It all happened too fast and yet, time stood immortal.
Light from the fire brightens the interior of the church, coming in from the bonfire of Skyfall. Not by much, for shadows gather at the far corners of the walls. And from out those corners rise monsters not meant to be seen.
Silva lays crumpled on the floor, blood flowing slower around the hilt of Bond's hunting knife buried in his back. The gun on the floor gleams from where it fell from the ex-agent's fingers. Bleached blonde hair lays limp, its owner no longer living.
Bond's grip on M stays secure even if his hands shake. His steel-blue eyes plead with M to not leave him, to not close her eyes. The double-oh agent's mouth echoes his begging. Even still, warmth pools under Bond's right hand, the one clamped over the hole in M's leg.
Her expression strays from her stern exterior as M winces, shuddering. Her similar blue eyes, glazed with pain, drift close a moment. Heart lurching, Bond hugs her suffering body to him in a silly notion that she would stay safe in his arms.
"M…stay with me!" urges Bond, not daring to give her a little shake. To see M, the solid figure in the double-oh's frayed reality, crumbling, proves too much. The pain washes over M in ever growing waves and her breath hitches in her throat.
"….james…" The name passes her lips, almost too low to be counted as a whisper. Bond has to smile, a small twitch from corners of his mouth. A trickle of water runs a colder-than-steel path down the agent's back.
"I am here," Bond comforts M, finding his thoughts have disappeared. All of his attention focuses on her. She gazes up at him, too pale from blood loss, trembling as he trembles, but for different reasons.
"…I at least got one thing right," M whispers with the smallest of smiles. Her eyes flutter shut and a long breath escapes her. And then too much hits Bond at the same time. It all becomes tangled into a mess.
Repeating her name again and again, the agent cries for her to open her eyes. Tears slip from his blue eyes and down Bond's cold cheeks. They splatter on M's own cheeks, highlighted by the small flashlight Kincaid holds.
"James," a hand rests on Bond's shoulder and the gamekeeper kneels next to him, the flashlight placed on the floor. The agent doesn't respond and shows no indication of hearing him.
"James! Here, can't you contact someone?" Kincaid prods and places the earpiece in Bond's left ear. The earpiece crackles with life and it pulls Bond back into the present.
"007?"
Bond's heart finds an uncomfortable place in his throat. He struggles to say something, anything!
"Q! Send a rescue squad!" He manages to choke out, filled with urgency. The earpiece picks up the Quartermaster ordering such a squad to be sent. People shout at one another in the background.
"Who's been injured, 007?" Q presses and Bond can hear his fingers clacking over the computer keys.
"M's been shot," Bond voice cracks.
From the other end of the conversation, Q's fingers stop typing.
"She'll be fine, 007. We have a rescue squad on their way," replies the Quartermaster. His voice comes over strained even as his voice stays level.
"How long will it take?" demands Bond, fear making his words forced out with unintentional hostility.
"About twenty minutes-"
"She'll bleed out by then!" More silence follows the double-oh's accusation and Bond finds himself praying the brilliant, young Quartermaster has a solution to the dire problem. Regular trembles run M's broken frame.
After half a moment's pause, Q begins typing and talking again.
"…alright, tell them to cancel that squad…get contact with them… Relay the cords to them-Just hack the system if you must!" snaps the Quartermaster. Bond lets the orders wash over him, knowing they are meant for others.
"I've sent the closest medical helicopter to get her. They'll be there in a few minutes, 007."
Bond doesn't say anything, not trusting himself to talk. Without anything at his disposal besides a wet sweater, he sits down on the cobblestone floor and cradles M to him. The only thing left is to wait. Wait and hope that some errors could be corrected.
Was it minutes or hours when someone bends down to take M away? The double-oh agent snarls at the man and lashes out. Where is his gun? The attacker yelps and recoils back in time. Bond hesitates when a voice pierces the haze around him. Why is that voice so familiar…?
Some grabs Bond by his shoulders with force. Of course, this sends the agent into frenzy of struggling and fighting. Bond's glazed eyes do not see his surrounding; he only reacts by muscle memory.
"James, calm down!"
Kincaid's low rumble breaks through to him and Bond hesitates. The old gamekeeper doesn't wait another moment and ushers him out the church. Complying for a moment, Bond lets Kincaid lead him out.
"Wait-M?" the agent questions Kincaid, twisting his head to look for her.
"She's coming, lad. Come on." The gamekeeper gives Bond a nudge in the right direction. True to his word, three medics exit the church with M laid on a white stretcher. The sight seems to satisfy Bond and he doesn't protest again when he gets shoved into the helicopter.
Somehow the double-oh ends up placed on a small bench shoved against the side. Kincaid settles next to him, and M's stretcher locks into the floor. One medic breaks off from swarming around M and rummages through a compartment. He pulls out a thick blanket and hands it to Bond.
"Here, this'll keep you warm," the medic explains, "but take off your shirt first."
An odd request, but Bond peels off the sweater. He exchanges the drenched article of clothing for a white cotton shirt. Bond puts the shirt on and wraps himself up in the blanket after finding he needs warmth. Should he be able to feel his fingers?
When Bond's eyes rise, they freeze on the still and bloody M -there's too much blood- and two medics swarm around her with unnamed machines and medical items. M's eyes don't move under her closed eyelids as one medic inserts an I.V. and hooks up a blood bag.
Bond doesn't realize he begins to stand up until Kincaid pushes him back down into the seat again with an almost sympathetic look in his old eyes.
"Steady, she's being taken care of." His soothing tone does little to calm Bond down, more of Kincaid's order keeping him from rebelling. The double-oh needs something to follow, something steady or he'll fall. Like Skyfall, he would fall too.
With clear reluctance he settles down again, blue eyes filled with conflicting emotions. Ones the aged gamekeeper wants to decipher, but Bond tucks his head into his chest and pulls the blanket in tighter around him.
The same medic from before, a lanky looking man in his twenties with solemn eyes, brown hair, and light sunburn brushing across his nose and cheekbones, holds something out to Bond.
It takes a few seconds for Bond to realize that the man holds a cup, and in the cup dark brown liquid sloshes against the Styrofoam. Wind speeds increase, the helicopter blades whipping the air away.
Warmth spreads into the double-oh's trembling fingers as he wraps his hands around it. Distracted, his blue eyes penetrate the dark covering of night over the broken land. The helicopter rises into the air. It turns under guidance of its operator and heads back the way it came.
The once proud and impressive fortress reduced to rubble, still flickers with tongues of flame like a beacon. A member of the helicopter's kin lay amid the destruction, a twisted skeleton of metal and misery.
Skyfall ends with pain; History bears witness.
Kincaid watches James look out at the chaos. The emotions filter down to one. Agony plays across James's pale face as he beholds Skyfall, his childhood haunt, wasting to ashes. And the gamekeeper looks at the man, really looks at him.
James was no longer the troublesome toddler that managed to cause mischief on chubby legs. He was no longer the grief-stricken teen hiding beneath the church, knowing his parents lay in the house, murdered.
Kincaid realizes with an unnerving jolt that he does not recognize the man sitting before him, shivering with a blanket draped across his broad shoulders, blood splattered across the his cheek, nor the hard lines around his mouth.
Bond takes a sip of the contents of the cup, and the sweet, smooth taste of hot chocolate registers on his tongue. He throws back his head and drains the cup. Settling back, Bond curls in on himself as if to ward any hostile thoughts. The double-oh agent lets everything wash over him, reacting to nothing anymore. He stares out at the mess he's created, numb.
Flames reflect against his dull eyes as wind cuts past the helicopter.
I have to say, I am really proud of this chapter! It is my longest one yet! Was this sufficient? Thank you to everyone who read this and remember: reviews and replies would be greatly appreciated. I love to hear what you thought!
I have a basic story line that will continue this event. Sometimes I will have brief sections from another character's point-of-view.
*Note: I am just creating my own back stories for this*