Author's Note This is a re-upload from my previous account. The previous Author's note ran thus: Hello everyone, I'm back with a new Hetalia story. I'm expecting it to be multi-chaptered, and will essentially be my first ever multi-chaptered story! In the past I've only ever taken to writing ridiculous one-shots, but this time I've gone on full 'novelist' mode. I'll be including a whole bunch of other APH characters too. Let's see where this plot goes. Enjoy!
Disclaimer Hetalia does not belong to me.
Verloren
(adj.) orig. German: missing
CHAPTER ONE
égaré
égaré (adj.) orig. French: lost, confused
Germany woke, his eyes blinking rapidly in the faint golden light of the afternoon, which trickled down through the reddish-gold forest canopy several metres above him. He felt some kind of dull pain at the back of his head—he'd been hit by something that had knocked him out.
A different kind of sharp, stinging pain attacked his right leg and left abdomen. He felt a familiar warm liquid oozing out of the painful areas, creating crimson puddles that soaked through his clothes and right through the earth.
This is pretty bad, he thought to himself, but I think I can manage.
He tried to stand, but the stinging pain at the side of his right leg, just above his knee, was excruciating. He yelped and collapsed to the forest floor, crumpling against the dried leaves. He managed to look down and saw that his leg had a rather large bullet hole. It had cut through his flesh and carried on to lodge itself almost at the surface of his femur, missing the bone by mere millimetres. It had torn through and exposed muscle and tissue.
He felt faint and turned away from the sight. He knew it was more than just 'pretty bad'. He couldn't walk in that condition. Gingerly, he backed up against a tree behind him, resting his back against its base. Breathing heavily, he tried to assess his surroundings. There was no-one in sight.
Everything was quiet as the grave.
Almost too quiet.
He tried to guess his current location. Most likely European. The trees were mostly deciduous, with oak, poplar, willow, and birch trees, among others. At the very edge of his vision he could see taller trees that seemed like pines and spruces. They stretched on for what seemed like forever, and the forest canopy shielded most of the sunlight from reaching the forest floor. Judging from the golden-red colour of the leaves, he could tell that it was autumn. The air carried a cold chill, and the western breeze stung his cheeks when it passed. The forest floor was thick with grasses, shrubs and ferns. He could recognise some of them: Dandelions, club moss, nettles. Junipers, lemon grass. Deadly nightshade.
Somehow, this forest exuded an elusive familiarity.
He looked at himself, and found that he was dressed only in a black sleeveless shirt and dark-green cargo trousers that looked like they were issued by the military. Both articles of clothing were tainted with blood. He had no footwear with him. He fished through his trousers' several pockets, looking for something—anything—that could help him relieve the pain.
There was nothing.
He had obviously been looted: no-one would go into a forest in a chilly autumn day without proper footwear and a jacket or coat. It seems like he would've brought along some other supplies, too, but he had nothing with him.
Sighing, he tried to recall any memories that he had before he lay bleeding and unconscious on the forest floor. He didn't know exactly where he was or why he was there. What country was he in? What was he doing here? Was he with someone else? How long had he been unconscious? Was he ambushed by a group of thieves? If he was with someone else, then what happened to them?
What date was it?
He couldn't remember. The back of his head throbbed painfully. He reached for it with his left hand, and it was tender to the touch. His hair was caked in dried blood and soil.
He looked around him again. There weren't any signs of a struggle. There were only his footsteps embedded in the soil and his own puddle of blood 2 metres away from where he currently was.
Blood. He looked down at his right leg again and felt queasy.
Who shot him and why?
He checked the rest of his body for any more injuries. His left abdomen was bleeding with what looked like a superficial wound. His head throbbed madly, and he feared that he had some kind of amnesia.
No, please. Not amnesia. Anything but that.
He attempted to come back to his last memory: He was at home in Berlin, eating breakfast with his brother, sipping coffee and reading from the paper. He could vaguely remember what was on the papers that day. Something about global warming. Something about calamity after calamity battering Asia. His brother kept interrupting him, telling him to eat his breakfast before it got too cold.
And then, a prelude of blinding white light and the sound of shattered glass before complete darkness.
Darkness darkness darkness and then a scream, not from him but from someone beside him.
He couldn't remember anything after that.
Where was his brother?
Where was everyone else?
Dazed, he snapped out of his reverie and realised that he needed to stop his leg from bleeding too much. He took off his shirt and broke a couple of low branches from the tree. With those, he built a makeshift tourniquet around his leg.
He looked at the left side of his abdomen. It had a long slash right through it which bled slowly. It didn't bleed or hurt like the leg wound, but it seemed… newer. It hurt when he tried to turn with his waist.
He knew he was losing a lot of blood. It was actually dizzying. He knew he would pass out soon if he didn't find help and medication.
He shouldn't pass out, not here, or else…
He didn't know what else.
"Help!" He screamed at the top of his lungs. Birds flew away from the trees around him, startled. A shadowy figure of a fox ran away at the furthest edge of what he can see.
But the woods were silent.
"Help!" He screamed again and again until his throat felt raw. He felt hot tears run down his face in his desperation. He screamed aimlessly, and the pain in his head and right leg throbbed in reply. He felt like he was slipping from consciousness once again, like in Berlin, but this time it was much quieter.
"Help..." he managed to croak out once more, his voice breaking, the hot tears streaming down his face.
I'm going to die here, he thought as his vision began to black out. I'm going to die here and I don't even know why I'm here or where I am or—
All of a sudden, something swung upside down from the tree he was leaning against.
"Boo."
Author's note Hope you all liked that. Some of you may actually be able to tell where I set this chapter. Let me tell you: I've never actually been there! All descriptions are based off research from the Internet, and considering I'm horrible at research... eek. It might not be accurate. Still, I tried my very best. Thank god for Google.
Leave reviews and I will be happy to keep going!