It's here, on this island, that I remember these horrible things.

The suffering.

The pleas.

The death.

Everything comes back to me now, in one flashback after another, leaving me no time to mourn or grieve or even to regret; I can only wallow in these echoes of agony that threaten to swallow me whole.

Fratello is just as lost, just as alone in this despair.

Our past is haunting us, and now that we've returned here, I'm not sure our victims will ever release us from their skeletal fingers.

Broken as we are, I'm not sure we want them to.

___

Italy

Ve... I really don't want to do this...

"F-Fratello?" My voice has taken on a higher pitch than usual, though it's hardly noticeable amidst the din of waves lapping at the sides of our boat and the whirring of the boat itself as it cuts cleanly through the Venetian waters. "Can't we just not go and say we did...?"

He barely spares me a glance, his hooded eyes more captured by the island we're briskly approaching than my quavering form. "Stupid, you think I want to go? We're doing this because our boss ordered us to, so no whining, or I'll kick your ass into the water and let you swim to Poveglia!"

Cringing, I bob my head, compliantly silent. His threat may be idle (even if Germany isn't around), but Romano's mood has been in rapid decline since we were given this task, and if I can help it, I'd rather not aggravate him further. And, to be fair, I caused a decent amount of his grief just before we climbed aboard this small boat, when I asked if we could call Germany to help us.

"What?" Romano had snapped. "You want to bring the potato bastard when I already have to put up with you? No fucking chance!"

It's safer, I suspect, to not mention Germany again, but I can't help the feeling that what we're doing would be more bearable were he here. And less terrifying. Germany is so big and strong he could definitely protect me from anything!

Romano thinks my reasoning is flawed and biased; he also thinks Germany puts steroids in his potatoes, which makes his muscular physique "a goddamn lie" to my brother.

Our trip across the water falls into silence, punctuated only by the occasional mumbled curse from Romano as he irritably wipes the sea spray from his face with his jacket sleeve.

I don't stray too far from my seat opposite Romano, hugging my legs to my chest, my chin nestled in the crook between my knees. I've stowed my favorite white flag in the compartment beneath my seat, just in case - though it's probably unlikely it'll be of any use. It's a comfort, in any case, one that Romano doesn't share in.

"Fratello," I try again, my anxiety outweighing the awkward tension bubbling up between us. "Do-Do you think the rumors are true?"

I notice his knuckles bleeding of color, his grip on the controls tightening. His voice, however, doesn't waver as he says, "Idiot. Who are you, that crazy eyebrows bastard? Of course they're not real! Now shut up, your constant whining is giving me a headache."

Romano

Veneziano mumbles something, his assent, I guess, then turns his head to look out at the churning waves. His posture's worsened, shoulders slumped forward, his feet now flat against the bottom of the motorboat; his fingernails bite nervously into the fabric of his jeans.

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth, focusing on steering the boat alongside the island. I shouldn't be snapping at him, especially not when I'm not handling this any better. But if I let on how unnerved I am by this job, Veneziano's only going to worry more. And then it really will be hell on Poveglia.

Why did I even bring him? I inwardly sigh.

Because you're too scared to go alone.

I barely check the shiver that threatens to stiffen my spine. That whisper-soft voice... was so damn honest. My teeth ground together in frustration. Damn our boss. He knows perfectly well how timid and cowardly Veneziano is (he'll say the same of me but I'll vigorously deny it), and yet he purposefully asked the both of us to investigate these ridiculous claims out on Poveglia. Though if I'm going to be pissed at anyone, I suppose it should be the people who made the claims in the first place.

Which I can't because they're Veneziano's beloved citizens and he'll burst into tears if I say one negative thing against them.

"We're here," I grumble, stalling the boat and cutting the engine. We've drifted alongside the decrepit dock that reaches forlornly out into the rolling waves. A little ways into the island looms one of the shuttered buildings that used to house the mentally unstable; others near it, I know, are filled with the stench of plague and death.

I haul myself up on to the dock first, reaching down to lug Veneziano up beside me. He's uncharacteristically quiet, his hands clasped together at his waist in mock-prayer. Or maybe he's actually praying? I can see his lips moving without a sound as his eyes dart about the island, taking in the willowy trees and the encroaching vines that have swallowed a majority of the buildings here.

I hitch my bag up over my shoulder, starting down the dock. Over my shoulder, I call to Veneziano, "Hurry the fuck up! I want to finish this before it gets dark!"

The thought of roaming the island relying on starlight alone gets him moving, and he scurries after me, snagging the end of my jacket when he thinks I'm not paying attention.

I can hear his stunted breath of relief when I don't make a move to throw him off.

God I already hate this.

_____________________________

So, about this story...

Poveglia is a real island near Venice, just in case you didn't know. I'll get more into the history as the story goes on, though for this particular tale I'll go more into the rumors that surround the island than the facts, as that's where my idea for this came from.

Also, neither Romano or Italy will speak with accents, because they'll be speaking entirely in Italian. Unless some other country ends up in the story, in which case they'll only have accents when speaking to said country.