How it all began

Author Note; Thank you, 'Kingyo Desu' for being my Beta! She's the only reason that this fic isn't major fail.

Yet again, I have started another story without finishing my other ones. I swear, I've written the next chapter for both 'Besos' and 'Twist.' I just need to type and upload them!

Warning; Rating may go up.

Disclaimer; I don't own Hetalia.


They watch silently as England paints the ground with red.

No one moves when he stands from his kneeling position to check if the complex circle has any mistakes. They don't even flinch when he licks the excess blood off from his fingers, careful not to let any drip, and the wound knits itself up. After tilting his head to look at it from another angle, he turns to them with a weary yet relieved expression on his face.

Italy is the first to break the silence.

"So this is it," he says quietly with a hint of wonder in his voice.

England nods as he carefully makes his way to them, making sure to avoid stepping on the glistening wet lines he had spent so long drawing, the fruit of so many days poring over ancient tomes written in long forgotten languages.

"Are you sure you can't come with us?" Sealand asks.

England looks away from his hopeful expression, something akin to regret in his eyes.

"I'm afraid not. The caster needs to stay here for the spell to work. If I come with you, I won't be able to close the portal and he'd be able to come along as well. Not only would that be running the point through with a sword and then dropping a truck on it, but we'd bring a massacre to their world." He avoids their gaze, not wanting to see the disheartened looks that he knew would be there.

"Everyone move into the circle. Make sure not to step on the lines," England orders. As they walk past him, he grabs China's arm, his lips thin, and eyes glowing a fierce emerald. "Take care of them. This is as far as I go. The rest is up to you."

China stares into his eyes for a moment before he nods understandingly. "To think that you already go this far, this far just for him. Is he really worth that much to you?"

England licks his dry lips, a feverous glint in his eyes. "No, not him. Who he used to be. That boy was worth the world and more."

China sighs. "Then I wish you luck." And then he turns and steps into the circle.

England kneels, fingers splayed out and presses them to the outer ring of the circle. He takes a breath and looks up at the group huddled in the centre. If everything works according to plan, this will be the last time he sees them.

The circle sets alight, an aurora spilling from the crimson lines, columns of light shooting upwards and curling around each other to paint glowing symbols over their heads. A flash of blinding light and a gateway appears, glorious Gods from mythology etched into its golden doors. It opens its arms, the gates of Heaven slammed wide open, welcoming the forsaken souls. There's a shrill whistling of wind, and England has to shield his eyes with his arm.

After a moment the wind falls silent and England, tousled hair falling back into place, opens his eyes to an empty room. A soft tapping of shoes and slow, mocking clapping attracts his attention. He spins around; eyes wide and expression wild, to meet laughing blue eyes.

"England," they begin, a cruel parody of a smile twisted on their lips. "If truth be told, it's rather unfortunate to see you again."

England stiffens, expression shuttered, a tremor racking through his spine.

"America."


They land in the meeting room in a flash of light and drop to the ground in a pile of flailing limbs.

There's a moment of silence and stillness before pandemonium breaks out. A scream later and security barges through the doors, spilling into the room, guns poised to shoot. The nations also have their weapons out and aimed at them, standing in front of their bosses.

England counts how many people there are, and raises an eyebrow in disbelief. Three? Only three? Who was stupid enough to only send three people to attack them?

"Stand up with your hands up where we can see them. No sudden movements," Germany commands, taking charge during the havoc.

While the other two get up slowly, one of them disregards the order completely, head snapping up the second Germany started talking, a cry wrenching itself from his soul, tears burning his throat. He flings himself at Germany, clinging onto his crisp, pressed uniform.

Germany stares down in shock to the man sobbing and latching onto him as if the world would end if he let go.

"What the Hell, man!" A confused America asks, difficultly prying the man from Germany.

He swears his heart stops when the man looks up, tears sliding down his red face, a ridiculously happy grin blooming on his face.

"You haven't changed." Brown eyes positively glow as he whispers with a voice soft with warmth. "You're still the same. I'm happy. I'm so, so happy. I'm so happy I could die right now. He could kill me right now and I'd die happy."

Germany can't do anything but gaze down in a horrified sort of fascination. The man looked like-

No, it couldn't be.

The eyes were too war weary and the smile too tired. The bones were too sharp and noticeable, and the hands were too callused and bony.

But the resemblance was obvious.

"Italy?"

The man's grin stretches even wider, wider than he had thought possible.

"Germany," Italy reaches a hand out to him, this time with a deliberate slowness. "Germany is alive."

He repeats it like a mantra, as if saying it to taste the way it sounded. While his hands squeeze Germany's, his eyes wander over his shoulder.

And he freezes, pupils blown wide open and whispers something softly.

Germany leans closer to hear what it is. As it is, he barely catches it.

"Fratello."

And when he turns around, surely enough, Romano is standing behind him, an unreadable expression on his face.