Canada grimaced as he stared down at his boots, leaning against the door to his room in his own set of silence. Blocking out the other sounds and shouts of the soldiers who trained beyond the castle walls- for the battles that were looming over the distant horizons of the future.

The Prince's mind was clouded with a thousand emotions and thoughts. Questions and the images of his father who had brought him up with nothing but cold misery and the venomous tongue haunting his consciousness. Of a father who really didn't care for him or the bond that they lacked. His life had been filled with despair and it seemed to be getting worse for him; not that there was anything he could do to shape and rearrange his upcoming fate of future torture and depression.

With a wince, he pushed himself off of his door, sword swinging from his belt at his side and the collar of his jacket poking out between his hair and his fur hat.
He had been awoken at the usual time but hadn't been met with the usual quiet voice of the morning maid. Instead, by a guard who had nothing but a voice of concrete and rusted metal. Informing him to get dressed immediately and to meet his father in the throne room once he was done and had woken himself up completely from his daydreams.

As well as the daunting additional instruction to bring his sword.

Canada chewed on his bottom lip, anxiously trying to think of a reason to justify the instruction.
Maybe his father wanted to see his training up close? Or maybe inspect his sword as to see if it should be replaced or not?

But the boy couldn't push back the thought that maybe there was a different, more sinister reason.

Nonetheless, he turned and began to speedwalk through the hallway, trodding down the stairs and following the route he had come to learn that would eventually lead him to the throne room that had always intimidated him as a child. Upon reaching the door, he was encountered by the stone-cold faces and glassy eyes of two guards who glared at him, armed to the teeth and melded with tonnes of iron plates that decorated their bodies.
They clicked their tongue before gradually stepping to the side, opening the door as they moved for the young Prince who hesitantly stepped in. Swallowing the lump that had begun to form in the back of his throat.

Canada's boots tapped gently against the hard wooden floor as he headed towards the throne where his father sat, eyes narrowed with a frown across his scarred face. Draped in his darker navy blue uniform and the silver trinkets that decorated his blazer like a prize. The silver hanging down from his hat covered in olive-branch patterns.
A mockery of his actions.

The Prince glanced down, unable to hold proper eye contact with his father. Taking short and subtle glances to his sides to gaze up at the walls that had been decorated with the prizes his father had taken from each battle and war he had brought across the land.

Numerous cuts of circular wood had been made. Nailed into the walls on either side of the throne room, and upon them sat the horns and feathers and claws of so many species of people Britain had come to fight throughout the years.
Twisting antlers and goat-like horns sticking out from the wood, small sets of wings hanging down. Some were still grey and white, but the noticeable stains of blood still splashed upon them told a different story compared to their previous beauty. A gruesome reminder that they had once belonged to some soldier or Admiral of an army that had attempted to protect their land- all for it to have been in vain.
Pinned to the wood for all eyes to see- like some collectors' museum.

The sight made Canada's spine shiver and his heart thump roughly against his chest, a single bead of sweat running down his forehead before he ripped his gaze away from the misery that loomed around him.

It had always creeped him out as a child but...

Canada slowly glanced back up at the sets of wings and headpieces.

He hadn't remembered there being this many.

With an inaudible and trembling sigh, Canada stopped and stood upon the judging eyes of his father. Blue and green pupils gazing down at him with a coldness the Prince could never escape from. The judgement and the harshness. The impassiveness.

Britain chewed on his lip.
Clouded eyes narrowed until he closed them and let out a rough and almost disappointed grunt, pushing himself up until he was standing. His cloak dragging across his throne before it fell and swung behind him like some demonic shadow.

A murderous King.
And an arrogant father.

"Prince Canada." Britain's voice rung through the throne room. A bellowing noise that craved for nothing but superiority and respect from those he called to.
"You are my son. My one and only heir.
It's been 11 years since you started your training, and I've heard from General Ireland that you've worked hard and come far from where you originally used to be.

A small child with an unwritten fate.

But now."

Britain clicked his fingers, glancing to his left where a guard stepped over from their post, armed to the teeth.
Hands laced with scarred metal reaching up to hand Britain a long box of crimson, and from what Canada could see from where he stood- a silver lock had been etched into the wood. Sealing whatever was inside. It was something the Prince had never seen before- but at this point, it didn't surprise him
After all, it seemed like his father had hidden away more than mere white lies from him throughout the years...

Canada winced, the image of that winged monster flashing in his head. The blood, the blackness.

The eyes that had gazed down at him with the stars of the night sky.
So agonising.

Britain held the box close to his chest. Gloved hands gripping onto the base and running over the lock, as if he was reliving a memory, the guard stepping away and returning to their post in a shadowed corner of the room.

"This was made for you 11 years ago. Specially crafted the morning I received a revelation," The King's tone changed. And that frown faded into a grin, eyes meeting Canada's.

"I didn't train you for nothing. And I won't accept failure from you at all after today.

So listen carefully, boy."

And so, Prince Canada listened.
Gripping his hands into fists behind his back, his nails digging into his palms as his father began to announce his fate.
Like a book.

"Eleven years ago, I was an idiotic man.
I had lost my wife and my dreams. Confused and ignorant beyond this world, I had no idea what to do with this power I held. With my childre- son.
I went to bed with my mind broken by my anxiety and my thoughts of death. And I never knew that that night, everything would change for me. And for the world." A smile full of teeth, eyes glinting.

"I fell into the dreamscape.

And I was met with a darkness I had never encountered before in my life, so welcoming and yet so... what was the word... Threatening.

But voices began to call to me.

And I saw a world where my enemies were nothing but dust," He spat with a croaked laugh, as if reliving that ecstasy he had once experienced. The fantasy and the solace of the one's he hated being nothing but a mere memory.

"I saw a boy. With eyes of the trees and the rivers of the world. The ocean."
Britain abruptly halted, hesitantly glimpsing over to his son. Gazing into his eyes as if taking his words back.

Those pine green eyes.

Britain struggled to catch his words for a moment before he absentmindedly shook his head and resumed, "the eyes of a forest."
But those words seemed strained.

"He stood there with his back turned to me. Clad in armour and a sword in his hand.
Bottles hanging from his thigh and a ripped cloak waving behind him. Flags clawing out of the ground, dreaded in white and blood.
And there was fire..." The King looked up towards the ceiling, beginning to list off what he had witnessed to himself more than to the Prince who stood there listening. Not noticing the General who stepped into the throne room and stood at the door, eyes pinned on him.
Ireland swallowed, glancing over to his nephew who was too entranced with his fathers' words to even turn around or look over his shoulder.

"Blue fire surrounded him. And I knew that second that one of my children would come to change the story that the world would follow.
That all my enemies would be slaughtered and would vanish at the hands of my son.
That he would turn all those disgusting monsters against their young and their lovers and would watch them rip themselves apart until there was nothing left."

Canada's nails dug deeper into his palms, drawing blood. Snapping him out of his trance and perking his shoulders up, the Prince glancing over to see his uncle standing there at the door. Deathly pale, eyes wide and staring at his nephew.

Mouthing the words Canada struggled to understand.

But Britain's voice rang out once again, this time, with disappointment and an anger that Canada had never listened to.

"But the dream changed. And I was thrown into green fields. And mortals stood there and stared at me with cold eyes of pain and anger. With those damned werewolves behind them. With those stags and those twisted, poisoned-eyed serpents.
A stupid fucking peace." Britain hissed, gritting his teeth and gripping the box like it was his last hope.

Eyes whipping down to hone straight into Canada's soul.

"I was given the choice.
The news.

That the future would either hold eternal suffering and the ending of those repulsive monsters.
Or their peace with us."

Canada gawked up at his father, staring into his eyes, gazing at that hideous grin that was planted across his face. The insanity that had come from some prophecy. That had manipulated his father's actions and personality for all these years.
The Prince didn't know what to feel.
That emotionlessness dawned on him once more, a cold silence filling his head. So confused and conflicted to the point that everything seemed numb to his once emotional heart.
He slowly lowered his head and gazed down at his trembling hands.

So this was why.
All those years of training simply because of a stupid fucking dream that his father couldn't let go. Didn't want to lose control over. Years of having to feel nothing but agony and that harrowing feeling of pâro that had never once left him alone to rest his mind. Always crossing some invisible taboo that his father had laid out around him like a cage.

This was why...

His brother was gone.

He always felt that monachopsis.
Every single day.
And maybe this was the reason why.

Ireland watched his nephew from where he still stood, glancing between his brother and the younger male with anxious eyes. Beads of sweat ran down his brow before he suddenly turned his head to stare at the door with a wide gaze, muttering to himself under his breath and swiftly heading into a shadowed corner to observe as the doors to the throne room once again swung open.

Britain smirked and looked down towards the door as two dark guards stepped in, faces concealed in blackened iron. And he chuckled softly, "about time."
Canada perked up and turned, stepping back a little to watch these two guards walk in, before his eyes shifted towards the smaller figure that they were dragging in with them. Legs tripping and stumbling over each other, gasps and whimpers of pain becoming audible to Canada's ears.

The two taller figures abruptly paused and dragged the smaller figure out to stand in front of them, chains clinking loudly with every moment they made of their arms.
In front of them stood a smaller male, trembling ever so slightly.
The hood that concealed their face was ripped off by a guard, revealing the sculpted and gentle face of a stag. With a medium-sized pair of antlers poking out from his touseled hazelnut and snow-striped hair and cheeks flushed. Dark ears lowered behind strands of hair, pheasant feathers hanging down from the fur. Wearing a battered uniform that consisted of many layers of once grey and white scarves and blazers. Loose pants and boots splattered with blood that covered his whole entire body.
A massive slice gleamed over the arch of his nose. Crimson still oozing down his cheeks. Fresh.

Canada's eyes began to snake towards the knuckles of the guards.

"It's about time you became the man that you were destined to be," Britain began to speak, fingers slipping over the metal of the box he was still holding. Unlocking it and peeling open the wood, eyes glinting ever so slightly as they rested upon the object that laid inside.
"Come here."

Britain's voice beckoned the room and rang through the walls. An order that Canada could only follow as he walked up towards the throne where Britain stood with that damned box, quivering slightly under the dark gaze of his incompetent father.

Once the Prince stood in front of the King, the elder held out his hand in silence. His mouth a thin line as he waited for his son who stared at his hand in confusion before something in his head clicked, and he began to scramble to pull his sword out of the sheath that hang from his belt.
"O-Oh right, s-orry." Canada pulled it out and held it before his father, cautiously placing the blade in his hand so that it sat there. The metal was scratched and stained slightly with age and numerous years of clashing with his uncle. Fingers traced the rims and scratches that littered the pommel before the King let put a heavy sigh, lifting his arm and throwing the sword to his right.

The sword hit the floor, the blade clattering against the floor before it slid and crashed into the nearby wall. The sound echoing.

"It's time you took what's rightfully yours." And Britain slipped his hand back into the box, his shoulder tensing as he gripped onto the object inside and pulled out a sword. And Canada gawked as he stared at the beautifully crafted weapon that was held before him, gleaming in the light.

The hilt was wrapped tightly by a round of blackened leather- almost mimicking the look of light steel or iron. Incasing the blade beneath. With the cross guard shining new with no scratches to be seen- the metal almost a lighter shade between grey and blue with the ends forming into the shapes of arrowheads. Beckoning the need for authority and the hand of a strong and powerful leader; the Prince began to feel nauseous at the sight.

The pommel was a masterpiece however. With patterns engraved into the round shape that it took on- the forms of olive leaves etched straight into the steel like a piece of wood. And right in the centre of the pommel sat a round and beautiful sapphire. Polished and cut delicately to sit snug into the daunting metal that surrounded it- almost glowing amongst the low light of the throne room.

It was a sword Canada had never seen before. His eyes had never seen upon a fine weapon like this, the details it took on.
So different to his precious scarred and battered sword that now lay several metres away up against the wall.
And the Prince exhaled shakily as he slowly reached up and took the sword from his father who watched with the eyes of a predator. Pulling the sword closer to his chest to continue to stare at it before something dropped in his gut.

"Wait..."He whispered.

Britain looked over towards the two guards and the shorter male who stood between them, legs still trembling and eyes still darting across the room. As if desperately searching for an escape route- which would have ultimately failed.
"It's time you took your first life."

Canada's heart dropped and his eyes widened.
His blood went cold as he slowly rose his gaze to stare at the now terrified deer who was most likely somewhat close to his own age.
No...
And the King rose his arm to point at the poor creature with an accusing finger, teeth-gritting into a somewhat venomous snarl.
"Kill it."

An order that rang through the room and the walls.
And straight through Canada's bones and now thumping heart.

A coldness hit him. The tips of his fingers tingled ever so slightly as his mind held onto those words. As he gazed down at the sword that still sat in his hands like a guilty and ominous weight.
Of course. Of course, this was what his father wanted.
Canada looked back over to the deer with a paled face. This innocent life was standing before him and now all he had to do was take it..?

Murder was the last thing the Prince wanted to commit, but he eventually glanced back to his father, and then his uncle who he had now noticed. Still standing in the corner with a horrified looked stretched across his face.

And now he realised what his uncle had been mouthing only minutes ago to him.

'Run.'

Canada's breathing was becoming shaky as he stepped down from the two steps that led up to the throne itself. Gradually beginning to make his way towards the deer who began to beg in both English and another language that Canada couldn't understand- mixed and slurred with an accent and a now breathless voice that held nothing but terror.

"I...I can't.
I won't." Canada gritted his teeth, eyes beginning to water.

"This is your dream, not mine." He whipped around to face the King, "I don't give a DAMN IF I'M YOUR SON.
You are not living your life and unachieved dreams through me. It is mine. I do what I want with it and I refuse for you to control it from this moment on like you have always done."

The Prince flinched and caught his breath.

Ireland stared, quite taken aback by the actions and words of his nephew. Having never witnessed or heard of Canada revolting against his father at such a pivotal point.

Britain's eyes narrowed and his grin turned into a frown, twitching slightly as he took a grip upon the anger that was building up amongst his head and muscles. The King's stare ran across the room and soon rested upon the deer who was still panicking. Unsure of whether or not he'd make it out alive.
The King grunted quietly, muttering something under his breath as he took several steps from his throne, approaching the Prince who stood there like a stone-cold statue. Shocked by his own actions and traumatised by his father's words. But of course, Britain didn't care.
Didn't even bother to meet Canada's eyes with his own as he roughly snatched the sword from the Prince's grip, and waltzed past him with the weapon in hand.

Not a single glint of regret, fear or concern flashed through his eyes as he marched towards the deer who stared up at him. Now on his knees as if begging for mercy. For the gift of being able to keep his life for at least a little longer.
But of course, it would all be in vain.

And Canada turned to watch his father with widened eyes and a paled face as the King rose the sword above his own head before he swung it down with a snarl.

And ripped through the deer.

The whimpering and the cries ceased.
The dripping of blood and the wetness that followed took its place.

The guards didn't flinch.

But Canada stared. Pupils nothing more than quivering pinpricks as his father strode to the side and revealed the nauseating scene of gore that now lay slumped across the marble and wooden floors.
He didn't know what to do. He couldn't do anything. It felt like his muscles had locked up. Like every single joint in his body had tensed up so hard that they were now permanently stuck.

He could feel his stomach rolling. Could feel the bile that was beginning to pile up at the back of his throat. And his chest ached as though his heart had been smashed against the very blade that his father had just gifted to him.
Or more...
Cursed him with.

Britain grunted and kicked at the mess and cocked his head to the side towards the guards before he looked over his shoulder and gazed towards his dazed son. Cloudy eyes staring.
"This life isn't yours to write." He snapped, shoving the sword against Canada's chest. The Prince's hands immediately wrapped around the pommel and gripped it.
"This is your destiny. And you will follow it," He bared his teeth into a sly snark. "You are weak.
And that isn't a fucking option.
So get your shit together. Or else you'll end up like that pile of slob behind me."

Canada's eyes slowly dragged up to stare at his father's face.

"Get out."
A final order.

And the Prince only just realised just how sick he felt before he ran out of the throne room as fast as he could. Holding onto that cursed weapon.

Tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

═══ -ˋˏ *.·:·.⟐.·:·.* ˎˊ- ═══

Chains clinked and sighed against the cold and dead stone floor. Blood and water dripping from the damp and moss-covered bricks that loomed and hung overhead; puddles forming underneath like small filthy pools of sin and grotesque torture.
Stone scarred with claw marks and other unnameable wounds that could have been caused by nothing but a freak of nature.

No sunlight or moonlight shone here, shut away with the scorched stone and iron windows that kept everything that happened down here away from the eyes of those who thought their King was truly a good person.

There was a bloodied mess in every corner and across every surface of the walls that arched over every little cage or prison room- a dark reminder of what took place there.

Finland heaved a trembling sigh, eyes barely able to adjust to the dim light. Arms aching and throbbing with pain that run from his shoulder blades to the tips of his fingers. Dried blood still clinging underneath his black nails, smudges of darkened crimson still decorating his face.
And though his battle wound had been stitched up and cleaned, Finland felt even more damaged than he had been before. Like something had been stripped away from him in the worst way.
He was slumped up against a wall, chains fastened around his ankles, singing every time he dared to move. The coldness was now numb against his back.

The Prince swallowed hard, throat dry and tongue still panging with the metallic taste of blood. And with a lazy eye roll, he turned his head and gazed up at the ceiling. Eyes ran across the moss and lichen that was beginning to flourish amongst the dampened stone. His mind was clouded, and he attempted to reach out toward the blurry memories of what had happened mere hours ago.

Towards the torture that he had endured.

He could still remember the coldness of the metal table that he had been strapped to. The wandering hands and claws that had scraped at his skin and prodded at his wounds, sinking in needles and god knows what into his blood. Into his flesh.
The beads of sweat that had made his cold skin sticky and the musty air that had clogged his lungs. The creaking of the light that had swung back and forwards ever so slightly above his head, blinding his eyes.
He knew that that woman had been toying with him. Merely playing with him and his body parts like a doll that was about to be discarded... or more. Ripped apart.
Those mulled wine eyes still burned into his mind and thoughts, and he couldn't help but think about the pupils that had stared at him with such envy. Nothing more than black small slits that dilated whenever he'd let out a horrific scream.

Like a serpent strangling its prey.

Finland swallowed hard and winced at the ache that hit the back of his throat almost immediately.
The Prince coughed and felt around the floor, wrists aching and shoulders throbbing against his back.

Laying here waiting for another experience with that... woman. Wasn't something that he wanted to do, Finland thought to himself. And with gritted teeth, he began to push himself upwards. His back thudding the wall and gradually dragging up against the damp and cracked stone that had stood there for what Finland could only guess was thousands of years. Every movement he took was heavy and full of burdens, but it was better than doing nothing. After all, he needed to at least build up some of the strength that he had lost during the remains of the previous battle.
If he wanted to see Estonia again.

Sweden, Denmark and Norway.

He'd have to fight.

It took Finland a few minutes to battle off the dizziness that had taunted and wrapped around his head the second he was able to probably stand against the wall. His back still tensely pressed to the stone as his fingers dug into any crevice he could feel; an attempt to at least be able to hold himself up while he allowed himself to regain the little strength he still had. With the remains of his energy, he took a shaky step forward, his knees buckling nearly instantly- yet he remained standing as he started to gradually and clumsily stagger across his prison cell, approaching the bars that stood at the end. Locked.
Eventually, he tumbled against the cold metal with a rather uneasy clunk. Gripping onto them rather halfheartedly and nearly hissing at the gritty and discomforting feeling they presented to his hands. A strange sensation. Like they were nearly...
Stinging him?

Finland's fingers rubbed against each other as he tried to ignore the feeling and squinted his eyes, staring and looking around through the gaps of the bars. Noticing the long hallway that was opened up in front of him- branching off into different areas in the far distance. Built with stone that was damp and cracked with age like the walls of his jail.
And as well as that...

The Prince's blood ran cold and he cringed as he gawked upon the pools and stains of darkened crimson that were scattered all over the floors and across half of the walls that arched overhead. But Finland continued to try and search for any sign of life, if he was in the heart of Britain's Kingdom then surely he could at least try and find something that could be of use to his friends. Or himself. If he was going to even be lucky enough to get out that is...

His blue eyes continued to search until a rather abrupt and sharp scraping sound struck the room. Echoing through the halls and causing Finland's ears to perk upwards, his head swinging suddenly to the right. Pressing his left cheek against the metal, stinging, and trying to peek as far as he could towards the right area of the room. Staring at an area that had been blocked from his view. Barely visible.

Finland inhaled sharply when he spotted the dark, massive cage that stood there. And his eyes widened when the glow of what was being held inside appeared. He stared and he opened his mouth just a little, cracked lips burning as he mumbled quietly to himself.

"...Stars..?"
His voice cracked unevenly, his throat still aching from the screams that he had let out mere hours ago.
There was a shuffle from the cage as if something was moving and turning. Jet black shapes sticking out from the bars in between every single movement before Finland's heart dropped and his grip tightened on the bars.

"Fucking hell.
No way."

He spoke, voice trembling as he stared at the golden and inky black-winged creature that stared back at him with starry eyes.

And the two seemingly gawked at each other, knowing full well who they both were to each other. And though the creature in that cage revealed no emotion across its beaked face.
Its feathers and fur stood high upon its skin and it perked up upon the sight of the deer.

Finland swallowed hard.

"..Hungary..?"

-------------------------------------------------------------

Finally completed after 4 months of on and off writing :)

This chapter was strange to write. Of course, it isn't very action-packed. But this story needed a breather. Though this chapter was made to mainly focus upon the lore and stories of this au which i think I did at a decent level.

Besides,

needed a new character reveal that some people had been theorizing.

.


okay. I need to set some things clear.
My writing for this chapter may be VERY strange and OFF.
I've recently been put on an antidepressant and it's made my brain slightly switch off in some areas and I've been struggling with sleep, spelling and writing in general. So I apologize if this chapter is clumsy and weird :(
I'm doing my best a

I've also started an Etsy! Which has been boosting my confidence and I'm really happy with it :D!!

but anyway


I hope you enjoy this chapter <3

I've missed being able to press the publish button and read stupid comments.
Of course, I love them don't worry!

Can't wait for theories <3

-Red

Word count (the largest by far) : 4857