he couldn't really remember, but he hadn't been a "sour puss". Just sad and scared and lonely and too stupid for his own good. But he did know one thing--being told your anger is cute is mocking--is that all this want-to-be ghost did? Mock people? What kind of brain trauma does it take to think you not only have the right to mock people, but it's the only thing you're capable of doing?

It only got worse from there. "The only difference between my deaths and your one death here--" the spirit bristled at the silver-haired man's tone, because of course the living always have to be worse off than the dead; isn't that just the human condition? "--is that I didn't have to go do any searching for my body. I could only wait, powerless and paralyzed, until my heart started to beat again." He could barely hold back a scoff at those words, shaking his head. compared to spending weeks upon weeks without sensation, not paralyzed and powerless in movement but in interaction--he can see the world passing by him, but otherwise the limbo the ghost was stuck in was exactly the same as what this whiny man was discussing so avidly. Only, Veneziano didn't have that certainty of his heart starting up again. He could search that graveyard until the end of time, and that doesn't mean he's guaranteed to find his body. From the sheer size of it alone, plus all the other spirits who loitered the manor, it was probably accurate to say that he's more likely to wander here a spirit than claw his way back into life. Of course, there were people who wanted him to come back, and Veneziano wanted to live again as well, but doesn't mean momentarily counting your losses and pulling back was some sort of shameful. That certainly didn't mean that, just because apparently this bastard was suicidal and liked to die over and over and over again, the fact that Veneziano was dead was any less meaningful.

Considering the fact the other man never chose to go to Heaven only cemented the fact that the red-eyed man was spitting a crock full of shit. Why talk about dying and going to Heaven, as if Veneziano had a choice in the matter and ended up doing something wrong, only to try and rub in his face the "fact" the other had died "so many times~" that the spirit couldn't even comprehend. Not because you want to prove a point, but because this infuriating man always had to be right. Veneziano couldn't die right, because he 'got ambushed by a plant and got his face ate off', so he should've gone to Heaven. When he didn't, it's because he was stupid and 'chose' not to. Yet, of course, this man knows all about dying, how he is 'Walking Dead' and no one could know death as intimately as himself, but he doesn't know how to get to Heaven, so it couldn't exist if this man knows so much. Did this white-faced man think Veneziano was stupid?

And now he wanted to run away, pull some sort of 'chivalrous' card where all he wanted to do in the end was 'help', after all that bullshit?

Hell no.

With a harsh gesture, Veneziano angrily jerked the trapdoor shut in the man's face. He hadn't managed to shut the ghost-man in the door, unfortunately, but the satisfying sound of bones cracking reached his ears and that was enough. The ghost snarled, hands clenched into tight fists. "Who said you could leave and act like some hero saving my poor damned soul?! What part of our conversation made you think that was even an option?!" he demanded, sending those forgotten bones skittering down the roof and over the edge with the strength his anger alone. "I don't want your kind of help! 'Making up to me for the plant thing'--that's complete bullshit! You're not trying to help me, or make up for some stupid debt--you don't owe me anything, but you're acting like you do just to make yourself feel better. You're--"

Cold, bony fingers wrapped tightly around his throat, choking off whatever acidic words the dead Italian was going to say. Spiteful, hurt rage morphed into irritated confusion and his own hands leaped to his neck, trying to pry those fingers away even as he was easily hefted into the air--as a ghost, did he even have weight to begin with? He lifted his gaze from the pale man and to this intruder--and his anger quickly shriveled into something akin to fear. Veneziano recognized that figure anywhere.

Signore Morte.

"Well well, look here, little ghostie Italian getting too big for his britches~" The skeletal entity practically cooed, and despite himself disgust and agitation rose in his chest at the tone. Too big for his britches? What? "Time for you to go find your body; not much fun if you stay a ghost the whole time~"

What?

Veneziano couldn't have argued even if he'd tried--he wanted to come back to life, but to have Death--for really, what else could this being be--tell him he's spent too much time as a spirit when the ghost had spent most of his time searching the graveyard for his own grave, like he'd been told; essentially agreeing with this contradictory bastard clad in white before the both of them-- The Italian could've thrown up.

The vertigo of his sudden re-positioning from the roof down in the courtyard, crashing through tree branches and a grave or two before he hit the ground, left his head spinning and sapped of what energy he'd had left. The fall hadn't particularly hurt, couldn't hurt, really, but he couldn't convince himself to stand just yet. What just happened?

[Prussia]

Prussia was quickly shutting his ears to the spew of venomous words spewing out of the Italian following behind him. He had to. It was natural to disagree with others -- he had made a lifetime being purposefully in open opposition of others if just for the thrill of it -- and certainly the stress of this situation could bring out the worst in anyone. Gilbert knew he wasn't at his best here. Half the time the words leaving him were just a desperate grasp for anything that made sense. Anything that would put this all in perspective. Trying to reach into the air and pull reason out of nothingness.

Whatever heated words between them, this was still Feliciano. Dead, yes, and clearly angry. Though they had occasionally been of diverging opinions in the past Gilbert respected him, even feeling a sense of debt to Italy for being a light in the life of his brother. The Prussian would let this moment pass as others before. Soon he'd forget that the two of them had even argued in the manner. If he just kept moving forward, not listening any further to this verbal attack of spitefulness, then he could let it all go much faster, so they could embrace each other as friends when they met again.

It's just this place. It gets under your skin. It worms its way into your soul. Once he gets his body back then it will be like it was before. You'll ruffle his hair because you can't resist that sweet smile. He'll be something good and pure that time, war, strife cannot shake. He won't look at you with this hate in his eyes. Not this cold rage. Not this intolerable disdain for the person you--

Gilbert's stream of thoughts were obliterated with unexpected violence. His hand had just rested upon the frame of the door when the wood came slamming shut by the force of Feliciano's spirit. A white hot pain blossomed from the base of his thumb, the Prussian hearing the audible sound of the bone crunching along with the noise of the slamming door. It was only instinct that choked the bellow his lungs sought to erupt so that it was warped instead into a quiet, wounded noise. Beyond the shock of the pain was a more alarming thought: That this hand was his fighting hand, to shoot or to battle. With it handicapped he was rendered twice as vulnerable as before.

Moving quickly, he pried the door back open, struggling against the wedge of his own flesh and bone to get himself free of that trap. The blood oozing from the wounds was darkly red in the exposed open air, not quite as horrifying to Gilbert as the image of his limp thumb hanging impotently. Anger was boiling fast beneath the reality of the pain. He turned his head with his own tongue sharpening for a volley of words that would sever their ties as close as his thumb nearly was. When he did, the Prussian saw that they were no longer alone there upon the roof.

Death had come. Gilbert cradled his injured hand to his chest as his spine went rigid with fear. It became clear that the figure had no interest in him when it reached out to grip hold of Feliciano by the throat. The Prussian's pallid face went slack as he watched the exchange between the two spectral figures. He couldn't hear the words spoken over the pounding drum of his blood racing in his ears. Gilbert gasped when he saw Feliciano being tossed off the roof as effortlessly as a pebble, to either skip across the spread of fog beyond the edge or to sink. His eyes could only track the Italian's falling form for so long before the mists swallowed it from view.

He felt the ghastly stare of the deathly figure turn upon him. Gilbert's eyes transferred that small distance to lock upon the hollow pits that viewed him from another realm. "Are you dead or alive?"

How was he supposed to answer a question like that when he didn't know the answer? The Prussian's lips parted to start working silently in an unborn reply but the creature was already vanishing from view. He couldn't wrap his mind over what had just happened. Nothing seemed real anymore. Gilbert's face lowered to look down upon his hand. The injury would need to be wrapped. If he wasn't careful it would end up infected. That was the last thing he needed.

His options were to walk away from this and leave Feliciano to his fate -- which his immediate reaction was to opt for while he was feeling his blood leak through his fingers because of the spirit. The other was to stick to the course he'd promised, to go down to the graveyard and try to get the Italian back to life. Gilbert already knew what he was going to do. He began tearing at fabric even when he was heading down through the door on his way to the graveyard below to get his hand doctored up on the trip there. He'd given his word that he'd do it even if the Italian had doubted him. Even if the other had sought to hurt him despite that promise. Gilbert set his course in the direction of the courtyard's cemetery to see what fate had befallen Feliciano.