England didn't try and tell them apart any more, the gasses used. All he needed to know was that they could hurt when you were prepared, they could be even worse if you weren't.

It was the later situation that he was currently trapped in. The gas shells had been fired into no-mans land by Germany earlier on in the day. There was no breeze to move it so it had been quiet, neither side entirely foolish to send their men in. If any soldiers had been 'lucky' to make it through then a rain of bullets would have meet them on the other side.

But then the wind began to blow, fiercely and towards them.

France was yelling, urging him to hurry up with the gasmask in his trembling hands, as they and Scotland tried to reach a higher point in the trench. They wouldn't escape the gas completely but it wouldn't be as much of a threat at least. The screams of the first soldiers caught out as the coloured cloud entered, tumbling over the top of the trench wall and filling it from the bottom up, were beginning to echo through the air.

The sound chilled England to the bone.

Scotland grabbed the mask out of his hands, forcing it quickly and roughly over his head until it fitted and pushed him towards France. England blinked as his old rival took his hand and helped him up onto a couple of creates. Scotland was close behind, trying to pull a young, maskless soldier along as well. The soldier struggled to keep up, eventually loosing his grip falls backwards into the mud. The gas was all over him before they could do anything.

They still had to hold Scotland back from doing anything stupid though.

Time lost meaning for England as they stood there. France recites a prayer, Scotland sobs in frustration while the soldier tries to yell for help but could only gasp for clean air desperately and painfully. Morbidly, England watches the body thrash about in the mud before joining France in prayer. Praying that the boy will die sooner rather than later, that he won't have to suffer for much longer. It seemed to be answered as the boy stops struggling and, with a final whimpered word, is gone.

"Mother!"

The gas sinks into the mud not long after that.

Carefully the trio get down from their spot, all taking their gas masks off, before approaching the body. Free from the stress and horrors of the war, the solider is clearly underage, doesn't even look 16. One word hangs in the air between them, why. So many whys.

"D-dulce…" France begins to recite with a cough, "Et decorum est pro patria mori."

It takes England a few moments to translate the phrase, been so long since he's really had to think about things like that, survival and defeating the enemy has been priorities. "It's a sweet and…" He trails off, laughing bitterly, "Some load of bollocks."

Scotland stays quiet, running his fingers through his unruly hair before picking the boy up. "We use to live by that though."

And, somehow, that made everything worse.

---

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori is a Latin phrase which means "it's a sweet and fitting thing to die for one's country"

As those of you who did World War One poetry in school will no doubt recongize, "Dulce Et Decorum Est" was the title of Wilfred Owen's poem and pretty much inspired this entire fic.

And, yes, I know Scotland isn't cannon (beyond an arm whacking England) but I felt, due to the relationship he shares with England and France (Auld Alliance, Act of Union, etc) he was the best to balance them.

I hope you enjoyed it.