[Fanfic] Don't let go (Oneshot drabble)
Title: Don't Let Go
Characters: England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland.
Rating: 15
Warnings: depressing Blackadder-ending-esque stuff, descriptions of squicky things like dead bodies.
Summary: Four siblings in one war going over the top. A simple plan with easily forseeable consequences.
It was eerie to have silence now. The thunder of canons had ceased for the first time in weeks, and the sky was speckled with clouds, hanging heavy with rain, again. That's all it ever was here, rain, sun, gunfire, gas, snow, rats, more rain, rinse and repeat until desired results are obtained. Only they'd been here three years now and hadn't moved more than a foot forward in all that time. A pointless waste of time and of lives. Lives, the loss of which in such magnitude had started to affect the countries themselves.
Arthur's fingers shook as he tried to light up a cigarette. His eyes were bruised from lack of sleep, cheeks thin and gaunt. Eventually he gave up, realising the paper of the coffin nail was sodden and useless.
Five minutes.
There were no birds here, no life but the humans waging war on the muddy, churned up plains of Belgium and France. And god help them, because the likelihood was that these muddy fields, full of trenches and blast craters and mines would be their graves as well. Not deep graves, mind. From where he was, Arthur could see a hand, missing two fingers, sticking up into the sky, reaching for help, maybe. In summer the stench of death became so rancid that those with weaker stomachs threw up. Disease was rife and men rotted where they lay. It was like the plague, only this was wrought by men, not rats.
Somewhere along the line of trenches, a short, sharp whistle sounded. Arthur Kirkland stood, and didn't bother to brush the mud from his trousers. Ducking out from a dug out came a familiar face.
"Artie, is that my ears ringin' again or are we goin'?" queried James, and it seemed that he'd at least managed to light up a ciggie.
"Seems like we're going, James." Arthur answered, joints aching and feeling the beginning of a bruise blossoming somewhere down on his lower calf. Someone had apparently started early. The Scotsman's head disappeared back inside the dugout, before he hopped up out onto the barely floating boardwalk of the trench, followed by Darren, blonde curls caked in mud from an explosion he'd not managed to wash out of his hair the other day, and Aine, hair tucked away under her cap and chest bound. She'd refused to stay home. And so James stood to Arthur's right, Aine standing on James' right, and Wales on Aine's right.
Along with a thousand others, they lined the trenched next to the ladders, and waited.
"Over the top huh." Darren said.
"Mmmhmm." Replied Arthur.
"Out of the frying pan and in to the fire." added Aine.
"Quite."
James shot him a look. "... Artie?"
"Mm?"
"... if ye die, I'm takin' power." he grinned.
'So don't you dare die.'
Arthur returned it with a challenging smirk. "And if you die, I'll make all the alcohol on your land taste like piss."
'Don't you die on me either.'
"Hah." Scoffed Aine. "Couldn't kill the either of you if I tried, what makes you think the Krauts can?"
'Don't prove me wrong.'
"That's true." Darren agreed. "Remember when I cut off Jim's hand by accident with that battle axe and it grew back? Artie got so scared he ran off for a month and wouldn't speak to anyone."
'I don't want to see you get hurt like that again, even if it's safe. I don't want anyone leaving us behind.'
"Haha, yeah, good times."
'Me neither.'
"I'm right here." the eldest brother growled as the preparation whistle sounded. "I'm right fuckin' here. Christ."
'I'm not going anywhere.'
"Yeah yeah, we know." Darren said, patting his brother's arm in mock comfort. The second prep whistle screeched out across the silence, and the hand stilled. All of them did.
Jaw tight, Aine suddenly grasped James and Darren's hands. Both brothers blinked in surprise at the move, then shrugged at each other. Only a beat more, and the Scot rolled his eyes and grabbed the youngest brother's hand. Green eyes looked up and down the line, all four siblings connected and for once not trying to crush each other's fingers out of some childish display of spite. Arthur could see Aine's hand shaking from here.
'We go into this together.'
'And we'll come out of it together.'
The final whistle.
'Don't let go.'
Notes:
- Douglas Haig was the man with the plan when it came to fighting the Germans. Just one plan. That he used over and over for 4 years, leading to the deaths of hundreds of thousands of United Kingdom soldiers. "Going over the top" was when the soldiers climbed out of the trenches and walked across no-man's-land to the German troops. Of course, they were caught on barbed wire, blown up by mine fields and mowed down within minutes of stepping out of their trenches by machine gun fire. The fact that the British stopped their constant shelling of the Germans so they could send their men out without accidentally bombing themselves only gave the Germans more time to aim.
- The UK sibs have a very odd way of coding their conversations. Like, they know the others know what they mean, but they want to seem like they still hate each other. Even though they know they don't. Such weirdos.
- My sleep pattern is so fucked up right now, argh.
Characters: England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland.
Rating: 15
Warnings: depressing Blackadder-ending-esque stuff, descriptions of squicky things like dead bodies.
Summary: Four siblings in one war going over the top. A simple plan with easily forseeable consequences.
It was eerie to have silence now. The thunder of canons had ceased for the first time in weeks, and the sky was speckled with clouds, hanging heavy with rain, again. That's all it ever was here, rain, sun, gunfire, gas, snow, rats, more rain, rinse and repeat until desired results are obtained. Only they'd been here three years now and hadn't moved more than a foot forward in all that time. A pointless waste of time and of lives. Lives, the loss of which in such magnitude had started to affect the countries themselves.
Arthur's fingers shook as he tried to light up a cigarette. His eyes were bruised from lack of sleep, cheeks thin and gaunt. Eventually he gave up, realising the paper of the coffin nail was sodden and useless.
Five minutes.
There were no birds here, no life but the humans waging war on the muddy, churned up plains of Belgium and France. And god help them, because the likelihood was that these muddy fields, full of trenches and blast craters and mines would be their graves as well. Not deep graves, mind. From where he was, Arthur could see a hand, missing two fingers, sticking up into the sky, reaching for help, maybe. In summer the stench of death became so rancid that those with weaker stomachs threw up. Disease was rife and men rotted where they lay. It was like the plague, only this was wrought by men, not rats.
Somewhere along the line of trenches, a short, sharp whistle sounded. Arthur Kirkland stood, and didn't bother to brush the mud from his trousers. Ducking out from a dug out came a familiar face.
"Artie, is that my ears ringin' again or are we goin'?" queried James, and it seemed that he'd at least managed to light up a ciggie.
"Seems like we're going, James." Arthur answered, joints aching and feeling the beginning of a bruise blossoming somewhere down on his lower calf. Someone had apparently started early. The Scotsman's head disappeared back inside the dugout, before he hopped up out onto the barely floating boardwalk of the trench, followed by Darren, blonde curls caked in mud from an explosion he'd not managed to wash out of his hair the other day, and Aine, hair tucked away under her cap and chest bound. She'd refused to stay home. And so James stood to Arthur's right, Aine standing on James' right, and Wales on Aine's right.
Along with a thousand others, they lined the trenched next to the ladders, and waited.
"Over the top huh." Darren said.
"Mmmhmm." Replied Arthur.
"Out of the frying pan and in to the fire." added Aine.
"Quite."
James shot him a look. "... Artie?"
"Mm?"
"... if ye die, I'm takin' power." he grinned.
'So don't you dare die.'
Arthur returned it with a challenging smirk. "And if you die, I'll make all the alcohol on your land taste like piss."
'Don't you die on me either.'
"Hah." Scoffed Aine. "Couldn't kill the either of you if I tried, what makes you think the Krauts can?"
'Don't prove me wrong.'
"That's true." Darren agreed. "Remember when I cut off Jim's hand by accident with that battle axe and it grew back? Artie got so scared he ran off for a month and wouldn't speak to anyone."
'I don't want to see you get hurt like that again, even if it's safe. I don't want anyone leaving us behind.'
"Haha, yeah, good times."
'Me neither.'
"I'm right here." the eldest brother growled as the preparation whistle sounded. "I'm right fuckin' here. Christ."
'I'm not going anywhere.'
"Yeah yeah, we know." Darren said, patting his brother's arm in mock comfort. The second prep whistle screeched out across the silence, and the hand stilled. All of them did.
Jaw tight, Aine suddenly grasped James and Darren's hands. Both brothers blinked in surprise at the move, then shrugged at each other. Only a beat more, and the Scot rolled his eyes and grabbed the youngest brother's hand. Green eyes looked up and down the line, all four siblings connected and for once not trying to crush each other's fingers out of some childish display of spite. Arthur could see Aine's hand shaking from here.
'We go into this together.'
'And we'll come out of it together.'
The final whistle.
'Don't let go.'
Notes:
- Douglas Haig was the man with the plan when it came to fighting the Germans. Just one plan. That he used over and over for 4 years, leading to the deaths of hundreds of thousands of United Kingdom soldiers. "Going over the top" was when the soldiers climbed out of the trenches and walked across no-man's-land to the German troops. Of course, they were caught on barbed wire, blown up by mine fields and mowed down within minutes of stepping out of their trenches by machine gun fire. The fact that the British stopped their constant shelling of the Germans so they could send their men out without accidentally bombing themselves only gave the Germans more time to aim.
- The UK sibs have a very odd way of coding their conversations. Like, they know the others know what they mean, but they want to seem like they still hate each other. Even though they know they don't. Such weirdos.
- My sleep pattern is so fucked up right now, argh.