Note: The original request from LittleKittyShaoMao: I'd personally really like to see a shell shocked Deryn, with Alek around of course.

Of course! Nothing says "World War I" like shell shock in the trenches, after all. Now, as to why are they're down in the trenches… heck if I know! But here 'tis. :D

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The shell hits almost directly on top of them.

Dirt and mud flies up in wild showers; the concussive force knocks Alek backwards into the wall of the trench. For a moment the universe is nothing but sound and fury, and then he comes back to himself – dizzy and panicking and half-choking on bitter smoke.

His first thought is – "Dylan!"

Because his friend was beside him before the shell hit, and now he can't see the other boy. Of course, he can't see much of anything just presently; his eyes are burning and tearing, his ears are ringing, and the trench has become a churning pit of chaos.

He coughs, spitting out muddy grit, and shakes his head, trying desperately to regain his bearings. Men are dead, men are dying, men are racing to the guns for retaliation.

And Dylan is fetched up against a splintered ladder two yards away, unmoving.

"Dylan!" Alek calls, voice sounding strange to his half-deafened ears. He gets his feet under him again and hurries, slipping and scrambling through the mud, to fall to his knees by the side of his friend.

"Dylan!" he says again, putting a hand on the other boy's shoulder. For a moment he fears that Dylan is dead, but then he sees that the midshipman is breathing, albeit too quickly and too shallowly.

Another shell bursts, farther down the line this time. Alek can't help but duck, and looks over his shoulder even though he knows there's nothing to see except more brutal, ugly death. Then he looks back at Dylan, whose color is grey beneath the spatters of mud.

He gives his friend a shake. "Dylan! Are you all right? Are you injured?"

Dylan jerks under his hand, sitting up against the ladder, coughing and retching. His eyes are open, but glassy and unfocused; he seems to be staring a thousand yards away.

He has blue eyes.

Alek notices this for the first time. It's a stray detail that his mind catches on, then skitters over in favor of larger, more important things.

Such as the fact that Dylan is not speaking, only staring. One of his odd phrases comes to Alek: dead shattered. Yes. He looks dead shattered.

Alek pushes a shaking hand through his hair. Perhaps Dylan's been wounded – he must have been wounded. He could be bleeding to death right now. Alek hesitates a moment, then begins to unfasten the midshipman's shirt to check.

Cold, dirty fingers grab his hands, stopping him. "No," Dylan gasps, shuddering, although his eyes are still in that ghastly unfocused stare and he's moving as though underwater.

"You're wounded– "

"No," he says again, voice catching, body curling up on itself. Suddenly Dylan is wracked with great, terrible shudders, and Alek instinctively grabs the other boy and holds him close, trying to share warmth and comfort and life.

A soldier runs by, shouting. It's a small noise beneath the cacophony of the guns and shells, but Dylan startles, attempting to pull away and run. Alek holds on to his friend through sheer determination – he can't run, where can he go - he'll only be killed -

Dylan fights against him. "Let go!" he exclaims. Voice high and panicked, almost like a girl's. "Let me go!"

Alek does not. Instead he finds himself murmuring nonsense, over and over, snatches of songs he hasn't thought of since he was in the nursery, ridiculous things like "It will be all right," although how any of this could be all right is beyond him. He thinks Dylan may be crying; he knows that he himself is.

They stay huddled in the trench as the shelling and shooting gradually ceases. Quiet descends, but it's the quiet of a tomb. There's no peace in it. Only death.

Not letting go of his friend, Alek wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. He hates this war. Hates it fiercely.

"Alek," Dylan says after a bit, uneven. He takes a slow, steady breath. "I'm all right, aye?"

He sounds all right. He sounds like himself again. Alek cautiously lets go and shifts away, giving Dylan space. "What happened?"

Dylan's color remains poor. The ghastly stare, at least, is gone, though his eyes are haunted, and he seems to be having trouble settling on something to look at. "I don't know. It was just… too barking much, I suppose."

"Yes," Alek says. He realizes his hands are shaking. Now that he's certain that Dylan is fine, panic is threatening to swallow him. "Yes, it was."

Dylan grabs his hands. Tightly. "Thank you," his friend says, meeting his eyes.

"Bitte," Alek says, and holds on to this small token of humanity in the middle of hell.