This draws upon the idea of spiritual faith being more powerful than magic, and does not have the normal fluffy endings I tend to write. You have been warned.

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"Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum."

"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name." America, kneeling, looked over at England. "Do you really think this will save us?"

England sighed. "America, I don't know. I really. Don't. Know. The power of spiritual faith is supposed to be stronger than my magic in this day and age." He paused and continued his prayer, holding a cross tightly in his hand. "Adveniat regnum tuum"

"Thy kingdom come. But, England—" America cut off. The door was rattling on its hinges. America winced, trying to hold back his tears. He was a hero. Heroes didn't cry. Heroes weren't afraid.

"No buts, America." England adjusted slightly, but never left his kneeling position. "We're in a church. One of the oldest in my country. We're saying one our strongest prayers. We just have to hold out until morning, Alfred. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra."

America's protest died in his throat. England had used his name. That meant he was scared. That he really thought that this… this might be it for them. "Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven," he choked out.

"Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris," England breathed. The pounding at the door grew louder. Louder. There was a creaking sound. "And… Alfred."

"Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us." America couldn't hold back a sob at the end. The door was creaking. They were almost here. "Yes, Eng—Arthur?"

"I… never truly hated you. I couldn't. Not after all we've been through." There were tears streaming down England's cheeks. "Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo."

"Aw, Artie, don't get all sent—sentimental on me now," America tried to say jokingly. Tried. Instead, he wound up with his voice breaking. The pounding on the door grew ever more insistent. The creaking grew louder. A sharp crack. "And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil," he whimpered softly.

"Amen," they finished together.

The door broke. The creatures crawled in. America and England jumped up from their kneeling positions, England never loosening his hold on the small cross.

"Quick! To the bell tower! If we hurry, we can lock them out!" England cried. America nodded and they ran.

They ran, muttering the Lord's Prayer under their breath. Shouting "Amen!" Repeating the prayer. Running. Fleeing. Ignoring that the creatures were there. Right there. Almost on them.

They reached the tower. England slammed the door shut. America dragged a bookcase in front of the door.

They huddled together in the middle of the room. They held on to England's cross, hoping to feel that power of faith.

"Arthur," America started. "I'm scared."

England nodded. "I know. I am too. We just have to wait until morning."

Scratching. Scratching at the door. Scratching at the window. They were trapped.

"How long is that going to be?"

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum," England began chanting softly, America stumbling along in English.

Morning couldn't come fast enough.

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Considering England's age, I assume that he would likely revert to the Latin version of the Lord's Prayer in moments of stress, while America uses an English version. There are different versions of the Lord's Prayer, especially in English. I chose the version that I, personally, am most familiar with for America, and one I found online for the Latin version. I apologize for any mistakes.

Dies Irae, or Day of Wrath, is a 13th century Latin hymn (meaning, a chant).