A dell? Like where fairies and gnomes live?
If he had any choice in the matter, Harry wouldn't have wanted to spend Christmas on the island, but having no choice, he was pretty happy with how things were. He was warm, well-fed, in the company of good friends old and new, and the island looked beautiful. Even though the time of year made him long for home more than ever, he was enjoying the season. It was certainly a huge improvement on this time last year.
He pulled on his field jacket, picked up his cane and limped out of the Officer's Club into the snow, wondering if he could find something interesting going on. He usually could, and although it'd be still be a little while until his foot was completely healed, he'd got enough mobility back to be able to mooch around the island.
As Harry left the club, his eye was caught by the sight of a clump of trees which he could've sworn hadn't been there the day before. Something about them made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end; something about them looked strangely familiar. They certainly looked different. Most of the rest of the island's trees were evergreens, but these were bare-branched, arranged in a rough circle around a clearing.
No, not a clearing. A dell.
"You're fucking kidding me," Harry said, an involuntary shudder running through him.
He approached it, unable to repress his curiosity despite his sense of dread. It was perfect in every detail, as if God had taken a giant pair of scissors and snipped out a segment of Belgian forest, then pasted it onto the island. In the centre of the dell were the remains of a campfire, hastily kicked out, and not far from that, a huge smear of blood on the snow.
Harry's blood, looking as fresh as if it had just been shed. Instead of, as was the case, this time a year ago. He'd been so damn cold, colder than he'd ever thought possible, and all he'd wanted was just a little heat. He'd been convinced the trees offered enough cover to block the light from a fire. He'd been wrong. A few minutes after it'd been lit, a mortar shell came tearing out of the dark and exploded near them, chunks of flying shrapnel ripping into his thigh.
Christmas Day, 1944, had been spent drifting in and out of consciousness, heavily sedated and barely aware of his surroundings. He'd spent two months in recovery, having multiple operations to dig all the metal out of his leg and patch it up. Luckily, they were only flesh wounds; the leg worked as well as it ever did, but every morning when he got dressed he saw the mess of ugly scars and remembered what a fucking idiot he'd been.
Harry slowly sunk to the ground, sitting in the snow, staring at the remains of the fire. He didn't know what the island was trying to tell him, but he didn't like it one bit. Some Christmas present.
[Not the best of times to meet him. ST/LT very welcome.]
He pulled on his field jacket, picked up his cane and limped out of the Officer's Club into the snow, wondering if he could find something interesting going on. He usually could, and although it'd be still be a little while until his foot was completely healed, he'd got enough mobility back to be able to mooch around the island.
As Harry left the club, his eye was caught by the sight of a clump of trees which he could've sworn hadn't been there the day before. Something about them made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end; something about them looked strangely familiar. They certainly looked different. Most of the rest of the island's trees were evergreens, but these were bare-branched, arranged in a rough circle around a clearing.
No, not a clearing. A dell.
"You're fucking kidding me," Harry said, an involuntary shudder running through him.
He approached it, unable to repress his curiosity despite his sense of dread. It was perfect in every detail, as if God had taken a giant pair of scissors and snipped out a segment of Belgian forest, then pasted it onto the island. In the centre of the dell were the remains of a campfire, hastily kicked out, and not far from that, a huge smear of blood on the snow.
Harry's blood, looking as fresh as if it had just been shed. Instead of, as was the case, this time a year ago. He'd been so damn cold, colder than he'd ever thought possible, and all he'd wanted was just a little heat. He'd been convinced the trees offered enough cover to block the light from a fire. He'd been wrong. A few minutes after it'd been lit, a mortar shell came tearing out of the dark and exploded near them, chunks of flying shrapnel ripping into his thigh.
Christmas Day, 1944, had been spent drifting in and out of consciousness, heavily sedated and barely aware of his surroundings. He'd spent two months in recovery, having multiple operations to dig all the metal out of his leg and patch it up. Luckily, they were only flesh wounds; the leg worked as well as it ever did, but every morning when he got dressed he saw the mess of ugly scars and remembered what a fucking idiot he'd been.
Harry slowly sunk to the ground, sitting in the snow, staring at the remains of the fire. He didn't know what the island was trying to tell him, but he didn't like it one bit. Some Christmas present.
[Not the best of times to meet him. ST/LT very welcome.]