The rope cuts into his wrists. His hands are tied behind him and he stumbles on the uneven ground. A hand catches his arm, steadies him. He looks up to thank the man, and his words die on his lips. The condemned do not thank those leading them to their deaths.

It is cold, and he shivers. He can see his breath hanging in the air in front of him, each tiny crystal visible for a fraction of a second before it is gone. He tries to take in everything, fill each one of his senses in the last few moments before his death. He can see birds wheeling in the sky far above him. Sunrise has begun to streak its way across the sky, grey twilight giving way to beautiful reds and pinks in all different hues and shades. He thinks it will be a nice day. Maybe, in some other life, he could have had a wife, children, a home. He could have enjoyed spending the day with them, revelling in the glorious warmth of the English summer, with no cares and no worries. He breathes in deeply, savouring each precious gasp of air. It is tainted with the stench of fear and death, but he is aware of just how few breaths he has left. He hears the constant chatter of artillery guns – they never stop, even at this hour. He hears the wind whipping through his clothes, feels its cold touch on his skin.

They call him a coward. A traitor. And maybe he is. Or maybe he just doesn't want to die.

He saw them, his friends, as they died. One minute they were there, by his side, the next they were gone. He had seen them blown to pieces, had been splattered with mud and blood and brains as they were obliterated in a storm of fire. He had seen them fall down and he had thought that they had stumbled, until he tried to help them up and had seen that their faces had been shot away. He had seen them fall into shellholes filled with water, obscured by mud, invisible, until the weight of their packs had dragged them down to the bottom, silent screams torn from their lips, screams that would never reach the surface.

He has seen so much death, so much pain, that he thinks he should be immune to it by now. That he shouldn't care any more. But he does. He wants to live with every fibre of his being, his heart, his soul. His breath comes fast as he gasps, uncontrollable fear seizing him. His eyes roll up in his head and he thinks he might collapse. He doesn't want to die.

It is fear that has led to this, he thinks. When the time came to go over the top again, to climb out of trenches made slippery by rain and mud, to walk across ground littered with the rotting corpses of the damned, the fear wouldn't let him, and now the fear has killed him.

The end is near now. In desperation, he casts his eyes to the sky, hopes, prays for a miracle, begs and pleads to some higher power that he doubts even exists. If there is a God, he looks down indifferent, uncaring as his children are murdered in cold blood.

There is no miracle. He can feel the last few seconds of his life slipping through his fingers, can feel the tug of a life beyond this one as Death stretches out a hand to claim him. But at the end, when the fear is choking him and a scream is dying in his throat, Tommy sees a face. Sees a face and hears a name, rising from the depths of long-forgotten memories.

Toshiko.

At the end, Tommy smiles.

Please tell me what you thought everyone :) this is my first Torchwood fic so it's a momentous occasion :) *waves flag*