I'd Rather Lose My Limbs (Then Let you Come to Harm) (original)
Title: I'd Rather Lose My Limbs (Then Let you Come to Harm)
Fandom: Original
Characters: derp, nameless
Rating: PG, war
Author's Notes: written for brigits_flame, Week One topic for February 2010, "Birds of a Feather"
"But you,
My brother in arms,
I'd rather I'd lose my limbs
Than let you come to harm."
- "The Soldiering Life" by The Decemberists
He does what he’s told to do, no ifs, ands or buts about it. It’s what he’s done ever since he joined up. That is why he is here, hundreds of miles away from home and family. That doesn’t bother him; he’s only focused on one thing.
Step. Step. Step.
They’re all marching to the beat of the same drummer. Not one among them is tired; the sun is high in the sky, all are wearing uniforms that make eighty degrees feel like one hundred, weighed down by almost half their weight of equipment. No one complains, even if they want to. The patch that is worn high on their right sleeve pushes them forward.
The patch that is on their left sleeve is the one that binds them all together. The same troop, pack, flock. While they’re away from their families, they become each other’s family . . .
Step. Step. Step.
He doesn’t have to look in order to tell that his best friend, marching on his right side, is constantly looking around. He’s known him for years. His head is facing straightforward, but his eyes are darting around, taking everything in. The whole experience is just so new, that he wants to remember everything, for when he gets home.
He wants to tell him to stop looking around, but he won’t.
He has not been told to do that. So he will settle for just hoping that his friend will stop looking around.
He feels his friend’s eyes lock on him, almost as if he could tell that he was thinking of him.
Step. Step. Step.
They’re all marching when the attack comes.
It comes from the left. Almost immediately, several of them fall in a hail of incoming bullets. Whoever doesn’t fall hurries away, attempting to find cover: a rock, a tree, a ditch, anything that would offer some protection from the enemy attack. They respond once they do find cover.
It goes on for hours. The enemy would fire a volley of bullets attempting to hit someone, then they would respond, with the same hope.
From in between the two sides, come cries of help. Some of their own that fell aren’t dead yet, just injured.
They are hurting. And no one goes to save them.
Step. Step. Step.
He is tired. The battle has gone on for hours. The sun has set, but shots are still being fired, just not as frequently. The tree that he’s hidden behind has been shot several times. He should move to a new hiding spot, like several others have done.
It’s silent. The cries for help have all but disappeared. Occasionally, a cry would come, but it was weak and it was lost in the sound of bullets.
No shots have been fired for quite some time. He feels that it’s time for him to move. He moves quickly, making sure to move silently so that no one could hear him. Before him is a large rock, it looks like it could make for good cover. He heads straight to it.
“Help!”
He stops. He recognizes that voice.
It’s his friend. He’s a target out in the open. He should hurry on to that rock, but he can’t move.
His friend’s cry is weak. He wonders briefly where his friend got-
Shots are fired. He can’t tell from which side they came from, but he runs. Not to the rock, but to his friend. He doesn’t know why he’s doing that. It’s dangerous and it could get them both killed.
If his friend asks, he’ll just point to the patch on their left sleeve. That’ll be all the explanation they need.
Fandom: Original
Characters: derp, nameless
Rating: PG, war
Author's Notes: written for brigits_flame, Week One topic for February 2010, "Birds of a Feather"
"But you,
My brother in arms,
I'd rather I'd lose my limbs
Than let you come to harm."
- "The Soldiering Life" by The Decemberists
He does what he’s told to do, no ifs, ands or buts about it. It’s what he’s done ever since he joined up. That is why he is here, hundreds of miles away from home and family. That doesn’t bother him; he’s only focused on one thing.
Step. Step. Step.
They’re all marching to the beat of the same drummer. Not one among them is tired; the sun is high in the sky, all are wearing uniforms that make eighty degrees feel like one hundred, weighed down by almost half their weight of equipment. No one complains, even if they want to. The patch that is worn high on their right sleeve pushes them forward.
The patch that is on their left sleeve is the one that binds them all together. The same troop, pack, flock. While they’re away from their families, they become each other’s family . . .
Step. Step. Step.
He doesn’t have to look in order to tell that his best friend, marching on his right side, is constantly looking around. He’s known him for years. His head is facing straightforward, but his eyes are darting around, taking everything in. The whole experience is just so new, that he wants to remember everything, for when he gets home.
He wants to tell him to stop looking around, but he won’t.
He has not been told to do that. So he will settle for just hoping that his friend will stop looking around.
He feels his friend’s eyes lock on him, almost as if he could tell that he was thinking of him.
Step. Step. Step.
They’re all marching when the attack comes.
It comes from the left. Almost immediately, several of them fall in a hail of incoming bullets. Whoever doesn’t fall hurries away, attempting to find cover: a rock, a tree, a ditch, anything that would offer some protection from the enemy attack. They respond once they do find cover.
It goes on for hours. The enemy would fire a volley of bullets attempting to hit someone, then they would respond, with the same hope.
From in between the two sides, come cries of help. Some of their own that fell aren’t dead yet, just injured.
They are hurting. And no one goes to save them.
Step. Step. Step.
He is tired. The battle has gone on for hours. The sun has set, but shots are still being fired, just not as frequently. The tree that he’s hidden behind has been shot several times. He should move to a new hiding spot, like several others have done.
It’s silent. The cries for help have all but disappeared. Occasionally, a cry would come, but it was weak and it was lost in the sound of bullets.
No shots have been fired for quite some time. He feels that it’s time for him to move. He moves quickly, making sure to move silently so that no one could hear him. Before him is a large rock, it looks like it could make for good cover. He heads straight to it.
“Help!”
He stops. He recognizes that voice.
It’s his friend. He’s a target out in the open. He should hurry on to that rock, but he can’t move.
His friend’s cry is weak. He wonders briefly where his friend got-
Shots are fired. He can’t tell from which side they came from, but he runs. Not to the rock, but to his friend. He doesn’t know why he’s doing that. It’s dangerous and it could get them both killed.
If his friend asks, he’ll just point to the patch on their left sleeve. That’ll be all the explanation they need.