bits of my mind

haunted (gerpol)

actually started this a really really really long time ago (i think maybe two or more years ago) and finished writing it a few months (?) back when i found it rotting in my drafts... anyway i'm getting real rusty at writing so honestly any of the stories i've been posting and might post are mediocre at best which is kind of a shame but oh well i'm not even in the fandom anymore, i'm just clearing out my drafts... this is for the two people or something that still read the shit i post and are still stuck in this prison of a fandom

anyway yeah i don't believe in any of this, my theology is buns cause i'm not religious so take this with a pinch of salt

--

Honestly, it was a stupid idea. He should've said no, should've known better — he did, his gut told him explicitly, firmly, NO, but his heart said yes. So much for prioritising logic over feelings. So now Germany found himself wandering, through a dense forest, over a dirt path smoothed out by hundreds of feet that have not walked in decades. Poland was just ahead, the feathers of his one wing fluttering slightly in the weak breeze that blew through the clearing.

Although he never liked to admit being scared, he was now. This was basically how every horror movie began, with the protagonists walking straight into danger. Trying to settle his stomach, he swallowed heavily. The other man stopped, sensing his agitation.

"Are you doing okay?" Poland asked, turning around, the concern evident on his face. "You know, you don't have to follow me here. I'm okay doing this myself. I've done this myself many times before. I can bring you back if you want."

Germany bit his tongue, nodding.

"Are you sure? Because once we've crossed those two weird looking trees there," the taller man motioned to a pair of crooked trees, their branches twisting and locking with one another, forming an imposing, arch looking structure, "there's no turning back until we've done what we're supposed to do."

The pressure of deciding was crushing. He rubbed his temples, his vision tunneling for a moment. "No, I'm fine. Let's just get this done and over with."

"Easier said than done." Poland sighed, shouldering his backpack and turning back around, leading the way. He stopped Germany again at the pair of trees he was talking about, opening his bag and retrieving an ornate glass vial. It was about the size of his palm, filled with a clear liquid which he sloshed around once and held up against the sun, seemingly inspecting its contents. Then he offered it to the other without a word.

Germany took it, slipping it into the pocket of his jacket. Poland reminded him once again, picking up his belongings and trudging forward, past the line of no return. "A few drops is enough. Save as much as you can. You don't know when you'll need it next."

"Got it." He patted it through the layer of fabric, feeling the reassuring weight as it hung within. The Slavic man continued on, a hand brushing against the trees, as if for luck, as he passed under them. Germany rested his palm on the exact spot Poland had seconds before, then took a step into danger.

Almost immediately, the air seemed colder, biting and bitter. For a second, he thought about backing out and turning around. The ringing in his ears intensified, every nerve in his body warning him to leave; he could not possibly survive this. He suppressed it, pushing his thoughts down until they were nothing but a mere murmur, muffled in the back of his head.

A church loomed over them. It was in pretty terrible shape — the intricately coloured glass smashed in and the stone walls crumbling — a once holy place of worship now stained with the filth of evil. The structure was eerily free of graffiti, unlike the buildings that they had passed earlier. Bile rose in his throat.