Hey everyone, I'm back! I can't believe how many people have read/ followed/ favorited my story already. I would like to give a special thank you to Ryuuchi Seijuro and RahrzMohnster for commenting, I enjoyed receiving input from both of you, it meant a lot. Anyways, I should probably stop ranting so that you can read the actual story, right? Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I still do not own Hetalia or any of its characters... I do have a cat though, I own my cat.
Chapter 2- Empty Glove
As the cloud grew and enveloped him, England snapped his mouth shut and held his breath, knowing exactly what would happen if he breathed in any of the magical vapor. The other countries were quickly hidden from his view by the thick purple haze, but he could still hear them. A few feet away, America, who had been in the cloud the longest, gasped and choked and England heard a soft thud as his brother fell to the floor. Elsewhere in the room, England heard Switzerland bellowing for Liechtenstein, quickly followed by the firing of a shotgun. To his left, France laughed, but was quickly silenced by the metallic clang of Hungary's frying pan.
England's lungs screamed for air and he began to feel dizzy. He stumbled towards the door, hoping in vain that he could escape before his air ran out. What had he been thinking? How could he have been so stupid, letting his anger overcome him like that? England gasped, sucking in a deep, labored breath. Instantly the smoke filled his lungs and he became overwhelmed with fear. Collapsing to the ground, he closed his eyes, knowing that it was too late now to prevent the inevitable.
The cloud grew thicker around him, weighing on him like a stifling blanket; he began to slip into unconsciousness and-
England stood in the middle of a dry, dusty wasteland; before him, the deserted plain seemed to stretch on forever until it met with the crimson colored sky. It was hot, unbearably hot. England glanced around anxiously, vaguely remembering that he had been angry about something… why? The memory danced at the edge of his consciousness and the more he tried to remember it, the harder it was to do just that. Something deep in England's mind told him that this specific memory was important somehow and it frustrated him to no end that he could not remember it. England licked his dry, chapped lips, pondering the elusive memory.
"ENGLAND!" America's terrified scream tore England from his thoughts. He turned forgetting the strange memory and was startled to find that the wasteland dropped off into a cliff, a few feet away.
Cautiously, he approached the edge and peered over. America clung to the side of the cliff, fear written on his face. To either side of him, other nations also held on to the rock face desperately. Hundreds of feet below them, a river of lava gushed; its heat was agonizing, even from this distance.
"Iggy, please!" His brother pleaded, gazing up at him.
Italy screamed as rock beneath his fingers crumbled away and he plummeted towards the river below, Germany shouting his name as he fell. Suddenly filled with panic, England dropped to all fours, braced himself against the edge and reached out for his little brother. Hope filled America's eyes as he reached for his brother's hand.
To America's right, China lost his grip because the long fabric of his sleeves had hindered him from getting a good hold on the rock, and he was quickly followed France. England ignored both of their screams as he reached for his brother, his hand just a few inches short of its goal.
"Just… a little… farther…" England said between clenched teeth, trying to reach a little more, even though his arm already felt ready to rip out of its socket.
The look in America's eyes changed from one of hope to one of panic as the rock under his fingers began to crumble away. England roared with a final surge of effort, and grabbed his brother's hand, just as the rock fell away and America's other hand lost its grip. America dangled helplessly over the river of fire, one hand clutching England's, the other scrambling uselessly at the rock face. Gritting his teeth, England began to pull the other nation up.
"You need to go… on a bloody diet!" England muttered, digging his heels into the ground for more leverage.
America smiled weakly up at him, "I'll start drinking diet sodas, just for you." He said, poorly hiding the fear in his trembling voice.
As he pulled, England began to feel America's hand slipping and he franticly tried to adjust his grip. But the action was pointless, America slipped from his hand, leaving England holding nothing but an empty leather glove.
"NO!" He screamed, rushing to the edge of the cliff, watching his little brother fall to his death.
"You can't help him anymore!" Germany cried, now the only country left clinging to the side of the cliff, "save me!"
England ignored the German; he had eyes only for his brother, poor, sweet, little America. He wished he could turn away, he didn't want to watch this, but he found himself unable to look away. The nation's decent was soon broken by the river below and, even from as far away as he was, England could still hear his little brother's dying screams.
Scrambling backwards, away from the edge of the cliff, England sobbed. He pulled his knees up to his chest, buried his face in his hands and wept. He wept for all the times he had yelled at America and berated him, when he should have encouraged him and guided him. He wept for the days when he had held on to his brother too tightly, succeeding only in pushing the rebellious colony away. He wept for all the times he had failed his little brother, for all the things he had done wrong, all the things that he hadn't done right. He had failed. And for this reason, England wept.
And that's it! See you next time. I promise to keep working on the next chapter, but it probably won't be finished as quickly as this one was. This week is going to be pretty busy and the weekend will be too. But I will keep working, so don't hate me if the next chapter isn't out in a week.
