Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun hung low over the Capitol, its light smeared across the sky like blood on parchment. America stood alone atop the marble steps, mirrored sunglasses sparing him both the glare and the world’s scrutiny. His shadow reached down the staircase—flickering half‑a‑heartbeat behind him, as though another silhouette were trying to crawl free.

A breeze tugged at his bomber jacket. He didn’t feel it.

Inside, the United States of America managed a smile. Not the dazzling grin that launched a thousand headlines, but a tight, brittle curl of the lips—a mask already spider‑webbed with cracks.

Behind that mask, something pulsed.

---

“America.”

Britain’s voice—clipped yet hesitant—called from below. A polished cane clicked against marble; green eyes watched him like a historian fearing an unwritten page. “The summit’s starting.”

America lingered a heartbeat longer, surveying the city where every monument was a memory and every flagpole a tombstone. He exhaled. “Yeah, yeah. I’m comin’.”

As he descended, Britain studied his gait—stiffer, slower, the grin too shiny to be real. “Have you been sleeping?” he ventured, concern edged with suspicion.

America chuckled. “You know me. Sleep’s for the dead.”

Britain flinched—he hid it, but America felt the recoil like gun smoke between them.

---

The summit chamber hummed with diplomatic tension and muted magic; suppression runes pulsed pale blue beneath the parquet. France sparred verbally with Germany, while Japan—quiet, armour‑straight—took notes, a sheathed katana resting beside his chair. Mexico rolled his eyes when Poland (she) offered a *fashion‑forward* compromise, and India (she) responded with a jewelled smile that promised steel beneath silk.

Canada hovered near the coffee urn, trying to fold six‑foot shoulders into invisibility. His lavender gaze found America’s at once—a silent warning, a silent plea.

America looked away.

He played hero flawlessly—cracking jokes, nudging agendas—but underneath it all, he felt a heartbeat that was not his own. It echoed in his skull on sleepless nights, whispered beneath the floorboards of his soul: an old voice, an old sin.

He adjusted his tie; fingers brushed the hidden sigil stitched into the star‑spangled silk. A cold pulse answered from inside his chest. Canada’s paper cup froze halfway to his lips.

America’s smile twitched.

---

After adjournment, dusk bruised the sky lavender as streetlamps flickered awake. Canada intercepted him by the reflecting pool.

“Ame,” he murmured. “You look worse.”

America snorted softly, rubbing the back of his neck where phantom chains sometimes burned. “Appreciate the encouragement.”

Canada hesitated, then said more carefully, “It’s getting stronger, isn’t it?”

America didn’t answer at first. His jaw locked. And for a blink, his eyes gleamed red.

Canada inhaled sharply. “You need help.”

“No,” America said, voice flat as stone. “I need time.”

“But how long until—”

America stepped closer. “Nada. Don’t. Not here.”

The tremor in his voice wasn’t fear. It was heavier.

Guilt.

---

Later that night, America sat alone in his private quarters, deep within secure government grounds—his sanctuary, not the Oval Office. He wasn’t the President, just a personification in the halls of mortal power, acting through whispers and signatures no one ever read too closely.

A bottle of bourbon sat uncapped beside splayed maps, each parchment overlaid with glowing annotations—flashpoints where unrest might feed something starving. The floor was a web of Celtic knots and Algonquin sigils, Britain’s grudging gift woven with Canada’s solemn promise.

In the black window, America’s reflection loomed—broad‑shouldered, tousled blond, a grin too sharp. Behind it, a second outline lagged: antlered, winged, eyes twin coals of spiteful fire, moving just out of sync.

“Not tonight,” he whispered. “Not yet.”

The shadow grinned with his own teeth.

From the basement of his soul—far below the wards, deeper than self‑forgiveness—a voice like burned magnolias hissed, *One crack, hero. That’s all it takes.*

America closed his eyes and counted the cracks he swore no one else could hear.

Chapter Text

The next morning brought no peace.

Rain fell in lazy sheets across the east wing of the U.N. compound. The storm wasn’t loud—just constant, a soft pressure against the windows that seemed to echo America’s mood. He sat at the far end of the conference table, sunglasses in place, coffee untouched.

Across from him, Japan watched carefully. Not prying. Just… present.

“You’ve been unwell,” Japan finally said.

America didn’t look up. “I’m always unwell. It’s part of the job.”

“Not like this.”

America gave a strained smile. “You been talking to Canada?”

“No. But I’ve seen this before.” Japan folded his hands. “In others, In ghosts.”

Something in that wording made America’s skin crawl.

---

Far from the glass and steel of the U.N., beneath an overcast sky thick with humidity, Mexico stood at the edge of a quiet grove near Capitol grounds—somewhere older than it looked. The grass there grew in strange patterns, and the air didn’t carry sound quite right.

He was crouched in the mud, carving the last of a containment ring into the earth. Ancient glyphs shimmered faintly in red and gold, activated by his touch. In the center of the circle, an obsidian, old ceremonial blade hummed like it remembered something.

India stood nearby, arms crossed, cloak damp from the misting rain. Her eyes scanned the horizon, wary but not alarmed.

“You’re sure about this?” she asked. Her voice was cool, sharp, but low. Like a secret half-believed.

Mexico didn’t answer at first. He pressed his palm against one of the runes, then sat back on his heels, frowning.

“There’s something in the soil,” he murmured. “Wrong. But it’s quiet. Like it’s waiting.”

India’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think it’s...?”

“I don’t know,” Mexico admitted. “But it’s familiar. And I know it has a face.... a name.”

India glanced back toward the city skyline, where the stormclouds hung like watching eyes.

Neither of them said America’s name.

---

That evening, Canada found him again—this time in the war room, lights dim, map projections flickering like ghostlight.

“You still haven’t told them.”

America didn’t respond. He stared at the line of states flickering across the digital display. The southern arc glowed faintly, like old scars trying to bleed again.

“I made a promise,” Canada whispered.

“I know.”

“But if this gets worse—”

“It won’t,” America cut in. “It can’t.”

But they both heard the lie in his voice.

Chapter Text

The call came just after midnight.

Somewhere outside Albany, Georgia , a lone dispatcher wrote a single, jittery line in the incident log: “Burning figure with horns, draped in a flag – walking the south field.”
The note never travelled farther than the county server.

But America heard it.

And he went alone.

The cotton field breathed a damp, spectral quiet. Stalks long‑dead for the season rasped in the wind; a leaning farmhouse sagged like a forgotten confession.
Boots crunched over red clay as America moved between the rows, twin pistols holstered at his hips, glyphs on the barrels pulsing a faint blue that matched the veins in a storm‑cloud sky.

Nothing.

Until he heard it.

A voice, thin, distant— singing.
An old Southern hymn warped by grief, each note dragging broken chains behind it.
The sound bled from a scarecrow that marked the far fence line. But straw didn't shape its limbs.

It was rags.

And tatters of a flag.

America approached. The hymn died on the wind, replaced by a whisper so soft it felt remembered rather than heard.

“I never left.”

His hand hovered over his pistol. A heartbeat, not his own, throbbed in his chest.

The flag scraps fluttered, though no wind stirred. No scent of smoke, no glow of embers. Only the weight of ashes that weren’t there.

Memory.....

Guilt....

Without another word, America turned and walked back through the rows, leather jacket shoulders hunched against a chill that belonged to another century.

The field behind him stayed silent.

But the whisper travelled with him, threading into the cracks of his soul.

I never left…

Chapter Text

The White House keeps its own ghosts.

There is a sub-basement chamber, older than the West Wing itself, that most staffers don’t even know exists. But America does. He carved the first sigils into its stone before the Spanish‑American War, back when he still believed runes could quarantine guilt.

He hasn’t set foot here in decades.

Tonight tho, the seals are glowing.

---

Rain drips from the hem of his bomber jacket as he pauses in the threshold. Dust blankets wooden crates stamped *TOP‑SECRET / ARCHIVE*—yet the air feels humid, metallic, as if a summer thunderstorm were trapped underground.

He steps inside.

Each footfall thumps too loud, echoing off concrete that remembers cannon‑fire. The circle of runes at the centre pulses red…then pale blue…then red again, a heartbeat out of sync with his own.

Something is stirring beneath the floor.

No....*someone*.

America drops to one knee, brushing grit from the central glyph. His fingers hover, shaking, before he presses a palm flat against the stone.

A surge—fierce, hateful, honey‑thick with nostalgia—slams through his veins. He jerks back, choking on a name he refuses to say.

Then, inside his skull, a drawl as soft as cotton‑tuft smoke:

~ “You remember this place.”

His chest tightens.

~“Ah, I do too.”

He stumbles for the door, slamming it shut, whispering three layered wards in Latin, in Lenape, in the language of gunfire. Blue sigils flare across the wood.

The silence that follows is not silent.

~ “You buried me in yer bones, hero.”

America backs down the corridor, heart hammering, stormwater still slicking his hair. Every lightbulb flickers as he passes.

He didn't sleep that night.

Chapter Text

America boarded the plane alone.

He looked fine. Too fine. The kind of fine you put on like a suit of armor, polished, sharp, and cracking at the seams.

His eyes glowed faintly red when the light hit them just right. His reflection in the airplane window lagged a split second behind. And sometimes, in the silence between engine hum and altitude warnings, another voice would murmur in tandem with his own.

Whispers. Echoes. Not always in his voice.

---

Geneva was cold that time of year. And quiet.

Too quiet.

At the conference hall, Canada was waiting, already inside and fiddling nervously with his tie. When America entered, the younger nation’s face lit up—then dimmed, just as fast.

“You flew commercial?” Canada asked.

“Didn’t want to draw attention,” America muttered, setting his bag down with a sigh.

Canada hesitated. “America—”

“I’m fine,” he said.

The words came too fast. Too flat.

And they tasted like ash in his mouth.

---

Inside the summit room, it was business as usual.

Germany had spreadsheets. India presented new magical containment protocols, complete with glowing sigil diagrams. Japan calmly detailed a rise in unexplained spiritual disturbances across North America.

Switzerland sat at the far end, legs crossed, coat draped casually over the back of his chair. He rarely said much, preferring neutrality and detachment, but his sharp eyes missed nothing.

“This is my city,” he said during a break in the discussion, tone light but edged with something older, instinctual. “Whatever’s following you, keep it outside my borders please.”

America didn’t respond.

Switzerland shrugged lightly, almost amused, and tapped his pen against the table. “Didn’t think you would....”

America sat at the table’s end, silent, unmoving. The fluorescent lights above flickered once, and for a split second, the shadows clinging to him deepened, like something else sat in his place.

Then the projector stuttered.

A glitch. Harmless. Common.

But instead of economic charts or containment circles, an image blipped across the screen.

Just for a heartbeat.

A boy.

Gray eyes. Small, barely-there horns curling close to his skull. Tattered wings stretched too thin to lift him. Wrapped in shadows. Wrapped in a flag.

Gone.

America froze.

Nobody else reacted. No confused looks. No murmurs. Just silence, as if nothing had happened.

Except for Canada.

He turned slowly, searching America’s face like it held the answer to a question he didn’t want to ask. His eyes flicked to his brother’s—darker now, tired in ways no sleep could fix.

America met his gaze.

“Don’t,” he mouthed.

Canada looked away again.

Chapter Text

Mexico found America pacing.

It wasn’t anything new. The American wore restlessness like armor. But this…this was different. The kind of pacing you do when the walls are too close and your own thoughts are screaming. The air around him was hotter, the hallway enchantments flickering like they couldn’t stand to touch his aura.

“Hey, Águila( translates: eagle ),” Mexico said softly and concerned.

America didn’t stop. Just muttered, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Mexico replied, stepping closer.

America finally stilled. His silhouette trembled under the hallway light, like the shape of him didn’t quite match the space he occupied.

“I keep hearing him,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t make him shut up.”

Mexico didn’t flinch, though his brow furrowed. He’d felt it a pull of something rotten beneath the surface, something old and burning. He didn’t fully understand it and he couldn’t put a name to it either. But whatever lived in America’s shadow… it wasn’t just memory.

“You want me to bind it?” he asked.

America looked up sharply. “No. He’ll fight harder. That’s not… That’s not the way.”

Mexico nodded slowly, thoughtful. He couldn’t name the thing inside America, but he could feel its hunger. Something buried deep, wrapped in guilt and fire. Something that called itself brother to no one.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” Mexico said, voice low. “But if you’re carrying this… you can’t carry it alone. Not anymore.”

America didn’t answer.

But he didn’t deny it either.

------

Later that day, India and Poland joined Japan in an isolated ward room at the UN compound. A floating map of North America hovered midair, woven from layered enchantments and aura threads. The Southern states shimmered faintly red, pulsing with heat and pressure.

“Something’s festering,” India said, arms crossed, gaze sharp.

“Not just festering,” Japan added. “Awakening.”

They all turned as Britain stepped into the room, calm but weary, as if he'd been bracing for this.

“You knew,” India said.

“I had..... suspicions,” Britain admitted. “He was never the same after the war.”

“You mean wars,” Poland muttered.

“No,” Britain said quietly. “I mean the Civil one.” 

Chapter Text

The dreams had returned.

America woke with his sheets twisted, soaked in sweat, heart pounding like he’d outrun a war. The echoes of a voice, his voice, but wrong and faded into the ceiling. That southern rhythm curled around every syllable like smoke.

He sat up, breath ragged.

“Y’ever wonder if they miss me?”

The whisper clung to his skin.

He pressed his hands to his eyes and tried not to scream.

---

That morning, Canada stood at the kitchen counter in the shared U.N. compound, sipping coffee as if it could undo the dread gnawing at his ribs. France lounged in the corner reading a paper, his usual smug air dulled by unease. Japan silently sliced fruit with precision, though his eyes kept flicking toward the hallway.

The tension snapped the moment America walked in.

The air shifted. Like something massive and unseen had just entered behind him.

“Hey,” America said casually. “Breakfast diplomacy?”

His grin was too wide. Too white. It didn’t reach his eyes, which shimmered faintly, like glass catching firelight.

France glanced up, his brows pulling together. “America… You okay?”

“Peachy,” he replied.

Canada froze with his mug halfway to his lips. “You’re not. You haven’t been for weeks. You’re—”

“I SAID I'M FINE! ” America snapped.

The mug slipped from Canada’s fingers and shattered on the floor.

His voice hadn’t just been loud.

It had echoed.

Too many voices behind it.

Too many layers.

Like someone else was speaking through him or…with him.

The others went still. France's fingers tightened on his newspaper. Japan slowly set down his katana, gaze narrowing. The air in the room had grown dense. Wrong.

Shadows curled along the edges of America’s silhouette, slow and whispering. For a split second, the light seemed to bend around him.

America lowered his head, trembling.

“I….didn’t mean—”

But no one said anything.

They couldn’t.

They were too busy listening to what followed.

The laugh.

A Low, Southern, and Mocking laugh. 

Familiar in the worst kind of way….

“Aw, they still don’t see ya. Not really. Just a mask and a monster stitched together. Oh you poor thang.”

America staggered back a step.

And for the first time, he believed those words.

Chapter Text

The compound felt wrong.

The air didn’t move. The wards buzzed like mosquitoes caught in glass. And Canada couldn’t shake the weight pressing against his chest.

He hadn’t meant to run.

But when America’s voice had split like a cracked bell, layered, growling, inhuman; something in Canada’s bones had screamed. Now he stood outside a sealed UN chamber, hand trembling just inches from the reinforced door.

—---

Inside, America sat hunched in a circle.

Old runes flickered around him, carved into stone, now bleeding red light with every pulse of his heartbeat. He was shaking. Mumbling. The sweat on his forehead trickled down his temples, mixed with the blood dripping from his nose.

“Stop,” he whispered. “Please… stop…”

But another voice answered, low and laced with honeyed rot.

"You cain't run from what you made."

The air shimmered with heat. Shadows in the corners began to twitch.

“You were supposed to stay gone,” America rasped, pressing shaking fingers to his skull.

"Gone? Sugar, I was just sleepin’. You’re the one who kept singin’ lullabies over my grave."

America’s breath hitched. He clawed at his chest like he could tear the voice out by force.

"You held me in your heart for years. Lied to everyone. Lied to yerself. But I never left. I was always here."

Suddenly, pain lanced through his skull. He screamed, falling forward as something began to crack beneath his skin.

Blood erupted from his nose in thick gushes.

Then—

Crack.

A horn suddenly forced its way through his forehead with a wet, snapping pop. He shrieked, body arching as if struck by lightning. Blood sprayed the chamber walls.

Then came a second, just as painful as the last.

The rune circle shattered.

Light exploded, and America collapsed, face-down in the blood-slick stone.

Silence.

But his shadow twitched.

And then smiled.

"Now... that’s better," came Confederate’s syrupy drawl.

--------

Upstairs, Canada staggered.

He didn’t remember running, but suddenly he was halfway through the compound. Behind him came Japan, France, Mexico, India, and Britain. None of them asked why.

They could all feel it.

Something had awoken.

And it was using America’s body as its cradle.

Chapter Text

They found him crumpled in the middle of the ruined chamber.

Canada froze at the threshold. The door hung open, scorched on its hinges. Inside, America lay twisted amidst broken sigils and splattered blood, his coat was shredded, his hair was damp with sweat and gore, and two large horns protruding from his skull.

For a moment, no one moved.

But then the horror hit.

"M-Merde….(translation: shit)," France breathed, rushing in first.

The others followed, their steps faltering as the stench of ozone, iron, and burning flesh met them. America looked barely alive.

His body convulsed once.

“Get him out of here!” Japan barked.

It took four of them to lift him. He didn’t fight. Didn’t speak. Just twitched, limp in their arms.

They hauled him, bleeding, unconscious, and barely breathing, into the war chamber. The strongest enchantments lined those walls, so they took him there, desperate to contain whatever was writhing beneath his skin.

America looks so small now. Sprawled on the marble floor like a broken toy. His once-pristine coat clung to his shoulders in blood-soaked folds.

Mexico was the first to approach. They had felt the dark aura before, brushed against it, tasted the rot, but this… this wasn’t just corruption.

This was desecration.

They reached out a gloved hand—

—and recoiled with a hiss as black fire licked their wrist. The glove caught briefly, then vanishing in smoke.

"It’s burning him from the inside," India whispered, stepping forward with a spell already forming between their hands.

"Let me try."

The healing sigil flared and immediately shattered. A scream split from America’s throat as more blood ran from his nose and the horns on his head, soaking the floor.

France knelt. “Mon dieu…”(translation: My God)

Suddenly, america’s eyes snapped open.

Both were pitch black.

Obsidian tears rolled sideways, staining the marble floor. His body jerked, once, twice, then sat bolt upright, like a corpse that got reanimated. Canada scrambled back.

And then… the grin.

Too wide. Too sharp. A grin that didn’t belong on America’s face.

A Southern drawl oozed from his mouth: “Well, ain’t this a family reunion. ”

Canada stared at him, at the horns, at the grin that didn’t reach those void-black eyes, at the curve of the smirk that was unmistakably his. Confederate’s. That Southern accent, that swagger in the posture….it all clicked into place like a cruel puzzle he'd been dreading to finish.

He had seen it before, in flashes and dreams, in whispers America never meant for anyone to hear.

And now here it was, staring him down.

His stomach twisted with guilt. He had promised. He had promised not to tell. To keep it hidden. To let America fight it alone.

But this wasn’t something anyone could fight alone.

Horrified, Canada whispered, “Y-you… you’re supposed to be dead.”

The grin widened. Skin stretched like wax. “Did you really think I’d stay dead? After all we shared, sugar?”

With a horrible, wet crack , the horns finished pushing through; jagged, twisted things. Even more blood fountained from his skull, splashing across the floor in thick arcs.

Canada shrieked. India caught him before he fell.

France moved to stop the bleeding—

—but as his hand touched America’s shoulder, he screamed and fell back, clutching his hand. Blisters bloomed on them instantly.

“His body’s rejecting us,” Japan said, horror creeping into his voice. “No. Not rejecting….punishing.”

More nations tried. Each was burned, cut, or frozen. The air stank of ozone and rot.

And through it all, the thing wearing America’s body laughed .

“Did ya miss me, brother?” Confederate purred, eyes locked on Canada.

Canada sobbed, too stunned to answer.

The horns gleamed red. Blood ran down America’s face, drawing stars.

Not just stars.

A cross of them.

Possession.

And it had only just begun. 

Chapter Text

“Did ya miss me, brother?” Confederate crooned, voice honey‑thick and dripping with mocking affection.

Gasps rippled through the circle of nations. Canada felt his knees threaten to buckle. ‘ He looks like America, but he moves like something wearing a skin.’

The horns, the grin, the red‑slicked hair, every detail seared itself into Canada’s mind. ‘ I saw those horns in nightmares. I heard that laugh in the trenches of Gettysburg’s memory when I had gone to personally see America during his civil war .’ He’d promised never to speak of them and he promised to let America carry that shame alone.

And now the secret is strutted in front of everyone, wearing his brother’s body like a trophy.

“I‑I’m not… Y‑you’re not—” Canada’s voice cracked. Guilt clawed at his throat. I should have told them. I should have warned them.

Confederate laughed; a rolling, sinful sound that filled the war chamber with dread. The other nations flinched; Mexico’s hand hovered over a ward sigil, France edged closer to Japan for the briefest of comforts.

“Oh, but I am!” the demon drawled. “Say, did my dear brother tell y’all the real reason this is all happenin'?”

Tears blurred Canada’s vision. ‘ What truth? What else did America hide?’ The idea that America hadn’t trusted him….. hadn’t trusted anyone, especially him….  It felt like a blade between his ribs.

Britain’s voice cut in, sharp with fear. “Mate… what’s it talking about?”

Canada opened his mouth then closed it. The promise strangled him silent.

Confederate tutted, looking theatrically offended. “What do you mean it ? Imagine callin’ a gentleman an it, now thats just downright rude.”

Blood dripped from America’s split scalp as the horns pushed further, the sound of tearing leather and cracking bone echoing off marble. Canada gagged, bile rising as he watched.

“Anyhow,” Confederate purred, turning his attention back to the frozen nations, “ever wonder why his tears turn to obsidian? Why he never takes off those pretty glasses? Brothers share secrets, don’t they?”

Canada’s heart splintered. ‘ We were supposed to share everything.’

“N‑no!” he protested, voice wobbling. “America…my brother..h-he wouldn’t break a promise. He said—he said......... would he……?”

Confederate crouched, crimson‑stained smile inches from Canada’s face. “ Oh Bless your heart. Such a shame and you’re one of the more bearable ones too.”

He straightened, wiping clawed fingers on America’s jeans as if flicking away dirt. “Well, not a pleasure meetin’ you, New France .”

Canada flinched at the name. Memories of colonies, of chains too polite to see, flooded in.

Confederate swept his gaze over the room. “On behalf of the countless hours spent imprisoned in yer hero’s spine… fuck you.”

He turned.

Then suddenly, a chair came and smashed into the back of his skull with a clang.

Silence.

Confederate’s eyes rolled up; the possessed body crumpled towards the floor, horns scraping the marble floor.

Every head whipped toward Japan, still holding the dented metal chair.

“…Oops......?” Japan offered, voice trembling yet steady enough to finish what fear had started.

Canada exhaled a shaky breath, guilt and a small tangle of relief in his chest. ‘ I failed him… but maybe we still have time to save him.’

Chapter Text

The silence after the blow hung heavy, thick and choking like smoke in a battlefield trench. Japan, still gripping the dented chair with trembling hands, stared down at the slumped form of America….no, the thing that had hijacked America’s body and let out a sharp breath he didn’t know he was holding. His heart thundered in his chest, not from victory, but from terror.

That wasn’t calculated. He hadn’t planned to swing. But his instincts had simply screamed danger. And his body had obeyed.

Blood dripped slowly from the jagged edges where the horns had torn through his scalp and skin. They looked less like bone and more like twisted iron, charred black and veined with pulsing, infernal red light. One was cracked from the impact, but the demon inside still smiled even in unconsciousness.

Canada’s breath hitched. He’s still grinning. Even when knocked out... he’s still in there.

“J‑Japan…” he whispered, voice brittle, “I-I think you made it mad.”

Japan didn’t reply. His knuckles were white around the chair.

Around them, the other nations unfroze. India murmured a containment mantra, sigils swirling like fireflies. Mexico pressed a palm to the rune‑etched floor, feeling the corruption seeping from America’s body. France swore under his breath in rapid French: Ça doit être un putain de cauchemar… un vrai démon. (translation: This has to be a fucking nightmare… a real demon.”)

Just then, the door creaked open again.

Russia stepped in.

His scarf and ushanka were still dusted with frost. He looked around, taking in the blood, the sigils, and the demon he sensed in America’s body. “проклятие…..(translation: damn…)” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. “I came as fast as I could. What I miss?”

Everyone turned at once.

“Where the bloody hell have you been!?” snapped Britain, voice thick with panic and anger.

Russia gave no answer and only moved toward the center slowly, cautiously, the ever-present chill deepening around his frame.

“They’re scared....” Canada realised. “We’re all scared.” And somehow that made the shame worse: he’d known. He’d kept silent.

Then the body moved.

Not the way a human should. It spasmed once, then violently like a puppet pulled by tangled strings, America’s back arched, bones cracking as if rearranging themselves. A long, rattling gasp filled the room, and blazing coal‑red eyes snapped open.

Everyone froze.

“...That,” Confederate hissed, voice roughened by a Southern twang thick as molasses, “was rude.”

Shadows stretched from the corners, slithering toward the possessed nation. The broken horn pulsed as it knit itself back together.

“You think pain can stop me?” he crooned at Japan. “Pain’s my birthright, darlin’. I was forged in it.”

Japan backed away; France pulled him behind a warding circle almost on instinct. “Il est possédé par une véritable abomination!” (translates to: He’s possessed. by a true abomination.)

Confederate’s gaze swept the room, landed on Russia then lingered on Mexico, before snapping back to Canada.

“He let me in,” he purred, tilting America’s head at an impossible angle. “ The tired hero just needed an extra spine, sugar. So I slid right in.”

Canada’s pulse hammered. ‘Is that true? Did you really…..?’ A wave of betrayal tightened his chest.

“No,” Canada rasped aloud, half to himself. “America wouldn’t—”

“I never lie,” Confederate drawled. “He and I? We’re partners now.”

“Sym‑bi‑o‑sis.”

Canada’s thoughts reeled: ‘If that’s true… maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I left him alone too long.’

Confederate’s clawed hand then tore America’s shirt, revealing the carved runes seared into his skin, sigils Canada recognised from the basement door. They glowed sickly red.

With a wet rip, Confederate plunged a hand into his own chest and yanked free a spectral, tattered flag with an X of stars on blood‑pale cloth.

“No…” Britain breathed.

“La bandera maldita…”(translaation: The cursed flag…) Mexico whispered.

“The Confederate flag,” France confirmed, horror-struck.

Confederate brandished it like a banner. “I never died,” he said, voice echo‑layered. “ I just waited. Deep in the marrow. Festerin'.”

A pulse of black heat blasted outward. India’s containment sigil shattered; Russia staggered, ice forming on his coat sleeve.

Canada’s ears rang. Move, his mind screamed. ‘Do something! But guilt held him rooted.’

Confederate took one languid step forward—

—and crumpled again as Japan’s second swing connected, chair legs snapping off on impact.

“Back off, you guys,” Japan said, voice low but steady. “We will save him. Even if we have to break every bone first.”

Canada swallowed hard. Fear thrummed in his veins…but so did his resolve. ‘I’m done being silent.’

He stepped forward, eyes on America, not the demon, and whispered, “Hold on, Ame. We’ll get you back.”

Somewhere behind the flickering red in America’s eyes, a flicker of blue shined though, America's had answered.

And that was enough. 

Chapter Text

The halls of the UN compound echoed with absence.

Germany stood alone at the head of the council table, flanked only by Italy, who was fiddling nervously with a sugar packet from the untouched refreshments cart. The long oval table remained half empty; no Britain, no India, no Canada, no Japan. Their seats were vacant, folders unopened, placards untouched.

Something was wrong.

He had known since the night before. The sky above Berlin had been too quiet, not with peace, but with pressure, like a glass dome pressing down on the whole country. The kind of silence that came before lightning.

“I don't like this,” Germany muttered, not to Italy, not really to anyone. He tapped one finger against the hard surface of the table, gaze flicking to the map of North America pinned on the adjacent screen.

Italy looked up from where he was perched on the edge of his seat. “Is it… another war meeting? Did France forget to send the memo again? I knew I shouldn’t have taken that nap on the balcony, ve—”

“It’s not a war,” Germany interrupted, but his jaw stayed tight. “It’s worse.”

A pulse shot up his spine, cold and low, like a whisper in his bones. He had felt this kind of presence before and during the fall of Reich, during the division of Berlin, during the rise of ideologies that wore men’s faces but moved like something older. He didn’t recognize the exact flavor of it… but he knew what it meant.

Something unnatural had awakened.

Italy suddenly frowned. “Germany? You’re standing really still… even for you…”

(Italy squints at him.)

“Your aura’s doing that cold, spiky thing again…..are you okay?”

Then Italy paused. His eyes widened.

He felt it too.

A distant throb, like the ground shivering under the weight of an approaching thunderhead. It was America’s magic. Normally it was a bright crackling presence like static under the sunlight, but now it feels twisted and corrupted. It bled through the ley lines like oil in water. And something else rode within it.

Germany didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

He grabs Italy’s arm.

“H-Hey!” Italy yelped as he was yanked to his feet. “Wait—where are we going?! You’re doing the ‘silent panic’ thing again, aren’t you? That’s worse than yelling—!”

“Come on,” Germany growled. “He’s in danger.”

They burst through the council room’s side doors, boots pounding tile as they followed the pull of the foul magic like bloodhounds. It coiled down corridors that flickered in and out of light, runes pulsing warning-red along the walls, as if the compound itself were trying to vomit out whatever had taken root.

A shattered containment ward blinked on a monitor. Location: lower level, Room C-7.

Italy clutched the wall as they turned a corner, breath shallow. “This feels like that time in Prague, remember the thing in the catacombs with the screaming bones? That weird plague spirit that kept whispering in Latin?”

“This is worse,” Germany said grimly. “This is familiar.”

The closer they got, the heavier the air became. By the time they reached the reinforced doors, it felt like standing on the edge of a black hole. Shadows curled under the threshold like spilled ink.

Then—

The door creaked open.

The scene that greeted them was chaos.

Sigils flickered. Blood smeared the floor in looping arcs. Nations stood in a defensive semi-circle, enchanted weapons drawn, magic, steel, and memory at the ready. And in the center, surrounded by wariness and disbelief, was the source of the corruption.

Not America.

Something that wore America’s shape, but twisted. Horns jutted from his head, one cracked and reforming, glowing like iron pulled from hell’s own forge. His grin stretched inhumanly wide, fangs gleaming behind chapped lips. His eyes… not blue. Red. Glowing like coals in a furnace too old to be forgotten.

Germany froze. His soul recoiled in unease. The aura flooding the air felt familiar, like Reich’s old and oppressive, corruption, but not the same. This wasn’t just residual hate being wielded; it was being devoured, amplified, spat back out as something fouler. He didn’t know what this thing inside America truly was… only that it echoed some of the darkest parts of what he carried in his own blood. And it terrified him. 

France’s expression faltered. Even Britain looked up, wariness eclipsing contempt.

Nobody had ever seen Germany pale. Not like this.

Beside him, Italy whimpered. “That’s not America, is it?”

“No.” 

Germany stepped forward, arm flung out to shield Italy, voice hardening like a blade drawn.

“Back away.”

It was Germany who spoke first, voice low and taut as a trip‑wire. 

Confederate laughed. A slow, syrup-heavy sound that curdled the air.

“Well, well, well,” he purred, dragging the syllables out like a drawl across rusted barbed wire, “if it ain’t the Iron Son himself. You look like you’ve seen a ghost, boy.”

He twirled the ghost‑pale flag between clawed fingers, eyes glowing like furnace coals. “Oh, I remember your kind. Cold. Orderly. Built from ruin and fire like you were tryin’ to scrub the blood clean. But you ain’t foolin’ me, Deutschland. You’re Reich’s little shadow, wearin’ a uniform stitched from denial.”

Germany didn’t blink. But something behind his eyes shifted and tightened.

Confederate stepped forward, grin stretching. “Still usin’ that borrowed discipline to choke the real power outta yourself? Can’t risk lettin’ folks see what’s really in yer veins, huh?”

He leaned in, voice softening to a near whisper. “ You think they don’t see it anyway? That they don’t flinch when you raise your voice, or wonder if the old you’s just sleepin’ under the surface? You can bury Reich all you want, boy, but you still carry his teeth.”

Germany clenched his jaw, and for a brief second, something glinted between his lips. Not human teeth. But, jagged, sharp vestiges of what Reich had been, of what still lived inside his bloodline, no matter how hard he buried it.

His fist curled, muscles twitching like he was about to move, about to do something. The air around him thickened with restrained magic, an old pressure that hadn’t breathed in decades.

But then—

Nothing.

He exhaled through his nose. Slow. Controlled. Silent.

Confederate’s grin wavered, just slightly. His words had hit home, but the reaction never came.

Germany stayed where he was. Silent. Still.

Refusing to give the devil his flame.

Confederate’s grin lingered, waiting, taunting. But Germany gave him nothing. No retort, no outburst, no spark of rage to feed on.

Just silence.

A silence sharpened by the ticking pulse in Germany’s temple, the way his shoulders coiled like a spring too proud to snap.

Confederate’s tone soured, just barely. “Huh. No bark? I’m disappointed. Thought the Iron Son still had steel in his gut, not paper in his spine.”

He sneered, flag still flicking between his claws. “Reich’s magic is still buzzin’ in your blood, ain’t it? Bet it burns, not bein’ able to use it. Bet ya wonder if it’d make you strong enough to stop me.”

Germany didn’t flinch. But the air around him hummed. Barely perceptible, but it was there.

He finally spoke, voice low and controlled, every syllable carved with deliberate precision.

“I understand enough,” Germany shot back, though his knuckles whitened. “But, you’re not America. You’re... you’re the rot he buried.”

Confederate offered a lazy clap, each slap of his hands echoing with mockery. “And what’s a country but a graveyard of sins wearin’ a pretty smile?”

He stepped forward. With each motion the lights crackled, the parquet groaned as if trying to shrug him off. Wards along the walls fizzed amber and died.

He’s warping the room just by existing… Canada realised, stomach twisting. ‘And I kept this secret.’

Canada’s fists clenched. He forced himself to meet those coal‑red eyes where America’s sky‑blue should be. Please, Ame… fight him. He then thought back to confederate words, of Ame letting him in willingly. ‘He couldn't have, he told me he could handle it… this doesn't add up’

“I don’t believe you,” he managed, voice paper‑thin yet steady. “My brother wouldn’t— you’re lying.” 

Confederate’s grin split wider, the kind that didn’t need joy, just teeth. And his gaze slid across the circle like a blade looking for something soft.

He then paused.

And Turned.

Slowly, deliberately, his attention peeled away from Germany and landed on Canada.

Like a beast scenting blood.

The air seemed to shudder. Canada flinched as those burning red eyes locked with his, like furnace glass warping under pressure, like something old and starving had just realized he was the smallest one in the room.

Confederate blinked once, slowly. Then cocked his head.

“…’Scuse me, sugar?” he drawled. “ Couldn’t quite catch that over all the quiverin’. Might’ve been the guilt rattlin’ in your throat. Or maybe that feather-soft whisper ya call a voice.”

He leaned in slightly, mockingly cupping one clawed hand around his ear.

“Say it again for me, darlin’. Loud enough so even the dead can hear.”

Canada’s face flushed, but he didn’t look away. His spine stiffened, breath sharp as frost.

“I—I said I don’t believe you!” he snapped, louder this time. “My brother wouldn’t do that—you’re lying!”

Confederate chuckled. Low and guttural. Then he took a step closer, tilting his head.

“Oh, Maple Boy,” he crooned, twisting the nickname like a blade. “You reckon the hero didn’t want me? Lemme prove it to ya.”

 He lunged.

In a blur, talons gripping Canada’s cheeks. Shadows poured from Confederate’s fingertips, sliding into Canada’s temples. Cold and heavy. Then—

A memory.

America, on his knees in a rune-lit cellar, shoulders drawn tight as wire. Black tears streamed down his face, not from ignorance, but from breaking. His palms were braced against the floor, shaking, not with fear, but with shame.

“I can’t…” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I keep failing. I can’t carry it anymore.”

The room pulsed around him, unstable with raw magic and containment sigils fraying at the edges. The air smelled like iron and scorched salt.

Then the voice came low, syrup-dark, and smooth with false sympathy.

“You already know what you buried.

You’re just tired of fightin’ it.”

A breath.

“Lemme hold it for, for a while.”

America didn’t speak. Didn’t argue.

His head bowed lower.

And then, soft as a breath he surrendering to the dark:

“…fine.”

The vision shattered. Canada hit the floor, retching iron and ash.

“You see?” Confederate drawled, almost tender. “He asked. I’m the solution y’all forced on him.”

“Parasite!” France cursed, hurling a brass candlestick. “Putain de démon!”(translation: Fucking demon) The projectile passed through a writhing shadow and clanged off the floor.

“And he liked it,” Confederate snarled, smile ripping wider. “He liked bein’ free of your judgments. So I gave him permission to have a break.”

Italy whimpered, clutching Germany’s sleeve. “Mamma mia… why are horns everywhere lately?”

Poland, voice high with nerves, muttered in Polish about “total bad vibes.” India whispered a Sanskrit prayer, palms sparking turquoise sigils that fizzled in the rancid air.

Japan’s sword now in hand, samurai focus razor‑thin, spoke; “This is not a haunting. This is a symbiosis of shame and hate.”

Confederate’s grin stretched. “See? Samurai gets it.”

Japan lifted the broken chair like a shield. “We must separate them while America remains.”

Confederate took a step forward, then stumbled. Just for a breath.

“You cracked somethin’, didn’t ya?” he muttered low. “Didn’t think the pretty little chair-boy had it in him.”

“Your strength is borrowed,” Russia finally spoke, stepping fully into the circle, voice like a glacier calving. “And borrowed power always runs dry.”

Confederate turned sharply, red eyes blazing. “Oh? Big Bear’s got claws too?”

He grinned, cruel and knowing. “Careful now, don’t want the ghost of the Union to wake up in ya.”

Then, with a flick of his wrist, dismissive:

“Though I reckon you keep that old hammer and sickle buried deeper than Germany does.”

His voice dropped back into a taunt, slow and goading.

“Come closer, let’s compare.”

Russia said nothing, but ice crackled up his sleeves, anchoring frost under Confederate’s feet.

Canada forced himself upright. “You don’t get to have him,” he said. “He’s not yours.”

Confederate tilted his head, mock‑curious. “Then come get him, Maple Boy.”

Without warning, he slashed at the air, ripping open a gash of void, shadows spewing outward like blood from a wound. They formed malformed silhouettes, twisted echoes of historical scars, things that looked half like soldiers and half lynched ghosts.

Germany barked an order,“Form up!” and the group surged.

France drew protective sigils mid-air, light flaring; India chanted counter-magic; Britain roared something ancient and half-mad in Old English.

In the chaos, Canada sprinted.

Right toward him.

Confederate laughed as Canada tackled him, not with fists, but with force of will.

For just a moment, their foreheads touched—

—and in the eye of the storm, blue.

A flicker. Clear and sky-bright. America.

“I see you,” Canada whispered. “You’re still in there. And I’m not leaving.”

Confederate screamed.

The shadows recoiled. His flag ignited, blue fire licking up its edges.

Canada held on.

We’re coming, brother. Hold on. 

Chapter Text

Smoke spiraled through the vaulted war-room rafters, half sapphire, half soot. Canada’s gloves that were once white, now streaked black, clamped tight onto America’s shoulders. Beneath his palms, he felt two pulses: one frantic, one molten-slow, sharing the same ribs like twin drums at war.

‘Don’t let go’, he told himself. ‘ If I lose contact, I could lose him.’

Confederate shrieked, voice warping from lazy drawl to feral howl in a heartbeat. “Get yer sticky maple paws off a’ me!” He lunged, but Russia’s frost still pinioned his boots to the floor. Hairline cracks spidered under the ice, groaning with every hateful thrash.

Around them, the circle closed in like a living fortress. Germany planted his stance left, India planted herself right, France opposite on the point of a triangle pulsing sigil-light they had made. Japan strode forward, chair splinters still clinging to his sleeve; he plunged the broken leg into the floor like a banner before drawing his katana. The blade sang, layered talismans gleaming along the hamon.

“Focus and reinforce the sigils. His aura’s warping the floor,” Germany snapped. “And someone shut him up!”

Poland skirted the rim, clutching a silver bell charm, muttering sotto voce in rapid Polish. Italy hovered near the doorway, rosary beads slipping through nervous fingers. From the gallery above, the war room, manifested as a flickering hologram of parchment wings and gavel eyes, projected containment warnings in several languages.

Confederate’s horns throbbed; fissures webbed across America’s brow. “Y’all really wanna poke the beast? Fine! Let’s dance!”

He heaved.

Canada’s knees buckled under the sheer pressure of the motion, white-hot magic searing through him like radio static laced with brimstone, but he held. Held because he had to. His gloves burned at the seams, leather bubbling where it met tainted flesh. His breath was shallow, vision swimming, but his grip was iron.

“Blue eyes, show me blue,” he pleaded.

France snapped, “Find an anchor word! Something only he’d respond to.”

Canada’s thoughts raced, memory pulling him under.

Quebec, 1763. The Treaty signed, the colonies divided

Two boys crouched beneath a pine tree near an old outpost. America’s front tooth was missing. Canada’s hair was tangled with pine needles.

But America’s arms bore bruises. One on his shoulder blade and another along his ribs.

He’d spoken back earlier, after the treaty had been signed, solidifying their division. Britain said it was for order, but America had begged for them not to be separated, pleading that he didn’t want to lose his brother.

But Britain didn’t care.

Canada had seen it, seen Britain strike him. And he had done nothing.

Britain never raised a hand to him. He was the quiet one. The obedient one. And every time it happened, he felt like a coward and like he wasn’t worth a shred of empathy.

America then ran off afterwards, subtly limping, and Canada followed.

He found him behind the cabin, and saw his fists red and raw from punching tree bark, knuckles split and sticky with sap. The bark had dented, but America hadn’t.

He cried silently, with his back turned, shoulders shaking; he was stubborn even in pain.

Canada hesitated, then stepped closer. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t have to. “You’ll break your hands,” he said quietly.

America didn’t look up. “Already did.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause it hurts less than not sayin’ anything.”

Canada looked down at his own fists. “I wanted to hit him, too.”

“I saw you,” America said after a moment. “You didn’t.”

“I know.”

Another long pause. Wind through pines. Sap thick in the air.

“I’ll always have your back, ‘kay?” America finally said, voice hoarse. He held up his pinky.

Canada didn’t move for a moment, then lifted his hand and linked their pinkies.

“Even if we get split?”

“'Specially if we get split.......We’re gettin’ divided soon, whether we like it or not, so it doesn’t matter. We stick.”

“But.....w-what if we can’t talk?”

“Then we make a phrase. Somethin’ secret. Somethin’ that's just ours.”

“Like a codeword?”

America managed a wobbly smile. “Yeah! hmmm….OH! Pine and ash.”

“Why that?”

“‘Cause pines are everywhere up here, and ash is down south. Pine burns long, ash burns hot. Like us.”

Canada blinked. “That’s... really poetic.”

America blushed and grinned, “Don’t tell anyone...k?”

In the distance, Britain stood watching. Stern and Silent, but He didn’t stop them.

**Back to the Present **

Canada leaned close. “Pine and ash,” he whispered. “Remember that tree behind the cabin? You said you’d always come.”

A flicker then red shattered to trembling blue. raw and trembling.“M‑Maple…?”

Confederate roared, black veins drowning the light. “ENOUGH!” Hate magic detonating 

India slammed mandalas forward. “Britain, NOW!”

The glow parted. Britain stepped forward, his hands already slick with chalk dust and old magic. He spoke guttural Brythonic, older than English, older than even the Union. The words raked through the air, tasting of peat smoke, salted iron, and cannon-fire. His voice cracked thunder as it merged with India’s mandalas, forming a radiant net that burned with ancestral fire. It came from the old island magics and the things he had once taught his colonies and then buried.

“Fall back!” Germany barked. “Let him draw it in, then strike!”

“Got it!” France shouted, dodging a burst of tar. “Grid’s unstable! His aura’s breaking the circle!”

Italy peeked from behind Germany. “Sta… funzionando?”

“No,” Japan replied, blade steady, voice glacier-calm. “But it hurts him. Hold.”

Confederate staggered, clawed hand clutched to the ember beating in America’s sternum. “ Y’all think this is a rescue? Break this vessel and you break yer damn Yankee!”

Canada didn’t flinch. “We’re not breaking him,” he said through clenched teeth. “We’re helping carry what he couldn’t.”

Mexico dropped beside him, obsidian dagger poised above a glowing glyph. “On three, Maple. You drag, I cut.”

“One,” Canada breathed, vision swimming.

“Two,” Germany called, locking eyes with Mexico.

Poland’s bell chimed—

Confederate screamed, inhuman and resonant.

New tendrils erupted, spearing for Canada—

—but Mexico blurred, ward-sigils blazing across his arms. “This is our continent, cabrón,” he growled. “And you don’t get to corrupt it.”

Obsidian met tar and sparks of red-orange seared the chamber. Confederate recoiled, molten tar dripping from horn to collar.

“You think this is a rescue?!” he hissed, eyes wild. “You’re guttin’ him! Rippin’ him in two like he ain’t already splintered!”

Canada’s arms shook violently, blood running from his palms where the gloves had finally burned through. A low sound vibrated under his fingers, not just the rage of Confederate, but a second pulse.

Somewhere beneath the rage, a softer sound trembled, a heartbeat that felt younger, bitter, and afraid. 'What.... is... this?'  Canada thought. The thing he felt was curling inward, thrashing in its own silence. And Canada could sense it, but only barely, like a storm trapped in stone; restless, but buried alive.

Confederate’s voice dropped low again, poisonous sweet. “You’re pullin’ at the bones, not the beast. You might get somethin’ else instead, boy.”

Canada’s arms tightened. “Then let it be me,” he whispered. “Let me take the hit. Just give him a way back.”

Above them, the war room pulsed red. Warnings screamed in several languages, including Morse code. Germany barked an order. “Contain the perimeter!”

“I need more cloth!” France shouted. “His aura’s burning through the grid—!”

Poland’s voice cracked. “This is not stable, bro!”

Confederate flailed as the glyphs constricted around him, steam blasting from his shoulders. “Y’all wanna bury me again?! Do it right this time! Put me deep enough to drown!”

India extended both palms, spinning a final radiant sigil. “This will be your second death, abomination.”

Confederate spat black blood, then muttered. “Then let the South rise in hell.”

Canada screamed through the pain. “NOW!”

The chamber split in light.

For a breathless second, America’s body hung still, then convulsed as tar-roots exploded from his spine, slamming Canada backward.

France caught Canada before he hit the dais steps. Above them, Confederate howled.

Magic had overloaded the chamber. Runes flared and flickered. Mexico’s dagger lit up with sigils.

And beneath it all, where even light couldn’t reach 

Something blinked in the dark.

An echo of a name no one remembered to speak.

Chapter Text

---

Mexico’s dagger thrummed, sigils flaring each time it tasted shadow. Concentric glyphs glowed volcanic beneath him, old as Teotihuacán. Tar‑roots writhed and hissed when ward‑fire licked them.

Confederate snarled. “Yer ancestors fed me their fear, you greas—. You think old campfire tricks can banish hate?”

Tar fissures split America’s skin; no blood, only pitch bubbling out.

Mexico didn’t blink. “They’ve bounded worse than you. Stay in the coffin you chose.” He scored the final stroke; the ward ring flared sun‑bright.

Canada swayed, France steadying his elbow. That flicker of blue from earlier was real. He’s still in there. He clutched his palms; still aching from before, skin raw from holding onto America too long, too deep burned by love and tar alike.

Italy pressed forward, touching Canada’s arm. “Amico…(friend..) your fratello(brother) will hear you. Keep speaking.”

-----

Liberia hadn’t come today expecting a battle.

She arrived for a routine meeting with UN, as it was mandatory for countryhumans like her, who were still too young in mind and body to be considered adults, and so they needed to check in every once in a while to be seen…. But the room was empty.

“Tied up in other matters,” someone muttered, mentioning unrest among the humans.

But the air felt wrong.

She turned the corner and stopped, as a tremor rippled underneath her, deep, magical, and ancient. She recognized the hum as fractured containment and wardwork in distress.

She headed toward the meeting rooms, expecting to find some nations gathered there. But the rooms were empty.

No nations were there.

The pulse she felt grew sharper, pulling her deeper towards the war chambers. The lights dimmed, and the shadows warped. Magic led her like a beacon.

Something was very wrong.

Liberia stepped onto the dais, heart pounding, eyes wide. Her presence caught their attention almost immediately.

“Liberia? What are you—?” France started, eyes widening.

“I followed the magic,” she said quickly, then her gaze locked on the figure at the center, and her voice cracked. “Wha?....Is… is that America?”

“Yes,” India said sharply, stepping between her and the wards. “But not the way you remember.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Germany muttered, bracing as another tremor shook the floor.

“Well, she’s here now, and we use all the help we can get,” Poland snapped. “Make it count. Lib, your healing magic might be needed, so stay behind the wards. ”

Russia advanced a step, cold blooming from his palm. Ice spread from Confederate’s feet upward, crackling across the tar-shell. Controlled and Silent.

Only when the frost locked at Confederate’s hips did Russia speak. “You are not the first to wear a broken empire, but you will be the last.”

Confederate spat, but the sound twisted as a horn cracked. Voices overlapped in his mouth; one furious, one pleading. He clutched his head.

Canada surged forward. “America, you’re not alone. You never were.” He pressed his forehead to America’s, ignoring the heat. “Please....just let us in.”

For a moment, the tar peeled back. Blue eyes rimmed with black stared back. “Don’t… let.....him..win,” America rasped. Obsidian tears spilled.

Confederate convulsed, flinging Canada away. And Confederate’s scream tore loose as black roots exploded outward like a living detonation.

India hit the floor hard, glyphs flickering around her as she gritted her teeth through the impact. Germany slammed back into a support beam with a curse, shoulder twisting awkwardly as he rolled to recover footing.

But France—

France caught the center wave.

As a jagged tendril, spiked and seething with molten tar, struck him clean across the ribs mid-turn. There was a crack as his ribs were snapping beneath the force and a flash of burning, as black magic seared through his coat and into his flesh. The blow lifted him off the ground, and he hung weightless for a heartbeat, then slammed into a stone pillar.

The sound of impact cracked through the chamber like a gunshot.

He crumpled in a heap, crimson already spilling through scorched silk. One side of his coat clung wet and dark, where the root had torn through and lingered , burning a hole straight into his side.

“FRANCE!!!” Canada cried, stumbling forward. “NO!….. France! ”

France twitched.

Trying to push himself, but he failed. Again. Each breath came more shallow and broken. Blood bubbled at the corner of his lips, staining his teeth.

“Stay down—!” Poland barked, keeping formation. “You’re losing too much blood!”
But France didn’t hear. His hand reached out, trembling, searching. His vision flickered between this room and something far older—in trenches, filled with choking gas and the smell of fire and blood.

“…mon fils… stay… back…”
The words barely escaped before he sagged again. A pool of blood soaked into the floor beneath him.

Canada gripped his shoulders, horror unraveling every ounce of practiced calm. “No—no, no, you’re not—don’t do this! Don’t talk like that!” His voice broke. “You’re not going to die, you hear me?! —LIBERIA!”

Liberia had already dropped to her knees near the edge of the circle, eyes wide and glowing with urgent light.

“I’m here! I know!” she shouted back, voice shaking. “But you yelling won’t stop the bleeding—just hold him still, please! I can’t lose focus!”

France’s eyes fluttered, unfocused, as his grip slipped.

Canada dropped lower. “ No, no, no, no… NO! Stay awake, stay—stay with me!”

Confederate laughed.

“Well now,” he drawled, looking down at the scene. “Ain’t that sweet? Papa France spillin’ his guts for a lost cause.”

He tilted his head, blood-flecked smile curling. “Ain’t that just like y’all Europeans? Always dyin’ for someone else’s sins.”

“Shut your damn mouth!” Canada’s voice cracked as light gathered in his palms. “Liberia, please!”

She didn’t flinch at the shout, just pressed glowing hands against France’s side, eyes burning with focus. “I said I’m on it! Just—just keep him conscious, Don’t let him close his eyes!”

Poland rang her bell, silver shockwaves lashing the roots again. “Come on hang in there France. Help me cover for them!”

Italy dove, rosary flashing and Japan moved like a ghost, blade a blur of divine metal.

Germany forced himself upright, pressing a hand to his own bruised ribs. “Right! Lets push him back, we need to hold the line! ”

Russia silently nodded and circled the edge, frost blooming in sharp arcs. “He will not fall in vain.”

They moved as one.

Russia’s frost swept low and fast, freezing the tar’s advance, and Japan’s katana flashed in silver arcs. Britain’s runes blazed at his feet, shielding Confederate’s wrath from them, and  Poland rang her bell again, with its defiant tone like cracked glass and rising thunder.

Mexico carved binding glyphs mid-air, obsidian blade still hissing with heat.

France’s breathing was still labored, and Liberia’s hands trembled while leaning in close, channeling every drop of healing magic she could muster. Green Light pulsed in her hands, sparkling and wild.

“Please don’t let him die,” Canada whispered, not sure who he was talking to anymore. “He wasn’t even supposed to be here today…”

And still, Confederate raged.

But even hate has limits.

Magic wove into a lattice of light.

Within it, America’s body arched. Horns fissured. Tar peeled in burning strips. Confederate’s scream rattled the chamber.

Canada hesitated, looking between France and his brother.

He then turned to Poland. “ Could you hold the line a second longer…I’m going in.” Canada rose from the ground, breath ragged. He looked down at France once more. “Stay with them, please. I’ll be back…..

Poland didn’t question it. “Go. We’ve got him.”

“I’ll come back,” he murmured, more to France than anyone else. “I swear.”

Canada stepped inside, as only he could, and the lattice parted for him.

He saw Blue fighting Red.

He then ran over and placed a hand over America’s chest. “Let go, Ame. We’ll catch you…..I promise!”

A shudder—

—and twin heartbeats lurched out of sync.

“Please…” America gasped. “Don’t let him… don’t let me—”

Shadows surged, but Russia sealed the lattice, India whispered mantras, and Poland rang the bell again.

Tar ignited in blue-white flame and memory, not malice.

Confederate warped, flag glitching and crimson saltire to twisted starfield. “Break me and you’ll wreck everythin’ inside!” “Yankee’s just as tainted as me! Tear me out, and you’ll shred him too!”

Canada didn’t flinch.

Canada’s voice held. “Then release him.”

Stillness settled. Horns cracked. Sparks drifted—

Then hung in the quiet, too many for one person to shed.

And the chamber held its breath.

Chapter Text

It started with a whisper.
 

A sound like bone scraping wood.

America’s body jolted.

One heartbeat. Two. Three. Then… another. But this time, not against him....This one was underneath him.

Rooted.

Canada was already halfway to him when America screamed.

It wasn’t human.

And It wasn’t him…..

"NO!" Mexico roared, lunging to drive his obsidian blade in deeper, but it was too late.

The cracked horn…

Healed.

Germany stiffened. That wasn’t just recovery. That was him rewriting the rules. “That….he wasn’t supposed to be able to do that….. right?” Italy whispered, inching closer. “No,” Germany muttered. His eyes stayed locked on the scene. One arm stayed close to his bruised ribs. “That’s not healing magic......That’s corruption.”

The roots then began lashing upwards like whips, catching Mexico across the chest and hurling him across the chamber. He smashed into the wall, with the glyphs flickering out around him like dying stars.

Japan moved toward him too late, arriving just as Mexico hit the stone. His stance shifted instantly into defense, eyes sharp as he positioned himself between Confederate and the others.

Confederate rose.

Back on two feet.

But not like before.

This time, taller.......This time, twisted. A shadow stretched from America’s spine like a cloak made of barbed wire and war-torn flags. Horns curled outward, fractaling like antlers through space itself.

Eyes like gun barrels, ringed in red.

And his smile?

No longer mocking.

But Hungry.

"Ah," Confederate purred, voice now coming from two mouths at once. One spoken. One whispered, echoing in every nation’s ears. "There ya are. I was wonderin’ how much pain it’d take."

He turned to face Canada.

And grinned wider when the other nation instinctively stepped back.

"Didn’t think he had it in him, did ya?" he cooed. "That there was a part of yer precious brother that wanted me here. That welcomed me.....Asked for me."

"You’re a bloody liar," Britain snapped, his voice raw, like he was dragging it up from somewhere deeper than breath. His body sagged slightly where he stood behind the wards, but his glare cut through the tension like glass. "He’d never choose you. Not willingly."

"Oh, wouldn’t he?" Confederate sang, voice laced with syrupy menace. "Ask Russia. He’s seen the signs. Ask Canada, he’s known I was down there, festerin' inside his dear brother the whole time. And why don’t you ask yerself, hmm? You’re the one that caused all this to begin with."

Britain flinched, not visibly, but the blow landed. His throat bobbed, and for a second, his gaze dropped, haunted and shaken by something older than the war itself.

"He’s just trying to get under your skin," Japan said quietly, stepping closer to Britain’s side.

But Britain didn’t look convinced. "That doesn’t mean he’s wrong."

Russia, silent until now, shifted beside them. His eyes narrowed, sharp and unreadable. “It knows too much,” he said flatly. “Not guessing, watching. Waiting. Like spider in attic.” He stepped forward, voice colder than stone. “We end it before it finishes... or we all suffer.”

“It’s like he’s playing with us,” Italy said under his breath.

Germany winced slightly as he moved to shield Liberia and France more fully. India stayed close by Germany’s side, her eyes sharp, glyphs flickering faintly in her hands as she readied herself for the next move.

"He is," Germany said. “But not like a child with toys. He’s baiting us, testing who’ll crack first.” His fists clenched. “Whatever he’s after, it can't be chaos for chaos’s sake. He came here knowing us, and he's baiting us into a reaction.”

India’s voice was quiet but firm. “That means he’s calculating every move. We need to stay sharp.”

Germany nodded at her words. Italy glanced at India, then back to the enemy, tension tightening the air.

"Don’t—don’t listen to it—" America’s real voice rasped, buried behind the monster’s grin. "He’s twisting things, Nada—please—!"

The smile twitched. 

And Confederate’s hand shot up, grabbing his own throat.

"Enough." 

That darker voice gutted through the room like a hurricane’s eye.

America’s expression froze.

Tears suspended mid-fall.
 

Eyes wide.

And then—

Confederate squeezed.

The scream that tore from his throat echoed with a hundred years of broken treaties, the cries of the enslaved, and buried confessions. Blood and black like night tar dripped from his eyes. And he smiled through it. 

All around the chamber, nations flinched, some covered their ears, others staggered like the sound had hit their bones.

Italy clutched his head, voice cracking. “What is that!?"

Germany’s jaw clenched. “It’s everything he buried.”

India had moved beside them, face tense. “It’s..memory....being warped into power. Old, bound power, and it’s breaking loose.”

Canada didn’t speak. 

He just stared, face pale, hands shaking. Not from fear, but from recognition.

"You don’t get to speak no more. You gave me this house. And you left the door wide open." He turned to the rest of them, a shadow cloak whipping behind him like smoke and shredded flags. "And now it’s my turn to redecorate."

The Walls shook and the temperature dropped. 

Flakes of ash began to fall from the ceiling inside.

Germany barked orders, "Form lines! Defend the injured!" he said, holding his side with one arm. Liberia stayed crouched over France, who still bled, but his breathing had stabilized into shallow pants. Her hands glowed brightly as she poured energy into keeping him alive. Just beside her, Mexico had been dragged to safety, his shirt dark with blood where the roots had struck him. He grit his teeth against the pain, one arm clutched over his ribs, eyes still scanning the room for threats.

Poland knelt beside him, helping to hold him upright. “I got you, przyjaciel (friend). Just breathe, okay? Liberia’s got you, she’s the real deal.”

Liberia flushed slightly at the words, but didn’t look up. Her focus stayed locked on her work, even as a hint of pink warmed on her cheeks.

“I can......still fight—” Mexico grunted.

“No, you can’t,” Poland said firmly, voice still gentle. “You already did, and now you let her do the rest.”

Liberia then grunted as both France and Mexico were moving to much to really focus on them. “Hey I cant focus if you keep moving, I-I…know you guys want to help,.....but it’s making it harder for me to heal you.” 

France groaned softly, an apologetic sound slipping from his lips as his head lolled to the side, still struggling to stay awake.

Mexico winced and muttered, "Perdón…(sorry..)" the syllables gritty with pain and pride.

Russia stood behind them now, hands at his sides but heavy with quiet energy. “If this goes on much longer,” he said to no one in particular, “there won’t be anything left to defend.”

The nations stood in stunned formation, confused and on edge. Eyes flicked between each other, to the shifting shadows and to Confederate’s impossible calm demeanor. No one dared speak, not yet. The rules of the battle had changed, and none of them knew what game they were playing anymore.

Because Confederate didn’t lunge.

He walked. Calm. Almost courteous. Like the blood poolin’ beneath him wasn’t soakin’ into the very foundation of the world.

And then he said it.

The thing that changed the air.

The thing that froze even Russia.

"I still got oaths. I still got blood......And I still got… the Capitol."

The room went silent.

"What the hell is in the Capitol?" Italy whispered.

"Something…'," Britain breathed, pale. "We were never supposed to open."

Confederate raised one hand.

His shadow flared outward, crawling across the floor, the walls, the very names of the nations trembling on their backs.

"He thought buryin' me would erase me," he said. "But this house…. yer 'America'....was built on my spine."

He smiled.

"And the basement still remembers my name."

Without warning, the shadows surged.

They struck like a wave, swallowin' every inch of the chamber, yankin' the nations from the stone floor as if gravity itself reversed. Canada gasped, the magic wasn’t like teleportation. It was older. A tear in space, a forced passage through timeworn doors no one had touched in centuries.

A portal, conjured not from spell or science, but oath and blood.

They weren’t moved.

They were summoned.