Disclaimer: I own nothing.
London, England
Winter, 1915
Tonight he paints the water.
His brush moves in wide, harsh strokes, the helpless rage that plagues him apparent in the roiling, twisting image of the storm he paints upon his canvas. He paints the moon, distorted and reflecting off the large wave that washes over the side of a ship leaning dangerously sideways. He paints the deep, endless blue of the sky, peppered with stars that twinkle quietly even as the water beneath buckles under straining creaking metal, as the the edges of the words painted on the ship's hull disappear under the waves. He paints the rich purple of the storm clouds lurking in the distance, alive and sparkling with lightning, waiting to come in and wash away the screams of anguish that ring out below them. He paints the emerald greens of the crashing waves, the white of the sea foam suffocating the men who had fallen.
He paints the red.
The edges of the flames licking across the deck, the ocean changing colour beneath the ship, the rips in the sails, the large hole in the hull.
He paints the terrible beauty of the night he lost it all.
Off the coast of Germany
Summer, 1914
The solidity of the metal beneath his fingers as he clutches at the gunwale is the only thing keeps him from feeling like he is drowning.
The rain is heavy and oppressive. It makes his clothes cling to his body, dragging his shoulders under their weight. It makes every step an arduous task for his exhausted limbs as he tries to make his way to his brother and captain. Liam stands behind the glass on the bridge, looking down at the flashes of flame as guns from opposing ships fire at them. The wind is loud, the shelling even louder as Killian struggles to stand, the ship's deck rumbling beneath his feet, his body feeling the kickback from every time guns go off both below and above him.
"Lieutenant! What is- "
"Back to your station, Smee!"
Killian's voice is a faint thread upon the sounds of thunder even as his throat feels hoarse from shouting. He watches as Smee's lips form a quick assent but he doesn't hear him as yet another shell leaves one of their guns.
He turns back for a moment, to look again at the fleet of ships rapidly making their way towards the Jewel, their pace steady despite the tumult of the ocean beneath them, of the sky above them.
This was supposed to be a quiet reconnaissance.
Their Admiral had ordered their lone ship to slip into enemy territory for a quick look around and though Killian had had his doubts about the operation, Liam had followed orders implicitly as one ought to do.
But now, as he stands there, face to face with far too many ships for them to handle at once, ships that weren't supposed to be this far from the coast, his eyes squinting against the bright flashes of the guns, the waves tossing their ship and their enemies' alike, making the battle just that much more difficult, he wonders if he should have raised his voice, if Liam should have questioned Admiral Gold.
Their stealthy patrol had become an ambush in a matter of minutes.
Another kick as the deck beneath his feet sways, as another wave tosses them, as another rush of water from the ocean wets the deck. He turns around and continues on his way to the bridge.
Thunder rumbles in the skies matching the sound of their guns, lightning outlining the crow's nest with a halo of white light as he looks up, his hands gripping the edges of the ladder that leads up to his brother.
Water begins to get in his eyes and he looks straight ahead again, beginning to make the slippery climb. The way up is even harder than the walk to the ladder had been but he continues, his hands gripping tight, his feet curled along the rungs of the ladder, holding on even tighter every time the ship sways under fire, every time the thunder startles him, terribly easy to mistake for a shell hitting its mark.
He finally reaches the top, the sounds of the outside muffling a touch as he steps into the room, swiping the wet strands of hair that cling to his forehead.
"Captain! What's happening?"
His voice is hoarse rasp, a result of shouting over the howling wind and rain.
"I'm not sure." Liam doesn't look at him, his body still turned towards the ships- definitely more than one- making their way rapidly towards them.
"Wasn't this a-"
"Yes, Lieutenant, it was," Liam turns to face him then, his mouth opening to say something but before he can, Killian feels the floor begin to wobble beneath them harder than before. Perhaps one of the shells had found its mark after all. Liam bends and tells the man at the radio something before coming to stand next to him.
"Killian, we've radioed the Admiral but either they can't hear us or-" his voice is a whisper then, not wanting the other men to hear the uncertainty, the doubt colouring his voice.
Killian feels his heart drop. No, surely, they wouldn't. Even though he had had his doubts about the legitimacy and the nature of their mission, he had never considered the fact that they might be left here-
"Or? Liam I'm sure they've not heard us. You know how radios are and the storm-"
Killian's voice teeters away, his hand instinctively clenching as he tries to hide the frantic pounding of his heart.
"Killian listen," Liam takes his hand, his eyes searching Killian's wider ones, "we'll keep trying but in case we can't reach them, I want you to-"
He never finishes his sentence because suddenly they are falling.
They never hear the torpedo coming but everyone in the room hears the deafening creaking noise, the explosion as they are hit on their starboard side.
The ship immediately begins to tip on its side and Killian watches as every instrument, every piece of furniture and every man on the bridge first rises up, off the ground, then falls back down with a crash before beginning to fall sideways. As though part of a dance with the violent waves of the ocean, with the howling wind, with the flashing thunder and lightning.
It must be quite the sight, the fire and the water, the lighting and the gunfire and the moon above it watching it all unfold, he thinks, disconnected, as his mind tries to catch up with what is happening. His eyes are locked on Liam's, their hands still clasped together as they crash against the window on the far end of the room, their bodies prone against it as the ship continues to sway and shudder. He can see the flames licking at the edges of the water, smoke veiling the world around them.
"Liam I-"
Someone begins to scream, their voice mixing in with the sudden influx of noise as one of the windows breaks. Liam's eyes squeeze shut even as Killian holds on to him harder, his other hand gripping the window frame as tightly as possible.
Another explosion, much closer this time. The coal. The boiler, perhaps. His ears ring with it, mercifully muffling the sounds of men shouting for evacuation, looking for the captain, screaming in panic. The flames rise higher, the smoke coming into their room through the broken windows. He begins searching the room for the rest of their men, his eyes finding only grey and red and yellow at the edges of his vision.
"Killian! Look at me!"
He jerks his head back to Liam whose hair is wet with rain now, his voice faint above the noises of shouting, of the waves crashing against their sides, of the roaring thunder, of the slowly retreating gunfire.
Another groan of the ship as it begins to give in, continuing to tip onto its side. The window beneath them finally gives in under their combined weight, a small crackle of breaking glass that sounds louder to him than all the gunfire in the world.
And just like that, Liam is falling, his one hand still in Killian's, the other holding on to the jagged edge where the glass had broken off, blood already seeping in between his fingertips as he shouts in pain. Below Liam, Killian can see the rest of the ship, the deck perpendicular to him, the railing of the ship beneath them silhouetted against a massive wave that he can see is coming toward them. The fire hasn't reached this side of the ship yet, the deck still soaking, men clinging to lifeboats, struggling to untie them even as they hang off of the gunwale.
It all feels like it is happening a hundred times slower than it is.
"Liam, I won't let go!"
He thinks these words, as he holds on tighter, as he looks into his fear reflected in Liam's eyes, as he tries to get his feet on a surface sturdy enough to put his weight onto pull himself up. He sees Liam try to say something, his lips moving but his voice inaudible over the cacophony of terror outside, over the ringing of the explosion still in his ears.
He never does know if he said the words, he never does know what Liam had said, he never gets to say goodbye because just like that, the water is upon them and everything goes black.
London, England
Winter, 1915
His hand starts shaking right as he begins to trace the delicate edge of the moonlight outlining the crow's nest.
A stray wind blows through the crack in his window, the latch a little too loose to close it all the way, the chill of it making him shiver in his loose clothes, his hand reaching for the flask on the small table beside him. As he takes a swig of his rum, the burn of it warming his throat, his eyes fall again to the letter that sits on the table across from him. The remains of his meagre dinner are still on his plate next to it, the edges of the paper crumpled and creased as he had crushed it and reopened it again and again. The dips and valleys in the paper lit by the candle that sits on the table speak of his indecision, the storm that rages inside him. He takes another deep drag. He had tried to forget, tried to lose himself in the rhythmic back and forth of his brush, in the rich colours of his canvas but the words of the letter come back to him again, Robin's words etched into his mind, swimming through his consciousness, pulling at him like a tide until all he can do is succumb to their will.
I know how you feel about the war Killian.
But, I urge you my friend, to consider this. It is an opportunity that I hope will get you out of your self imposed exile, that will help you do something you love again, that I hope, will make you smile again.
By god, I have not heard you laugh in months.
Please tell me you will consider it?
He goes on to speak of a War Artists Scheme.
A new plan by the president of the Propaganda Bureau to send artists out to the front to capture the life in the trenches, sketch their brave lads, make images of the glories of it all and bring them back home.
Robin had sent the application as well, already filled in. Killian's lips quirk into a soft smile despite himself. Robin had always been a good man.
And a persistent one.
But, despite the fact that his heart warms at the thought of his old friend worrying for him, thinking him worthy, the idea of stepping into the fore again, the idea of watching more young men fall in the name of a war nobody seems to know the purpose of, it aches sharp and heavy in his chest.
He turns away from the letter then, exchanging his flask for his brush again, the bristles hovering over the canvas even as his eyes fall inevitably, as they always do, to his left arm.
The bad one. The stump. A small price to pay for King and Country. It has been called many things since he had lost it that same night he had lost Liam many months ago. They had discharged him after a quick stay at a hospital and deemed him worthy of a few Pounds of compensation a year for his loss, a medal in exchange for his brother, a small red chevron on his uniform in exchange for his limb.
The limb in question aches as if in response.
Sometimes, he can still feel his missing hand, feel his phantom fingers flex, feel the sharp, shooting pain that had run up and down his arm until he had lost consciousness on that alien shore where he had washed up.
(Hear his own shouts of agony as the guillotine had fallen, as a soft voice had whispered nonsense platitudes.)
He drops his hand, his eyes squeezing shut as he pulls himself out of the memory, his brush falling softly onto his palette before he reaches to lift his shirt sleeve up. He watches the end where his forearm terminates into nothingness, trying to see if there was a physical manifestation of the pain, a pulsing of his puckered flesh, a change in it's colour, something to mark the intensity of the pain that has become his companion. But there is nothing, his arm looking as unremarkable as ever apart from the obvious missing bit.
His eyes drift back up to his canvas, chasing the waves that match up against the jagged edges of the broken ship. The blues of the ocean looking grey in the dim light of his candles and the street beyond his window, the flames softer, the blood in the water darker. His hand clutches at the end of his injured arm, his teeth grinding, his jaw clenching as the pain spikes for a moment before falling back to its constant hum.
It is always the worst at night when the world is quiet, when there is nothing to distract the demons in his mind from his body's protests. His stump pulses with a warm ache that is all that he can feel. It rings through his heart and his mind and nothing will curb it. So he lies with his only hand clasped on the end of it, his teeth clenched tight, his eyes squeezed shut as he tries to stop the sobs from escaping until his mind, exhausted from it all finally gives in to a fitful sleep.
But some nights, like tonight, there is no fighting it. The pain consumes him, it eats away at his mind, his body unable to resist and so he paints. He paints large washes of colour, endless ocean and sky, clouds drifting in the soft breeze, the sun soft and warm behind them. He paints until the rhythm of his brush calms his mind. He paints though the dim light strains his eyes, though the colours are different in it. He paints all through the night until the muted colours, lit only by his candles turn rich and vibrant in the dawn sunlight.
It had been difficult at first, his hand unused to holding his delicate brushes after so long operating guns and machinery. He had had to change his setup of an easel and a small stool by its side to hold his brushes and add a much larger, higher table that would hold his paints, his palette, his brushes, the little bowl with alcohol to clean them. His inability to use both hands and hold his palette and his brush at once had led to him needing a higher location to place his colours so that he may reach for them as he worked.
It had taken him a more than a few days to get used to this new, slightly slower way of doing things. Trying in vain to balance his heavy, rectangular, folding palette on his bad arm, spilling his bowl of alcohol all over his floor in an attempt to keep himself from dropping his palette with his newly mixed and expensive colours on it, his temper and his stubbornness had been at odds with one another as he struggled between giving up and pushing through the pain. But, the memory of Liam falling away in a chasm of noise and glass and flame etched behind his eyelids had made his first shaky strokes grow heavy and solid and steady until it had become easier.
Even now as he stands before the image that fills his nightmares still, his hand closed over his injured arm, his body swaying from exhaustion, his toes curling into the floor as another stray breeze ruffles his clothes, his heart still longs to finish the painting.
As though completing the image would help him escape it.
Painting has always been his solace, his place to hide. Even as a child, he had hidden in the smell of the paints, in the touch of canvas, in the rough lines on charcoal in his sketchbook, in his soot covered fingers. He had continued to hide in them as an adult too, a tutor before he had enlisted.
But now, broken in more than just body, he finds he is unable to do anything else.
And nobody wants to learn to paint the colours of the sky when everyday, the hospitals overflow with men who aren't men anymore but numbers, when letters are sent but never received, when brothers and fathers and sons and lovers go missing in foreign lands and seas, never to be found.
Nobody wants to hire an artist to sketch out the turmoil of their collective nightmare.
Apart from the men who have declared this war, caused the nightmare themselves.
He closes his eyes, takes a breath before dropping his hand from around his arm as he reaches for his brush again, a thicker one this time, dipping into the deep blue of the turbulent ocean, his hand just a little steadier than before.
Tonight, instead of the large seascape that sits behind him- his mind preoccupied by Robin's letter- he had picked up the canvas that sat facing the wall in his bedroom. The canvas that he had begun working on that first night he had walked into this house, its rooms alight with the ghost of his brother, of the life they had shared. The first night he had seen his brother's empty bed, the rooms suddenly too large, too hollow. The first night that he had shut every door, every window and sat in his room, tried to contain the panic in his gut by making himself as small as possible. The first night he had lain on his bed, his hand clutching at the end of his arm where his other hand no longer was, trying but failing to rock himself to sleep. The first night he had picked up his brush after what felt like years and begun to paint the crashing thunder and the helpless echoes of that horrible night.
But his renewed effort doesn't last long, the lines of his waves, meant to be soft and curved, cresting and dipping with a terrible beauty are instead jagged and broken as he tries to be delicate with a hand that has begun to tremble once more. Another chill gust of wind, carrying the scent of the ocean outside convinces him to give up for the night, his brush clattering as he drops it onto his pallette, the sound loud in the silence of his house.
Running his hand through his hair in frustration, he grabs at his flask again, the rum doing little to calm the pain but doing just enough to dull his senses. Enough that the restless agitation in his belly becomes a faded echo, enough that the helpless rage in his heart becomes a hazy reflection.
The rum is what he blames for what happens next.
Eyes still lingering on the painting before him, his mind already trying to work out ways to correct the shaky mistakes of his hand this night, he does not look as he moves to place the flask back on to the table beside him. Only, he misjudges the distance and it lands atop his palette instead, his recently discarded brush rolling off its edge, his heavy palette tipping towards the floor. Forgetting in his haste and in the haze of the alcohol drudging through his veins, he reaches out with his left arm to steady it. But he is not quick enough and the palette falls, it's straight edge crashing into the puckered end of his constantly aching wound.
And as his pained shout echoes in his silent, too big house, as he realises just how truly helpless he is, he finally allows himself to cry the frustrated sobs that had been caught in his throat all night.
A/N: I've researched and tried to portray this period with as much accuracy as I can manage but I have taken a couple of liberties at certain points and I will mention them in my author's notes whenever I do. Apologies for any mistakes.
In this chapter,
In real life, the Propaganda Bureau commissioned its first War Artist in May 1916 but for the purposes of this story, Killian is being called upon earlier as a sort of test of the scheme, where they're searching for lesser known artists to see how well it would work.
In other news, Guillotines were in fact used for amputations in the First World War and it was terrible.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter and will stick around for more. Please let me know what you think! 3