Rivers are fucking BEASTS.

Warning: Angst, weapons, a dangerous situation, and (unfortunately) a character death.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

Breadth

"Oh my God."

Arthur, Kiku, and Gilbert ran the last few yards to the edge of the rushing river, Yao greeting them by running up and wrapping his arms around Kiku.

"You are so stupid, yīnghuā, you do not even have a gun!" he ranted.

"What the fuck's going on?" Gilbert demanded, watching his brother fight his way against the current of the river.

Yao let go of Kiku, who was red-faced with embarrassment, and turned to them. He told them everything that Ludwig told them all to do, and they were left staring and speechless.

"Are you mad?" Arthur snapped in disbelief. "You're all mental, I swear. But if that's what we're going to have to be to live then, goddammit, I will be bloody out of my head." And he shrugged off his pack.

It took them a bit longer than had the others before them to get everything ready. When he was finished, Arthur looked back and saw Ivan and Alfred still running toward them, and as much as he wanted to wait for Alfred—mostly so he could wring his neck for going back—it would not do to leave Gilbert without a partner, no matter how irksome the Prussian was to handle.

So everyone took their packs, and Yao and Kiku led the way.

When it was Arthur's turn to get into the water, his legs seemed to lock up in protest merely at the feel of the icy spray in his face. But with a nudge from Gilbert—well, more of a shove—he was sent stumbling into the river.

The water was like a million needles stabbing into his flesh over and over. The cold knocked the breath out of him as well as a large wave as it crashed into his chest, covering his face with the freezing water.

He was so shocked about everything that he had forgotten about Gilbert. When he finally gathered his senses he had mind to look around for him and saw him bobbing just a foot or so away. The Prussian gave him a nod to tell him he was all right, though he looked, if possible, even paler than his usual self.

Arthur then began his fight through the current. He had to cut straight through, which meant he would have to endure the torrent rushing down directly. He was not even a quarter of the way across when a wave crashed over him, soaking him to the bone. He spluttered and held onto his pack for dear life, but he could not keep himself from being plunged under the paralyzing water over and over again. With every wave he was pushed underwater.

Ahead of him, Ludwig was practically dragging Feliciano through the water, as the Italian seemed to have locked up in shock. Ludwig was shouting at him to move his legs, to do anything to help his struggle, but Feliciano was so cold and scared that he could do nothing but hold onto Ludwig and his pack, though that just may be from his fingers being frozen around them.

Yao and Kiku were both fighting the current with determination, but it was clear that they were struggling. Every now and then, Kiku, being the smallest of all of them, was nearly swept away by a wave and more than once was completely bowled over. But every time he disappeared, he reappeared again, paddling away stronger than before. Resilient as he was, however, Arthur still feared for him.

Arthur was a third of the way across before he began to shiver uncontrollably and his limbs stiffened. He longed to curl up into a ball and give up, just let the river take him where it willed, but he refused to stop. Alfred was behind him, and he didn't want him to see his brother swept away.

So he went on, though, he was weakening considerably. He didn't realize how much fatigue was claiming him until he was pushed under again and, this time, was unable to find the surface for some time.

When he finally did pop up, he opened his mouth to suck in air—only to get a mouthful of water and be pushed under again. He tumbled a few times over, knocking his leg on a rock, the pain screaming through every part of his body. Then he finally clawed his way back up and emerged, coughing and choking. He only managed to get a little air, though, before another wave stole over him and he went down.

Why had he ever consented to this? Where was Gilbert? Had he left him? He should have known he wouldn't make it across—

He couldn't swim.

Even though he'd known it for all his life, just the thought at this point in time was enough for him to go into a panic. He had braved bullets and blades and storms and demons and wars. To hell with drowning.

But try as he might, he couldn't find his way. It was night, and the water was so dark despite the moonlight slicing through it—but there was so much tumult and he was turned around so many times, that he scarcely knew if he had been carried a mile downriver.

It was just like his dream—the one that Agramon had forced upon him—about falling off the cliffs of Dover. He had plunged into the icy water and his dead first mate had tried to pull him down further. No moment had ever been greater that he felt those ghost fingers curling around his ankle since the dream than right now.

And indeed he could feel them pulling him down. His burned hands were no longer blazing with heat, but were numb, and he could feel his limbs starting to go numb as well. Soon he would be akin to a spider that had died, its limbs all shriveled inward. As much as the thought frightened him, he realized that he could no longer move his limbs, and then that he could no longer breathe.

And then he was being pulled by the ghosts of his past down into the depths in which he was supposed to have died long before.

Oaths are nothing, he thought as he was carried away. Humanity is too corrupt to take oaths.

It always is.

By the time they reached the river, the hounds were barely fifty yards away and closing fast. Alfred dropped his pack, heart racing, lungs aching, looking at Ivan in shock.

"This is so fucking crazy."

Ivan snatched up his wrist and tugged him toward the water. "No it isn't. Not if it means that we live."

Ivan's heart was already pounding (actually moving of its own accord like it hadn't in years), but it practically leapt into his throat when Alfred stopped and he couldn't get him to move. He wanted to scream at him, to pick him up and toss the idiot into the water for all his stubbornness.

"Wait," Alfred told him worriedly. "Our packs. They're not waterproof."

Ivan gave a disbelieving snort. "You are more important than your pack. Who cares?" But Ivan wasn't about to wait for a reply. "Now get the hell in the water!" And he practically swung Alfred in, the American stumbling and falling face-first into the current, but the water buoyed him. He was sopping wet and none too happy about being tossed into an icy river, but Ivan could care less about that now. At least he was safe.

The water hit him like a solid wall of ice. For a moment, he felt paralyzed, frozen. He had never felt anything so cold before in his life, he was sure. And then his limbs unlocked and he was able to swim, however much he wanted to crawl back out of the water. He was reminded of Ivan and he looked behind, seeing the Russian plunge into the river, holding onto his pack as the current moved his large body every which way as if he was no more than a leaf on the wind.

As turbulent as the river was, however, Alfred wasn't worried about swimming; he was very good at that, better than most. But what he was worried about was freezing to death. From the shore, the river looked to be no farther across than sixty yards, but in the water the opposite bank seemed miles away. Waves were pouring down from further up the river, crashing over his head and plunging him under for a few breathtaking seconds and dousing him with a new sheet of pure chill. But despite how much he was tossed around, he managed to keep his course well enough, determined to make it across (because, really, how lame would it be to let a river kill him compared to everything else he'd faced?), his pack leading the way, bobbing in waters lit to glowing by the ghostly half moon.

The frigid water did not bother Ivan and neither did the force of it against him. It as Alfred that worried him most, and every time a wave washed over him and he disappeared from the surface, his heart would stop. But there was one thing the water didn't numb, and that was the screaming pain in his side. His bullet wound was being flooded with icy water, and it stung like all hell. Every stroke, every time he stretched the muscles around the injury, it throbbed like a knife to the side.

Alfred came up for air again, trying his best to ignore the cold, but how could you ignore something that seized every nerve in your body and made them flip the fuck out? Alfred tried to focus on the far shore, giving himself encouragement, telling himself that it would only be a little longer until he reached it, that he was getting closer with every stroke.

And then his eyes found other bodies bobbing on the waves. He squinted, trying to make out who was who, but just as the moonlight was striking them best, another wave swallowed them and Alfred didn't find them again for a good minute. But, finally, he managed to identify Arthur, the closest to him. That should have made him feel better, but the fact that Arthur was so far behind those he had entered the water with was enough to get Alfred's already rapid pulse absolutely racing. There was something wrong with Arthur, he found, as he continued to study him, determined not to lose sight of him in the roiling swells.

And then he knew: Arthur was drowning. The flailing of Arthur's arms and the way he kept going under was so obvious that Alfred cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. So, bracing, he began to cut a strong line through the current. It had been three times he had almost lost Arthur. One to a bullet. Another to fire. And yet another to a possession. He'd be damned if he was going to lose him this time. A thought crossed his mind just how rotten Arthur's luck seemed to be of late, but he quickly cast it aside. He had more pressing matters to tend to.

You say I'm such a child, Alfred thought as he cut through the water. But you keep getting yourself into shit you can't handle.

Arthur gave up.

He was dying. That was it. Cats had nine lives and it seemed that Arthur had four. This was his last, and, however frustrating it was for him, he had no choice but to accept it. His body had already given up the fight against the current and he let it drag him wherever it bid.

I'm sorry, Arthur said to the faces brought to forefront of his mind. Matthew. Francis. Alfred.

I can't do it.

Then thoughts of Northern Ireland, Wales, and Scotland gripped him. I'm coming. But he knew it was no use. His possession of magic prevented him from ever going to a place so peaceful. He had sold his soul, as Agramon had so kindly reminded him. He was going straight to Hell and would never see his brothers, his lover, or his mother again.

And then he blacked out with that one thought in his head, feeling nothing anymore.

Alfred was a few feet away from Arthur by now and saw his head go down for the last time.

"Artie!" he croaked, his throat raw from swallowing so much frigid water, and he filled his lungs before plunging down after him.

The Briton's body was listless as it tumbled through the water, but Alfred pursued it all the same. If he still had a breath of life in him, Alfred would do anything he could to get him to shore and save him. If he was already gone… well then, a river was no proper grave for the man.

And so he chased after him, never once veering off course for anything. Rocks began appearing on the riverbed, but he didn't bother to avoid those; he let them give him a sound beating as he swept past, and he had no time to care about the bruising. He was so close. That's what he thought every time his hand was within inches of grabbing some part of Arthur when a wave knocked him away. His lungs were aching, seeming to be shriveling up in his chest, but he refused to break the surface to breathe. If he did that, he would lose Arthur and never find him again.

And then Arthur was pushed up against a rock, stuck for a moment, and Alfred reached for him, snatching him up by the arm and fighting his way up. His whole body was feeling weak. The cold didn't matter anymore; he could barely feel it. But air did matter, and he could feel his brain practically shutting down the closer he got to the surface and he couldn't keep a coherent thought in his head.

When he finally did break the surface, he almost forgot to breathe. He immediately gulped down lungfuls of air and bobbed there for a second, helpless to the river's jostling, as he tried to regain control of his body. He pulled Arthur up beside him, pressing him to his side, his head above the water but his eyes closed and his face pale.

He's not breathing, Alfred thought in a panic. Fuck, he's not breathing, he's not breathing.

He couldn't stop to help Arthur, though. He had to make it to the other side of the river, the other side of the river, that was all he could think about.

"I won't let go of you, Artie," Alfred told him, even though he knew the Briton couldn't possibly hear him. But talking to him calmed him a bit, tricking himself into thinking that Arthur could hear him and was alive. "You just hold on now. I'll do the work. You just hold on, okay?"

As Alfred cut across the water, he could hear the baying of the dogs at the shore behind him, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore but getting Arthur to the other side. Alive or dead, he was going to get him there.

Then the men on the shore behind him shouted and began shooting into the water. At first it was behind him, the loud hiiisssspluk of shells tearing through the air and then the water. Alfred forgot to worry about Ivan, forgot to worry about anyone but Arthur. He forgot to the extent that when bullets began sweeping through the water close to his kicking legs and arms, when they began hissing by his head and shoulders, he didn't stop or tense or yelp. He just kept going, because stopping meant death. Arthur's death.

Something broke his focus, though. As the bullets flew over his head and at the others swimming ahead of him, he heard a sharp scream split the air. He knew something was wrong then, and he peered through the dark and the waves until he could see what was going on.

Someone had been hit.

Translations:

yīnghuā-cherryblossom

A Word From the Writer: Holy shit, this whole chapter is just a mindfuck of awesomeness. You know, aside from England drowning and shit. Still, it makes for good reading, no? And I totally didn't plan this whole escape route around the fact that England can't swim. No, definitely not. And did you get the play on words with the title? No? ... Yes?

But... someone else is in trouble. Who go shot? We might just face the possibility of losing two Hetalia boys in one go.

I told you death was coming, didn't I? Didn't I? TT_TT

Btw, I decided to go and write a fic that was actually super fun to write. Who knew putting "England" and "serial killer" in the same sentence would be so entertaining? A post-Halloween fic I just randomly wrote up one day. Because I'm spontaneous like that. Read The Art Collector to tide you over until the next chapter of this. Although it may not give you happy feels after this.