Holyhead Harpies | Beater 1 | Old Enough to Die | [genre] angst; [action] eating; [colour] amber
Word Count: 2,507
Warnings: major character death, depictions of war, violence
A/N: The words from the title "old enough to die" immediately made me think of the young men and women who would lie about their ages in order to enlist in the military, particularly during WWI and WWII, so that's what we've got here.
old enough to die
The front was nothing like Seamus had imagined. He'd thought it would be loud with the sound of constant fighting, but the truth was that it was deafeningly silent. Sure, it was thunderingly loud when the fighting was taking place, but most of the time, they were marching or camping for days at a time. Of course, the men bantered, but it wasn't the raucous and unbridled interaction that you would expect from hundreds of young men. They were all, not so deep down, terrified that if they were too loud, or if there was too much light, or if they did anything else wrong, that it would alert the enemy to their presence and get them all killed. It wasn't exactly the fun and collegial environment that Seamus had envisioned when he had written 18 beside age on the enlistment forms.
"You look lost in thought." A tall man with warm brown skin sat down on the log next to Seamus with a kind, cheerful smile. The kind of smile Seamus hadn't seen since he left England.
"I was just thinking about home," he lied. It was what everyone expected people to say and he couldn't very well tell a stranger that he was thinking about how he was actually too young to be allowed at the front.
"Ah, a very enticing thought," the young man teased, fingering a chain around his neck. "I'm Dean Thomas, by the way."
"Seamus Finnigan," he replied, sticking his hand out for a handshake. "Nice to meet you."
"And under such delightful circumstances too," Dean answered jovially.
"What is that?" Seamus asked, nodding toward the chain that dipped beneath the neckline of Dean's chemise, hardly caring that it was likely an inappropriately personal question to ask someone he had just met.
Dean didn't seem to mind though, and he pulled a pendant from beneath his shirt and displayed it in the palm of his hand. It was a simple stone, a bronzish orange oval set in gold, with neat carvings around the edge of it.
"My mother gave this to me. She said it would protect me from harm and ensure that I come home to her," he said, whispering the words conspiratorially.
"Does it work?" Seamus asked, unable to help himself as his eyes widened with curiosity.
Dean shrugged as though he didn't care, but Seamus had spent his whole life living in a country with people of great faith, and he knew how to spot it in their eyes.
"How old are you?" Dean asked, his eyes narrowing as he took in the innocence written on Seamus' features.
"Eighteen," Seamus lied, praying that the dirt covering his face would hide the warm blush rising on his cheeks. For some reason, he found it quite difficult to lie to Dean.
Dean narrowed his eyes, clearly not buying the lie. "How old are you really?
"Sixteen," Seamus answered, defiance burning like a fire within him. "But I'm old enough to fight!"
"Old enough to die, more likely," Dean scoffed, but he seemed more amused than anything else. "Why are you here? Why'd you lie?"
"Because there's no such thing as too young to die," Seamus whispered, looking at the ground. "My brother was twenty, old enough by all accounts. But he had a plan for his life – a girl he was going to marry, a job waiting for him. I have none of those things. Why is his death fairer than mine?"
Dean was quiet, either considering Seamus' words or waiting for him to continue.
"I'm not stupid, y'know," he added. "I knew what I was risking. But I'm strong and it's my duty to fight. In two years, when I come of age… it might be too late then."
"That's very brave of you," Dean said, offering Seamus a smile that was warm and seemed somehow more intimate. It was a smile given in return for precious insight into a friend's soul, not the frivolous smile of unbridled joy.
Seamus wasn't sure if it was brave or arrogant, but the decision had been made, so there didn't seem to be much point dwelling on it.
The first snow came sometime in November, a brutal squall that hid the whole world from view for those who were in the trenches. Dean and Seamus huddled together behind the wall of an old cottage, the windows and roof blasted away by some army or another long before they'd even gotten there. Snow settled in their hair and made little piles on either side of them while they tried to find some way to stay warm.
They had been assigned to watch the No Man's Land when the commander decided to capitalise on the lack of visibility and send out a messenger. The enemy had been voracious every time they had tried to get messages out before, shooting down everyone who tried to ride out from the little town where they had set up their encampment. It had been weeks since anyone had left successfully. The radio had been some help for communication, but even that had broken now, so the need to get a message out had become dire.
The two young men wished the messenger luck as he ventured out into the storm, and then sat silent and waiting. On a normal day, they estimated it would take three minutes to cross no man's land, but with the storm… it could take so much longer.
Seamus tried to focus on his duty as he waited instead of how close Dean's hand was to his. He had the almost irresistible urge to reach out and lace their fingers together, and his whole mind was in overdrive. How was he meant to watch another soldier wade into the storm and listen attentively for any sign that it had gone well – or horribly wrong – when Dean was so close?
The sound of gunshots pierced the quiet, startling both of them. Faintly through the echo of the shots, they heard two thuds as bodies hit the snow-covered ground – one man, one horse. Dean looked at Seamus for a brief second before scrambling over the windowsill. Seamus grabbed his hand to stop him.
"Someone has to go," Dean hissed urgently. "We cannot let them get their hands on that message."
"Let someone else go," Seamus pleaded.
"There is no one else," he replied. It wasn't entirely true – there was a camp full of soldiers, but every minute they wasted trying to get someone else and point them in the right direction increased the risk that the enemy would get there before them.
Dean slipped his hand from Seamus' and disappeared into the open air. Seamus watched, his heart beating painfully against his ribs as Dean slowly edged further and further into No Man's Land. It seemed as though he had barely gone a few feet before the snow turned his figure into a blurred shadow, and a few feet more before it swallowed him altogether.
Seamus waited, the pulse of blood roaring in his ears and his heart thundering so loudly that he felt somewhat irrationally that it might give his hiding spot away. The minutes seemed to stretch on endlessly. It felt like there was a string being pulled between two possible fates – a gunshot would rip through the air and signal Dean's death, or Dean would appear in the window with an envelope clutched in his hand – and with each passing second the tension on the string grew, pulling it more and more taut. Any second now, it would snap, and Dean's fate would be sealed. And all Seamus could do was wait.
Just when he couldn't take it anymore and was weighing the benefits of going after Dean, a shadow appeared in the snow. Seamus' heart stopped. It was almost certainly Dean, but until he saw his face, clear as day, he would not allow himself to believe it. It only took a few more minutes, then Dean was scrambling through the window once more. Seamus helped pull him in, throwing his arms around Dean's body in a crushing hug.
"Thank god," Seamus sighed.
Only when he felt Dean's arms wrap around him in return did Seamus remember propriety, and he jumped back. "Sorry," he whispered meekly.
"Were you worried?" Dean asked, a hint of amusement dancing in his voice. "You know I can't die."
"We can all die," Seamus objected.
"Not me," Dean answered, reaching for his amber pendant. "Not as long as I've got this."
"That's just a superstition," Seamus said, shaking his head impatiently.
"I just proved that it works though, didn't I?" Dean retorted, a frustratingly attractive smirk on his face.
Seamus said nothing, not sure what he could possibly say that would convince Dean. And he wasn't even sure he wanted to convince Dean. Wouldn't it be wonderful if his superstition were true?
Seamus sat down next to Dean, just barely brushing against each other at each curve of their bodies – shoulders, hips, knees. It made his heart feel like it was going to burst out of his chest, and he wondered if the blush on his cheeks was obvious to everyone around them. Though, if there was one thing that Seamus had learned during the war so far, it was that no one was paying attention to anyone else but themselves. Bodies littering the ground were shown as much care as the twigs and leaves that lay around them. Besides, even if someone were taking notice of him, it would be a challenge to spot the red flush of his skin beneath all the dirt.
"D'you know what day it is?" Seamus asked, wondering out loud. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen any kind of document that said.
Dean frowned. "The 14th maybe? Or the 17th?"
"Do you think they'll tell us when it's Christmas?"
Dean handed Seamus an open tin of beans with a wry smile. He didn't need to speak for Seamus to know what he was thinking – if they were lucky, they would get a treat of a small chunk of chocolate and some carols hummed around the fire on Christmas. If they weren't, they might be dead. Seamus thought of Christmas back home, with his mother cooking an elaborate feast in the kitchen and his father carving festive scenes into logs. He thought about how he and his brother used to fight over who got to open the first present, before they had gotten the message that Ciarán had been killed.
He spooned a heaping mound of beans into his mouth to distract himself from the sudden throbbing emptiness in the pit of his stomach that he always felt when he thought of his brother. He didn't want to think about whether Ciarán had suffered or if he'd been scared.
Shaking his head to ward off such unpleasant thoughts, Seamus turned his mind to Dean, the one lovely thing about this war. It was odd to think of a person as lovely when said person was covered in muck and all manner of unspeakable grime and living in the middle of a war, but nevertheless, lovely was the most apt word he could think of. Or perhaps exquisite. Divine. The line of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he looked up at the sky was like one of those statues in the great cathedrals of Rome, and the amber brown of his eyes was so beautiful that it made him believe in god. Sometimes he even found himself praying for Dean's love.
"Seamus, do you hear that?" Dean said, setting down his own tin of beans as he half-rose from his seat on the log.
"What?" he asked, straining his ears for whatever it was Dean heard.
"Engines," Dean whispered, alarm colouring his voice.
Seamus looked up to the sky, scanning the expanse of grey for the little black dots of approaching aeroplanes.
The bombs whistled as they fell through the air, the high-pitched scream of metal about to tear the world apart. Seamus heard it like a siren of impending doom, and even though it felt like the screech lasted an hour, it was like the whole world was paralyzed. He could do nothing but sit and wait for death to come for him.
When it did, it was more than Seamus might have expected. The world exploded into a brown nightmare with a deafening cacophony as dirt and debris flew in every direction. He felt objects pelting his body, but before he could even feel any pain, he was pinned to the mud.
"Seamus!" Dean screamed as he skidded through the mud until he reached his side. His hands shook as they hovered over Seamus' body, trying to assess whether there was something he could do to help. "Seamus, c'mon… just… just breathe."
He tried to follow Dean's advice, but something about the flow of air into his lungs made him cough, a bubble of liquid bursting forth onto his lips. He couldn't see the colour of it, but he knew anyway. The taste of iron on his tongue rather gave it away. His vision was starting to go blurry, but he could still see Dean fumbling for something around his neck. Maybe I am too young to die.
"Here, take this," he said, pressing something warm and smooth into Seamus' hand. "See? Now you can't die. You're protected."
His amber pendant, Seamus realised. His heart skipped because he knew what the gesture meant to Dean. He knew that, even though he protested that it was silly, deep down Dean believed he could not die so long as he kept the amulet with him. People were screaming, dying, all around them and Seamus was probably about to join them and all he could think was that Dean was here with him, holding his hand and pressing his magic talisman into it. He was praying like his life depended on it, praying for him.
"Dean…" Seamus rasped, barely able to manage his name. Such a simple, beautiful name.
"Hey, don't do that," Dean said, trying to sound like it was a command. But they both knew he was begging. "You've got to keep trying, Seamus. Someone will be here soon to help, I promise. Just stay strong until then, okay?"
He nodded, but he didn't feel very strong. He felt like he was rapidly running out of energy as his life seeped out onto the ground. It was a miracle he had made it this long and, if he were being honest with himself, the only reason why was the face staring back at him with a pleading expression. He would do anything for Dean.
"Seamus, don't close your eyes," Dean said, tears carving a pathway through the grime on his cheeks. "You've got to stay with me. Please stay with me."
But he couldn't do it. His eyes were closing and, no matter how much he wanted to, he just couldn't stop them. So he didn't.