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Northern Waters	By : Domina_Ecca Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 1538 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia - Axis Powers and I'm not making profit off of this story.

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Berwald breathed out heavily, adjusting his glasses again. He looked around the room, as if searching, but he knew what he was looking for wasn’t there. Tino was gone. It was that simple. He had been taken away, taken so far away that Berwald had no hope of seeing him again until the war was over…so he really had no hope at all. He knew that. But still, he couldn’t help but imagine that every time he opened the door, Tino would be there. But even now as he grasped his gun and made his way to the door, he knew better. Still, hoping let him feel something.
The tall Swede stepped out of the small house, locking the door carefully behind him, and then turned and embraced the cold. There was something close to comfort to be found in the way the familiar cold snatched away the heat surrounding his body. He liked to be held by the cold instead.
There was no real point in patrolling his small territory so often, but he did it because it helped to take his mind of Tino. That sweet little Fin, whom he had found four months ago out in the Swedish forests, alone. Tino still had never told him how it was that he came to be there, but he doubted if he remembered it entirely anywhere. He had been near death, in the clutches of severe hypothermia. Berwald had taken him home, and when Tino came through, he couldn’t deny how relieved he had been. It was strange, to be relieved over the survival of a stranger, but he felt almost as if he’d known the small, blond man forever.
Berwald was a very solitary person, and had originally intended for Tino to leave immediately after recovering, but, he didn’t push him to. And after a while, he didn’t want him to. Having the smaller man around him made him happy, somehow. And the fact that Tino didn’t want to leave made him happier still. Tino ended up living with him for several months, and in those months, he had come to like, or rather, adore the young Fin. He was quiet, but cute. A little jumpy, and a few times Berwald had scared him to the point of shrieking just by walking up next to him quietly, but he so utterly endearing. It didn’t take Berwald long to realize that he was falling in love.
Then, Tino had gone in to town alone one day and failed to return by nightfall, Berwald had spent the night searching for him. And the next day. And the day after that. In the end, he was forced to just accept that Tino might have simply gone home. The pain made his heart heavy, but nearly a week later, he received a letter.
From Tino.
He told him that he was safe, and not to worry. In scribbled handwriting he said simply that he had to go back home for a bit, though he wasn’t sure how long. The letter said nothing else other else. This had confused him so utterly that he just sat on the floor in the middle of the living room while he tried to take it all in.
It had been two weeks since then, and Berwald was not adjusting well. He didn’t like change, and yet, Tino’s absence was harder to accept than his presence had been. He missed his humming and finger drumming, and the way they would sit together in the living room in the evening with the fire lit. They didn’t talk much, but there was just something about Tino’s presence that he enjoyed. That made him feel different. Lighter, maybe. Without him now, Berwald felt a strange weight on him, and it was a struggle every day just to get out of bed.
He sighed harder and shook his head, trying to think of something else. For a moment, there was nothing else aside from the impossibly smooth snow, the ancient, dark trees, and the impeccably clear sky above. Then, he saw something that made his heart thump out of rhythm.
Footprints.
They moved in a strange zigzag fashion just along the border of the trees before disappearing into them. Berwald clutched his gun closer and adjusted his glasses a bit, and then drew a deep breath and marched forward towards the footprints. The strange tightening sensation across his chest which had once lost its edge was suddenly painful again, despite his efforts to breathe out most of the tension. It had been a long time since anyone had trespassed on his property, and last time it had been Tino.
Reaching the eave of the trees, Berwald’s throat constricted. They weren’t the prints of regular snow boots, and a few steps into the forest, he spotted bright flecks of pink in the snow. He would have lied if he said a part of him didn’t want to turn back, but he wasn’t about to slink off to his house and hide for fear of someone who was probably injured. The footprints slowly grew closer together, and long drag marks could be seen, as well as clues of stumbling. Still, it was quite a ways before Berwald came upon the source of the footprints.
It was a man lying on his side in the light snowfall beneath the trees that had alarmed Berwald so. He slowly lowered his gun, and then cleared his throat loudly. The man didn’t respond. Cautiously, Berwald stepped a bit closer, and nudged him carefully with his foot. Again, nothing. He spotted a gun at the man’s side, and bent down, swiftly removing it. After this was accomplished, he slung his own gun over his shoulder, put the man’s pistol in his pocket, and reached down with both hands, turning him over more onto his back.
He gasped audibly and jerked away.
The unconscious man wore the uniform of a German soldier.
Berwald’s vision intensified, and he noticed every detail seemingly at the same time. He noticed every strand of the man’s fine, blond hair, and the way it appeared to have been meticulously combed back before whatever incident had happened to lead him here. He saw the blood down the front of his uniform, staining the wretched symbol on the front. With a gleam of light as the leaves rustled above, he saw the flash of metal, and noticed the Iron Cross that around his neck. He saw the way his eyebrows were still furrowed, as if he was still aware that he was in pain, and finally, he noticed that his chest rose and fell.
He was alive.
Berwald’s first instinct was to grab his gun and aim it at the man’s head, but, he didn’t. He just stood there, and stared down at him.
When the initial terror passed, he realized that this man was bleeding to death at his feet. He had a decision to make, but had no honestly good options.
He couldn’t just leave him. He knew that already; it simply wasn’t in his power. However, stubbornly he tried to contemplate it. It wouldn’t take him long to turn right around and go back home and lock the door. This man was no threat, and once he died the creatures of the wild would dispose of him.
A sickening bolt of empathy wracked his tall figure as he suddenly imagined the man waking up in the night, alone, cold, and dying. No one would hear if he cried for help. No one would find him. Not until it was too late. Would he notice the footprints that marched along his own? Would he see the way a stranger came, paused, and left, without doing anything? Perhaps he would think that he went for help, and would lie there with a faint bit of hope in his heart, until his heart ceased to beat, and the only ones who came were the wolves.
Berwald coughed a little to stop the horrific thought, switching over to his next option in a hurry. He could shoot the man. It wouldn’t be hard, and it would be quick. He wouldn’t feel the pain, none of it, and no one would know what he’d done. It would be a mercy killing, wouldn’t it? Without missing a beat, his mind responded to him, telling him that his only act of kindness would be that this poor bastard didn’t have to feel himself be torn apart by the merciless jaws of predators, and later, the sharp beaks of scavengers.
Suddenly, the man twitched a bit, and his breathing hitched. Berwald froze harder than ice, every muscle in his body stuck flooded with adrenaline. Yet, that was all he did.
After a bit, Berwald let out his breath with a thick string of curses. Because he knew what he was going to do; he had known it from the beginning.
“Damnit, damnit, damnit,” he ranted, securing his gun on his shoulder, and then reached down and began to gather the man up, admittedly with as much care as he could.
The German grunted, but remained unconscious. Berwald slung him over his large shoulder, holding him with both hands, and began his trek back to his house. The shit he seemed to get himself into…
It was getting dark when he unlocked and kicked open the door, carrying the man inside with him. He shut the door and locked it again before carrying him to his room, setting him down on the bed before getting the lights and drawing the curtains. In the better lighting, he could see that the man’s injuries were few, but simply in inconvenient places.
There was a cut on his head that still bled if touched, and the nasty bullet wound on his leg. Although it didn’t look like a regular bullet wound, Berwald was honestly shocked that he had been able to stand at all, let alone have walked so far…where the hell had he even come from?
The world knew that Sweden was a neutral county, yet, that didn’t seem to stop the relentless transports that carried all manner of shipments to German forces in the north. Berwald made it a point to stay out of the way as best he could, but he knew that there for forces far larger than him at work in the world, and in a strange way, he felt as if he’d always known that something like this would happen. Something would draw him in, and he might never be able to get out.
He left the room, starting the fire in the living room and bringing back his medicinal supplies. As he did this, however, he realized what a dangerous position he’d put himself in. He had left the German unattended in his room. For all he knew, the second he entered the room again he was going to be facing a soldier instead of a defenseless, sleeping man. So, he walked quieter, and then listened at the door before entering again. Nothing.
When he drew himself up and opened the door, his gun still with him, he realized that he man hadn’t move from where he’d set him on the bed. His fears, while not completely irrational, suddenly felt silly, and he entered the room with a normal amount of noise.
The German, despite nearly freezing to death, was running a dangerously high temperature. Berwald was naturally good with medicine, however, since (according to his grandmother) being born feet first made him so. So, he carefully began to deal with the bleeding cut on his forehead. He had no idea what had made such a mean cut, but with care, it wouldn’t come to be infected. Berwald cared for it carefully, his nimble fingers moving carefully over his skin, which was radiating heat. It didn’t appear to need stitching, but he put a small bandage over it to try to hold the skin closed once the bleeding was under control. As long as he didn’t hit it again, he’d be fine.
As he went about removing his jacket, he noticed the strong smell of gunpowder and metal mixed with the smell of sweat and something else. It was one of those smells that people just had. Absently, Sweden thought that he rather liked it. Then, he felt a sudden extreme sense of embarrassment. His mind flashed through horrible scenarios in which the man would awake as he fussed with his clothing, and, being as awkward as he was, Berwald thought he would have just died. Yet, he removed the jacket without incident, and found no injuries underneath it besides a few large bruises. Then, turning his attention to the wound on his left leg, he moved to the other side of the bed and began to tug the pants out of the way.
The soldier suddenly shifted, making Berwald freeze like a statue again, and he could see the sweat shimmering on his forehead as his brows creased deeper in pain. He thought about quietly murmuring something for comfort, but he wasn’t sure what to say, so instead he carefully, if not awkwardly, patted his shoulder until his body seemed to relax a bit.
Then, he returned to the task at hand, and managed to move the pant leg without much more of a fuss. The wound was ugly, rough, and deep. It would definitely need stitches. He wondered how many he could do before the man woke up. Still, he gathered his things, and set to work. The man shifted, but he held his leg still, and when he began grunting and groaning he only paused for a few minutes at a time before continuing. Once, when he looked up, he witnessed the terrifying sight of the German looking back at him, but he wasn’t truly awake, and his eyes closed again after a few moments of silence. It took a total of nine stitches to close the wound, and he sighed when he finished, knowing how long he would carry that scar as he wrapped it tightly.
Lastly, Berwald removed his boots, cringing at the blood he could see through the socks from walking so far. He sterilized his feet, watching his face intently for signs of awakening, a bit surprised when all he saw was a twitch a something like another grunt. Alcohol burned like hell, but this man didn’t seem to know that at the moment. So, he carried on, carefully patching him up with much more ease than the other wounds, and then sat back and took a deep breath.
He could see no more fresh blood on him, and decided his work was concluded. As he began to put the medicinal materials away, however, he saw a shiver run through the soldier, despite how hot his body actually was, and groped weakly at his shoulders. Berwald watched for a moment before grabbing the blanket at the edge of the bed and unfolding it. It wasn’t heavy, but he didn’t want him to get too warm. He carefully draped it over him, and watched as he was soothed once more.
He then took a small towel which he had gotten wet and gently dabbed his forehead, cooling him a bit and wiping off the dried blood and dirt while being careful of his cut. The soldier twitched at the initial contact, but then ceased to move. Berwald watched him carefully, subconsciously memorizing everything about him in an orderly manner. Although his skin was flushed from the fever, it seemed to be a very pale color naturally, proving his origin further. Berwald’s skin wasn’t as creamy; he had a pink tint to his light skin most of the time that sometimes turned purple if he got cold enough.
After a bit, he decided that he could leave the wet towel there for a moment, and began to clean up. As Berwald finished gathering his things and setting them on top of the dresser in the corner, he realized that he didn’t know what to do next. He couldn’t sleep with this German in his house, and he only had one bed, anyway. So, despite how tired he felt, he realized that he had to simply watch over him until he awoke, and then he would have to decide what to do from there.
Settling into the chair by the window and turning it to face the bed, he thought about what he would do when the soldier awoke. Presumably, the soldier would panic. He might even think Berwald to be his enemy. He pulled his gun a bit tighter on his lap. After that? He spoke German, enough to communicate well enough, but he wondered if it would be hard to get him to listen. He needed to rest, but even Berwald wasn’t certain on the laws regarding harboring German soldiers in one’s home. He knew for sure though that his neighbors (who, granted, lived miles away) wouldn’t like it. A few people in the town he lived next to were fairly openly against Germany. Berwald didn’t exactly have a friendly relationship with anyone in town as it was, since they seemed frightened of him, but he knew it could go very badly for him if people thought he was a German sympathizer. He didn’t sympathize with him because he was a German, though. Just, because he was a man. Wasn’t that the right thing?
After a moment, he cursed quietly again under his breath. It was kindness, he scoffed to himself. Kindness was going to get him killed. Still, at least he wouldn’t be sleeping with the weight of murder on his mind, even if that meant he wasn’t sleeping at all.
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Northern Waters