MERRY CHRISTMAS & HAPPY HOLIDAYS SYBIL/TOM FANDOM! Here is my S/T Secret Santa 2014 fanfic for...mimijag! TA DA! Tis' I, fair Mimi! I AM YOUR SECRET SANTA! :oP

Here's her prompt: Tom is leaving for war after all; farewells...or not.

My head immediately began to spin as I thought of ideas to how to tell this story, and suddenly, the ideas grew to the point where I realized, "I can't keep this as a one-shot!" (I know, I know, this is breaking the rules, but like a certain lady and chauffeur...I'm a rebel) ;oP So starting now, on Christmas Eve, and leading all the way up to New Year's Eve, I will be posting a chapter a day to tell this story of how Tom came to be where he is...the events that led to it...and what might happen afterward. Yes, there will be angst, there will be drama, but there will also be romance! And it is Christmas after all...so maybe there will be a miracle or two?

Ok, enough babbling; MIMIJAG, thank you for this prompt! "Joyeux Noel" to you, and again, HAPPY HOLIDAYS S/T FANDOM!

Angel in the Trenches
by The Yankee Countess

Chapter One

Christmas Eve, 1917
France

There would be no moon that night. The clouds were too thick. Instead of stars shining down, snow fell from the heavens, heavy and white, already creating a thick blanket on the trench floor. Under any other circumstance, this would be a clear annoyance; their feet would be both wet and cold. But perhaps because it was Christmas…the men paid little mind.

Tom sighed and brought his fingers to his mouth, breathing hot air over them and rubbing them together as he stood huddled in his corner of the trench. At least there wasn't a wind like there had been two nights ago, when the cold was so bitter it made one's eyes sting. Tom glanced across from him at the shivering lad who stood nearby, also rubbing his fingers for warmth. Without a second's thought, Tom dug his hand inside his jacket, and pulled out the small bottle of whiskey that had come just yesterday from his brother—an early Christmas present and very much appreciated.

"Marcus," Tom murmured the boy's name, who looked up at him in surprise. Without a word, he silently passed the bottle to the lad, whose large eyes only seemed to grow even bigger. "Go on," Tom told him. "Just a few sips to warm you up."

The boy's face lit up, brighter than the moon ever could on this cloudy night, and he took the bottle, thanked Tom for his generous offer, before taking a few big swallows…and coughing loudly at the taste, but still maintaining his thankful grin all the same.

"I…I…" he was still coughing a bit, and Tom reached out to pat the lad's back. "I…I've never had whiskey before!"

Tom's eyebrows rose at this, but then again, he had to remember just how young Marcus was. Too young. But then…weren't they all?

Thinking of Marcus as a "boy" wasn't an exaggeration. The lad had turned eighteen sometime that autumn, and the day after his birthday was when he received his summons. Tom had never asked Marcus what his thoughts were about that; was he like some of the other star-eyed soldiers in their unit? Proud to be serving king and country and eager to face the enemy? Or was he every bit as terrified as the rest of them? Did he try to put on a brave face when the envelope was handed to him, even though inside, his head was screaming?

"Easy," Tom murmured, reaching to take the bottle back as Marcus took a few more gulps, coughing each time. Still, the lad couldn't stop grinning, and for that, Tom was glad. Christmas cheer was few and far between in the trenches.

"Thanks," Marcus said, a hiccup immediately following. Both of them chuckled while Tom took a few sips himself.

"Simmons!"

Marcus stood to attention at the sound of his name, though it was simply another private, charged with delivering the post. Tom stood to attention as well, but more so because he was curious (and eager) to see if something was for him amongst the envelopes his fellow soldier brought.

"Simmons," the delivery man repeated, and without another glance, dropped a small parcel into Marcus' hands. The other soldier then turned to Tom, and Tom held his breath, his heart stilling…and then sinking as the man shook his head, before moving on.

Three weeks…

"It's from home…" Marcus murmured in awe as he gazed down at the parcel in his hands, holding it with such delicacy, as if it were a soap bubble ready to pop.

Tom shook off his own disappointment and forced a smile on his face, taking another sip of his whiskey before urging the lad to open it. "Go on…let's see what Father Christmas sent you," he teased.

The boy looked up at him and a bashful grin spread across his face, before he gripped the parcel and started ripping back at the paper, his expression like that of an eager child on Christmas morning. The box finally open, Marcus reached inside…and gasped as he pulled out a long, gray scarf. He wasted no time, wrapping the scarf around his neck, and pulled out a sheet of paper from the parcel, his eyes scanning it and reading it over and over, a smile breaking across his face one minute…while the next, his lower lip trembled as if he might cry.

Tom didn't say anything; he even turned his head slightly to give the lad some privacy, quietly drinking his whiskey while Marcus read and re-read his letter.

"Mum made this," he broke the silence at last, drawing Tom's attention back to the gray woolen scarf that now hung around his neck.

He smiled and nodded at it. "It's very fine," Tom told him, meaning it and despite his own melancholy, feeling happy for the lad.

"She said she wanted me to have something 'practical'," Marcus chuckled, glancing once again at his letter, though Tom didn't miss the stray tear that fell down his cheek.

"She sounds very wise," he murmured, his thoughts now going to his own mother, and wondering what she was doing right now. Was she preparing for tomorrow's dinner? Taking what money she had and fixing a fine roast that would be the envy of all on their street? Or had she spent the entire day in church/ Was she there right now, lighting a candle and praying to the Holy Virgin for his safe return?

"Oh!"

Tom's attention was drawn back to Marcus as he reached inside his parcel and found another treasure, this time an envelope that was sealed. "What's that?" he asked, unable to hide his curiosity.

Marcus looked at the envelope…and then at the letter from his family, then back at the envelope. "Mum says it's from…" he paused, and Tom noticed that the lad seemed to be shaking. "From…from Judith."

Judith?

Marcus looked back at the envelope once more…wet his lips…and then with trembling fingers, brought them up to the envelope and started to tear it open, but slowly, as if he were trying not to rip the paper more than was necessary. When the task was finally completed, Tom couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief, and then waited for the lad to pull whatever was inside the envelope out…though he simply stared at it.

"…Well?" Tom asked, drawing the lad's attention to him. "Aren't you going to read it?"

"I…I…" Marcus was shivering again, though it wasn't because of the cold.

I know that look, Tom thought to himself, a sad smile lifting at the corners of his mouth. That was the look of someone in love.

Marcus swallowed…and then finally removed the letter from inside the envelope, unfolding it with trembling fingers and carefully reading the delicate writing. Like the last time, Tom tried to give the boy some privacy as he read, yet it was more difficult as he found himself drawn to Marcus' expressions…and found himself envying the lad just a little too.

Three weeks…

"Oh my God…"

Tom looked at Marcus as the boy lifted something in his hand, something that had been inside the letter…and noticed that it was a red curl, with a green ribbon tied around it.

Marcus looked up at Tom, then back at the lock of hair, before lifting his eyes once more to Tom's and whispering, "…she loves me."

Tom's eyebrows rose at this; the boy seemed surprised at this news. "That's good, isn't it?"

Marcus was dumbfounded. "I…I didn't think Judith even knew I existed!" Marcus declared, before looking back at the letter once again. "But…but she says she misses me, and…and…and that she prays every day and every night for me to return home safe…and…and that she's my sweetheart!"

The joy on the lad's face was moving, as well as contagious. Despite his earlier disappointment, Tom smiled back at the lad, and even reached over to clap him on the shoulder. "Well, congratulations!" he cheered, lifting the whiskey bottle and taking a swig, before handing it back to Marcus to drink.

The boy shook his head; he was far too enraptured with his letter. Though he did lift his eyes momentarily, and asked out of the blue, "do you have a sweetheart, Pvt. Branson?"

Tom winced; both at the boy's question, as well as the title he had been given. He didn't like this reminder that he was fighting in a war for a country that he didn't think of as his own, and a government he currently despised.

"Pvt. Branson?"

"'Tom', Marcus—you can call me 'Tom' when it's just the two of us talking."

Marcus blushed but nodded his head.

"And to answer your question…" Tom paused and took a sip from his bottle. "I..." he paused again, thinking about how to answer. "It's…it's complicated, actually."

Marcus looked confused. "I don't understand?"

Tom sighed, trying to think how to explain his situation, and whether or not he wanted to explain it, but was stopped short when their captain called them all to attention.

"We just received a telegram! Enemy forces are moving right now to aid their dwindling numbers, which means we need to hit them hard again and we need to hit them NOW!"

Marcus gasped and turned back to Tom. Tom's jaw simply locked and his fingers gripped the barrel of his gun. The concept of "Peace on Earth" was foreign when it came to war.

"Take your positions and be ready!" the Captain commanded, and up and down the trench, men started loading their guns. A rumble could be heard in the distance; was that thunder? Or explosions? Suddenly, without warning, something flew into the trench further down, and a shout went up from one of the men, as a blast went off, hurdling both Tom and Marcus backwards.

"Bloody hell, they know!" the Captain swore, before taking out his pistol and raising it high over his head. "CHARGE!" he shouted, and a cry went up from the men in the trench, as they took to the ladders and started to climb. One of the men grabbed hold of Marcus' hand, hauled him to his feet and pushed him towards the ladder. "Go! Go!" he urged, and Marcus scrambled up the ladder, his face pale and full of fear, but he held tight to his gun and joined the rest of the men in their battle cry as he ran forward across the battlefield.

Tom did not join in their cry, but he too climbed up the ladder and was running across the field, though he did his best to keep his eyes on the boy, making the boy his mission rather than firing blindly at enemy trenches.

Explosions erupted all around them. Bombs burst and mud splattered the air around them. Men screamed, several falling as an array of bullets cut through the air. Others fell but weren't so fortunate; they were either tangled in the barbwire or were reaching desperately for something that once been attached to them, screaming all the while for a stretcher bearer, but those lads were few and far between, because the second they lifted their heads, bullets flew their way.

It was madness. And the heavy snow that was covering the ground no longer shown white.

Marcus fell to his knees and Tom stared in horror, thinking the boy had been shot. But he realized that instead that Marcus was trying to reload his gun, and had dropped to the ground to do so.

"Get up!" Tom shouted.

"My gun is jammed!" Marcus gasped.

Tom shook his head. "GET UP!" he ordered, grabbing the lad by the collar and hoisting him to his feet. Yet the second they were both standing, another explosion erupted around them and sent them flying in different directions. Tom hit the ground hard on his back, gasping as he felt the wind knocked out of him. He coughed and sputtered and rolled over onto his stomach, pushing the mud and snow out of his eyes and trying to see through the smoky haze.

He stiffened at Marcus' cry.

Whipping his head around, Tom looked everywhere, trying to see the boy, trying to find him…and he did…tangled in the wire.

"Tom!" Marcus groaned, the wire around his leg was cutting through his uniform and blood was soaking the material. "AH!" he cried, attempting to sit up but the motion only caused the wire to cut even deeper.

Tom scrambled to his feet and rushed over to Marcus. "Don't move!" he hissed, which was easier said than done, when fire seemed to be falling from the sky all around them. But Tom didn't hesitate, he reached for the knife at his belt and started to cut through the wire, just doing what he could to get the boy free. "STRETCHER BEARER!" he roared, while he cut at the wire, cursing that it wasn't going fast enough, swearing when as bullets flew past them. Several times he had to stop and throw himself on top of Marcus to protect the lad, as well as to keep himself from being shot.

"It's…it's too dangerous out here!" Marcus groaned. "Go…go, save yourself—"

"I'm NOT leaving you here," Tom growled, his knife still cutting what it could. He looked at the boy and saw the fear in his eyes, the fear and knowledge that at any second, death could come for him. "I'm going to get you out of this," Tom told the boy, his eyes unwavering. "I'm going to get you out of this…and you're going to go back to your Judith and give her a proper kiss."

Despite the chaos all around them, Marcus did smile at that. Tom went back to work, cutting the wire, dodging bullets, praying that another explosion wouldn't happen, to let him at the very least free the boy. All men are entitled to one miracle, aren't they? Especially at Christmas? Let this be his, please…I've already had my miracle, let Marcus have his…

"AHHH!" Marcus cried as finally, the last of the wire was cut and his leg was freed. Though the wire had done it's damage, cutting through the flesh so far, that Tom wondered if it had struck bone. Where the FECK was that stretcher bearer?

Tom shook his head, and without another word or thought, bent down and hauled Marcus up onto his shoulders, hoisting his body across them and with a grunt, started retreating back to the trench, his only thought on getting Marcus to safety, getting him to—

A cry filled the air as Marcus' body left Tom's shoulders, falling with a loud thud just a few feet away from both Tom and the trench.

Tom fell to his knees…and with confused eyes, looked down at his chest…and saw blood seeping out.

"Tom? TOM!" Marcus shouted, but Tom's vision was already blurring, and gravity had already taken hold of his body, and he was plummeting forward, both to the ground and to the welcoming arms of darkness.

"Tom! TOM!"

"Tom…"

Marcus' voice had changed. He was hearing a different voice…softer…huskier…

"Tom…"

It was like a warm lullaby, lulling him further into darkness…a siren's song that he couldn't ignore…

"Tom…"

Tom forced his eyes to open, the voice sounding so close, so clear, as if it were just over his shoulder. He wasn't lying on the ground anymore, but he was standing…and he was standing in the middle of the trench…and the snowy night sky was gone, in its place a still and gray, cloudy sky.

And there was no one else around. Tom's brow furrowed as he looked through the fog that surrounded him, trying to find Marcus, the Captain, anyone from their unit…

Nothing.

He was alone.

He looked down at his chest, his hand flying to where he had seen the blood, to where he had been struck…

Dry.

Nothing.

"Tom…"

He whirled around at the sound of the voice again. A whisper, but still familiar.

"Tom…"

The voice was changing, growing softer, but less huskier.

"Tom…"

"WHO ARE YOU?!" he cried out into the fog. "WHERE ARE YOU!? SHOW YOURSELF!"

Silence. Not even a crow.

The sound of footsteps drew his attention to his left, and Tom peered through the haze as he recognized the shadow of a figure approaching him. His right hand went to his belt, but his knife and pistol were gone. He looked back at the figure, and heard a whisper on the wind, "Don't be afraid…"

Tom swallowed. He knew that voice. "Who are you?" he called out, trying his best to calm his heart.

The fog began to lift…and Tom's eyes widened as a face he knew once not so long ago, appeared before him.

"W-W-W-William?" he stammered in disbelief.

Pvt. William Mason smiled and saluted him. "As you were, Mr. Branson."

To be continued...

QUICK NOTE! I was lazy and chose not to research an actual battle that may or may not have taken place on/during Christmas Eve of 1917...sorry for the bad history! But besides that, I hope you "enjoyed" this first part! Please share your thoughts! THANK YOU FOR READING!