Avery's Note: For all of you World War 2 enthusiasts, I sorry for this story not being very accurate in general. Anyway, I hope that this chapter meets your expectations. Thank you for reading!
Summary: "This book is to be neither an accusation nor a confession, least of all an adventure, for death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it. It will simply try to tell of a generation of men who, even though they may have escaped shells, were destroyed by the war." Erich Maria Remarque All Quiet on the Western Front
The story thus so far: Quatre, a soldier of the 27th Infantry of Poland, finds himself in the midst of urban warfare in an abandoned Austrian town. He loses his protector and companion, Rashid, in an accident during an Allies reinforcement air raid on the town.
A Passing Eternity
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Chapter 2:
"Hey, buddy." A young American pilot pulled up a stool next to Quatre's cot. With a satisfied sigh, he dropped himself down on it and propped his feet on the cot. Quatre, although disapproving of the young man's invasion, didn't stir.
Since the death of Rashid two days ago, Quatre had given up. There was too much pain all over his body for him to do anything. He wanted to quite breathing because it was very difficult to even think about it. Quatre simply retired to the fetal position and took the pain. The paradox of the situation being that he was completely numb.
He hadn't eaten anything, and he hadn't slept. He just stared expressionlessly at the ground as if he did advert his eyes he would smote by a divine being. Members of his group even stopped visiting him due to his lack of response. As they walked passed, they would pat him gently and sympathize as best they could with the mourning boy.
None of that mattered to the brunette who had decided to visit Quatre today.
The young man either didn't notice or ignored the fact that Quatre was being unfriendly, hostile almost. He reached behind his head and released his messy hair from its braid. He pulled his fingers through the luscious brown locks, attempting to tame the disaster they became after wearing a helmet.
"As much I love to fly my Lockheed P-38 Lightning, which I nicknamed Deathscythe, I hate the helmet hair I get afterwards." The youth chuckled warmly, thinking he was quite the jokester. "But as much as I hate the helmet hair, I don't have the will to cut it off."
There was a silence.
"I'd be nice if they could invent fighter planes that didn't require helmets."
Quatre didn't move or mutter a reply.
"It's Quatre right?" he mumbled, the hair tie placed in his mouth while his hands expertly redid the braid.
Quatre didn't respond once again. He didn't even stir from lying on his side, his back towards the other soldier. The blanket still draped loosely over the curled form of the blonde. The pilot pulled it off the prone figure to reveal him still fully dressed in uniform, the wound on his arm unattended, and the blood of his friend smeared across the front.
"Quat, if you don't move, your body is going to turn into squishy jelly. Which, might I add, is quite disgusting."
The young soldier reached over and pushed Quatre's shoulder playfully. There was no reaction from Quatre, so the other pushed him again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Each time there was a little less playfulness to it and a little more roughness. Quatre let the brunette do so without any resistance. He was too tired to fight back.
Rashid, however, used to tell him to take value in his life. Rashid was the one who defended the young blonde whenever there was trouble. But Rashid wasn't around anymore. The team of Quatre and Rashid had become just Quatre.
"Quat, listen. I know you lost your friend, but moping like this isn't doing you or the others any good."
Finally, the other boy shoved Quatre so roughly that Quatre flew out of bed and landed sprawled awkwardly on the cold ground. Quatre made no effort to move, or even shift to a more comfortable postion.
"Well, Quat," the other boy grumbled. He jumped to his feet and peered over the cot at the pathetic blonde. "You are pitiful." He toyed with his braid as he spoke. "You would think, and you could hope. But you never know until it actually happens."
There was no response.
"I may not have known this person, but it seems to me that he would be one to scold you for being such a wimp."
There was no response.
"Seriously, Quat, think about it. Do you think that he would want you wasting your life sulking around?"
There was no response.
The American pilot walked over to the other side of the cot and stared down and Quatre. He gently nudged him with the toe of his black boot.
There was no response.
He pushed Quatre onto his back and looked down into the bloodshot eyes with dark circles. A few silent tears were rolling down his cheeks.
"Jeez, you make me seem like the bad guy," the American sighed. He nervously scratched his head and tugged on his braid. Then, he sat down on the cot and patted on a spot next to him for Quatre to sit.
Quatre didn't move and simply stared blankly back at the young man. He was still overcome with a painful numbness.
"Alright… Fine then, if you want to do it this way instead." The visitor stood up. He reached down and pulled Quatre to his feet. Quatre having no intention of going anywhere slumped heavily against the other boy. The other boy readjusted Quatre for the more efficient walking position.
"Buddy, this makeshift infirmary is a nasty place. And it's for actually sick people. C'mon. Let's get some fresh air." He smiled and the happiness was evident in the striking cobalt blue eyes.
"It's sort of late to ask, but do you mind if I call you Quat?"
Quatre was looking down at his feet, not paying attention to the words the other boy was speaking to him.
"Since there is no objection, I'll take that as a yes."
Half carrying the blonde and half dragging him, the brunette soldier took Quatre into the afternoon sunlight. It was warm for a winter day, but warm none the less. There was a small draft of cold wind, but the breeze was more soothing than uncomfortable.
They walked along until the outskirts of town, where all the airplanes were landed. It hadn't quite begun to snow, but there was some flakes sprinkled about the landscape. They crunched softly beneath their leather boots as the two walked across the field.
They made their way through the carefully planned lattice network to a well cared for plane. There was just a little too much black paint for Quatre's liking. But it seemed to match the rambunctious pilot's nature.
The brunette set Quatre down in the shade of Deathscythe's wings and took a seat next to him. The blue sky above, comparative to the gray of two days ago, added to picturesque feel of the day.
"So, who was this friend of yours?" the boy suddenly asked.
For a minute or two, the pilot thought Quatre was going to remain as silent as ever. He almost began to regret making the effort to befriend the emotionally tormented blonde, and to drag him all the way out to the temporary Allies air field, to receive the silent treatment.
"Rashid," Quatre finally said after five long minutes. The nostalgic tone in which Quatre said the man's name made the other whistle.
"Rashid, eh?" the brunette pondered. "He must have been quite the guy 'cause all you Poles worship him. He's a god amongst men I suppose."
"What do you mean, 'quite the guy'? Rashid is so much more than just that."
"Oh really?" the other enticed. "Tell me about him."
"He is you. He is me. He is my mother and he is my father. He is my sister and my brother." Quatre's speech had sped up a little and was becoming more human.
The other boy raised an eyebrow. Quatre had taken the bait.
"My father used to be an agent for international finances. And my mother was always so busy taking care of the household that I never saw much of them. I was the only boy of four children. Rashid was the brother that I always wanted and never biologically had."
Quatre pulled his goggles over his eyes. "I loved the Arthurian legends. I loved everything about the Knights of the Round Table, even with the scandal between Lancelot and Guinevere. We'd pretend to be members and I'd have so much fun."
Quatre jumped to his feet and danced around as if he were wielding Excalibur.
Fire lashed out at him as he faced down the terror of the village in a remote corner of his sacred kingdom. Quatre adeptly dodged the assault and cut across the creature's chest. It screamed a horrendous sound that shook both the sky and the earth. It swiped its paw at Quatre and sent him flying into a boulder. Not accepting defeat, Quatre picked himself up and charged. He screamed ferociously as he swung is broadsword high above his head and plunged it deep into the heart of the black dragon. With a renewed energy, he laughed and panted heavily.
"Rashid liked Merlin best, the wise father of all. In a sense, that role was perfect since their characters are so similar. But he'd play a more eccentric version of Merlin; going about casting spells upon anything he had an excuse to cast a spell upon."
Quatre then pretended to be the young Arthur, staring in awe at the glorious sword protruding from a stone. "Only a true king of men may draw Excalibur from this stone," Quatre said in an imitated, deep voice. He reached down and firmly grasped the imaginary hilt of the sword with both hands. With the ease of running water, Quatre pulled Excalibur free.
"I am King Arthur, the high king of Camelot!" He shouted to the sky above.
The American pilot fell on his back laughing at the antics of his new friend. He clutched at his stomach for he was starting to cramp due to insane laughter. At his age, he would never admit to anyone his childhood fantasies. Except, just maybe, he would tell them someday to Quatre.
"I shall never die, for I will live in the dreams of all men," Quatre continued. "And I will arise once more when my country needs me most."
Quatre sat down after a few more mock battles with mythical creatures and atrocious bandits. It was surprising to see someone who had previously so lethargic be so energetic. Although the pain from Rashid's death still lingered in the face of the infantry man, there was a sort of peace brought about it.
"Rashid is a wonderful man. He isn't just my friend; he's an extension of my soul as I am his."
Quatre's acquaintance nodded slowly. They understood each other despite the vast differences between them. The two sat in a peaceful silence, enjoying whatever the revere they could while the ongoing war around them was relatively quiet.
"Do you realize that Rashid is, to put it bluntly, dead? And you're still talking about him as if he was alive?" he asked.
Quatre shook his head. "Rashid is not dead. He's alive." He pointed at his heart.
"Judging from the way you were previously this morning, I would have come to the conclusion that Rashid was entirely dead."
"I guess I just needed someone else to beat me up to realize that."
"You're welcome, Quat."
"Thanks…" Quatre struggled to recall the other boy's name. Did the other boy give his name?
"Duo," Duo supplied.
"Thank you, Duo."
"That's what I'm here for."
"Duo?"
"Yeah?"
"How much time do we have left until supper?"
Duo checked a glance at his watch. "About four hours. Why?"
"I'm going to sleep."
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To be continued…