A/N: This was a pain to write, and hopefully, it isn't painful to read. It's slow and a bit boring, but if you have any suggestions, I will happily receive them. This wasn't edited, so I apologize for any grammatical mistakes. I don't own Hetalia
Chapter Two
Matthew's garden was an impressive sight.
What was once empty land was transformed into a massive jungle. The four foot wooden fence was hidden by grape vines; every foot there was an added post to the fence to extend the grapes higher into the sky. Those tall vines produced the sweetest fruit that exploded in the mouth, flooding the taste buds and sending them to a gustatory ecstasy. Just outside the door to the family's house were other tall plants. Tomatoes and the occasional corn stalk created a living privacy fence from the rest of the garden. Next to the tall crops where there was less sunlight to be gathered were lettuces of different variations. Spread out through the rest of the land were strong potatoes, delicate sweet peas, sweet potatoes, rich and plump strawberries, young pumpkins, squash, and an assortment of other delicacies.
Matthew had been lucky to annually receive soil from one of the largest farms from down south. The soil was very fertile and versatile; crops that normally couldn't grow in the natural soil flourished. Sure, they couldn't grow massive quantities due to the lack of space, but they still managed to sell almost all of their crops for a tidy, albeit little, profit. The only produce they kept for themselves was the cabbage and some of the lettuce (they were overly common in the village, so no one was interested in purchasing them). In the garden's early years, Alfred convinced his brother to save a basket of strawberries for a pie or jam, but as time pressed on, those occasions were becoming few and far between.
It was at the farthest end of the garden where the light of the house couldn't reach that Arthur made his spot. Between rows of blackberries and raspberries was his stool where he spent his time. If he was awake, the chances of him being there were almost one-hundred. All he did was sit there, eyes shut and head down. Occasionally, whenever a neighborhood cat wandered into the garden and approached him, he would pet the creature, but his blank face would remain no matter what.
It was Matthew's job to help his older brother to his spot– not that he minded too much. Normally, just the presence of another person, silent or not, gave him an ounce of comfort. With Alfred, Matthew had to worry about him eating the fruit whenever he had his back turned. With Arthur there, he could work without interruption and without being alone.
"Leave me."
Given the order, Matthew spent the whole day out of his pride and joy; he only checked on his brother from the house, just to ensure he saw the very top of the other man's head. "I understand why he wants to be alone," he said to Amelia. "We're all worried about Alfred, but–" He couldn't finish his thought, because he didn't know how to understand what was going through his brother's head.
Arthur knew it was night. The smells of the morning were different from that of the evening, and it was the same for noon and evening. There were no traces of salt in the wind, only pine trees and moss along with the static musky dirt. The air had cooled as it moved down the mountain as well, making the summer night somewhat bearable. A more obvious hint was the symphony of insect cries filling the otherwise silent air.
He sat on his stool, hunched over. If there was any variation in the music of the night, he would hear it. When he heard someone walking down the dirt road along the fence, he wasn't moved. Several people had walked by already; he imagined they were the wives of hunters, too tired to continue with their worries for the night. A hope sparked within his broken chest when he heard a thump. It was similar to the sound Alfred made when he hopped over the fence in an attempt to sneak back into the house. If he noticed that the thump was much too light and too quiet for Alfred, he ignored it and allowed that small spark to be fanned.
"Alfred, is that you?" he said, calling out into the darkness. He didn't raise his head though, so his voice came out soft and muffled. "Damn it, tell me it's you." His hands clenched his knees, turning his knuckles white. "Alfred?"
"My apologies, ma douce. I'm not your 'Alfred'"
Arthur slumped forward. "Of course you're not. If you're not Alfred, then who the hell are you? Your voice, I don't recognize it," he said. His voice was sharp; however, his throat felt dry and swollen. "You, were you on the hunt with Alfred? Do you know where he is?"
"My name is Francis, and I'm afraid your Alfred has wandered into the den of a monster," was the answer Arthur was given.
His body had been pushed too far past its limits.
Alfred had been injured before while working in the lumber business. Torn tendons or pulled muscles or broken fingers were awful; they could put him out of work for weeks at a time, so each time he was dealt a wound, he had tried to power through it: work slower but for longer, carry only the mid sized logs, have Matthew bandage him up, pray for the best. Any long term damage wasn't to be worried about until it started to effect him. Nothing could stop him. Nothing.
Every pain he had suffered before paled in comparison to what he felt then.
Every single muscle in his body, even ones he wasn't aware existed, begged and screamed for him to stop. His shoulders were slumped down. The weight of his sword increased exponentially as time marched forward. He couldn't hold his head up; the throbbing in his brain was slowly driving him insane. His calves were tightened in a long continuous cramp; the contraction slowed his pace. His feet were heavy. Rocks and twigs had cut them open, staining them a dark red. Had he looked back, he would have seen his footprints tainted the same glorious burgundy; fortunately, or not, for him, he didn't have the energy to take a lonesome glance back.
The river had lost its sandy banks on either side as the river grew in diameter. The yellow sand had been replaced with thick green grass; among the leafy blades, wild flowers rose, exposing their strong colors to the dying sunlight. Small rodents with thick, dark brown flanks fed on the fauna only to flee when Alfred came too close. Birds watched from the pine trees as he passed; all leaf bearing trees had slowly faded out of existence as the altitude grew. Pine cones littered the ground, and other than Alfred, nothing invaded the sanctity of the habitat.
Had he been in better health, he might have taken a moment to appreciate the gentle beauty of the mountain. Instead, his mind was filled with nightmares of demons. They could be anywhere, watching and waiting and wanting. The fire demon was probably still following him; he seemed like the kind of sick bastard that enjoyed chasing down humans and murdering them. "There are others around, too. I just know it," he thought, shuddering. That shudder was followed by a fresh wave of pain and panic.
"It's getting colder." The chilly air stuck to his still-wet clothing, freezing him to his very core. "Soon, I'll be nothing more than an ice cube." The image of Ludwig's brother working came to mind. The albino always had ice in the store, so he could keep the fish fresh. First, he would put a thin layer of the frozen water at the bottom of a box. Next, he placed the fish down. Then, he put a thicker layer of ice on top of the fish. Finally, he began to layer the fish and ice. Fish and ice. Fish and ice...
"If I collapse into the water," he thought, "and slip downstream, Gilbert might pick my body out while he's fishing." He could picture it: his body would be bloated from the water; pieces of his flesh would be gone thanks to curious fish, and– His stomach clenched and tightened, forcing its contents up and out. It had been hours since he had eaten, so only stomach acid came spilling out onto his soaked shirt. His throat and nose burned, and before he was aware of it, tears began to slip from his eyes.
He should have listened to Arthur. How would his family live without him? He was their main source of income. If he wasn't there, their lives would be even more difficult than before. How could he have been so stupid?
Sobs rocked his body, adding to his lugubrious mood. Snot ran down his face, but he did nothing to wipe it away. He couldn't even if he wanted to; his arms, he couldn't move them. "I'm going to die," he thought. "I'm going to die all alone. How did Arthur make it home that night? How did he have the strength to crawl back to the village?"
As his mood continued to plummet, he lost track of his surroundings. Had he been less focused on his own fate, he would have seen the river open. The waters moved out fast and created a large, oval shaped lake. Cliffs rose up around the lake, blocking it off from the rest of the world and creating an inland bay of sorts. The cliffs towered far overhead; they must have been at least ten meters high if not more. The tips of trees could be seen from the ground and nothing more.
It was the sound of gushing water that made Alfred look up. From the top of the cliff, hundreds upon thousand gallons of water rushed. The crystal water flooded the lake, feeding it and thus allowing it to retain its shape. The sun was beginning to set; only a few rays of light struck the waterfall. Those miniscule rays made the water sparkle with the intensity of a galaxy. Light scattered off the moving surface, and as it refracted, rainbows formed in the mist near the bottom.
The waterfall was beautiful. For a moment, Alfred forgot his own misery and impending doom. His breath was sucked out of his lungs as he stood in awe of the power of nature. Then, he collapsed to the ground. His face struck first, followed by the rest of his body. Dirt forced its way into his mouth; it left the feeling of lightness and metal on his tongue. "Tastes like–," he thought, shutting his eyes and sighing, "– like life."
He didn't lose consciousness. He simply laid there. His body began to unravel; his muscles relaxed for the first time in hours, and he doubted he could get up no matter how hard he tried. More sighs of painful content streamed from him as he watched the waterfall's glory. "This is how I die: alone and weak and bloody and hungry. At least I have a nice view," he said to himself. His voice came out muffled, strained, and contorted. Had someone else heard, they would have never of guessed the owner of the quiet sound belong to the loud and joyful Alfred.
The sound of footsteps approaching shattered his morbid peace. Thunk. They were heavy steps and there was little time between each. Thunk. Whatever it was coming to him, it was big and fast. Thunk. Alfred's heart raced against his ribs, his mouth went dry, and his palms began to sweat. No. No. No! "I don't want to be killed, damn it! Not by some demon," he hissed. He reached an unwilling arm out; it shook uncontrollably, but still, he dug his nails into the dirt. With no physical strength left in his body, his adrenaline only allowed him to pull himself a fraction of a meter. Despite the pain, he forced his other arm out to try to get away.
"I'd rather drown than be killed."
In his sorrow and panic, an ounce of pride welled up. Despite it all, Alfred was still a fighter. There was no way in hell he'd allow himself to be vested! With his adrenaline fueled emotions, he pulled himself a full meter. The water was a heart beat away. The spray was caressing his face, welcoming him. He was almost there. Just one more pull. One more!
The footsteps were upon him. With a final loud thump, the carcass of a doe was dropped in front of his outstretched hand. Her back legs were in the lake; however, the current refused to take her. She was fresh; the doe's body still radiated the warmth of a fading life. Her eyes still had yet to cloud over with the white haze of death. She smelled alive, because no typical scent of decay clung to her fur. Her throat was slit. It was a deep cut that went down to the spinal cord; small amounts of thickening blood were still oozing out of the severed arteries and veins.
Alfred looked up into the face of his murderer. It was a strong face that belonged to a man who couldn't have been much older than himself. From the extreme angle from which he saw the man, the man had a larger, overbearing nose. His thin lips were molded into a harsh scowl that was partially hidden by a faded peach scarf. Just barely, Alfred could see his violent amethyst eye that glowed with a harsh and horrid intent down on him. Those hellish orbs told Alfred that he was no man... not that he expected otherwise.
Blood covered the demon's shoulders and hands. In one hand, he held a long straight knife. The blade had been wiped clean on the sleeve of the opposite hand, but red still speckled the hilt. The blade seemed to shine, and it captured Alfred's full attention. He waited to see it coming down to separate him into tiny pieces. Oh hell, he could just picture it. If only he could fight back. If only he could get to the water.
His fighting spirit was subdued. His chest clenched. He clamped his eyes shut and waited to take Death's hand.
The swift and pain filled death didn't come. Instead, a light pain stung his shoulders as a gentle touch met him. He felt himself being lifted from the ground. The demon cradled his head; his opposite arm stabilized his legs at the knee, so Alfred was being carried like a new bride. He dared to open his eyes. His face was being nuzzled into the demon's scarf. A deep inhale told of pine trees, crisp water, smoke, herbs, and just faintly of blood. Other than the blood, it wasn't exactly an unpleasant smell. It was almost comforting in a way– it was the scent of nature itself: Wild and dangerous but wonderful.
They were following the edge of the lake, walking toward the waterfall. As they grew closer, Alfred noticed the cavern behind the waterfall. The opening was five meters high and around six meters wide. Its edges were smoothed by the running water, and its blue-gray rocks were polished enough to shine. The cave went back farther than Alfred could see. Despite that fact that the cave was pitch black, the demon pressed on without any concern for direction. They continued for another few nerve-wrecking minutes in silence before a pale blue light emerged in the horizon.
The lights came from crystals. While they all seemed to lack color, they ranged in size from that of a pebble to a bolder. Some appeared to be suspended in the air while others were cemented into the wall where they could continue to massive sizes. More and more appeared until the cave split into two different paths. The demon followed the path on the left.
At the end was a hollowed out space large enough to hold a small village. Half of the space was filled with random items: buckets, tanning racks, assorted pots and pans, a stack of matches both used and new, a pile of dyed coats, dried plants, pieces of scrap cloth, fish bones, other unidentifiable bones, pelts, wicker baskets, wooden spoons, worn out shoes, more dried plants, and wooden trunks. There were many different blankets scattered throughout the space; some were made of animal hide while fewer were made of cloth. There was a section that looked to be a bed– it was a large placement of hay and several different blankets (granted, the hay was in need of changing). Most of the dozen trunks were shut, and presumed to be filled, but a few were open and still fewer empty.
The demon carried Alfred over the makeshift bed and set him down. All he could feel was the swaddling of the blankets instead of the rough scratching of the aging hay. The comfort assaulted him, tempting him with the promise of a sweet rest, but the demon was still there, moving about and watching him. The demon moved with deliberate steps, none of which seemed misplaced or excessive. It moved around the cavern, picking up a lone pot and filling it with an assortment of dried plants and herbs.
When the pot was spilling over with browns and greens, the demon left down the path it came.
Alfred watched after, uncertain if it was safe to sleep. "What's the point?" he croaked. His voice was rough and altered even more than before; it only displayed his pain in all its dark glory. "I'm going to die. One way or another, I am going to die. That thing isn't going to help me. It's going to eat me, just like that fire demon would have. Hell, they're probably buddies and are going to take turns. 'Oh, would you like the arm?' 'No, no, but I will take the eye if you wouldn't mind.'" He snorted a short laugh and rolled onto his side.
The demon returned a few minutes later with the doe and the plants. It placed her next to a large black pot and began to skin her. With its practiced movements, it had the skins set aside and meat separated within twenty minutes. There was little muscle left on the pristine white bones, and the organ meats were placed in separate piles from the others. With its knife, it chopped the liver into small bits and tossed the cubes into the pot. With the liver it added some of the thigh meat, the plants it had gathered, whole potatoes, and hardy cabbage. It left again and came back with water which it dumped into the pot.
Alfred watched as the demon lighted a fire and suspended the pot above the fire and stepped away from it so it could simmer. The demon left then, taking the rest of the doe meat and organs with it. "Now what?" Alfred wondered, nuzzling into the blankets. The cavern was comfortable; the temperature might have been a bit nippy– his wet clothes still didn't help– but the blankets slowly sucked out any cold and replaced it with a lovely warmth. That warmth grew and grew until it enveloped Alfred completely and dulled his pain just enough to lull him into a peaceful sleep.
The succulent aroma of stew rose him from his slumber. The strongest scent was that of rich mint; its sweetness lingered in the air and clung to everything it could. Just under the mint were softer tones of something a bit more dangerous. He couldn't put his finger on what the herb was, but it had a sharper smell to it. He imagined it carried enough heat to counteract the sweetness of the mint. Mixed in with the two herbs were the typical hints of roasted meat, soggy cabbage, and earthy potatoes. Overall, it smelled like heaven.
Alfred drooled but refused to open his eyes. It wasn't often they could afford meat. Was there a special occasion? Matthew and his birthday wasn't until mid-autumn, so that couldn't be it. Amelia was born in winter, and Arthur's was in early spring, too. Perhaps, the garden made more money than they were expecting. No, that wasn't right. The last he remembered was Matthew complaining that they might not be able to cover the cost of seeds next season. He'd never let extra money go to waste on such luxuries. What was happening? More importantly, why did everything on him hurt?
No matter how badly he didn't want to, he pried his eyes open. They were met with the pale blue light of the demon's lair. The previous day's horrors flooded back to him in an instant. Every nick and cut, every word, every fireball, every step came back and reopened his mind and body to the pain and fear. His body was filleted and bruised. His cheek was swollen, and the skin was peeling from the burn that would certainly leave a scar. His muscles refused to move. His tongue felt heavy and dead in his mouth. His throat burned. His stomach roared for sustenance, his mind begged for more rest, and his body cried for an end to the misery he felt.
A sob gurgled out of his throat.
"At least," thought he, "I'm clean." He frozen as he realized the truth behind the idea. His body was stripped down to nothing but flesh. His wounds had been washed out; next to the bed were two pots. Both were filled with water, but while one was full of pure water, the other was tainted brown with blood soaked cloths. Even his hair had been cleansed; it smelled of lavender instead of dirt and sweat. "What the hell happened to me?" His head he turned to the side, out toward the rest of the opening.
The demon was crouched down by the pot, stirring its contents with a long wooden ladle. It had removed its stained coat from earlier. The peach scarf remained in its place around the neck. Now, it wore a brown shirt that fit oddly against its large body. The shirt was too tight in the chest and shoulders, at some points the seams seemed to be torn, and the long sleeves weren't long enough. They stopped just below the elbows. Its pants fit a little better than its top, but it was still awkward and not quite right.
It looked up from the stew, and for a moment, their eyes met. Alfred was the one who broke the gaze; he quickly slammed his eyelids shut, praying the demon didn't come near him. His prayers fell on deaf ears, because the demon moved to his side within seconds. "This is it. The moment of truth," Alfred thought, and slowly, he looked at the demon.
"You are awake, now?" the demon asked. "You slept for a very long time." It had a soft voice; there seemed to be no trace of malice or anger within its gentle tones. There was a childish aspect to it as well, as if a monster could be innocent. It pulled down the scarf from his mouth, revealing a small, naive smile. "I do not get many guest, and you are badly injured– Oh! You are hungry."
The demon walked as calmly as ever to the stew. He filled two wooden bowls full and, along with spoons, brought them back to Alfred's side. "Can you sit up?" It didn't wait for an answer though. It set the bowls aside and ran a hand under Alfred's back. With no effort at all, it pushed Alfred up so his torso was vertical. With its other hand, it bundled up the blankets high enough to support him in the new position with ease.
Alfred's arms were immobile. He could twitch his fingers and raise his wrist a fraction of an inch, but there was no physical way for him to feed himself. He knew this; however, the fact didn't keep him from flinching as the demon offered a spoonful of stew. The spoon was two inches from his face. All he had to was make the small lean forward to meet it. "I am not," he thought all while scowling, "being fed by a damned demon."
The spoon was pulled back. The demon's smile faltered. "You are not alright?" it asked. The concern in its voice sounded genuine, but it probably was just acting. It was waiting for Alfred to lower his guards completely, so it could take over his body, use him as a meat puppet, and take over the village.
It looked down and raised its scarf up, so the soft material touched its nose. A light pink flooded the demon's pale face. "My apologies. I am not," it said, softly, "the best at taking care of another person's wounds. The plants this high do not have the highest quality for healing." The way it stumbled over its words, as if it wasn't sure it was correctly saying what it wanted to get across, caused confusion seep deeper into Alfred's conscience. The fire demon hadn't had such an issue with communication; how was this one so much more different? A moment of an awkward silence passed before the demon held the spoon back up, saying, "please, eat."
Alfred's stomach let out a loud, gnawing roar as a fresh waft of stew scents invaded his olfactory bulbs. Drool dribbled from his lips as he stared at the spoonful of Nirvana. Pride and fear and pain be damned, he leaned his body forward and inhaled the stew with a single gulp. He barely tasted the warmth as it shot down his throat, leaving behind a comforting burning in its wake. That heat nestled in his gut and erupted his hunger to the fullest extent. The next ten minutes was filled with nothing but stuffing his face without care for anything else in the world.
The demon only began eating its share when Alfred began to slow down and actually chew; however, it ate mindlessly. Watching the other man's motions was much more focus worthy. Each of Alfred's movements form the way his throat moved to how his eyes would constantly cast over the cavern was being burned into the demon's mind. It placed its bowl aside and leaned closer to Alfred, once again offering a childish but shy smile.
"What's your plan?" Alfred asked without thinking. His voice came out sharp and laced with a bitter poison. He ignored the way the demon's smile shattered to pieces and continued, "why are you feeding me? Wouldn't it be easier to kill me when I'm weak, or do you just want to fatten me up, so I'm more of a meal?"
The demon blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. "I do not understand," it finally said.
"Bullshit, you don't. You're a demon. I'm a human. Why the hell would you ever help me?"
Again, it went through a blinking cycle. Alfred could see the monster thinking, but he couldn't see what there was to think about. "I do not," it said, frowning, "follow your reasoning. It does not matter. You were facing peril, and I saved you as I would any other person– human or demon."
The face Alfred wore was disbelief at its finest. "There's no way," he thought, shaking his head to himself. "How could this guy not know? There is absolutely no way." But... the demon's face was sincere, and in a way, it reminded him a bit of Matthew's worried expression. He cleared his throat. "You really don't know about what's happening down the mountain?" he asked.
"No," it answered. "I rarely go down slope; all I need to survive is around me or a bit higher. It is even rarer that I receive a visitor. Once a year, a group of men from far North come a trade. They do not stay longer than a night to gather their bearings, and themselves, they do not pay attention to the politics of world as they travel. Other than them, there is no one. No one but you, now."
"Amazing." The word slipped out of Alfred's throat. All of the horrors, all of the blood shed, everything did not exist in the demon's world. It would never know what Hell lurked half a day away, waiting with bared teeth and swords. It wouldn't suffer the loss of a family member; it didn't have to fear not being able to afford its meek way of life. "We're only a few miles away, but it's a world apart."
The demon looked down at its hands. "I do not understand," it admitted.
Alfred out a light, musical laugh. "You don't have to. In fact, it's better if you don't."
Pink took over the demon's ears, threatening to paint a blush over its face, and again, it hid its embarrassment with the scarf. It glanced up at Alfred, met his eyes for a moment, and looked down. It clenched its hands into fists, and it gritted its teeth. "M-my name is Ivan," it said.
Alfred went over the demon in full detail. He drank in everything he could, and somehow, he could not picture the demon as the monster he had visioned by the lake. There was nothing harsh about it; its nose was not overbearing. No scowl could graced its thin lips. Its bright amethyst eyes glowed with a strange, comforting warmth in the dim lighting. All he could see was a handsome yet under-socialized young man cut off from the rest of the world in some type of winter hideaway.
He should have been fighting the demon. He should have been trying to escape. Eating the demon's food, sleeping in its bed, and accepting its kindness was turning his back on everything he knew. "If I do anymore than this," he thought, "is there any turning back?" He couldn't tell the demon anything. Any tidbit of information could be used against his people– against his family. "I shouldn't tell it anything. Not even my name."
If Arthur could see him at that moment, viewing a demon as anything other than a beast deserving of a horrid demise, he would have beaten the holy hell out of him. Even worse, Arthur would shun him. He'd make Alfred's life miserable, so that he wouldn't go a day without regretting every second he spent not trying to end the demon's life. If the village found out, he'd be chased away or jailed for being a traitor. Communicating with a demon wasn't natural. Interacting with one was supposed to be impossible. They weren't supposed to be able to think beyond their homicidal urges. They weren't supposed to look at Alfred with those damn beautiful eyes.
"I'm Alfred."
A/N #2: Ivan is very innocent in this story, and it's a take on him that isn't often shown (usually he's domineering and frightening before anything else). Arthur and Alfred are both fairly weak characters (thus far) that are struggling to find their true selves, hence why they have mood swings like crazy. For some reason, I feel like I have to justify this fact :/