The next time Arthur awakened, it was dark; the noise of the truck that he'd been riding in was gone, leaving only the soft chirp of insects, and the sound of the guard who had been with him for the ride outside arguing with someone in a gutteral sounding language in front of the closed flap.
Then again, German had always sounded like an angry language to him- they could just has well have been reciting love poems to one another.
The thought was passing, but hopeful. He'd finally recognized something in this insane situation he'd gotten himself stuck in, but the new questions in his mind was 'have we finally stopped for the night?' Along with 'Where is my pilot now?'
Abruptly the canvas flap was jerked open, revealing the dark outlile of a figure behind a blindingly bright torch.
Arthur flinched back, feeling the twinge of wounds that he'd almost managed to forget in his stiff body, and the stab in his head that heralded the return of the headache that had been plaguing him since he'd awakened.
The figure barked something- an order- to the guard, who was obviously behind him.
"My apologies for leaving you alone for so long, Herr Kirkland." There was a peculiar stress on the name that Arthur couldn't place. "My lieutenant should have called me earlier. Your wounds should have been tended hours ago.
The light was pulled back enough so that it was no longer in Arthur's eyes, and blinked hazily through the lingering pain at the figure, which now was revealed as the tall blond man who he had last seen at the crash site, leaning over Arthur, while he had been-
"Is the pilot still alive?" the question popped out before he could think to say anything else. Not 'Is he all right?' because there was no way in hell that whatever medical treatment that Jones had received in a moving vehicle would have made everything all better-
"Kiss it and make it better, Arthur!" The small voice told him, "Please- it hurts!"
Such a demand could not go unfulfilled, and Arthur pressed his lips against the scrape.
"There, love. You'll be fine now."
The blond blinked at him, a faint confused frown crossing his stern face.
"Are you well, Herr Kirkland?"
"My head still aches- It is rather rude to knock an injured man in the head before giving him a chance to come along peacefully, isn't it." He probably shouldn't have said that, Arthur realized, as he was finishing his sentence. Treated as a guest or no-
"My men were a bit over enthusiastic," Came the reply after a pause that went on for far too long for Arthur's taste or nerves. "And to answer your question, Captain Jones is still among the living. It would take far more than a mere plane crash to kill him- as you should know."
The last phrase, low, and almost whispered made Arthur flinch.
Obviously this man knew something that he could not remember. He knew something about both of them- and in particular, knew Arthur- but not necessarily by the name he had discovered before. It made him more nervous. Wary.
"May I see him then, General?" The identity of this blond stranger was obvious. The certainty and commanding nature, the way he knew things-
Another one of those strange looks from the tall German officer.
"Once your own injuries have been cleaned up and seen to, perhaps." Another pause, almost as if the officer was waiting for something. "You are unusually quiet, Herr Kirkland. It makes me concerned."
"What would you have me say? You have me at a disadvantage. I cannot even offer to shake your hand, while tied like this." Arthur tugged at his arms, wincing as some muscle or another decided to twinge in protest.
The officer moved swiftly, squatting in front of Arthur, then reaching around to lose his bonds.
Arthur merely sat still.
"I am not certain I prefer your silence, England." The voice hissed in his ear, as the General passed close enough that no other would be able to hear. "What are you playing at now?"
"I'm not playing." Arthur frowned. England. Why did that- Another wave of dizziness made him almost wish he could vomit, and get it over with, rather than just cling to consciousness while the world around him rippled in obscenely nauseating ways. "Ugh-"
The General was scowling, however there was a bit of curiosity in those blue eyes that watched Arthur while he fought the urge to curl up in a little ball on the floor, now that he was able to move away from the pole. With another barked order to his subordinate outside the vehicle, the other man snatched Arthur from the floor, and slung him over one broad shoulder.
Arthur could only yelp, as bruised ribs were punished.
"I am taking you to A- your friend, and the physician who can bandage that cut on your head- stay silent, and do not puke on my uniform."
Fortunately the trip was a short one, during which Arthur barely had time to think about being sick, let alone actually restrain his body from giving in to the automatic reaction to having his head upside-down and swimming.
He didn't see much of the place where they were sheltering beyond the momentary glimpses of the military vehicles and a moonlit forest before he was thrust back into bright light once more.
A few growled words, then a half dozen orders barked in more of that angry sounding language, and Arthur found himself being set carefully down upon what looked to be a well-worn settee. Another unfamiliar face hovering about immediately replaced the general's and began to poke and prod at his sore body with an air of hasty professionalism.
"Concussion- moderate to severe, most likely," The man reported in broken English "Broken ribs, probably bruises- but this is the worst of it, from what I see. He was fortunate."
The small flashlight, that had been stabbing him in the eye (God, why was everyone insisting on shining lights in his face?) was pocketed, and he felt a finger tapping tender flesh on the left side ofhis face. He couldn't see the General's reaction, while his eyes tried to adjust from the (second) light assault.
"This will need stitches, if you deem it necessary, sir."
"Do what you must." The words were harsh, and from the look on the medic's face, a bit of a surprise for him. "They must be in a condition to survive what awaits them in Berlin."
Arthur felt the temperature in the room drop a few degrees, and shivered.
"As you command," The needle was produced, threaded while Arthur watched. He couldn't take his eyes of the glint of silver, which had become his unwilling focus.
"Look elsewhere, " The harshly accented German medic ordered him, "It will help more if you don't move, and focusing on something else you will be less likely to wiggle. That will be easier for both of us."
Obediently, but with an effort, Arthur pulled his gaze away, instead fixing it upon the fireplace. Wide. Brick. Very home-y. The knick-knacks were still lining the mantelpiece, though knocked askew as though the earth had been shaken beneath the happy home- soft rug, of a particular brilliant blue that looked like the sky on a lazy summer afternoon in-
This wasn't a base, he realized, trying to ignore the steady pricking of the skin above his left temple, the way the medic continued to swab at the sticky skin. This was someone's home.
A final tug at the stitches went nearly unnoticed, as he let his eyes wander,. While somewhere in his mind he was noting the pattern embroidered on the curtains, his eyes finally came to rest on the spot where the General stood, arms folded, observing. His disapproving gaze and grey uniform looked very out of place in this warm and comfortable parlor.
"Finished." The medic announced unnecessarily, now swathing a bandage over his morbid needlework. "Quite a job, between that hair and those eyebrows."
Arthur blinked numbly. Eyebrows?
One hand automatically went up to try and figure out what the medic could mean- only to have it swatted away from the bandages.
"Don't disturb my hard work. I won't be so kind a second time."
The general's stern expression grew, if anything, a little more stern and puzzling.
"You may return to your other patient now, Alfons." The General spoke firmly, "The guards are watching the perimeter, and I can handle one prisoner. Herr Kirkland and I must speak privately."
"As you have ordered, General Beilschmidt, sir. My second and I will do our best-" Bloody gauze was swept off the table, and instruments were tucked away, without a second glance, and then a low muttered phrase that alarmed Arthur, made his breath catch in his throat, not really understanding why. "Even if it is a lost cause."
Alfred Jones was alive, but if this medic's attitude was true, not for much longer.
"That will do, Alfons." snapped the General. "Treat him as though he will survive, Jones must be alive when we reach Berlin, and it is your duty to make certain that he is."
Arthur felt himself shaking. Why was the idea of the young pilot- and he was young couldn't have been more than nineteen- dying strike him so hard? It couldn't just be because the man was his only friendly clue as to his own identity, who he was before the flames and the pain. This General Beilschmid knew him- but the boy..
"Yes, sir." Alfons' tone had gone to an abrupt and subordinate one as Arthur vaguely heard his footsteps fade.
"Now." The General had moved while Arthur was not looking, and now loomed over him. "It is time for you to answer a few of my questions. Why are you in my land, England?"
"I-" Arthur tilted his shaking and aching head up to look at the man. Odd, how the general was addressing him by his homeland's name, rather than 'Herr Kirkland' now. "It wasn't by choice, I assure you."
"Obviously. You wouldn't have chosen to fly an airplane into the ground to make an entrance. Your young companion, however- I would not put it past him, on most days." A frown, a deep and searching gaze as a gloved hand reached for Arthur's chin. "You were aboard an escort for a bombing mission to one of my airfields, were you not?"
"If you say so." Arthur danced around the question nervously. The harsh tones would turn into strikes, he was certain, however the need to answer with a flippant evasion seemed a better response than to meekly tell the truth. Even if it meant his interrogator would become angry.
"You will tell us what we need to know," Icy eyes bored into his own. What color were his eyes anyway? The stray thought flashed through unbidden. "Your capture means that we are well on our way to victory. You will find it less painful if you cooperate."
"Less painful than crashing an aircraft into the ground, I assume. Being a prisoner of war was not on my list of achievements for today, and being a collaborator is far from the top as well." Arthur shivered again, trying to pull his face and eyes away from the perfect blond haired blue eyed figure. "You said that I could see Alfred. I won't answer any of your questions if you don't allow me to see him, and if he dies- cooperation is right out."
The eyes narrowed, and the fingers tightened. Again, the gaze was intense, as General Beilschmidt seemed to search his eyes for something. Arthur steeled himself, and kept himself steady as he stared right back.
He would have said something else, Arthur had been certain, if it hadn't been for a sudden yell from the back of the house in German.
Narrowed eyes widened briefly, and then narrowed once more, as he called back in the same language, then dropped his hand to Arthur's wrist, pulling him along as he headed towards the yelling.
"What-" Arthur managed to say, almost ready to pull his arm back.
"You wanted to see him," General Beilschmidt said, yanking open a door, "The medics are having... a difficulty. You may help them."
"But I'm not a-" Arthur started to protest as he was shoved into what was obviously someone's bedchamber. The words were cut off at the sight that lay before him.
Blood-soaked sheets and bandages, and a pale and bruised face with eyes the color of a summer sky wildly searching for something in the small room, while the man who had treated Arthur's wounds attempted to hold him still as he thrashed, and made incoherent sounds- (Futile to even try to hold the boy back- he was far too strong for-)
And his partner was reeling beside the guard-de-robe on the opposite side of the room.
There was a faint blue tinge to the pale skin around his lips, half exposed chest nearly white beneath its tan, and discolored with bruises and burns. And blood— more blood- spreading under swaths of fabric bandages from the area where Arthur remembered the metal shard to have been lodged.
. There were more orders being barked once more, but Arthur didn't understand them. All he could do was step forward, as the General's hand pulled him to the flailing man's bedside. Narrowly, Beilschmidt dodged a blow- and brought Arthur into the range of the patient's wildly searching vision.
The oddly warm blue focused on Arthur, and he felt a lump form in his throat, his chest aching as though he'd been punched. (Isn't blue a cold colour? Why do these eyes seem warm?) A blink, and sudden recognition fitting through the other man's awareness.
The flailing stopped immediately.
"Alfred..." Arthur started to reach a hand out to touch the boy, but paused- glancing over at the medic who was giving both of them a relieved look. The medic nodded, busying himself with something in his kit, then briefly over the now still arm. His hand cupped a battered cheek gently. "Shh, my lad, everything will be fine."
There was something calmer about the face now, but still- a fear lingered.
Blue eyes fought to remain open, but inevitably fluttered closed.
"Everything will be fine."