I don't own Spooks. This is a given.

This story is a historical AU. Feel free to point and laugh. We can all do that. It is rated M because of sex, violence, war, etc.

The Great Divide
by ScintillatingTart

I:

June 1916
France
a few miles from the Trenches

For a night that was sweltering, the breeze was startlingly cool. Insects chirped, birds still chattered in the distance, and for one sick, twisted moment, Lieutenant General Henry James Pearce believed that things might be normal again someday. No more reports of mass casualties, no more endless battles in the trenches. He took a deep breath, then coughed; the mustard gas from the battlefield had begun to drift with the cold wind. It would dissipate with time, but that was no consolation for the men who breathed it day after day, wishing for death.

He had been one of those men up until a week before, when General Shaw had been killed in action. He had escaped the trenches to fall back amongst the plotters and the staff, shouting at the top of his scorched lungs that their words and actions made no sense when staring down the barrel of a gun. His promotion to full General was just around the corner, but he took no pride in it. In any of the madness.

For this was not a war fought by sense and logic; this was a war fought by starving men in holes in the ground, fighting for ideals that no longer made any sense. Imperialism and monarchy seemed the least of their worries now, when old and young died together – and for what? For what, indeed.

Juliet Shaw came out of her tent and lit a cigarette. The embers illuminated her face just enough that he could see her eyes, haunted and older than she seemed to be. She had been the first nurse on the scene of her husband's death, and Harry had heard her screams pierce the air in a way he hoped never to hear again. They had not entirely been happy, Juliet and Philip, but now their children had no father, and their mother would return to England just as broken and shell-shocked as any soldier. She was a far cry from the woman he had desired and taken to his bed in India now; Juliet was withdrawing from the world, the horrors, around them with alarming alacrity.

Harry watched her for a few moments, hoping that she would return to her tent and her quiet vigil. Worrying about her was not high on his list of priorities – not when he needed to finish coordinating a prisoner exchange with Brigadier Carter. The Germans had already sent over a list of men they wished to see released from the prison encampment, and the Allies had responded in kind. The last communiqué had stated that they would be releasing one Princess Sofia Viktoria of Greece and Denmark and her three children along with a Scottish Earl, an English Duke, and an American photographer and journalist who had been presumed dead months before. Harry had nothing of value to offer the esteemed former prisoners but food, a bit of wine, and camp beds to sleep upon, but he had no doubt that they would be a step up from what they had been enduring.

He dropped his cigarette into the dirt and ground it into nothingness. Juliet looked over at him, smiled, and waved a little bit. He wished that he felt enough to do the same, but by the end of his third day in charge, Harry was bitter, exhausted, and dying to be back in London where the sooty fog at least had the decency to be civil and kill you over time. His lips twitched into a mirthless smile before he ducked back into his sleeping tent. Brigadier Adam Carter was still going over his notes, trying to see if the food supplies would stretch for several more weeks before they could send their esteemed guests back toward the coast, and to the relative safety of England on the far side of the Channel.

"The rumor is that the woman has been sleeping with the Commandant," Carter said mildly. "And that at least one of her children is his." He signed and dated one of the papers, then looked up. "And I wonder if they would use her against us."

Harry sank into his chair and sighed. "To what end, Carter?" he asked. "To further allow morale to disintegrate into dust? Because the way I see it, by the time this war is over, we will all be lucky to be alive. The woman was likely living in an area occupied by the Germans. The absence of her husband indicates to me that he was quite likely murdered. If she was sleeping with the Commandant, it was an act of sheer desperation." He ran his hands through his sparse blonde hair and muttered, "Women do not have the luxury of carrying weaponry upon their person in order to protect themselves. With the exception of Lady Shaw and her surgical implements," he amended.

"That is true enough, Sir," Carter amended. "Our supplies will stretch until we can send them to the Red Cross. The Germans were very specific in saying that our men – and ladies – are all in excellent health. They expect their men to be sent back to them in the same condition. Which is not an issue."

"I should certainly hope not," Harry muttered. "You will lead the team conducting the exchange. There must not be any mistakes, Carter. Do you understand?"

Carter nodded. "I will take Fiona with the team," he said, referring to his wife. "That way, if there are injuries – even minor ones – they might be attended to immediately."

Harry nodded. He didn't really care for the Red Cross allowing wives of soldiers and officers onto the battlefield and into the camps, but he knew that small bits of morale-boosting and small manners of comfort were necessary to keep his troops from going mad. He had long ago given up his rights as a husband and a father, having divorced Jane in 1903 and having Catherine and Graham shun him because of it. The one woman who he had held in regard since then – the love of his life, if truth be told – had long ago wed another man. So he had become an angry, bitter man with a love of the fight. But the fight did not love him back.

His knee ached from where the shrapnel still lingered within the bone. He had been sent home over a year before to recuperate from the surgery that could have destroyed him, and he had worked harder than he had ever worked in his life to be allowed to go back to the front lines. Some of his men had shaken their heads and whispered amongst themselves that General Pearce had a death wish. But they did not understand; he had nothing left to give but loyalty, fealty, and the depths of his despair. So he limped onward, upward, trudging higher and higher up the ladder until he felt the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

"If there's nothing else, Sir," Carter said, "the exchange will take place at nine in the morning, after the sun is high enough to give full light."

Harry nodded and said, "Very well, Brigadier. Dismissed."

Carter saluted and retreated. Harry knew he would carry a story of a disillusioned, indifferent man back to the men under his command. But he could not seem to care.

March 3, 1905
London
Buckingham Palace

Harry took a swig of scotch and laughed at the comical look of distaste his boyhood friend Bertie – now King Edward VII – made. Bertie had always cared for the French liquors… cognac, brandy, wine… and sod the deliciousness of a good peaty whiskey. "Hardly the face one makes if they're glad to see a friend," Harry pointed out, regrouping his cards and strategizing. It would hardly do to beat the King more than once or twice when the stakes were so ruinously high. And with only having been back in the country for a few days, it would not do to anger a friend, either… not when he could produce such wonderful jewels for His Majesty as was required. The Indian subcontinent was ripe for the picking, and Harry had found beautiful women and jewels aplenty to soothe the wounds of his divorce.

"I suppose you'll be staying for the Season?" the King inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"My orders are for Kenya next," Harry commented dryly. "But I was rather hoping to at least find a willing woman for a time."

"Avoid the debutantes, unless you're actively seeking a wife," his friend warned sagely. "I can put you on a path to several ladies of good standing who would be ever so glad to warm your bed for you. Too bad the Duchess of Whiting passed a few months ago – she was practically gagging for it."

Harry's secretly jovial smile returned. "Speaking of gagging for it… Lady Juliet Shaw is quite something else. Thank you for the letter of introduction. General Shaw probably doesn't see it in the same light, however…"

The King laughed and dropped a pair of diamond and gold cufflinks into the pot. "Juliet is rather something else," he said. "And easy on the eyes, I daresay." His conviviality dimmed a bit and he said, "My wife has been steering the ugliest possible women into my path, hoping I'll take a mistress she might control. I think I might spite her by going into mourning for the lovely Duchess of Whiting – Alexandra has always been cross with me about having taken her."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Bertie watched Harry dump a pile of loose gems into the center of the table, then he admitted, "There was a child. A girl. She will be coming out this Season. There is no way of knowing if the girl is mine or Whiting's. And Alex… was offended. Affronted. She still is."

Suddenly, there was a bitter taste in Harry's mouth; blood from biting his tongue from lashing out at his old friend for his utter irresponsibility. "You cared for the mother, then?" he finally said.

Abruptly, he was all regality again. "It doesn't matter if I cared for Elisabeth or not," the King snapped. He played his hand and waited for Harry to do the same. "I have been blackmailed into forcing Whiting's promotion up the Naval ranks straight into the Admiralty – all because I don't know if that girl is mine! You tell me, Harry, how that looks."

Harry played his hand and sighed in relief when the King took everything. "It looks as though you've made a mistake – as we all do from time to time," he said in soft, even tones that he hoped did not sound confrontational. It was not his place. They were only meant to be having a friendly game, after all. Harry stifled a yawn and said, "It is getting quite late, and I am due for maneuvers in the morning."

"Nonsense," Bertie said, his sudden mood swing gone as quickly as it had begun. "One more hand – give me a chance to win that prize ruby you've kept tucked away all night, Pearce."

Harry bit back an annoyed retort, but reminded himself that the most precious lapis was safely back at the townhouse, and he had more than enough to lose in the meanwhile.

And he settled in for an even longer night of cards.

June 1916
France
Chateau Antoinette
German occupied lines

She cuddled her youngest daughter close, giving her a few drops of canned milk from a soaked rag. There was not enough food to feed the soldiers, let alone her children. Not for the first time, she cursed her husband's memory, wondering why he had insisted on France for their home instead of somewhere pleasant in Greece or even in Denmark with his uncle and aunt. She felt ill to think that if they had only been there at the beginning of the War, he would still be alive.

But no. He had been defiant when the Commandant had laid hands upon her, had praised her linguistic skills, her willingness to translate in order to keep her family safe. She had watched in absolute horror as the Commandant had shot her husband between the eyes. And ever since, she had done whatever it had taken to keep her children safe; even adding a wee daughter to the brood to make three. She could not fault her youngest the circumstances of her birth, nor could she find it in her heart to turn away from the child and leave her to die as the unwanted result of repeated assault by the German man who commanded the troops that occupied her home.

She was still young: she had time to recover her dignity after the war ended. Twenty and nine, she was, and she already felt as though she'd lived so many more years than that. And tomorrow would begin a new day, a new chapter in her life.

She and her children would be given over to the British in exchange for the Commandant's own brother, a Grand Duke of some German principality who her father had briefly thought to marry her off to so many years before. But they would be free again.

Free to go home.

She had missed Britain for so long, it actually brought tears to her eyes to think of her father's holdings in the Lowlands of Scotland. Of the house in London and of a life she never had the chance to live.

For George had never been her love. He had been her husband, yes, but her heart still burned, still yearned, for a man she had never been allowed to marry. A man who had asked for her hand and been revoked unequivocally by her father. A man who had vowed that he would take no wife but her till the end of his days; a man who had given her a chain of the finest gold and pearls from India itself to pledge his troth and his love.

A man she did not know whether or not he still drew breath.

She closed her eyes and continued rocking Elena to sleep, wishing she could do anything to quell the baby's hunger. Wishing she had not listened to her father. Wishing that she had had the courage to elope with her love. Wishing that so many things in her life had been different.

She fell asleep to the sound of the cock's crow.