London, England
Winter, 1915
The sun is halfway up the sky when he finally gives in and goes to the hospital. His arm wrapped in an old shirt, his bootlaces sloppily tied, the walk to the hospital is a nightmare. Every step, every movement bringing a sharp shot of pain up his arm.
He hadn't bled at first, the stubborn pulsing pain of his wound only getting louder, more insistent. But as he had begun to clear his small area of work, not much less stubborn himself, he'd watched as a single drop of the deepest red fell from his arm into his bowl of alcohol, the colour blooming into a wide disc between the swirling deep blues and rich purples of his painting.
The pain had turned piercing then, the old sharp stab of breaking skin and blood welling where a cut had opened. Unable to control or staunch the exacerbated ache, he'd put on a coat and begun to walk.
There is a chill in the air, the sun not completely awake yet, the rain from last night still visible in puddles on the street, a fine mist settled on everything in his path. The air is thick and wet as he breathes noisily, every step a hurdle, his breath puffing into steam in front of him. He pulls his coat tighter around himself, as well as he can with one hand, pulling on one side and then the other, hunching his head down into his scarf as he tries to hide from the wind that follows him from the river. It cuts through him like a knife, flowing strong and powerful and completely through him as he walks through the slowly rousing streets of London in the morning, his fellow early risers walking the same way, with swift step and lowered heads.
It feels as though he is but the bones that make him, his body feeling like it has gone missing.
The only feeling that is loud enough to fight the cold and damp, is the pain in his arm that rings like a pulsing beacon, red and angry calling his attention back to it again and again. He tries concentrating instead on the low murmur of sound beginning to fill the streets, getting louder the closer he gets to the hospital, the closer it gets to being properly morning. He tries following the melody of the birds tweeting around him, ducks just waking and quacking away at one another. He tries to look outside himself for a distraction that will keep him upright long enough to reach his destination.
It only just works.
The first blast of warm air from inside the hospital feels like a balm but it is quickly followed by the sharp, too clean smell of disinfectant, the sound of rapid footsteps as doctors and nurses move in the corridors, muffled groans of pain, low sobs of despair.
He only just registers the voice of the red-headed woman at the front desk asking him to take a seat, to wait his turn. He sits pressed between a woman who is quietly sobbing into her handkerchief, her shoulders shaking gently and a man who has gauze wrapped around his left eye, his other squeezed shut as he holds on to the hand of the man sitting on his other side, knuckles white from his grip. The hospital is loud and quiet all at once, the voices of the doctors and nurses mixing with quiet crying and agonised screaming alike. The shout of pain from a dressing of a wound overlaid upon the silence of a family hearing that their son would not make it.
The bench is hard and uneven, a straight wooden slat set into the wall. He falls back against it, glad for the discomfort for it gives him something to concentrate on that's not the deep red pounding of his arm that has gotten more intense even as the blood from the small cut on his wrist has since clotted and stopped staining the shirt he has wrapped around it.
His jaw clenches as he takes a deep breath before releasing his arm from the grip he's had on it since he left his house. The sudden release of pressure on the wound makes him gasp as the pain jolts in its intensity. Unwrapping the shirt, he takes a look at the cut. A much deeper red now and uneven to the touch, the wound looks disproportionately ordinary compared to the pain that it is causing. He wraps the shirt back around it before leaning his head against the wall, his eyes closing as he tries to push outward again, tries to divert his attention from the pain that beats in time with his heart.
"Elsa! Hold on a minute."
It is the woman from the desk. The one who'd written down his name and asked him to wait. Her voice is a loud whisper, frantic as she tries to get someone's attention. He hears a pair of footsteps slow and and then make a turn, coming to a stop near him, before woman at the desk continues speaking, lower now. Her volume slipping into a more conversational one.
"Is everything alright? We haven't sent a new patient in-"
"It's fine, Anna. As fine as it can be really," the other woman, Elsa replies, cutting Anna's sentence short. Her voice is lower still and Killian has to strain to make out the words, even as he feels just a tinge of something akin to shame for listening to a private conversation. Elsa continues speaking though and her voice is like a cool stream of water that seems to soften the sharp edges of his ache just a little bit.
"The casualty convoy from last night had quite a few emergency amputations and we're having a little trouble finishing up the dressings. Emma's taking care of the last of them now so you can send your next man in soon, I reckon."
"Alright then," Anna replies before she drops her brusque businesslike tone and continues, "Are you alright, Elsa? I'm worried, there's always so much blood and so much pain. I don't know how you bear it."
Her voice is different now, a familiarity to it, a concern that makes Killian ache in an altogether different way, his heart suddenly wanting arms around him to rock him as he cries, to brush his hair as he fights the constant ache of the part of him he'd lost on that alien beach.
He opens his eyes to look at them and finds them standing by the front desk, not four steps away and across from him. He notices Elsa first, her face lit by the soft morning sunlight streaming in from the window across from her. Her blonde hair so bright that it looks almost white, like if he'd mixed in the colour of wheat with sunlight. It is knotted into a bun and hidden under her hat, just like all the nurses who work here but wisps of it still escape and flicker about her face like little sparks of light. She's looking at the other woman, Anna, her hand on her arm, a soft smile on her face. Anna's face is settled into an unease that is apparent about her person, her apron just a little crooked, the white of it sharp against her dull blue dress, her red hair escaping in much larger curls from under her headdress, the fabric wrapped around her head and tied at the nape of her neck telling him that she was a VAD.
"I'm okay," Elsa says but even from this distance Killian can see the lie in her tired eyes, the telltale tone of voice that his brother would use to assure him that everything would be fine even as they had to spend another night huddled under a single thin blanket, their stomachs still growling for just another bite.
But Anna seems to believe her, returning her smile and squeezing her hand before nodding at her. Elsa nods back in answer and begins to walk away, Anna taking her seat back at the front desk, making Killian's small moment of respite end as his attention returns to the pain.
He closes his eyes again, head banging almost painfully against the wall again as he grits his teeth, hoping that someone would be ready to see him soon. But even as he tries again to find something to focus on, the image of the two women, one trying to comfort and the other brimming with concern come back to him again and again.
His pain addled mind slowly replaces the image with another corridor, another rising dawn, another hospital, its halls filled with people with faces less kind than the ones who walked here. Perhaps they had been kind too but he had been too afraid. Ten year old Liam's hand on his forearm, his eyes kind, his smile false, the dim light of a lantern shadowing the hollows of his face as he tells a four year old Killian that their mother would not wake again.
"Mother is somewhere better now."
"Can we visit her, Liam?"
He sees the younger version of himself look up at his brother with the tiniest glimmer of hope that somehow he'd be able to go to this place their mother had gone, his voice wobbly, his eyes wide. He sees Liam's grip on little Killian's forearm tighten before pulling him into a fierce hug, his eyes squeezed shut, a few tears escaping as he tries to be the older brother, as he tries to hold himself together for Killian.
"No, little brother, I'm afraid not."
"But, why?"
He remembers his own indignation at Liam's flat refusal of his request. He remembers pulling away from Liam's hold, looking into his brothers tear streaked face. He remembers finally realising what had happened. That he'd lost his sweet mother, lost her voice singing him to sleep, lost her hands in his hair, lost her kiss on his forehead.
"People only go there when they've been good and brave. Can you do that for me Killian?"
He remembers never wondering where their father was, knowing already that he would not be there for them, that Killian would see him stumble into their small house in the early hours of the morning with a stench on his breath, a wobble in his step. He remembers already knowing that the only person he could depend on, lean on, was his brother Liam.
He remembers nodding solemnly as Liam slowly wipes at his wet cheeks.
"I promise."
"Good lad. I'm just going to go see where father is and I will back in a minute alright? Can you wait here for me?"
He remembers staring at the dim lantern above the doorway across from which he sat. He remembers every curve and edge of the thing, the thin stream of light that came from it, the long shape it made on the floor as he waited for Liam to return. He remembers the nurse who had come to ask him if he was alone or waiting for someone.
"My brother Liam is here. He should be back soon."
"That's good. I'm right over there if you need anything, alright?"
"Yes, miss."
"The King and Queen deeply regret to hear of the loss you and the Army have sustained by the death of your-"
His eyes shoot open as the kind nurse's voice suddenly changes to his Admiral's. Her words of quiet comfort turning into his sharp, unfeeling voice reading out the commiseration letter from the King he had received weeks after Liam's death. A letter that had come with a form informing him that his brother had perished in the line of duty. A form, full of blanks to be filled in for the all the men that fell.
It is my painful duty to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office notifying the death of:-
(No.) 1563 (Rank) Captain
(Name) Liam Jones
Which occurred in the field, HMS Jewel
On the 2nd December 1915
This report is to the effect that he was KILLED IN ACTION
By his Majesty's command, I am to forward the enclosed message of sympathy from their Gracious Majesties the King and Queen. I am at the same time to express the regret of the-
His eyes shut again, burning from his lack of sleep, his head hitting hard against the wall as he remembers the sharp black letters printed on the paper that had stared up at him that day in the post. He remembers standing next to his canvas, afternoon sunlight pouring in through the curtains lighting up the rough beginnings of a seascape. But when he had seen Liam's name written by a hand that had never known him, the green stamp of the words "KILLED IN ACTION" looking up at him, Liam just a name on a list to be filed away and dealt with, the peaceful landscape had become a wild sunset, broad strokes swepping angrily against the white canvas until his hand and his wrist and his clothes had become stained with the brightest reds and oranges.
He had sat then at the foot of his easel and traced the looping, careless writing that had written Liam's name, opened the letter from the King, this one typed out as well, the words hollow and unknowing.
These people had not known him. They had not known his bravery, his strength, his tenderness. They had not known how he had stood on the deck of that ship and sworn to protect his people and serve his King. They had not known the brother who would hug him close and give him enough strength to stand tall another day. They had not known the officer who would inspire his men into fighting another cold, lonely night when all they wanted was to go back home to a warm hearth and soft hugs.
The ache in his wrist shoots up for a minute, his hand coming back around to hold on to it as his jaw clenches. Frustration grows in his chest like a vine, burning bright and crimson as it spreads from his chest, down his spine, to his head, his arms, his wrist.
But even through the haze, he remembers the letter as it had gone on to express regret on behalf of the Army Council, had told him that details of the funeral would be forthcoming. But, they had never come. Instead, he had been called in to talk to a short man in uniform, his voice a touch shaky, his hair a whisper upon his head as he told Killian that he had a duty to his fellow men, to his King and Country, to keep the events of his injury, the truth of his brother's death quiet. He had given him a new rank, his brother's title because as his second in command, Killian had survived him.
The man's words echoed the posters that lined his walls.
Step into your place!
Men of Britain? Will you stand this?
You said you would go when you were needed! You are needed NOW!
The man in the poster, his uniform impeccable, his finger pointing at Killian begins to speak, his words audible from out of his memory, his voice a loud call to arms, a thunderous creaking sound as a ship breaks in two, a chorus of screams that are drowned out by the sound of water.
"NOW!"
Killian's eyes screw shut even tighter, his grip on his arm tightening as a voice filters through into his haze of blinding white pain.
"Captain Jones! We need you NOW!"
The sob caught in his throat becomes a growl as he fights it back, his grip on his injured arm so tight, he feels as though the knuckles on his hand would stab through his skin.
"Captain Jones?"
He jerks away from the touch on his shoulder, another growl escaping his throat as he retreats, feral and injured, holding his wound against his chest.
Anna from the front desk stands with her arm outstretched, her eyes wide at his sudden reaction. He watches her swallow, her hand dropping to her side as she repeats herself.
"Captain Jones, we're ready for you now."
He slowly unclenches his hand, taking deep breaths, nodding to her as he stands. His motions are stiff, his body still stiff from the way he had retreated into a state ready for battle, his muscles ready to run, to fight.
(But how do you fight a demon that is invisible and lives inside you?)
He tries to smile at her, the red haired woman with the wide, scared eyes but he does not know if it comes through the way it is intended, reassuring and apologetic. He wonders how many of his demons she can see in his eyes.
But then, her eyes drop to his wrist, to the fabric that covers the end of it. But, the wrapping does not hide the fact that he is lacking and they soften.
Into pity, into concern perhaps. He is not sure but it is all it takes for his attempt at a smile to drop completely, his fist and jaw to clench tight again, his heart and his steps heavy as he makes his way to the doctor's room.
The room is sparse in its furnishings and dreary in its colour, the walls a nondescript beige, the floor a pale yellow. A desk and a chair sit in the corner, dark wood with various scratches and stains colouring them. A cupboard just off the side stands small but intimidating with bottles of various sizes and degrees of menacing labels hidden behind cloudy glass.
The woman stands by a small table to the left of the examination table, her white cap tilted a little to the side, the knot at the nape of her neck coming just a little loose, her head bent over the equipment that sits on it. He hears the gentle clatter of metal as she rearranges them back onto the tray. She doesn't acknowledge him at first, her fingers busy with straightening the half unwound roll of gauze, the cotton wool that sits in a bowl.
He clears his throat then, his jaw clenched in his frustration. His mind, still lost in a tumultuous storm directs all his unsettled feelings into impatience and then irritation with the woman who was supposed to take care of this for him. All he wants is for her to give him a shot of morphine so he can breathe again without his lungs making his wrist feel like it was going to pull out of his skin, so he could leave this place that made him feel like a helpless child, Anna's pitying eyes flashing in his mind.
"Apologies Captain, if you could take a seat on the table. I will be right with you."
Her voice is firm, smooth, not unlike Elsa's from outside except that her words are more rounded, more American, he realises. He wonders if they are all asked to speak this way. Perhaps it calms the nervous, volatile men they see each day. Perhaps it helps them handle the soldiers who come in here with broken bones and broken spirits.
On another day perhaps, this would not bother him as much. But today, which is still tonight to him, when he hasn't slept a wink, when a small bump against metal has got him running to a hospital lest he pass out from the pain, when he might have to post his application to go back into the fray, to back to working for the people who had cost him his family, his autonomy. Who had cost him everything, her voice only serves to drive the knife in further.
He obeys her though and begins to seat himself on the table, the white sheet crinkling under his weight, a sharp pain shooting up his arm as he puts weight on it to hoist himself up. A groan escapes him as he finally stills, successfully sitting atop the somewhat shaky metal table.
He can see her better now, her head still bowed, her white gloved hands straightening the bottles that line her tray. And that is when he sees it, her fingers trembling just a bit as she continues fixing things, her blonde, almost golden hair escaping her VAD's cap in wisps, her blinding white apron stained with little specks of bright red.
He doesn't know why he says it.
No, that's a lie.
He knows exactly why he says it. It gives him control again, it gives him a place to direct the violent hurricane of his anger and helplessness. He knows why he does it but he hates himself even as he hears the words leave his lips.
"Perhaps genteel folk ought not to take up work they are not suited for. Should not a real nurse be doing this?"
She stiffens immediately, her fingers stilling around a muddy brown coloured bottle who's slightly ripped label reads, Pain Dispeller. But, she does not respond immediately and he lets himself say more, lets himself feel the misplaced, guilty pleasure of taking away some of his own frustration this way. Even as he knows that it is wrong, that it is ill considered and ill mannered and most definitely bad form, he continues.
"I only mean that certain hands are suited to certain tasks. For example, when I see yours, I imagine a tea cup in them, perhaps a delicate glass filled with wine. Certainly not tools to heal the wounded."
He speaks in his most deprecating tone, his voice dripping disdain as it slowly swims through the thickness of his words. But, still she is quiet, placing the bottle she had been holding back into its place before turning to face him.
And it is at that moment, that he is lost.
The world is suddenly louder, more vivid, as though waiting for him to memorise it all, as though telling him. Pay attention. This is important.
The heat of the now fully risen sun from the window behind him suddenly feels like a burning that spreads from his face to his belly, the cloth that covers his wrist becomes scratchy under his fingers as they clench around it, his body stills its restless movements and it feels as though his heart has stopped but most of all, his arm stops pulsing with pain.
Just for a moment.
The blinding white of it flooded with the green of her eyes.
The gold of her hair is just visible under her wimple, her face drenched in sunlight. She walks towards him, her movements stiff and restrained as though she is trying not to grab something and throw it at him. When she is standing in front of him, he sees her lips pulled into a tight smile, her cheeks turning a gentle red, betraying her despite her attempts at trying to maintain a cordial countenance. But, it is her eyes that take him.
Her eyes.
Blazing with anger, glittering with emotion, translucent and mottled with what seems like a thousand shades of green.
They look like sea glass.
Jagged edges and all.
She speaks then, and the cool voice from before is like a thin sheet that covers the storm that lies in her throat.
"I don't know who you imagine yourself to be Captain Jones. But, I will not have you speak to me this way. Not today, when I have just dressed the wounds of a boy not twenty yet. Not when I have wrapped up what remains of his leg as he screamed for his mother who has been dead ten years. Not when I sent him on his way with no answer for when he asked me if the pain would ever go away. Perhaps you can be the one to tell him why he still feels the pain a limb that is no longer there. Perhaps you can tell him why it was worth it that he would never walk again."
She stops then and he comes back to himself. She is still standing before him, her breath coming in sharp quick puffs as she tries to gather herself, her cheeks now a much more vibrant red, her eyes locked on his.
He feels the remorse in his chest instantly, his hand slipping from his place on the fabric around his wrist, trying almost to reach for her, then abandoning the movement to scratch behind his ear instead before coming back to his arm. He opens his mouth to apologise but it seems like he has lost all his words, his mouth opening and closing ineffectually.
He wants to apologise, to say that he knows what it is like.
(His wrist begins to twinge with pain again even as he thinks about it.)
He wants to say that he shouldn't have dared to presume, that he did not mean to disrespect her so.
But his traitorous mind can think of but one thing at that moment.
How much he wants to capture those eyes on his canvas.
Notes, historical or otherwise:
In this chapter,
For the purposes of this story, since Killian was in command of the Jewel for a short minute after Liam's death and before it sank, they offered him a technical promotion to keep him quiet.
The letters that Killian received are real and were sent to all family of men who had perished in the war.
The posters that Killian sees in the Army Office are real.
VAD stands for Voluntary Aid Detachment and they were women who volunteered to serve as nurses to assist in the war effort. They were usually from aristocratic families. Their uniform differed from that of trained nurses. The major difference was that the VADs wore a cap tied at the nape of the neck whereas trained nurses wore white wimples. In this story Emma is a VAD and Elsa is a trained nurse.
Pain Dispeller is real.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter and will stick around for more. Please let me know what you think!