Dark Clouds Over My Halcyon Days.
A Hetalia Axis Powers fanfiction
::Chapter One:: Martyr
::Pairing(s):: AmericaXEngland
::Genre:: Hurt/Comfort/Romance
::Rating:: T+
::Summary:: England had never needed, nor wanted, a hero before, and fairy spirits be dammed if he was going to start wanting one now.
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England's fingers ghosted over the icy windows of his house. His country was in the grip of Winter, and the land was bare and desolate, draped in a great white sheet. No birds sang, and even his spirits that usually kept him company had sought refuge in warmer climates. He was alone.
He shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Seated in a sedan chair, he felt even smaller than before, and the house grew bigger every time he was in it. Two consecutive World Wars had broken the aged country, and he had lost the use of his legs a long time ago. Hands that were numb with cold pushed at the wheels of his chair, and slowly, he inched forwards.
The telephone was temptingly close, it would have been easy for any lithe person to simply walk over and pick it up, but it took England five frustrating minutes before the tips of his fingers closed around the enamel bracket. He paused.
Who should he ring?
He wasn't in the mood for France's taunting, nor Sealand's incessant chatter, nor China's quiet sarcasm.
America it was then.
The phone rang several times before it switched to answer machine.
'Hi! You've reached America's house! Unfortunately, I'm out doing awesome heroic deeds right now, but leave a message and I'll reply when I can!'
The message tone sounded, but England remained silent. He replaced the phone back onto its stand and stared out the window.
"I don't want to be alone in this house." He took a shuddery breath and forced the chair forwards.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
The air was cold and his breath billowed in icy clouds in front of his face. He shivered and clapped his gloved hands together in an attempt to create some warmth. The snow was bright white; almost blinding and he gazed at it in some kind of hypnotic trance.
Suddenly, a wave of resolve washed over him.
I want to walk.
England knew it was hopeless; the doctors had told him he would never be able to stand, let alone walk. But he hand been trapped in that chair for so long, it felt like a prison. He gripped the handles of the chair, and, using all the strength he could muster, forced himself off the seat.
The effect was immediate; his legs began to shake uncontrollably and threatened to collapse, but he didn't give up. He wanted to stand tall, like the proud nation he had once been. Still clutching the chair, he drew himself into an upright position, and nearly cried when he found he was able to do so. His knees trembled in protest and his lips were blue with cold, but sheer adrenalin kept him on his feet. He forced his legs forwards, only managing to move around a foot or so from the chair. But it was enough. He had done it; he had walked.
Oddly enough, he felt neither the urge to cry out of joy, nor laugh. Instead he found himself standing stock still, just relishing the feeling of standing again.
He stood still; swaying, for some time until his knees stopped shaking and the adrenalin wore off. Suddenly he was aware of how cold it was. It had started snowing again, and tiny flakes gathered on his hair like glitter. He felt cold right through to his bones, but paid it no mind; it didn't hurt. He would stay out a little longer.
A little while later, his resolve began to waver. He couldn't feel his feet, and he was beginning to lose circulation in the tips of his fingers. He turned around, and began to make his way back over to his sedan chair, when his legs decided they had had enough. His right foot slipped out from under him, and he went crashing down onto the ground, right leg folded beneath him.
He swore under his breath and drew his hands into fists on the frozen ground. He was stuck, and he knew it. There was no way he could muster the strength to lift himself up and into his chair; he couldn't do it alone. There was a chance of dragging himself back to the house, but the garden was long, and covered in snow. He would freeze to death before he got there. His final hope was that someone would come and find him, but who would that be? Only America would bother to come and find out why he wasn't answering his telephone, and the younger nation was busy.
He was going to freeze to death in his own back garden, only a few hundred metres from his home. That thought made him want to cry and laugh, at the same time.
He wrapped his arms about his chest and shivered, the cold of the snow was seeping through his trouser leg and bit at his flesh. Tugging one of his gloves off, he found to his horror, that the skin on his right hand was icy blue, and he was unable to flex his fingers.
Now he wanted to cry. A few tears escaped from underneath his eyelids, but froze the second they made contact with the outside air. He shoved the frozen hand into his armpit, wincing as the icy digits made contact with the heated skin of his shoulders and chest. His breath fogged around him and his chest began to ache. Shivers wracked his body and made his teeth chatter and his head ache.
How long had he been stranded out here?
It felt like hours
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
The snow was falling thicker than ever, and England soon found little piles of it, settling in the folds of his cloths. Angrily, he tried to wipe them away, but the more he swept off, the more it was replaced with. The already grey sky darkened, and the air grew colder still.
England's heart beat frantically in his chest; he didn't want to die alone out here.
His breath came in heaving gasps as he clutched his arms to his chest and fell forwards into the snow. The cold hit him like a smack in the face. His cheek numbed immediately, and that only made him more panicked. He writhed in the snow for a few minutes, half-delirious with fright.
Presently, his breaths slowed and he lay still, watching as the snow piled higher and higher around him. His vision misted, and all he could see was a vast expanse of white, with a large, dark smudge that was his house.
He thought he vaguely heard a voice calling his name, felt hands on his face before he slipped into unconsciousness.