The dawn brings light but no warmth. He feels stiff as a board, as stiff as British sensibilities, but he forces himself to move, to drag himself upright and continue trying to dig the wire out of his bones.
But finally he is free, a last coil of wire grating across his wrist, cutting a new furrow in what flesh is left as though trying to hold onto him. For awhile, even though he's free, he can't move. He doesn't have the strength. He can taste decay on his tongue; too many of his boys are dead.
A stutter of gunfire somewhere nearby finally shocks him into action. He cannot walk, so he crawls, scrambling on all fours in what he hopes is the right direction. His uniform is torn and fraying, covered in mud and blood, even his hair matted with more of the same. This turns out to be a blessing, along with the deep wounds that mar his skin. If he was mortal, he'd be more than dead by now, so several times when he senses people getting too close he drops down to lay among the corpses. He just hopes that the passing German solders don't decide to put a bullet in his head, just to be sure.
-He passes out once or twice and dreams of scented soap and hot water and buttery croissants, and wakes to the fear of Germany's boot coming down on his neck-
He tries to orient himself by the sounds of gunfire and shelling, but still ends up wandering his once-beautiful countryside for days. He's glad he doesn't really need to eat, because there aren't even any crops to forage, only corpses
-And corpses are sometimes the only food there is, and even the greatest generals will partake ravenously when they're hungry enough, and he still has nightmares when he remembers his own flesh being flayed away and someone mad whose name he can't remember whispering in his ear "My country, my darling, you will be alright, don't you want to support your children?"-
He's almost given up hope of ever finding his way out of no man's land when he sees a scrap of color just over the next rise. He has to stare for a long time to make sure he isn't hallucinating, and thinks perhaps he's never been so relieved to see the Union Jack flying over French ground. He promises himself he will never defile that lovely, lovely flag again as he staggers towards it, knowing only that it means safety.
He knows there are sentries, can sense the sights of the rifles coming to bear on his chest, his forehead. Gathering the little strength he has left, he raises his ragged voice as loud as it will go to shout in cracked, French-accented English, "Mon Dieu, don't shoot!"
Shouts of surprise go up from behind the sentry posts. "A Frenchman! Survivor! Someone get a medic!"
But when France finally slides down into the trenches and collapses to sit with his back against the muddy wall, it's England himself who storms over carrying a field medic's kit. He stops, pursing his lips and taking in France's tattered uniform, the white bone showing through the mud on his hands and ankles, his thin bloodless lips.
"You look like hell," is all England says, crouching beside France.
-It's practically tradition, after a thousand years and a hundred wars, to tell the other they look like hell when they meet- England doesn't look relieved to see France safe, but France wouldn't expect that of him. He just lets his head fall back against the trench wall, ignoring the murmurs of the young - they're only children - soldiers around them.
He doesn't flinch when England begins carefully cleaning his shattered hands, and when England glances up he realizes France has fallen fast asleep.
He dreams of Gaul, of green fields and white lilies, of a time before he'd heard of Rome or knew what lay across the Channel, before he knew of blood and war.
God Grant Us Silence [1b/1]
The dawn brings light but no warmth. He feels stiff as a board, as stiff as British sensibilities, but he forces himself to move, to drag himself upright and continue trying to dig the wire out of his bones.
But finally he is free, a last coil of wire grating across his wrist, cutting a new furrow in what flesh is left as though trying to hold onto him. For awhile, even though he's free, he can't move. He doesn't have the strength. He can taste decay on his tongue; too many of his boys are dead.
A stutter of gunfire somewhere nearby finally shocks him into action. He cannot walk, so he crawls, scrambling on all fours in what he hopes is the right direction. His uniform is torn and fraying, covered in mud and blood, even his hair matted with more of the same. This turns out to be a blessing, along with the deep wounds that mar his skin. If he was mortal, he'd be more than dead by now, so several times when he senses people getting too close he drops down to lay among the corpses. He just hopes that the passing German solders don't decide to put a bullet in his head, just to be sure.
-He passes out once or twice and dreams of scented soap and hot water and buttery croissants, and wakes to the fear of Germany's boot coming down on his neck-
He tries to orient himself by the sounds of gunfire and shelling, but still ends up wandering his once-beautiful countryside for days. He's glad he doesn't really need to eat, because there aren't even any crops to forage, only corpses
-And corpses are sometimes the only food there is, and even the greatest generals will partake ravenously when they're hungry enough, and he still has nightmares when he remembers his own flesh being flayed away and someone mad whose name he can't remember whispering in his ear "My country, my darling, you will be alright, don't you want to support your children?"-
He's almost given up hope of ever finding his way out of no man's land when he sees a scrap of color just over the next rise. He has to stare for a long time to make sure he isn't hallucinating, and thinks perhaps he's never been so relieved to see the Union Jack flying over French ground. He promises himself he will never defile that lovely, lovely flag again as he staggers towards it, knowing only that it means safety.
He knows there are sentries, can sense the sights of the rifles coming to bear on his chest, his forehead. Gathering the little strength he has left, he raises his ragged voice as loud as it will go to shout in cracked, French-accented English, "Mon Dieu, don't shoot!"
Shouts of surprise go up from behind the sentry posts. "A Frenchman! Survivor! Someone get a medic!"
But when France finally slides down into the trenches and collapses to sit with his back against the muddy wall, it's England himself who storms over carrying a field medic's kit. He stops, pursing his lips and taking in France's tattered uniform, the white bone showing through the mud on his hands and ankles, his thin bloodless lips.
"You look like hell," is all England says, crouching beside France.
-It's practically tradition, after a thousand years and a hundred wars, to tell the other they look like hell when they meet- England doesn't look relieved to see France safe, but France wouldn't expect that of him. He just lets his head fall back against the trench wall, ignoring the murmurs of the young - they're only children - soldiers around them.
He doesn't flinch when England begins carefully cleaning his shattered hands, and when England glances up he realizes France has fallen fast asleep.
He dreams of Gaul, of green fields and white lilies, of a time before he'd heard of Rome or knew what lay across the Channel, before he knew of blood and war.
He dreams of peace.