A/N: Wow, I haven't submitted anything in so long.I've been more active in the art department of things for a while, hehe.. But I'm slowly, steadily trying to get back into writing.
This is the first piece I've submitted here in years? And it's only a somewhat meaningless drabble. But I'm working on more. It's just that senior year is really stressful and I need to catch up with life before it leaves me behind. Even so, I'll definitely be working slowly to revive myself on this website.
With that said, though, enjoy!
The Thing With Feathers.
xxx
Delusions.
Sometimes, Arthur thinks that they aren't necessarily as evil as they're made out to be. He saw it for himself countless times over—centuries over—when even after the wars and meaningless bloodshed, after the destruction of life and the world on which everyone stood, after tears filled with pain have fallen on the cracked and broken land, there's always someone who finds a reason to smile. People delude themselves into thinking that there is still a way out of the tightest trap, that a lot of things can be achieved if they are fought for, and that all is not over.
Delusions gave hope.
And hope was something that even a dying country needed, certainly.
"Listen, Arthur, listen. Can you hear it? Can you hear the bird?"
He did hear it. He heard it clearly; the trill of some feathered creature somewhere close by. It broke his heart to think that there they lay dying, a few yards away from a cold trench, at the mercy of another damned war… and in the break between the gunfire and explosions and voices of wounded men, he could hear a bird. A bird was flying somewhere overhead, above and beyond the poison gas and the bullets flying back and forth and the corpses strewn across no man's land, completely unaffected by the senseless violence going on underneath its wings.
"Can you hear it, Arthur?"
He turned to face the man who was deluded enough into thinking about a bird while he himself was at the brink of death. He saw the spun-sunshine hair streaked with blood and filth, the blue eyes that still held a feebly flickering light, someone who smiled at him despite the wound he had received to the chest.
"Yes, I can hear it, Alfred."
"Isn't it beautiful?" Alfred breathed.
His words were labored, his breathing harsh. But the idiot was grinning, still grinning.
"It's just a bird," Arthur panted, his own injuries killing him slowly.
"But don't you find it amazing?"
"What is?" He winced; he just wanted to get this over with. "Do you mean the fact that here we are, waiting for our deaths, and you're blathering on about some damned songbird?"
Alfred chuckled weakly, ending up coughing. "No, I meant… Isn't it completely amazing that there's still a bird flying up there? Singing, out here in the middle of hell?"
"Unspeakably astounding," Arthur muttered, closing his eyes. Why couldn't he just die already? He had to lay here for what seemed like ages, with another half-dead man shooting his mouth off about some bloody thing or another. Holding that same half-dead man's hand. Feeling both their pulses weaken; feeling each other die.
"You think when we come back this time, it'll somehow be over?" Alfred asked quietly after a minute.
"You're not dead yet?"
"Arthur..."
He sighed. Typical, juvenile dreamer. Still too young, far too young. He hadn't seen the worst of it yet. "Alfred, do not delude yourself. This war is far from over."
Alfred chuckled. "But it's nice to think of. That when we wake up, we'll be all ready to fight again.. Then instead find out that there's no one left to fight because it's over. We've won. And all we'll hear are birds instead of guns. Right?"
It was indeed nice to think of.
"..."
"Arthur?"
"..."
"...Arthur?"
"..."
"..."
And then there was silence and nothing save for birdsong.
But there was no one left to listen.