Disclaimer: I own Nothing
London, England
Winter, 1915
"And then the General clapped me on the back and said, Good work lad! Promoted me right there on the field. Just like that! Would you believe it?"
No, I wouldn't.
The words lie so close to spilling out of her lips, her agitation just waiting to bubble over into speech but she restrains herself, forcing out a short smile and a nod like she's been doing the entire trip into the city.
Lieutenant Walsh Smith was some sort of distant cousin of an acquaintance of her father's who she had met during her first summer at her new home. Her mother had thrown a charity gala for the orphanage and Walsh and his family had attended.
She had kissed him that afternoon, a quick press of lips behind a tree because she'd liked his smile.
But the young boy she had met that afternoon had turned into the kind of man who believed that his company was always welcome, that his voice and his opinion were always desired on all matters, that he was the envy of all.
It has been a while since she has seen him and though Anna believes that he is interested in her, that he is a good man- or perhaps just good enough of a man- to be her companion, Emma could not wait to be away from him.
Especially after this afternoon.
He had arrived uninvited, unannounced just as she had been about to sit down with her parents for their afternoon tea- her breakfast for she was to report for a night shift at the hospital- and they had been forced by the bonds of politesse to invite him to join them.
She had grit her teeth and gone through with it.
The only saving grace of the fairly disastrous hour that followed had been the twitch of her father's lips into barely there, courteous smiles even as his grip on his dainty blue china cup grew white knuckled, her mother's sudden interest in cucumber sandwiches every time the lieutenant launched into another anecdote where he was the star.
The stories were all for her benefit, she had realised quickly. His eyes kept flashing to her, as he asked her questions, only to interrupt her slightly curt answers with more stories of his own, happy to spend long minutes talking about himself and eventually, she had been reduced to this. Tight smiles and occasional nods.
It seemed to be enough to keep him talking, much to her parents' annoyance.
Watching them be as irritated as she was and yet force themselves to be egregiously polite had given her a small measure of comfort and pleasure, amusement colouring her eyes even as she kept her face carefully neutral.
But then, just as she had begun to excuse herself to go to work, glad to finally have a respectable excuse to be rid of him, he had begun to insist on travelling to the city with her. Ignoring her protests, - which were as firm as polite society would allow her to be without raising her voice- he had stood up and bid her parents farewell, walking out to fetch his coat.
Her mother's apologetic shrug had been the last thing that Emma had seen before she'd resigned herself to a terrible beginning to her already strange day.
Her journey to the hospital was one of her favourite parts of her day, a time to be still and silent and allow the train to carry her along, allow the sounds of the rushing river and the rustling trees to fill her ears instead of the screams and whimpers that normally predominated her days.
But today it had been filled with the sound of his voice as he had talked about himself, his recent promotion in the army, his deeds at the front, incessantly.
Just as he speaks now.
Her footsteps are quick as as she tries to end this conversation-if one could even call this a conversation- as they walk by a small pond in a park, his voice towering over the sounds of the ducks, of the children that play nearby.
Biting back a grimace, her brows knit into a frown as he tells her what a wonderful job the women were doing back home.
"A man appreciates coming home to a pretty smile and a soft kiss after all the hard work he has to do."
He nudges her softly as though sharing a private joke, his lips curled into a grin and she realises that she has had enough. Her body turning to face him, her fist clenched at her side, her mouth opens to finally give him a piece of her mind, civility be damned.
But before she can pull her thoughts together enough to wipe that grin off his face, she notices him.
Captain Jones, sitting on a bench that they have been walking toward for some time, his head bent over a notebook, his hook holding it steady in his lap as he sketches, his eyes moving periodically between the tree in front of him and the paper below.
A faint smile lights his face, as if he isn't consciously trying but his body is doing it for him any way. His shoulders are loose as he rests against the back of the bench, his posture relaxed.
She's surprised at first, an odd feeling settling over her as she realises that this is the first time she has seen him like this. Lost in his work this way. Free.
Her mind begins to remind her again that she has but met this man thrice, that it is a trick of her heart that she feels as if she has known him a lifetime.
"Emma? Are you even listening to me?"
Her eyes linger on Captain Jones for a moment even as Walsh interrupts her thoughts. She sees the Captain's head whip towards them almost comically as he hears Walsh speak her name, his eyes looking for the source of the voice before finally settling on her.
She tries to staunch the sudden warmth that fills her chest at the small smile that grows on his face as soon as he realises that she's noticed him too.
She cannot help but smile back, her fingers suddenly itching to raise her hand and greet him from afar but Walsh asks again, "Emma?"
She looks at him quickly, seeing the frown on his face and responds, "No, of course I am. Do go on."
He doesn't seem convinced by her tight lipped smile but continues all the same, his words all jumbling together in her ears as she all but tunes him out. Her eyes drift back to Captain Jones, whose smile has melted into a questioning frown as he scans the man who walks with her. She wills for him to look her way again, their steps taking them closer and closer to walking by the bench where he sits.
He does.
It takes little more than a raise of her eyebrows and a little shrug in Walsh's direction for Captain Jones' eyes to light up, his lips to curve into mischief as he stands.
"Miss Swan! Could I have a moment please?"
Her eyes stay on his even as they grow wide at his sudden approach. She bites back a chuckle as she realises what he's doing.
"Captain Jones, of course."
She turns and stops right by the bench where he stands, his hand tucked into his coat pocket, his other arm at his side, the silly grin from before still on his face. Walsh bristles at her side, his spine straightening as he hears Captain Jones' rank, his eyes scanning the man in front of them.
All it does is make smile just a little bit wider.
"I had come to see you about my injury," he holds his arm up and Emma watches as Walsh's eyes follow the movement, his posture relaxing just a little as he notices it, "But the reception told me that you were unavailable."
It's all a lie, of course. But she does love a good ruse, remnants from her youth spent on Boston streets, and the slow, smug smile growing on Walsh's face as he watches the Captain, clearly no longer considering him a threat, only fuels the fire inside her.
"My apologies, I should have told you last week that I was working the night shift today. I'd be happy to see you now."
She is sure to soften her voice, to make sure that Walsh sees the true warmth of her smile as she speaks to Captain Jones.
And he seems to notice too for he does one of his silly bows again.
"Thank you, Miss Swan."
"Any time, Captain."
Walsh clears his throat pointedly, standing straight once more, his hands clasped behind his back as he puffs his chest just a little, his medals glinting in the slowly receding sunlight.
"Oh! I'm sorry, this is Lieutenant Walsh. Lieutenant, meet Captain Killian Jones."
The handshake is brisk and awkward, as the men barely touch before dropping their hands as though they had accidentally touched a flame.
"Nice to meet you, sir."
Walsh's voice sounds like a sneer as he speaks, deliberate in his omission of Captain Jones' rank and Emma's irritation only grows, her fists clenching at her side again as she looks up at him.
"I believe the Captain here is quite capable of walking me the rest of the way to the hospital. Besides, I am sure you have much work to do Lieutenant, with your new promotion and all."
Walsh seems to shrink immediately even as Killian's smile only grows beside her, as he bites his lip to contain laughter.
"Of course, Miss Swan," he bends his head just a little, his body stiff, his voice strained before he turns to face Killian.
"Captain."
The words are gritted out between his teeth even as Killian's answering Lieutenant is spoken through a smile.
She watches him walk away, a warm satisfaction flooding her chest before she turns to face the man beside her once more. She finds him looking at her, a silly grin on his face as he sways just a little closer into her space and she can't help but return it, finding herself swaying slightly too. The rush of having taken down Walsh a peg or two making her cheeks flush and the smile grow bigger on her face.
"That was nicely done, Miss Swan. I'd even wager to say that we make quite the team."
Her smile melts into a laugh, a small chuckle escaping her.
But then, it fades.
Only the softest of smiles remaining on their faces as she realises that they are standing far too close. Only the quiet chirping of a bird filling the silence between them as she realises that she is holding her breath, that he is too. His warmth filling the air beside her, as she realises that she can see the little specks of green in the blue of his eyes, suddenly not knowing what to do after their small moment of camaraderie had passed.
She breaks the silence first, clearing her throat and looking away. Her eyes find his supplies strewn upon the bench, left behind in his haste to stand up and help her.
"Thank you, Captain though I am sorry to have disturbed you."
He follows her gaze to his notebook sitting upside down upon his satchel and his small piece of charcoal resting against its edge, a box of pencils sitting open on the other side of where he had been sitting.
"Of course not! I cannot bear to see a lady in distress."
He reaches for his things, deftly placing the notebook and his pencils in his bag, his other arm holding it open.
"Is there anything I can help you with?" she says, her hand now fidgeting with the strap of her own bag, her other hand buried deep in her coat pocket.
He speaks over the clicking sound of the clasp of his bag closing.
"I will be honoured if you would let me walk you to the hospital after all."
He turns around to face her just as he finishes his request, hanging his bag on his shoulder as he smiles. A little tentative now, a little hopeful.
Her mind races in time with her heart as she considers his request, her mouth opening to speak even as she knows not what she will say. But he must sense her apprehension- having just witnessed her trying to get rid of another man who had tried to walk with her- and speaks before she can.
"I promise not to talk at all."
His smile grows as he says this, the mischief from earlier sneaking back into the twinkle of his eyes.
She finds herself smiling back, answering the question in his eyes, the sincerity in his smile.
"Well, in that case, how can I refuse?"
It is a few days before she sees him again.
On a beautiful morning after the first snow of the year, she walks down her usual way to the hospital, cutting across the park, listening to the swish of her shoes as they press through the ice. It has been a few weeks now that Henry has gone to school each morning and actually arrived there, it has been a few days since they have had to receive a convoy from the front and for the first time in a while, Emma finds her mind wandering, her eyes wandering too.
She takes in the relative quiet of the park this early in the morning, the clean white sheet of snow that lies over everything, birds chirping softly as though just waking up from sleep themselves.
But the peace in her heart is short lived for she hears the rhythmic marching of the new recruits doing their routes across the park. A voice loud and steady, occasionally providing direction breaks the steady thump of the soldiers' boots on the new snow, leaving a wide swathe of darkness marring the clean sheet that covered the ground around them.
The uneasy edges of fear that pull at her belly each time she sees them pay visit to her once more, her hand clutching at the strap of her bag a little tighter as she takes a circuitous route, turning away from the sound of more young boys ready to go away to fight.
More boys that remind her more and more of her son each day.
"Good things still happen, Emma. You've just got to look for the moments."
Her father's voice is a soft memory, a gentle hug and a linked arms as he'd walked with her between his beloved roses after he'd found her crying in the garden, just one night too many spent in the operating room at the hospital.
She takes a deep breath, her heart steadying as the marching fades away as she comes back to herself. Her eyes begin to wander once more but as has been the norm since her walk through here with Walsh, she finds herself searching for him.
She would not admit it but has been looking for him each time she makes her way to the hospital for her shifts, her eyes scanning the bench first and then the rest of the park. Her mind searching for his mop of dark hair, for his sparkling blue eyes even as her heart refuses to believe it.
And as though she has summoned him with her thoughts, there he is. Her belly does a little flip even as she tries to ignore it, her spine suddenly straighter, her shoulders rising as she watches him.
He sits on the same bench as the other day, his coat a deep, rich blue today, the dark of his hair melting into it, the colour subtle but somehow standing out against the swathes of white that surround him. His hands are still covered in soot from the charcoal he sketches with, his gaze fixed intently on the same tree. He doesn't seem to notice her though so she lets herself watch him work.
Without Walsh at her side demanding her attention, without anyone else watching her, she lets herself study the curve of his spine as he bends over his notebook, the way his tongue sometimes sticks out in concentration. All while unconsciously making her way toward him, her body leading her to him even as her heart keeps protesting in vain.
"I didn't realise that this tree was fascinating enough to sketch this many times, Captain."
He startles at her voice, jumping slightly in his seat. But more than that, she startles herself, with the playfulness in her words, with the ease with which she speaks to him.
He looks up at her, his eyes quickly shifting from surprise to pleasure when he realises it's her, a smile curving his lips already.
"Miss Swan!"
He stands to face her properly, placing his notebook on the bench behind him.
"Good morning to you too."
She feels a flush rising in her cheeks at being caught out, his teasing tone not helping the sudden pounding of her heart. Whatever feeling that had led her here to him, quickly fading into uncertainty, her hand reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear even as he continues smiling at her.
"Good morning Captain. I was just wondering since you were sketching the same-"
She gestures at the tall tree, its branches spreading wide and tangled across the sky above them, its leaves coated in a soft dusting of snow.
He just about bounces in place as he registers her question, his hand extending to take her gloved one and suddenly stopping as he realises the movement he had started in his excitement. He doesn't pull it back but only raises his eyes to meet hers, his eyebrows rising in question, in permission.
She cocks her head to the side for a moment, her heart both asking her to pull away and asking her to reach out, trust in the honesty in his eyes, in the joy in his smile.
She nods her assent. His fingers close around hers in the softest of grips, easily allowing her to pull away should she want to, the warmth of them burning through the wool of her gloves. He pulls gently on her hand and she moves until she is standing beside him, facing the tree directly as well, his hand dropping from hers as soon as she is in place, her fingers feeling the loss immediately.
"Do you see her, Miss Swan?"
"Who?"
Her eyes scan the green of the tree looking for something that stands out.
"The Starling," he points a little to the left of where her gaze is.
"She's a stunning thing and has her nest here. I've been trying to sketch her for a while now but she seems to enjoy making me chase her, running away just as I try to draw the curve of her eye."
She smiles despite herself, her eyes still looking for Captain Jones' mysterious bird for even though it was only last week that she had heard that men were now dying of poisoned gas on the front, their skin burning away in agony, though her days are spent hearing and seeing the evidence of all the horrible ways that man could hurt man, here was Captain Jones, a man broken by war himself watching a tree at the crack of dawn, his voice filled with awe and wonder at something beautiful.
She gasps as she spots it. Its blue-green plumage peeking out through the leaves for just a moment before it disappears again only to pop out once more, perch itself on a branch in full view.
White tipped feathers that change from shades of blues to greens to purples shift in the morning light, making them look almost iridescent. It is a small bird but somehow it looks proud, standing tall and alone on its little branch on the big tree.
She finds him looking at her when she faces him again, his lips curving into a smile once more.
"She's gorgeous, isn't she? Some people don't like them. Too prickly. But I am quite smitten with this one."
He turns away from her, his smile softening as he follows the bird slowly walking along the branch before it hides away in the tree once more.
"Just a little something to remind me of home when I'm gone."
"Oh, I-"
I'd almost forgotten.
The words die before they can leave her lips, her heart slowly beginning to sink to her stomach, pulling all her walls up as it goes. He was going to go to war soon, how could she let herself forget?
(How could she let herself forget that he may not return?)
And all at once it comes back. The crashing reality of their lives, the anguish that lies in wait behind the doors of her hospital, the danger that awaits him at the front and it is as though someone has blown out the candle that lights her world.
She clears her throat then, her spine straightening with the action, her body moving just a little further from him as she turns to face him, her back to the tree.
"I thought that you were to leave this week?
"I was. But I've been told that it would be a month yet before I am to go into the fray, as it were."
His brows scrunch into a frown as he follows her movement, his voice fading as he speaks, his words becoming more absent minded as his attention shifts. Head cocking to the side as he watches her smile drop from her face.
"That's good, yes? You will be home for Christmas."
She speaks brusquely now, her eyes avoiding his as she adjusts her bag on her shoulder.
"I suppose so," he says distracted, his head bowing, trying to catch her eyes as he continues, "Miss Swan, is everything alright?"
She looks up at him then, her smile tight and her eyes falsely bright.
"Yes, quite alright. I'm sorry, I must be going. It was nice seeing you Captain."
His frown only deepens, his voice slow and tentative as he answers her with a question.
"Of course. Would you allow me to walk with you?"
She almost says yes. She almost says yes to the question knitted into his brows, to the soft reassurance of his smile, to the tiny hope glimmering in his eyes.
She almost says yes.
A month yet before I am to go into the fray-
"That's alright, Captain. I'm sure you'd want to get back to your work."
"It's no-"
He beings to protest, his eyes searching hers but he must see the stiffness in her stance, the silent urge to run waiting behind her eyes.
"Of course, Miss Swan. It was nice seeing you as well."
"Goodbye Captain."
She doesn't look back until she has stepped out of the gates of the park, giving in for just a moment.
He is but a small splash of blue in the distance but she finds herself smiling softly as she follows the line of his body.
Sitting on a bench and gazing up at a tree.
Her footsteps are angry and quick, sharp crunches of her shoes upon the old snow that covers the path to the park. The wind seems to reflect her mood, wild as it blows through the trees, whipping her hair back behind her. She pulls her coat tighter about her frame as though hoping that it would silence the screams, the whimpers and whispers of pain that echoed through her, her mind swimming with the faces of the men they had lost today.
The sound of soldiers doing their morning route through the park fades into existence, their steps as solid, as strong as ever, audible even over the screaming wind, unknowing of how the hospital had all but buried a group of their comrades last night.
A convoy had come through on her shift the night before. Though it was far from her first, it didn't seem to matter. For no matter how many times she had seen it, the sight of the truth of the war always took her breath away.
It had been as fast and as frantic as always, men flowing through the rooms, their bodies hastily patched up, healed just enough to make it here, hands clutching at themselves where it hurt.
It had been just like always but after a week of no convoys, after a week of mostly silence in the operation wards, it had almost knocked her off her feet, her mind having dimmed the true extent of the hurt, of the way simple metal and gas could hurt man.
Her shift had ended with an amputation and a facial burn, the soldier so broken that he could not scream when they cut off the end of his leg. He lived yet, but she wondered how many more faces she would see that had not yet grown a hair upon their cheeks but had lost more than anyone ever deserved to, how many voices she would hear go shrill in pain for they had not yet grown into the strength of it, how many boys she would see lost, fractured and silenced in the service of this war.
How many would she see before it ends?
How many would she see before her own son became one of them.
Her eyes squeeze shut as she takes a shuddering breath, the cold air biting at her throat, the steady thump of marching fading into a low murmur as the men move out of the park. But the sound is quickly replaced by another set of footsteps, frantic and sharp as they approach her.
Her eyebrows furrow as she opens her eyes, almost missing her name being shouted over the sound of the wind rushing by in her ears.
"Miss Swan!"
She whips around to face the sound, her eyes burning with the force of the cold air that buffetts her face now.
(Or perhaps with the tears that wait behind her lashes, holding back until she is in the privacy of her rooms before allowing themselves to fall.)
His steps slow once he sees that she has stopped, his eyebrows furrowing into a frown as he comes closer, his eyes scanning her quickly, his hand squeezing tighter over the strap of his satchel. His other arm is tucked into his pocket and it hits her all over again.
How many days before she sees him on a stretcher?
"Captain Jones, I-"
Her voice wavers as she speaks and she stops immediately, blinky rapidly and clearing her throat, pulling the pieces of herself that she had let slip as she had left the hospital, back together.
He is standing in front of her now, his breath coming out in little shallow pants that crystallise in the cold air between them, as he recovers from his brief jog after her, his mouth opening to speak, his eyes flooding with concern, softening as he looks at her.
"Miss Swan, is everything alright?"
Another sharp breath from her, her own little puff of breath forming before her.
"It's been a difficult night, Captain. I apologise but I must-"
His shoulders fall and his hand rises immediately in a placating gesture as he interrupts her.
"No, of course. I watched the convoy leave a little while ago," he says, turning slightly to face the road before facing her once more, "It must have been-"
His voice trails away, his words gone much like hers have. For which words could explain, which words could soothe their hearts in the face of this?
But his eyes linger upon hers, the blue depths of them trying anyway.
She clears her throat again, her voice a little steadier this time.
"Yes, well. I'm sure you know-" she turns away, her eyes finding his boots instead of his eyes as she loses her words too.
She begins to excuse herself, "It was nice seeing you, Captain but I must-" but looks back up when he speaks.
"Just one moment, Miss Swan, I have something-"
She hears him rummaging through his satchel, his hand inside it, his arm hooked around the strap of the bag, holding it open. He's looking into the depths of it, his tongue pressing into the side of his cheek as he tries to feel out what he's looking for.
She knows that he's found it for his eyes brighten the moment that he does.
(She feels the smallest smile curve her lips then.)
He turns to face her once more, a piece of paper folded into quarters held between his fingers, his hand raised toward her as he offers it to her.
She takes it from him, her brows raised in confusion even as she unfolds it at his silent nod of encouragement, the brightness of his eyes spreading down to his smile.
The paper is torn from his notebook, the edges a little jagged from where he had removed it, the thick paper creased at the edges where he had accidentally folded it down as he'd worked.
And all across the page are sketches of the Starling. Settled on a branch, it's mouth open in song, just about to take flight, its wings only half open, its head tucked into its wing, its wings fully spread. All over the page, there she is, the colours of her filled in meticulously, the blue purples of her plumage almost iridescent as she tilts the paper back and forth.
The birds upon the page look like they are about to fly out into the world, as vivid, as real as the snow that has just begun to fall, flakes of it landing on the paper.
"Beautiful things still exist, Miss Swan."
His voice is soft and closer than before. Her eyes meet his as an errant tear finally escapes her burning eyes, her fingers ghost softly across the paper.
"Thank you, Captain."
She manages to crease the little sheet of paper into softness in a matter of days, the sketches of the Starling living in the pocket of her coat, hidden away to look at when her breath wants to rip out of her chest, when her heart feels like it may fall away. Hidden away in the pocket of her apron to reach into and feel the edges of when she takes her rounds, fixing sheets and changing bandages with a smile on her face and reassurance on her lips.
It becomes a comfort, a reminder.
That there will be an end to this some day, that the starling would still live to sing when it does.
It becomes a comfort almost as much as he does.
She sees him fairly often around the park, sketching a tree one day, the ducks in the pond on another. She finds him sometimes on the way into the hospital and they walk together, their conversation pleasant as she asks about his art and he answers, his voice carrying her away from the hurt, the helpless anger that awaits her at the hospital.
It scares her sometimes when she laughs a little too freely at something silly he says, when warmth floods her chest and cheeks as he compliments her but instantly, her heart skips a beat and stops her short, calling for her to retreat.
Sometimes, he asks her about how she is doing and she can only answer in broken sentences and almost smiles.
But somehow, it is enough all the same.
She stands in front of him now, his equipment strewn about the bench behind him as he starts collecting it all, his mouth curving into a happy smile as soon as he sees her. She answers his smile with a soft one of her own, turning around to face his subject. Children chasing each other on a small patch of green, their laughter ringing clear in the cold air and her heart swells. She turns back to face him and he is just maneuvering his sketchbook into his bag, his drawings of the children still visible over the lip of the satchel.
Her smile quickly twists into concern though as he takes longer than usual, as she notices that he is favouring his hand more. His jaw is clenched, his injured arm tucked by his bag, wincing anytime the wounded end touches the leather.
She hesitates for a moment, her hand already beginning to reach out to help before aborting the movement, afraid of overstepping.
But when he loses his grip on the bag, hissing as it swings gently against his injury, his hand pushing his book in even as the bag keeps closing, she steps forward. Her hands grab the ends of it, one holding it open and the other supporting the bottom so he can slip his things in easier.
He doesn't meet her eyes even as she tries to find his. His jaw is still clenched but his injured arm moves away to hide behind his back as he accepts her help.
"Is it paining you, today?"
She finds her voice just as he finally gets the last of his pencils in, his hand moving to close the clasp of the bag, her own pulling away. He meets her eyes then, his jaw softening, his eyes softening too. His shoulders fall as he sighs before he answers her.
"Some days are harder than others I find and last night wasn't very kind to me."
The nurse in her immediately wants to help, her hands itching to reach for him, her fingers fidgeting against her bag, her coat as they ache to comfort him somehow.
"Would you like to come in today and have it looked at?"
His smile is weak, his eyes falling away into a bitter resignation as he steps closer, gesturing for her to begin walking, his shoulders slumping as he walks beside her.
"Thank you, but truly it's been worse. I'm sure I'll be alright by morning."
She nods her assent, her heart prickling just a little at how easily he tells her that it's been worse. She turns away to face forward as they walk by the children he's been sketching, their voices still breaking into silly shouts and raucous laughter. The walk is quiet today, far more than usual and it makes her restless, her eyes wandering the trees, the sky and eventually falling back to him before quickly glancing away.
He does not speak and neither does she, unable to find the right way to segue into their usual easier conversation. Her mouth opens often as she tries to think of things to say, hesitating and then stopping altogether when she finds them too short, too much, not enough.
But the words she finally does speak shatter the heavy silence between them completely as they slip out from her lips.
His injured arm grazes the edge of his coat and he hisses in pain, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment and the words leave her before she can pull them back.
"How did you lose you hand?"
He freezes, her body freezing too as they both come to a stop. She regrets her words immediately, already beginning to form her apology for being insensitive-
"It's an unpleasant tale, Miss."
He looks at her then, his eyebrow raised in question, his voice tentative as he waits for her answer.
"I assure you I have seen worse, Captain-" she holds his gaze for a moment, the fire in hers meeting the flickering flame in his before she softens, "-and it is a long walk yet to the hospital. I'm sure I can handle it."
His body relaxes even as she speaks, his eyes twinkling, his smile soft in a way that looks something like affection.
"Of course, Miss Swan. I'd never doubt it."
Somewhere on the coast of Belgium,
Summer, 1914
The world looks grey to him when he first opens his eyes, scrambling onto his knees as water escapes him in hacking coughs, as he finally gets his breath back. The sky yet rumbles but the rain has slowed, the storm slowly moving away now having wreaked its havoc. Colourless clouds dim the moon. The sand beneath his hands, beneath his head as he lies on the beach, is wet between his fingers.
And then all at once, it burns.
His throat, his lungs burn every time he sucks in a breath. His chest, his legs, his face, riddled with a myriad of cuts burn in pointed little patches of fire. His head pounds with it, a storm raging inside even as the rain and his tears blur his vision, even as the wind howls in his ears outside.
But most of all, the strongest flame burns down his left arm. Licks of pain creeping up it, to his shoulder, his spine even as his eyes move down it, watching the bright, stark red that stains the grey ground as it drips from his wrist.
It takes a moment for him to register the large piece of glass that pierces his skin.
The shout of pain that leaves his throat then is as jagged as the edges of the glass. He knows not if it is only the pain in his hand or the pain in his heart that pulls the sound from his throat, only that it hurts and hurts and hurts.
When his scream turns into a broken sob, his brother's last words still ringing in his ears, he lets himself fall, his head resting against the wet sand. And when his sobs quiet to soft hiccups, he tries to listen, for any other screams, for anyone calling out for help, for any other man who had survived this.
But despite the howling wind and the thundering rain, all he hears is the heavy silence.
Slowly, painfully, eventually, he gets himself to stand, his right arm holding his left gently against his chest, his fingers wrapped around his forearm. His eyes find the glass again, the edges of it coloured in his blood, his wrist yet slowly dripping crimson onto the sand below. The glass shifts every time he moves his hand, every time he takes a step and each time that it does, he feels his body jerk in response, another scream bubbling in his aching chest.
He knows what he has to do, his mind running through the motions, his body preparing for it as he bends his head and turns to the right, catching a patch of his uniform between his teeth, his eyes clenched shut as his right hand reaches for the piece of glass.
It slips through his fingers at first, as he tries to grip it by its flat sides, the pounding of his heart only growing louder as the inevitable delays. He feels an edge slice into his right palm as he changes his grip and this time, the glass pulls out with a quick jerk of his hand.
The pain spreads like fire through his veins, his eyes watering with it, his mouth caught between a scream and a sob, his uniform clenched between his teeth.
He lets go to look at the injury now, his vision still blurred both from tears and the retreating rain that has left a fine mist in the air. The slice in his arm pulses softly as blood flows freely from it.
Too freely.
His vision begins to blur even more as he sways on his feet, frowning as he realises that he is losing too much blood, that he needs to staunch the flow before he can move any further. But, his thoughts are slow, his actions slower as he fumbles in his pockets for something, anything to tie around his wrist.
It takes a few moments of searching, his right hand deep in his pockets even as he holds his left as steadily as he can before he finds it. A handkerchief.
White and clean and almost new.
And Liam's.
He'd pressed it into Killian's hand only that morning, asked him to keep it handy because-
"You never know when you might need something to wipe your nose with, little brother."
He chuckles softly through the haze of his vision, slowly shaking the fabric open before realising that he would have to do this one-handed. He looks about for a moment, as though looking for a chair, before shaking his head and stumbling to his knees.
The sand grazes the cuts on his knees as he falls, scraping against the scratches that make him wince. His breaths are shallower, harsher now, even as he tries to regulate them. He lays the fabric as flat as he can on the slope of his knee, making two opposite points of the square meet and then folding it into a long strip. He lays his wrist face down, upon the fabric, wincing again as the wound touches it, tears burning his vision. He pulls up one side and then the other of the strip of cloth, crossing them. One end of it finds his fingers as he holds the other steady with his teeth, panting breaths making his shoulders shake even as he forces himself to calm them, breathe through his nose.
Slow and deep, slow and deep.
He pushes the end of the strip he holds in his hand under and then pulls the knot tight, biting down hard on the cloth between his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut even as more tears escape him.
He does it again.
And again.
Until the cloth is fixed in place, the blood dripping down his wrist finally slowing its pace, the white of Liam's handkerchief stained with it. He finds himself swaying in place once more but he drops his hand and takes a breath, takes a step.
And another.
And another.
He limps across the stretch of the beach that he can see, wreckage of their ship in pieces stranded across the emptiness of the sands, brought here perhaps upon the same current that had carried him. His uniform weighs heavy on his shoulders, rain having soaked him to the bone, his voice shivering as he calls out weakly. For his brother, his crewmates, anyone at all.
He spends what feels like hours upon the sand, his shoes sinking into the wetness of it every time he takes a step, his ears ringing with thunder as he walks among the bones of what had been his home for the last few months.
A scream gathers itself in his chest with every step as he realises that there is no one else, that it is him alone.
He finds a few bodies, most unrecognisable, stabbed through with shrapnel or burned through by the fire. He feels shame flood his face even as he finds himself feeling relief at not knowing who exactly it was that he had lost in that way, his brother's face as he had fallen into the flames plaguing him everytime he closes his eyes.
He is not sure what providence had decided that of all the honourable, good men upon that ship, he should be the one to survive. But survive he had.
I want my brother
Inexplicably, the words he has not thought consciously in over a decade cross mind.
And stay there, growing louder and louder still as he walks.
The scream building in his chest grows louder too, pulling at his frayed edges and holding him together even as it begins to fall from his eyes, his tears burning through the ash on his face.
I want my brother
His wrist burns, his breath coming in more and more shallow with every inhale, a shadow of Liam's touch holding his lifeblood in place. The cold makes him shiver, remnants of the storm still lurking in the air as he walks, his fingers going numb.
He feels as though he has lost all feeling in his left hand beneath where the handkerchief is tied and yet he cannot be sure if it is the cold, or the glass that has left a jagged hole upon his wrist.
I want my brother
He has walked too far he realises, pieces of wreckage no longer dotting the beach, nothing but blurry patches of darkness upon the pale sand in the distance.
I WANT MY BROTHER
His wrist throbs with the beat of his heart, his eyes burn, his every step pulling him further, his every breath bringing him crashing down into this new reality. Where his brother could no longer answer his silent pleas, where he had lost his friends, his home in service of a man who had been naught but a coward, where his left hand may not survive the night.
(Where it feels like all that is left of him in the pain in his body and the pain in his heart.)
It is a little sad, he thinks idly, his thoughts becoming heavy, hazy, his legs giving way as he lands on his knees, that the most comforting thought in his mind is that he may not survive the night either.
And he wants to chase it. He wants to disappear, to no longer exist in this world of grey and burning red.
It is the last thought he thinks before everything goes black once more, the pull of sleep too powerful even for the pain that makes him.
He wakes to sunlight in his eyes, arms under his shoulders trying to raise him and the sound of dog barking faintly in his ears.
He hears a voice on his right, the words strained but foreign as they was over his ears, his mind uncomprehending of their meaning.
A second voice joins it.
It is shriller, words coming out in sharp bursts in between shallow breaths, a grunt escaping them. His cheek is pressed against the ground, lying on his stomach as he feels his left arm jerk just a little higher before falling back to the ground again. It is then that he fully wakes, sand pushing up against the cut on his wrist, pressed in deeper by the drop, his mouth opening in a hoarse scrape of a scream.
He looks up, his vision blurry, his eyes dry, burning as he blinks up at the person who was still trying to hoist him into a standing position. An older woman, her hair grey and tied into a braid that comes over her shoulder, flowers on her dress under a deep red coat as she lifts him further, her arms stronger than he expects as she almost succeeds before he is flopping down again.
She notices that his eyes are open, her own widening for a minute before she speaks to him again, a rapid stream of words in the same foreign language as before. He opens his mouth to answer, noticing the tightness of his cheeks as he does, the sand caked upon his face, his body.
But his throat burns too much, dry and scraped raw from his ordeal and he can only cough and shake his head, hope that she understands.
She seems to, for she stops speaking, nodding before she lifts his arm over her shoulder, gesturing with her other hand for him to stand. He nods in response, speaking to her in the silence of their mutual incomprehension.
He moves his knees first, dragging them against the sand, sharp aches pulling through his legs as his uniform chafes the cuts upon them again. A grimace pulls at his face as his mouth opens in a scream that refuses to leave his throat.
"Shhh-"
The woman's voice is low, soothing as her other hand comes around his opposite shoulder, coaxing him gently into standing even as his feet slide in the damp sand, even as his knees buckle under him a few times before he is finally able to stay upright.
The woman is shorter than him, her arm stretching to reach his shoulder, the other now holding on to his upper arm even as he favours his right side, swaying in her direction, leaning his weight on the arm supporting him.
His eyes flicker to the young girl who stands on his other side. The second voice, he thinks. She seems to have abandoned her earlier work of trying to help him, standing at a distance instead, her hand on her dog's head, scratching softly at his fur as she looks warily upon him.
He must be quite a sight, he imagines. Blood and sand caked and settled into the creases of his clothes, his skin, his hair, flaking away every time he moves. The cut on his cheek bleeding down his face, the wound clotted over now, leaving a scab in its place. His wrist held together by a crimson stained kerchief, his hand stained in old blood.
He wonders if some of it is Liam's.
"Est-ce que vous m'entendez, soldat?"
The older woman's voice finds him again, pulls him out of his lost gaze upon his arm.
"Vous avez l'air d'être anglais mais cela fait fort longtemps que je n'ai pu pratiquer la langue. Comprenez-vous le français?"
He finds he understands her words now, a phrase or a piece of a sentence suddenly lighting up in his mind as he comprehends.
Something something English. Something something something understand, something something French?
Liam's lessons, lost somewhere in the shadowy corners of his mind come back to him slowly.
He turns to face the woman, meeting her eyes, his mouth opening to answer but losing himself as he tries to translate what little he remembers into words but she must see the understanding in his eyes because she smiles and puts her hand, that's not holding him up forward as if to shake his.
"Ruth."
He takes her hand, his voice a rasp as he answers.
"Killian."
His eyes open, his body jerking back into consciousness as Ruth shifts his arm higher upon her shoulder. They walk across the beach, his feet sinking into the sand as he sways, his gait unsteady as he loses his balance, Ruth's arm catching him every time he does. His eyes follow the dog's tail as it wags in front of him, the girl leading their strange little group, talking to Ruth rapidly in the language she had first spoken to him in.
Dutch? He thinks, his mind too bleary to understand where he is, why this woman was helping him, why there were flowers upon her clothes when there was but blood and death upon his.
His eyes open, his body pulling away from Ruth as he awakens. The sky is brighter now, sunlight glittering upon the little girl's hair as it glows almost golden, still walking ahead of them. The little dog's white fur is covered in sand as he tries running in it, spraying it around him in a blur.
He realises again how he can't feel the fingers on his left hand anymore.
His eyes open, his body suddenly straightening, Ruth grunts as he takes his weight off her. The ground beneath him feels more solid now, his feet staying steady as they cross the little field. It feels like it has been hours though he can still smell the ocean upon the air, still hear a distant murmur of the waves.
They turn the corner around a small hillock when he sees the house, smoke from its chimney, the little girl bounding forward as they reach it, the dog nipping at her heels.
He feels like an intruder in a perfect composition. The idyllic home, the happy family and then him, soaked, shivering and on the verge of fainting, trailing blood behind him on the clean, new grass as he leans upon the shoulder of a woman old enough to be his mother.
But she is strong, her body holding him steady even as she opens the door to her home. Allowing him through despite his uniform, his accent, his language. He is yet not sure which nation he is in but he is certain the Jewel had not crashed upon the waves of friendly waters, Ruth's language telling him the same thing and yet this woman who was supposed to be his enemy, who was-
He grunts, biting his lip as she lets go of his shoulder, his body flopping down into a soft rocking chair by a window. The chair begins to creak as it moves, his right hand holding on to the arm rest, his left hanging uselessly by his side. The chair sways back and forth, back and forth just out of time with the sound of a clock ticking quietly in the corner of the room.
It is then that he realises how quiet it is. Ruth and the little girl's voices fading in and out as they walk from this room to the next, carrying in bandages and clothes, the soft thumps of fabric being placed upon the floor the only noises they make.
He feels his soul shiver as he finally looks around their little home, the idyllic picture he had imagined in his head replaced by something much sadder. The house is small but well furnished, full of cozy rugs and beautiful art but it is eerily empty. Its rooms stare out at him as if looking for their occupants but only finding the young girl and the old lady.
His chair rocks slower now, just a tiny back and forth motion that has his eyes slowly slipping shut even as his mind runs wild. He feels as though his thoughts sail upon the waves of a tumultuous ocean, tossed this way and that, drowning under the strength of the aches in his body only to resurface before getting lost once more. It becomes harder and harder for him to hold on to a single thread, his mind too lost, too slow.
So he lets the swaying of the chair, the ticking of the clock and the exhaustion in his bones pull him under.
His eyes open again-almost immediately after he had shut them- when he feels a shooting pain up his left arm, his body straightening in his chair even as he gasps in a few frantic breaths.
He looks to the left where his arm hangs over the edge of the chair. His hand is completely numb now, his fingers unmoving even as he tries to shift them. Pushing away the panic brewing in his belly as to what this means, he looks for what had hurt his wrist.
It is a picture frame.
It is but a rectangle of wood that surrounds a slightly hazy photograph of people. A family. This family.
They pose a little stiffly, their smiles just a touch forced as though they had been asked to stand there for a long time, arranged this way and that before finally the blinding flash had gone off, capturing this moment in shades of black and white and grey.
They sit together on a bench, arranged from left to right. He sees who he assumes is the father, then the little girl in her grandmother's lap and then the mother. The father sits straight and tall, dressed in a smart coat and hat, his smile perfect as he looks straight ahead, his hand reaching around the grandmother's (his mother or her's he cannot be certain) shoulder and holding on to his wife's. His wife on the other end is just a little bit softer. Her eyes not looking at the camera but at the little girl next to her. Her coat is a muted grey in the picture, her hat just a little bit askew.
He can almost see it, the little girl in her arms as they had walked in to get their picture taken, clutching at the little woven baubles in her mother's hat, pulling it this way and that, leaving it just a little bit out of place even as they'd taken their seats.
The grandmother sits in between with the biggest smile on her face, her eyes only for the little girl in her arms. And the little girl- she laughs.
Her head falling back onto her grandmother's shoulder, her mouth open in glee, her hands clapping together in front of her. He finds himself smiling softly, his hand brushing against the glass and feeling nothing even as he wonders what it was that had made her laugh, what it was that made her father's eyes twinkle, betraying his own laugh, what it was that made this family so happy.
"Ôtez vos vêtements trempés, jeune homme, ou vous allez attraper froid."
Ruth comes back then and he looks away from the photo to see her. She stands before him holding a stack of clean clothes, plain and dark colours, her hands curling around the fabric as she follows the line of his hand to the picture.
Her eyes change immediately, softening into a pain that he has just begun to acquaint himself with and he wonders just how long it has been since she had lost them, just how long it had been that she had begun to look so much older.
He tries to stand, take the clothes from her, wondering softly if they had belonged to the man in the picture but he falls back into the chair, his knees no longer co-operating with his intentions. Ruth tears her eyes away from the picture, moving quickly to help him up, clothes shifting to her other hand as she mumbles something that sounds like a whispered apology.
She walks and stumbles with him to a door across from the chair in silence even as he watches her. Wondering, trying, searching for the words to ask her why, to ask her what next, to say thank you.
The door opens into a large room, a bed in the centre, dim lanterns already lit bathing the room in a soft glow.
She sits him down on the side of the bed, dropping the clothes by his side before bending down to help him with his soaked boots.
He finally remembers the word, Liam's voice teaching him it, the soft cadence of it running through his mind, slipping onto his lips.
"Merci."
Ruth looks up at him and smiles.
He wakes in a sweat.
Ruth had helped him into dry new clothes, put warm socks on him, helped him sip on some water, nibble on some bread before bundling him into bed. The covers that had first felt like a soft weight upon him, warming him up from the inside suddenly feel like a dead weight pulling him under, the heat unbearable as he struggles to sit up.
His breath comes hard even as he tries to pull the covers off of himself, his throat catching on the shout that waits to leave it. But suddenly, Ruth is there, her hand catching his in the same strong grip as before as she steadies him, as her other hand pulls the blankets away from him, cold air rushing into fill the space where they had been.
He takes deep gasping breaths as he looks up at her, his mouth opening again to thank her but she is frowning, her eyes wide as she looks down at his left hand.
It is then that he sees it. Beneath the new cloth that she had tied while he'd slept.
Red and swollen, his hand is almost twice its size. It looks as though part of another being entirely and yet he does not feel it. He does not feel his fingers, he does not feel Ruth's fingers as she softly presses them against his hand.
He shivers then, sweat cooling on his feverish body as another breeze passes through the house, the door slamming as someone enters. The little girl he assumes.
"Oh mon dieu, nous devons partir immédiatement!"
Her voice is frantic and he catches a word or two as she asks for him come with her before she turns to talk to the little girl in words he cannot understand.
But immediately, the little girl is standing beside him, her little hand curling around his right, pulling on him to stand. She looks afraid, catching onto her grandmother's tone and his own pale, drawn face as he stumbles to his feet. She leads him back into the living room, her small hand clutching at his as he sways, fumbling and leaning on anything he can until he is plopping back down into the rocking chair.
It sways again as he sits. Back and forth, back and forth as the little girl races away, as Ruth emerges from another door across from him, her right hand fumbling with her coat even as she holds another bigger coat in the other, all while making her way towards him.
She is frantic in her actions, missing the arm hole on her coat multiple times before finally pulling it around her shoulders.
His arm pulses still in time with the feverish beating of his heart, just out of time with the steady back and forth of the chair. His pain keeps him afloat and awake even as his body begins to sag in the chair, a sob caught in his throats as he clenches his jaw to keep it from escaping.
Ruth comes to a stop in front of him, dropping the other coat-meant for him, he realises softly- and falling to her knees as she puts her hands on his arms, ready to help him stand and-
"Hôpital! Dépêchez-vous."
Hospital. He understands that. But how? Here?
Here, on this foreign shore where no one knows him, where his colours mark him as an outsider at best, an enemy at worst, where he does not speak the tongue, where he does not know how to say thank you to this woman who kneels before him now with real worry etched across her face for a man she had met a few hours ago.
"Why?"
The word leaves his lips in a helpless, broken whisper, his shoulders rising and falling even as he lifts his right hand to curl around hers.
He doesn't know if she understands but she smiles then, soft and sad and filled with almosts.
Her eyes find the photograph that still sits beside him on the table before she meets his eyes again.
"Vous me rappellez mon fils."
Her hand cups his cheek for a moment and somehow he understands her.
The trip to the hospital is stuttered at best as they limp there with his body giving way periodically, sweat dripping from his brow from exhaustion and pain.
Ruth has been walking him through small streets and back alleyways as they make their way through whatever small coastal town he had found himself in. He doesn't much notice his surroundings beyond the cool stone of the wall beneath his palms and the uneven cobblestones beneath his feet. She keeps him just out of sight from the one or two people who pass them, helping him lean against the wall when he needs to, pulling on his hand to stumble just a little faster when she can't stop.
The pulsing in his arm has only gotten worse, the rest of his body joining with its own aches and pains, the fever making his head swim and his steps waver.
He hopes it is not too far a walk because the burning in his eyes and his breath seems to have spread to his feet, his knees buckling every third step that he takes.
He hopes it is not too far a walk because his hand looks even more swollen than before, leaking something yellow and viscous.
He hopes it is not too far a walk because he just wants to rest.
He snaps into attention when Ruth pulls on his hand, pulling him away from the wall against which he had just collapsed.
"Ce n'est plus très loin, tenez bon."
He nods, he thinks before pushing off the wall, the light black coat around him swinging around his knees as he does.
They walk in from the back doors.
The hospital is a little sleepy, a little quiet. Even though the air still murmurs with the sounds of people going about the business of staying alive, it is not quite as loud as what he had seen back home in London.
Ruth walks more easily now, her shoulders more relaxed than they had been out on the street as she leads him easily through doors and hallways and he wonders idly if perhaps she had been a nurse in another life.
But the thought is carried away on another current of pain as she seats him on a chair opposite a set of doors, murmuring something to him before disappearing behind them.
His eyes close with visions of smiling young women with flowers on their dresses swimming behind them.
Ruth pulls him through the doors quickly, the pain now making him too dizzy to stand, his head heavy, his body hot and cold in equal turns as his left wrist continues to pulse in time with his heart.
The doctor is a small, stocky man with a beard, his grip strong as he helps Killian onto a seat, as he pulls his injured arm onto a table to examine it. Sunlight drifts in from a window behind the doctor, his outline glowing at the edges.
He shakes his head, poking at the swollen hand and bending down to meet Killian's eyes. He realises that he is being asked a question but cannot bring himself to understand or respond. His eyes can't seem to focus and he shakes his head, his jaw still clenched tight as he tries to clear it but nothing comes, only the pain.
Ruth sits beside him, her hand still curled around his right.
He only squeezes it harder.
The doctor is speaking to Ruth who keeps stealing glances at Killian as he bows his head, a sob finally escaping him as the burning refuses to end, the exhaustion pulling on his body to stop.
God, he just wants to sleep.
They've given him something, he realises. His head swimming even more than before but the pain is just a slice dimmer than before.
He squeezes his right hand, looking for Ruth's now familiar, comforting touch and finding nothing. He raises his head looking for her, his arm outstretched as he reaches for her, his throat releasing a soft whimper.
She comes back to sit with him immediately, her hand finding his, her voice shushing him as her other hand pushes his hair back, stroking it gently, steadily.
He leans into her touch, his eyes closing as he falls into the stranger who had somehow become his only friend until suddenly, she stops.
He opens his eyes to meet hers but she is looking past him, her eyes wide even as she squeezes his hand harder.
He follows her gaze and sees it.
A flash of the blade glinting in the sunlight.
They give him something to bite on and Ruth does not leave his side even as he squeezes her hand till his knuckles are white, his breath coming in harsh, shallow pants as the doctor sets up the guillotine.
Sobs eventually escape him as he squeezes his eyes shut, as he suddenly feels like a child caught in a nightmare that he cannot run away from.
He shakes his head to stop the tears, biting down on the piece of leather between his teeth.
He dimly hears the doctor ask something, hears Ruth murmur a constant string of reassurances, hears the shing of the blade releasing.
Then, there is only the pain.
And the scream that he has been carrying since that first hit of cannons upon his ship finally leaves his throat in full.
London, England
Winter, 1915
He had tumbled out of the back of a truck two days later, a new name upon his lips and false papers in his pockets.
Ruth had known a nurse at the hospital who was English, who would help him. They had smuggled him through basements, in the backs of carriages and hidden in trains. They had given him a new name and profession, a new something to mumble with his head low when someone asked.
Je m'appelle Colin.
They had shown him naught but kindness even as he travelled past his so called enemy each day. They had allowed him to come back home and he was grateful. Even though he had come back to open the doors of a house too empty, too big for just-
He doesn't realise that he is clenching his fist until he feels a warm gloved hand upon it.
"Killian, I'm so sorry."
He turns to look at her, his vision blurred just a little from tears that he quickly blinks away, smiling a soft smile at the woman who sits beside him, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to look for the right words.
They had found themselves at a bench not too far from where they had begun, his story calling for them to be seated as he told it and though he had stuttered at first, telling her of how he had lost his brother, his voice had slowly grown steadier and as he had spoken, she had swayed closer, moving along the bench until he could feel the warmth of her shoulder next to his, her knee almost touching his.
And now, though it seems that she cannot find the right thing to say, her eyes speak for her, as does her touch. She turns his fist face up, her fingers stroking his knuckles softly until it loosens, his hand open to her palm up. Her fingers close around his as she squeezes softly, leaning forward to say something else but before she can speak-
"Emma! Emma! There you are!"
She pulls away from him as though she has been burned, her hand leaving his at once, her body moving along the bench until she is sitting at the other end from him. He would smile at her stricken expression, her eyes wide, as though she has been caught doing something she ought not to do. But the smile is a small, sad thing, his mind still lost in the mires of his memory and his heart feeling the loss of her warmth beside him, left wondering what it would feel like to hold her hand in truth, skin to skin.
"Anna, what's wrong?"
He looks up to see the red headed woman from the hospital bent over her knees as she comes to a stop before them, her shoulders heaving under her sharp breaths as she tries to recover from running. She is still dressed in her VAD uniform, her cap a little askew on her head, the hem of her dress muddy from running.
Emma stands and reaches for Anna, asking again, concern colouring her voice.
"Are you alright? Is everything okay?"
He stands to follow her, a frown creeping up his face as he wonders what it had been that had made her run so far.
"Emma, it's Henry," Anna straightens and Emma stiffens, her face suddenly pale as she looks at Anna, inhaling a quick breath but before she can ask, Anna answers her.
"He wasn't at Roland's after school. Kristoff just came running to the hospital, he says a buddy of his thinks he saw a boy with brown hair and a red and blue striped scarf climb on board the train that's taking the new recruits to the training camps and he thinks it's got to be Henry and he's already gone to find him but Emma, we should go because what if he gets there and-"
Emma's hand drops from Anna's shoulder, her mouth opening to speak but her words lost, her eyes a little wild as she turns back around to the bench where she's left her bag, her hands frantic as she tries to close it but she struggles, her hands missing the clasp, once. Twice.
He's beside her in two strides, his hand covering hers this time, closing the clasp of her bag quickly before placing it on her shoulder. She looks at him and though he has not known her long, he has never seen her truly afraid before today, her eyes looking between his, her knuckles white around the strap of her bag as she tries to collect herself.
"Emma, look at me."
His hand finds the warmth of her glove, loops loosely around her fingers as he tries to get her attention.
It seems to work for her gaze focuses on his.
"You'll find him."
She nods and he swears he sees a tiny smile before she turns away, pulling him along with her.
Notes, historical or otherwise:
In this chapter,
The bird Killian is sketching is a European Starling.
Amputations were very common in WW1 in case on infected limbs because antibiotics hadn't been invented yet and infection would most certainly lead to much worse. So, they would remove the limb itself. Over 240,000 soldiers suffered from partial or total leg or arm amputations in the war.
These were done via Guillotine.
Belgium was occupied by Germany in 1914 but I've taken artistic licence and pushed it up a bit.
The British nurse who smuggled Allied soldiers out of occupied Belgium is totally real and her name was Edith Cavell. She was shot down by a German firing squad on October 12, 1915 on suspicion of being a spy for the Allies an harbouring Allied soldiers.
I hope you're still with me for the rest of this and please do let me know what you think 3