(no subject)
Title: Trench-Men
Author: bexone
Fandom: LOTRPS Great War AU
Pairing: EW/OB (EW/ST)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: None of this is true, and I never said it was.
Notes: for the "war" challenge, written in about an hour at work, with interruptions. I cheated by yoinking these characters/setting from another fic I have in progress -- but all you really need to know is that Stuart, here, is only a couple of years older than Elijah and Orlando.
In the trenches, it’s almost easier.
In the trenches, there’s only the war. There’s only the mud and the wet and the frozen cold, or now in the rising summer the heat and the dust and the godawful stench of graveyards and slaughterhouses. There’s only the men, trembling and bored, and the parade of rats feasting on the corpses, and the endless, endless guns, the crash and crump of the mortars and the neverending rattle of the bullets through barbed wire.
In the trenches, there is no regret, no grief, no yearning. The trenches have room for one thing only. War.
Elijah is here, now, because he is not in the trenches. He is here, now, because he has gone into the trenches and come out again, and this is his time to be out, and it hardly matters that he would rather be in, where he does not have to feel. He is on his back under a tree in the sunshine, and he has in his hands a fat sheaf of letter from Hannah, in her familiar scrawl, and he is wishing. He is wishing that one of these letters -- just one! -- were filled with news of Iowa; that she had nothing more pressing to tell him than the meetings of the junior suffragette league, their brother’s latest quasi-political escapades, and which of the local boys their mother feels is most suited to her only daughter this week. A letter like that would mean this war has not happened, and he is dreaming, and Hannah is safe in Cedar Rapids instead of trapped in London by German torpedoes; and it would mean that Stuart--
“What’s all this, then?” Elijah squints up at Bloom, standing over him with a grin on his face. Bloom never feels the enormity of the war when they’re out of the trenches; Bloom doesn’t seem to have anything he regrets, nor yet anyone he grieves for. Elijah envies Bloom, his elder, that innocence -- and he hates him for it.
“Post,” is all Elijah says.
“I see that, Wood,” Bloom says, and flops down beside him, and squints up through the leaves. “I was sent to fetch you for the ball game, but I suppose I’ll stay here with you.” Neither of them says anything for a moment, and in the distance they hear the crash and whistle of the big guns, the roar and faint crump of the shells landing. “Those are ours,” Bloom says, and crosses his arms behind his head. “Ever wonder what we’re softening Jerry up for?”
“Not really.” It’s true. Elijah doesn’t wonder about things like that, not anymore. He gets his orders; he carries them out. There’s no time for wonder in war.
“You keep every letter she sends you?” Bloom, never still, has sat up again, and is sorting through Elijah’s rucksack. Stuart’s rucksack. He flicks idly through the bundles of letters, finds Elijah’s cigarette case. “Mind if I bum one?” he asks.
“No, don’t--” Elijah chokes out, but it’s too late, and Bloom has found the small, folded snapshot he keeps there like a treasure. There’s not much to it -- two boys on a stone wall, one standing atop the piled states while the other crouches at his feet in mute worship. Elijah remembers how Hannah described it -- “He is so utterly, ineffably Himself while you dearest perhaps give too much away,” she wrote when she found it in among Stuart’s things, and kept it safe and secret for him. Elijah turns away.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Bloom’s voice is different. Warmer. “Daft little bugger. You weren’t worried?”
Author: bexone
Fandom: LOTRPS Great War AU
Pairing: EW/OB (EW/ST)
Rating: G
Disclaimer: None of this is true, and I never said it was.
Notes: for the "war" challenge, written in about an hour at work, with interruptions. I cheated by yoinking these characters/setting from another fic I have in progress -- but all you really need to know is that Stuart, here, is only a couple of years older than Elijah and Orlando.
In the trenches, it’s almost easier.
In the trenches, there’s only the war. There’s only the mud and the wet and the frozen cold, or now in the rising summer the heat and the dust and the godawful stench of graveyards and slaughterhouses. There’s only the men, trembling and bored, and the parade of rats feasting on the corpses, and the endless, endless guns, the crash and crump of the mortars and the neverending rattle of the bullets through barbed wire.
In the trenches, there is no regret, no grief, no yearning. The trenches have room for one thing only. War.
Elijah is here, now, because he is not in the trenches. He is here, now, because he has gone into the trenches and come out again, and this is his time to be out, and it hardly matters that he would rather be in, where he does not have to feel. He is on his back under a tree in the sunshine, and he has in his hands a fat sheaf of letter from Hannah, in her familiar scrawl, and he is wishing. He is wishing that one of these letters -- just one! -- were filled with news of Iowa; that she had nothing more pressing to tell him than the meetings of the junior suffragette league, their brother’s latest quasi-political escapades, and which of the local boys their mother feels is most suited to her only daughter this week. A letter like that would mean this war has not happened, and he is dreaming, and Hannah is safe in Cedar Rapids instead of trapped in London by German torpedoes; and it would mean that Stuart--
“What’s all this, then?” Elijah squints up at Bloom, standing over him with a grin on his face. Bloom never feels the enormity of the war when they’re out of the trenches; Bloom doesn’t seem to have anything he regrets, nor yet anyone he grieves for. Elijah envies Bloom, his elder, that innocence -- and he hates him for it.
“Post,” is all Elijah says.
“I see that, Wood,” Bloom says, and flops down beside him, and squints up through the leaves. “I was sent to fetch you for the ball game, but I suppose I’ll stay here with you.” Neither of them says anything for a moment, and in the distance they hear the crash and whistle of the big guns, the roar and faint crump of the shells landing. “Those are ours,” Bloom says, and crosses his arms behind his head. “Ever wonder what we’re softening Jerry up for?”
“Not really.” It’s true. Elijah doesn’t wonder about things like that, not anymore. He gets his orders; he carries them out. There’s no time for wonder in war.
“You keep every letter she sends you?” Bloom, never still, has sat up again, and is sorting through Elijah’s rucksack. Stuart’s rucksack. He flicks idly through the bundles of letters, finds Elijah’s cigarette case. “Mind if I bum one?” he asks.
“No, don’t--” Elijah chokes out, but it’s too late, and Bloom has found the small, folded snapshot he keeps there like a treasure. There’s not much to it -- two boys on a stone wall, one standing atop the piled states while the other crouches at his feet in mute worship. Elijah remembers how Hannah described it -- “He is so utterly, ineffably Himself while you dearest perhaps give too much away,” she wrote when she found it in among Stuart’s things, and kept it safe and secret for him. Elijah turns away.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Bloom’s voice is different. Warmer. “Daft little bugger. You weren’t worried?”