Hello readers! Welcome to my collection of Hetalia themed short story writing practices! Isn't that a mouthful! I won't keep you with this little note (that's why I put it here instead of taking up a chapter (that annoys me sometimes nowadays)). These are writing practices, therefore they aren't the best and they aim to improve my writing. But to do so I need comments! Anything will do! Even a "I like this!" will suffice. Even a "I don't like this because..." or "I really don't like this character" is accepted! Feel free to correct me on anything in each story. I like it when I'm proved wrong about something. Why? Because I love learning! Just remember to be respectful in your commenting. No one likes hurt feelings. I also encourage questions about the writing, where I got my information and suggestions on what to write next. If you do give me ideas, I will mention you in the story practice I write about it! Lastly, most of these will contain horrible titles. If you have a better title, suggest it and receive an imaginary cookie of your choice!
Now the first short story: Brother
Note: Somewhat edited short story exercise (I have edited it but I'm only human). May contain grammatical errors and the like. Contains violence, blood and vampires… and little to no research. Read at your own discretion.
Fog hung low on the ground, casting an eerie feel to the wooded area. It was already a dark day, in every sense of the word. Clouds caused the entire earth for miles to be cast in a shadow, rain already dampening the ground earlier that day and causing that chill in the air. But worst of all, he could still hear the battle raging on, echoing around him. He couldn't even tell if he was even still running away from it. He ran blindly, out of fear and pain. He did not want to die. Especially not on the battlefield.
The young soldier named Alfred F. Jones had barely turned eighteen when he had enlisted. He remembered how proud his father had been and how worried his mother still was. Alfred's father was dead now. He'd been shot off his horse this morning when the fighting began. None of Alfred's friend fared any better. Most of them had been taken out by cannonballs… a sight that would haunt Alfred for the rest of his life, he was sure. It had seemed so glamorous before, just like the games of war he played as a child back home. But he was miles from home and now he doubted he would ever make it back unless he went in a wooden box.
Alfred paused, leaning against a tree. He panted, shivering as he continued to hear the sounds of yelling, screaming, gunshots and cannon fire. With a small sound of pain he lifted the land from his abdomen. Blue eyes continued to tear up as he stared down at the blood coating his hand. Quickly he put his hand back over his wound, hissing as he applied pressure. He didn't think it would do much good anyway. He could feel the effects of blood loss on his body. His actions were slowed, staggering, and he could barely see straight. Which way… was safety again? Alfred couldn't remember as he breathed harder, hyperventilating slightly.
Alfred limped on, wandering almost aimlessly forward. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, making him feel so cold and feel more pain. Just a little bit more, he was sure, and then he'd find his way to help. That field hospital had to be close… surely it was set up yet? He didn't know, didn't care. He just needed something to keep his feet moving.
Alfred silently cursed the south, cursed every last Confederate soldier out there. He should have stayed home with his mother and his young brothers. Sure, he'd have to endure that disappointed look from his father before he'd left, but he wouldn't have gotten shot at home. But the promises of keeping his home and family safe, promises of keeping the nation together that his forefathers had fought so hard for one hundred years earlier… those had encouraged him further to come hundreds of miles from home to learn to march and fight like a soldier.
The air around him was silent, interrupted every so often by a thundering sound in the distance… the cannons so far away. Alfred took another moment to rest. He smiled wearily. Maybe, just maybe he'd live. The thought sent another course of adrenaline through his veins. He'd lost his gun, but that was an acceptable loss in exchange for living.
A twig snapped, sending Alfred's head up. He froze, like a rabbit in the clearing, eyes darting around for the predator. Alfred pressed himself harder against the tree, trying to calm his breathing and to not cry out from his injury, which throbbed even harder. His eyes caught a flash of red, dulled by spots of dirt and years of not washing properly. But it was gone as quickly as it came, leading Alfred to wonder if he was hallucinating instead.
'Calm down, Alfred. Just keep moving. You'll be alright soon.' He thought.
Glancing down at the red staining his hand and blue jacket, Alfred stepped away from the tree. Again a twig snapped but this time silence didn't follow it. Alfred whirled around at the sound of a surprised yell, one full of fear. For a moment, Alfred's eyes locked onto a face as young as his. The other boy's eyes were wide and terrified, wild. Blood splattered that probably wasn't his own splattered his uniform… his grey uniform. Alfred's eyes widened even more as the young man's gun was swiftly raised and shakily aimed. Alfred's hands came up. He wasn't armed! He couldn't shoot him if he wasn't armed!
"W-Wait!"
But he didn't. Alfred heard the deafening shot just barely before he felt it. His breath caught as the bullet, a .58 caliber round, tore into his chest. His arms flailed, trying to catch hold of anything that could stop his fall, but found nothing to grab onto. He hit the ground hard, landing on his back. Instantly he coughed, lungs filling with blood. If the first wound had been painful, this was even more excruciating.
Alfred couldn't tell if the young man was still there, however he guessed that he had run away as there wasn't a third bullet being put into his body. Blood bubbled past his lips, warmer than he felt. His blue eyes rolled heavenward. Please God, he prayed, don't let me die now. Alfred wasn't ready. He was far too afraid to die. But worst of all, he didn't want to die here. Not on the cold wet ground, alone.
Alfred tried to roll onto his front, legs and arms working to crawl on the ground. He hurt and he was afraid. He kept praying as he coughed, splattering the muddy ground with his blood. He couldn't give up, not now. Tears streamed down his face, his emotions further suffocating him.
Somewhere, he was too confused to tell where, he heard footsteps. Blindly he crawled in their general direction, hoping and praying that it was a friendly face. Someone who could help him, save him. Alfred's arms and legs gave out, making him lay on the ground. He struggled to get air into his lungs, only causing panicked gags and coughs to come out instead.
Someone crouched down in front of him, but all he could see were scuffled boots. He heard a sound suspiciously like "tsk", like an adult chastising a child when they'd hurt themselves doing something very stupid. Alfred tried to lift his head, only just barely managing to lift it a few inches. His blurred vision caught greyed pants and a dark red and black uniform jacket he'd never seen before. Gold buttons were tarnished on the front and on the black cuffs. Alfred could barely make out messy blond hair. But what frightened Alfred were the man's eyes. They were bright red.
"What a shame… a lad as young as you dying this way. War is… such a terrible thing." The man said, large brows rising as he gave Alfred a look of pity.
The accent sounded foreign and Alfred couldn't place it. He'd never met someone with a British accent before. Before the war, Alfred had never even ventured from the area surrounding his home in the Midwest. He'd never even been out of his state before. A pale hand reached forward and began gently smoothing out Alfred's blond hair, as if comforting a younger brother who'd only had a nightmare. The hand was ice cold, the feeling easily seeping through his hair and into his skin. The pitying look changed to curiosity as the man watched Alfred's lips move, trying to speak but only managing choked sounds.
"P…please…h…h…help m…me…" Alfred tried to say, despite his fear.
The man gently turned Alfred onto his back, resting his torso against his legs and torso. One hand caressed the side of Alfred's face in a comforting manner as the other ventured to his wounds. Never once did he touch Alfred's wounds, choosing to jerk his hand back just short of the blood as if it would burn him.
"Oh… these are quite bad…" he said.
Fatal. Alfred could just barely hear the words yet he knew what he was meaning. Alfred was going to die. There was nothing he could do about it. The stranger chuckled humorlessly.
"What a mess I've gotten myself into. I came here looking for a meal and instead I find a lost boy. I must be going soft." The man said closing his eyes.
Alfred let out a series of gasps as breathing became harder and harder. The man's hands came to Alfred's shoulders as his eyes opened again.
"Shhhh, shhhh. It's alright, lad. It will be over soon. Let your elder brother help you." He said, reaching a hand to unbutton the blue Jacket.
The man unbuttoned each button quickly until Alfred's neck was exposed. His red eyes stared down at the younger man's neck, fingertips gently brushing against the skin, feeling the weak and erratic heartbeat beneath. He let out a shaky breath as he felt his self-control wane a little. He shifted the limp body into his arms as he leaned over him.
"Elder brother will fix this, make it go away. You'll be right in just a moment. Hang on just a little more." He said softly, after swallowing hard.
Suddenly the man opened his mouth, revealing long sharp fangs no human being should have had. He bit into Alfred's neck, making him open his mouth to cry in pain but not having enough breath to make a sound. Alfred felt weaker and weaker as more blood left his body. Darkness began to creep around the edges of his vision and he felt his grasp on reality start to slip away faster and faster. Then all at once, the man released his neck. He came back up, breathing hard, a small stream of blood… Alfred's blood, dripping from the corner of his mouth. The man wiped it away before hastily pushing his sleeve up.
There was urgency now in his movements and no hesitation anymore. He bit into his wrist, tearing at his flesh until his own cold and dead blood dripped down his forearm. Shifting his hold on Alfred again, he held up almost upright and brought his bleeding wrist to his mouth. Alfred was too far gone to struggle let alone even notice the ghastly sight. The man allowed his blood to drip into Alfred's mouth. He growled as it just sat there, Alfred not having the strength or the awareness to swallow as he wanted him to. He tore his wrist away from the unresponsive man's mouth and began messaging his throat with his hand, urging him to swallow. Finally Alfred did, though choking slightly. The man stopped, satisfied that the majority of it had been swallowed.
The man wiped Alfred's mouth with his sleeve, ignoring his own bleeding wrist which had slowed considerably. Then he gathered him in his arms and held him closely, humming an old lullaby, again treating Alfred gently as if he were family. He might have well have been after this. He brushed his fingers through the younger man's hair as he began to shake, coughing more violently as the blood began to affect his body. Alfred's hands suddenly grabbed hold of one of the man's arms, gripping it like a lifeline as his heart began to struggle.
Alfred let out a choked scream, kicking out his feet in an attempt to ward off the sudden influx in pain. His whole body felt as though he was being burned alive and torn apart, all at the same time. Breathing hurt, even though it was starting to become less difficult. He could feel his teeth growing into fangs, just like the man's had been. His eyes snapped open, red rapidly engulfing blue. He continued to writhe for a bit more before he stilled. He sucked in unneeded breath as the man holding him whispered comforting words Alfred couldn't understand. His throat felt dry, burning even, and his stomach felt so hallow, as if he hadn't eaten in days. But at least he couldn't feel the cold anymore. He couldn't even feel the icy fingers brushing through his hair.
"W…w…who…? W…wh…wha…what d…did… you…?"
The man continued to hold the younger man, though a fond smile was now on his face.
"I'm your elder brother, don't you remember, Alfred? I'm Arthur." He said gently.
Alfred let out a shaky breath. No… he didn't remember… he couldn't remember anything. What was he doing here? Arthur… his elder brother… that seemed familiar. It must have been true.
"You were hurt, so I helped you. But enough about that. It's in the past; you don't need to think about that pain anymore." Arthur said.
Alfred nodded and then winced as his throat throbbed. He sat up, Arthur reluctantly releasing him. He rubbed his throat, wincing more.
"What's wrong, lad?" Arthur said, though the glint in his eyes told he knew exactly what was ailing the younger.
Arthur was much older than Alfred, much older. He had almost a hundred years of experience. His turning was quite similar to the younger man's. He too had been injured in a battle. Though back then he remembered a lot more about what the war had been about. Now he didn't seem to remember… or he didn't care. It didn't matter if his original side had lost the war, granting the new nation independence. All that mattered to him now was survival… ah, his survival and now the survival of the boy he'd just turned away from humanity.
"I-I'm thirsty, brother. Wh-Why?" Alfred said.
Alfred eyed the blood covering his hands hungrily. Arthur stood and held out his hand to Alfred. Alfred took it and stood.
"Come on. You need to feed; you've been through a lot and need blood now. Let's go find something for you to eat. There are plenty of wounded at the battlefield, no one will notice once it's dark." Arthur cooed.
Alfred nodded, the idea making sense in his newly altered mind. He followed Arthur as he ran toward the sounds of the battle still going on, yet starting to wane. He didn't remember that it wasn't long ago that he was fleeing that very battle. He trusted Arthur, completely, and his thirst couldn't be ignored.
